Author: Remo

João passed away peacefully in his sleep at 4.15 am on 14th August 2012. Without illness, not even a cold. I always thought he was a young man who looked old. Now I know that he was an old man who looked young. To be precise,  he was 85.

* * *

It was 1963. I was 10 years old. To the happy house which we rented from Eugénio de Melo on Rua Heliodóro Salgado, one morning came a humble elderly lady [who would then be described as a mulher de pano] accompanied by what looked like a young boy a few years older to me; he was slightly built, wore short pants, and had a friendly toothy smile. The lady asked for my mother, and the two women huddled together in serious discussion for a very long while. Then the elderly lady hugged the boy, left him behind with us, and walked away. That’s how João came into our lives, and stayed for precisely half a century.

Years later, my mother narrated the gist of the lady’s talk that day. It turned out she lived not too far from our house, and was often in need of charity. She had said “Bai, this is my son, and he is a bit of a simpleton. He was being looked after by the priests in Don Bosco, but they are not in a position to keep him there any longer. He is not very strong mentally or physically, so he can’t get a job anywhere. I am advancing in age and not keeping well. When I pass away there will be no one to look after him. He will be out in the streets with the only option of a life in the market place or near the ferry boat. He will not last long there. Would you please take him in and look after him for me? He may not be of much practical use to you, but he is a good boy.”

I realize now that the ‘young boy’ who was brought to our home that day was a grown man of 35. Who didn’t look a day over 15, though in a slightly curious way.

When we moved to Miramar a few years later, I remember that João had two chores. To fetch milk from the milk booth down the footpath in the morning. And to walk the dogs on the beach at the other end of the footpath in the evening. Both chores which he loved and couldn’t be talked out of doing, as they provided what he prized most in life: human contact and gozalio [talk, chit-chat, shooting the breeze], both in the milk booth queue, and on the beach. And they satisfied his unconditional love for animals, whom he adored. My mother always defended him against all criticism and funny comments. She always said “João may be simple. But can you find such honesty, loyalty and commitment today? Even at your high fancy modern salaries? I would trust him with un-weighed gold powder. João is priceless.”

He lived a happy, care-free, healthy life in spite of being a bachelor, or perhaps because he was a bachelor. He had countless friends and well-wishers from every walk of life [my friends and my parents’ friends, doctors, lawyers, chartered accountants, musicians, actors, all ask ‘How is João?’ when they see me, usually before asking how I am], and he had not a single enemy. There was no one he ever did or wished ill.

All this is much more than I can say for myself.

When younger he never missed a temple or church or mosque feast in distant corners of Goa, from where he always returned with pockets full of food – for the dogs. He never missed a matka number, his countless day trips to the gaddo for biddies, and of course his happy evening trips to his favourite Miramar bar, on whose terrace he graced a table of a dozen or so old cronies who missed him badly on the rare occasions when João couldn’t make it. He returned from these excursions often in the mood to sing jolly songs, and sometimes in the mood to fight with the maid.

After both my parents passed away, he did not wish to be uprooted from Miramar. The action was all here: his friends, the never ending stream of people he greeted and talked to – they had been a part of his life for 33 years. So I hired a maid to look after him, cook for him, and clean the house and garden.

All seemed to go perfectly, until I made an unannounced trip there one evening, and discovered that the maid was an alcoholic. She was lying in a stupor in her room which was strewn with empty bottles. She had been cooking extremely pungent food to her own liking, which delicate João could not take. She had forced him to withdraw all the money from the bank account my mother had built up for him, and had taken it all. And she had threatened and frightened him into silence. I took a few quick decisions on the spot: within an hour I fired the maid, hired pick-up trucks to clear out all the furniture, locked up the house, and brought João to my home in Siolim.

* * *

In the beginning, village life was too quiet for the Miramar boy. “Inga zaddam chodd!” was his verdict [‘Too many trees here!’]. But he eventually settled in, enjoyed the peace and quiet, made friends with everyone who came over and the immediate neighbours, and soon got used to the affectionate attention, motherly care and wonderful food cooked by Sandhya and Vonita, my maids.

In the years he spent here, I religiously poured him a small caju in the evenings. He didn’t want a large peg anymore, he said it made his legs unsteady. Sometimes we shared a drink together, listening to old Konkani cantaram and talking about the old days. He had an uncanny memory for people and incidents I myself couldn’t remember. He wasn’t a good one for recalling names, but had his own for everyone: foddó dotor [bald doctor], motteli bai [fat madam], haddió bab [bearded sir], dantró padri [big toothed priest, even though his own were much bigger], and so forth. These were not names he gave in mockery or in malice. They were innocent descriptions, like a child describes people. However, I shall mercifully refrain from disclosing the ‘innocent descriptions’ he had for each of you. On some of those bonding evenings of ours he would sing, and invariably start with ‘Heróis do Mar’, the Portuguese national anthem, followed by the hymns he had learned at Don Bosco during the Portuguese days. In the last two years, of his own volition, he totally stopped drinking. And curiously, a few months later, so did I.

João loved music, and had a fabulous ear and taste for it. After I auditioned a new musician for my band, he would come up in the evening and tell me what he thought of him. And his opinion invariably coincided with mine. He had a weakness for good drummers and percussionists. He couldn’t walk very steadily of late, but during our rehearsals he would dance where he thought we could not see him, to the great amusement of my maids.

The Rocker fooling around with my old sunglasses.

João had no concept of time or age. He would sometimes ask me “Baba, how old do you think I am, about 150?”. I would say ”Na re João, you must be 125 only.” And then I’d say he was actually 18, to which he’d laugh; and end the conversation by telling him he was a few years older to me – which I really believed he was.

