Rail memories

I came across two old photographs of the Butterworth railway station platform that were taken before the railway service was upgraded and electrified. They had that slightly faded, unhurried look and I found myself lingering over them longer than I expected. It brought back some vivid memories of the nights when I used to catch the train from that very platform.

In the 1970s when I was still living on the island and needed to travel to-and-from Kuala Lumpur, this was part of the routine. I would buy my ticket earlier from Howe Cheang Dispensary along Penang Road, then made my way across by ferry to Butterworth. From the terminal, it was a short walk to the station, perhaps a hundred metres or so, where rail passengers would wait for the collapsible grille gate to open. A railway staff member would check the tickets and let us through.

Train services were sparse in those days. From what I remember, there were maybe two, at most three, a day: a morning mail train, a night express train and occasionally a railcar service in the afternoon. Because there were so few services, the morning and night trains were long, easily 20 or 30 carriages by my estimation, and pulled by a diesel engine. Walking from one end to the other could feel like a journey in itself.

Travel was not quite as convenient as it is now. Luggage didn’t come with wheels, so every bag was carried by hand, often over quite a distance just to find the coach. The night mail offered second-class berths, but third-class passengers had to make do with upright seats. These were unnumbered, taken on a first-come, first-served basis. Tickets were often oversold, and during the run-up to national holidays, it could turn into a scramble. Those who were late, or simply unlucky, ended up sitting or trying to sleep along the passageways, or at the vestibules at either end of the carriage, right by the open exits.

Between 1973 and 1976, when I was studying in Kuala Lumpur, these journeys became a regular part of life. I still remember one trip just before Chinese New Year when I had no choice but to settle into the vestibule. As it turned out, I was sharing that cramped space with a woman who, to my surprise, was also an Old Free but a year my junior. We struck up a conversation, and what could have been a long, uncomfortable 10-hour ride passed rather more easily than expected.

Every now and then, I would opt for something different: the newspaper vans. In those days, freshly printed newspapers from Kuala Lumpur were sent north and south overnight in vans, and for a small fee, anyone could hitch a ride. We would gather at a designated spot in the city, usually around two o'clock in the morning and waited for the vans to arrive. There would be a few others like me, and we would climb into the back, settling ourselves on stacks of newspapers.

The vans would head north, stopping along the way to drop off bundles, each stop briefly interrupting whatever sleep we managed. Looking back, it sounded rather precarious, but at the time, none of that mattered or even crossed our minds. There were no worries about accidents, no thoughts about insurance or safety. It was simply a cheaper way to travel, and more than that, it felt like an adventure. Those, indeed, were the days....

ADDENDUM: How can I leave these rail memories without mentioning one other thing that shaped those journeys? The single track. Before electrification, there was only one line running north to south, shared by everything, passenger trains and goods trains alike. It meant that timing was never entirely in our own hands.

The Ipoh railway station was the key point. That was where the northbound and southbound trains had to meet and pass. Although Ipoh sat roughly halfway between Butterworth and Kuala Lumpur, the stretch southwards was actually longer, so the train from Butterworth would almost always be the one waiting. And waiting it did. Delays were part of the system, and it wasn’t unusual to be at the Ipoh station for an hour or more while everyone waited for the other train to arrive.

On a journey that already took close to nine hours, that stop could feel longer than it really was, especially at night if sleep didn’t come easily. You lay there in the second-class berth, half-aware of the stillness, wondering what time you would finally reach Kuala Lumpur, or back in Butterworth. If it was the return journey, there was always that worry at the back of the mind whether I’d make it home at a reasonable hour, perhaps even catch the family by surprise. There was a certain kind of boredom in that semi-darkness. And just when the mind had drifted far enough for sleep to take over, there would sometimes be that sudden, unmistakable jerk of the carriage, the whistle unheard, as the train eased back into motion. But more often, it was quiet and smooth, the movement returning almost unnoticed, and it was the unsteady rhythm of the carriage, the soft clacking of wheels on the rails, that told me the journey had resumed.

It was a long chain of small uncertainties, and yet that was simply how travel was in those days. Looking back now, what I remember most is that mixture of anxiety and anticipation, the slow approach towards home after being away for weeks or months, and the sense that every delay, every pause along the way, only made the arrival feel that much more satisfying.

Story of a tyrannical father

I’ve noticed over the years that films critics dismiss can sometimes be received quite differently by ordinary audiences. That thought came to mind after I finished Michael, the latest biopic that’s been drawing audiences worldwide. It hasn't exactly been warmly received by critics who think they know best, but I found the film engaging, not least because of the music. At the same time, what lingered most wasn’t just the songs or the spectacle, but the shadow of a father hanging over the entire story.

A big part of why the film worked was Jaafar Jackson. Playing his uncle, Michael Jackson, couldn’t have been easy, but he carried it off with real conviction. It was not just the look or the voice, it was the movement. The moonwalk, the toe balancing, the whole physical language was there. But what made it more than imitation was the way he showed Michael reacting to pressure, especially from his father.

That brings me to Colman Domingo as Joe Jackson. The film leant into the idea of Joe as a tyrannical figure, someone who governed through fear, control and an unyielding belief that greatness must be forced into existence. Domingo played him with a tight, contained menace, and I can well believe he’ll be in the running for Best Supporting Actor when awards season comes around.

