A rather surreal few weeks

The past few weeks have been rather surreal for me. Looking back, quite a lot has happened in a relatively short space of time, and I am still trying to take it all in. It started in July with the release of a People of Penang podcast in which I was the featured guest. Not long after that, an article I wrote appeared on the ChessBase India website, the second time my name has appeared there.

But the most significant event in July was undoubtedly the Penang State Awards investiture ceremony at the Dewan Sri Pinang. That was followed a few days later by the official reopening of the Penang State Museum. The museum visit turned out to be rather special for me. I was happy to be reacquainted with the name of my great-great-grandfather on the marble plaque on the museum wall, but there was also the satisfaction of seeing how some of my own contributions to the history of Penang Free School had been acknowledged in the museum's new exhibits.

There was also a charity and fellowship dinner organised by the Persatuan 88 Captains. That evening gave me the chance to show the Penang Governor an old photograph from 2008 that featured him, Tan Chin Nam and myself at a private function, back when he was the president of the Malaysian Chess Federation from 2007 until 2016. He didn't say much, but his wife asked me for a copy of the picture.

Then there was a Town Hall dialogue with the Penang Island City Council, which I attended as the representative of the Swee Cheok Tong (Seh Quah Kongsi). I also took the opportunity to walk extensively through the civic precinct of George Town's heritage core zone and revisit several of the landmarks there, including the newly reopened Fort Cornwallis.

Rather unexpectedly, after not attending a George Town Festival programme for years, I suddenly found myself at one again. This time, at the former Majestic Theatre for a Malaysian Songbook performance. It was nice to be back at a festival that I had not been following for quite some time, and even nicer to discover that I could still be pleasantly entertained by what it had to offer.

And then came yet another small satisfaction of seeing my name in print, this time in the August 2026 edition of Penang Monthly, the magazine published by the Penang Institute. I had written about the history and development of chess in Penang. As I haven't actually elaborated on this last bit yet, here is the story in full:

Farsighted organisation behind Penang's prowess in chess competitions 
By Quah Seng Sun

IF SUCCESS IS measured by titles, then Penangites have built a reputation for prowess in chess. The state can proudly point to its roll of International Masters, FIDE Masters and Candidate Masters, titles bestowed by the World Chess Federation (FIDE), their numbers growing with each passing generation. But Penang’s chess story is not just told through 64 squares and 32 pieces, but also the generations of students, teachers and enthusiasts who have transformed the game into one of the state's most vibrant youth activities. What began with scattered school clubs and occasional competitions almost a century ago has evolved into a thriving ecosystem supported by schools, parents, coaches and volunteers: one which has always had students at its core.

The birth of school chess 
The earliest traces of organised gameplay in Penang are difficult to pinpoint, but the Penang Free School magazine provides a starting point. Throughout the 1930s, chess matches were reported, suggesting scattered pockets of enthusiasm among students, appearing briefly before disappearing. Under the Japanese Occupation, organised chess largely vanished from public view. Following the war, chess gradually re-emerged, but only in 1964 did student chess establish a significant presence. A major catalyst was the Penang Schools Students' Chess Council, formed by leading school chess clubs to organise annual competitions among themselves. No longer confined to individual institutions, students had a platform to compete against peers from other schools, creating rivalries, friendships and a growing sense of community.

Although the Council performed a pioneering role, a more comprehensive organisational framework was necessary to institutionalise the game. In the pivotal year of 1972, the Council voluntarily dissolved following the establishment of the Penang Chess Association, which assumed responsibility for the game’s broader statewide development and administration (and keeping the trophies accumulated by the erstwhile Council). That year also saw the introduction of the first team chess championship under the Majlis Sukan Sekolah-Sekolah Pulau Pinang (MSSPP, Penang Schools Sports Council) at Han Chiang Primary School, while an individual championship was introduced the following year. And in December 1972, the Majlis Sukan Sekolah-Sekolah Malaysia (Malaysia School Sports Council, MSSM) organised its inaugural team chess championship at Dewan Sri Pinang, officiated by then-education minister, Tun Hussein Onn, where four players represented Penang. This event marked the beginning of national-level school chess competitions, sending a clear signal that chess was recognised as a legitimate school sport.

These competitions provided a regular, structured and enduring pathway for student participation and talent development. Even after the MSSM chess competition was suspended after the 1997 edition, a casualty of the Asian Financial Crisis, Penang continued organising MSSPP championships uninterrupted, ensuring that young players continued to have opportunities to compete and develop.

