The Beatles had it right all along.

Unhappiness is best cured by the realisation that true, long-lasting happiness is as mythical as Perseus, as elusive as Jim Morrison's sanity. Happiness is indeed, in its nudge-wink metaphorical sense, little more than a warm gun. While some might find this theory depressing, I, myself, take great solace in it. The pursuit of anything remotely meaningful makes me feel like a fly in a crowded market, begging for attention from anyone who'd be kind enough to swat. This leaves me shaky and diffident, wishing the Charvakas had kidnapped Buddha, mesmirised Richard Gere, and so by default, all of humanity. With no restrictions on desire, there'd be no guilt. There'd be no quest for nirvana either; just a quest for love-slaves eager to pamper you with grapes as sweet as manna from heaven.

vapid, jet-lagged ramblings.

On my flight from San Francisco to Philadelphia this morning, I was seated next to this guy who must've been barely a few years older than me. I fell asleep at some point during the journey and woke up to find him staring at me, grinning sheepishly. I was in a state of utter disorientation, and so it took a few seconds to figure out why he looked so embarassed. Turns out that sometime during my nap, my left arm had collapsed and landed comfortably on his upper thigh. I apologised profusely and he laughed it off. For the rest of the flight, I couldn't sleep, fearing that Freudian forces would take over my arm again.

*********


I'm back in Montreal. As always after a long journey, I feel hollow in my stomach. Part of that might be due to the irregularity of meals during travelling, but mostly, it's just due to total disorientation. I've been in 4 countries in the past 4 months. If I'd been travelling for the sake of it, it'd have been different. But this is not fun. Just as I'm getting used to living somewhere, I'm uprooted from my base, and have to start all over again. I know the airports in Bombay, Dubai, London and Montreal like I do my own house. I know exactly where to eat, what stores to browse, where to find the cleanest rest rooms. I even know the staff at certain places. I used to love flying when I was younger. Airports excited me - Travelling was an excuse for me to buy books, to eat fast food, to help my mum navigate and feel all grown up. Now all of that is as mundane as the bus ride to school.

In fact,the mere thought of airports fills me with dread. All I see are throngs of people trying to rebuild their destroyed sense of time and space. It depresses me to see them with their dishevelled hair, trying to figure out if their connection is from the same terminal. It depresses me to see weary parents trying to placate their equally weary babies. It depresses me when flight attendants greet me cheerfully. It depresses me when they mechanically demonstrate the safety regulations, because I know that every crashed airliner followed the same routine to which no one ever pays attention. It depresses me to be in a metal container, suspended in mid-air by forces I really don't understand, but that feel more unnatural to me than anything. It depresses me that the relief I feel once I've landed is quickly replaced by frustration, knowing fully well that I'll have to repeat this procedure very soon. More than anything, however, I hate watching people greeting their loved ones. More often than not, I arrive not to squeals and kisses, but to harrowed taxi drivers. As of now I can't concieve of ever feeling excited about flying again. Don't quote me on that though. I have plans to go to Tuva some time in next two years, and that might just change everything.

Jon Brion at The Largo.

Friday night, I went to Largo to see Jon Brion play his weekly set. For those who aren't familiar with the name, Brion is best known for being a producer for artists like Fiona Apple, Aimee Mann and Rufus Wainwright. He's also a very well-respected session musician, and has scored movies like "Magnolia," "Punch-Drunk Love" and "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." Of course he is also a solo artist in his own right. I was really excited about this show. I'm a huge fan of Jon Brion's work and watching him play in such an intimate setting was a dream come true. I'm aware that Jon Brion isn't exactly a huge name, but he does have his share of rabidly loyal fans. Despite my excitement, I was nervous because I was going to see him with my family. Largo is an all-ages dinner club - which is awesome - but I was afraid that my parents and aunt wouldn't enjoy the ambience or music. The kind of person I am, I can never enjoy if I know other people are bored. I expected the place to be overrun with nerdy hipsters in too-tight clothing, and the food and service to be mediocre, at best. I was amazed at how wrong I was about everything. For one, my parents were definitely not the oldest people there, and secondly, the management could not have been more accomodating. The staff was amazing and damn, they served a great Caesar's salad.

