365 Ways With Words

At a Concert at St Maurice's

Before the image of Christ crucified, some with heads bowed, we are gathered in happy devotion — to entertainment. A brethren of deliciously unmoved bodies, perhaps all unhampered by prior yields to the cross, brought to the music, as moths to a lit candle. The magnificent altarpiece, a glittering spectacle of baroque majesty, serves  as a mere ornate focal point. Each image, altar and reliquary, intense donations of public reverence and prior devotion, now carry such little weight and affect such little impact, that the venue has little more than a restaurant's ambiance, and certainly not the numinous might of eternal mystery.

Maybe it's the dust, or the mundanity of a concert venue, or the unfamiliarity with the symbolic value of religious currency inherent with such a building — one that has remained upright and been in daily use for one thousand years — for the connection is a weak magnetism, a holiday sigh or a tourist's snap. The habituation of loonies who crawl on their bellies in silent thanks is not the place for honest, gentle and normal folks.

But then something happens: such feelings as these do not spring from supermarkets, banks or sports halls. The unfashionable term 'sanctity' has a hollow ring about it when 20 yards away the beer is poured beneath screens of footy bollocks, but perhaps that is what emerges when an hour or more is spent sitting in contemplation of a baroque altarpiece. The artists may rest in peace, the builders know that their job was well done, for it turned out that the music alone was not enough. Cold buildings with unforgiving pews obviously attract for quite other reasons than mere entertainment and comfort.

We come, we gather, we sit in silent attention, until waves of encored Elgar energy flow around and through us. It is a mystery, a shared experience we take, like our coats, from now into the future: blessed be the devoted, the moths, the candle lighter, the ignorant and the perplexed, the snoozer and the shopping list maker, for theirs is the shared Kingdom of Man, forever and ever, Amen.

Misha Maisky's Soul at the Reduta

Like sermons at weddings and eulogies at funerals, concert reviews can be tiresome things. You know they have to be done, and they probably bring to mind something important (and something you most likely missed), but they're something to skip over to the more satisfying comic strip page.

That is, unless you know someone in the concert. Then you might even cut out the review and keep it. If that isn't the case, then the eye might only dwell if the concert involved a famous name, or the review was of a seminal work you may have heard once upon a time. Even rarer still would be a concert review about a musician you didn't know performing something you hadn't heard before. Such, in all probability, is this review. But stick with it: I'd not heard of Misha Maisky either...

 

The evening kicked off with Smetana's Richard III. I'm a bit ambivalent when it comes to old Smetana (an opinion I am bound to keep to myself round these here Czech parts), but the Moravian Phil did their very best with this rather romantic symphonic poem. It's all a bit lush for my liking, but conductor Petr Vronský kept them together and pulled off what felt like a good romp. It was entertaining stuff even in the standing room only section overlooking the stage, I can tell you!

That Mischa Maisky, the esteemed Latvian cellist, is a master instrumentalist you can have no doubts. It's not that he's note perfect, he even looks the part of a virtuoso, with his long shaggy grey locks that mysteriously don't interfere with his left hand high upon the neck. He and the very excellent Korean violinist Jeongah Kim, in a long red silky number (see top pic), performed the mad Brahms double concerto with such aplomb (panache, style, grace, technical skill and however many other terms you like to throw about) that it sounded uncannily like the epic 1965 Albert Hall performance by Rostropovich and David Oistrakh. It was of no surprise, therefore, to learn that Maisky was tutored under Rostropovich at the Moscow Conservatory.

 

The two conversed with the ease of a long-married couple, synchronised like one mind, threw exciting ideas at each other as if they were opponents on debating teams and were tireless throughout like a team of two prized horses. Oh yes, and the Moravian Phil were in the room and helped out a bit too...

 

The second half was of Dvořák's cello concerto – you know, the famous one that goes daaah da-da daah, daaah da-da daaah! Again, Maisky put it all together with such consummate precision, that it felt that the orchestra were very certainly led by the towering performance of this little maestro. Not much more can be said other than it was perhaps the best performance of this piece to ever happen anywhere in the history of the world. Well, perhaps in the history of Olomouc.