A generational divide?
Despite these advances, chess remained widely perceived as a game for adults, as reflected in competitive chess circles. When the Malaysian Chess Federation, established 1974, organised its first National Closed Championship that same year, none of the Penang Chess Association's representatives were students. They remained in school competitions, the strongest state representatives were generally expected to be adults.

Although this distinction persisted for many years, the foundations laid by the MSSPP were quietly producing results. In the 1970s–80s, students gained tournament experience and developed stronger competitive skills at increasingly younger ages. By the 1990s, student players had the strength and confidence to compete successfully against experienced adults. When the Penang Chess Association selected teams for major events, such as the Merdeka Team Chess Championships, talented students increasingly found themselves earning places on the senior team through merit. 

Since then, the student–adult balance has shifted decisively. Today, it is normal that student players dominate Penang’s (and Malaysia’s) chess scene. In most open tournaments, students typically make up around 75 percent of the field. A thriving calendar of junior tournaments encompassing various age groups ensures a steady stream of opportunities for young players to develop skills and gain competitive experience. 

Fascinatingly, the growing presence of young people in chess circles persists despite the dominance of smartphones, social media and digital entertainment, all of which foster fragmented attention spans unconducive to a game requiring patience, concentration and prolonged quiet thinking. For many youths, chess appears to offer something that much of the online world does not: rewards for sustained focus and careful thought. Competitions themselves provide experiences that cannot be replicated entirely through screens: students travel to tournaments within and beyond Penang, meet friends from other schools, test their skills against unfamiliar opponents and cope with victory and defeat. Friendships are formed, rivalries emerge and memories are created across tournament halls.

This growth did not happen by accident. Many students who took up chess during the 1970s–90s have since become parents themselves. Having experienced the game’s benefits first-hand, they have introduced it to their own children. It is not uncommon to see parents waiting outside tournament halls for their children to finish games. Occasionally, coaches are present to provide immediate post-game failure analysis. As a result of the game’s re-emerging popularity, chess clinics and coaching programmes have mushroomed nationwide, where experienced adult players find themselves becoming coaches, either part-time or full-time. 

Initially, coaching was logistically constrained. Coaches often travelled between students’ homes, limiting the number of children whom they could reach. But with the Covid-19 pandemic lockdowns, online coaching quickly became practical, and even unexpectedly advantageous. Coaches could teach larger groups simultaneously without spending hours on the road, while students could attend lessons from the comfort of home. Online platforms allowed students to play, learn and analyse games at any time of day. Coaching became more accessible and competitive opportunities multiplied. Further, a timely popular culture boost—Netflix's The Queen's Gambit—introduced the game to a worldwide captive audience. For perhaps the first time in generations, chess became fashionable. Across Malaysia, tournament participation increased, coaching programmes expanded and a new generation of young players emerged. 

Rather than being overwhelmed by the digital revolution, chess has adapted strategically. If anything, the game's ability to cultivate focus, patience and thoughtful decision-making may explain why it continues to attract young players. In a world where attention is constantly under siege, the chessboard remains one of the few spaces where deep concentration is essential.

Lessons beyond the chessboard
Despite these technological changes, the essence of chess revolves around two players sitting across from one another, each attempting to outthink the other. In an increasingly screen-dominated era, one could argue that the qualities cultivated by chess— concentration, patience and self-discipline—have become even more valuable. Beyond mental discipline, chess develops pattern-recognition and structured thinking ability. Students learn to identify recurring ideas and anticipate likely outcomes, skills that prove useful in everything from mathematics to language. It strengthens decision-making under uncertainty, teaching players to weigh imperfect options against each other, and accept that every choice involves trade-offs.

The game also nurtures calculated patience and delayed gratification. Students learn that short-term sacrifices can sometimes lead to greater long-term rewards. Working memory and concentration are strengthened when players hold multiple possibilities in mind while planning ahead. Every defeat becomes an opportunity for failure analysis, encouraging students to examine mistakes objectively and improve systematically. Chess also promotes creativity within constraints, with players constantly challenged to discover original solutions within a structured framework. This skill translates naturally into many professional and academic fields. Equally important are social and emotional lessons. Learning to remain composed after a blunder, managing time pressures and displaying good sportsmanship all contribute to emotional resilience. 

