KL / Sepuluh Tahun Sebelum Merdeka

I don't like KL. It's filthy, chaotic, and littered with shady characters acting as if they own the place. After sundown, it gets worse. The high-pitched sounds of traffic are replaced by dark desires that rumble in low decibels. The emancipated man at the bus-stop becomes a drug addict in need of fast cash; the shifty-eyed man sweeping floors becomes a sex-starved maniac whose wife is a continent and a half away. You don't need much imagination to commit a crime.

Yet, here is the heart—and soul—of the nation. More pertinently to me at least, here is its arts scene, buzzing and beating harder since The Annexe opened its doors to the public. Twice this month, I've ended up here alone, at night, praying on the LRT that I don't get mugged or raped or assaulted or battered or harassed or decapitated (maybe you do need some imagination after all) while walking the 200 metres or so from Pasar Seni station to The Annexe and back. It's not the wisest thing to do, but somehow the friends I ask to come along always can't make it. Grrr.

Fortunately then, for both my solitary nighttime adventures, my mind came back piqued by a new idea, a new concept, a new insight. In other words, the hassle was worth it.

( |o }===:::

And so I decided to risk my life tonight because a historical documentary called Sepuluh Tahun Sebelum Merdeka by virginal filmmaker Fahmi Reza was being screened. For free. I tend to avoid historical stuff because it has such a powerful effect on me, leaving me snoring and unconsciously sniffing at the next person's shirt, which I can't decide in my sleep is a durian or not, but tonight's doco won The Most Outstanding Human Rights Film award at this year's Freedom Film Fest organised by Komas, while excerpts from reviews, plonked into the promo postcard, all praised it. I am a sucker for ratings and good reviews, so I was sold.

Basically (which means I don't remember the details), the documentary covers the period from 1945-1948 in Malaya, and brings to life a historical nugget missing from our Sejarah textbooks—of how left-wing political parties formed a multi-racial coalition that demanded independence from the British, and came up with a referendum dubbed the People's Constitution. This version of history is gleaned from archived text, historical commentaries and interviews with former leaders and members of these parties. The snappy editing and music choice helped heaps in sustaining interest, and a particularly humorous section comparing this alternative referendum against UMNO/Britain's referendum hit the nail on the head. Oh, and I love the fonts.

But the highlight of this doco is an event that has been blanked out by the authors of our history books. In 1947, after the British refused to cater to the wishlist of the multiracial coalition of Putera-AMCJA, a Brit-educated Baba called Tan Cheng Lock suggested a hartal as a way of getting their attention. Having spent time in India, his inspiration came from Gandhi and Nehru, who were also fighting for independence from the Brits and had used this strategy successfully many times. The idea was tested out in several states, and, having been found successful, thousands of flyers announcing a nationwide hartal for 20th October 1947 were printed by the printing presses belonging to the Chinese merchants (an ally) and distributed. Finally, the day dawned. During this hartal, the rakyat showed their support for independence by closing all shops and staying in. Business came to a standstill, costing the fuming Brits 4 million pounds—a huge sum in that day. It was the biggest single public demonstration our nation has seen, yet most Malaysians don't know anything about it. (Unfortunately, as history has proven, the British Government still did not acknowledge the voice of the rakyat demanding freedom, and only granted us independence 10 years later.)

Even if you're not a history buff, rest assured that this documentary is as accessible as any mamak in Malaysia. And we were lucky to have Fahmi in attendance for a discussion session after the screening. It helped in understanding more about how the Government (the hand that weaves those historical words) either claims a piece of history as theirs, or plays other events down, championing instead their political agendas. Meanwhile, the left-wing leaders who also struggled for independence either ended up in jail or in silence, their sacrifices all but wiped out.

The event left me with several questions and impressions. Would a hartal of sorts work in today's Malaysia, in the event that the ruling Government acted way out of line? Who would organise it? Or even if some left-wing group tried to organise say, a total boycott of government-linked companies like Petronas, would the man on the street be afraid of being openly accused as a Government detractor? What would the effect be of screening this film ahead of the elections to the younger generation, especially Malays, who seek a different Malay role model other than the keris-waving drama queen? The documentary showed progressive-minded Malay leaders of yesteryear, who did not talk all day about racial issues so as to divide and remind us of our differences, but instead focused on gaining independence through unity.

