There are places I'll remember ...

Of vanishing landmarks that make up the soul of a city

There are places I’ll remember

All my life … though some have changed

Some forever, not for better

Some have gone, and some remain

All these places have their moments …

…

In my life, I’ve loved them all

These lines from In My Life (Rubber Soul, by The Beatles) ring aloud in my ears as we draw close to the 7^th anniversary of Rhythm House shutting down. Since the mid-90’s India’s financial capital, with its unique socio-cultural fabric acting as a bulwark against soulless capitalist forces, has been witnessing a steady demise of some of its landmarks that accentuated its unique character.

To this list got added Rhythm House in February 2016.

The difference between the other destinations shutting down and Rhythm House was that the others either didn’t get a court judgment to go their way or the building housing it became structurally fragile. Rhythm House, on the other hand, fell victim to the onslaught of technology. While I did mourn the passing of the other destinations, Rhythm House held an even more special place in my heart. It had a profound impact on me which I tried to capture in a short essay I’d written after my last visit to the store, which I am reproducing below.

The Rhythm Is Gone, written on February 20, 2016

Enough has already been written about the impending reality. Enough nostalgia has poured out in print, in the blogosphere, and I am sure in the broadcast world as well. Enough dirges have been heard. I never thought I would have anything different to say about it. But after spending less than 20 minutes there I realized there is still something extremely personal that I too felt like letting out.

My daughter and I had gone to Rhythm House earlier today. And a flood of memories and feelings have drowned me since.

Rhythm House.

Whose windows I was always fascinated with. Whose presence I was familiar with since I was a toddler who was occasionally, and completely involuntarily at that age, taken to Jehangir Art Gallery by my parents. (My father has been an ever-supportive companion to all of my mom’s arty, literary, cultural and shopping pursuits. So one doesn’t know whether he was a willing or a forced participant on those trips to Jehangir Art Gallery, though I suspect it’s the latter.)

Rhythm House.

Which I associated as a landmark store next to a landmark advertising agency – Trikaya - long before I had even decided to make up my mind to devote an entire career to advertising. While the cool ones could be seen entering and exiting Trikaya, I always felt the cooler ones hung out at Rhythm House.

Rhythm House.

Whose windows made me familiar with bands that had names like The Police and Osibisa, long before I got down to listening to them.

Rhythm House.

Where I had first gone inside the store in the early 80’s - once again tagging along with my parents, this time willingly - to build our own music collection after we had bought a Cosmic music system. However, the first audio cassette I bought was only towards the late 80’s when I was studying in St. Xavier’s. With pocket money that was saved after some serious sacrifices like eating a sada dosa (and not the Mysore masala version), or a veg sandwich (instead of a veg-cheese-grilled version), and after resisting the temptation of buying a T-shirt at Fashion Street whilst accompanying friends who were happily indulging themselves. I don’t exactly remember which cassette I bought for the first time ever, but it most likely was Michael Jackson’s Thriller or U2’s The Joshua Tree. But what I do remember is the sense of wonderment I had on entering the store. Here I was, wide-eyed, feeling like a kid in a candy shop. Finding it tough to make up my mind on which cassette exactly to buy with the limited resources at hand. Where every change of music on the store’s sound system sounded better than the previous one. In an era of deprivation, I was going through an experience of obscene plenty-ness. There were just so many cassettes and LP’s that were beckoning me towards them like mythological enchantresses. (Since we didn’t own an LP player I could only drool over some magnificent pieces of art, aka album covers.)

Rhythm House.

I remember asking the staff with some trepidation to play some of the cassettes to help me make up my mind. And I remember the staff instantly obliging. I remember the store having empty cassette shells on display panels for customers to take their pick and bring them over to the counter, for the staff to then go back-store to pull out the gelatine packed actual ones to buy.

Rhythm House.

I remember how the LP racks gave way to CD racks. I remember how the cassette racks completely disappeared all of a sudden. I also remember LP racks starting to claw their way back.

Rhythm House.

I remember how the back-store became a part of the main store and suddenly how even that extended section suddenly started tearing at its seams with multitudes of CD’s and DVD’s jostling for prime South Mumbai real estate.

Rhythm House.

Where the staff was extremely well versed with almost everything that was in stock – long before computerized inventory management took roots. Where the staff was knowledgeable about the nuances of different albums of the same artiste. Or would recommend you some new artiste, not out of any vested interest but because they knew the kind of music you would normally pick up and thought you would like. Long before ‘People who bought this also bought … ’ became part of online shopping, thanks to Amazon.

Rhythm House.

I remember, over the years, how the role of the store just grew in my life. For me it was a music store that gave an intellectual vibe akin to a good book store that has an aroma of paper and book glue, and not of coffee as many bookstores nowadays do.

