"Get Out! My temple is a place of prayer! ", screamed an angry Jesus Christ when he returns to see his disciples gambling, fornicating and celebrating sin.
Jesus goes on to curse the sinners, who then wail and plead in a haunting choral chant
" See my eyes I can barely see,
see my tongue I can hardly talk,
I believe you can make me right,
See my legs I can hardly walk.
Won't you touch, won't you heal me Christ? "

|The third person, who so brilliantly portrayed the 'confused soul' of Christ in the lead role of the Prophet, was a long haired, young rock vocalist from the United States, picked by Webber for his range and fluidity. Tonight, almost 25 years later, you could almost see the halo around his head as he throws his head back and screams into the microphone, his right foot stomping in time to the frenzied drum and bass accompaniment.
   
Yes. Ian Gillian is a lot older and less agile. But the voice remains the same. And yes, he is screaming at his disciples. 50,000 of them, who have gathered at the Palace Grounds in Bangalore, to see Ian Gillian and the rest of the five member band called 'Deep Purple'. The media overdrive that preceded the sell-out concert termed them "The Gods of Rock". An apt title. 'Coz very early in life, Gillian got to be celestial. He was Jesus Christ, the Superstar.

For almost 3 weeks prior to the April 1st concert, the organisers DNA networks and the sponsor BPL, unfurled every gimmick in the book to let the world know and to bring the crowds in. The print media was flooded with Deep Purple ads. The satellite TV channels flashed the commercial during prime time. There were Deep Purple dedicated sessions in most pubs in the city. The band's 30th anniversary CD and cassette showcasing an 18-track compilation was launched in all local music stores in the country and on the net. And what Karnataka Tourism couldn't do since its inception, this event managed to do. Sell Bangalore as a musical venue. Bangalore was in fact blessed. Due to the strange logistics of organising foreign rock bands and other factors beyond the scope and interest of this article, Deep Purple was only playing here. So much for the big city brats in Mumbai, Delhi and Chennai who were left to lick wounded egos or scramble on the gravy train and head for the "Garden Technopolis". And for these slickers who came in from these metros, it was a lesson in concert etiquette that night. Though the buzz was everywhere, the Bangalore crowd was like a shy bride laying her

eyes on her husband for the first time. An unequal, heady mix of ignorance, excitement and awe with ample doses of good behaviour.
 
The band members were enjoying their 'Tropical Break' in a strangely hot Bangalore, after their  chilling evening concerts in Tokyo, one of their favourite hunting grounds, prior to flying in. Their flowery batik shirts seemed to prune their age and spruce up sagging

skins. But the Sayonaras and Japan hadn't worn off as they kicked off the set with "My woman from Tokyo". Before the song ended with crashing cymbals and 'Morse feedback', everyone in the crowd were in their rightful places. Upfront, leaning against the barricades, close enough to catch the glint off Steve Morse's Stratocaster and the sweat dripping off Ian Paice's chin were the 'blessed few'. Remember it takes guts, muscle and fanaticism to be there. This bunch had it all. Packed back to sweaty back, this 'sauna set' stretched to almost a 100 feet from the stage, arms waving, lips synching and hips grinding. And then behind them was the majority of the crowd.
  

will go on. And as the memories rush in like water from a busted dam, middle-aged wrinkled faces burst into smiles, in sync to clapping hands and stomping legs swathed in wrinkle-free Teflon and Chinos.
 
And behind this chunk of mid-life humanity are the spectators. A masala mix of middle class morality. They have come just to be here. To check out what's so hot about a rock band whose average age is 50 years. Will they really be playing live or just singing to recorded tracks like Shan and Remo? Dragged away from the comfort of prime time TV to witness "the biggest concert ever". Not to be left out the next day when everyone discusses what real music those real men played. They had no clue to what was happening. They weren't really bothered to strain too much either.
 

The band went through their act effortlessly, churning out tune after tune. "Lucille" climbed into "Space truckin'". "Strange Kind Of Woman" veered off and merged into "Black Night". Each song had the live touch. John 'the Walrus' Lord, slicing through the dust filled night sky with his Hammond organ riffs on "Firball". Ian Paice just thundered along and gave "Speed King" the right throttle. Ritchie Blackmore lived through Steve Morse's guitar licks. Ritchie's ghost will always haunt Steve. I think he's getting used to it. Though the fans haven't. Pity, because Steve was looking so good. Roger Glover just stood there and played. The sweatband looked like it was holding his head in place. And Gillian crooned his way through, a scream here, a wail there. The crowd, high and happy on all the alcohol they had managed to gulp down before the show, was now slowly sobering down and ready for some slower stuff.