Fahmi also brought up the point of how our textbooks keep emphasising racial divisions, but fail to mention segregation by class, which has had more impact on our nation's state and laws than you and I would probably like to know. It's certainly stuff to think about, and an interesting alternative to those who find it hard to entrust an entire nation's future to UMNO's present leaders, or their ability to write truthful textbooks.

Of Language and Sex

I've been conducting some Top Secret Research in KL for the past two days. This week's schedule ends tomorrow, but the whole of next week is all about shaking hands and disinfecting them with unadulterated brainpower alone, while doing my best to listen attentively.

Since Central Market was en route home, I decided to drop in on some KataGender arts installation thingy and a forum on 'Youth Movement Since Merdeka' (part of the 50:44 event). For the arts exhibit, a bunch of old t-shirts were hung up on several clothes lines, each with a one-line story of gender-related injustice painted on it along with the year on the other side. Honestly, it didn't leave much of an impact on me. I think that if an elaboration of those stories and suggestions on how the viewer-participant could respond (write to MCA, join a club, demonstrate/fornicate outside Parliament, etc) were included somewhere, it would have helped the message. Also, some torn clothes/clothes dumped on the floor might have added a nice touch to symbolise the struggle (and consequences) in issues dealing with gender identity.

Up a flight of stairs, and I found an inconspicuous spot at the Youth forum. Sat down and listened to the first panelist, Hishamuddin Rais, a former student activist who is infamous for his outspoken mind (which has gotten him into a Top Secret Cell). Well, two things he said made sense. Although he said it with activism in mind, these pointers can be applied to whatever message it is you wanna get out.

1. Stop preaching to the converted—get your message out to the unconverted, who need to hear it more, and collectively, are able to make a greater difference. (In tonight's context, the 'lost' youths of Malaysia.)
2. Say it in the language of the masses, i.e. use Bahasa Malaysia. It is not about using BM simply because it is the national language or anything to do with iffy patriotic connotations; rather, we should come to view BM as a strategic language that is essential in communicating whatever our gospel to the masses, bridging the racial divide and changing mindsets.

Thinking about it, I am of the opinion that if we did speak mainly one common language, racial tensions might be less (though a blot in history that proves otherwise is the racial riots in Indonesia between the locals and the Indo-Chinese, and all those incidences of ethnic cleansing).

Anyway, that was pretty good stuff to mull over as I left early enough not to be abducted by KL's 'scruds' (dodgy people, usually men, who like dark corners and bright ideas that pop up when they covertly observe other people, usually women, anxiously clutching their bags, eyes darting, and walking alone).

Tomorrow there's a mass prayer and a forum on the long overdue need for an inter-faith commission (their words, not mine). If you're interested, go to The Annexe @ Central Market, 8pm onwards.

Saharadja at Mont Kiara Jazz Fest

I had been looking forward to the Merdeka gig at No Black Tie, which was meant to be a night of poetry and music featuring the likes of Amir Muhammad, Azmyl Yunor, Pang, Mia Palencia and Isaac Entry. However, when we got there, I realised (i) I was underdressed; (ii) we needed a reservation.

Dang dang dang.

So, by virtue of being booted out of NBT, a friend and I found ourselves on the road to Sunrise, Mont Kiara for its annual jazz fest. We arrived just in time to get coffee and settle down for the second set, which featured a band from Bali called Saharadja.

If this had been the World Rainforest Music Festival, they would have so totally rocked. But their brand of world music, heavy on the percussions and with an interesting mix of violin, djembe, trumpet, flute, didgeridoo, guitar, drums, bass and tribal calls, seemed wasted amidst the concrete walls that surrounded the soundstage. The crowd's response was rather mediocre, as is expected when you have a free sit-down-type event that is F&B and kid-friendly. (It is also likely that the hot Aussie violinist in the centre diverted substantial attention away from the music.)

After a while, I picked up the camera and went in front to shoot some pics. Immediately, I was zapped by the energy that bounced off the stage, and my impression of them improved 100%. They rock, and so do free gigs.

