Fast forward to March 2012.

Despite admitting to have shot and killed a 17 year-old armed with Skittles and a hoodie, George Zimmerman remains a free man today. The story struck a chord and has become a worldwide sensation. Just as thousands of ordinary folks of all stripes have taken to the streets to peacefully protest the outrageous impunity, a similar scene is happening right now in Punjab; the difference is that the “criminal” is slated to die for attempting to stop the targeting of his community for extrajudicial torture and killings. Here is the breakdown on Balwant Rajaona and why he was to be hanged from The Langar Hall.

On March 31st, Bhai Balwant Singh Rajoana [was] set to be executed in Punjab for his involvement in the assassination of former chief minister of Punjab, Beant Singh. Chief minister Beant Singh was involved with carrying out brutal and mass killings of Sikhs in Punjab.  He is widely held responsible by many Sikhs for ordering the kidnap, torture and death of many young Sikh men.  A report by Amnesty International can be found here.

Whereas outrage around the cold-blooded murder of a kid/boy/person/however you’d like to term Trayvon armed with only Skittles and a hoodie has galvanized action worldwide, the imposed media blackout and military presences have in Punjab made sure that most people outside do not learn the facts of the case, and those who do organize are slammed as “terrorist sympathizers.” Just as black boys, girls, men, and women in this country learned that the combination of darker skin and an otherwise innocuous piece of clothing can make them targets for harassment, Sikhs have had to essentially face a death sentence for the same, also in the country they call home. Over the years, we’ve have had many discussions over the realities and pitfalls of being minorities, from having to choose Starbucks names to sharing our stories of insults, harassment, and even violence. From these conversations, I’ve learn that our shared experiences and status as the perpetual other makes the need for solidarity with other minorities groups all that much more necessary: I do not have to be an African-American to be moved by tragedy of Trayvon Martin’s death, nor do I have to be Sikh (I’m not) to be see the incredible injustice meted out to this minority. Though a stay has been put on Rajaona’s hanging, those who were responsible for the murder of as many as a quarter million missing and murdered Sikhs remain free and continue to live and operate with complete impunity. As this Mutiny signs off today, no justice has been served in either cases, but the Mutiny against this impunity grows stronger by the minute.

I’d like to thank Abhi for first inviting me into the bunker to blog about my obscure desi vinyl collection, among other things. The original gangstas, Manish, ANNA, Cicatrix, Neha, The Barmaid, Siddhartha, and Preston have had had more of an impact on how I viewed myself and the world I inhabit than I probably would feel comfortable admitting and I am forever in their debt. This site and the community it subsequently created has given me more than I could have ever hoped for and introduced me to bloggers and commenters who ended up becoming close friends in real life (like Harbeer and Cheap Ass Desi) and those who become something more (like I’m going to tell you). (Check out my tongue-in-cheek tribute to EVERYONE who helped make SM what it is!) But just as Abhi can say with confidence that the Mutiny has completed its mission, I can say that mine has just begun. This Mutiny is standing down, but for me, what began as stimulating, often contentious and always illuminating but ultimately idle conversation slowly grew into a reconnection with a lost heritage, a fledgling awareness of a need for further engagement, and finally a clarion call for action. For this reason, #Iamtrayvonmartin, and #Ipledgeorange, and I hope we can all continue together in our Mutinous ways.

Check out his video for “Guttersnipe,” his sultry voice set along a snapshot of “life along the Indian railways,” after the jump.

Behind that deceptively handsome mug is a booming voice backed by a powerful wit, perhaps the deadliest combination since butter met scotch. You don’t have to take my word for it: he’s already garnering critical praise after only doing the coffee-house circuit for a short while. Here’s probably the best assessment of Bhi and his music I’ve come across yet:

“It only makes good sense that the next great American folk hero/political voice is a very un-white, first-generation Sri-Lankan American. Bhi Bhiman (bee-bee-man) is arguably the wittiest and angriest person to pick up a guitar in the last 30 years and wield it like an aural hatchet aimed at chopping the head off all that’s wrong in the world.”

-Local IQ (Albuquerque)

Aside from the questionably colorist “very un-white” comment, I could not have said it better myself. Bhi is a star in the making. He’s the closest we have to a brown Randy Newman (except topical and funny) and/or a brown Bob Dylan (except modest and intelligible). Just like Abhi made the bold prediction that Das Racist would be the hottest, brownest thing of 2009, I’m sayin’ that Bhi is going to do to wannabe fakers just like the release of Nevermind did to 80′s butt-rock: render them irrelevant with the strumming of a single chord.Bhi was first exposed to folk and blues growing up in St. Louis, where he played Little League and, despite the challenges his family overcame to emigrate to the US, generally experienced an All-American upbringing. (His parents did make sure that he had playdates with the one Pakistani kid his age in town.) His family later relocated to the Bay Area, and he later cut his musical teeth at UCSC (Go Slugs!) with Hippie Grenade, an almost unclassifiable melange of funk and, protest music, and jam-band noodlery. It’s here, in the Bay, that Bhi developed his own sound, coupling his clever lyrics with infectious, bluesy melodies to impart some very biting and sometimes poignant social commentary, all without ever being saccharine or preachy. Despite his impressive compositional skills (he wrote most of the music for Hippie Grenade), it’s his healthy set of pipes that makes him stand out from the crowd.

