I COULD always rely on great music to wash away the grime of the day. The riffs of the guitar reverberated through the darkened room, smoky vocals bringing familiar tunes to life over the chatter, the clink of glasses and loud laughter… those were the heady Friday nights with friends and sometimes, family.
We sang raucously to familiar songs; we danced to music and we tucked away the tough week we had behind us. We could always count on music back in the days. Worn finger pads pressed on guitar strings, seasoned musicians on keys and smiling singers welcomed us into the dim interior of the pub with all the warmth of old friends.
It wasn't about alcohol for most of us. It was about simply returning to the cosy comforts of your familiar pub where "everybody knew our names".
On any given night, the thriving, colourful entertainment lit up our streets with scores of musicians and singers who entertained us with songs, banter and even more music. Some we knew by name, others we didn't — but the music remained familiar, comforting even. And in those pubs, where the people of so many different races and languages would converge, a new language developed over time — the language of song.
Music of any kind is usually life-affirming: talking and thinking about it often has the same effect. This is a big part of how many of us are getting through the crisis.
Moreover, as the grim effects of the outbreak become clearer by the day, what we're listening to offers a comforting reminder of the world we left behind mere weeks ago.
But that's not an option anymore.
In a few short months, the Covid-19 pandemic has shut down bars, pubs, concerts and pushed famous names to the sidelines. More than that, it has pushed away and disrupted the lives of thousands of musicians whose names might never have appeared on marquees and newspapers.
Those great entertainers of our lonely nights, who played and sung those familiar melodies, are now slowly fading away, hanging up their instruments and walking away from their calling.
FOR THE LOVE OF MUSIC
But the decimation of music in our streets began long before Covid-19 took over our lives. Behind the smiles and music, our hugely underrated local talents were already struggling to eke out a living.
In our capital city known for its cultural diversity, cutting-edge arts offerings and abundance of famous touring music groups, bar musicians and bands tended to be either overlooked or taken for granted — even before the onset of a potentially deadly pandemic. And it has only gotten worse since.
"Pub musicians have always gotten the short end of the stick," shares Malik Abdullah.
The 54-year-old retiree had embarked on a musical career since 2015. Until the onset of the pandemic, Malik had been performing as a full-time solo keyboardist three days a week around the Klang Valley.
We're sitting at the central kitchen of AA Kitchen in Petaling Jaya, a catering business run by the husband-wife team and working musicians themselves, Amizan Ariffin and Kyra Neng.
The air of nostalgia runs deep in this little quiet place, located not far from the busy roads. Posters of Hendrix and other iconic musicians cover one wall, a Liverpool banner hangs over a little shelf by the modest kitchen, while old telephone models and other knick knacks from the past decorate the dimly lit hall where we sit, nursing glasses of ice-cold water.
"Majority were already struggling to make ends meet," he laments quietly. "There were fewer jobs to begin with before all of this, and now, we've been completely cancelled out."
For musicians, it's commonly described as a "portfolio career"; a career of multiple jobs — part-time or freelance work. Many jobs are based on short contracts or negotiated relationships where no long-term commitment is required. For most working musicians, the simple task of earning a decent living seems uphill.
"The majority of musicians I know have little or no savings, relying as we do on 'the gig', that magical event that comes into your life when someone pays you a fee to do what you've trained for, what you live for, what you love. We're lucky that we love it, at least," chips in freelance musician Vishnu Shakhti.
He smiles slightly, but frustration is clearly written on his face.
He pauses before continuing: "It's becoming increasingly obvious that talent doesn't seem to be enough to survive in this industry. The skill that musicians take years to hone and perfect could barely be compensated with stagnated wages, economic downturns and the lack of gigs. In reality, we needed to survive but it was increasingly getting tougher to do so."
LOCKDOWN ON MUSIC
With the pandemic, things have only gotten worse.
Back in March, when no one knew how long the effects of coronavirus would go on, musicians did. It was like an outbreak of war: every email was a cancellation or postponement to six months ahead, or even a full year.
Bars, weddings, corporate work — all gone. For working musicians, the crisis continues. The working world has fallen out from under them.
"We haven't worked since March. The day-to-day money we used to make has dried up very fast. By April and May, most of us were gasping for air, so to speak," shares Malik candidly.
Both Malik and his wife have been fielding a lot of frantic calls from musician friends begging for loans, advances or even food. "It's heartbreaking," he comments quietly.
It has been many months since they have received any form of income, with many of them feeling that they've been sidestepped by the government as live entertainment is still barred to date.
Most have put away their microphones and musical instruments to try their hand at other businesses. Many are in debt, and those waiting in hope for the restrictions to lift are in for a long uncomfortable ride into an uncertain future.
