I hated leaving Hyderabad. I really did. It felt like a young, optimistic city, and – despite the things about it that induced a certain type of cultural whiplash – it was a place where I felt totally okay in my own skin.
Nothing about Hyderabad would prepare you for Kolkata anymore than Louisville would prepare a guy for Detroit. Kolkata – formerly known as Calcutta – is a hardcore place. I’ve been to some tough places, but Kolkata takes the cake. I’d seen poverty, but let’s put it this way. If poverty was basketball, everything I’d seen in the States was Bill Russell. New Delhi was Wilt Chamberlain. Kolkatta was fast forward to Shaq, Kobe, and Kevin Garnett.
The city airport is maybe twenty minutes out of town, but you feel like you’re in the heart of things long before you’re even in the proper city limits. There’s a lot of movement late into the night, streetside food stands, tuk-tuks, beggars, and the general city loitering of thin brown men in short sleeves that is a constant in urban India.
As Hyderabad is a city evolving, Kolkata looks as if its best days have come and gone. The British got there in 1690, to take advantage of the tea and spice trade, and shaped the city in their own image. The British influence is still strong despite their not having any say over India since the 1940’s. The English provincial architecture brings to mind all those clips of London in the 1950’s. But the pollution has cast a harsh, dingy, grey soot all over the city, and even the nice buildings look to have seen better days. And they have.
But Kolkata is also a city full of life. There are street vendors, hotels, computer stores, bars, restaurants, men’s shops, book stores… No matter how poor the poor here may be, commerce abounds. People walking around with purpose. Things to do, gotta be on time.
The pollution is like absolutely nothing I have ever encountered, with the exception of the San Fernando Valley during the days of the fires in the summer months of 2009. The air is so bad you could cut it with a knife. The taxis are in bad repair, from the exhaust system on up, so the carbon monoxide smell on the streets is up to the minute. You get headaches and your eyes hurt. The traffic is like New Delhi pissed off. The taxi drivers will try to rip you off as a rule. Everyone advises me to demand the drivers turn the meter on, otherwise… And, this being India, the amount on the meters is doubled plus you add two rupees. This is because it has been so long since the fare boxes were updated that everyone is required to know this piece of commuter methodology. And, this being India, everyone does. My computer broke the night we got there. I asked someone at the American Center if there someone knew where to go to get an Apple iBook looked at. They found me a place that was a short hop down the street, just slightly too far to walk. I grabbed a cab and told the guy to turn on the meter and take me to the train station just over the bridge. From there, it was just a block or two to the local Apple authorized repair shop.
Well, the driver got me there. The fare box said thirty rupees. I gave him sixty-five, got out, and started walking down a big business street whose name I can’t recall. It was high noon, and I felt like I was in something like a cross between The Cabinet Of Dr Calgeri and Wall Street. Kolkata is one of the great cities of the modern world in some ways, but it is fucking gothic. I don’t care how tough your town is – Kolkata will sober you up.
The poverty here is likely the most intense in India. I don’t know what the official numbers are, but anything you can imagine is likely correct. Those little begging kids like in Slumdog Millionaire are out in force, and they’re insistent. There are old blind people lumbering around with bowls. They’re filthy. I saw a guy about my age laying on the curb with a gaping hole in his left foot where his toes had been not long before. This was a brand new wound. One of his toes was a few feet away. I think he had been hit shortly before by some small vehicle. It was positively grotesque.
Coming face to face with one’s own humanity in this situation is unavoidable. Do you call a cop? Do you give the guy money? Or do you just walk on?
The byword of traveling in India is – after “don’t drink the water” – not to give any money to anyone begging. You will be surrounded by beggars in nanoseconds. No joke. Tracy gave a lollipop to a kid in one of the outdoor markets, and she was nearly stomped by a horde of children with their hands out. Coming up in Philly during the Reagan era gave me important training for looking away from people in dire circumstances. And the age range of Kolkatta’s begging forces is about 5 years up to however old you can live to be when you’re homeless, blind, missing a limb, and whatever else can be heaped upon a human in the name of desperation. Thanks to trickle-down economics, I can look past anyone’s misery and just keep walking. Even in Kolkatta.