Today, chess in Penang continues to be organised and regulated by the Penang Chess Association. The association itself is among the relatively small number of sporting organisations classified as Category One—the highest—by the Majlis Sukan Negeri Pulau Pinang (Penang State Sports Council, MSNPP). Since the mid-2000s, the Association has organised its annual flagship Penang Chess Festival at year-end, which continues to attract hundreds of players from Malaysia and neighbouring countries. Such recognition reflects the breadth and consistency of its activities, both nationally and internationally. Above all, it is a story of students, who have embraced the game, carried it forward and reshaped it according to the needs of their times. In the process, they have ensured that chess remains not merely a pastime from an earlier era, but a living and relevant activity for the 21st century. 

A tale of two records

I was going through my record collection again the other day when I came across two Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young records which, at first glance, might seem to have little in common. One is So Far, the well-known 1974 compilation album. The other is a rather obscure record titled Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young Month Celebration Copy. 

The interesting thing is that I always thought of the latter simply as another CSNY compilation. It was only when I started looking into it that I discovered it was actually a promotional record, supposedly marked “Sample Copy Not for Sale”. That puzzled me because I am quite certain I bought my copy from a record shop in town. So much for “not for sale”. Perhaps the record shop was not supposed to sell it, or perhaps promotional records had a habit of finding their way into shops anyway. Whatever the explanation, I clearly remember paying for mine. 

So Far, on the other hand, needs little introduction. Released in 1974, it was put together at a time when Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young were riding an enormous wave of popularity. The group had not produced much new material together since Déjà Vu in 1970, but they were about to embark on a major reunion tour. A compilation was therefore a convenient way of putting some of their best-known recordings together, and it became a huge seller. In fact, So Far went all the way to No. 1 on the Billboard 200. 

The album opens with Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, followed by Long Time Gone, Woodstock, Teach Your Children and the rest of the familiar material. Marrakesh Express is missing, despite having been one of their early hits. Among the group's best-known songs, surely Marrakesh Express would have been an obvious choice. 

There is a little curiosity. Ohio and Find the Cost of Freedom had already appeared in live versions on the 1971 double album 4 Way Street. But So Far was the first time their studio versions appeared on an LP. Until then, the two songs had been released together only as a single. 

And then there is Woodstock. It is one of the best-known songs associated with CSNY, but it was written by Joni Mitchell, who also provided the painting used for the So Far cover. So there is a little more Joni Mitchell in the album than one might initially realise. 

Apparently Graham Nash wasn't particularly enthusiastic about So Far being released in the first place. He regarded it as little more than a cash-in on the reunion tour. If that was his view, history rather proved him wrong. The album topped the charts and became one of CSNY's most successful releases.  

My other record, the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young Month Celebration Copy, is a different animal altogether. It dates from 1971 and was apparently produced by Atlantic Records as part of a promotional “CSNY Month” campaign. Rather than being a regular commercial album, it was a 12-track promotional compilation drawing from the group's earlier records, as well as some solo material. 

Unlike So Far, it includes Marrakesh Express. It also goes beyond the group recordings to include Stephen Stills' Love the One You're With and Bluebird Revisited, as well as Graham Nash's Military Madness and Simple Man. So in some ways it is a more interesting snapshot of the musicians than So Far, even though it was never intended to be a proper greatest-hits album. 

It is also an odd-looking record. The copy I have is the sort of black-and-white promotional pressing that might have been handed to a radio station or record retailer rather than sold to an ordinary customer. The labels carry the familiar warning that it is a sample copy and not for sale. 

Karajan's Beethoven

I felt like listening to a bit of classical music today and pulled an old Deutsche Grammophon LP from the shelf: Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, recorded in 1977 by the Berlin Philharmonic under the baton of Herbert von Karajan.

As the music began, I was immediately struck by the clarity and ferocity of the performance. Those famous opening four notes seemed to leap from the speakers with such force that I instinctively stepped back across the room, just to take in the full weight and flavour of the sound.

This LP formed part of Karajan's second complete Beethoven cycle for Deutsche Grammophon. By then, he had spent much of his career returning to these symphonies, revisiting them as recording technology evolved and as his own interpretations deepened with age and experience.

Karajan's association with Deutsche Grammophon, which lasted more than four decades until his death in 1989, remains one of the most influential partnerships in the history of recorded classical music. He saw the recording studio not merely as a place to document performances but as an instrument in its own right, working closely with engineers to shape every aspect of the final sound.