What gave the film its backbone was that relationship. Everything seemed to flow from it. Joe drove the boys relentlessly, convinced he was pulling them out of a life that would otherwise swallow them. And in a way, he was right. But the cost was written all over Michael. The film kept returning to that tension, not in big dramatic bursts but in small moments. A look, a hesitation, a silence. Even at the height of his fame, Michael was still trying to step out from under his father’s grip. When Michael finally began to assert himself, it didn’t feel like triumph so much as release. Even then, his father's shadow did not quite disappear immediately. It was a slow and uneasy separation.

Around that central thread, the film played the hits, and they did their job. The familiar songs lifted the energy whenever they came in, and like that other big biopic, Bohemian Rhapsody, this was something that would really benefit from being heard on a big screen. The sound fills the space in a way that a smaller setup just can’t quite match.

But there were gaps. The other Jackson siblings, especially the sisters, felt pushed into the background. And the film noticeably sidestepped the more troubling controversies that followed Michael later in life. I could feel a certain smoothing over, a decision to keep the story within safer boundaries.

Even so, taken on its own terms, I found it more absorbing than I expected. It may not tell the whole story, but it told one part of it clearly enough: the making of a superstar under the hand of a father who believed that love meant control, and that success justified the cost. And by the end, that’s the part that lingered.

Asian chess players

I suppose I wasn’t the only one who felt energised when Javokhir Sindarov emerged as the Challenger for this year’s world championship match. It will be one match worth following, once FIDE finally gets around to confirming the dates and venue for Gukesh vs Sindarov.

In the meantime, FIDE has put out its May 2026 rating list. They do this at the start of every month, and I still find myself checking it out of habit just to see how things have shifted. Of course, for the top players, the real movement happens on the live rating list during tournaments, where every game nudges the numbers up or down almost immediately. On the other hand, the monthly list is more like a snapshot, something a bit more static.

Out of curiosity, I pulled out the top 20 and put them into a table. FIDE keeps things pretty bare, just the essentials. But I added an extra column of my own, noting down what I could about each player’s background. Nothing official, just something I thought might be interesting to look at.

What struck me, more than I expected, was the pattern that emerged. Thirteen out of the 20, that's 65 percent, have at least one parent of Asian background. Some represent Asian chess federations, others don’t, but the roots are there. Undeniably there. It’s not something that jumps out when looking at a standard rating list, but once I saw it, I couldn’t quite unsee it.

Maybe it doesn’t change anything in a practical sense. Games are still decided over the board, and playing strength is what matters. But I do find myself looking at the list a little differently now. Not just as a ranking of players, but as a reflection of how wide the game has spread at the top. Europe used to be the centre of chess, but Asia has more or less caught up, and this list seems to say exactly that.

The girl from Ipanema

Every now and then I come across a significant album that I need to talk about. Getz/Gilberto is one of those. I’ve known it for years but coming back to it recently, I found myself wondering about how it came together. Before this album came out, Stan Getz was already circling around the Jazz Samba sound, thanks to Charlie Byrd who had brought back records from Brazil. So when Getz finally got together in the studio  with João Gilberto and Antônio Carlos Jobim in 1963, it wasn’t just another session. João’s guitar had that soft, almost stuttering pulse that didn’t push. Jobim’s writing held everything together without drawing attention to itself. And Getz was somehow finding a way to fit in.

The whole situation was quite funny in a way. Getz and João didn’t speak the same language and Jobim had to translate, not just words but intentions. João, from what I’ve read, was particular about everything: the phrasing, the space, the balance. Getz came from a different world altogether. And yet when I listen to the album, none of that friction really showed. If anything, it felt as though everyone was holding back just enough to let the music breathe.

Then there’s Astrud Gilberto. I’ve heard The Girl from Ipanema more times than I can count, but it still reverberated every time I hear it again. There’s nothing showy about her voice. It was almost hesitant, as if she was feeling her way through the song. And knowing she wasn’t even meant to be the singer, that she just stepped in because she could handle the English lyrics, made it all the more remarkable. That slightly detached, untrained sound was exactly what the song needed. 

I also find myself thinking about the small decisions that shaped the record. The producer trimmed João’s Portuguese vocal for the 45-inch single and pushed Astrud’s lines forward. From a listener’s point of view, it worked. From João’s, probably less so. He wasn’t entirely happy with how things were handled, and in the background, things between him and Astrud weren’t exactly steady either. But that’s the nature of the music industry. What we hear is often the result of compromise.

Sonically, the album still holds up today. It doesn’t sound dated. If anything, it sounds cleaner than a lot of what came after. Very little reverb, everything close and direct. On the early stereo pressings, the separation was wide with sax on one side and guitar and voice on the other. It gave the music space. 

Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to either the record or the compact disc. There’s this sense of restraint running through the whole album, nobody trying to dominate, nobody in a hurry. The music just unfolding at its own pace. I don’t think the people in that studio fully knew what they had at the time. These things are usually clearer in hindsight. But listening to it now, with all the stories behind it, this was one of those moments where everything lined up just right.

