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Journalism of Courage
What would you do, if I sang out of tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me?
I’d been biting my nails and Joe Cocker’s voice was not leaving my head. There are times when you are alone with everybody, you sit in a crowd but you can only see them, not hear them. This was one of those times. At the Turquoise Cottage, 9 pm, and I was gearing myself to get up and sing with the Brothers Fernandes. They perform at TC three nights a week and have established themselves as one of Delhi’s popular dinner bands.
I chose a bad day for this adventure. The underground pub was hosting a noisy party for a popular music channel. As I waited and bit into a cuticle, I watched a lot of “cool” people walk in and out of the pub. Much to my despair, I actually knew some of them. If they caught me singing with the dinner band upstairs, I would never be able to live it down. Never.
Thursday night. The average Delhiite steps into TC, orders his/her drink and is soon joined by a few friends. The place is packed, I break into a sweat. Winston looks at me and smiles.
A line about the brothers. Winston is the younger Fernandes, plays the keyboard and smiles a lot. His brother Wellesley plays lead guitar and does justice to Santana’s Black Magic Woman. In the afternoon, we had a lively rehearsal (no, I didn’t “jam” with them) and chose a few songs that would be easy on the ears, even if I went off-key. “We cool?” asks Winston, post practice. “Yep”, I say.
Hardly. Four hours later, I’m pleading with Tashi, our photographer, to switch jobs; I’m promising the earth and he smiles Buddha-like. The material world does not concern him; he is intently waiting to capture me in high-resolution making an utter fool of myself. I’m running out of time. Tashi cruelly whispers into my ears, “Go. End it now.”
I get up a bit like a zombie. The crowd turns to look and somebody lets out a loud whoop. I’m trying to calm myself down, remembering inspirational lines from Ben Hur to Spider-Man. I turn around. They’re looking at me like I came from Saturn with a ring stuck to my head. I introduced myself and told my eager audience that I was “unable to take requests tonight.” Some laughed, I relaxed. Winston played the opening bars of Love will keep us alive by The Eagles. I sang, a little under my breath, till I saw a cute looking chap give me the thumbs up. My voice rose, I gained confidence and smiled like an idiot. At the end of the song, the diners cheered and applauded. I didn’t want to lose any fans so I launched into Hero by Mariah Carey, a song I can actually sing. The cute guy looked super-impressed. My heart skipped a beat and right then, Wellesley struck the wrong chord on his guitar. Cute guy frowned; I stopped singing and said “goof-up” into the microphone. The crowd looked at me for a second and laughed. The day was saved.
We end with “Tears in Heaven”. I regret the choice of song. Too slow and doesn’t go well with crispy chilli potatoes. I thanked them all from the bottom of my heart and made my way to an empty chair.
I’m never going to be a star, at least not with all the adipose. But it felt great when some people came up to say that I should sing professionally. Better still when the cute guy said “Good show! Lovely voice!” and when the management gave me dinner on the house.
At the end of it all, I must say it was quite an experience. But it is not advisable for sensitive souls and the faint-hearted. You need to be gutsy and a little stupid: two qualities that I guess I possess in sufficient measure.
