Murali had no idea what reality was. His mom didn’t let him go to parties in his teens and so he rebelled – a child of the 60’s – with drugs and sex and music. His extended family’s males had all died fairly young, in their late 50’s, and he wanted a shot at longevity, so he eschewed the drugs, studied Macrobiotic diet and practiced Yoga. Unfortunately, none of the above helped.
He was simply decadent and destined for despair and death. His guitar heroes died young – Hendrix – or went insane – Syd Barrett – so he did have some role models to take after. As they say in California, “Whatever”…
So it took him a long time to get this album of songs out. He had the misfortune to trust a music pro to produce the record, who, when the instrumental tracks were finished, told him, “I’m not gonna produce your vocals”, and “you have a funny way of singing anyway”, etc. etc. yadda, yadda, blah, blah. And the producer who wasn’t went back to NYC with his tail between his legs.
Murali was left to his own devices and would be damned if he’d fail to finish the project, so he did his worst and then more of his worst and you have before you the result of his efforts and sweat and tears and loves and joys and madnesses. Anyway, you have a lucky 13 of them here.
He does hope you enjoy them enough to make him rich ‘cause he has a kid to put through school and a wife he wants to leave a nice inheritance. Yet, in the immortal words of Frank Vincent Zappa, “What, no commercial potential?” is probably also Murali’s epitaph.