I also have this compact disc, Getz/Gilberto #2, recorded live at Carnegie Hall on 9 October 1964. This should have been a perfect concert with Stan Getz and João Gilberto riding high after Getz/Gilberto, and appearing together at Carnegie Hall with Astrud Gilberto who was now a star. But the occasion was anything but perfect. 

First, Getz came on with his quartet filling the hall confidently with his music. Then João followed, and the whole mood shifted. Just his voice and guitar, sounding soft and almost fragile. A complete contrast. A concert in two acts. It felt like they were not really sharing the same evening. The more I listened, the more I noticed the tension. João’s idea of bossa nova was always about restraint. Getz played with more presence. Side by side, the contrast was sharp.

I’ve read about the arguments over sound during rehearsals, João wanting the drums muffled while Getz wanting something that would carry in a hall that size. Listening now, I can almost hear that disagreement in the music itself. Even when they finally come together at the end, it felt more like an obligation to the audience than a natural meeting between collaborators. 

And then there’s Astrud, somewhere in the middle of all this. By then she wasn’t just the accidental singer anymore. She was part of the sound and part of the connection between the two men. Not long after that concert, João and Astrud divorced. Once she was gone, it was hard to imagine how the two men could have kept going in any meaningful way. And when I go back to that Carnegie Hall album now, it felt less like a reunion and more like the last time all the three pieces were still in the same room, even if they were already pulling apart.

Xuanzang's Silk Road journey

Re-reading Sally Hovey Wriggin's The Silk Road Journey with Xuanzang after coming back from Nepal and India last November felt a bit different for me. It just wasn't history anymore. Some of the places mentioned in the book had already been treaded by my feet.

The journey of Xuanzang is usually told as something vast and almost unreal. Sixteen years of deserts, mountains, bandits, kings and monasteries. But when I’ve been to places like Lumbini or walked through the ruins of Nalanda University, the story shrinks a little not in importance, but in distance. I start to see that this wasn’t some abstract pilgrimage. It happened on real ground, the same ground that I’ve just been on.

Wriggins made a good job of making that connection. She took Xuanzang’s old records and lined them up with the modern map, so I could follow him step by step. And when he moved through Kapilavastu into Lumbini, it suddenly felt familiar. When I was there, the place had this quiet serenity about it. Xuanzang saw something similar, though in his time many monasteries were already in decline, half-abandoned and fading. 

From Lumbini, he went on to the other key sites, places that now formed the standard Buddhist circuit. Sarnath, Nalanda and eventually Bodh Gaya. When I visited Nalanda, what struck me was the scale of the ruins. I had walked along those long brick foundations and tried to imagine thousands of monks living and studying there. Xuanzang didn’t have to imagine it. He saw it at its peak, with thousands of scholars in residence, studying everything from logic to language to philosophy. 

What I also realised after my trip, was how observant he was. He wasn’t just ticking off holy sites. He was noticing details, how many monasteries were active, how many were abandoned, what people believed, how they lived. Even his route through what is now southern Nepal, into northern India, matched quite closely with what we now called the Buddhist pilgrimage trail. He wasn’t following a travel guidebook. In a way, he was writing the first one.

And then there’s Nalanda again, which kept coming back as the centre theme of his story. Not just a stop, but a place where he stayed, studied, argued and learned. We can stand there today among the ruins and still get a faint sense of that intellectual energy. It’s not hard to imagine why he remained there for years, working and going deep into the texts he had come all that way to find.

What I found myself thinking, re-reading Wriggins after the trip, was how much of Xuanzang’s journey was about persistence. The distances were one thing but even at the key sites, he was often arriving at places already in decline, trying to piece together what remained. It was not so different from what we saw today. The stones are still there, the outlines are still there, but I have to do a bit of work to imagine the rest.

By the time he made it back to China with his load of texts, the journey had already done its real work. Not just collecting manuscripts, but connecting places, ideas, traditions. Reading about it after having been to some of those places myself, it no longer felt like a distant legend. Everything felt real and almost within reach.

And that, I think, is what Wriggins got right. She brought Xuanzang down from the pedestal a bit, not to diminish him, but to place him back on the road. The same road that still runs through Lumbini, Nalanda, Bodh Gaya and the rest.

To read about my experience on the Buddhist trail last year, click here.

Long meeting

It’s been a long time since I sat through a proper long-winded annual general meeting. The last one I can remember was sometime in the 1990s when one of The Old Frees' Association AGMs dragged right through lunch and only wrapped up around 3pm. That one started at 10 in the morning and felt like a marathon back then. Yesterday’s made that look almost brisk.

The OFA AGM started more or less on time, but by the time I got up and left at 4.15pm, it was still going. The main reason, of course, was the elections. This year wasn’t the usual quiet affair. There was a serious, organised challenge for nine of the 11 Management Committee seats. The challengers called themselves the Fidelis Team, and they didn’t just turn up, they came ready to contest.

More than that, they managed to stir something. Members turned up in numbers that were not often seen. The newly renovated multi-purpose hall was packed, 238 voting members, which must be close to a record. Could feel the energy in the room, though it wasn’t always clear which way it was leaning. Questions came thick and fast, some of them quite uncomfortable, and the committee had to work hard for their answers. At certain points, I genuinely couldn’t tell whether the floor was swinging towards the incumbents or the challengers.

