Life does not move in binaries
A few weeks ago, Jamal Rahman’s True Brew Records unleashed a memorable ditty, ‘Foolin’‘ – the product of a stellar collaboration. The list of musicians involved is an impressive one: Jamal showcasing his previously unheard jazz-funk talents on the guitar, Shehzad Noor (Poor Rich Boy) providing unrecognisable yet signatured vocals, Sameer Ahmad (co-Ven) providing bass notes that sound like someone traversing through quick sand while wearing nothing but a pair of chappals (you have to hear it, else I risk sounding like an idiot), and Kami Paul (Noori) providing broken drum beats that not only compliment Shehzad’s manic energy, but also emphasise the casual brush of the hand with which this project rebels against expectations.
Although, upon release, the song received favourable reviews and radio time, it has been drowned out of the public sphere by incessant Coke Studio marketing campaigns. What is interesting to notice is that the song was released on the same day as the new Coke Studio season – a bold, if not suicidal, move for a young project with a limited marketing budget, not more than one song on offer and no video to support it. But this deliberate focus on the music alone echoes something Mekaal Hassan said in an interview for BBC Urdu: “People watch music these days, they don’t hear it.”
I do not wish to instigate any wars with the Coke Studio clan. Their achievements are commendable, but this song’s release date, as well as the aesthetic value it contains makes an important statement against the monopoly of profitable formulas in the music industry
I do not wish to instigate any wars with the Coke Studio clan. Their achievements are commendable, but this song’s release date, as well as the aesthetic value it contains makes an important statement against the monopoly of profitable formulas in the music industry. The lyrics resonate these concerns:
‘How dare you try to earn an honest living in the arts?
No poetry in commerce
In the thick of the night, silhouetted by a light
shooting arrows at the moon.’
Shehzad further articulates this point: “I don’t fully understand how things work when it comes to the business of music and I understand even less when it comes to writing a popular song. What I do know is that if you have written a popular song the market imposes upon you to write something similar and predictable. Outside of Poor Rich Boy, Foolin’ is a song I really love because it allowed me to explore and learn different aspects of music.”
These ‘different aspects of music’ are entirely absent from the canon of contemporary Pakistani music. The tradition of brokenness, of disrupted flows, of failed expectations are common in our immediate environment and they have been reflected in our classical music but modern music has tried to escape into more comfortable narratives, focusing on mindless escape or base pleasure, whilst by-passing the trials and tribulations of more ambitious artistic pursuits.
In doing so, our industry has produced and promoted endless formulaic numbers that flow from the first, second to the last without any interesting twists and turns. We are too vain to present ourselves as a collage of contrasting and often embarrassing images – instead, we are encouraged to feign emotional stability, applaud palatable forms of ‘harmony’ between east and west and avoid the challenges of putting together musical contrasts that – as Shehzad puts it – “illuminate the subtle gradations between binaries.” This song challenges the one dimensional mode of thinking that is required for practical survival in Pakistan. It does so casually and courageously, perhaps even unknowingly – but I’ll give the boys the benefit of doubt.
There is an important lesson here about the way we view art, how we consume it and where we ought to go from the legacy of today’s dominant musical enterprises
Life does not move in binaries, and if music is a reflection of the human experience, then our music must assimilate this brokenness; this human-ness. Pakistan is a place where bombs are frequent reminders of our mortality. The broken verses of ‘Foolin’ showcase a very pressing vulnerability: a feeling that at any moment, at any turn, everything might cease to exist. But then it reaffirms a continuation through creative transformations. It connects seemingly unrelated images, it jumps through genres without warning: A completely random jazz solo, a hummed melody that might have found its origins in the shower, and a bass-line that doesn’t walk – it strolls. Jamal’s raw and tastefully measured production captures the emotional and intellectual gamut of the song, and presents it joyously. It reminds us that a bit of introspection is not always as dreary and dreamy as Allama Iqbal might have made it seem in his portraits on school walls.
There is an important lesson here about the way we view art, how we consume it and where we ought to go from the legacy of today’s dominant musical enterprises:
“I think everyone needs to make time in their lives for staring at the wall for several hours, thinking non-sense and then putting it down on paper and showing it to the world. It’s healthy. It’s a good time to do it.”
