Em creeps in with a pie

Reminder (summary: scroll down to click on “view original post”!):

Brilliant Britten pastiches in fiction and song by Stella Gibbons and Dudley Moore!

Stephen Jones: a blog

I noted that inConference at Cold comfort farm (1949) Stella Gibbons predicted the whole Cultural Heritage flapdoodle. And again, long before Jo Brand, she was no less prescient about the comic potential of the pie.

She sends up much of the avant-garde—including (sic) Benjamin Britten, whose Peter Grimes had been premiered in 1945. Here she gives a resumé of Bob Flatte’s new opera The Flayed:

For the benefit of readers who are not familiar with the work of Flatte it may be remarked that The Flayed is typical of his latest and most powerful manner, and deals with the tragedy of two types named Stan Brusk and Em Wallow, living in a Bedfordshire village. Em is Stan’s girl, but he loses her to Bert Scarr when the latter comes to work in the local tanning factory. Stan Brusk is a sadist who derives pleasure from tanning…

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Famine: Ukraine and China

Reminder (summary: scroll down to click on “view original post”!):

For Holodomor Commemoration Day: famines in Ukraine and China

Stephen Jones: a blog

LHJ 456 Kings detail North Shanxi, Ten Kings ritual painting, detail: see here.

*Companion to two posts on the fates of blind bards in Ukraine and China*

Hunger, malnutrition, and famine are an essential backdrop to the lives and cultures of people we meet doing fieldwork in China, including expressive culture and ritual. They loom large in the life stories of peasants whom I’ve got to know—like the villagers of Gaoluo in Hebei, and the inhabitants of Yanggao county in Shanxi (see below). And I haven’t even visited the worst-affected regions, like Henan, Anhui, or Gansu.

Yet this is just the kind of memory that the rosy patriotic nostalgia and reifications of the Intangible Cultural Heritage project are designed to erase.

I began by writing about expressive culture under state socialism in Ukraine and China, and I’ve given links to some basic readings on the Chinese famineGlobally, one might also…

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Native American cultures 2: the Navajo

Reminder (summary: scroll down to click on “view original post”!):

This post on Navajo ceremonial and musical traditions (part of a series on Native American cultures) now includes a link to the major role of Navajo women in controlling the pandemic

Stephen Jones: a blog

Was advised to stay in the car.

—David McAllester, 22nd September 1950.

Squaw danceThe Squaw dance: undated early photo by Joseph Howard McGibbeny (1891–1970).

With Bruno Nettl’s wise reflections on Native American musical cultures in mind, among the many groups that he and others have studied, I’ve been trying to get a basic grasp of the ceremonies of the Navajo (Diné) [1]—most populous among the indigenous peoples in the southwestern USA (Hopi, Pueblo, Apache, Yuma, Pima, and so on).

Again, apart from the intrinsic merits of such research, the topic suggests fruitful perspectives for our studies of Chinese folk ritual and the sacred–secular continuum.

Here’s a basic map:

map SW

and a map of the Navajo territories:

map From Titon (ed.), Worlds of music.

Modern Navajo history is just as troubled as that of other indigenous peoples—savage army repression from the 1840s leading to the Long Walk of 1864, followed by…

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Cowbells: Mahler, Messiaen, and Bill Bailey

Mahler, a constant inspiration, got me exploring cowbells (wiki: here and here).

For Mahler they represented a far-away realm, “the last greeting from earth to penetrate the remote solitude of the mountain peaks”—suggesting Chinese poetry and painting (cf. Das Lied von der Erde).

He uses them in the 6th symphony, most strikingly (sic) in the first movement, where they feature (along with celeste!!!) in a pastoral vision that suddenly interrupts the trampling jackboots—in my post, on Bernstein’s performance from 12.05, or on Barbirolli’s recording from 8.24. This brief refuge is itself brashly crushed (Bernstein 15.01).

In a later revision to the score Mahler added this typically generous instruction:

Die Herdenglocken müssen sehr diskret behandelt werden—in realistischer Nachahmung von bald vereinigt, bald vereinzelt aus der Ferne herüberklingenden (höheren und tieferen) Glöckchen eine weidenden Herde—Es wird jedoch ausdrücklich bemerkt, dass diese technische Bemerkung keine programmatische Ausdeutung zulässt.