Old age didn’t creep up on him. In November 2011 it suddenly ambushed him. And overnight he was old. Really old. Sometimes when he sat down he couldn’t get up again without help. Sometimes while standing he would lean like the Tower of Pisa, sideways or backwards, giving us all a fright. That’s when I first started suspecting he wasn’t just a few years older to me. He started keeping me up nights, calling out and wanting to be picked up from bed, walked around, and laid back in bed, which he wet. And after a while he wanted to be picked up again. So I hired him a full time professional nurse. He kept her up the same way, and after 3 nights she disappeared. So I got him another; this one survived 2 nights.

When I finally timidly asked whether he would like to go to a home for the aged, I thought he would protest vehemently. But to my great surprise, he smiled and said “Yes, when can I go, today?”. He spent the last 8 months at the Candolim Home for the Aged, where he miraculously stopped his night-time demands overnight. I guess he had become a bit of a spoilt brat here at home, pampered by my two maids whom he quite often bullied, throwing his seniority around: “Hanv adló tempachó! Portuguez tempachó!” [I am from the Good Old Days! From the Portuguese Days!]. At home he was the only senior citizen, the only old man, and he tended to overplay that role. I think being with other men of his age and above embarrassed him into behaving like them, and into being more self-sufficient. Wonder of wonders, he even stopped wetting his bed.

In the Home he found companions who had all the time in the world to indulge in his favourite activity: gozalio. They also played cards, watched TV and listened to music. They were given a glass of Port wine in the evenings, and – to João’s great delight – biddies. There were a few who read the Herald front to back every day, and then narrated the news to the others. Their favourite characters, whose exploits they followed avidly, were of course Babush and Churchill [maverick ministers in the Government of Goa].

Whenever we [my sister, my sons, their girlfriends, my friends, my maids, etc] visited we were always happy to find him, and the other inmates, spotlessly clean and smiling at any time of day – which is much more than one can say for many other homes for the aged out here. And fussy though he was here at our home, he always complimented the food in his new Home to me, even in private, out of the warden’s hearing. The other inmates grew  fond of him, and the more able ones were protective when his walk was unsteady.

In the last few weeks he turned too weak and stiff to get out of bed. The nurses strolled him around on a wheel chair a couple of times a day. The in-house doctor, as well as my own who examined him, said he had absolutely no illness which they could treat him for. No diabetes, no blood pressure, no  nothing. Perfect health. It was plain old age, which had so suddenly pounced on him a few months earlier, which was now slowly hugging him closer and closer. All they could prescribe were tonics with supplementary vitamins, but these couldn’t help João much. I knew conversation didn’t mean much to him anymore, so the last time I went I just took my guitar and softly sang him his favourite songs at his bedside. He murmured along to ‘Heróis do Mar’, and his feet moved in time under the bed sheet to all the rest.

One way to describe him may be as ‘a simpleton’. But another way would be to see a pure soul. Someone who, perhaps thanks to that very ‘simplicity’, was naturally incapable of pretense, jealousy, arrogance, vanity, intrigue, greed, hatred, and maybe even lust – though he had an infinite capacity for love. I think that just about eliminates most of the mortal sins. A soul free of all that has to be in Heaven, there’s no doubt about it. It is souls like mine that I’m worried about.

João was even incapable of lying. All one had to do was repeat the question a little louder the second time, and the truth would come tumbling out. “João, kitleo biddio vodlai re aiz?” “Donuch bab.””Kitleo? Sarkó saang!” “Hé hé… dhá vodlom dhá…”.  [“João, how many biddies did you smoke today?” “Only two, sir.” “I beg your pardon? Tell me the truth!” “Well… well… I smoked ten.”] He would finish a bundle of 20 biddis in two days, but I never denied him his little pleasure. After all, like President Clinton of the USA, João too didn’t inhale. And I took a cue from Mother Teresa, who went out of her way to buy biddis for her old inmates.

I know João is doing much more than resting in peace. João is partying up there. Yes, I am certain he is already busy making a whole lot of new friends, and meeting all the old ones. And making St Peter’s eyes water with biddi smoke.

Remo Fernandes
Siolim, 15th August 2012

João [extreme right] dancing at my birthday 2010.

[As published in Hindustan Times, Mumbai, and Times of India, Goa, on 13th December 2011]

It was the 1970s. Goa had started to lose itself. Not to foreigners, not to Indian immigrants or land sharks, not even yet to corrupt politicians – but to ourselves. We had started looking upon all old things Goan with impatience, and couldn’t wait to bring in the new. Beautiful colonial homes and churches were given a modern concrete facelift, old pottery and utensils were allowed to disintegrate, Konkani tiatr [theatre] troupes shied away from sophisticated city folk… and in the middle of all that Goa negligence, came Mario’s iconic book ‘Goa with Love’.

It showed us, through uncanny detail and irreverent wit, that we were in fact very nostalgic for the things we had lost and were in the process of losing. The old carreira, the village baker and the vicar on their bicycles, the good cheer in the village taverna, the buxom but hot tempered fisherwoman in a crowded bus…

Mario had been publishing cartoons of national interest in leading Indian publications for years. But in Goa, national fame counted for little; he remained practically unknown in this Asterix’s village, where nothing exists unless it is fully Goa-centric. ‘Goa with Love’ established him, in one stroke, as one of the soil’s favourite sons. He became ‘our’ Mario, the brother who showed us who we were.

Mario and I shared a private joke. Every time we met at a party, which was very often, he would greet me with “So when are you going to pick up your guitar and sing for us all?”, and I would retort “As soon as you pick up your sketch book and sketch us all.” It wasn’t funny to anyone except the two of us, and that too simply because we repeated it predictably for years on end.