Saharadja's guitarist: a really animated dude

Singapore Pt. II

Singapore is a fine city. In both senses of the word. It's my second visit to Singapore in a year, which makes that a personal record. One day I imagine I might work here, since I know more than five people and therefore shouldn't feel completely lonely, and also because it's a fine city. If you earned the same amount as you did in that country up its border (where I currently reside), all you'd need to do is multiply that by 2.3 and wahlau, you'd be rich! Your parents would be happier with the extra pocket money and so would you. Yes, I might work here one day. (I'd just have to deal with not being able to understand Mandarin-speaking cabbies and waitresses.)

What I have been doing since getting here on Friday night.
Eating fine food (had Jap and one of those real-meat-with-juices-flowing burgers today), tossing between getting a Macbook or a normal laptop or the office's Dell one, hanging out with my ex-colleagues Cheok and William who have been really angelic, walking in and out of shops, spending a bomb on stationery, shopping, getting fat, learning to surf the web on an iBook and discovering the joys of two-finger page scrolling, oversleeping (woke up at 1.35pm today; how absolutely piggish), and attending the TOMMY EMMANUEL concert at Esplanade.

I'd been wanting to see Tommy in action for some time now, but when I was in Australia for a month last year, he was shuttling in between some weird-named Scandinavian country and another planet. Then this year, while reading Mia Palencia's blog, she happened to mention that she'd been to a Tommy E gig last year. Lo and behold, a whim like a dim sum came ker-plonk into my brain, and so I googled "Tommy Emmanuel" and "tour", and excitedly found out that he was going to be playing in a few months in Singapore!

So who's this Tommy guy actually? Well, he's an oldish chap from Melbourne, Australia with two daughters and a few more kids via World Vision, who also happens to be among one of two(?) Certified Guitar Players in the world. He's most known as a fine fingerstyle player, which is a playing style that combines a moving bassline, rhythm and melody/lead section played at the same time by the same guitar player. He also does rather crazy stuff on the guitar. I mean, he doesn't pick strings with his teeth or salivate all over the strings, but what he does is beat it up real bad till it sounds pretty good. Like today, he used a drum brush to beat the guitar body below the saddle to create a purely rhythm jamming session. The pickup on the first guitar used today is also VERY sensitive, and each time he thumped over the soundhole, a heavy 'boom' akin to a kicked bass drum was produced.

But what THE highlight of the night was for me, by far, a song called 'Initiation', which he wrote after spending time with the Aboriginals in Alice Springs as a lad. I'm not sure of the time span between the inspiration and actualisation of the song, perhaps 30 years as he joked, but what he had wanted to do was to capture the sounds of the Aborigines and produce that on a guitar. Today, he did just that, immaculately, splendidly, magically. Using heavy delay effects and certain other effects (I'm guessing a Phase Shifter though I've never used that effect myself), he created a populated oasis in the middle of an arid bushland, where the calls of the original inhabitants of Australia melded with their droning beats, clucks, atmospherics and waaah-waaaaah didgeridoo sounds. It was the most amazing thing I've seen produced on a guitar, ever. (The Esplanade has wonderful acoustics too, which did wonders to the listening experience.)

With that, I'll end my adventures for today. Tomorrow, if I wake up on time, I'll visit Felix's church with him. Then on to more shopping! :D

A Public Appearance on a Public Holiday

Meet Zara. She's a malnourished vegan who doesn't want to eat animals because "I love animals". While I don't doubt her sincerity (two years of being a vegan might have saved err... 3 cows, 2 goats and a few hundred chickens?), I do have reservations that any such love is mutual. For instance, if I dumped her in the rugged (often misconstrued as wildly romantic) African landscape with nothing more than a professed agape love for animals, my meat-fed guts tell me that a starving lion would probably prove my suspicions right.

But I digress.

Meet Zara.

Zara is also my new partner in rhyme (sorry, these lines don't come supplied with a puke bin). And rhythm. And music. In other words, we are going to be rockstars together. Or poor buskers who might, in the hazy future, be able to describe in detail what a Bukit Aman cell looks like. Hey, we've all got to start somewhere.