Running alongside all this was another flashpoint. The management committee had tabled five resolutions to amend the OFA Constitution or introduce a new project, one of them calling for the establishment of a private English school. They sounded straight-forward on paper, but on the day, it didn’t quite square with the members. Four of the resolutions were either withdrawn by the committee or firmly rejected by the floor. The one that did go to a vote couldn’t clear the two-thirds majority required, so that fell through as well. In the end, all five went nowhere, which probably added to the sense that the meeting was pulling in different directions at once.

When time came to vote for the new management committee, things slowed to a crawl. Ballot papers didn’t just get handed out, either the members' names or membership numbers, or both, were called out one by one. This process took ages. People milled around, chatted, drifted in and out. Lunch came and went, and counting started somewhere else in the building while we waited.

After the break, the hall was noticeably thinner. Maybe a quarter of the members came back, and even then, people gradually slipped away when it became obvious the results weren’t coming anytime soon. Word filtered back that the voting was extremely close; close enough to require recounts to keep both sides satisfied.

By then, I’d had enough. Six hours had passed since the chairman called the meeting to order, and it didn’t feel like the end was anywhere in sight. At 4.15pm, I joined the silent, trickling stream heading for the exit. It was long enough for me. More than long enough, actually.

And now that the election results are finally known, there’s not much point dwelling on who backed which side. It was clearly a close contest, and the turnout showed that members do care about where the OFA is heading. That’s a good thing.

What matters now is what happens next. Both sides need to close ranks and get on with the job. Many of the issues raised during the meeting aren’t going away, and neither are the expectations that came with such a strong turnout. If anything, the pressure is now on the new committee to show they can work together, settle the noise, and make steady, practical progress. No grand gestures needed. Just get the job done properly.

UPDATE: Oops, in my haste I forgot to mention the results. Alex Tan Hee Aik retained his President's position by beating Lim Wee Seong by a healthy margin which means to say that the members weren't totally convinced about the changes he proposed to make to the OFA. Daniel Ho also retained his Vice-President's position ahead of Allen Choong. However, Shannon Ong lost out to Ananth a/l Balakrishnan for the other Vice-President's post. The new Secretary is Low Han Boon who deposed Henry Ooi, Darvind a/l Kalimuthu beat Ivan Teoh to retain the Treasurer's position, Louis Loo is the new Indoor Games Chairman, Sharil bin Abdul Shukor the new Communications Chairman, Jarrod Yeoh the new Social Activities Chairman and Andrew Tan the new Membership* Chairman. Lukkman Hakim and Ezuan Ghazali sailed through unopposed as the Sports Chairman and Library Chairman** respectively. 

Now that the dust has settled and I see that the new management committee comprises people from both teams, my wish is for all of them to close ranks and work together for The Old Frees' Association. At the end of the day, we are one family. In this respect, I shall want to borrow the motto of the World Chess Federation to emphasise this: Gens Una Summus.

* Membership, Human Resource Development and Safety & Security
** Library, Archives and OFA Sesquicentenary Education Fund

Second heritage listing

I came across a bit of news the other day. It was one of those routine-looking reports that one almost scrolls past. And then, I did a bit of a double take when I saw Penang Free School listed among the sites proposed for gazettement as state heritage.

Now, wait a minute. Hasn’t the school already been recognised at the national level? I had it in my head that this had been settled some years ago, and sure enough, it had, in 2018. So for a moment it felt like one of those small bureaucratic curiosities. Why do the same thing twice?

The news report itself was straightforward. Fifteen sites across Penang, on the island and mainland, a mixture of religious buildings, institutions and places with some historical weight behind them. Familiar names cropped up such as Fort Cornwallis, St George’s Church, Leong San Tong Khoo Kongsi. These are the usual landmarks that one automatically associates with the island’s past. Seen in that company, Penang Free School didn’t look out of place at all. If anything, the school belongs in that same conversation.

Still, the question needs to be answered. Why look at Penang Free School twice? If it’s already a national heritage site, what’s the point of a second listing?

I don’t have a definitive answer, but I suspect it comes down to control. National recognition marks Penang Free School as something important to the country as a whole. But the day-to-day realities of land, planning and enforcement tend to sit closer to home. By bringing the school under the Penang State Heritage Enactment 2011, I suspect the state government is making sure that if anything needs to be preserved, altered or protected, the school doesn’t have to look too far for the authority to do so.

It’s a bit of a belt and braces approach. The first layer of protection is already there, and this simply adds another. Both layers complementing each other. A place like Penang Free School isn’t a monument in the usual sense. It is a living institution with classrooms, students, repairs to be made and the occasional need to adapt. And that's where, I suspect, the state recognition comes in to provide a faster response where national intervention may take time, if it comes at all. Preservation is one thing; standing still is another.

What I found more interesting, though, was the fact that this wasn’t a one-off move. The school is part of a wider sweep. There are 15 sites in all, stretching from the island to the mainland, which suggests a certain intent to draw a clearer boundary around what Penang considers worth keeping, not just for visitors or for show, but for itself. 

In the end, maybe it comes down to instinct. Places like this have been around long enough to outlast fashions and policies, but not necessarily neglect or indifference. If putting an extra layer of protection helps to guard against that, then so be it. And with something like Penang Free School, you can see why no one is inclined to take chances.