—which, in the spirit of David Pesetsky, I’m tempted to translate as “inaudible”, only it’s a useful insight into his vision—notably the final “this technical remark does not allow for a programmatic interpretation”.

Cowbells appear in the slow movement and finale too. But Thomas Peattie (“Mahler’s Alpine journey”, Acta musicologica 83.1, 2011) unpacks their complex associations, refining the literal programmatic interpretations of critics, and noting that such apparently bucolic scenes are both fractured and fleeting: Utopia as an illusion.

Mahler used cowbells again in the 7th symphony; church bells appear in the 2nd and 3rd symphonies, and sleigh bells in the 4th. For bells in Bach’s soundscape, click here.

Cowbells also appear in Richard Strauss’s Alpine symphony. And they made a natural choice for Messiaen—part of his huge battery of tuned and untuned percussion, along with xylophone, marimba, woodblocks, and so on (not to mention piano and ondes martenot). Cowbells feature in a group of three wonderful works from the early 1960s: Sept haïkaï (with inspirations from gagaku and Noh!), Couleurs de la cité céleste, and Et exspecto resurrectionem mortuorum.

But that’s enough about WAM! Organology (Sachs-Hornbostel 111.242; cf. the cheesegrater) classifies cowbells as with or without clapper, tuned or unturned, externally struck or not.

Typically (cf. Whistled languages), they are considered as endangered: here’s a heritage project on the manufacture of cowbells in Alcáçovas, in the Alentejo region of Portugal:

And here’s Bill Bailey (currently a Strictly favourite) presiding over a charming rendition of The swan:

But what about the cows, eh? Here’s a health warning for them—”PC gone mad, if you ask me…” And now we have the headline

Swiss health authorities advise public against watching oom-pah bands

With the north Chinese ritual shengguan ensemble never far from my thoughts, I’m reminded of the yunluo frame of ten pitched gongs that adds a numinous halo to the wind instruments (e.g. playlist #8, in sidebar, commentary here). No longer part of the ensemble in north Shanxi, it should be!

Anna Mahler—Groucho, and sculpture

Anna Mahler. Source here.

This post leads from the ridiculous to the sublime, so don’t despair.

Courtesy of slippedisc.com, here’s a challenge to the imagination: on 2nd January 1952 the sculptor Anna Mahler, daughter of Gustav and Alma, appeared as a contestant on the Hollywood radio quiz show You bet your life, with Groucho Marx as host. Not just OMG, but

O––––M––––G…

It epitomises the Chinese expression kuxiaobude 哭笑不得, which is somehow more expressive, more versatile, than “not knowing whether to laugh or cry”. Anna tries her luck over the first 11 minutes here:

Undeterred, whether desperate or legally bound (both Anna and Groucho were struggling at the time), she came back for more the very next day for the TV version; thankfully it doesn’t seem to appear online—though in a masochistic kind of way, that too would be hard to resist.

The life of Anna Mahler (1904–88; see also here and here) was just as eventful as that of her mother Alma. Anna’s older sister Maria died in 1907 aged 5; her father in 1911, aged 50; and her half-sister Manon Gropius (the “angel” to whom Berg dedicated his exquisite violin concerto) died at the age of 18 in 1935.

Anna’s first two marriages, to conductor Rupert Koller and composer Ernst Krenek, were short-lived. Having trained in painting, by 1930 she gravitated to sculpture.

After another divorce, she fled the Anschluss in 1938, living in Hampstead and marrying conductor Anatole Fistoulari; their daughter Marina was born in 1943. Following the war she made a home, without her husband, in California, before divorcing yet again in 1956. She returned to London after Alma died in 1964, going on to live in Spoleto from 1969 and taking a fifth husband. She died while visiting Marina in Hampstead in 1988; you can read Ernst Gombrich’s address at her funeral here.

Anna’s father had been fêted in New York, both as conductor and composer, from 1908 to his death in 1911—Groucho, then in his late teens and making his way in vaudeville, could even have attended his concerts. Still, by 1952 he could be forgiven for having but a sketchy awareness of the composer’s towering work—it was some years before the craze for his music that took off in the 60s, often associated with Bernstein and Barbirolli (besides Mahler tag, more links here).

