2019 — Madras Rockers

The problem? No venue would book them. “Too loud,” said the café in Besant Nagar. “Too political,” said the college fest coordinator (their song had the line “Minister’s son got a new SUV / We got a pothole and a broken TV” ). “Too… amateur,” said the pub in Nungambakkam, after they’d played a disastrous three-song set that ended when Anand’s snare stand collapsed into Ravi’s amp.

The day arrived. Karthik’s guitar strap broke; he tied it with a lungi cord. Surya’s voice cracked during soundcheck. Ravi showed up late because his bike got stuck behind a metro pillar construction. Anand had duct-taped his left cymbal. madras rockers 2019

The crowd didn’t clap. They stamped their feet on the concrete floor. The sound echoed like thunder over the Cooum. The problem

It was April. The hottest month. Their amplifier was a Frankenstein of borrowed parts and prayer. Their only fan was broken. But they had one song— "Namma Oru Pullingo" (We Are the Rowdies)—a three-chord anthem about borrowing your friend’s homework and falling in love at the local tea stall. Karthik’s guitar strap broke; he tied it with a lungi cord

Madras Rockers never made it big. They didn’t get a record deal or a Spotify playlist. By 2020, the pandemic scattered them: Karthik moved to Bengaluru for a coding job, Anand joined a corporate band playing wedding covers, Ravi became a voice actor for cartoons, and Surya started a podcast about Tamil cinema.

By the fourth song, “Coffee Kadai Blues,” the confused metalheads were headbanging. By the sixth, “Auto Raja,” a middle-aged uncle who’d come to complain about the noise was crying, remembering his own failed band from 1995. The stray dogs howled in perfect harmony.