Four encores later, he sat down again and performed the most exquisite jewel, the rarest gem, of the multi-faceted Bach cello suit no 2 (the Sarabande). The Youtube, although excellent, does not really do it justice – Maisky's come on a bit since it was recorded. He tore a portion of his very soul away and cast it with angelic grace into the audience. Long and weighted, he gave this demanding piece a devastating honesty and daring that transfixed the concert hall into a room of spiritual ecstasy. Real tears fell.

 

So, there you have it; a concert review about someone you may not know performing something you may never have heard before. This evening will stick in the memory, but not because of the stunning evening gown, the Smetana, Brahms or Dvořák, but because of the stunning working of Bach by the wonderful 66-year old. Oh yes, and I met him briefly afterwards to shake his hand and tell him as much.

Deep House (Cleaning)

withouttakingofftheirshoestheyflewontothebedandsleptasdawnbroke

Ithadbeenaverylongnight–earsstillrangandlimbsthrobbedwithexhaustion

By mid-morningtheyslowlyarosetosniffles,shufflesandcoughs

Lunchtime came andwentwithoutsomuchasaword(orabite)

The TV radiated a quiet,comfortingglowandactedasmeaninglessbackgroundnoise

That was OK, because they werenowupandaboutfixingasandwichhere,acuppateathere

This did them both good, so muchsothattheywentoutintothegardenforabitofair

Mid-afternoon, feeling more human, they set about cleaningtoahousemix!

The first beer on the patio brought up theirspirits,asdidavisitfromAndywhokindlybroughtabagofgrass

Dressed their best, they locked up: happy housers off again!

Old Heads on Young Bodies

Music!

A sexy girl

Appearing for you

In 1950s full colour

She is young and pretty

A stripper happily stripping

But something's not quite right:

A bygone head; someone's old mum

Such twisted strangeness in attraction

Best unseen, exciting as a bag of oranges

Sexual misgivings – all motherhood and family

Grandma hair, restrained, with a tasteful demeanour

Put the kettle on, love – Oh me stiff old bones! – well done dear

Twenty-Five Years-On

 

The beat was in. At least, that's how it felt for many. The new dance music craze that made such an impact in the UK charts reflected a wider dance scene emanating from the clubs. And, in many cases, that impact was greater than was understood at the time.

 

Freddy Mercury remarked that Queen's songs were as mere disposable tissues, to be heard once and thrown away. This gross underestimation of the lasting significance of Queen can also be applied to those early pioneers of the electronic dance scene. I'm sure they didn't realise that their tunes would alter popular music for a generation. For them it was all about the now.

 

People may always have had something to dance to, but the scene of the late 80s and early 90s was different in that the overall dance vibe was incredibly positive – higher and higher, good life, back to life. This positivity, reflected in many of the lyrics and in the atmosphere the clubs tried to generate, must be seen in contrast to the ultra-dramatic death-and-gore focuses of Heavy Metal of the 70s and 80s and in the earlier anti-social outcast rants of Punk. Dance music was much pilloried as being industrially manufactured fantasy, but that didn't really seem to matter. Indeed, if many of the tunes sounded similar then it made the DJs job easier, a crucial matter when he/she drove the club's sound into the night and could literally play on until the sun rose.

 

The proof of the pudding, it must be supposed, was in the dancing, and that's just what 'de kids' did. Going to the club became an almost-religious activity. In addition, club life spilled into mainstream culture as the tunes were integrated into TV programmes, films and radio ads. It affected the growth in holiday dance destinations like Ibiza and the Full Moon Party in Koh Pha Ngan, a global trend that shows no sign of slowing down.

 

By the mid-80s 120 bpm Disco had largely drifted out of favour, but by the end of the decade jerky electronic beat-driven tunes were in the ascendancy. It became a focus on the eternal energy beat of 130+ bpm. All-night raves sprang up wherever people could arrange electricity (abandoned factories, empty fields) and this freedom to party frightened the authorities who pounced on such organisers wherever and whenever they could. Drugs were very much part of the scene, but whereas auto-destructive heroin would have been Punk's métier, and mind-numbing alcohol kept the heads banging for Metalists, MDMA made its emotional impact and LSD expanded the consciousness of those all-night happy ravers.