In the early 80s, his then adolescent sons Maushi and Bodkis wanted to pierce their ears. A very worried Mario took me aside and said “Please talk them out of it. They’re trying to imitate you. I told them they have to be successful and famous before they can do this sort of nonsense.” I said “Mario, I can’t believe this! You’re an artist; how can you of all people be against your sons wearing ear-rings? You could wear a couple yourself!”. I think what I said sunk in somewhere, because ear-rings they wore, though Mario didn’t. For all the whacky cartoons he gave us, Mario was extremely classic. In looks, in taste, in comportment, and I daresay even in thinking.

I first met Mario when I was invited to a party in his apartment at Oyster in Colaba. I was a young architecture student in Mumbai who was meeting his first celebrity hero. That he happened to be a fellow-Goan was just an added bonus. That day he told me “I envy you musicians.” I couldn’t believe my ears. He explained “Look what happened just now. You sang a song, and received instant applause and appreciation from the people around you. I create my cartoons late at night, alone in my study, with no one to share the thrill with. By the time they are published and people compliment me, days or weeks later, to me they are stale and all but forgotten.” His words echoed in my mind years hence when, besides performing on stage, I also started the lonely journey of recording my songs all alone in my studio late into the night.

To me, Mario’s passing is not a loss. Many people go in their 80s. Both my parents did. Mario lived a very full and fulfilling life, and he died at home, in his bed, in his sleep, without major ailments, with the love of his life by his side. Two days earlier I met him at Nostalgia, a gourmet Goan restaurant, where he shared a hearty meal with wife Habiba, a glass of red wine in his hand.

No, the word loss somehow does not come to mind at all. I rather prefer to contemplate upon what an immeasurable gain Mario’s life was. To Goa, to India, to the world; and to me, one of the many people who are privileged enough to consider themselves his friends.

[As published in all the editions of the national English daily DNA, India, on 7th August 2011]

Phew… just finished reading Keith Richards’ “Life”. To me, the best among all the rock’n’roll autobiographies [and even biographies] I’ve read. I was never a total Stones fan while a schoolboy, though I was wild about the 3 or 4 songs of theirs which we played in the beat group we had back then: Paint it Black, 19th Nervous Breakdown, Let’s Spend the Night Together, and of course Satisfaction, which is once again part of my repertoire today, albeit in a totally modified Indianized avataar. As a teenager, I was a Beatles fan through and through. The Rolling Stones sound was too rough and dirty for my taste. I found the early recordings and mixes unclear and muddy – but then I guess here in Goa and India we’d never been exposed to vintage black American music like blues and rock, which was the style and sound the Stones were playing and emulating. We grew up to squeaky clean pretty pop here, like Cliff and The Shadows. And our parents to Martin and Sinatra before that. I discovered the latter Stones while living in Paris in the 70s, through albums like “Sticky Fingers”, “Some Girls”, “Exile on Main St” and “Voodoo Lounge”. Richards’ autobiography now tells me that most of those songs were composed and written while recording in studio, and this fact blows my mind. It’s almost as good as raw jamming on tape machines. And this jamming produced immortal rock jewels and classics, not just jams.

I feel real lucky to have attended one Stones concert in my life. The Mumbai one. The concert promoters called and asked if I would write an article on what I felt about the Stones, as part of the promotion build-up to the concert. I said “Sure”, and then suddenly felt inspired to add “provided you give me two premium concert tickets, two business class air tickets, and a room in a 5-star hotel”. They said of course, and three days later I was watching the greatest, and certainly the longest lasting rock band in the world. They gave me tickets in the cordoned off VVIP section where people were sipping Don Perignon on high cushioned chairs, but that’s not my idea of rocking at a rock concert. I watched it from up front, grooving within reach-out-and-touch distance of Jagger.

Like in all autobiographies, Keith might have skirted some issues and glossed over others, though he’s been brutally honest about most people, specially himself. In any case, I can’t get enough of Richards at the moment. He comes across as a very loveable rogue. A rogue that you grew up with through this book, whom you could totally trust and rely upon to pull a knife to protect you. A heavy drug addict whom you worry and feel protective about. An indestructible cat-o’-nine-lives survivor of excesses, falls, punctured lungs, cracked skull, whose brain you think must be totally fried and pickled with all the substances injected and snorted and swallowed over decades, but who surprises as being extremely sharp, deeply analytical, and at times hilariously funny. The language is his own spoken one: say-it-like-it-is Richards. Which means an irresistible mix of school dropout lower middle class white trash Londoner, black American blues man, and avant-garde punk rocker rolled in one. Its been a long time since I’ve found myself reading a book and laughing my head off alone in public places such as airports and airplanes.

Now that the book’s over, there’s an emptiness. I’m Googling and YouTubing everything I can about the man: interviews, live performances, jams and recordings with musicians other than the Stones, out-takes from albums, even his wedding. Oh yes, what a Life…

[Published on the 28^TH JULY 2011]

You were the first big Indian name in English rock and pop music in India, who dared to strike out on your own, with zero support base. On looking back, how do you feel about it? What was your inspiration?

I’m very happy I did it, and I’m very happy that people like you recognize it! I guess I just did it because I had to. I had all this music inside me which I needed to let out, and since no record companies were giving me a contract, I started my own small home studio in Goa, and put out my first album. Then one thing led to another; I scored music for two films, ‘Jalwa’ and ‘Trikaal’, and my music went national and then international within a couple of years. Totally unexpected.

Were you ever interested in architecture? Why did you do the course?

