An East-West Salve For a Post-9/11 Generation: Cornershop Live at the El Rey, Los Angeles

Summer Akhter

Dynamic duo for a New Generation. "And despite Singh's reluctance to open up to the crowd, he nevertheless managed to amaze them."

As the pre-recorded familiar opening to "Heavy Soup" played, Cornershop sauntered on stage and took their places to the delight of a crowd of mostly older, KCRW junkies. They immediately started cheering as singer Tajinder Singh and crew started playing; by the time Cornershop moved into its second song, "Lessons Learned From Rocky I to Rocky III," the crowd was on its feet. Fusing guitars, bass, drums, bongos and the sitar to create music sung mostly in English but sometimes in Punjabi, the London group's set included selections from the new album, Handcream for a Generation but also featured their most famous singles, including "Brimful of Asha," the anthemic hit from the late '90s.

While some listeners may have noticed the unbalanced sound mix and the sometimes heavy reliance upon pre-recorded tracks, others could have been thrown off by Singh's cold, forbidding glare, one he offset with skittish sideways glances at the rest of the band. Presenting himself as apathetic and dour, Singh seemed almost determined not to enjoy himself. Looking at him standing feet planted firmly in place, it was hard to remember that this was the guy whose experimental tracks like "People Power" and "Spectral Morning" revealed a euphoric commitment to music.

I heard someone say Morrissey was in attendance, which itself was rather unusual and cool -- and not just because both The Smiths and Cornershop are UK bands. Rather, during one notoriously celebrated performance, Singh torched a picture of the enigmatic Morrissey, who is often painted as a quintessential Brit with ambiguously racist songs like "Asian Rut" and "Bengali in Platforms." After all, Cornershop's lyrics are always tinged with political overtones: its very name is a wry comment on the stereotype insisting that most Asians own corner convenience stores.

"Singh the Asian, Indian, or whatever label you want to put on him was referring to Indian singers, but the American crowd seemed like it would yell '45!' back to whatever he said.."

But most of the crowd didn't care about UK politics or detentes. They came to be entranced by Cornershop's fusion of Indian psychedelic pop-rock disco.

And despite Singh's reluctance to open up to the crowd, he nevertheless managed to amaze them with the 15 minute-long "6AM Julander Shere," a restrained Punjabi call to arms that combines Eastern percussion with a strummed Western acoustic guitar. The five-piece band bit down and let out a monsoon of spellbinding sounds and the result was an infectious rendition of what could have doubled as a Punjabi pop song. Never mind that most of the crowd couldn't tell you the difference between Punjabi and Sindhi lyrics -- Singh's supremely purposeful singing had all the American indie rockers, well, rocking.

The crowd's enthusiasm only increased when Cornershop played more "Indian-sounding" songs. At the first strum of a sitar, two young white women with red dots affixed to their foreheads started waving their arms, pushing their way in front of me while gyrating to the Indian beats. After jostling me around with their undulations, one of them grabbed me by both hands and -- apparently judging from my dark hair and eyes -- shouted, "I love your culture! It's so beautiful!"

Hmmm.

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What "culture," I wondered? This isn't someone else's fungus we're talking about, is it? Assuming she meant Indian culture -- my parents are from Pakistan -- I'm not sure that Cornershop was really it. Nor would I assert that putting a sitar on stage and singing in Punjabi in the Western construct of a pop band is Indian culture. Her response almost made me think Cornershop's borrowing from Indian tradition was some kind of gimmick. And the truth is that those going wild for the Indian-ness of Cornershop weren't Indian, or even of South Asian descent for that matter -- they were white Americans. The South Asians I saw just stood there, not really getting into the Indian vibe, man. Maybe they, like me, were confused.

This was particularly evident when Cornershop played their hit, "Brimful of Asha." For those who haven't heard the song, it is an homage to Asha Bosle and other famous old-time Indian singers. So when Singh got to the point in which he yells out the names of the singers and musicians, the crowd was all over it, yelling the line "45!" after each one, and Singh played it out. "Lata Mangeshkar." "45!" "Mohammed Rafi." "45!" The crowd was happy, eager to follow up. At that moment, I had to look at it differently. Singh the Asian, Indian, or whatever label you want to put on him was referring to Indian singers, but the American crowd seemed like it would yell "45!" back to whatever he said. If he chanted, "Civil Disobediance," the crowd would probably let out another "45!" "Sepoy Mutiny." "45!" Maybe I think too much.

In the post-9/11 mayhem, shouting the name Mohammed might get poor Mohammed detained. But somehow, with Singh's soothing, hypnotic voice and with sitars and guitars drenching all of us, everyone was OK with it. Add that to the supposedly racist Morrissey sitting in support of an Asian-led Cornershop, and I figured that I just had to stop thinking, except to think that maybe this is what music is supposed to do. Which makes Cornershop's East-West pop fusion a very special handcream for a generation.

More of a salve, really.