The Government College of Art & Craft (the GCAC) is on a big main street called Jawharlal Nehru Rd, which is lined with outdoor stalls like 52nd St in West Philly. You need a wallet, purse, fake Gucci, sunglasses, this is it. I bought a bunch of wallets, keychains, and toys to give as gifts. The leather stuff there is a steal for the price. Also, the coordinator from the American Center was having a special dinner for Tracy at the Calcutta Club – which is one of those old-money clubs like the one Dan Akyroyd gets thrown out of in the early part of Trading Places – so I bought a pair of black pleated slacks at one of the local men’s stores there. Cost about twelve dollars, and they’re pretty nice.
The college was built in the 1850’s by the British. They had originally intended it as a school for engineering and architecture, but the fine arts prevailed. It’s a very contained campus. It looks vaguely fortress-y from the front. If you’re driving in, you come through a gate. The building – and sidewalk -- is basically four sides outlining a square grassy courtyard spotted with a variety of trees and shrubs. These are some very motivated young people, and – much as it was in Hyderabad -- I fell in love with these people to a one, starting with the painting professor, Dipali Bhattacharya, who is one of the greatest hostesses I’ve ever encountered. Upon finding out that Tracy and I liked what we’d had of Bengali food but didn’t really know our way around the menu, she announced that she would personally cook the next day’s lunch.
The hustle-bustle of Main St Hyderabad is contrasted by UH’s green, loping hills.
To get from our hotel, the Taj Krishna in the Banjara Hills section of town (heart of the Western shopping district), to the campus is about 30 minutes, give or take for traffic. Salil would arrive in a minivan, driven by Ahmet, and off we’d go, through shopping, new construction, and all the other stuff that constitutes typical life in India’s modern city. As it turns out, there may or may not be transit strike looming in town. Ahmet’s college student daughter calls him on his cell phone. Her bus is late, so the strike may now be on.
The morning drive through the city to the campus is my favorite part of the day despite its being, you know… morning. Salil is both erudite and avuncular, and I have a ton of questions about the day-to-day mechanics of India.
In the Hindu city of New Delhi, the cows are sacred, so cows walk around wherever. The streets are lousy with cows. But Hyderabad is mostly Muslim, and still the cows have full right of way. I don’t get it. Salil explains:
“Although Hyderabad is mostly Muslim, India is a Hindu country. The question of how much deference would be afforded the cows was discussed by the Muslim clerics, who handed down a fatwa that said that, since the Hindus are in the majority, then we – the Muslims – should respect their rules.
“But most of the Hindus today eat beef. The law is more for… Well, people can be very sentimental about religion.”
The poverty through the city is hard to avoid. Again there are the small-engine motorcycles, and those driving tend to wear surgical masks, because the pollution is horrifying. There are a lot of busses out, because we’re going to work around the same time as everyone else. The vast majority of the new buildings is adjacent to one of the little tin and raincoat plastic Hoovervilles that are ubiquitous through all of India.
“This is one of the things people don’t seem to understand about India,” according to Salil.
“That’s where the people working on the buildings live. That’s the workers’ housing. It’s one way they can actually hold on to the money they make, to live cheaply. It’s not as if these structures are built to tower over those less fortunate.”
Still, these are harsh accommodations by any standard.
The city’s burgeoning IT call center industry has not only raised buildings, but also a new course of education – accent-neutral English. Several of the local institutes of higher learning have had to issue fatwa’s of their own, to keep SMS/text language out of the classroom. It’s irony on the hoof – in the quest to service American computer users, India seems in danger of losing its ability to speak really good English.
And, of course, there are the shacks and shanties that crop up not in the shadows of new construction, but rather wherever there’s room. Not at all far from the foothills that lead up to the campus, there was one such community, with cows milling around. In the midst of a rocky clearing, peeking out from between the blue plastic and tin, was a breathtaking view of Hyderabad. More irony.
