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Business News/ Opinion / Online-views/  Outside In | Jazz on a Summer’s Day, an Indian subsidy
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Outside In | Jazz on a Summer’s Day, an Indian subsidy

Maybe digital technology truly is that egalitarian leveller that will cut kick out the days of privilege

New Delhi, a city created for politicians, bureaucrats and others who wield power, thrives on a culture of patronage and the patronage of culture. Photo: MintPremium
New Delhi, a city created for politicians, bureaucrats and others who wield power, thrives on a culture of patronage and the patronage of culture. Photo: Mint

Actually it was autumn, and it was more like late evening than day but, hey, no one’s perfect. And at least we get to mention Aram Avakian’s must-see 1960 film on these pages.

Jazz on a Summer’s Day is a documentary on the 1958 edition of the annual jazz festival held in the scenic American town of Newport, Rhode Island.

The film, which has no commentary, portrays an idyllic summer’s day with such perfection you can almost feel the sea breeze.

It moves between languorous shots of men preparing for the America’s Cup yacht race, scenes from a picnicking town and the jazz festival itself (both performances and audience).

It is utterly silly to carp about history, but Americans must surely wish there were more blacks not just on the festival stage, playing jazz—but in the audience, wearing Wayfarer shades and khakhi shorts and in those fabulous yachts sailing on the Atlantic, also wearing Wayfarer shades, and among couples kissing on the window sill and dancing on rooftops, sipping Rheingold beer, now a defunct brew.

But that was 1958, when jazz concerts were still the preserve of the privileged while jazz bars—the incubators of talent as well as down-and-outers—were for the rest. I miss my London culture spots; so when the organizers of a jazz festival in Delhi announced this year’s lineup, I jumped at it. I stood in front of what could have been a queue but wasn’t, bought myself the most expensive tickets on offer and asked for a front-row seat. Centre if possible, please.

“Sorry sir," I was told, “the first two rows are reserved. You can sit wherever you want starting with the third row."

Brought down to earth by this unexpected echo from the days of cultural patronage, I walked in grumbling, looked around and took my seat. Third row centre, it was. Gradually, those first two rows filled up. With whom, I’ve no idea, but the fillers-up included a bunch of youngsters who settled down in the second row, centre. Right in front of me.

There was a time, decades ago, when it wasn’t unusual for audiences who were unfamiliar with the genre of music they were listening to to become restless and start talking, and I don’t mean whispers here.

The bunch up front were polite, but did that one thing that comes close to talking in my list of rude things to do in auditoriums. They fished out their very large and attractive mobile phones and began, I presume, surfing the Internet. They whispered, too, taking multi-tasking to an entirely different level.

Now, this made it very difficult for me to focus on the task at hand i.e., what the jazz singer was doing on the stage. She was making theatrical moves while singing a jazz version of the 19th century Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg’s orchestral classic, In the Hall of the Mountain King, harnessing the intriguing and slightly frightening “throat singing" vocal techniques of North Canadian Inuit women. Along with that yodeling thing that Bulgarian women singers do, so that the entire effect of her riveting performance could be summed up as the voice imitating the instrument, rather than the other way round.

At the interval, like a lamb to the slaughter, an old friend and jazz lover appeared out of nowhere and said: “Hi".

“Reserved? Really? In the 21st century?" I fumed.

“I have attended music performances from New York, to London and Paris, and have never ever seen reserved seats for ticketed shows," I said, trying to show off now.

“Relax," he said, clearly unimpressed. “There are reserved seats everywhere."

“Oh yeah?" I argued strongly, but silently. “Maybe in Beijing, mate."

New Delhi, a city created for politicians, bureaucrats and others who wield power, thrives on a culture of patronage and the patronage of culture. Some shows, organized and paid for by the government—especially the culture department of the foreign ministry, a prototype of the British Council—are entirely free. Which would make a lot of sense in a developing country such as India, if only those free tickets somehow made their way to ordinary folk (as they do in the West). But they don’t here, gobbled up as they are by the city’s elite.

Admittedly, as a young man of extremely modest means with an insatiable hunger for live performances of Western and world music (members of a quartet blowing soap bubbles on stage while playing a piece by Karlheinz Stockhausen, anyone?), I benefited immensely from this subsidy of culture that is today derided as part of India’s culture of subsidy. But I grew out of it, the city didn’t.

To be sure, too, I will not turn down a “pass" for a must-see performance if it came my way. But—and this is an important but—if it is ticketed, I will buy a ticket. And having bought the ticket, I would then expect it to fetch me value.

Back in 1960, the cheapest ticket at the Newport Jazz Festival (which is celebrating in its 50th year this year) was $3.50. In 2014, it is around $80. For $3.50 back then, you could have been a part of that audience that saw Duke Ellington’s saxophonist Paul Gonzalves rip out a sensational 27-chorus solo, a classic moment in the history of jazz. Thankfully, in 2014, there’s YouTube, where you can not only hear that sax solo, but also watch Jazz on a Summer’s Day.

Maybe digital technology truly is that egalitarian leveller that will cut kick out the days of privilege.

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Published: 13 Nov 2014, 11:52 PM IST
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