SOMEWHERE
And so our particular venture into the very public sphere of busking (i.e. begging for money aided by a musical instrument) began last Wednesday, a public holiday. I had only busked once on the infinitely safer streets of Canberra; Zara, zip. After two practices, we had about 11 songs we could cover quasi-decently—enough for one set. We decided to try our luck at the recently revamped Central Market, a stone's throw away from the historic birthplace of KL. Such non-exclusive places tend to congregate the craziest kinds, so for safety reasons, I engaged the services of Reb C, who is a few dozen sizes smaller than me and a few elephants lighter, to protect us from the baddies and also to take pictures.

It must have worked, for we were not robbed. As we sang, smiled, screwed up and said thank you whenever someone was kind enough to actually pop money in, we were never once booed, impaled by another busker's guitar, or bounded off to jail in a flashing police car. While all that would have made a more thrilling blog post than this, I shall be content with the memory of my first-ever busking experience in Malaysia. For those who'd like to see us strut more embarrassment on the streets, my meat-fed guts tell me there will be more to come.

Hmm-bop

I am a phoney. I am a faker. I am a professional poser.

Twice, yesterday, I caught myself trying to impress random strangers by:

a) Speaking in good English
b) Bopping my head to jazz music
(Three times, if you count that pseudo-artsy look I was trying to achieve with my face.)

GOSH! WHAT A LOSER!

Ever since I was old smart enough to realise that certain patterns of behaviour I displayed (mainly showing off on the guitar or banging the drums in church) were probably due to insecurity issues unresolved during my childhood, I have luckily managed to move past the chagrin of being such a loser and plonked myself in the frontlines of the punch line: me.

Which is why, in these days of post-enlightenment, I am sometimes wary of how I behave at gigs. (And in another setting, how I play in church. I have a specific prayer to address this—just need to remember to say it.) You see, although I am a phoney, a faker and a poser, I am an honest one. Hence, if I suddenly realise I am bopping my head to music in a gig, I try to check my motivations. Was it automatic? Did it happen subconsciously as I got into the groove? Or was I just trying to show I can keep time? It sounds pathetic, but that’s because it really is.

I can’t say that I’ve ceased this bad habit of fishing for compliments, because obviously, I haven’t. Somewhere deep inside still lurks that inferior beast squealing like a spring pig for attention. Two options remain: to reach a celestial level of snobbery so that earthly comments become so inconsequential to my identity I could flick them light years away with a gigantic middle finger, or to remember to root my identity in a Higher Being, which I am so slack in doing.

In the meantime, if you ever catch me smiling to myself while bopping to a beat then suddenly stopping, know that I was merely rejoicing in the idiot that I am.

P/S: The North Rhine Westphalia Youth Jazz Orchestra was good. Better than expected. Their discordant rendition of ‘Rasa Sayang’ with haunting vocals made my night. And unlike the Earth, Wind & Fire concert or the gig at Little Havana, this was FREE. :D

Floored

Darn you Melina.

You and your five-string bass. Kicking ass like nobody's business. You literally floored me and everyone else, including every (male) bassist who played tonight. Totally. You're like the Fingers of the female muso community. Males too. That wasn't meant to sound rude, by the way.

How do you move your digits so fast?

You have effectively obliterated my theory that girl guitarists / bassists / whatever can't be as fast as guys. I still think there are guys who are faster than you, but then again, there are more guy players, period. What am I to do now without a valid excuse?

Stop slapping and pulling in between bars - you make me and my bass playing look sorely juvenile.

You are one crazy nut.

How did you get so good?

Oh, and you sing while you play. Now that's amazing. The most I can do while spewing out lyrics is play simple notes, let alone a whole verse full of complicated bass riffs. You're da bomb.

You know, you looked so cool today. Absolutely sizzling. It's like you'd kill any band member who played the wrong note or went off-time. Maybe that helps keep them in check. Or maybe the non-smiling schlock heightens the drama of your playing. For a moment, I was tempted to take up the bass seriously; practising, practising, practising at the expense of my guitar playing. I want to look cool on stage too. But luckily, I came to my senses. I doubt I can be as good as you even if I practised solidly for two hours a day (anything more and the fingers would be in a permanent cramp). And it pricks me that you're *slightly* younger than me. Damn.

Melina William of Tempered Mental, you rock my socks. If you're ever looking for a girl band or another singer-songwriter to form a duo, you know where to find me.

Love,
An unwilling groupie