Rhythm House.

I remember getting calls from the store informing me of an out-of-stock cassette or CD being available. I remember some of the staff greeting me with ‘bahaut dinon baad’ or ‘baryach divsanni’ after I visited the store after a year-plus gap thanks to my stint in Dubai.

Rhythm House.

A temple where music was God.

That same Rhythm House today looked forlorn. Like a jilted lover. Like those thoroughbreds that know they are going to be put down after having unselfishly and unstintingly served and helped their masters become richer people. Rhythm House made me rich beyond my expectations.

There are only two other music stores that have boggled my mind – the HMV stores in Singapore and London. They boggled because of the sheer scale and range and variety and genres of music they had. But both missed an essential element that any store that thrives on popularizing an art form should have – a soul.

Rhythm House had soul by the truckloads. And which only grew and soared over the years. It was this soul that made it a pilgrimage for me, like I am sure it was for countless other people. Any trip to ‘town’ on a weekend was incomplete without a drop-in at Rhythm House. It was a temple where you took your list of ‘I want’ and which invariably never disappointed in fulfilling.

This temple today resembled a ruin.  

With empty racks and shelves. With ‘The Goodbye Sale’ stickers plastered on recently unkempt walls. With whatever stocks that were available strewn across haphazardly in half empty and dusty shelves. This temple today had its resident poojaris going about their jobs without wanting to have eye contact with its loyal patrons. Or maybe it was the patrons who wanted to avoid eye contact. These same poojaris had a sense of purpose that went beyond their duty till not so long ago.

It was almost like being the staff at Rhythm House was their calling, and not just another job. There was a sense of pride, of ownership, and of an obligation to serve its patrons like they would, were they to be owners of the store.

The store lay semi-bare today, and looked bigger than it had ever before. But I started suffocating. I started getting that acidic feeling at the bottom of the mouth and a churning in the stomach. I wanted out. I felt cowardly for feeling like this. The store reminded me of the title of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez book, Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Maybe it was true in the case of Rhythm House. Maybe its death was foretold with the advent of technology and downloading and streaming. Maybe everyone else saw it coming since long, except the store. Maybe the store thought that just the way books are coming back into fashion, so would the physical form of music. Maybe its loyal patrons like me kept giving them a false sense of hope. But as Morgan Freeman as Ellis Boyd ‘Red’ Redding in The Shawshank Redemption says, ‘Let me tell you something my friend, hope is a dangerous thing.’

And then I realized that even I had been a culprit.

I couldn’t remember the last time I actually picked up a CD or a DVD, though I kept going to the store at least once every couple of months till late last year. I had been tempted into, and by, the world of easy downloads and streaming music.

And I guess that was the reason for the bitter, acidic feeling I had when I hurriedly left the store.

I had entered the store a loyal patron. I left the store a traitor.

I was so distressed, and depressed, that I didn’t even turn around to take a good last look at this institution that had played a huge role in moulding me.

Sorry, Rhythm House. Really.

The words of No Surrender (Born In The U.S.A., by Bruce Springsteen) come to mind while I have been writing this,

‘We learned more from a three minute record than we ever learned in school.’

Rhythm House played a huge role in making these words a truism in my life.

Thank you, Rhythm House.

Now I just pray that the next tenant is someone who comes with as much soul as the soon-to-exit one. And deep inside I hope that physical form of owning and listening to music makes a comeback. Because as Tim Robbins as Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption says, ‘Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.’

Be braver. Be kinder.

I thought it was only fitting that the review this time is of a documentary on Tower Records that I had seen a couple of years back. Watching the documentary I realised Tower Records comes closest to what I have written about Rhythm House.

Happened to chance upon All Things Must Pass while surfing channels. Soul stirring piece of film. My only experience of the store was during a trip to Singapore in 1997. And boy, was it an experience! I wasn’t aware of the history of the store till I saw this documentary. Leave aside the fact that it closed down in 2006. Or that it’s a lesson in how not to expand uncontrollably. Or that it’s a lesson never to underestimate indirect competition. Savour the documentary for the soul the store brand had. And the sense of belonging, ownership and allegiance that its core staff had towards it. And feel a sense of gratitude that in an alien market like Japan the flag of Tower Records still flutters and flourishes through 85 stores that have imbibed the soul and vision that the guy who started it all - Russ Solomon - had. This is the store from where I’d bought a CD when on a trip to Singapore ... only so that I could get hold of a tag that was stuck on to it that said No Music. No Life. Greater words were never said for me. Watch the documentary when you can. Outstanding it is. I’d been lucky to catch it on either Star Movies or HBO or one of those channels. (Checked on all the OTT platforms; unfortunately it isn’t there on any. Damn!)

All Things Must Pass: The Rise and Fall of Tower Records | Documentary