Like Harpo, public persona aside, Groucho was thoughtful and cultured: normal conversation between him and Anna might have been urbane. It’s the superficial format that reduces the encounter.

On the show, although Groucho would already have had background on his guests, he does at least sound suitably impressed to learn of Anna’s parentage and Viennese background, trying out his “old-world charm”. While he doesn’t do his Margaret Dumont routine on her, his badinage almost rescues the occasion: it would have been even more cringeworthy with Yer Average vapid quiz-show host quipping his way through such ritual exchanges. Anna puts on a brave face, right up to Groucho’s final question “What kinda fruit do you use in a peach pie?”

* * *

Just around this time J.D. Salinger was elaborating the precocious, mystically-inclined child characters of the Glass family, whom he portrayed as making long-term appearances on the radio quiz show It’s a wise child from 1927 to 1943. And John Cage‘s 1959 appearances on the Italian TV show Lascia o radoppia (“Double or quit”) were based on his serious sideline as an erudite mycologist.

All this was long before politicians learned that there’s no such thing as bad publicity, submitting to ritual humiliation by trying in vain to Get Down with the Kids (think Anne Widdecombe, George Galloway—actually, no, don’t).

And it almost makes the various Monty Python spoofs (like this, with Marx, Lenin, Che Guevara, and Mao struggling over questions on football and pop music) seem perfectly plausible.

But actually, why the hell not? The music of Anna’s own father is testimony to the synthesis of high and popular art (cf. Alan Bennett, in coda here; What is serious music?!; Dissolving boundaries; and Strictly north Shanxi Daoist ritual).
[Well, I gave that a trial spin, but I still listen to the show peering through my fingers from behind a sofa.]

* * *

Apart from her stone sculptures, Anna’s work included busts of Berg, Schoenberg, Furtwängler, Klemperer, and Walter, as well as Schoenberg’s death mask.

So as an antidote to You bet your life, we can recover with Anna’s exquisite 1954 film A stone figure, made over several months, in which she not only provides the instructive voiceover but also plays Bach for the soundtrack—somehow one feels a deep connection with her father (for his relation with Bach, see here):

“Talking of Michelangelo” (and Groucho knew T.S. Eliot! I rest my case), I remain fond of the apocryphal comment on how to create a sculpture of an elephant: “Just chip away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant.”

Momentarily

Having been reading wa-ay too many reports on the US elections (YAY!), I keep stubbing my metaphorical toe on the common American use of the word “momentarily” to mean, um, “soon”.

Mark Liberman explores the issues on Languagelog, under “Peeves” (cf. Stack exchange). (For a bête noire of mine, see Reaching a crescendo, or not.)

As usual (cf. OMG), the usage goes back a long way—in this case to at least 1798. But more recently it is the Americans who have clung to the meaning of “soon”. The discussion also mentions “momently”, also early but now obsolete.

As many observers have commented, for Brits new to flying in the States it’s most disconcerting to hear the pilot announcing “We will be taking off momentarily”; since one hopes that having achieved altitude we might be able to remain airborne for quite some time, one surely expects a rather more upbeat prediction. At the other end too, Dick Cavett’s comment

When the flight attendant would say, “We will be landing in Chicago momentarily,” I used to enjoy replying, “Will there be time to get off?”, 

inspires a brilliantly pedantic thread, which needn’t detain us here.

I also support the objection that “momentarily” sounds like “an attempt to be fancy” [Objection sustained—there’s another thing we don’t get to say over here].

Anyway, I’m always glad of an excuse to cite Airplane. For a fine mid-air tannoy story, click here; for further divergent US/UK usages, here, here, and even here; see also And I’m like.

This, from BBC news only last week, was suspiciously prophetic (reporter waiting round dark corner with baseball bat):

Diego Maradona is to have emergency surgery caused by a head injury in the next few hours.

Public health announcement!

One of the great creations of 2020, “informing, educating, and entertaining” à la BBC, is Wear a mask by Noah Lindquist and Ashley Young—the catchiest public health announcement ever, worth celebrating now that the incumbent of the White House and scientists are no longer singing from a different hymn-sheet:

It’s a parody of “Be our guest” from the late Disney movie Beauty and the beast (1991)—its melody charmingly reminiscent of a theme from the first movement of Mahler 3 (from 11.05 and 28.51 in Bernstein’s performance there).