The students in Hyderabad were smart and motivated. These are some of India’s best and brightest, and they work at it. The opportunity to see Tracy Lee Stum streetpaint up close and get dirty participating with her to create new work – this was the hot ticket on campus.
For all of my describing the campus as something of a tropical outpost, it’s amazingly typical, especially when you consider it’s in India. Throw in a few Big Lebowski t-shirts and it could be Tucson. The kids tool around on bicycles and even a few small CC cycles. Few if any wear helmets. Students and faculty alike hang out at a little student coffee bar, the Goodwill Canteen, which is something of a toolshed that serves Indian-sized (re: microscopic) cups of coffee and tea. The climate is pretty much like Bakersfield in June – that “starting to get hot” with median humidity setting – so student and faculty are in shirtsleeves, tieless. The few female faculty members I meet are all in unfussy western dress. The only sarees I spot are worn by students. Everybody has cell phones, but they’re the inexpensive type. Salil and Juliet have Blackberries, but that’s about it. I don’t spot any iPhones in India, either.
The coffee here is a flavored creamy instant called, beguilingly enough, Brew. It’s not bad, but you don’t object so much when they send out tea instead. I spent a lot of time at the Goodwill Canteen, talking art and politics with the students and faculty, and this was a switched-on bunch of people. Sham Sunder, who is 61 and head of the Fine Arts department, was my new best friend. His English was outmatched by his enthusiasm, and he rapidly spoke of music, architecture, art, his wife, poetry, and the new construction blooming on the campus. We’d sneak off – him for a smoke, me for a miniature coffee – and he’d enthuse over some work of art or a new building coming up that I simply had to see. Students walked up and either invited him to a campus party or asked why he didn’t show up for a recent function to which he had been invited. These kids love him. Obvious to see why. He's a lovely person.
The big news on campus that week was that the week before, President Obama had visited China and had played down India’s primacy in Asia. Although Obama is looked upon as a vast improvement over George W. Bush, it’s moves like this that leave the American agenda open to India’s skepticism. Rightfully. And these damn Indians are so polite and measured in their expressions of disagreement that…
These were the conversations that brought me into the place, and – whether at my station behind the camera or when I was hookying with Sham at the canteen. I wound up every night confirming new friends with Indian (and Iranian) names on Facebook and reading their enthusiastic messages about the day’s streetpainting.
(Tracy had turned the area in front of the student museum into a festival of chalk murals. There were 3-D/anamorphic chalk drawings all over. One good Indian afternoon rain pretty much wiped those out. The last day, she did a smaller Renaissance-styled piece that turned out to be a huge hit, with students taking interactive pictures of and with the streetpainting.)
Despite that it was exam week, the students were out in force, and there was a “blow off steam” atmosphere around the streetpaintings. Not MTV spring break woo-hoo, but something a helluva lot more graceful.
I have made no secret of how crowded I found India, obviously. But Indians are accustomed to it. I’ve come to the conclusion that manners and procedures are a kind of way to keep one’s personal space intact in so densely packed a place.
Three days around the campus also meant that I got to look closely at the buildings and the resources proper. High speed internet in India is slower than you’d hope. The bathrooms still largely use the old Turkish toilets, which are basically a hole in the floor with a toilet seat. Yes it flushes, but bring your own paper. The urinals are a curious matter as well. They look at first sight just like their American counterparts, but they’re not connected to a pipe. Instead, holes are drilled in the base, so the urinal drains into a gutter below and water runs through that. It gets the job done, but sometimes I wonder if India was designed by Rube Goldberg. Everything works, but efficiency and expediency of design… not in the sense that an American is used to.
Hyderabad will likely stick in my head as the place where I fell in love with India, not only because of the contradictions that make the place what it is, but also because it’s a great place full of incredible people.
