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Countless families that dined out in celebration danced to his tunes and then found excuses to dine out just so that they could enjoy his music. C.K. MEENA catches up with local legend Shyam
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Shyam
SPREAD THE word: Shyam is back. That's three words, actually, but it's a brief enough message, one that's bound to rouse his dormant fans. For 10 years this effervescent singer, keyboards player and band leader of West Wind drummed up a loyal following in Bangalore, and after spending the next 10 years in New Delhi, he's back at his old haunt, Mandarin, the Chinese restaurant of Hotel Grand Ashok, blending with Pink Champagne.
Now, Pink Champagne is a fine five-piece band that's been playing at Mandarin six nights a week after West Wind moved to Delhi's Maurya Sheraton in '92. Rightfully, this article should be about them: leader and lead guitarist Steve, his brother Lyn (rhythm), Noel (bass), Kenny (drums), and Prashant (keyboards). Unfortunately, the year-end brings on a bad attack of nostalgia in most people and therefore we're obliged to put Shyam Sunder E. Damodar under the spotlight.
"Don't focus on me," he booms. Try and stop us, is all we can say. For there are many, in the city, whose happiest memories of the Eighties are bound up with him. Countless families that dined out in celebration literally danced to his tunes, and then found excuses to dine out just so that they could enjoy his music. Unlike many hotel musicians, he didn't fade into the woodwork; he stood out in bold relief. With his faithful renditions of pop, rock 'n' roll, and country hits from the Forties onwards, Shyam mastered the knack of luring everybody to the dance floor, from bouncy two-year-olds to shy dating couples to sprightly grandparents.
Bangaloreans haven't forgotten him. When he sang on Valentine's Day this year, Mandarin was packed and 70-80 people had to be turned away, says his wife Hema. "Those who used to come here when they were dating, now married and with kids, came up and said hello," Shyam recalls. "It was so sweet." Some even remember him from '82 when he formed West Wind and played at Hotel East West (now Gateway) on Residency Road for four years. The band included Trevor, Patrick, and identical twins Cosmo and Gilroy. They were a tight-knit family and they remain in close contact although circumstances have caused them to disperse. Hema was a regular fixture at the hotel, returning home after midnight in Shyam's scooter-with-sidecar and managing to turn up at her bank by nine the following morning. In fact, from the time they were married she has been Shyam's most faithful listener, not missing a single night for nine-and-a-half years until pregnancy snapped the routine. When Chandini was old enough, her parents would take her along, and she could be seen crawling all over the sofas at Mandarin.
Mandarin has undergone a change in décor. Gone are the comfy sofas and thick curtains (which served as sound absorbers, too). Red lanterns no longer hang from the ceiling. Chief chef Andrew Hsieh still rules the roast, though. As we reminisce on old times he gives me a progress report on his three sons, and a succinct verbal exchange follows:
"How long have you been here?"
"Twenty-four years."
"How old is Mandarin?"
"Twenty-four years." Andrew adds: "It's always nice when people from the old days come."
The years roll back instantly when Hema and Chandini sit around the table while Shyam's full baritone quivers, swells, rasps or sharpens to re-create Elvis, Don Williams, Tom Jones, Neil Diamond, Elton John, Rod Stewart... A human jukebox, he can sing well over 1,000 numbers, an indication of how long he's been in the field.
The very first band he formed was Beats Multiplied in '64 when he was in Madras Christian College. He sometimes wonders whether he would have been allowed a musical career if his father, who died when he was 12, had been alive. His father was in the IAS and he spent his early childhood in Delhi.
There are many in the city whose happiest memories of the Eighties are bound up with Shyam and his band, Pink Champagne
The Damodars lived just behind the then prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru's house and Shyam shared a bench with Sanjay Gandhi in school, while his elder sister was Rajiv's classmate. Nehru would invite them over for his grandchildren's birthday parties which would include camel and elephant rides. Shyam remembers complaining to Nehru about his classmate who used to bully him!
He finished school in Coonoor, Hema's birthplace. The two of them go back a long, long way. After college he joined FACT and was "selling fertilisers" by day and singing by night until he quit in '84.
He never allowed physical impediments, whether they were his polio-stricken leg or the incurable affliction that rendered him blind in one eye, to dampen his naturally high spirits.
Shyam has retained his freshness by adding new songs to his repertoire although, as he points out, the old ones keep coming back. Once, when he was in Delhi, some youngsters were stunned when he sang "Words". They told him: "It's the latest song. How come you know it?" They were only familiar with Boyzone while Shyam was, of course, singing the Bee Gees original from the Seventies. "They call it retro, now," he says with a huge guffaw. I chip in: "And when you sing someone else's song they call it a cover version." Which means that Shyam has been doing "covers" all his life.
He has been playing with Pink Champagne since July 13 on Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays, and they share an excellent rapport. He does not monopolise the vocals since every member of the band sings. "Wednesdays are a bit dull but the weekend really rocks," he says. "Come this Friday." And I do.
The session starts at 8.30 p.m. on a subdued note since some spoilsports have decided to complain about the noise level. After the first break (there are two before the night ends), Shyam, who hates holding back, pumps up the volume. Surprise, surprise, the complainants begin to dance. While children go wild when "The Ketchup Song" comes on, old men prance around to Elvis, and everyone goes berserk with "Surangini". Drummer Kenny's rendition of a Robbie Williams number doesn't draw the same applause that "Besame Mucho" does, for this is a crowd that hankers after retro. The last song is The Beatles's "All My Loving", and the audience wails when the band switches off their instruments.
The diners who had whined now cannot bear the silence. They belt out one song after another, ending with "Show me the way to go home". And everyone goes home, quite certain that they'll be back for more Pink Champagne, and more Shyam.
Photos: K. Bhagya Prakash
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