Apart from the musical production values (worthy of Family Guy), the lyrics are priceless—such as

Try not to be so grouchy
Have some faith in Fauci

From the archives

Don’t like to boast, but in this early photo I am preparing my review of the Sanskrit translation of the pop-up version of Wittgenstein’s Tractato logico-philosophicus.

Arsenal 1958Soon I would even learn to tie my own shoe-laces—which stood me in good stead for joining the Arsenal forward line-up (hard to make out in the grainy TV footage of the day, since I was so small, which made me tough for burly defenders to mark) for a record transfer fee of 4 guineas.

Meanwhile I made my Carnegie Hall debut with my own arrangement of the complete Bach cello suites for kazoo. And the rest isn’t history.

See also Wisdom of the elders, and A modest literary pedigree.

Nearly an Italian holiday

Recently a friend living in Istanbul, who regularly visits her grown-up children in London, remarked on her shortest ever flight home.

This put me in mind of [cf. Alan Bennett’s Sermon] a story that I just can’t track down—I want to quote the original, but I’ve scoured my groaning bookshelves in vain. * Anyway, until I do find it, I’ll offer you a rough version, which I’m sure is more elaborate, as is the way with oral retellings:

An elderly Italian-American (I’ll call him Luigi) who hasn’t been back to Italy since emigrating to Chicago in his 20s, decides to take a short trip to see Rome again. Dozing off on his flight, he wakes up when the plane touches down on a stopover in New York; so in a daze, delighted that the time has passed so quickly, he gets off. Impressed by the smooth efficiency of Italian passport control, he makes his way to the cab rank, asking the driver, in Italian, to take him to a reasonably-priced hotel downtown. The cab driver is Italian, of course, so they chat away as he takes Luigi to his hotel.

Naturally the receptionist is also Italian, so after checking in he asks her to recommend a nice little family-run trattoria nearby. And so it goes on… In blissful ignorance Luigi spends a happy few days in New York like this, marvelling at how much Rome has changed. He pauses to admire a zampogna and piffero duo on the street. Somewhat surprised to see so much “I ♥ NY” merchandise in the souvenir shops, he puts it down to the relentless march of globalisation; but eventually he finds an “I ♥ Rome” T-shirt, and a cute little plastic model of the Colosseum (which he just hasn’t managed to find time to visit), buying them from the (Italian) assistant to take back proudly to Chicago with him.

So near and yet so far… I really must find the original. Sounds rather like David Sedaris, Beppe Severgnini, or perhaps George Mikes, but no luck yet. Please help, someone!

For more Italian jaunts, click here; and for a touring game, here.


* Cf. the boring prophets in The life of Brian:

And there shall be a great confusion as to where things really are, and nobody will really know where lieth those little things wi- with the sort of … raffia-work base that has an attachment.

The global art market

Soon after the Yuan-dynasty scroll Five Drunken Princes Returning on Horseback fetched £32 million at auction in Hong Kong, here’s some more Breaking News from this “world-beating” Scepter’d Isle * of our fabled (viz. illusory) New Jerusalem, never never never to be outdone:

Blurry 1986 polaroid Four Pissed Mates On the Razz Staggering Out of a Stretch Limo in Pink Sombreros After a Karaoke Night fetches 99p at a car boot sale

Just like the elegant calligraphy of the colophons with the scroll, the photo is adorned with scrawlings in marker-pen of a Hitler moustache and Sundry Ribald Appendages [popular beat combo—Ed.], further enhancing its market value.

Rule Britannia, eh! And Did those Feet in Ancient Time?—No, they didn’t. Mind you, just wait another 700 years, it’ll be the buyer’s descendants who have the last laugh. I need hardly add that subaltern studies are grist to my mill.

Among the Tang princes depicted in the Chinese scroll is the future Xuanzong emperor—for a spoof from the great Tang historian Denis Twitchett, click here. For some drôle Tang poetic titles, see here; for more art, see On visual culture and Great art missing the crucial element. Note also headlines tag, and Five go mad in Dorset.


* With All Due Respect to Shakespeare and Elizabethan orthography, it’s the apostrophe there that really Gets My Goat.