The sleeve itself is unmistakably Deutsche Grammophon: the familiar yellow banner across the top with a typography that reflected the label's sense of elegance and consistency.

Musically, this recording is all about control and momentum. Karajan's earlier 1963 account of Beethoven's Fifth has a certain warmth and lyricism, but the 1977 version feels leaner, more urgent and more dramatic. Recorded in the Berlin Philharmonie, it captures what many listeners describe as the "Karajan sound": smooth, rich and powerful, with individual instruments blending into a single orchestral voice. Some critics have argued that this sacrifices a degree of transparency for sheer beauty, but there is no denying its impact.

Karajan was also an enthusiastic advocate of new technology. He embraced digital recording early and later worked with Sony and Deutsche Grammophon in promoting the compact disc, famously declaring: "All else is gaslight."

Perhaps his lifelong engagement with Beethoven says more about him than anything else. He recorded the complete symphonies three times for Deutsche Grammophon. First was in 1963, again in the late 1970s and finally in the early digital era of the 1980s. Few conductors have left such an extensive recorded legacy of a single composer.

By the time of his death, Karajan had sold an estimated 100 to 200 million records worldwide, a figure that remains extraordinary in the world of classical music.

The original Chipmunk music

I must have been seven, eight or perhaps nine years old when my father brought home these two Chipmunks records from Wing Hing Records, his friend's shop along Campbell Street. At that age, few things gave me more happiness than listening to David Seville and the Chipmunks. I played those LPs over and over again until I practically knew every song by heart.

For a few years, they were constant companions. Then I grew older and gradually moved on to other kinds of music. The records went back into their sleeves, placed in a cupboard and left untouched for decades. Until recently.

Something stirred in me and I went looking for them again. When I finally played them again and heard those familiar high-pitched voices, I felt an unexpected lump in my throat. In an instant, I was transported back to a time when I had not even yet reached the age of ten. Wonderful how music can do that. A song lasts only a few minutes, yet somehow it can unlock entire rooms of memory that have remained closed for half a century. What more a whole hour's worth from Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks and Sing Again with the Chipmunks.

As a child, I never questioned who the Chipmunks were. They simply existed. After all, children do not worry about such details. Alvin, Simon and Theodore were mischievous little creatures who sang funny songs, while the long-suffering David Seville tried to keep them in line. Only much later did I learn that neither the Chipmunks nor David Seville actually existed. The entire concept was the creation of one remarkably inventive man: Ross Bagdasarian Sr.

Bagdasarian was a first-generation Armenian-American from California. Early in his career, record executives felt that his surname was too long and too ethnic for show business. During the Second World War, he served as a control tower operator with the US Army Air Forces and spent some time stationed in Seville, Spain. The city made such an impression on him that he adopted "David Seville" as his stage name.

Before the Chipmunks came along, he had already established himself as a songwriter. In 1951, he had collaborated to write the quirky song Come On-a My House. After spending months trying to persuade someone to record it, he finally found success when Rosemary Clooney turned it into a number one hit.

Yet success in the music business can be fleeting. By late 1957, despite his earlier triumph, Bagdasarian was facing financial difficulties. Supporting a wife and three young children, he reportedly had only about US$200 left. Instead of spending the money on household expenses, he took a gamble. He bought a dual-speed tape recorder and began experimenting with tape speeds at home. He discovered that by recording his voice slowly at a lower pitch and then playing it back at normal speed, he could create an entirely new sound: bright, squeaky and unlike anything listeners had heard before.

His first experiment was Witch Doctor, released in early 1958. The famous refrain, Oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla, bing-bang, became an instant sensation, selling more than a million copies and helping to rescue Liberty Records from financial trouble. Asked to come up with a follow-up, Bagdasarian expanded the idea into three animated chipmunks. Their names were playful nods to the executives at Liberty Records: Alvin after company president Al Bennett, Simon after co-founder Simon Waronker and Theodore after recording engineer Ted Keep.

Creating their voices was a feat in the days before digital technology. Bagdasarian recorded every character himself; four separate vocal tracks for Alvin, Simon, Theodore and Dave Seville while matching the timing manually with extraordinary precision. The result was The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late), released in late 1958. It became a runaway success and won three awards including Best Engineered Record (Non-Classical) at the inaugural Grammy Awards in 1959.

