Workout tunes: Sanjoy Narayan puts together a playlist to help you flex

Hindustan Times

26-04-2025

I know this will sound sanctimonious, but the gym is my temple (there, I said it). It's a sacred space where sweat and steel forge resilience. For 28 years, I've leaned on the barbell. I'm a 65-year-old devotee still hitting the iron three to four days a week.
This journey began in my late-30s, as a tentative flirtation with weights. It was, in part, a response to an early health warning, but the weights soon became a full-blown obsession.
From the raw grit of 1970s classic rock to the cerebral pulse of modern jazz, I've scoured genres for the perfect sonic fuel to power my lifts. Here's how I went from punk rock deadlifts to squatting with Miles Davis — and why jazz became the ultimate soundtrack for strength-training.
My lifting odyssey began at 37. In addition to my health warning, I was inspired by the musician Henry Rollins's visceral essays on weightlifting. ('The Iron never lies to you,' he writes in one. 'You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get told that you're a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the real deal.')
His punk-rock ethos — raw, defiant, transformative — spoke to me as I navigated the chaos of midlife. I dove into punk, blasting the Black Flag album Damaged through my headphones as I tackled my first bench presses, Rise Above fuelling my fledgling grit.
The Ramones' Rocket to Russia powered my early lightweight deadlifts, its relentless simplicity a match for my debutant's zeal. Punk was loud, unpolished and urgent; perfect for a beginner finding his footing in an intimidating Mumbai gym.
As my commitment deepened in my 40s, so did my musical explorations. Punk's raw energy gave way to 1970s classic rock, the soundtrack of my teens. Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti became a staple, Kashmir driving my squats with its hypnotic cadence.
Deep Purple's Machine Head pushed my bench sessions, Highway Star coaxing one more rep from weary muscles. These bands, with their towering riffs, turned workouts into epic clashes, making each set a tiny bit easier to tackle.
For a while. I also dabbled in psychedelic rock, drawn to that genre's experimental edge. Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon lent a surreal calm to warm-ups, while Jefferson Airplane's Surrealistic Pillow added a trippy vibe to accessory work. But psychedelia lacked the punch required for heavy lifts.
Waylon Jennings's Honky Tonk Heroes had a rugged charm for kettlebell farmer's walks (that's one kettlebell in each hand), yet country felt too mellow. I tried folk, and found that Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks suited recovery sessions, but not the demands of a PR (personal record) attempt.
In the 2010s, I began to expand my playlists to include late-'80s and early-'90s gangsta rap. NWA's Straight Outta Compton hit like a sledgehammer, the raw aggression perfect for psyching up before a set. Public Enemy's It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back brought raging fervour to my squats, Chuck D's voice slicing through the clank of plates.
Wu-Tang Clan's Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) fuelled tough pull-ups, its gritty beats and sharp lyrics egging me on. Rap's unapologetic edge mirrored the defiance I felt, pushing my body through middle-age.
As I crossed into my 60s, though, my training crystallised. Compound exercises (a mix of squats, deadlifts, benches and overhead presses) became my mantra in my temple. They were frill-free exercises that build on decades of effort.
With this clarity came a new soundtrack genre: jazz.
I started with the masters. Miles Davis's Kind of Blue flowed through my warm-ups, its modal coolness setting a meditative tone. John Coltrane's A Love Supreme accompanied my squats, its spiritual depth echoing the focus of a heavy set. Charles Mingus's The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady brought frenetic energy to heavy deadlifts, while Ron Carter's bass lines on Speak No Evil anchored my dumbbell bench press.
Jazz isn't just music; it's a conversation. Its improvisational flow syncs with my lifts, the changing notes mirroring the instinctual adjustments of a well-executed rep. A great lift, like a great solo, demands precision and freedom, discipline and daring.
Modern jazz has deepened this connection. Kamasi Washington's The Epic brings cinematic grandeur to my sessions. Shabaka Hutchings's We Are Sent Here by History matches the fire of my heaviest days. Vijay Iyer's Break Stuff adds intellectual rigour to warm-ups, while André 3000's New Blue Sun offers meditative calm for cooldowns.
The new British jazz scene — Nubya Garcia, Moses Boyd, Ezra Collective — infuses my workouts with vibrant, relentless grooves.
Why jazz? Because it's not just about adrenaline (though jazz delivers that too). Lifting has its rhythm — inhale, brace, lift, exhale — and jazz, with its syncopated pulse and unpredictable turns, mirrors that perfectly.
In my mid-60s, I'm not chasing the reckless intensity of my 40s. I'm pursuing zen and the quiet power that a body can achieve. Jazz is the soundtrack for that pursuit, complex and soulful; a reminder that strength, like music, evolves.
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