I wrote this one ages ago and never published it…. It took place in early to mid-May. I am finally re-reading and editing it in honor of my Friend E, who is leaving this weekend. Maybe I can entice her to read the blog when she is back in the US.
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A few nights ago a couple of friends invited me to the Hard Rock Cafe to watch a 1980’s big hair cover band. That happens to be one of the very few types of music I actually like, so my two sides- the slightly social side and the incredibly hermit-like side- had an internal argument. Big hair won, and I accepted the invitation.
A lot of us were going, but my friend contact with this group was Friend E. Our relationship was an arranged relationship. In Portage, MI, unbeknownst to us, our parents played Indian matchmaker. We checked out each other’s stats via gossipy e-mails (yes, you really do that in Indian relationship matchmaking; somewhere or other I have a sheet of paper with my cousin-in-law’s height, weight, parents’ jobs, bride-worthy photo, etc) and then we decided that we looked good on paper, so we had better meet for an ice cream date. Of course, those Indian matches always work out (such a low divorce rate here), so Friend E and I hit it off and have been hanging out ever since, despite the fact that she doesn’t like chocolate, which is nearly always a deal breaker for me.
At 9:00 pm sharp I pulled up outside their apartment building. We’d been planning to cram seven people in the car, including my driver. But only two were outside. Apparently doubting our ability to mimic a clown car, the other three had left in search of a cab. Being India, it is perfectly plausible to jam seven grown adults in one small Honda, and we set off in pursuit of the disbelievers.
We found them at a corner, not yet in a cab (to be fair, the third member of their party had only just arrived, so they hadn’t time to hail one), and swiftly talked them into jamming in to the car. Did I mention one was pregnant? 7.5 people. We then headed off to the HRC.
It was my first time at the Mumbai HRC. It looked pretty standard- the cement gray walls were decorated with guitars, jackets, and records of famous musicians, just like any HRC. They had a small shop selling plenty of t-shirts, lots of seating, a bar, and stage.
The main floor was different from most Mumbai restaurants in that it smelled perfectly normal. No whiff of cleaning supplies, nor musty smell reached my nose. The bathroom, however, was similar to most Mumbai restrooms in that it had mothball cakes in the bathroom sinks. I still don’t understand why places do that. So the bathroom did have the usual disgusting Mumbai bathroom odor. But at least the restaurant smelled normal for once.
We were seated in a large booth. My Auntie and Uncle recently visited, and were educating me in wine, so I quickly noticed that the only red wine on their menu was an absolutely disgusting Indian merlot. Sigh. I ordered the Indian white zinfandel, which was at least made by a different bottler, but it wasn’t good either. I think I was happier not knowing the difference between good and bad wine!
The wine wasn’t good, but the hamburger sure was! It was my first burger in probably six months. It was huge. The basic burger, for some reason, comes with onion rings and bacon on it. I ate the onion rings, but left off the bacon. I only like really crisp, practically burnt bacon. While gorging myself on the burger, I turned my attention to the cover band.
The stage was interesting. It was suspended directly above the bar. The back of the stage was attached to the wall, but the remaining three sides were supported by wire attached from the ceiling. It wasn’t too big, but there were only four members in the band and thus plenty roomy.
In the back, stage left, was the drummer. My view of the drummer was a bit obscured as his face was behind a cymbal, but he was wearing a t-shirt and what looked liked a black ski cap with flames.
In front of the drummer was one of the guitarists. He was incredibly good- definitely the most impressive person in the band. He was muscular, with a tight fitting gray t-shirt with an image printed on it. He also wore a skullcap, and, despite the dim lighting, sunglasses. He sort of looked like one of my Indian cousins.
At stage right was the other guitarist. He looked like The Rock’s cousin from Somoa. He had frizzy hair pulled up in a ponytail, a white t-shirt with a beer belly, and jeans. He stood up straight to play his music. He didn’t move around. He was very calm. The most movement he did was to occasionally move his foot, a’ la Captain Morgan, onto the speaker and then off again.