A string of hit records followed, including Alvin's Harmonica and Ragtime Cowboy Joe. Soon came the first full-length albums: Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks pressed on red vinyl in 1959 and Sing Again with the Chipmunks the following year. Those were the very records, with their 24 songs, that eventually found their way into my childhood home in Penang.

But of course, the songs were only part of the story. Beneath the squeaky voices was something far more personal: my father's love of his child in bringing those records home, the excitement of discovering new music as a child and the simple happiness of sitting beside the gramophone with nothing else demanding my attention. The Chipmunks may have been fictional, but the memories they created were very real. And after all these years, they still have the power to make me smile.

Austrian music: two poles apart

Some time ago, while browsing through a stack of records in my collection, I realised that I had two albums that, in their own very different ways, captured something of the musical spirit of Austria. One came from the Alpine folk tradition, the other from one of the world’s most famous choirs. Listening to them back to back was almost like taking a short musical journey through that country.

The first record was a Polydor LP, issued in 1973 to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Austrian folk group Die Lustigen Arlberger, with the title 25 Jahre Volkstumsgruppe Die Lustigen Arlberger. Since the album commemorated 25 years in 1973, it meant that the group was founded in 1949.

The Arlberg region lies in the Tyrol, and the group came from the well-known mountain resort of St Anton am Arlberg. In those days, visitors to the area would often attend what was called a Tiroler Abend, or Tyrolean Evening, which was a lively programme of folk music, yodelling and traditional dances performed for both tourists and locals. Groups like Die Lustigen Arlberger were at the heart of this tradition.

For many years the ensemble was led by the colourful musician Sepp Staffler who was not only a skilled yodeller but also known for playing the unusual instrument called the "singing saw". Under his leadership the group became a regular presence in the region’s folk entertainment scene.

Their music reflected the unmistakable Alpine folk style. Instruments such as the zither, dulcimer, clarinet, harmonica, accordion, and even the occasional xylophone contributed to the lively arrangements. Some members of the ensemble were also well-known specialists on these instruments, including zither and dulcimer players Werner Nußbaumer and Margit Raffl Staffler.

The anniversary LP functioned almost like a sampler of their repertoire. Among the pieces were Ein Jodlergruss, which opened the record with a cheerful yodel greeting; Salzkammergut-Plattler, a traditional dance tune associated with thigh-slapping; and Kirchtag in St. Anton, which evoked the atmosphere of a festive church fair in the mountains.

One particularly eye-catching item was Zirkus Renz, a dazzling showpiece that featured rapid-fire passages on the xylophone. It is the sort of virtuoso novelty number that audiences always enjoyed at folk concerts. Another track was the Dengel-Lied, a song that grew out of everyday rural life.

The LP was issued as part of Polydor’s Austria Gold series which aimed to preserve and promote traditional Austrian music. One can almost picture a mountain inn with wooden tables and a cheerful gathering of singers and dancers after a long day in the Alps.

The second Austrian record in my collection came from a very different musical world: an album titled Austria Revisited, recorded by the famous Vienna Boys' Choir and issued by Capitol Records as part of its Capitol of the World series. 

Released around 1958 or 1959, the album was clearly intended for international audiences. Capitol had the clever idea of presenting music from different countries almost like musical travel postcards to give listeners a taste of distant cultures through recorded sound.

The Vienna Boys’ Choir is known in German as the Wiener Sängerknaben and they are the perfect ambassador for Austrian music. With a history dating back centuries, the choir had already built a worldwide reputation for its pure, disciplined sound.

During the period when this album was recorded, the choir was typically conducted by musicians such as Helmuth Froschauer or Xaver Meyer. Under their direction the ensemble toured extensively and was widely admired for the clear, almost crystalline quality of the boys’ voices.

The programme on Austria Revisited mixed classical pieces with traditional songs. Naturally, the music of Johann Strauss II appeared prominently. The album opened with the famous waltz An der schönen blauen Donau, better known in English as The Blue Danube, followed by the lively Sängerlust-Polka. Later in the programme came another Strauss favourite, G’schichten aus dem Wienerwald (Tales from the Vienna Woods).

Alongside these orchestral classics were several folk-influenced items, including the Erzherzog Johann-Jodler which linked the choir’s repertoire to the same Alpine traditions celebrated by Die Lustigen Arlberger.

