Sitar Warehouse

Last weekend at the behest of our friend Kevin, Sarjeel and I accompanied our aforementioned friend to a performance of classical Indian Music. Where? The Hobby Center? Nope. Wortham or Jones Hall? Wrong again. It was at the very underground Free Range Studios. As the three of us (mind you our trio represented Iran, Pakistan, and Black America) approached what looked to be a rather shabby warehouse we were a bit hesitant. The last whispers of a post-industrial vermilion sunset were escaping, the pock-marked street was nearly deserted, and our awareness of our browness sharpened. But much to our relief we spotted a silver Mercedes accompanied by its a confidently exiting white owners. Clearly white Houstonians wouldn't be here unless they knew what was up.

We followed our alabaster guides just past a truly démodé chain link fence which betrayed the amazing performance that was to come. After a simple set of instructions from some very relaxed group of South Asians, the three of us Indophiles shuffled in what clearly looked like what has become surprisingly typical in Houston: a 'only if you know its here,' pan-visual & performing arts workspace. The warehouse, in long neglected and soon-to-be gentrified east Houston (quelle surprise), was replete with a strangely beautiful, semi-prostrate, giant Gumby, a cacophonous collection of painted works, and (my favorite) another random assortment of 'multi-culti' denizens of Houston.

Add one part accented English, one part gritty rationalism, one part honey-dipped aural pleasure, and shake until delightful.

Only a fool would assert that Houston's charm is easily accessible to the casual observer, but that is precisely what makes this city so much fun. You put in a little work, and follow some white folk and voila. We witnessed an amazing two and a half hour performance and left nearly teary eyed.