His voice, oh, his voice: where to begin? It’s truly extraordinary: instantly recognizable and wholly unforgettable. a-MAZING with a capital “M.” A voice as seismic as his is probably to blame for the sinking of Rama Setu into the sea. The San Francisco Examiner says “his strikingly vibrant tenor octave resonates loud and powerful from any stage with as much recognition as his name,” while the SF Bay Guardian enthuses that “the first thing you notice about Bhiman is his voice; it’s instantly striking and unique, a slapdash mixture of Bill Withers, Richie Havens, and Little Richard.” Finally, if Fred Durst were here (and thankfully he’s not), he’d gladly proclaim Bhiman “the real muthaf*ckin’ deal, y’all“. (He’d also inform you that he’s “feelin’ those lighters.” Digressing, here are a few of Bhi’s tunes that are on my playlist as of now (and should be in yours).

“White Man’s Burden Blues” is a catchy tune that takes a smart and hilarious spin through the sickening paternalism of British colonialism. I’m diggin’ his lyrics:

I need a vacation this is grueling mundane work

Patels and Singhs and everything,

“Lord! Deliver me a Turk!”

Inhaled another curry fart while cricketing with Burke

Curry farts and Hindu dots were not in the brochure

Take me to America and I’ll spread the word of truth

I’ve got the White Man’s Burden Blues

Apropos of the cricket references, I can’t talk about Bhi without mentioning (aside from folk music and social justice) his real passion: basketball. With over 10 thousand views, this is Bhi’s most popular (and most decidedly partisan) video. Check out “God is a Warrior’s Fan.” (Warning: Devoted Lakers’ ticket-holders may want to skip this one.)

My favorite song of his has to be the slow and mournful “It’s Cold Outside.” His voice shines no more brightly than in this stellar performance at a SoCal cafe. Bhi shows off his vocal range quite well here and there’s nothing false about his falsetto- in fact, his plaintive cries are a blistering, heart-rending tour-de-force. This must be the song that a critic had in mind when making the claim that “Bhiman sings like a traveling Dust Bowl folkie crossed with Nina Simone.”

I had a chance to interview Bhi and will posting some of our conversation next week. During our lively chat, I promised him that I wouldn’t mention that other, famous Sri Lankan artist in my write-up about him- that it wouldn’t be fair to him to compare two totally different people engaging artistically in different styles together one the sole basis of their shared extraction. I meant it when I said it but, the more I listened to Bhi’s heartfelt and earnest music, the more I realized how rare diasporic Sri Lankan musicians are and how unfortunate it was that a talent and perspective as unique as Bhi’s could be overshadowed by the obtuse yet very-marketable record executive wet-dream that currently and solely comprises the state of Sri Lankan media representation in the West. The era of glorifying any macaca with brown skin and a record deal is over. The next wave of desi artists/actors/musicians are emerging, and they’re freely embracing new and more developed tropes to express with. No more sub-par, semi-talented, barely literate art-school dropouts as political voice, for our (okay, my) new hero has arrived. Unlike that artist who’s name shall not be mentioned, not only are Bhi Bhiman’s lyrics intelligible, but they’re articulate, topical, and alternately touching and fiercely funny. His views on the civil war, perhaps not fully-formed and admittedly biased, do not smack of dismissive over-simplification and calculated exploitation. His music isn’t only instantly catchy, but fresh and original. But there’s no team of producers here, no dubious creation myths to create an air of ethnic authenticity (he never insinuated and then denied familial connections to the Tigers and he also never claimed to have worked in a call center.) No matter how you feel about Bhi Bhiman or his music, at the very least, we should be able to agree that the dearth of Sri Lankan musicians in the diaspora is starting to shift and change, hopefully along with what it means to be Sri Lankan in the diaspora.

For those in the Yay Area interested in seeing Bhi live, you can catch him at the Independent tonight, opening up for Frazey Ford. You bet your ascot that I’ll be there and any Mutineer that can spot me, Waldo-style, in the crowd gets a free mixtape courtesy of the Drrrty Poonjabi. Tix are only $15 (presale) folks- let’s support him!