The album also included gentle choral pieces such as Johannes Brahms’s lullaby Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht, as well as sacred music by Johann Sebastian Bach. The result was a programme that moved gracefully between the concert hall, the church and the countryside.

When one listens to these two records together, an interesting contrast emerges. The Vienna Boys’ Choir represented the polished musical culture of Vienna: refined, disciplined and steeped in centuries of tradition. On the other hand, Die Lustigen Arlberger embodied the more rustic side of Austrian life, with its yodels, folk dances and cheerful village celebrations.

Yet both recordings shared a common thread. Each reflected a different facet of Austria’s musical identity: the elegance of its classical heritage and the earthy vitality of its Alpine folk traditions.

For a music enthusiast, that combination made for a rather satisfying discovery. Two albums, separated by style and audience, but together offering a small window into the sounds of a remarkable musical nation. After listening to them, I found myself thinking that perhaps one day I should finally visit Austria and experience some of this musical culture first-hand.

Pirated discovery

Over the years, I’ve accumulated what many people would probably describe as a fairly decent record collection. Once in a while, someone would look at the shelves and immediately call me a record collector. I understand why, but somehow I’ve never been comfortable with that label.

The term record collector often gives the impression of someone chasing rarity for the sake of ownership. First pressings sealed in plastic, catalogue numbers carefully ticked off, records stored away more as trophies than as music. Of course, there is nothing wrong with that, but that has never really been my relationship with records. I own records because I want to listen to them.

Some albums I return to repeatedly. Others may sit quietly for months before suddenly matching a certain mood or memory. For me, the enjoyment comes not just from possessing the LP but from cleaning the surfaces, lowering the stylus onto the groove, hearing the slight pops and crackles before the music begins, and allowing the sound to fill my listening space. The records are tied to moments in life, to particular periods of youth, to old discoveries and rediscoveries.

So I suppose music enthusiast would describe me better than record collector. The records themselves are only part of the story. The real connection is with the music, the voices, the performances, and sometimes even the memories attached to them.

And speaking of records, I must admit that among my shelves are also a small number of pirate LPs from the 1960s and 1970s. In those days, pirated records were everywhere, mainly sold in the pasar malam. Sometimes, I'd see them stacked in a quiet corner of non-descript record shops, not displayed openly. These shop owners had a knack of recognising prospective customers, or maybe their regular clientele. Anyway, music copyright enforcement was practically non-existent in those days and for many ordinary listeners pirate record purchases were often the only affordable way to hear certain albums. Interestingly enough, some of those pirate pressings actually sounded surprisingly good.

Among my pirate LP collection is a copy of Frances Yip’s Discovery, recently acquired from my cousin. It simply turned up among a batch of old LPs he gave me, and I only realised what it was when I started going through the stack at home. I was in two minds whether to play it or not. How would the sound quality be? How close would it be to the original pressing? Would it be worth keeping? In the end, there was only one way to find out.

The original album, Discovery, was released in the early 1970s and tied to her work with Cathay Pacific at the time. It was conceived almost like a musical travel record, moving across different Asian countries through song. In its official form, it was very much a product of that era when Asian pop was beginning to find its own identity while still drawing heavily from traditional melodies and Western arrangements.

But as I mentioned earlier, my copy is a pirate pressing. Like many of those records from the 1960s and 1970s, it carries its own story. The cover is slightly off in colour and the printing not quite sharp. Where the EMI label would have been, there is instead a rather nondescript catalogue marking. Still, the sound itself is surprisingly decent. That alone says something about how these unofficial pressings were not always crude copies. Some were made with enough care that the music survived quite well.

The content itself is what makes the album interesting. It moves through a series of songs representing different parts of Asia, from Arirang in Korea to Bengawan Solo in Indonesia, from Dahil Sa Iyo in the Philippines to Rasa Sayang Eh much closer to home. There is a clear travel narrative running through the record, as though each track is a postcard from a different place. Frances Yip’s voice sits neatly above these arrangements, smooth and unforced, carrying that slightly cosmopolitan tone she was known for in the 1970s.

There is something ironic about a record designed as a kind of official musical tour of Asia ending up reproduced unofficially and circulating through markets and second-hand shops across the region. But that, in a way, was also part of the musical landscape then. Music travelled in many forms, not all of them official, and listeners simply followed wherever it arrived.

