Cochin, 1993.
I was pedalling along a dark, deserted Shanmugham Road, with the nightly power cut adding to the sense of desolation. My bicycle chain was squeaky enough to spook a solitary man who, on his way back from a local cinema, was relieving himself on the wall of the police commissioner’s office.
In the distance, beyond a bridge, I could see Marine Drive lit up by lamps. The shining promenade made me feel like I was in a rock concert―stage lights streaming into the dark concert hall. I pedalled till I reached a footpath lined with Ambassador cars on Marine Drive. No dark concert hall here, nor any rockers.
There was a behemoth of a building, though―Hotel Sealord. A few cabbies were huddled together outside, smoking a joint and waiting for a drunk patron or five, preferably white, to saunter out and hire a ride.
I stationed myself on the footpath near the hotel and listened. Eric Clapton’s ‘Tears in Heaven’ wafted out of the Princess restaurant on the first floor. As the song slowly faded, a hand fell on my shoulder. It was a long-haired cabbie, with a weather-beaten face and a beedi between his lips. He wanted to know why, for the past few days, a 16-year-old was waiting outside Hotel Sealord at 9pm.
“Chettah, I’m standing here so I can hear the band,” I said.
His wrinkly face broke into a pleasant smile. People sitting on the pavement, and leaning against lampposts and cars, turned to me. They were complete strangers, but with a nod of their head, they acknowledged me as someone of their kind. The kind that could not afford to pay the cover charge of Rs75 (fully redeemable) at the restaurant to listen to the one and only legendary band of our times, 13AD.
This was the ‘empty wallet’ brotherhood, and I was part of it.
The band, 13AD, was born in 1977, and it was not until 1992, when my elder brother was roped in as its lead singer, that I was introduced to the fine men who were at the height of their rock 'n' roll fame by that time, with two albums released and constant tours of the country. Hotel Sealord was their base in Cochin. Getting into the restaurant where they regularly performed, and experiencing the band as they held the platform, was something that only the fortunate among the music-hungry rockers across Kerala could afford.
A good portion of the platform was occupied by a massive drum-kit that came to life the moment the mighty Pinson Correia took his throne behind it. To his left stood the powerhouse of the band, Paul the bassist and singer, with fingers sculpting bass lines on those thick strings, getting them locked in with the bass drum. It was upon this foundation that the keyboard wizard Jackson Aruja kept himself busy, adding the sonic equivalent of the icing on a cake, which in turn allowed the phenomenal Eloy Isaacs, the band’s founder, reveal his immaculate guitar skills. Together, they created a hallowed ground for George Peter, my brother and the band’s youngest recruit who with his voice, stunned and transformed his audience into his obedient subjects.
After 8pm, when Marine Drive would be deserted, their glorious music streamed down to the street, where us empty wallets stood.
(from left) George Peter, Pinson Correia, Paul, Eloy Isaacs and Jackson Aruja during their band's heyday.
There was an interlude, and I could hear someone shouting, “Ground Zero!” Soon there were more voices demanding 13AD’s most famous composition. The band obliged. As the band called out those who were ‘filled with the vision of nuclear fission’, a relatively young member of our brotherhood offered me a plastic glass with something that looked both sinful and delightful, to keep me warm against the cold air. The long-haired cabbie immediately intervened, and after a quick stare-down at the guy who now slunk back to where he was sitting, offered me a cup of tea.
As we stood there sipping from our cups, he enlightened me about the song. “Ground Zero was written by George Thomas Jr, who passed away in the Teekoy tragedy,” he said. George, he explained, had gone to an estate in Teekoy in Kottayam district with six friends. They were at a waterfall when a flash flood caught them unawares. He was among the four who died.
It started to drizzle. I could now lie to my mother that my ‘cycling exercise’ was interrupted by the rain and spend some extra time on the pavement. By then, a crowd had gathered outside the hotel, seeking shelter from the rain. As if on cue, the band started performing ‘November Rain’ by Guns N’ Roses, which was quite popular on MTV. Some of us sang along. A police jeep passed by, slowing down to assess whether we were trouble. Realising this was just a group of harmless music aficionados, the police went their way.
Before cellphones and the internet, 13AD stood out for their near-perfect rendition of songs by artistes on both sides of the Atlantic. With no recourse to YouTube tutorials, or other such to understand the method to making music, the band figured out how to perform those songs. They had two generations of music lovers hooked on to them.
The rain subsided, and the long-haired cabbie decided that it was too late for someone my age to be hanging around there. He told me to scoot. Convinced he was acting in my best interests, I started for home. On my way back, I thought how rich I was to be in this empty-wallets brotherhood.
Thirty-two years later, as I use a laptop to latch on to those memories, my beeping cellphone distracts me. It is announcing the arrival of video clips of a special, sold-out concert that took place in Kochi on January 11―a single-night reunion of 13AD after a long hiatus, specially for their fans from the 1990s.
I don’t recall the names of the long-haired cabbie or anyone in the empty-wallets brotherhood. For me, it was somewhat like a train journey, where you meet and connect with people, but forget the moment you disembark. It was music that brought us together―we were all lucky to have been 13AD fans in the 1990s.
And, I am lucky to have lived long enough to see the band come together one more time.