"Musicians are the least canny when it comes to finance. Most of them don't have a pension, sad to say," remarks Vishnu. "We're all seat of the pants, hand to mouth. We live that kind of existence. I really do worry about the people I know."
The frustration both men exhibits is palpable. This is a precarious time for musicians. Live performances, the main source of revenue for most artists, have been cancelled for the foreseeable future.
Musicians who are used to performing at pubs and venues around town every night are now stuck at home indefinitely, worried about their next gig, if not their next meal.
Everyone is struggling with uncertainty. For those with mental health issues, the stress can become unmanageable.
"We want our jobs back," says Vishnu bluntly.
When it was announced that businesses, restaurants and even pubs could reopen, a small but significant caveat within the detail got lost amid the national euphoria. For musicians, though, it was a thunderbolt. The three key words that stood out for them were: "No live music." Translation: their existence is banned.
"During the recovery MCO, busking was allowed until very recently. But we don't understand why live performers are still unable to return to work," says Vishnu.
The authorities, he says, should come up with standard operating procedures (SOPs) for entertainers to abide by.
Vishnu, who has been performing in the local pub scene for over two decades, adds that working musicians have been totally left behind as the nation continues to fight the onslaught of the latest wave while in the midst of trying to revive the economy.
"Pub and restaurants are willing to embrace the new norm of live entertainment with SOPs, but none has been forthcoming. In the meantime, we have no work!" he laments.
Circuit musicians have a stigma associated with the fact that they perform in establishments that serve alcohol. The unspoken truth is that entertainment has little to do with alcohol.
"We're entertainers and we get paid for what we do best — entertaining," asserts Vishnu.
The truth of the matter is if you take the music out, you're not going to curb the social ills of alcoholism. With education and better enforcement, people will have to start making educated choices about drinking excessively, but there's little reason to kill the music.
"The SOPs can be set to restrict close contact, and give a chance for musicians to ply their trade once more," he says. Sighing, he adds: "But it has been a 'no' from the get go."
HELPING HAND
During the MCO, local musicians desperately sold homemade food, masks and sanitisers, old sound equipment, and even second-hand pianos to make some money. Some dug up old family recipes and began plying a food business.
"Many of them have resorted to other forms of business to pay the bills," shares Malik, adding: "Most of them have turned to the food business. When I saw them come up with a great variety of delicious food, I thought why not lend them a hand?"
Together with musician friends, Malik and his wife set up a social enterprise and initiated the BRADA community programme.
Together, they embarked on a plan to translate the efforts by these musicians into a feasible career that would tide them during this season.
Food bazaars were organised, giving musicians a platform to sell their home-cooked food and other wares. But with the onset of the recent lockdown, these activities have grounded to a halt.
"With the latest wave of the virus, we've had to return to the drawing board to figure out other ways to help them," says Malik.
BRADA, he continues, is in the midst of crowd-funding to build an e-commerce site for musicians to promote and sell their products and services minus the high commission and services charges that would render their trade uncompetitive.
"We want our musicians to be self-sustaining and give them a fighting chance to help themselves rather than relying on handouts or waiting for the next gig that's not in sight," he explains, adding that the social enterprise is especially targeting single parents, the older musicians, and those who are physically challenged.
The resilience to survive is promising, he points out with pride. "They've been surprisingly stoic during this season. Many just want to be independent again. While their hearts are forever set on music, most of them are pragmatic enough to turn to other trades to make ends meet. That's admirable."
In the meantime, the music will be missed — by those who play them and more so, by those who long to see these musicians back on stage again.
Who hasn't missed the sound of people out and about, revelling in society, culture and the arts? Whether we're talking about the sound of a band spilling out onto a night-time street, or the sound of friends meeting before a concert? Our society is vibrant in large part because it's infused with the work of these musicians.
As things return to normal, remember there are people out there for whom normal can't return. If I was going to pick a name for a new band right now, I'd pick Nutav, an acronym for "Not Until There's a Vaccine". That's the reality for circuit musicians, probably the single profession in society on ice until further notice.
As Vishnu points out, they miss playing to their audiences. But they can't until live music can resume in bars and venues. Musicians will need support long after the official crisis is over. Otherwise we risk losing the very people who make us lose ourselves in music.
Until then, people who survive by entertaining crowds are going to need help. In these dark days, spare some change, if you can, for your local performing artist. Urge your elected representatives to remember working musicians and other gig workers in any relief plan they devise.
When people once again can meet in public without fear of spreading illness, you'll want to hear your favourite songs. One day, you'll need the singer who sang them to you. But today, the singer needs you.
To contribute towards BRADA's e-commerce initiative, go to www.sedunia.me/campaigns/brada-ecommerce-initiative-in-aid-of-malaysian-....