 

Dance music is still in, although in retrospect the early pioneers of the genre look like a bunch of quaint and innocent youths. Now a sophisticated, money-making industry, it continues to attract those with novel ideas and new takes on what is probably one of the oldest activities of mankind – shaking one's booty! The sophistication has expanded the 'scene' beyond the positive uplifting vibe and has divided into ever-more refined areas – industrial, house, hardcore, gabba, techno, leftfield, etc. The net effect has been an exciting cross-over of youthful enthusiasm into mainstream culture in terms of art, multi-media events and popular entertainment.

 

This short review merely skims the surface of the outpouring of early 90s music culture, but that some are still talking about it shows its lasting importance: that some still play it shows its endurance. It will be interesting to see quite where this genre takes us.

An Exercise

Here's a game you can play, either by yourself or with like-minded friends. You need only an open mind. It has two variants, short and long, and can be applied to almost any endeavour to which you aspire. The beauty of this game is that the more you play, the better you should get at playing it. The benefit of this game is that the more seriously you take it the more you should improve in whatever it is you are doing.

Variant A, 10:1 – for 10 seconds the player is to focus on an idea, an image, a tune, a speech, etc. It could be the first thing that pops into the head, or something already prepared. Then for 1 minute the player is to relate, draw, sing, play, talk or do whatever they have decided to do.

The important thing is that after the 10 seconds prep there should be no hesitation for the rest of that minute. This is difficult at first, particularly if the player is shy or has little faith in their abilities. When they inevitably break down into stuttering, repetition or embarrassing shoe-staring they are to be congratulated on what they have done and given encouraging and helpful suggestions for improvement: faltering can be overcome with dedication and more practice. It is really an exercise in creativity.

Variant B, 30:5 – this is simply an extension of the former, but because the time is longer the valuable 30 seconds thinking time must go beyond the initial idea onto considerations about how to extend it for the full five minutes. This might be easier with something like drawing or speaking, activities that usually take as long as needed to conclude, yet therein lies the discipline – the topic/subject must be suitably concluded within that time, no more and no less.

Although this format is usually applied to things like slam poetry or rap lyrics, within the Toastmasters group this is an established discipline held at each meeting, but with a slight difference: each speaker is given 30 seconds and is supposed to speak for one- to two-minutes. It sounds a doddle, but the half-minute prep flies past like five seconds and the two minutes speech can seem an eternity. God knows I've stood up thinking I can easily put a speech together only to find all the ideas gone and a barely-coherent ramble ensue, yet on other occasions can put together an epic speech from nothing!

These games have an interesting heritage, particularly in the art world. Famously, the sculptor Henry Moore found the huddled figures hiding in the London Underground during the Blitz of 1940-41 of momentous emotional import. He would rapidly sketch the sleeping and sheltering figures, a necessity because he did not want to intrude on the privacy of the sleeping civilians. His quick sketches were to support imprints on his visual memory to create "volumes without the need to use shadows". Capturing the essence of figures without the artifice of setting them up in poses, he would later use the sketches to complete more dramatic and thoughtful compositions.

Below is a short on Henry Moore. The importance of the underground drawings is highlighted from about 1:50

 

This exercise is also a good game to try at the pub where each player will already be in a relaxed frame of mind. Give it a go with sketching, improvising, speech-making or anything else you might consider fun – stick at it and you will improve!

Mountain Girl and the Foundation of the Hippies

Unless we keep our ears and eyes open surprises may not often come our way. So often the drudgery of daily lives keep our attention fixed on the road beneath our feet, so that we forget our past and neglect to look up towards our future. But if we allow, surprises may emerge from almost anywhere.

Owning three dogs I get out walking a lot. Each day I take them for a long ramble beside the Moravia river here in the eastern Czech Republic: it allows for some necessary headspace. In that time I've been able to listen to podcasts, audiobooks and lectures that have tickled my fancy. In 2011 I subscribed to the Psychedelic Salon (main website is here), a hotchpotch of podcasts that verge from the weird and wacky to the life changing. If nothing else they provoke thought, even on those well-considered opinions we may cherish or fiercely defend. Sneering aside, the main 'psychedelic' element is the acceptance that altered mind states (which can be simply dreaming, let alone acid trips) are something we should encounter and explore as a starting point towards an ever- expanding universe of intellectual and experiential knowledge: the world looks truly different once you have been to the other side.