Front and center, of course, was the singer. His character, to paraphrase Louisa May Alcott, I leave for you the reader to discover. He wore a black t-shirt, sleeves cut off, and tight black and gray checked pants. He was rock star thin and had tattoos from his bare left shoulder to wrist. His face was square, like Steven Tyler, and the highlighted ends of his shaggy short haircut flipped up, reminiscent of Farrah Fawcett.
They started slow, with a few songs our group didn’t know. I looked towards the dance floor that was directly below the stage. One guy was definitely a fan. He was standing there looking up at his idols with a star-struck face. Head banging his short hair, he was too excited to even remove his backpack. His excitement was infectious, and I really like people who are so enthusiastic. I kept watching him throughout the night; never once did he stop dancing, or even take a breather to remove his backpack! The band noticed him, too, and would every so often lower the microphone down to the floor to let him belt out a line or two.
I started to recognize the music and enjoy myself. The music was decent, though the singer did take it upon himself to change it up a bit, rather than mimic the original songs. But it was what the singer decided to do with his hands that had us all rolling in hysterics/horrified. There were lots of good songs, such as Smoke on the Water, Welcome to the Jungle, etc, but he did one song….oh, it is almost embarrassing just to write about it, called Party in my Pants. The singer, rather than just singing the words, decides to pull up his shirt, and take a long time pulling his pants away from his body, so he can look down them. Between that, and the constant do-it-yourself gestures, we were just wide-eyed and a more than a bit grossed out.
But they certainly rocked the stage. In fact, the right side shook independent of the left, and we watched the floor sway up and down with a bit of trepidation in our eyes. It would be awful if it fell- the bartenders were directly below them. But the singer soon grew tired and stopped running and jumping around and the stage slowly stopped shaking.
The singer’s voice was actually pretty decent. But his work ethic was questionable. When there were no words to be sung, he’d run and sit offstage. He even managed a bathroom break, scaring one member of our party, who thought there was a girl (remember his hair) next to him in the bathroom at first.
Despite the obvious weirdness of the singer, I enjoyed the music, and definitely recognized many more songs than I heard at that Bryan Adams concert we attended when we first arrived in Mumbai. After an hour and a half or so, the music ended and we started to prepare to leave. It had been different. After all, it was hard rock with an Indian voice and accent, but overall, I had a good time.
We discovered that, besides being a cover band, they also wrote their own songs. So perhaps the songs we didn’t recognize were simply their own. They told us this during one of the few times the singer stopped singing and decided to talk instead. The other things he decided to tell us were a bit too obscene (his own words) and I’d rather not repeat them here. But, like his eyes and hand gestures, they involved his private parts.
Before we could leave we had quite the eye-opener for how different things in India are than the US. How different, you ask? Well, I’ve seen people dance on the bar before. My friend used to line-dance on bars, even. But have you ever seen grown men do a combination YMCA and Macarena dance? As employees of the HRC? It was the most horrifying thing any of us had ever seen! They did it right on the top of the booths, so every time they did the Macarena hip thrust, the employees would grin down at us. Some were obviously a bit embarrassed, some were really into it. The six of us were laughing so hard, and I felt bad about it. I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone laughing at me while doing that….but of course, I also wouldn’t do the Macarena at all, much less embed it into the YMCA.
We left, to our relief, to good canned music- Sweet Home Alabama. It put us back in a cheerful mood and as we stood outside, singing along, we saw the (good) guitarist on his cell phone. We all thought we should tell him good job, but no one was brave enough to actually do it. I wish we had, especially as we were making fun of the singer. Oh well….
We climbed into the car and I discovered my belly felt a bit off. Much to my dismay I discovered that others in the party had the same problem when they too had a hamburger for the first time after being in beef-deprived India for months.
The next day, I woke and did my best to head to the gym. But there was no doubt about it. I had a hamburger hangover, and it felt awful.
Aftermath
Shortly after this event, there was a huge argument on one of the expat e-mail lists as to whether anything served in Mumbai is actually beef, or buffalo instead, but is called beef. I’ve had buffalo burgers many times before (I am from Michigan, after all), and I’m ashamed to say that I really don’t know which I ate that night.
But be warned; any beef you eat in Mumbai MIGHT be buffalo.
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