Ravi Shankar died in December, and Interplanetary Music neglected to memorialize him. There's a very good reason for this, which is that I am not that familiar with his music beyond his appearances at Woodstock and Monterey Pop. I recently decided to atone for my neglect, and whaddayaknow but the very first album I chose to listen to was a straight muthafuckin' fucking killer. Chants of India, produced by the Mr. Bangladesh-slummin' "Quiet Beatle" George himself (my first girlfriend, who initiated me into the endless mystery of the Beatles, was a Georgie-girl, apparently attracted to such taciturn spirituality, making me wonder what she was doing with a wiseass atheist (a John) like me (the hair, clearly)), is surprisingly minimal, given Shankar's reputuation as a shredding virtuoso, as well as the variety of instruments employed here. In fine, this album has given me a reason to live for the past few days. Take that as a recommendation.
It sounds like like life. It sounds like death. It sounds like some incomprehensible third thing. Oh India, please whisper your wisdom into my ear so that I may breathe it out of my mouth.