My Dad taught me my first musical chords and instruments on the ukulele, banjo, and then the guitar. But he always said music was great as a hobby, but that one needed something steadier as a profession. I chose architecture because it involved drawing and design, and I loved both. But as soon as I completed the course I went full time into music, because by then I realized that music was my greatest love. And I decided I wasn’t going to choose second best as my life’s companion. For that’s the way I see one’s profession – as a companion we have to live with for most of our lives. So we might as well choose the profession we love most. If we do, we never work a day in our lives. in a musician’s case, it literally is all play and no work!

Music and engineering all came into the picture, when you recorded your album yourself, another first. Was passion for music alone that goaded you on then?

Absolutely. That, and the thrill of hearing my songs first come alive as I added more instruments and voices to them, layer by layer. It still thrills me no end to listen to a song build up that way.

Were you completely self taught? Guitar, flute and other instruments?

Yes, totally, besides the first chords my father taught me. I still cannot read or write music. My father enrolled me in a music school when I was about seven, but was wise enough not to force me when I refused to return to it. The method of teaching was so orthodox, it would have killed all my love and excitement for music. So I ended up learning everything on my own along the way.

What is your idea of fusion music? You started it long before it became the vogue.

To me fusion is anything which is not pure-breed. Pure-breed is great, but can get predictable after a while. When different music styles and cultures are thrown together, something unexpected and uncharted emerges. Some of it is brilliant, some not. But on second thoughts I must say that nothing is truly pure-breed; everything is inter-related, all music and all musicians are influenced by something or someone else, so in a wide way, all music is fusion. We ourselves are fusion.

How much did your travels in Europe influence your music?

Europe taught me to ‘let it out’. To not suppress what I had inside me. I think it greatly inspired me to start my own home studio in the face of Indian record companies’ rejection, rather than sit at home and mope or accept defeat and go back to architecture.

How different is the music scene today for beginners from the days you started out?

The computer and the internet have changed everything. Today a kid can record himself in CD quality, and put out a song on YouTube, FaceBook, etc. If it touches people’s hearts and fancies, it can spread the world over like wild fire. No one needs a nod from the old Sahibs, the record company executives, anymore.

Your lyrics were about politics, about corruption, staying away from drug,s and you felt deeply about such causes. Today, do you find young musicians caring about such social issues?

You tend to talk about me in the past! [laughs] My songs still are about such things which touch me strongly. Do check out my last releases, “India, I Cry” and “India Against Corruption” on YouTube, and on my website www.remomusic.com. Frankly, I didn’t hear many socio-political songs in India back then, and I don’t hear them today. Most artists, specially from Bollywood, like to play it safe – though they could have had so much fantastic influence on our masses.

After the Padma Shri, has life changed?

No. I was given the Padma Shri for what I am, not for what I’m not. So I saw no reason why I, or my life, should change after the award.

You are known to hold views like outsiders should not be allowed to buy land in Goa. Isn’t that parochialism?

Not at all. It is protection of a naturally and culturally unique, precious spot in India. We tend to ruin all our natural paradises – look what we have done to Ooty, Simla, Dehra Doon; the list is endless. These places are simply too tiny and fragile to accommodate onslaughts of settlers and builders from all over the country. If we keep turning all our natural resorts into metropolis, where do we go on a holiday then? To Pakistan?

What about your shows with A R Rahman? What was the common factor?

Besides being stage performers, we are both composers and arrangers who handle everything from A to Z in our own recording studios. I guess that’s the greatest common factor between us.

You starred in the first two Pepsi launch ads more than 20 years ago, again setting a trend. What are you planning now, to set yet another trend?

Frankly, I don’t plan trends! What I’m planning now is a return to square one, to releasing my music on my own, since record companies seem to have regressed to pre-pop/rock days. They have once again made Bollywood their only god. Besides releasing my new albums, I’m going to resurrect the old ones, as well as record my earliest songs – those written during my school and college days. That ought to be fun!

 

[A music review by Rocky Lazarus as published in The Gomantak Times]
I have been listening to Remo Fernandes’ original music from the film O Maria. The CD is produced by M.B. Creations and marketed by Rock and Raaga. I discover something artistically and musically new with each hearing. The lyrics by Saish Poi Palondikar are refreshing, and often humorous. They have been perfectly fitted onto Remo’s lilting melodies by this able wordsmith.

Track 1: Laranchim Cantaram is a modern ballad which manages to absorb traces of the old Goan ‘cantaram’ style, and in which Remo has encapsulated every Goan’s desire to preserve the State in its pristine condition for posterity. When I asked Remo “Could you share your experience while working on the music for ‘O Maria’?”, he replied:

“I love working on several different kinds of music. But whenever I work on Goan Konkani compositions, there’s an element which kicks in which I cannot describe; it is like an emotional and spiritual home-coming, even though I must say I am not primarily a composer of Goan music.”

As the pleasing sounds of guitars drift in, Remo’s mellifluous voice follows with the words ”Lara laramchim…aik tim cantaram…”

An imaginative chord progression makes this song a treat for the ears. Especially at the chorus with its powerful funk-rock feel of the drums, rolling into a crescendo and substituting the side-stick with a full snare-hit. The bass on this track is what drives the song much more than the other instrumentation, harmony and vocals. Remo has played it live on a real bass guitar with superb articulation on the chorus. Listen to Remo’s characteristic flute style in the middle solo which suddenly takes the listener to a different height, while the bass guitar playfully does delightful slide-fills in between phrases. The song ends on a soft ad-lib coda and a beautiful C major 9 strummed chord.