Tracy had been invited to give create new work and give a workshop for the art students at the University of Hyderabad, which is considered the best university in India. The campus is not actually in the city proper. UH is actually in the hills above the city, on about 2500 acres of green.
Hyderabad has a fairly complex history. It’s only about 500 years old, which makes it one of the younger major cities of a 4000 year old country. It is the capital of the state of Anrah Pradesh and is an extremely modern metropolis. New buildings are in construction and the all seem to be about the booming IT industry. Western dining and shopping are all over the damn place. There are as many Reebok stores here as are in the San Fernando Valley. Malls abound. And I hate to use the word “abound” but they really do.
The American Center – and Tracy’s tour is through that office – has a system of drivers and local representatives whose job it is to keep you on schedule, out of harm’s way, and attend to whatever situations arise. Some of these people can be pretty stiff in the tradition of British diplomacy. Since many of the protocols here come from the British, standing on ceremony is to be expected.
We had two attendants, Juliet and Salil, and a driver, Ahmet. I cannot describe Juliet with full justice, except to say that she is well known throughout the American Centers of India. She’s 5’1 of loud opinions.
Salil was close to my own age, and among the most insightful people I’ve met in my adult life. His knowledge of India was deep and nuanced, and I probably learned more of the place from him over the little tiny cups of coffee we shared than I had from weeks of research about where to go and why I should want to look at it.
UH has 2000 students and 2500 acres, more than likely making it the least crowded place in metropolitan India anywhere. The grounds are gorgeous, green, and lush.
The first glance at the buildings themselves and the American eye sees a cross between the head office at a summer camp and the military strategic centers in the movie Patton. The faculty offices are nearly all old wooden one story barrack rows. None of the faculty has an air conditioning, and the mosquitoes up there are worth remarking upon.
The students generally look like college students most anywhere. They’re young, good-looking, sloppily dressed in the same stuff as their American counterparts, and the guys all need a shave. Many of the girls are wearing sarees, which is often enough to make a westerner look twice.
Hyderabad is A Muslim town, unlike Delhi, which is Hindu all the way. Hindi is spoken here somewhat, but Telugu seems to be the main local language. The educated people all speak English more than well enough to get through a conversation with an American guest, and – if the conversation gets awkward – they will revert to the social fallback of India. They feed you or make you a cup of tea.
One of the foods for which the city is most justifiably famous is biryani, which is India’s rendition of jambalaya. The Hyderabad version is spiced rice with marinated meat or fish, all cooked together. Its origins are apparently Muslim.
Tell anyone in India you’re going to Hyderabad, and they will insist you go get biryani at Paradise, which is as downhome a spot as you’ll ever need. As with many restaurants in India, you go through an armed guard to get in. There’s a take-out and snack area at street level in a busy part of town, and the lines in are gargantuan, but this is generally the case with lines in India.
The restaurant is on the second floor, and it’s disarming in its complete lack of pretense. The ceilings are low and the room is dim but not quite dark. The walls are light gold wallpaper, and a glance around the place tells you immediately that its reputation is old and deserved. The clientele is made up largely of families, and there are more than a few tables of older people. It’s not a hipster place, although a few local hipsters are around. Think early pre-rockstar Canter’s Deli.
The smell of that place is wonderful. It’s rice and spice and meat smells all coming together. As you are seated, about nine busboys and waiters start taking care of every aspect of your meal. Again, the local statistics indicate that you will be overattended at any place that serves Indian food. Paradise serves in the traditional Indian style, which is to say it takes roughly six guys to serve any given American couple. We order chicken biryani and lamb kebob, with a desert of cardimum ice cream, and it’s one of the best meals ever. It’s pastrami at The Hat, ribs at LC’s, mussels in white sauce at Walt’s, and a 2 a.m. bowl of soup at a really good South Jersey diner. It’s comfort food, and it’s perfect. And all for about twenty bucks.
We learned pretty quickly that Hyderbad is a great place for food. Our second night there, we went to a bistro called Fusion 9 (Salil turned us onto it), which whose board of fare was upscale eclectic world cuisine, and it succeeded wildly (once they turned down the techno music).
