Madeeha Syed gets through high security for a backstage peek at the most elusive recording studio in town.

I  drive several miles out of the main centre of the city, cross a bridge into an area dominated by warehouses and industrial mills and arrive at a venue marked only by a tiny sign. The only thing that gives the location away are the number of cars parked in front and the comings and goings of personnel with identity tags around their necks.

I announce my arrival via a phone call to Selina, who’s the official PR rep coordinating the (very few) guests, and she asks me to wait until she comes outside personally. She then runs me through the rules I know from last year: no photos, no blogging, no talking, and no taking information or anything else outside. Then, she makes a cryptic call to the people inside and, just when it’s the right time, brings me inside one of the large warehouses and escorts me upstairs. From the gallery, I can see that the mastermind behind the project, Rohail Hyatt – known to everyone inside as ‘Pa’ – and his team are hard at work .

Just attending some of the recordings at Coke Studio is like entering a high-security zone filled with government secrets. I can almost hear the James Bond theme playing in the background while all of this happens.

Looking around, I am hit by a wave of nostalgia as I was there when the last season of the Studio was shot. Saba, the backing vocalist from last season, is back this year and we exchange big bear hugs – an act which catches me off-guard since I had always held the impression that she was the ‘reserved’ kind. I then come face-to-face with a woman who inspires profound respect, awe, love and fear altogether. It’s ‘Ma’, Umber Hyatt, Rohail’s wife, the person who manages the off-floor operations with an almost maternal love, complete with the symbolic disciplinary mother’s slap if someone happens not to be doing what he/she is supposed to.

I had already gotten my dose of Ma several days ago for stealing one of the access tags (I had wanted a souvenir) and getting one of my ears lightly twisted while I fumbled in my bag for it, only to look up and find Ali Zafar munching away at his dinner, bearing witness to my mortification.  Ma and I laughed about it later on and, hopefully, Ali Zafar doesn’t remember this at all. This was just one of the many C-Studio moments that happened while season two was being shot. Everyone involved and witness to it was sworn to secrecy about whatever happened during the recording sessions. Now that the show is on air, I can finally let it all out.

You leave the real world when you enter the studio and kiss it goodbye for several hours. With the musicians and personnel involved literally shacking up for a couple of months till the final performances, everybody involved inevitably ends up forming bonds which then also translate into the music that is created. This year, only invited as a viewer, I missed the forming-of-bonds process that occurs and came only when it had already happened.

Coming in the early afternoon and leaving in the wee hours of the morning, I ended up forming bonds with the other individuals invited to ‘see’ the performances, one of which was an old friend, a ‘fashion’ journalist (in the music world?) henceforth referred to as MK. For me, he was the official blonde of the studio.

An example of an MK moment is this: after a performance, he turns to me and innocently says, ‘I thought matkas (traditional earthen-ware pots) were used just to store water… They (the musicians) are actually playing music with them!’ I was scandalised and, of course, I rushed to tell everyone about MK’s blasphemous (according to the religion of music) statement. ‘It is a very important part of our culture,’ responded Rohail, climbing up the stairs to the gallery area while I told him. His calm, not-too-bothered-attitude about the situation wasn’t what I was quite expecting since it let MK off the hook too easily. MK spent the next several days getting his revenge by picking and blowing up my little slips-of-tongue.

A particularly memorable moment ensued when Gupreet Channa – a tabla player/percussionist flown in from Canada – was set to do his solo as well as a collaboration with Gumby. The musicians crowded the gallery area as they were off the floor while Gupreet was being filmed. I remember waiting to hear some kind of beat, indicating that Gupreet had begun but was instead met with an odd sound that resembled a harp being plucked, but not in a way as to extend its note.

On my right sat Omran Shafique, who seemed to be caught up in what he was seeing on the floor. I asked him in a hushed tone when the performance was due to start to which he responded, ‘it already has.’ ‘But I can’t hear anything!’ I told him. ‘Of course you can,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the floor, ‘this sound is coming from the instrument – the hang (pronounced hung).’

I moved forward and looked down and, lo and behold, there was Gupreet magically tapping his fingers on the hang while everyone watched intently. What followed then was an interplay of music between Gumby and Gupreet, with the former on his drums. It was heartwarming to see two individuals communicate through music as they did. This was definitely a moment that involved not just those who were involved in it, but also those who were exposed to it. And that is the magic of the elusive studio.

Madeeha returns next week with more tales from the Studio.

(Photograph: Rohail and Umber Hyatt at the Coke Studio. – Rizwan-ul-Haq)