When I think of old Bengaluru, I see an image: Loy Machado walking in and out of Cubbon Park with a guitar and a couple of friends. That’s how music lived then — not on stages alone, but in parks, bandstands and everyday life. Sundays meant the music strip, the rocks behind Queen Victoria, sometimes a bandstand. People gathered not for spectacle, but for connection. Music was like food — it had to be instant, live. Even classical music only revealed itself fully in the moment. I grew up in the 1970s, a time shaped by waiting. New music was anticipated, discussed, shared. Listening wasn’t background noise; it was participation. The nights were intense too. I remember the all-night shows in 1976 — bands playing till morning, people dancing till three, then walking home because there was no late-night transport. Bengaluru was a little big village, but its music travelled far. Nothing captures that spirit better than the Rolling Stones concert here in 2003. Twenty-five thousand people turned up. Then the rain came — relentless. But everyone danced through it. Even Keith Richards and Mick Jagger were soaked by the end. That night, the city stayed present, together, listening. Today, something has shifted. Not talent — attention. Phones get in the way. People are physically there, mentally elsewhere. When that happens, the circuit doesn’t complete. Music needs a listener, even if it’s just one. Right now, there’s a shortage of audience. Parks that once hosted jam sessions now allow little beyond walking loops. Still, every Sunday morning at Sankey Tank, a few of us meet to sing. The group hasn’t grown, but the intent remains — music as a shared act, not content. Once upon a time, this city knew how to listen. Sometimes, it even danced through the rain to prove it.
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‘ Some details of this article were extracted from the following source timesofindia.indiatimes.com ’