The father of modern Indian chess

The brother and sister in this picture are instantly recognisable to most chess players everywhere but not the senior gentleman seated between them. But obviously, Praggnanandhaa and Vaishali both hold him in high esteem. I was surprised to see him in this picture and actually more delighted to know that Manuel Aaron is still living in Madras. For a while, after he had played in the Penang leg of the first Asian grandmaster chess circuit in 1978, we had kept in touch for some years before ultimately losing contact.

Manuel Aaron is India’s first International Master, a nine-time national champion and one of the key figures who turned Indian chess from a scattered mix of local variants into the modern game played today. Born on 30 December 1935 in Toungoo, Burma, to Indian parents, Aaron grew up in Tamil Nadu after his family returned during the Second World War. He was largely self-taught as a kid, at a time when coaching barely existed, and later went on to complete a Science degree at Allahabad University.

By the late 1950s he was already the dominant force in Indian chess. He won the Indian National Championship nine times between 1959 and 1981, including a run of five straight titles from 1969 to 1973. He also took the Tamil Nadu State Championship eleven times between 1957 and 1982, and helped to establish the state as a lasting centre of strength in Indian chess.

His big international breakthrough came in 1961 when he won both the West Asian Zonal and the Asian-Australian Zonal. That earned him the International Master title, making him the first Indian to receive a FIDE title. The same year he became the first chess player to win the Arjuna Award which was India’s top sporting honour.

Qualifying for the 1962 Stockholm Interzonal was a huge moment. He finished last, but still pulled off wins against top grandmasters Lajos Portisch and Wolfgang Uhlmann; these were results that are still talked about as some of the biggest upsets in Indian chess. Aaron represented India in three Chess Olympiads (1960, 1962 and 1964), twice as captain. His win over former World Champion Max Euwe at Leipzig 1960 remained a landmark result.

Outside competition, his impact was just as significant. Until the 1960s, many Indians were still playing regional versions of chess with different rules. Aaron pushed for international standards, encouraged serious study of openings and endgames, and helped build the structure the game needed. He founded the Tal Chess Club in Madras in 1972, which became a focal point for organised chess in the city.

He also worked as a journalist and author. He wrote for The Hindu and launched the magazine Chess Mate in 1982. Teaching was always a big part of his life, and he continued mentoring young players well into his later years. In the end, Aaron’s legacy rests on two things: what he achieved over the board and what he built away from it. He helped give Indian chess a proper foundation that later generations took much further.

#manuelaaron #praggnanandhaa #vaishali

The great composers

After an old friend passed away last year, I collected a stack of records from his sister, who was looking to give away his things. Among them were 19 classical LPs from The Great Composers and Their Music series. I was mighty pleased. I thought I had stumbled onto something rather special.

But when I finally got round to playing them, that sense of discovery quickly faded. The records looked fine - no obvious scratches or blemishes - yet the sound was poor. Not the usual pops and crackles, but a kind of distortion that crept in whenever the stylus passed over certain sections. And it wasn’t just one record. It was all 19. It took me a while to realise that the problem wasn’t with my turntable, but with the records themselves.

To squeeze half an hour or more onto a single side of a 12-inch LP is no small trick. Under normal circumstances, you would expect about 20 minutes, and perhaps a little more sometimes. Push it to 30, and something has to give. In fact, quite a few things give way at once.

The first casualty is the bass. Low frequencies take up space - real, physical space in the groove - and if you are trying to pack in as many revolutions as possible, the only option is to thin them out. What you are left with is a sound that feels weightless, almost tinny, as if the orchestra has been drained of its lower register.

Then there is the matter of volume. Narrower grooves mean the signal has to be cut at a lower level, otherwise the stylus would simply plough into the neighbouring groove. So you turn up the amplifier, but in doing so you also bring up everything else, such as the faint hiss of the production tape, the soft shush of the stylus moving across plastic.

And towards the end of each side, the problem tightens further. As the stylus moves closer to the centre, the available space shrinks while the record continues spinning at the same speed. Everything is compressed into a smaller circumference. High frequencies begin to strain; strings lose their sheen, and sibilants take on a brittle edge.

There is also a subtler loss. To keep the needle from misbehaving in these cramped conditions, the music is often compressed. The difference between the quietest and loudest passages is reduced. In classical music, where so much depends on contrast - a solitary flute against a sudden orchestral surge - this flattening dulls the emotional shape of the piece. Everything sits at roughly the same level.

Once I understood all this, the behaviour of those 19 records made sense. They were not faulty in the usual way; they were simply over-ambitious. The series itself, The Great Composers and Their Music, was issued by Marshall Cavendish in the early 1980s. It followed the part-work model of weekly or fortnightly instalments, each accompanied by a magazine and a record or cassette tape, inviting the buyer to build a library over time. It looked respectable, even a little scholarly, and for many it must have served as an entry point into classical music.

But the format carried its own compromises. Classical works are not easily contained. A symphony by Beethoven or Brahms does not naturally fit the neat constraints of a single LP side, let alone one already stretched to its limits. Something had to be trimmed, rearranged or split. And so movements ended where it was convenient to turn the record over, not where the composer intended. A musical argument that ought to unfold in a single arc was interrupted midway, resumed a few minutes later and sometimes followed immediately by something else altogether.