I've been in India now for a week, which means two cities. The flight here is unremarkable except that Chicago to New Delhi is the second longest continuous flight there is (the one to Singapore is slightly longer). Any plane bound for India is prone to be full of Indians (yes, the India kind). Those who have travelled will tell you as follows: The best way to learn about a people is to be stuck in a flying tube with them for twenty hours.
The best advocacy for India is the Indian people. They are realistic about the drawbacks of their country -- more about this later -- but they are quick to say something wonderful about any region you may mention, usually something to do with food or a temple. India has temples like Nashville has bible stores. It is unthinkable that an Indian would ask your plans without asking if you feel assured. To be hospitable is an enormous part of their culture. To a one, every Indian I encountered on the plane introduced himself, then asked if it was my first time to India.
I slept about seven hours during a sixteen hour flight, so I was in okay shape getting off the plane in Delhi. Tracy was to meet me at the airport with a driver from the US Embassy (she gets some hightone gigs), so I wasn' t too worried. I got off the plane in Delhi, and every sign was in English, and it would seem everyone who works in the airport speaks better English than most Americans. The minute you're through the jetway and off the plane, it's like an entire plane full of people have been shot through a cannon. Everyone is suddenly speaking hurried Hindi and flying like bullets to...
Customs. A long slow line that diverges into five short slow lines, and suddenly there are hardly any signs to follow in any language. You hope you're in the right line. Thirty minutes later, you're out of there and on your way to baggage. Miraculously, my bags met me promptly and untrashed.
Coming out of the the international bag claim to the ground transit door was insane. There seems to be only one door to for international arrivals, and it is here that you first see the local statistics in action.
Now, my arrival was about 10 pm on a Saturday night. Big traffic time in any major city, and Delhi is certainly that. I'm used to the twenty or so drivers who hold up signs that say "SMITH" or "HUNTER" or "FELDSHUH" in the baggage claim.
I am not exaggerating to say there was a row on either side of the ramp out the airport, roughly 125 feet in length, and 150 drivers -- all male -- and each with a placard with a Western name written on it. Nearsighted as I am, I was unnerved as I started to walk up the row, because I couldn't really read the signs. Then I heard Tracy call out to me, and she and the driver ran up. Soon enough, we were at the car.
Tracy said that every American who comes to India puts 37 Indians to work. To meet me, Tracy had with her a concierge from the hotel and a driver. That's two guys already and I hadn't even had a coffee or bought a t-shirt.
She brought me up to speed on the day's events leading up to my arrival. Her assistant, Tobie Roach, was on her way back to the states, and had left just two hours before I got in. I'm New Tobie.
Traffic in New Delhi is un-credible. I had asked Teller (of Penn &) for any India travel tips (P&T did part if of a TV special here), and he said, "Travel in big vehicles. Life is cheap on the roads there."
For a guy who doesn't talk, he sure says accurate stuff. The traffic in New Delhi is fast and loose, and there's lots of it. Tons of small motorcycles -- 150 to 350 cc bikes are the norm -- have three and four passengers on 'em, and the girls generally ride sidesaddle. In a situation there's merging, the right of way goes to the merging driver. Lanes are largely theoretical. Traffic lights are often enough less a rule than a guideline.
Commercial transit vehicles are painted green and yellow (the colors of the Indian flag), and government vehicles are white. A professional driver in India is a stoic. Has to be. These roads are not for the nervous.
A very common way for visitors to get around on short hops is the took-took, which is really just a three-wheel golf cart with handlebars up front where the steering wheel would usually go. The canope is dark green (with a little window in the back), the body yellow, and there's room for two Americans (or approx 40 Indians) in the backseat. The driver sits up front, generally alone, but there's room with him for another body if needed. Took-tooks aren't fast. It's your basic two-stroke motor on three golf cart tires. Originally, Harley-Davidson was the only company that makes these things. Nowadays, that's not the case. India's cities are dotted with these things. They cost about $5000 new., which is steep by India standards. Commercial vehicles carry a higher pricetag in India.