Not more than the KGB of course, (that nonsensical distinction is for MIA alone to lay claim to) but enough to have seriously impacted my pocketbook, personal life, and also to provide me with an escape when pressures of living with wackily overbearing desi parents prove to be a bit much.

I started collecting in 2000, a year before the first generation iPod was first released (partially designed by my friend’s dad while we were still in high school, no less). Since then, I’ve accumulated probably close to 1000 records but, to this day, my audiophilia never translated into me owning an iPod or any other personal mp3 player. The reason is simple- those devices offer the exact opposite experience to that of the LP. The record is a tactile medium and it is almost not possible for the music to be seen and felt as much as heard, a reality totally lost with the iPod. The mp3 player certainly provides incredible convenience and portability for those who want hours of tunes at their disposal without a wheel-barrow to schlep it around in, but I’ve found that it deracinates and decontextualizes the music from the interesting history and processes that helped created it. It’s in the spirit of this obsessive nerdery that I came across, via reading the miscellanea on my record sleeves, the subjects of tonight’s post and the nuggets I’ll be sharing every Friday with all ye Mutiny Faithful.

Pensive after reading Anna’s tribute to Michael Jackson last month, I remembered that I had seen something completely unexpected while scanning the sleeve of his single for The Way You Make Me Feel: the familiar “P-word.” I knew I was onto something big. Whoa. Who is Andrea Patel and how did she get Michael Jackson to dedicate a record to her? Did MJ owe a favor to a kind motel owner who put him and his stranded crew up one rainy night during their 1987 tour? Maybe Andrea was the artistic genius behind Indian Thriller and Michael wanted to convey his appreciation? Or perhaps she was his secret Bollywood Princess, proving once and for all that the King of Pop was really desi (and straight) after all. If so, did he really love her? Did she love him? With a bit of determination, moxie, good old-fashioned police work and Google (actually, just Google) I found the answer to the mystery of the Perplexing Patel Paean. In her own words:

My name is Andrea Patel. When I was 6 years old I met Michael Jackson here in Toronto and he personally invited my family to his concert. Soon after he would phone us, and send us boxes of stickers/gum.Then to top it off he dedicated the single ‘The way you Make me Feel’ to me. Dedicated to Andrea Patel of Canada, I love you. It’s something I have neverbeen able to live down, even if I try. People are always fascinated by this and refer to him as my best bud even though I don’t talk to him anymore. It truly was 15 minutes of fame!

[link]

Her father, Nazir Patel, surprisingly has a quite the active internet social life and is on Twitter (add him!) and has a blog. He explains how Michael met his family and even provides us with pictures, including one of Michael with Andrea.

we had the good fortune of knowing between October 1984 until Mar 1988. A great human being who always spoke well of other celebrities whenever we spoke on phone during the years he kept in touch.It was Oct 1984 when he called us at The Four Seasons Hotel in Toronto in response to a fan letter I wrote on behalf of our daughter Andrea aged 3 and a letter that I was able to get through his father whom I met outside the hotel walking on the street. Thereafter he invited us to his Victory Tour concert as VIP guests. And started a friendship that would have him call many times. In Nov 87 he dedicated a single The Way You Make Me Feel to our daughter Andrea 7 and then invited us to a Bad concert reception in New York in March 1988. Thereafter I received a large size photo of me with him in April. Unfortunately we never heard from him once he fired his manager at the time Frank Dileo.

[link]

Along with Nisha Kataria and Omer Bhatti, Andrea bring the tally of questionable-relationships-that-Michael-Jackson-had-with-a-desi-child to at least three. (Yeah, I’m keeping score. Please leave a comment if you are another one.)

Since I don’t want to leave without a track for your weekend playlist, check out this off-the-wall Hindi cover of one of MJ’s biggest hits.

The 12 inch of Bollywood Freak’s remix of a now legendary cover of “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough” surprisingly didn’t get the Sepia bump when it mysteriously appeared back in 2004, but it did manage to attract the attention of two limber and effusive brown dudes with a video camera and a free weekend.

The track was first released as “Chhupke Kaun Aya” in 1981 by Southie songstress Usha Uthup on her rare album “24 Carats,” a strange collection of Hindi versions of American disco songs. The songs are almost note-for-note recreations, but the lyrical content is a subcontinent away: the Bee Gee’s “Night’s on Broadway” became “Aaj Sanam Mujhe” and Gloria Gaynor’s classic “I Will Survive” somehow translated into “Lelo Dil Mera.” I had to travel all the way to Delhi before I found a copy at the last record store on my list. The original has found it’s way into almost every set I’ve played for the past two years.

I may not own an iPod, but if you do, I hope Chhupke gets at least one play this weekend from you macacas, including those limber ones with video camera.