The sound itself carried another layer of remove. These were not original recordings but licensed ones drawn from established labels and passed along as production copies. Each step away from the source introduced a small loss such as a touch less clarity or a faint veil over the upper frequencies. On a well-pressed record with generous groove spacing, you might hardly notice. Here, with everything already pared down, it became part of the overall texture.

And then there was the pressing itself. These records were made in large numbers, meant for newsstands and supermarkets rather than specialist shops. One cannot expect too much fussiness under those conditions. Imperfections crept in. A bit of non-fill here, a slight roughness there, the sort of things that might pass unnoticed on a louder, fuller pressing but which became more apparent when the music itself had been cut so quietly.

It also explained something else I had been puzzling over. The sounds I was hearing were not the familiar trio of vinyl artefacts (hiss, pops and crackle) that one learns to accept, even to some extent to enjoy. Those have their own causes: dust caught in the groove, static discharge, the faint imprint of tape hiss from the original recording. What I was hearing was different. It had a pattern to it, a consistency across all the discs, appearing at roughly the same points. It was not dirt, and it was not wear. It was design.

In time, my initial disappointment gave way to something closer to acceptance. These records were never meant to be definitive. They were an introduction, a gateway of sorts, assembled for convenience rather than fidelity. And that, I realised, was a thread that did not end with vinyl.

In the early 1990s, another publisher, Orbis Publishing, brought out The Classical Collection on compact disc. I happen to own the first 45 issues of that series, and in many ways it felt like a continuation of the same idea, only updated for a new format.

By then, of course, the technical battle had been won. The compact disc had none of the physical limitations of the LP. There were no grooves to cram, no inner-edge distortion to contend with, no need to lower the volume just to make everything fit. A full symphony could sit comfortably on a single disc, often with room to spare. The sound was clean, stable and free of the surface noise that had plagued those earlier records. Yet the underlying approach remained familiar.

Like the Marshall Cavendish series, the Orbis collection was built up issue by issue, with each disc accompanied by notes that guided the listener through the repertoire. It, too, drew on licensed recordings rather than producing its own. And while the sound was undeniably better, the programming often reflected the same editorial mindset: a balance between completeness and coverage.

Sometimes there would be a full work. At other times, the disc would move from one piece to another, offering a sampler rather than a sustained listening experience. It was less about presenting a single performance in its full integrity than about giving the listener a workable map of the classical landscape. In that sense, the compromises had shifted rather than disappeared. Where the LPs had been constrained by physics, the CDs were shaped by editorial choice. One strained the medium; the other curated it.

Between the two, I found myself looking at my friend’s records in a slightly different light. They were part of a longer continuum: one that tried, in its own way, to make a vast and sometimes intimidating body of music more accessible to a wider audience. This wasn't perfect, not even especially refined, but purposeful.

I have kept his set. Not because it sounds good but because it tells a story about a time when building a classical collection could be as simple as a weekly visit to the newsagent; about the compromises hidden in the grooves, and later, in the programming; and, perhaps most of all, about the quiet afterlife of things once valued, passed from one pair of hands to another, carrying with them more than just the music they were meant to contain.

ADDENDUM:

Here is the full set of Marshall Cavendish's The Great Composers and Their Music series with the ones I own highlighted in bold:

