JOIN USWay back in the 80s, in almost every household, radio was considered as one of the most prized possessions. Though the idiot box was kept in one obscure corner of our house, I didn’t fancy watching it as the programmes were far from entertaining. In fact, my mother used to say that watching TV was like singing a lullaby to me as I would slip into my dreamworld (read deep sleep) the moment I heard the signature tune of Doordarshan. Radio was the most pampered gadget at our place or in most of the homes wherein the tunes of an old Kannada or Hindi song would mellifluously fill every nook and corner of the house. This tiny device catered to the music preferences of people across all age groups.
I remember my grandparents listening to Carnatic music, while my dad and my mom preferred to bask in the tunes of Mohammed Rafi or S P Balasubrahmanyam. Well, my choice was clearly Western music, or to be specific, the rock ‘n’ roll and pop tunes that rocked the music scene of the 70s and the 80s. My family members were tone-deaf when it came to English songs, which they wilfully termed ‘jarring’ and ‘loud’. Unmindful of their critiques, I used to promptly tune into the listener’s choice programme, wherein the RJ (though such a term didn’t exist then) not only played songs that the listeners requested but doled out some gyan about the latest happenings in the music scene.
Songs of Pink Floyd, Queen, Eurythmics, Prince and George Michael wafted through my tiny room and made a permanent place in my heart. Soon, the faces of George Michael, Michael Jackson and Prince adorned the walls of my room much to the chagrin of my mother. Imitating Michael Jackson’s moonwalk or sporting a hairstyle like Madonna signified that you had arrived! I went to the extent of asking a local beautician if she could transform my long tresses into a funky hairdo à la Madonna’s.
Her reply was, “I probably can, but you need to invest a lot on hairspray and hair gel to keep the bouffant in one place.” How would I wear a cap or a helmet if I am on a two-wheeler? Well, never mind, I can’t look like Madonna, but surely I can try singing like her, I reassured myself. Like all amateur singers, bathroom was the place where I made my singing debut. My family was spared from hearing the discordant notes thanks to the sound of water gushing into the bucket. Nonetheless, I was riding high on self-esteem and firmly believed that I was blessed with a good voice.
From bathroom, I quickly moved on to singing in any available space in the house that had an audience (most of the time it was limited to one or two members). They mustered courage to sit through my singing. After a few days, I was reprimanded for inflicting torture on their eardrums. “Just go back to listening to the radio and stop exercising your vocal cords, which are not tuned enough for singing,” was my parents’ advice.
I laugh whenever I recall my silly experimentation with singing but cherish the good old memories when everyone used to go gaga over radio!