XPost: rec.arts.movies.current-films, soc.culture.indian, soc.culture.pakistan
excerpt
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-35374132
The mysterious power of old Bollywood LPs
There are few things that put me in such a nostalgic mood than a vinyl
record of Bollywood songs from my childhood. I recently discovered it
is the same for my elderly aunt, for whom records from the 1950s bring
back a mixture of precious and painful memories.
My family has few historic mementos.
We have no furniture or jewellery passed down generation after
generation. Both my mother's and father's families lost what few
belongings they had in the terrifying rush to escape the violence of
Partition in 1947.
So when I need a reminder of my origins and history, there's only one experience I can readily turn to for familiarity and comfort. On a
shelf in my flat is a collection of roughly 50 LPs, or records, etched
with several generations' favourite Hindi songs from classic Bollywood
films.
Some came from my parents, who bought them in New York City's Indian
district after they emigrated in 1974. Others I've bought in charity
shops around London. I even found an Indian LP in a dusty antique shop
in Casablanca.
I love the shape of records - the smooth, round thinness of them.
Image copyright iStock
There's the hiss and crackle as the needle meets the disc and
navigates what's known as the "lead-in groove".
Watching a black vinyl record spin is hypnotic. It takes me back to
being four years old, when everyone still had rotary dial telephones
and occasionally received telegrams. Listening to an LP still feels
like an immersion. It forces me to listen to the exclusion of
everything else.
In the heart of old Delhi, where the chaotic lanes packed with spice
and jewellery shops have changed little in centuries, there are still
some LP treasure troves to be found.
I followed the directions I'd been given, but reaching the spot, all I
could see was a grotty hole in the wall. I stood scratching my head
before asking for directions: New Gramophone House?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Find out more
Anu's favourite songs are Lag Jaa Gale (Embrace Me) and Chalte Chalte
(Chance Encounter) and Mein to Beghar Hoon (I am Homeless... Take Me
To Your Place)From Our Own Correspondent has insight and analysis from
BBC journalists, correspondents and writers from around the
worldListen on iPlayer, get the podcast or listen on the BBC World
Service or on Radio 4 on Thursdays at 11:00 and Saturdays at 11:30 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was shown a wonky concrete staircase at the back. I climbed up -
gingerly minding my head - into an Aladdin's cave. The tiny shop was
packed floor to ceiling with more than 200,000 vintage Bollywood LPs.
Owner Anuj Rajpal's family has been selling records since the 1930s.
Originally based in Lahore, they too fled violence at Partition, but
were able to evacuate one lorry-load of records when they came to this
spot in 1947.
Today his customers are mostly middle-aged, like me - people who grew
up with records and are overcome by nostalgia at the sight of them.
Anuj says his shop is having a major revival after nearly being wiped
out by CDs in the 1990s.
"It's the sound quality," he says. "People come back to LPs
specifically for that."
I bought two immaculate albums, wrapped carefully in plastic sleeves.
A few days ago, my elderly aunt who hates to travel even short
distances, paid us a long-overdue visit. Bundled under a shawl and
blanket to ward off Delhi's winter chill, she sat in bed.
I brought her a cup of tea and unpacked the records.
One called Shabab, or Youth, dates back to 1958 when she was just a
girl.
As I set it on the turntable, and we listened to the love-sick,
mournful lyrics, I saw my aunt's eyes glisten, alive with memories.
"I haven't heard these songs in years," she said. For the next few
hours, I played DJ while she told me stories from her childhood.
The LP covers from those times show chaste black and white images of
lovers in great pain, gazing wistfully at each other.
The songs are slow and tend to be about loss, and they evoked in her
the horrors of re-establishing life as Partition refugees.
By 1971, when my parents married, the most popular films were about
the complexity of young love. But my favourite records date from later
in that decade when my parents and I, now living in New York City,
would visit an Indian cinema in Manhattan to catch all the latest
movies.
Record covers from this decade are flashy, flamboyant and garish.
One shows a man in a wide-collared pink silk shirt, buttons open,
hairy chest, a drunken women draped over him. Another features women
screaming, as a cheap B-movie werewolf hauls them away to their doom.
Indeed even the discs of that time were manufactured in psychedelic
oranges, pinks and greens.
My aunt was less keen on the disco era, so I switched back to songs
from Bollywood's golden 1960s.
And as we sat for nearly three hours, the needle making a slow,
melodic journey to the centre of each disc - sometimes skipping,
sometimes repeating - we were linked across continents and
generations, our memories set to the soundtrack of love, loss and the
passing of time.
Subscribe to the BBC News Magazine's email newsletter to get articles
sent to your inbox.