1 - Beethoven: Symphony No.5 in C minor Opus 67
2 - Brahms: Symphony No.1 in C minor, Opus 68
3 - Chopin: Piano Recital incl. 'Minute' Waltz 'Revolutionary' Study
4 - Tchaikovsky: Piano Concerto No.1 in B flat minor, opus 23 with 'Romeo and Juliet' fantasy overture
5 - Schubert: Symphony No.8 in B minor ('unfinished') D.759 & symphony No.5 in B flat major D.485
6 - Beethoven: Violin Concerto in D, Opus 6
7 - Schumann: Symphony No.1 in B flat major, Opus 38 ('spring') with Piano Concerto in A minor, Opus 54
8 - Brahms: Piano Concerto No.2 in B flat major Opus 83
9 - Tchaikovsky: Ballet Music including 'Swan Lake' 'The Sleeping Beauty' & 'The Nutcracker'
10 - Berlioz: Symphonie Fantastique Opus 14
11 - Mendelssohn: Overtures incl. 'A Midsummer Nights Dream' Opus 21
12 - Liszt: The Piano Concertos
13 - Schubert: Piano Quintet in A major Opus 114 ('The Trout')
14 - Brahms: Violin Concerto in D major Opus 77
15 - Beethoven: Piano Concerto No.5 in E flat, Opus 73 ('Emperor')
16 - Tchaikovsky: Symphony No.6 in B minor, opus 74 ('Pathetique')
17 - Mendelssohn: Violin concerto in E minor, Opus 64 with Symphony No.4 in A major, opus 90 ('Italian')
18 - Beethoven: Piano Sonatas 'Moonlight,' 'Pathetique,' 'Appassionato'
19 - Tchaikovsky: Short orchestral works incl. '1812' festival overture, Opus 49
20 - Mahler: Symphonic Excerpts featuring themes from Visconti's film 'Death in Venice'
21 - Mozart: Piano Concertos Nos.21 and 22
22 - Bach J S: Brandenburg concertos Nos.2, 3 and 5
23 - Handel: Messiah (highlights)
24 - Mozart: Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, K 525, three German Dances, K 605, A Musical Joke, K.522
25 - Vivaldi: The Four Seasons
26 - Bach J S: Selected Organ Works incl. Toccata and Fugue in D minor
27 - Mozart: Symphony No.40 in G minor, K.550 & Symphony No.41 in C, K.551 'Jupiter'
28 - Baroque Festival: Purcell, Albinoni, Telemann, Rameau, Pachelbel, Corelli and Handel
29 - Handel: Music for the Royal Fireworks & Water Music Suites in D and F
30 - Haydn: Symphony No. 94 in G major ('Surprise') & Symphony No.101 in D major ('Clock')
31 - Bach JS: Orchestral Suites No.2 in B minor, BWV 1067 & No.3 in D, BWV 1068
32 - Mozart: Clarinet concerto in A, K.622 & Flute and Harp Concerto in C, K.299
33 - Borodin, Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov: Polovtsian Dances; A Night On The Bare Mountain; Russian Easter Overture, Capriccio Espagnol
34 - Sibelius: Symphony No.2 in D, Opus 43 & Finlandia, Opus 26
35 - Dvorak: Symphony No.9 in E minor, OP.95 'From The New World'
36 - Rimsky-Korsakov: Scheherazade Opus 35
37 - Grieg: 'Peer Gynt' suites No.1 and 2 with Piano Concerto in A minor, OP.16
38 - Dvorak and Smetana: Cello Concerto in B minor, OP.104; The Moldau (Vltava)
39 - Ravel: Orchestral Works
40 - Offenbach and Gounod: arr. Rosenthal Gaiete Parisienne; Faust - Ballet Music
41 - Strauss (Johann): Viennese Waltzes
42 - Debussy: La Mer and Nocturnes
43 - Stravinsky: The Rite of Spring and King of the Stars
44 - Strauss (Richard): Till Eulenspiegel OP.28 also, Sprach Zarathustra OP.30, Don Juan OP.20
45 - Elgar: Enigma Variations OP.36 Pomp and Circumstance OP.39
46 - Bartok: Concerto for Orchestra & Dance Suite
47 - Prokofiev, Shostakovitch: Symphony No.1 in D, Opus 25, 'The love of the Three Oranges' suite, Opus 33A; Symphony No.9 in E flat major, Opus 70
48 - Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No.2 in C minor Opus18, Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini Opus 43
49 - Orff: Carmina Burana
50 - Holst: The Planets
51 - Rodrigo: Concierto De Aranjuez and Fantasia Para Un Gentilhombre
52 - Gershwin: Piano Concerto in F, Rhapsody in Blue, I Got Rhythm
53 - Bizet: Carmen
54 - Mozart: Magic Flute & Cosi Fan Tutte
55 - Verdi: Aida And Rigoletto (operatic highlights)
56 - Rossini & Donizetti: Barber of Seville & Don Pasquale
57 - Puccini: Madam Butterfly & Turandot
58 - Leoncavallo & Mascagni: I Paggliacci & Cavalleria Rusticana
59 - Gounod: Faust
60 - Mozart: Marriage of Figaro & Don Giovanni
61 - Verdi: La Traviata & Il Trovatore
62 - Puccini: La Boheme & Tosca
63 - Strauss (Richard): Der Rosenkavalier
64 - Wagner: The Ring
65 - Strauss (Johann) & Lehar: Die Fledermaus & The Merry Widow
66 - Bonus LP: A Celebration Of Christmas

 

Elevated to Federal Court

Our heartiest congratulations to Justice Ravinthran a/l Paramaguru on his appointment to the Federal Court yesterday. Many people don't realise this but he was born in Bukit Mertajam in 1962 and had his education at the Bukit Mertajam High School. After graduating from Law School, he was posted as a Magistrate to Sabah. In 2009, he was appointed as a Judicial Commissioner and then elevated as a High Court judge in 2013. He was appointed to the Court of Appeal in 2019. His long judicial service to the nation speaks for itself and we hope that Penang, his home state, will give him due recognition soon. 

- Quah Seng Sun & Lee Saw See -

 

Penang's light rail transit

I’ve just realised that I’ve never written anything at all about the forthcoming Light Rail Transit plans in Penang. Construction is already underway for the Mutiara Line that will connect KOMTAR with the new artificial island in the south of Penang Island. And very soon, possibly by the end of this year, construction will commence on the additional LRT link between the Macallum Street station on the island and Penang Sentral on the mainland. Needless to say, I am terribly excited, and happy, about the project. It’s supposed to be completed by 2030, and I hope this timeline will include all the trial runs and testing, so that the public can use the Light Rail Transit as soon as possible. By then, I shall be 76 years old. Will I be healthy enough to enjoy a ride across the Penang Channel? Time will tell.

Still, for once, this is not just wishful thinking or another plan on paper. The thing is actually moving. Piers have begun appearing along parts of the alignment and that makes a difference. One can argue about policies and projections, but once concrete starts going up, the project feels real in a way that press statements never quite manage.