While people squinted in the murkiness of the club to read their menus, Brion and Flanagan (the owner) chose the house music. The first song they played was 'Village Green Preservation Society' and from that moment on, I was in love. They played everything from unreleased Fiona Apple material to Tom Waits. For me, however, the highlight of the house music was Elliott Smith's "Pretty (Ugly Before)" and "Coast to Coast" because I realised it was the first time I'd heard his music in a public place. I could see several people singing along, and this comforted me. At the entrance of the club, they have a picture of Elliott captioned, "Elliott Smith watches as Jon Brion performs Waterloo Sunset." He looks so happy in the picture; his eyes twinkling, his dimples deep. While staring at the picture, it hit me that all that was left now were recordings and a slew of cover versions. I'd never feel that shaky-legged, sinking-stomached, goofy-smiled excitement over Elliott that overcomes me before I go to concerts. He would just be that angelic voice whispering to me from cheap headphones.

Finally, at about 10:30 p.m, Mark Flanagan walked on stage and introduced Jon Brion. He looked a lot taller than I'd expected him to be. He was immaculately dressed, and had a broad smile on his face. He talked to the audience for a little bit, poking fun at himself, jokingly warning us that the set might get unbearable. He had a great presence, and I could literally feel the audience warm up to him. He started off by tinkering with his piano and xylophone and the next hour or so was just...indescribably amazing. Every review I'd read about his shows called him a "multi-instrumentalist" and I didn't realise how literal that would be. It was a one-man band in every sense of the word, and I was in a constant state of shock that such wonderful sounds could be produced without an entire back-up band. He played mostly original songs, but every so often, he'd ask the audience to shout out requests. Not surprisingly, some smart ass yelled out "Free Bird!" to which Jon Brion said, "Wow I haven't heard *that* one before. But since you asked...." He proceeded to play a honky-tonk version of it on the piano, interspersed with solos on the xylophone. It was amazing. Everyone, including Brion, was laughing really hard.

What overwhelmed me most, though, was not his inhumanly brilliant musicianship but his seemingly unending stamina. Each song was at least 7 or 8 minutes long as he was recording samples on every instrument before finally hitting the vocals/lead guitar. He moved frantically from one instrument to another, singing the notes under his breath so he wouldn't lose the key, I suppose. He fiddled with his melee of instruments, and while that might sound self-indulgent, it was more the sight of a man completely lost in his music. I watched his face intently, and it was alight with an orgasmic joy that was impossible to fake. His face was unbelievably flushed, his purple dress shirt drenched in sweat, but he was oblivious to all of that. Because it allowed him the most mobility, he was most fun to watch when he was playing lead guitar. He pranced around the stage maniacally, his eyes closed in such a way that I could still see the whites. He had a blissful smile plastered on his face, and every so often as he jumped around with the guitar, the smile would blend into joyful laughter. I looked around at the faces of my family, and I saw on them what I saw on everyone else's - sheer disbelief. I was relieved to see that they were enjoying the show, replete with its myriad of quirks. At some point in the show, Brion yelled out to Scott, the guy in the sound booth, to play something from "our fearless leader." Next thing I knew, there was a recording of Dubya's infamous "We won't let them take us hostile" quote, played against an ambient tune that sounded like it emanated from the Twilight Zone. It was followed by the more recent Bushism that goes something like, "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we." Jon Brion, still producing wonderfully atmospheric sounds, simply said, "For once he tells the truth. Inadvertently, of course, but hey we're not picky," before launching into another song.

Unfortunately, I couldn't stay for the second set as my dad had to catch a flight at 4 a.m. I was really sad, but I considered myself lucky to have caught the show at all. The intimacy of the setting inspired both feelings of kinship with Brion as well as incredible humility in his presence. If anyone is ever in L.A, GO SEE HIM PLAY! He's there every Friday night. Hell, if I lived there, I'd go see him every week. It was such a unique experience - cheap, semi-improvisational, thrilling, personal, comfortable, heart-warming and the music is just the cherry on top.