The reviews are out 

and the critics either don't get it, don't like it, or didn't do their research--IE, Meera Syal is neither a woman nor an actress (good work, Philly Inquirer). The Indian press is doing the one thing that the Indian press does well--spreading rumors about the show's demise.

So a couple of things. #1, did these critics see the same show I've been seeing every night? it's FUN. It's sold out, to a mostly middle-America White audience, at every show. The songs are amazing, and the show in general ooozes sex appeal.

#2, would I ever even want to be involved in something that got a thumbs-up from the Wall St. Journal?

#3, it's pretty clear to me what your average critic wants out of musical theater-- either 42nd St. or Les Mis. They want the shit that I, and 80% of the people I know, can't stand--want a production replete with Jazz hands, tapdancing, oompah oompah songs... or they want the poor man's version of opera.

Why they don't want a dozen nubile hotties dancing to a desi drum & bass track in a fountain is beyond me... that's the kind of thing that I actually*would* go see...

Anyway, not all the reviews are bad. Brantley's piece in the Times was reserved, but at least intelligent (if I hear another fucking joke involving one of the 5 Subcontinental terms that's recognized here--"ragas-to-riches," "hot as a curry"). Newsday liked it, the Daily News loved it, NY1 gave it a 3 minute piece... the NYT reader's section averages out to like 4.2 stars, 83% of the wall st. journal readers would recommend it to someone else...Variety dug Rahman's score.

Actually, the ones that slagged the music are the ones that make absolutely zero sense to me.

So who knows where this leaves the situation. the show's doing really well, still... those who come (enough to fill the theater every gig) give it a standing ovation more often than not, and certainly get their fill of belly laughs. And hell... everyone knew this was a big, big gamble from the start. At least we're rolling the dice.


I'm re-writing some dialogue from the show 

to more accurately describe today for you, dear reader:

"The gods have put us on this earth for a reason, and if they say you have to stay up till 4am downing pint after pint of God knows what at Rudy's on 46th street with your London connection and then wake up, still drunk, at 2 in the afternoon and drag yourself into town to SUBSTITUTE TEACH a computer music class to a dozen 6th graders (where all the computers are broken) and then go play the show with the wickedest hangover you've had since college... then you do it!"

oh. my. god.

I don't get it: I'm a smart (or smart-ish) guy. So why is the subtext of the last 6 weeks of my life "there's only one way to learn it: the wrong way." Like, now I know I can't have a cheeseburger, fries, pickle, and beer at Burger Joint 45 minutes before the show and be able to jump around (also a bad day). How come I can't figure this kind of shit out just by how it sounds? Like, "you know what, eating four-and-a-half pounds of Indian food in one sitting is not a good idea." Why do I have to prove that to myself?

In other news...
oh christ I have no idea. Make the headache stop...


I'm on TV!!!!! 


check it out, I'm the first shot....


I'm not sure if it's old age or the effect of living in the City for over 5 years, but I'm finding that I'm craving solitude these days. Not even just quiet-- that's long past, and now it's in Mazen's bag of tricks (proof that we're all getting old)--but just being alone. Maybe I'm becoming a hermit? I mean, hell, I've got the scratchy, "E-train-at-3-am" beard to go with it.

but more and more, I'm finding that my idea of a good time involves like 90 minutes of serious tabla practice, some screwing around w/ reason or cubase in a feeble attempt to write a decent track, and a good finger of cognac. ON A SATURDAY NITE.

anyway. daddy's old, so what?

I realized, while doing my taxes, that we're out of coffee today. I know it rates below the Khmer Rouge on the scale of violations against humanity, but it's still in the top 30. Which prompted a walk into park slope (which looks alot like Ridgewood, NJ these days) for some beans from Ozzie's. Which involved walking by the almost-done new facade to the Brooklyn Art Museum.

Now I know friendster #2641204 will probably disagree, but it looks AWESOME. I mean totally brilliant, form, color, landscaping... part of it has a new airport vibe to it... putting that aside, though, it's just a fantastic work of modern architecture in a less-than-sucessful classical environment. so shouts to the BK museum for that.

check out the www.dunketrecords.com website for reasons why I don't really do drumset lessons that often these days.


Happy Easter, for those of you who do Easter, and happy Passover, for those of you who do that, and happy day off for the rest of the BD crew, and happy plain old Sunday to everyone else. New developments:

--Christ (nothing like taking the name of the Lord in vain on Easter), do I have arthritis? My knuckles are swollen up like frikkin golf balls... but, they don't hurt. just... weird. time for some homeopathy or something.

--our rehearsal space got broken into... Hoy's much-loved (and moldy-smelling) Les Paul is MIA. Sonofa... Apparently whoever did it used a crowbar to get in. I wouldn't mind doing some amateur dentistry on whoever that crackhead was with the same crowbar.

--I swear, this show is going to get me in fantastic shape, if just for "Chaaiya Chaaiya" alone. I get to pogo, old-school knees-to-chest style, through the entire 5 minute song. So they're all singing in Urdu about "he who walks under the shade of love has the garden of heaven under his feet," and I'm channelling 91-era Fishbone up there. Wicked. I'm sore as hell.

--2 borderline-stalker moments this week, although both really cute in the end. 1, someone called my folk's house asking "are you the parents of David Sharma who's in Bombay Dreams?" Turns out the lady who called was friends with the only other Sharma family in the area... #2, I got an email when I got home at 3am last nite from someone who saw the show and loved it. How they figured out my email is beyond me, but... whatever. At least it's not death threats.

--we're off to record for the HOY record this PM, v2.0 ideally we can subtitle this day as "the day it actually got recorded, as opposed to before when the ProTools computer freaked out."



I'm addicted to limewire. old jungle dubplates, live versions of tracks, stuff I only have on crusty 12"...


just, dude.

(ok, ok, ok... in all honesty I'm totally against the stealing of music. But I'm thinking of this more as either replacing stuff I already have, or just picking up stuff I have no other way of acquiring.)

in other news... met andrew lloyd webber the other day. trippy.



at least for previews, was last nite.

sold-out theater, good performance, standing ovation, I've coordinated my boogie-ing in "chaaiya chaaiya" so that I can get air at the same time as the dancers. lots of fun. and my turban-tying skills are getting kick-ass.

Anyway, at the after party I finally work up the gumption to talk to the impossibly-cute girl who's dating Deep, my next-door neighbor (his dressing room is about 2' from my stage). we're getting along famously, so I say "hey Wendy, look straight at me" which she does. to which I tell her "I think you've got a little blob of eye makeup right under your right eye--"

"no," she responds, "that's my mole."

commence banging-of-head-on-chair. duh. once a nerd, always a nerd, huh sharma????

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?