Where words fail, music speaks.
– Hans Christian Andersen, Danish author
When most people meet me, they are often surprised to learn that beneath my firm manner beats the heart of an ardent music enthusiast. Apart from my mother and late father, very few have truly known the depth of my passion for music.
To me, music is a universal thread that binds us together. In the spirit of Shakespeare’s famous line from Twelfth Night, “If music be the food of love, play on”, I offer a personal variation: If music be the food of unity, play on.
For as long as I can remember, music has been an inseparable part of my journey. My fascination began in early childhood, somewhere around the tender age of seven. I still recall those evenings in the early 60s when our massive radiogram, a heavy piece of wooden music cabinet, would fill the house with Indian and English music.
That was long before Spotify, Apple Music, or YouTube brought the world’s music to our palms. Back then, discovering new sounds meant saving up every sen of pocket money to buy long-play or short-play records, which felt like holding pure treasure.
Some of my earliest musical memories were shaped by a band that went on to change everything: The Beatles. This British quartet of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr revolutionised what popular music could be. I still remember listening to A Hard Day’s Night and Let It Be. These songs, despite the decades, have never lost their ability to stir something deep inside me.
But it wasn’t only the Beatles. As I grew older, my curiosity expanded in all directions. I found myself captivated by the blues-inflected rock and roll of The Rolling Stones, especially their electrifying anthem (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction, and Miss You.
Soon, I was diving headlong into a musical ocean, discovering bands that spanned genres, continents, and generations: Led Zeppelin with their thunderous Kashmir; Pink Floyd’s mind-expanding Sorrow; Queen’s operatic We Will Rock You; Santana’s fiery guitar in Black Magic Woman (my mom disliked it whenever I played this song, and would threaten to smash the long play to bits); and the silky harmonies of the Eagles in Hotel California.
By the time I reached my teenage years, I was spending my allowance on records by Simon & Garfunkel, The Who, Fleetwood Mac, the Australian rock band AC/DC (I would switch to AC/DC’s Highway to Hell whenever mom threw a fit over the Santana music), and even the Beach Boys, whose sun-drenched anthems like California Girls made me fantasise walking with bikini-clad SYTs (sweet young things) on the beaches.
I was, quite simply, smitten with music in all its forms: rock, pop, soul, funk, romantic ballads, and even the atmospheric sounds of Kitaro. Yet among this vast landscape of musical heroes, there was one band that stood above all the rest; one whose thunderous sound and raw intensity ignited a lifelong love affair: Deep Purple.
Formed in London in 1968, Deep Purple quickly established themselves as pioneers of heavy metal and modern hard rock. Their early line-up of vocalist Rod Evans, guitarist Ritchie Blackmore, bassist Nick Simper, keyboardist Jon Lord, and drummer Ian Paice created a sound that felt at once primal and sophisticated.
They were a band that could move effortlessly from the haunting strains of Soldier of Fortune to the riff-driven juggernaut that was Smoke on the Water (for readers who wish to know the true meaning behind this song, please google up; sorry, I don’t have enough space here to explain).
When they embarked on their first Asian tour in 1972, culminating in the now-legendary live album Made in Japan, I was a schoolboy in Form Two. Even though I could only experience those shows through scratchy bootleg short-play records and magazine clippings, I knew I was witnessing history from afar. By the time they made a stop in Jakarta in 1975, Deep Purple had already achieved near-mythical status in my mind.
So you can imagine my thrill when, many years later, the band announced their first performance in Malaysia. On May 1, 1999, I finally realised a dream I’d nurtured for decades: watching Deep Purple live in concert at Shah Alam Stadium. I still remember the electric anticipation that crackled through the 20,000-strong crowd that night. Fans, like me, had waited a lifetime for this moment.
I will never forget the look on my family’s faces when I told them I was travelling all the way to Kuala Lumpur for the show. Their reaction was immediate and unanimous: “OMG! It’s a mortal sin to spend so much! We could have paid for the down payment on a brand new Proton Wira Aeroback! Are you OK? Gila-ah, you?”
And perhaps they were right! By any reasonable measure, it was a little mad. But I have never regretted it for a second. From the opening chords to the final encore, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be. That night, as the stadium shook to the sound of Highway Star, I felt every sacrifice melt away, replaced by pure exhilaration.
That experience cemented my lifelong connection not only to Deep Purple but to a whole generation of musicians who dared to push boundaries. With me in Shah Alam was my childhood friend Satwant Singh, another true-blue fan who later emigrated to Melbourne.
Together, we had spent countless hours debating which version of Smoke on the Water was definitive, or whether Bad Company’s Run With The Packcould hold its own against the swagger of The Jimi Hendrix Experience (which featured the immensely talented James Marshall ‘Jimi’ Hendrix, an American singer-songwriter and musician widely regarded as one of the greatest and most influential guitarists of all time).
Looking back, I realise music has been more than a hobby. It has been a constant companion, a teacher, and at times, a refuge. Whether I was listening to The Wynners’ bright Cantonese pop songs like L-O-V-E Love and Sha La La La, or the sentimental melodies of Alleycats’ Andainya Aku Pergi Dulu and Hingga Akhir Nanti still tug at my heart. It was always about connection. Connection to an emotion, a memory, a place in time.
These days, it is almost strange how far music has come. The heavy radiograms and precious long plays have given way to invisible streaming services. Today, I can summon Santana’s Maria Maria, The Beatles’ Let It Be, or Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust with a tap on my phone. A song that once took me weeks to hunt down in a record shop is now just a click away.
While some lament the decline of the tactile experience, no more cover art to pore over, no liner notes to decipher, I see it as a blessing. Digital platforms have made it easier than ever to explore every corner of the musical universe. They have made the impossible accessible.
And yet, in my heart, I still carry the romance of those early days when you had to work to find a song, and owning an album meant something profound.
Even now, as I eagerly anticipate the arrival of Air Supply in Kuching this September, celebrating their 50th anniversary with timeless ballads like Making Love Out of Nothing at All and Having You Near Me, I feel like that same wide-eyed boy of seven. The thrill never fades. Whether it’s the raw power of Deep Purple, the lyrical grace of Simon & Garfunkel, or the kaleidoscopic arrangements of Abba, music remains my most enduring passion.
In a world that often feels divided, music has always reminded me that beauty knows no borders. It doesn’t matter if the notes are strummed on an Orang Ulu sape, Indian sitar, or a dusty old piano. A good song is universal. It transcends culture, language, and time.
If there is one thing I hope readers will take away from my story, it’s this: never be ashamed of what moves your soul. Whether it’s a pop melody or a heavy metal anthem, if it speaks to you, embrace it.
For me, music is, and will always be, a lifelong love affair that keeps me feeling young, curious, and wonderfully alive.
And rest assured; when the first notes ring out at the Air Supply concert this September, I will be right there, just as I was at Shah Alam, all those years ago; ready to lose myself in the music once more. Only this time, my family would not question me if I decided to spend a small fortune on the priciest entrance ticket.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at rajlira@gmail.com