It is an album that reflects a particular moment in time when Asian pop was still forming its identity, when travel and cultural exchange were beginning to shape popular music, and when even pirate records became part of how that music was heard and remembered.

Quiet tragedy

So there I was with this Bakat TV 1971 record in my hand. Until that first moment when I placed the record on the turntable, I was mainly interested in listening only to Bryan Jeremiah sing Love Knot in My Lariat and Rajadin Wan Mat's My Funny Valentine, two songs which had impressed me those 55 years ago. But when the stylus reached the fourth track on Side Two, I stopped in my tracks. Hearing Feather in My Pocket today was like hearing it for the very first time in 1971. Michael Tan’s lone voice, accompanied by his guitar, carried a plaintive honesty that cut through everything else on the album.

The song was quiet. Just a voice and a guitar, nothing more. The stark simplicity allowed the words to stand on their own. Nothing to hide behind, no orchestral sweep to distract the listener. It sounded like someone thinking aloud, perhaps while travelling, perhaps in a moment of solitude.

There's this image of the feather in the pocket. It felt like a small reminder of home or direction. Even when the lyrics spoke of not knowing when home would come, there was still that feather to be carried along for comfort. Hope tucked away in a pocket.

The folk imagery, though not something we grew up with locally, reinforced the mood of the song. Malaysia does not experience the four seasons, so references to autumn skies, white winters and fields of wheat turning brown felt slightly out of place to us. Still, the pictures suggested movement and transition, a sense of time passing and life changing. There was weariness in the line about concrete stretching endlessly. The overall tone remained reflective and gently wistful.

Then there was the solo guitar being finger-picked. Clarity in every note. Everything felt intimate, like a private living room performance that gave the song space to breathe and leaving the listener with a thoughtful silence at the end.

And who was this 20-year-old Michael Tan? Not only was he a talented performer from the Bakat TV stage, but also a University of Malaya graduate in English, He hailed from Malacca and had honed his singing and guitar skills while still at the Malacca High School. After the loss of both parents, grief weighed heavily on him. He struggled to cope and eventually turned to substance abuse, a path that led to a tragic and untimely end at 41. 

Knowing all that inevitably changed how I heard the song. The themes of wandering, distance and longing...all felt more appreciated. The feather in the pocket seemed less like a poetic device and more like a quiet emblem of someone searching for steadiness in a life that later became unsettled. It was a gentle song, but it now felt like part of a larger story. One of promise, talent and eventual loss. In the end, it is hard not to see it as a quiet tragedy.

Bakat TV 1971

During my recent slow stretch away from the blog, I found myself revisiting something from the early 1970s that came back to me quite unexpectedly: the Bakat TV 1971 talent show. What made it more meaningful was that I had actually watched the programme when it was telecast live. I was in Lower Six at the time, and I still remember how the next day Bakat TV became the talking point in the whole school. Everyone had something to say about the performances. It left quite an impression on me, even then.

So I was genuinely surprised to find this record recently among a stack given to me by one of my cousins from Petaling Jaya. It was not something I was actively searching for, but there it was, and it was very much welcomed. Thanks, Eng Chye! In fact, I had noticed in the past that a second-hand vendor in KOMTAR was selling the same record at what I thought was a rather exorbitant price. At the time, I had simply looked at it and moved on. Now, having a copy in my own hands felt different.

The album was produced by Radio Televisyen Malaysia (RTM). Bakat TV itself was one of those early televised talent competitions designed to discover new performers across the country, long before the era of modern talent shows. In those days, television felt more communal. When a programme aired live, the whole country seemed to be watching together.

The 1971 record captured finalists and selected performers, backed by the RTM Orchestra under Johari Salleh. It was quite something to think that a national broadcaster made the effort to preserve a talent show in this way. There was a seriousness about culture and broadcasting then, and perhaps a sense that these moments deserved to be documented properly.

Playing the record brought back good memories of my Lower Six days almost immediately. I could picture classmates discussing the performances and debating the results the next morning in school. In those days, a programme like Bakat TV could become the talk of the whole school overnight. Some of the names on the album went on to establish themselves in Malaysian entertainment, and hearing those early recordings again felt like stepping briefly back into that period of youth.

Bakat TV 1971 was more than just another record. It captured a time when television, live performance and recorded music came together. Finding the record unexpectedly among a stack of old LPs made the rediscovery even more meaningful.

Story of a tyrant

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.

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.

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