What was that insufferable science-fiction movie that came out a few years ago, set in an improbable parallel universe where a wisecracking 16 year-old could simultaneously make superfluous references to Soupy Sales and nonchalantly decide the future of her unplanned fetus all in the same hamburger-phone call? It doesn’t matter, as the only interesting part of that unbearable film was the unearthing, for the masses, of Sonic Youth’s cover of Superstar. Eerie, with equal parts irony and insanity, the Thurston Moore-led reworking revived interest in the track that helped define the careers of both Bette Midler and The Carpenters and introduced his art-rock band for another generation of smarmy hipsters. Now, imagine the inevitable Bollywood remake and that scene, where little Jaanu slow dances with the Uncleji vying for the child inside her womb- what uberhip, obscure cover song by a brown artist could match Superstar’s cool cred and lilt ominously from the record player? Glad you asked.I had first heard a low quality, 30 second clip back in 2006 after stumbling onto an eBay auction from a Bollywood vinyl dealer in Norway. Fascinated by what I had heard, I crossed my fingers and, hoping beyond hope that no one else would take notice of this remarkable record at placed, my bid. The final fetching price was beyond silly and after months of daily internet searches that yielded no results, I feared that I would never lay hands on the track. Fast-forward to 2008, when exploring around the Jama Masjid in Delhi, I stumbled onto a small record shop.

I had discovered the famous Shah’s Music Centre. It’s run by Syed Zafar Shah: walking encyclopedia of music knowledge, owner of the largest private record collection in India, and notorious driver of hard bargains. After the obligatory as-salamu alaykum, I blurted out “Do you have any Usha Uthup?” A knowing smile formed on his face, and soon I would be figuratively picking his brain as he would be picking my wallet. It took an hour of my time and the last of my money, but I finally had in my hands the Holy Grail I’d been searching for.

I referenced her last week for her bubbly, over-the-top Michael Jackson cover, but she shines today for a totally different reason. If chopped and screwed existed in the 60s, her cover of “California Dreamin’‘” would have probably made Usha Uthup the DJ Screw of her generation. Slowed down considerably to perfect head-nodding tempo, this breathy, smoky, and ethereal cover, replete with spooky organ and stoned surf guitar solo, stands as one of the most creatively original re-imaginings of a pop song that came out of the 60s. With her backing band, The Ronnie Menezes Quartet, Usha takes enough wild liberties to turn the song into something uniquely her own. Gone are almost all of the elements that made the Mamas and the Papas hit an enduring classic 40 years after its release: the lush and tight harmonies have been replaced by Usha’s solo and soulful voice, the bright acoustic guitar has given way to Ronnie’s slightly-detuned 8 string. Completely unlike the contemporary Bollywood sounds of the era, (some of which were near-wholesale plagiarisms of American and English songs) Usha, still in her early 20s, and her band seemed to be operating outside of the tired tropes of “East Meets West” and arranged California Dreamin to fit their own expections and not some preconceived notion. Sure, authenticity is a hoax, but I can’t deny that is some of the freshest, realest ish I’ve ever heard, let alone from 1969.

The most exciting part of the cover is certainly its coda. Without giving away any spoilers, the song is a slow, steady crescendo and Usha’s surprising and brash code-switching at the most intense point proves to me that this is the most California of all the Dreamin’s. (Even the most quintessentially Californian band, the Beach Boys, couldn’t capture any of that energy in their dance-y but lackluster version of the song.) And finally, just as Bob Dylan had no choice but to relinquish “All Along the Watchtower” to Jimi’s virtuoso interpretation, “California Dreamin’” has ceased to be merely an American pop song to me anymore, but is now the sole creation of a subcontinental lounge band, jamming in some smoky, Goan pub for no one else but themselves. Without any further ado:

(And yes, I am aware that the needle’s on a bit heavy and that record could use a deep cleaning, but I wanted the listener, probably already spoiled by the slick and overproduced sounds of modern music, to hear this as it would have sounded during the Summer of Love, and without the aid of a turntable or a time-machine.)

Summer may be on its way out, but this track is timeless. Crank up that iPod, stir your lassi,sit back and relax: no matter if you’re not poolside or even stateside, because for the next 4:44, we’re all California Dreamin’.

(Shout out to Manish, the original California Dreamer, of whom I owe the inspiration for digging up a lot of these nuggets.)

Pantless.

The ad said “Micropaleontologist seeks DJ for digging up the brownest, crustiest nuggets this side of a Pompeii port-a-potty. Ask for Abhi.” (You’ll never use Craigslist again.)

“You Sukhdeep?” he snorts.

“Sometimes,” you quip. He doesn’t get the reference. Smiling, you enter.

Best…Gig…Ever.