My boss Sangeet Naukri Ghusanewla stormed into office. It's been a year since he formed Ullu Banao, a music placement agency where he hired me as creative head and the ultra-dumb but super-fashionable Bulbul as secretary. His pet monkey Bandar Bhai remotely controls our operations.
“Kansur,” he squealed in a pitch that would give tenor Luciano Pavarotti an inferiority complex. “I have a brilliant idea. Execute it immediately,” he continued.
Ghusanewala has a unique dress sense, this time he was in a black Metallica tee with an imprinted skull that resembled his face, and a hairdo that was a cross between hair bonding and a made-in-Paris wig. He beamed, “I want to revive the loudest thrash metal and death metal in the country. Do you guys even know of bands like Napalm Death, Anthrax, Slayer and Rage Against The Machine?”
I asked, “Great thought, but what’s the idea? His prompt reply, “In Delhi, 900 restobars have been banned from playing recorded music. Live music is fine as some bureaucrat believes it is softer. But no recorded music, even if they play Kenny G or Simon G. The rule may soon come to Mumbai. I want to create bands that will play so loud here that even Delhi will hear them.”
Bandar Bhai screeched like a raven. Ghusanewala was delighted. “Bandar, you are the lead vocalist of our first death metal band,” he said. Bulbul tried her luck. “Ooh aah aah aaaaaaa,” she went. “Good attempt, but you sound more like Karen Carpenter than Rob Halford of Judas Priest,” the boss said. I interrupted, “Why don’t we form our own in-house death metal band?” Ghusanewala scratched his triple chin, and said, “Brilliant idea, Kansur. Bandar on lead vocals and bass. Bulbul on soprano vocals. Just need to train her pitch. I will play lead guitar better than Slash. You handle the drums. Just keep pounding them and throwing sticks at the crowd.” I told him I could also sing hip-hop. Bulbul said she knew a bit of hop-skip-jump. Perfect formula. Ghusanewala got his Fender Stratocaster guitar, “Let’s begin our rehearsals now,” he said playing a riff. Window panes crashed and trees fell in the neighbourhood.
An 80-year-old lady who had attended Woodstock in 1969 doddered in and said she actually felt Jimi Hendrix come alive.
Ghusanewala was now headbanging to such an extent Bandar Bhai had to keep putting his Parisian wig back on his scalp, simultaneously screaming his lungs out. Bulbul was so inspired she looked and sang like Janis Joplin. I was rapping like Mike Shinoda of Linkin Park. None of us knew what on earth we played.
Ghusanewala was so thrilled that he started jumping. His accent changed. “Hey all you brothas and sistas. This is the new world of death metal and nu metal. Our band shall be called Drinkin Park. And we shall play live music across India.”
Over the next two days, our band had booked 20 shows. Many asked us the choice of our band title. Ghusanewala had his standard answer. “We just want to prove recorded music is nowhere softer than live bands at these venues. If anyone objects to Drinkin Park we shall change our name to Thinkin Park.”