Track 2: Surganchi Fati is a duet-dulpod sung by Remo together with Queenie Fernandes from Siolim. Describing her experience with the O Maria recording Queenie said:

“Singing with Remo was a dream come true, as was my debut as a playback singer. They were two great lovely things happening to me at the same time. Amazing time; amazing experience! The music is just fantastic, hats off to Remo for the great work.”

As the song plays on, pizzicato strings add to the bouncy feel of the track. The peppy flute solos complement the singing. Watch out for the girl cautiously whispering “Shhhhh… xezari choitolo…” when the boy sings “Mog amcho fultolo… taka vannani martolo…”. This song has a lot of instruments/tracks but surprisingly each one emerges independently to the fore from their respective spatial positions and depths. Great job by San, the mixing engineer. After the twin harmonized flute solo one is taken by surprise again at 3:05 by the harmonic vocal counter which then fades out gently in a smooth linear graph.

Track 3:  Maka Naka Tuka Naka is a powerful full-on definitive hard rocker in both the normal and latter half time feel. Incidentally Remo’s sons, Noah and Jonah are rock musicians and composers themselves, and this song is bound to make them smile. I’m listening to a power-chord backing in G5 and guitars and bass riffing together. The lyrics of the catchy chorus [both Konkani and English] have been written by Remo keeping Goa’s problems in mind, and have been sung by him in four-voice harmony in a tight staccato.  A track of this order had to come one day from Remo. It has an overdriven guitar riff which sticks in your brain, while the bass guitar has intricate melodic lines throughout the track.

It is unbelievable how a Konkani song has been made to sound so modern. The mix is very well calculated. I have monitored this song initially on a good Sennheiser headphone set at half volume with the graphic equalizer set to flat. And now am listening to it on a low-end head set while writing this. The stereophonic manipulation of instruments is smart. I am hearing different musical ideas jumping at me at different times; a great song for the young generation. This bilingual track will be much appreciated by rockers and may soon be heard being covered by bands in Goa and played by DJs all over.

To a question, “Which do you think is your best track among the four songs and why?” Remo replied:

“That’s like asking a parent which of his four children is his favorite! I love them all for different reasons. However, I’m particularly disappointed that “Maka Naka” was removed from the film after being excellently picturized and edited. It would have made Konkani cinema history, being the first all-out Konkani hard rock song ever. But then I guess when a film maker thanks the Chief Minister in the first frame of his film, and invites him as chief guest to launch the CD, he ties his own hands up, and can’t quite include a song about corruption in the film.”

Track 4:  Adieus Mai is a highly emotional requiem. It is evident from the music that Remo has worked on this with his heart and soul. Those who know him closely will at once realize that it’s a personal belated tribute to his own dear mother.  I love the way the layered piano changes timbre on different notes at different velocities with a nimble hand. The organ fills the whole audio spectrum without its often over-sonorous tone. And when the female voices appear in complete harmony, they feel like drops of water on a thirsty soul’s parched throat. The angelic combination of the young voices of Chriselle Mendonsa and Shine Fernandes, both from Santa-Cruz, has added to the beauty of the album. About their experience regarding this project, Shine says:  “It was a huge privilege and a great experience working with Remo – someone who has been a great inspiration to all of Goa. My family and I absolutely love the music of O Maria. It has this unique Goan touch to it and makes you want to hum the tune over and over again.”

Chriselle says: “It was a good experience singing for the album O Maria. It was a great achievement for me to sing for a movie for the first time. The music was awesome. Congratulations to Remo; my friends love the album and I would love to sing on more music albums in the future.”
The powerful tutti at 2:40 is certain to arouse a strong feeling of sadness in the listener when the timpani come in hand in hand with the buzz roll of the snare, and the distant trumpet heralds a counter-point. In the end, the flowing notes of the bell-tree, with fading echoes reminiscent of tolling bells from this world to the other side of the thin parting veil, complete the journey of her soul.

The film: I have watched O Maria, and am fairly impressed by the direction, casting, acting, script and the whole movie in general. And the music of Remo Fernandes seems to have greatly enhanced the film maker’s vision. I feel Remo has done all he could to raise the music of O Maria to the level of an award-winning score. And let us not forget that, in his usual trade-mark style, Remo has played every instrument on these tracks, sung every voice other than the female ones mentioned above, and has played the role of recording and pre-mixing engineer. A true labor of love.

—ROQUE LAZARUS

[Excerpts from press and TV interviews during the Ganesh Festival]

Please give us an insight as to why you celebrate Ganesh. Which other festivals do you celebrate?

At the outset, let me say that to me, it is the folkloric aspect of festivals which appeals much more than the religious one. Religions are all the same, in that they all try to take us to god; they are like different airlines all traveling to the same destination.

Hindus and Catholics being the two major communities in Goa, I feel a strong affiliation to festivals of both. I feel that if every Christian were to light a lamp on Diwali, if every Hindu were to celebrate Id, and if every Muslim were to light a star for Christmas, even if just to symbolize solidarity and brotherhood with other communities, our country would be a better place.

Besides, this solidarity would greatly frustrate the communal politicians and religious fanatics who are out to destroy the peace and harmony of this country.

Have you ever had to face any kind of opposition from your friends, society, or your own family for that matter?

Not at all. My family and friends are very liberal and open minded. They perfectly understand my attempt at bringing solidarity into the community. Of course there will always be little minds who take objection to everything that is positive in the world, but such people do not make a dent in my world.

Do you follow all the traditions associated with Ganesh celebrations?

To a certain extent. I do an aarti every morning after I bathe, I observe a vegetarian diet during Ganesh’s presence in my home, and I make sure that I have at least one lamp or bulb burning 24 hours of the day and night. Other than that, I’m not too much of a traditionalist. For example, I do not bring Ganesh home every year; I first brought him about 10 years ago, the second time was about 4 years ago, and this is the third time. I do it as per my feeling, as per my heart’s desire, and not out of a ritualistic routine compulsion.