The Mutiara Line will run close to 30 kilometres, with around 20 stations, stretching from the southern end of the island right up to the heart of George Town, and now across the channel to the mainland. That cross-sea section, about six kilometres in length, is the part that really captures the imagination. A train gliding over the water from Macallum to Butterworth in under ten minutes. For anyone who has spent an hour or more crawling across the bridge in peak traffic, that almost sounds too good to be true.

The response on the ground has been overwhelmingly positive. When the public inspection opened, thousands turned up. Feedback was strong, even enthusiastic. There is a sense that Penang, after talking about rail for so many years, is finally getting something done. But as always, once the excitement settles, the practical questions begin to surface.

One of the first concerns is surprisingly basic: distance. At Penang Sentral, the LRT station will be about 500 metres from the existing KTM station and ferry terminal. On paper, that doesn’t sound like much. In reality, especially with luggage, in the heat, or for older people, it is not insignificant. Anyone who has made that walk will know there is a slight incline as well. It is manageable, but not exactly effortless. While a covered walkway will help, a travelator would help even more. I would even deem an air-conditioned link as essential. These are small things, but they determine whether a journey feels smooth or cumbersome. Public transport is not just about the train itself; it is about everything that happens before and after you board it.

Then there is the question of capacity. Penang Sentral is meant to be a major interchange for rail, bus, ferry, and now LRT all converging in one place. But how much can it actually handle? The current plans mention around 1,000 parking bays. That sounds reasonable until one considers the number of cars crossing the bridge every morning. Even a small shift in commuter habits could overwhelm those facilities.

It raises a larger issue of the supporting infrastructure such as feeder buses and last-mile connections. If not properly thought through, people may simply continue driving. The success of the system will depend not just on the trains running on time, but on whether it is genuinely convenient to use. And yet, despite these concerns, it is difficult not to feel a sense of anticipation.

The cross-sea link, in particular, has a certain symbolic weight. For decades, Penang Island and the mainland have been connected by ferries and bridges, each with its own limitations. The idea of a rail link cutting cleanly across the channel feels like a step into a different phase altogether. The journey time, said to be as little as eight minutes, will change the way people think about distance between the two sides.

I think back to all the earlier proposals - monorails, trams, buses - and this time, something is actually taking shape. The federal government has stepped in, MRT Corp is now running the project, and there seems to be a stronger sense of direction. And there is also the public support. When nearly everyone is in favour of the project, it creates a kind of momentum of its own. People want this to work. They are prepared to overlook imperfections, at least for now, in the hope that the bigger picture will hold.

As for me, I find myself thinking less about policy and more about that first ride. To sit in a train at Macallum, experiencing it pulling away, gathering speed and then moving out over the water past the ships and under the open sky, heading towards Butterworth. Or vice versa from Butterworth to Macallum. It is a small thing in the larger scheme of infrastructure and development. But it is also something entirely new in the Penang experience.

If all goes well, I will be 76 when it opens. That is not so old, I tell myself. But old enough to have seen how long these things can take. But I hope not too old to enjoy the result. And if I do make that journey from mainland to island in a matter of minutes, I suspect I will remember not just the ride itself, but all the years when it seemed it might never happen at all.

Mountain shadows

I wasn’t planning on revisiting Dave Grusin, but one track led to another, and before long I found myself lingering over Mountain Dance, then moving on to Out of the Shadows. Both albums have that easy feel about them. Listening again, it struck me that music like this doesn’t just appear out of thin air. Grusin had already travelled quite a distance before arriving here.

He didn’t start out as a recording artist. Back in the 1960s, he was working as a pianist and arranger on The Andy Williams Show. From there, he eased into film scoring, and by the mid-70s he was already handling major projects like Three Days of the Condor. His collaborations with Sydney Pollack became a defining part of that period.

So while many people came to him through his albums, he had already made his name in Hollywood, working to tight schedules and shaping music to fit the screen. At the same time, he was building a parallel life in jazz. Albums like One of a Kind showed where his instincts lay, blending jazz, funk and orchestral colours into something that didn’t quite fit any neat label. He was also working alongside musicians like Lee Ritenour and Quincy Jones.

Then came the move that really shifted things: the founding of GRP Records in 1978 with Larry Rosen. It wasn’t just about putting out records. GRP was among the early adopters of digital recording, and by the early 80s that clean, polished sound would become one of its defining traits.

By the time Mountain Dance came out in 1980, everything seemed to come together. It wasn’t the only digital jazz recording around, but it was one of the first to really make an impression. The album has that unmistakable clarity of electronic keyboards and synthesisers sitting comfortably alongside acoustic instruments, all of it balanced without fuss. The title track in particular has an easy flow, the sort that sounds simple until one starts paying it closer attention.

Out of the Shadows followed in 1982 and felt less like a change of direction and more like a continuation, only more assured. The sound is tighter, the arrangements more refined, and there’s a quiet confidence running through it. By then, Grusin had found his space and was working comfortably within it.

Looking back, those two albums feel like the natural result of everything that came before. The film work, the early jazz recordings, and the gradual shift into digital production. Nothing rushed, nothing forced. Just a steady coming together of different strands. And that’s probably why they still sound good today.