Carolyn Garcia's talk at the 2008 World Psychedlic Forum in Basel consisted of personal reminiscences that included the birth of the West Coast psychedelic scene within which she moved and lived in the late 1960s. An associate of the Merry Pranksters, she was able to see and experience first-hand the way in which the stilted life of consensualist post-war America was shaken up by the inclusion of mind-altering substances. This scene developed its own new alternative and counter-culture lifestyle, specifically within the San Francisco Haight Ashbury area where hitherto much-maligned flowery term 'hippies' was coined; it really encapsulated an appreciation of all that was 'hip' or cool. Early on within that miliau she was given the moniker Mountain Girl by Oregonite Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Garcia's inclusion as the den mother and feeder of the great Grateful Dead as they began their decades of transcendent musical experimentation and performances really came about as a result of her relationship with lead singer Jerry Garcia whom she married, had kids with and later divorced. She gets very emotional when describing the band's performances and their marriage and she emphasizes that many of the songs were specifically written with high emotional content and she comments about this in response to one of the subsequent audience questions.

Although of poor sound quality, the podcast is, perhaps, the best first-hand account of the times and a good resource for anyone interested in all things associated with The Dead. I refer to it because it was such a wonderful surprise – a real gem of a retelling of a wild and exciting life the rest of us mere mortals can only imagine. The podcast is found here and also here. Go on, dig it, man!

Sumer Is Icumen In

So soft has this European winter been, so wet and warm, that one could be forgiven for believing that the cold, dark and brutal winters of yesteryear are gone forever. In the December weeks leading to Christmastide there was a introductory nip of minus degree weather and it was commonly accepted that the icy claws of the north were extended ready to rake in field and town. But this cold snap, which lasted short of 14 days, was hurriedly buffeted away by the current warm spell that appears to be here to stay. Even today above the Czesky Republiky is a beautiful blue sky and the bright sun has early begun its chase of the night's wispy fog across the open, empty fields.

Hedgehogs have emerged to feast on cold wriggly worms in the mud and the hopeful twig-end buds on the sycamores are preparing to burst. Just what on earth's going on round here?

North Americans are currently in no doubt about winter as they perceive with horror just how bad a -60˚F (-51˚C) polar vortex can be. The poor Brits have also welcomed in the New Year with poor weather – flooding, winter storm surges and torrential rain may just be an annual occurance.

With all of this in mind, possibly the oldest earworm tune in history merrily played itself over the first cup of tea of the day, Sumer is Icumen In. This mid-13th century polyphony, written on beautiful parchment, is on display at the British Museum. It holds an innocent medieval charm that tenderly describes the signs of late summer in typical jocular English humour – in particular, the line 'the bullock prances, the buck farts'. Attempts to bawdlerise this line in particular have always made it funnier than it really is.

 

You've also probably heard it under different guise when the mice on Bagpuss's Marvellous Mechanical Mouse Organ sing the tune with alternative words as they clean and repair the object of the episode. I include it below simply to enforce this earworm and offer no apology: it is a nice thing to have running around your head all day. And maybe –just maybe– it will help maintain the nice weather here and hasten the return to warmer weather wherever you are (Australia excluded).

 

She Played the Number 5 In D

 

Again, and again, the notes rose and fell in the right, but they remained stubbornly arrhythmic, or more precisely, stuck together in clumps of ugly misshapen threes. The left hand maintained the simple tapping of the root of whatever was going on in the right, but no matter what she did the regular right-hand certainties of Bach evaded her, like a precise architectural sketch smudged by a continuous downpour, except downpours usually stop after a little persistence; hers was more of a eternal drizzle.

The exercises her teacher had directed, Czerny mostly, were intolerably dull. Each day, the keyboard lid was pushed up and the hour's practice began with 15 minutes on the limbering scales, then a quick tour of the arpeggios and then a section of Czerny. She couldn't see the point of bloody Czerny – if you needed a particular way to move your fingers for a particular piece then surely you practiced that way and only that way. Why waste time drumming up combinations of 13542, 13452, 13254 and so on? She once told her teacher how much she hated doing these things. He had listened, apparently thinking, and then told her to get on with them anyway.