Our hotel in New Delhi was the Claridges, which is an old hotel, and is very beautiful. There I ate several of the best meals I will likely ever eat. The grounds were beautiful, and the attendant staff was frighteningly efficient. Our room, though small, was elegant.
We spent the first part of Sunday afternoon at a local Indian market, which seemed to be equal parts Western and Indian. It was definitely not a tourist trap. When we decided to go out for the day, we grabbed a took-took and told our driver -- who called himself "Mr Singh" -- to take us to this market. I forget its name, but it was the only big one open on Sunday. Mr Singh said yes, but insisted he take us first to an Indian arts bazaar on the way. He insisted the quality was blah blah blah and okay we'll check it out. My theory on this is that the took-took guys get a cut of anything they bring in, and I might bet the cut is even bigger now that tourism is down.
It turned out to be a kind of Indian Olvera Street. The older Indian woman who sold saris was high-pressure but artful enough to sell Tracy a few items. I got out of that line of fire. You don't boss Tracy, and Skip walks away from that kind of situation before he's embroiled. Or so he thinks...
There was a younger Indian guy who worked in the store, about thirty, a graduate with an engineer's degree. Really handsome guy, and his English was spotless. He should be an anchorman. We started talking about women and their shopping habits. Then politics.
I had been warned -- both by people who know and in guidebooks -- not to introduce the subject of politics when speaking with Indians. But the Indians who I've been around have a lot of opinions about politics, and they're as informed as most Americans. Probably more informed. And the would-be anchorman started talking politics, and even some religion, and he let me know that even though he was Hindu, he was a man of science and didn't believe in Fate or the acceptance of a life of poverty and distress. He praised Obama and also Clinton. We spoke for ten minutes or more on how it would take best of science to wipe out the worst of religion.
While this is going on, Tracy has settled on a few items of clothing, has paid for them (in rupees), and the anchorman tells us, "You must come to the second floor and see the tribal rugs", and I don't want to and Tracy doesn't want to, but these guys have their pitch thing down, and next thing you know, we're up the steps, looking at a room or Indian and persian rugs that look like any rugs of the type you've seen in Glendale or Northeast Philly , and the anchorman has already determined which rug would be best for us and how he could ship it for free. These guys are high pressure brought to a high art form, even when they don't succeed.
We somehow managed to get out of there without buying a rug, and it was onto the local market. Mr Singh fired up the took-took and we were off into the torrential Delhi traffic, which we were told was light because it was Sunday. It still looked like NYC on a weekday afternoon.
I'm pretty sure this market was typical. The one Western brandname store I noticed was Reebok. There were a knockoff Addidas, Gucci, and whatever, a lot of fruit, package foods, nuts, cell phones, and all. Nothing here to really attract a tourist. The density of the crowds mixed with the intensity of the incoming traffic was mindboggling. An outdoor market in New Delhi is like somebody holding Saturday afternoon at the Reading Terminal Market in the middle of the Tri-Borough Bridge. Took-tooks and small motorcycles are seemingly always inches away from you, and as for the beggars...
The market is also where you get your first whiff of local poverty. Begging is not seen as an affront in this culture. Because the hindus accept fate as a godly thing, that some would be fated to be beggars is inevitable, and the culture accepts it.
The beggars definitely look for took-tooks, I guess because it's logical to assume that a guy with enough rupees for took-took fare will have enough to spare for ...
Well, these folks will basically stick a child or a limb with an open sore right up in your face. There are actual lepers here. Looking away is not an option. My tact was to just adopt the same look and posture as my took-took driver. I haven't seen anyone try and vibe a took-took driver. The took-took driver stoic thing isn't restricted to traffic.
Likely you've heard not to drink the water in India. This is sound advice. Also, on every bottle of drinking water here, they ask you to crush the bottle when your done drinking. Here's why: people in these markets refill the bottles with India's tap water and freeze them so the bottles pop back out new and shiny, and then sell them as clean water in the market. I asked Mr Singh about this, and he just shrugged and said, "Well, it happens..."