True communion with god/infinity can only come through meditation and prayer. The festivals, the lamps, the firecrackers, etc, are but the folkloric expressions of such communion.

Do you feel positive about bringing the Ganesh idol home?

I feel a warm, wonderful connection with my pre-conversion ancestors. But having said that, positivity has to come from our actions, thoughts and words. The mere bringing of an idol, or the making of a crib, cannot by themselves bring positive signs into our lives.

How do you pray to Ganesha, what do you ask of him?

I don’t normally ask for things. I usually thank god for all that he has given me already. Many of us think that gods are there mainly to do things for us: make us pass examinations, get jobs, recover from illnesses, etc. We expect him to work miracles. What we don’t realize is that he has already performed the miracle of giving us the wherewithal to achieve all these things: brains to study, capacity to work hard, yoga to keep us healthy. Instead of utilizing these gifts to achieve our goals, we expect god to give them to us on a platter, in exchange for mere rituals and cash donations to con-men who pose as commission agents for god.

Would you choose an eco-friendly Ganesh or one with glossy paints?

I would choose an eco-friendly one of course. But I think too much fuss is made over thin layers of glossy paint on Ganesh idols which go into our waters once a year, while not enough attention is given to millions of liters of polluted refuse which is dumped into our rivers and lakes and seas every single day by people and industries who do not follow pollution treatment laws. To me, the holiest gift that god has given us is nature. And the greatest sin is to destroy and abuse this nature. The politician-industrialist-miner-builder nexus in Goa destroys a million times more nature in Goa than the paint on Ganesh statues does. Yet our media makes no effort to dig into their misdoings, but devotes plenty of print space to Ganesh paint; why?

Being a celebrity, are you trying to spread a message to various communities?

I do not presume to be able to influence anyone, and certainly not to change the world. I do things for myself. If someone sees my gesture as a positive move to promote harmony in society, and if he or she feels like emulating it, that’s great. If they don’t, that’s okay too. Each one has to think and decide for himself.

Did you evince an interest in other religions before you became famous?

I’ve always loved the Bible. When I was in college, I discovered and fell in love with the Bhagwad Gita. After that I discovered the Koran. Once while a college student, on a whim, I remember I shaved off my head and grew a ‘shendi’. When I did such things while I was unknown, people used to say I’d gone crazy. Now that I’m a little famous, people say I do them for publicity. That’s the reason why I don’t care too much about others’ reactions: I do things for myself.

Lastly, what is your opinion of those who use religious figures in their art in a way which some find offensive?

I cannot comment on art which I haven’t seen. But the point is not whether ‘some’ find it offensive – there are those for whom even the fact that you breathe is offensive; that does not mean you should stop breathing. The point is whether the artists’ intention was to insult and make fun of religious figures or not. If that was their intention, I would ask the gods to forgive them and enlighten their souls.

[For Tehelka, 29^th July 2009.]

A book that means a lot to you? And why?

There are four: ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’, ‘Siddartha’, ‘The Little Prince’, ‘The Alchemist’ – short, small books which contain the wisdom of eternity.

Your favorite genre?

Autobiographies, biographies, and authors like Amitav Ghosh, Tarun Tejpal, Arundhati Roy – oops, they’re all Indian! But that wasn’t intentional or chauvinistic.

Your favorite character? And why?

Laugh, ye intellectuals – but it is Harry Potter. Because through him, Rowling performed the greatest magic of all: she made a whole generation of computer games zombies read.

How many books do you own?

Never counted them. I ‘hoard’ good books the way some people hoard money; makes me feel secure about that rainy day when the power fails. sometimes I only end up reading books years after I’ve bought them.

An underrated book? And why?

‘Sorrowing lies my land’ by Lambert Mascarenhas. The most authentic description of old Goan life ever written in novel form. Towards the end it turns into the self-indulgence of a freedom fighter, though.

An overrated book? And why?

Most of the glossy best-sellers which seem to have been written with nothing but a Hollywood film contract in mind.

The book you bought last?

Ghosh’s ‘In an ancient land’, to read while I was traveling around Egypt this April.

Last book read?

I’m reading ‘Frida by Frida’, the personal letters of Frida Kahlo, one of a dozen books I bought years ago in New York. I love her paintings, find her personality fascinating, and the film on her life, ‘Frida’, is high on my list of all-time greats.

A book you wish you had written? And why?

I’ve never wished I’d written a particular book. But sometimes, while reading one, I have wished I had that author’s mastery over language and story-telling.

[By Ronni Pasanna, Dubai. 2^nd July 2009.]

“The next time you come down and don’t meet me – watch out!” he had said on his way back to Goa. At the “The Asian Rock Fusion” in Dubai, Remo was at his best. What a performance – a true legend!

Well that was almost 2 years ago.   Although we did keep in touch occasionally exchanging emails and text messages, I was not too sure if he would actually find time to see me, now that I was in Goa.

“Hi Ronnie, so good to hear from you! We must meet! Please make time to come over to my house for a meal or at least a cup of coffee. When is it convenient to you?  My village is very close to Mapusa. 15 minutes drive. Want to come over right now?  Most welcome!  Please do!”

Less than 30 minutes later, we were at Remo’s magnificent +-150-year-old ancestral home.

A warm hug. “So good to see you again Ronnie, been a long time!”.  I was at ease instantly.