Bach's mathematical constructions weren't too bad, but her real love was Beethoven. There was something robust about Beethoven, particularly his strong themes and exact repetitions. The romantic allure allowed, if not downright encouraged, a delicious laxity in timing when played. If you slowed because it was a bit difficult – well, who was to know that it wasn't just part of the piece, your artistic interpretation? She drew out the Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, particularly the lilting Adagio cantabile movement, for as many weeks as possible and almost cried when, having forgotten herself and played it beautifully to him one afternoon, he simply placed a large tick in the top corner of the page to signify 'done'. Playing Beethoven she was the gifted daughter in a Jane Austin drawing room wowing the bitchy, spiteful ladies and curious, attractive gentlemen arrayed before here on rows of low chairs. After all, Jane Austin heroines didn't play Bach, did they?

 

In desperation she'd even flicked through the introduction to her book of Bach's 48 Preludes:

"One thing, however, is quite certain; viz. that before anything "pianistic" is attempted by way of free translation, the student should have thoroughly mastered Bach's exact part-writing as written, and should be able to express its climaxes distinctly without adding or altering a note."

"Damn you!" she said out loud in response. "Damn you for making it difficult, so damn difficult." She attacked the right hand again and again, as before, but it was no good. After ten minutes she gave up, slammed the lid down and stormed off.

Sitting, arms crossed, she watched Coronation Street with her parents. Her mum glanced over. Something was obviously up (again): tickling her hair, she asked, but got the teen shrug.

On the phone, when they'd all gone out, she talked to Amelia, "So, I can't play it, I just can't."

"Why not tell him you can't. Tell him and see if he'll give you something easier."

She drew a big 'A' for Amelia on the pad next to the wall-mounted phone. "I can't. Besides, he'd only say I have to practice it more. He'll probably give me another page of Czerny to loosen up, or whatever he calls it." Next to the 'A' she embellished an angry 'C' for Czerny.

"Well, tell him you don't like Bach. Get him to give you something else to play."

"Mmm... yes, but actually, I quite like Bach, when it's done properly. I just wish it was something a bit easier." In the narrow space between the 'A' and the 'C' she inserted a 'B' for Bach.

Before ascending the stairs for bed, she glanced at the phone pad. 'ABC' glowered back at her. She was calmer after her bath, but her mood darkened when she remembered the earlier secretive phone call. Her dreams of running for departing buses left her exhausted by the morning and she was silent during breakfast. Her mother kissed the top of her head (again) and called her poppet (again). It breached her outer defences and made her smile.

That afternoon, she shuffled the music on the stand and opened the Bach Prelude Number 5 page next to her music teacher. "I..." she faltered, then remembering Amelia's words steadied herself, "I don't want to do this any more. This piece."

"Oh!" he abruptly replied, more of a question than a comeback. "Why?"

"It's just... I can't get it right. It's too difficult. Here–" She pointed to the faltering section. "Can't you give me something easier to do?"

"Simpler?" He inwardly considered the term in comparison to the exacting heights of 'difficult' he'd had to assault as a pianist and accompanist– assault and sometimes fail. "No, I don't think so. It's only difficult because you haven't got it right yet. I recommend Czerny – pages..." He thumbed through the well-thumbed book of finger exercises.

There – she was instantly defeated. She sat petulantly, going through the section of exercises; triples, quadruples, quintuples, and so on. They were nothing more than meaningless arpeggio phrases. Her mouth was downcast and she considered jumping up, telling him to go to hell and storming off. But then, way before he normally did and after only a handful of repetitions, he picked up the Czerny and closed it.

"Back to the Bach." he ordered.

She picked up the dog-eared edition and turned to the dog-chewed page upon which were scrawled his hideous pencil markings – circles here, fingering sequences there, dynamic emphasis all over the place. She sighed. He ignored. She started, but he said, "No, not from the beginning. From there–" he pointed to the difficult bit. She began from there and couldn't believe what happened. Her fingers glided over the section she was sure was the breaking of her. He stopped her and told her to play it again. She did and played it even better the second time. He made her repeat it ten times or more and each time it seemed to improve one way or another.