I was in the Gulf Coast a few short weeks after Katrina, and my trio was playing New Orleans and Baton Rouge, so we were having to detour a lot, and we saw some stuff along the backroads you should never have to see in your own country. I submit the following conclusion: true poverty is when you're stuck someplace where you can't even steal your way to decent subsistence. You live without resource. That's what Katrina taught me about poverty.
India's poverty is that for more people than you ever dared imagine. Chalking it up to fate.
A ride around Delhi -- not just from the market to the hotel and back, but an hour or so driving around in a car -- and the contours of the city take shape. You get that overall feeling of seeing the city assume its form, and with that comes all the corresponding impressions. New Delhi is certainly one of the great cities of our world. The architecture alone assures it that reputation. The new bus lines are all up-to-the-minute green powered (the 2010 Commonwealth Games have inspired all kinds of public works and upgrading projects, of which the transit system seems to be at the center), and the diversity of the local peoples is staggering. The air, although polluted horribly, smells sweetly of fruit and dust. I can't explain the scent, but it's gorgeous.
The city doesn't reveal itself in the grid system common to New York-style cities. Instead, it reveals itself block by block, layer by layer, 'round every corner. There are Hoovervilles, British style tenement flats, and gorgeous opulent mansion homes, often right next to each other. As the city spills out, so do different economic layers spill over each other. I'd love to offer some sort of ironic comment about New Delhi as the city of post-modern juxtaposition, but nobody planned this. Even George W. Bush in his most wildly oblivious moments would never have sanctioned a shack made of blue raincoat plastic and corrugated tin just a few blocks from the row of gorgeous provincial government embassies. Surely this will be sanitized from sight in time for the Commonwealth Games, but -- once those are over -- you can bet a new shack will pop up where the old one was. You can't stop poverty of this magnitude. Not for long, anyway.
Don't get me wrong. As much as I object to this poverty, New Delhi is one of the most incredibly beautiful places I've ever encountered. The weather there was pretty much like Kansas City in early June, and each of the temples that seem to be all over the city is more beautiful than the last. Americans have mistakenly dismissed the old Indian building styles as one thing, but it's actually a very diverse set of things. Hindu, Muslim, British elements are often fused in ways that directly reflect why the structure was built, or -- if it's a tomb -- something about the life of the man interred there. If any city can be said to have its religious history reflected in its buildings, New Delhi might well be it.
India Gate -- the famed world war memorial -- is staggering, both for its size (it is damn big) and for that it's on a main street. Perhaps the next major memorial of India will honor the dead who tried to cross that street to see the damn thing. I was nearly one.
This Sons of the Pioneers jewel comes from the forgotten Disney gem Melody Time, which came out in 1948. This performance is a small masterpiece, but it's been somewhat eclipsed in recent years by the showpiece version in the flick Three Amigos, and of course by Syd Straw's showstopping version on the Hal Willner Disney tribute Stay Awake.
There aren't really Hollywood cowboy songs in this style anymore. The closest I've heard in years --sort of -- is "Thunderstorms and Neon Signs" by Wayne Hancock. It's not your typical country music chord progression.
Tin Pan Alley cowboy music, with its hip harmonies and loping feel is pretty much a nostalgia fixture. But it's sure as hell worth revisiting from time to time.
vid: roger miller is better than just about anyone
Big River -- Roger Miller's adaptation of Huckleberry Finn -- is largely looked down upon by the musicals world, probably because it comes from the world of real country music and not that Best Little Whorehouse world, but it's actually as good as anything I've heard from the "legit" musicals world in a very long time.
My love for Roger Miller goes back to my childhood. Always loved him. "Chug A Lug" was my gateway song. He was to Nashville as Johnny Mercer was to Hollywood: the restless intellect and most articulate human heart on the block. Along with Bob Dylan, the greatest songwriter of the 1960s.