We had warned Shane (our youngest) to behave himself; within seconds he ignored our warning and disappeared with Capitão, the 5-month old Great Dane, and Coronel, the 6-month old German Shepherd. He Came running back a while later panting, “There is a swimming pool in the backyard!”

“Go guys jump!”  Remo insisted. The kids wasted no time – within minutes all three were jumping and screaming in the well maintained big swimming pool, while we sat chatting over a cup of coffee.

We chatted about his childhood, about his father, about his strict grandpa who wouldn’t allow his kids to take up music, how his father was delighted Remo had inherited his love for music, and went out of his way to give Remo all the support which the father himself had been deprived of. Non-stop questions were answered with ease.

Remo smiled about his ‘Hippie days’ in Europe; “They were the best days of my life!” he says.

‘The Golden Key to Alexandria’ award was conferred on him by the Egyptian Government, as was the ‘Padmashree’ by the then President of India, Dr. Abdul Kalam.

He frowned upon the current political scenario in Goa.  Answered questions about his refusal to accept an award from the Goan Government, when he publicly quoted the Goan ministers’ corruption and criminal activities as the reasons for his refusal.

It was now time to venture into Remo’s home recording studio.

Ceilings decorated with colourful Indian Sarees, guitars neatly placed in a corner. High-tech computers and microphones. This was truly Remo’s world!

Awestruck and mesmerized, we had a sneak preview of “India, I Cry” – his latest piece of work about to be released for FREE download on his website www.remomusic.com in a few weeks. Watch out! This one is mind blowing!

“This song is not even a wake-up call; I tried to give those calls 25 years ago” he says. “This is a lament about the fact that we did not wake up all this time, and that now it is already too late.”

Interestingly 25 years ago Remo had released an album titled “Goan Crazy!” containing a song called “Goa, Goan, Gone”. He has re-recorded it a few months ago, and also made it available for free download on his website.

“People congratulate me at parties for my socio-political songs/activities, saying that I have lots of guts, but I don’t accept such congratulations” he says. “I want their involvement. Where are their letters to the editors? Where are their own guts? I want them to make their stand public, not praise me in private and then go and polish the boots and palms of corrupt ministers in order to get their ‘work’ done!”

“We have to do something before it is too late!” they say. I tell them “Hello, wake up and smell the coffee! It is ALREADY too late!”

Patriotism oozing from every pore of Remo – A True son of Goa, and of India.

Sorry Remo, probably we don’t deserve you! As the saying goes, ‘we have learnt to bury our heads in the sand’.

Warm hug again as we say goodbye. “So nice of you to drop in Ronnie, please be in touch.”

Shane went back running to him from the gate: “Uncle, are you really Remo Fernandes?”  “Yes son!” he says with a huge grin on his face.

[Answered at Delhi Airport and Cal HHI Hotel, on 29^th December 2007]

Tell us about your growing up years in Goa? Was your family a musically-inclined one?

Growing up in Goa was like growing up in a natural, beautiful, friendly, caring paradise, where human relationships counted for more than anything else. Not just my family, but everyone around me was musically inclined. At cousins’ and friends’ birthdays, guitars would invariably be brought out, while uncles and aunts played violins and mandolins and pianos. People turned to themselves for entertainment; not to mechanical sound systems which prevented conversation and communication. Besides music, one other thing I heard a lot of was laughter. People laughed easily, and at things one would find naïve today.

When was the first time you realized that you could sing? How did it feel like when such realisation dawned on you?

Funny thing is, I cannot remember ever not thinking of myself as a singer or musician. Since I was about 4, it was accepted and instilled in me that I was this kid who sang and played the harmonica, then the eukelele, then the banjo, and eventually, when I was big enough to hold one, the guitar. And frankly, I was not the only one. Many kids in Goa sang, and played one or several instruments. This was considered natural, as common an activity as playing football.

How did your journey as a musician begin? How much influence did the green green grass and deep blue sea of home have on you?

I first went up on stage when I was five, formed my first kids’ band [helped by my Dad of course] when I was ten, wrote my first song when I was fourteen. But all this as an amateur – I was never expected to turn a professional musician, but to follow a ‘respectable’ profession. I guess that’s why I got myself a degree in architecture.

I’m sure Goa, and the Portuguese/Latin music I grew up to, influenced me no end. But this influence is sub-conscious, something which just seeps unnoticed into everything I do.

What is Remo minus Goa…

Ah… but then again, what would I be without my years in Mumbai, in Paris and the rest of Europe? Most places I have lived in – and sometimes even visited for a month or so, such as Africa or Brazil or Maurtius – have tended to influence and mark me forever. But I’m always grateful that my foundation roots, before I discovered the rest of the country and the world, belong in Goa. I could not have asked for a better formation ground, specially the Goa that was, that I was privileged and lucky to grow up in.

King of Pop – what have you done to sustain the image of ‘Remo’… spike hair, beads and bindaas clothes…

Sustain? Image? That sounds like too much trouble!  I’ve worn bindaas clothes and beads and had freaky haircuts since I was in college, to my parents’ great distress… there was no reason to change myself after I became a little famous, was there?

You are not the regular rock star—no scandals, no publicity stunts, not many albums…but Remo still rules many a heart. Why?

Guess you’d have to interview some of my music listeners for that one. But I think that, in a country which glorifies lip-syncing actors and playback singers, some people know how to appreciate complete musicians; those who compose their own music and lyrics, who have an individual style of their own, who besides being pretty voices are also multi-instrumentalists and arrangers, and who have a certain ‘something’ on stage. At the risk of sounding pompous, I’ll say there are very few of us such musicians in India, and we have the appreciation of people who discern.

Can we have a glimpse into the private side of Remo? What were the emotions like when you had your firstborn?