At the end of the half-hour he wrote in her lesson book and smiled a little, waiting for her to leave. At the door, she turned and smiled the briefest of satisfactory smiles back at him. It was better, much better, than even he had expected.

 

Catchy Songs, Kitschy Songs, Bad Songs

No, age has not softened them – they really were that bad. These pitiless earworms will have you humming their ridiculous tunes long after you've closed the browser. That was the point – they were a bit catchy.

Novelty songs have been around since Nobby the Trubador waffled out a new jaunty version of Summer Is Icumen In, but Tin Pan Alley, made them into an art form – there's certainly something about catchy songs, but then there's kitschy songs and just plain bad ones.

The 70s may have been the heyday of the kitschy singles, but they popped up decades before – try a bit of Rosemary Clooney's 1954 hit Mambo Italiano. It may not be a bad song, but it's right up there with Class A kitsch.

 

Unfortunately, that decade was full of terrible catchy kitsch – try not to like this extraordinary effort:

 

By the 60s more money could to be made if the right combination of kitsch and beat style caught the public's ear. Snoopy vs The Red Baron is perhaps one of the worst.

 

Thus, the popular novelty song was born and went on to diversify into other music genre areas. I suppose this all begs the question, what is kitschy? Is a kitschy song necessarily a bad one? After all, we all like our ears tickled. How about this one: catchy tune, tacky kitsch or bad moneyspinner?

 

The 70s took all this to a new, excruciating level. Try this one first:

 

I remember particularly hating this piece of nonsense:

 

The novelty record branched out into other areas – albums and even whole operas based on a theme, for example Rick Wakeman's concept albums, each with increasing titles; The Six Wives of Henry VIII, Journey to the Centre of the Earth and The Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. The 70s also witnessed the birth of the rock musical and Andrew Lloyd Webber's Jesus Christ Superstar – nuff said.

Kitschy songs were properly the domain of international (read holiday) music scene. How many blithering idiots clapped along to this childish drivel in family-freindly clubs on the Costa del Sol only the devil and his little bastard demons know. It did so well the Wurzels then regurgitated it as I Am A Cider Drinker (I leave you to decide which cheesy offering is worse).

 

And whilst we're in Spain, we can blame the entire Iberian peninsula for this particularly nasty disco Eurohit:

 

Catchy songs crossed the Atlantic quicker than a concord pilot's cocaine snort. Here's a particularly ghastly one you thought you'd forgotten:

 

And this cheerful blackboard scratching went in the other direction – or did it? It was certainly released here by a junior from a particularly successful and fruitful Mormon family, but does that make the whole American nation culpable? I think so.

 

Kitsch songs often feature a lot of old people – possibly because the bought record was endowed with magic powers that enabled the transference of syrupy sentiment between the absent family and the abandoned biddy slowly dying in the old people's home. How many lonely Christmases were assumed 'comforted' by the gift-wrapping of There's No One Quite Like Grandma?

 

Or forgotten Fathers Days for smelly old Grandad?

 

It wasn't all the domain of the old, oh no, but I would rather tear off parts of my anatomy with a rusty garden trowel than listen to this projectile vomitous more than once:

 

Of course, dreaful kitschy songs are not wholly the responsibility of the English-speaking music industry. Try this one from by Leon Lai that ran and ran, like a dose of the trots, back in our early years in Hong Kong:

 

The French have been particularly guilty of providing good cause for the continued employment of the guillotine by sending out enough kitsch to fill a tourine of salmonella-infused snails several times over. In 1977 two millenia of Gallic culture ended with this:

 

And in a cruel twist, as if to emphasise just how bad things could get, they later added a fifteen-year old to irrevocably turn the UK population into a nation of slathering pedophiles.

 

And there, overwhelmed by nausea, I must stop. Each year novelty, kitsch and just plain awful songs are released onto a defenceless population and each year they get worse. If you want to add a particularly awful song (there are thousands) then add it in the comment box.

I leave one last ultra-kitschy song, primarily because it is half-redeemed by Lofty's sweet tenor croonyness, and partly-because I bought and still possess a copy signed after a show they gave at the White Rock Pavillion, Hastings in the summer of 1975. Windsor Davies called the 8-year old me, "Lovely Boy!" and I was as proud as punch for the rest of the holiday – and forever more.