Group Therapy
I can’t quite remember how I came across the Above & Beyond listening session at the Middle Room at the Conservatory in Bangalore. I’m glad I did.
Above & Beyond is a group whose music I’ve absolutely loved, and often played as well. Short version of a very long story, I used to be a DJ, or at least play-acted one.
And I looked at this and, in some way, was like, huh, I should go listen to the music.
It’s not something I’d say to myself often, particularly because I was thinking, in that moment, that I’d go by myself. And that’s very much not me. I don’t go to movies alone. I don’t go out and eat dinner alone. These are not things I do very regularly.
Above & Beyond’s second album and streaming radio show is called Group Therapy.
I signed up online. One friend said he’d come. And I was really looking forward to it, which in and of itself was a new feeling for me.
I think it was raining.
The Conservatory has this bright red exterior. I walked up the stairs, checked in at the front desk, and they sat me down at a table. And I knew nobody there.
The Middle Room isn’t a big space. There’s a large couch with seating on the left, then some round tables, and a bunch of standing tables to the right. The DJ console is ahead, with these low-lit racks behind it illuminating a bunch of vinyl covers. The bar is at the extreme right, with a small kitchen behind it.
It’s a room Akhila Srinivas and Adithya Kidambi built for people to listen to music together, and it feels like that. (More on Akhila and her curatorial craft another day.)
The lighting is mostly red, but it makes the room feel warm. And the sound is absolutely luscious. Comfortable, a little sensuous, with texture to it, you know? The bass vibrates through your body rather than being a distant rattle. There’s the slight analogue warmth of vinyl, a needle tracing the grooves of a record.
The whole room feels a little bit like a hammam. Comfortable, a little sensuous, with texture to it, you know?
They start with a little bit of the music, and I’m looking around, and my first realisation is that nobody else gives a shit about who I am.
And then I think: I don’t really give a shit about who’s here either.
Maybe that was because nobody I knew was there. Maybe even if there had been people I knew there, it would have been the same. I don’t know.
Then the music kicks in.
I find myself bopping and swaying. I’m definitely the oldest person in the room, by far. I close my eyes. My hands are sometimes on the table, sometimes by my side, sometimes in the air. They’re at ease. For once they don’t have a job.
And then my friend joins me.
I’m aware that he’s there, but I don’t have to host him. I don’t have to check whether he’s having a good time, or explain the music, or make sure the evening is working for him. We’re in physical proximity, but I think I’m still in my own space.
Alone with someone.
And it feels like me on a good day.
I’m swaying to the music, closing my eyes, not giving a shit. Willing to receive. Willing to listen.
Could I have done this in front of people who knew me?
That remains untested.
The DJ identity offered me a particular kind of protection. I could give and play and control. I never had to be seen. I never had to receive. I could create the experience for everybody else without having to give in to it myself.
I never had to give in to the whole. This was a new experience for me, and I liked it.
Originally published on Substack on 19 July 2026. Read on Substack →