Sometimes I think there is no difference between my public and private sides. I think I’ve laid all my thoughts and emotions bare for everyone to hear and view through my songs, often at the risk of compromising myself or embarrassing the people around me.

I think I’m a very good father, though of course you’d have to ask my sons that! But I read what my elder son said about me in an interview recently, and it brought tears to my eyes… He’d never said such wonderful things to me in person before …

My emotions when I saw both my sons at birth were like everyone else’s, I presume: I felt as though this miracle of life was happening for the very first time on earth!

Why do you maintain a distance from Bollywood in spite of hits like Jalwa, Humma Humma, Pyaar to hona hi…

I don’t maintain a distance from Bollywood, I just don’t embrace it too tight, I guess. I refuse to see it as the be-all and end-all of culture and showbiz, the way most of this country sees it. I see myself primarily as a composer and creator of my own albums, and I keep the occasional song I do for Bollywood just that: occasional. There’s a slogan which I’d love to engrave on the foreheads of the corporates, advertisers and media of this country: :”HELLO, THERE IS SOMETHING BEYOND BOLLYWOOD. AND IT IS CALLED LIFE.”

Are you averse to glamour and money? What kind of lifestyle do you lead? Are you brand conscious when it comes to the clothes you wear, the restaurants you dine in or the hotels you put up in?

I truly believe that being glamorous requires too much effort, and I’m too lazy for that. As far as money and lifestyle are concerned, I love beauty in simplicity, and sensuous comfort. I hate ostentation and pomp, in others as much as in myself – I find these cheap, in bad taste, something which any clown with money can buy.

Who competes with Remo today? Any new Indian singer/band you like?

I don’t know who competes with me, but I certainly don’t compete with anybody. I mean, if we each have our own style and original things to say, how can we compete with each other? People only compete when they’re trying to outdo one another at the same thing – say singers in the bhangra mould, the ghazal mould, or whatever mould.

Unfortunately, most Indian singers and bands I liked, which promised to shape the future of Indian pop, like Silk Route, Lucky Ali and Colonial Cousins, are near-extinct due to lack of continued backing from record companies and music channels, who are now only interested in promoting music which pays them big bucks: Bollywood soundtracks. The last ‘private albums’ I liked coming out of India were Rabbi’s and Kailash Kher’s – but unfortunately, Bollywood tries to recruit and harness anyone who creates something original, and that kills creativity, because Bollywood requires assembly-line production delivered on order. Maybe that’s why I could never turn full time Bollywood music director.

You’ve rocked the nation with Politicians don’t know to rock’n’roll during the Ayodhya demolition. Then there was Jalwa on drug addiction… Today we hear no such songs from you. Has the passion died? The fire snuffed out?

These songs which I wrote 20 years ago, on communalism and corruption and so on, hold perfectly good even today. So why should I keep repeating myself? I’ve moved on; two of my more recent albums were rather introspective, journeys of the soul and the mind: “Symphonic Chants” [containing the Gayatri Mantra and Om Jai Jagdish Hare], and “India Beyond”, tracks from which have been released in compilations in Europe and the USA. No, the passion and fire are very much there – they’re just not about the same old things, that’s all.

We’ve heard that President Kalam said, ‘Remo I am your fan’ when you went onstage to collect your Padmashree. Is it true? What did it feel like?

Yes, its true. It totally melted the official ice and made me break into a happy grin. His comment showed me what a great President he was, to make a small man like me feel at ease and comfortable at such a formal and potentially tense moment.

TO: THE DIRECTOR
DIRECTOR, ART & CULTURE
SHRAMA SHAKTI BHAVAN
PATTO
PANJIM
GOA 403 001

17^TH AUGUST 2007

Dear Sir,

Thank you for your letters dated 22^nd July and 3^rd August 2007 informing me that the Goa Government has ‘considered my achievement and contribution in the Cultural field at national level and has decided to felicitate me by presenting State Reward under the scheme “State Reward to the recipient of National and International Award”’, and for informing me that the reward consists of memento, shawl, citation and cash reward of Rs. 50,000/-.

On a personal level, I am extremely grateful to Mr. Digambar Kamat and the others who proposed and approved my name for this reward. However, as a son of Goa, I’m afraid I have the following to say.

I refuse this state award or reward as a sign of protest against the Government of Goa as well as the Opposition, which are both full of ministers and politicians who were involved in the large-scale attempted rape and sale of Goa through the infamous Regional Plan 2011, either actively or through their inaction; in protest against the Goa Government’s and the Opposition’s blatant corruption, communalism, their failure to curb and control garbage and plastic, traffic chaos, excessive immigration and construction, destruction of Goan nature and beauty, and their continued failure to provide us our two most basic needs and rights: good quality health and education.

I had the privilege of receiving the Padmashri Award from the hands of President Abdul Kalam, one of the most honest, upright, wise, qualified and dignified gentlemen in India. After him, receiving a reward from the Government of Goa, whose sadly incapable and largely uneducated ministers are nothing but lowly criminals, thieves, forgers and turn-coats on sale who in reality belong in Central Jail, would be an insult to Mr. Kalam, to the Padmashri Award itself, as well as to me.

I cannot understand the logic behind the Government of Goa [whichever the party in power] not ever recognizing or even acknowledging a Goan’s achievements at state level, and then rewarding him when he gains recognition at national level. This tardy, awkward attempt is akin to conferring a kindergarten certificate on someone who has already obtained a PhD.

I request you to kindly donate my cash reward of Rs. 50,000/- to the “Goa Bachchao Andolan”, as a contribution towards their valiant fight to save Goa from the Government of Goa.

Sincerely,

Remo Fernandes