Ali Azmat's Klashinfolk reviewed

Junoon, after delivering its last great hurrah in the shape of the brilliant Parvaaz (1999), operated no more than a sad caricature of its past glories. However, this hasn't stopped history from treating it as being perhaps Pakistan's most vital rock band ever.

Interestingly, it was former Junoon vocalist Ali Azmat's bitter departure from the band in 2005 that finally paved the way for him to realise the full potential of his obvious talents. In Junoon he was the immensely gifted vocalist while much of the songwriting was done by guitarist Salman Ahmed.

It was also Salman's worldview that evolved Junoon's social disposition; a journey which, between 1990 and 2005, saw the volatile band sprinting from being angry left-field marauders (Talaash [1993] and Inquilaab [1996]), to being lofty Sufi-Rock sages (Aazadi [1997];  Parvaaz [1999]), until 2001's Ishq and 2004's Deewar saw them ultimately losing steam and stumbling into becoming narcissistic (albeit unintentional) parodies of themselves.

Azmat stayed put as a mere vocalist, until finally discovering his penchant for snappy songwriting on Junoon's last release, Deewar. The three songs that he constructed also turned out to be the only ones worth a listen on the otherwise dreadful album.

The explosive Garaj Baras, driven by Salman Ahmed's archetypal balls-to-the-wall riffing, and the serene Tara Jala opened the floodgates for one to witness the more complex side of Azmat's talent. Eventually this talent came tumbling out on his debut album, the eclectic, intricate but highly underrated Social Circus (2006).

The inherent melancholy and the compositional dynamism of the album intriguingly betrayed the vocalist's otherwise extroverted disposition, and the album — though commercially underappreciated — did manage to bag a healthy cult following.

So in comes Klashinfolk, Azmat's follow-up to Social Circus. It will at once bag the attention of the more aesthetically attuned purveyors of post-modern political wit when they see the cover of the CD. The cover is a glaring montage, constructed like a Warholian pop-art take on old Soviet propaganda posters. We see words typographically depicting the Russian written language and images of a dismantled guitar besides a disassembled AK-47. A chand and sitara is placed inside a blazing sun and held by the yellow compass that became the symbol of the former East Germanys ruling Communist Party during the Cold War.

Ali appears in black & white, posing like a political demigod. This is typical post-modern humour, purposefully vague because in no way does it really represent a protest against steely, Stalinist dictatorships. On the contrary, it most probably is an irreverent and tongue-in-cheek reflection of Ali's self-confessed favorability for a strong, constructive and secular dictatorship.

The album kicks-off with Gallan. Sung in Punjabi, it spins in, exploding like a Rage Against The Machine rhythm section running over guitar squeals (ala Tom Morello), until it settles into a raving boys-having-a-blast mode.

<i>Then arrives what is perhaps one of the album's strongest offerings, Lay Sambhal. Returning to the many existentialist themes Azmat  explored on Social Circus, the lyrical structure of the song is both  innovative and intriguing. The overall composition discharges a  deeply melodic dose of urban melancholy, reminding one the  helplessness of the sinking human heart when it is stuck  between daylight and the night in the twilight of the evening.  This song is vintage post-Junoon Ali Azmat.</i>

Just as I feel it is not really to a girlfriend Ali is bemoaning the fallibility of words on Gullan, on Mera Khuda too Ali is not quite extolling a woman. Parading over an albeit conventional folk-pop composition, the vocals on Mera Khuda are as if Azmat is trying to come to terms with a personal god. Ironically, the weak composition here helps make room for the strong lyrics to come upfront.

Next up is Tanha Hai Kyun, a song evoking a desert-and-cactus feel in which Ali's lonesome protagonist roams looking for a way out. Not particularly a strong composition, it hangs there bagging for musical dynamism.

The missing dynamism, however, more than compensates the reggae-tinged Yeh Kya Hua, that is further fattened by an impressive guitar solo. A competent pop-rock ditty, but unfortunately not my cup of tea.

Following it is Nainan, the obligatory rock-meets-Eastern-classical offering. A compelling song, it draws the listener in with its dreamy but tense vibrations and longing vocals. Nainan gives way to the album's first straight-up rocker, Tera Mera. As the music gallops ahead, Azmat makes sure the lyrics remain reflective and the vocals don't hide any emotional vulnerabilities, pacing up well with the rapid compositional dynamics of the tune.

Then arrives what is perhaps one of the album's strongest offerings, Lay Sambhal. Returning to the many existentialist themes Azmat explored on Social Circus, the lyrical structure of the song is both innovative and intriguing. The overall composition discharges a deeply melodic dose of urban melancholy, reminding one the helplessness of the sinking human heart when it is stuck between daylight and the night in the twilight of the evening. This song is vintage post-Junoon Ali Azmat.

The existentialist tract is further explored with the equally powerful Shukria, on which the helplessness mutates into sardonic sulking. A foggy gloom haunts the song that is then taken to its enraged conclusion by a wonderfully seething guitar solo, invoking allusions to David Gilmour's furious playing on Pink Floyd's Pigs (Three of a Kind). Ali changes his style of vocals here, aptly shifting gears from the emotionally souring to the pessimistically glum.

The next song, Ay Mere Saathi, interestingly tries to do something with '60s swing jazz, but goes nowhere really and falls flat almost from the word go. The English number, You are, is reminiscent of SAP-era Alice in Chains, but I so wish the vocals were in Urdu as English vocals have always been Azmat's Achilles' heel.

The album winds-up with the climatic Sawal, a warning enquiry into the downbeat signs of the time. This is a commanding song, powered by excellent vocals, probing lyrics, ominous bass runs and an apocalyptic guitar lead.

Just as Social Circus, Klashinfolk too is not going to sell busloads of copies. But it has yet again exhibited the lasting quality Azmat's talents are made of, proving that the post-Junoon Ali Azmat is alive, kicking and still threatening to reveal the many more tales of musical intrigue, twists and turns he has up his sleeve.

Any self-respecting local rock fan should be dangling a copy of Klashinfolk. It may be loaded with a few empty cartridges, but most of it is armed with enough fire-power to keep you packed and headstrong exactly the way potent rock music should.