Colombo, the end of May; the skies were overcast with foreboding grey.
A whirlwind had gone through the city – pulling up century-old trees by their roots. I saw backhoes clearing the debris. But another storm was brewing inside the Women’s International Hall; a sonic one in nature.
I see familiar faces on my way in. I greet Yaz (my favourite musical journalist) before introducing myself to the Good Loud Brewer. The sound testing is going alright – the guys were chug, chug, chugging on their guitars. I head out and see Dinelka from ‘Orange Mango’ out by the tennis court with some others pre-gaming the heck out of each other. We shoot the breeze. It’s the scene. We are a family. This is what we do. Someone said the show was starting. We head in for the formalities.
Gratiaen detour
This was a fundraiser concert for the Indira Cancer Trust. I later learned that the show raised money to cover two whole days of operations. But I couldn’t stick around. The Gratiaen Prize was being announced so I had to hop to the other side of town to cover that too. A journalist’s work is never done.
After nearly two hours of snapping pictures. I hurry back to the show on three-wheels like a bat out of hell. It was about 9.30pm. The parking lot was full and I try my best to avoid my triggers. This was Misha and Chunky’s love letter to the scene – 30 years of music, 30 years of ‘Whirlwind’. Inside, ‘Genocide Shrines’ was in full swing and the windows were rattling. Outside; lots of hugs, lots of high fives and back slaps. This was all to it. We were the black-clad generation, the hell-bound. I could go on and on about being born into wars but the battle was always within. That music that went on inside – that was our soul. The scene is so old now that there are “old people” in the scene.
I cross mosh pits and head banging youth, and show the bouncer my backstage pass. Shayne from Stigmata hugs me immediately. Shayne is from Kandy, which makes them my family. There was a time when Kandy was called “Little Seattle” on the account of all the Grunge bands that came out of there. I can remember names like ‘Wolfpack’ and ‘Forlorn Hope’.
The ‘Stigs’ played and ‘Whirlwind’ came in last to cap it off. I couldn’t see it close because I had a bus to catch the next day. But I knew how it would end — with the same defiant roar we’ve carried for decades. Ten years will pass. Rockers will age. Their long hair might fall out. But that pulse, that power, that scene — it stays. The song remains the same. Even as the amps go silent and the mosh pits clear, the memory echoes louder than the riffs.