Sent from my iPhone
Sent from my iPad
Begin forwarded message:
From: Ukindia <
ukindia01@yahoo.co.uk>
Date: 25 January 2016 01:11:11 GMT
To: ukindia <
ukindia01@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The mysterious power of old Bollywood LPs - BBC News
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-35374132
The mysterious power of old Bollywood LPs
There are few things that put me in such a nostalgic mood than a vinyl
record of Bollywood songs from my childhood. I recently discovered it
is the same for my elderly aunt, for whom records from the 1950s bring
back a mixture of precious and painful memories.
My family has few historic mementos.
We have no furniture or jewellery passed down generation after
generation. Both my mother's and father's families lost what few
belongings they had in the terrifying rush to escape the violence of
Partition in 1947.
So when I need a reminder of my origins and history, there's only one experience I can readily turn to for familiarity and comfort. On a
shelf in my flat is a collection of roughly 50 LPs, or records, etched
with several generations' favourite Hindi songs from classic Bollywood
films.
Some came from my parents, who bought them in New York City's Indian
district after they emigrated in 1974. Others I've bought in charity
shops around London. I even found an Indian LP in a dusty antique shop
in Casablanca.
I love the shape of records - the smooth, round thinness of them.
Image copyright iStock
There's the hiss and crackle as the needle meets the disc and
navigates what's known as the "lead-in groove".
Watching a black vinyl record spin is hypnotic. It takes me back to
being four years old, when everyone still had rotary dial telephones
and occasionally received telegrams. Listening to an LP still feels
like an immersion. It forces me to listen to the exclusion of
everything else.
In the heart of old Delhi, where the chaotic lanes packed with spice
and jewellery shops have changed little in centuries, there are still
some LP treasure troves to be found.
I followed the directions I'd been given, but reaching the spot, all I
could see was a grotty hole in the wall. I stood scratching my head
before asking for directions: New Gramophone House?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Find out more
Anu's favourite songs are Lag Jaa Gale (Embrace Me) and Chalte Chalte
(Chance Encounter) and Mein to Beghar Hoon (I am Homeless... Take Me
To Your Place) From Our Own Correspondent has insight and analysis
from BBC journalists, correspondents and writers from around the
worldListen on iPlayer, get the podcast or listen on the BBC World
Service or on Radio 4 on Thursdays at 11:00 and Saturdays at 11:30 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was shown a wonky concrete staircase at the back. I climbed up -
gingerly minding my head - into an Aladdin's cave. The tiny shop was
packed floor to ceiling with more than 200,000 vintage Bollywood LPs.
Owner Anuj Rajpal's family has been selling records since the 1930s.
Originally based in Lahore, they too fled violence at Partition, but
were able to evacuate one lorry-load of records when they came to this
spot in 1947.
Today his customers are mostly middle-aged, like me - people who grew
up with records and are overcome by nostalgia at the sight of them.
Anuj says his shop is having a major revival after nearly being wiped
out by CDs in the 1990s.
"It's the sound quality," he says. "People come back to LPs
specifically for that."
I bought two immaculate albums, wrapped carefully in plastic sleeves.
A few days ago, my elderly aunt who hates to travel even short
distances, paid us a long-overdue visit. Bundled under a shawl and
blanket to ward off Delhi's winter chill, she sat in bed.
I brought her a cup of tea and unpacked the records.
One called Shabab, or Youth, dates back to 1958 when she was just a
girl.
As I set it on the turntable, and we listened to the love-sick,
mournful lyrics, I saw my aunt's eyes glisten, alive with memories.
"I haven't heard these songs in years," she said. For the next few
hours, I played DJ while she told me stories from her childhood.
The LP covers from those times show chaste black and white images of
lovers in great pain, gazing wistfully at each other.
The songs are slow and tend to be about loss, and they evoked in her
the horrors of re-establishing life as Partition refugees.
By 1971, when my parents married, the most popular films were about
the complexity of young love. But my favourite records date from later
in that decade when my parents and I, now living in New York City,
would visit an Indian cinema in Manhattan to catch all the latest
movies.
Record covers from this decade are flashy, flamboyant and garish.
One shows a man in a wide-collared pink silk shirt, buttons open,
hairy chest, a drunken women draped over him. Another features women
screaming, as a cheap B-movie werewolf hauls them away to their doom.
Indeed even the discs of that time were manufactured in psychedelic
oranges, pinks and greens.
My aunt was less keen on the disco era, so I switched back to songs
from Bollywood's golden 1960s.
And as we sat for nearly three hours, the needle making a slow,
melodic journey to the centre of each disc - sometimes skipping,
sometimes repeating - we were linked across continents and
generations, our memories set to the soundtrack of love, loss and the
passing of time.
Subscribe to the BBC News Magazine's email newsletter to get articles
sent to your inbox.
a true story of 170,000 Indians stranded in Kuwait when it was
captured by Iraqi troops , with some artistic license to be sure
It is engrossing but should have had a couple of item dances
by debauched Iraqi troops in a night club and the background music
should have Indian instruments , although the one banghra item is
quite good. Already declared a hit in India
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
* Origin: fsxNet Usenet Gateway (21:1/5)