Why the First World War failed to end

Learning from

  • Robert Gerwarth, The vanquished: why the First World War failed to end, 1917–1923 (2016),

I’m glad to see that more informed reviewers (e.g. James Sheehan, Margaret MacMillan, Alex Burkhardt, A. Dirk Moses) also find it a most revealing perspective.

As with World War Two, the inherited British historical bias is so very limiting. Wars don’t end with peace and harmony, as Keith Lowe shows in Savage continent for the aftermath of World War Two. We (by which I mean I) tend to view all the major conflagrations as separate and defined within a narrow time-frame, whereas a work like this reveals the long-term global picture. The flashpoints of recent times go back to the cycles of violence that erupted amidst dying empires and rising states. Irredentism and revisionism are major themes of the whole period.

Gerwarth opens his Introduction with two quotes:

Both sides, victors and vanquished, were ruined. All the Emperors or their successors were slain or deposed … All were defeated, all were stricken, everything they had given was in vain. Nothing was gained by any … Those that survived, the veterans of countless battle-days, returned, whether with the laurels of victory or tidings of disasters, to homes engulfed already in catastrophe.    —Winston Churchill

This war is not the end but the beginning of violence. It is the forge in which the world will be hammered into new borders and new communities. New molds want to be filled with blood, and power will be wielded with a hard fist.   —Ernst Jünger

He goes on to evoke the appalling story of ethnic cleansing in Smyrna in 1922.

So the term “interwar years” is misleading.

For those living in Riga, Kiev, Smyrna, and many other places in eastern, central, and southeastern Europe in 1919, there was no peace, only continuous violence.

The “Red Terror” of the Kun regime, Hungary 1919.

In the early chapters Gerwarth unpacks the 1917 Russian revolution, the catalyst for movements far afield, as soldiers returned, radicalized, to their devastated homelands, with refugees dispersed around the fragmented lands of the former Austro-Hungarian empire and the Ottoman domains, now aspiring to independence as new nation states.

Bulgaria features prominently in the complex tale of the Balkan wars; Hungary and Romania were highly unstable too. And extreme violence continued unabated in the unruly “bloodlands” of the Baltic states and Ukraine (see Life behind the Iron curtain), before they were engulfed by the forces of Hitler and Stalin; by now the victims were routinely civilians as much as regular troops.

Confronting the “contagion” of Bolshevism, endless cycles of retribution, revolution and counter-revolution, recurred. Anti-Jewish pogroms, too, were widespread:

Allegedly representing everything the Far Right despised, the Jews could simultaneously (and paradoxically) be portrayed as the embodiment of a pan-Slavic revolutionary menace from “the East” that threatened the traditional order of Christian central Europe, as “red agents” of Moscow, and as representatives of an obscure capitalist “Golden International” and force of Western democratisation. What these accusations had in common was the assumption that Jews had a “natural” internationalist hatred for the nation state and their “host peoples”.

Gerwarth notes the founding of the League of Nations, and pacifist movements; but the apparent triumph of democracy soon gave way to radicalisation, with many segments of society feeling betrayed. He notes both political machinations and their appalling consequences on the ground.

And the antagonistic ideologies of central, eastern, and southeastern Europe spread to countries further west—Spain, Portugal, France, Italy, Britain, Ireland, the USA. Anti-colonialist independence movements grew throughout the world.

Returning to the “bloodlands”, Gerwirth details the sufferings of Poland and Ukraine.

In the final chapter Gerwarth returns to Smyrna and the atrocious repercussions of the fall of the Ottoman empire. The 1923 Treaty of Lausanne, though arising from the Turkish–Greek conflict,

effectively established the legal right of state governments to expel large parts of their citizens on the grounds of “otherness”. It fatally undermined cultural, ethnic, and religious plurality as an ideal to which to aspire and a reality with which—for all their contestations—most people in the European land empires had dealt with fairly well for centuries. […]

If, in 1919, ethic coexistence had still been seen as something worth protecting, the future now seemed to belong to ethnic homogeneity as a kind of precondition for nation states to live in peace. Although the Lausanne Convention had been drawn up to prevent mass violence between different religious groups, the application of this logic to eastern Europe would prove to be catastrophic: for in the multi-ethnic territories of the vanquished central European land empires, the utopia of a mono-ethnic or mono-religious community could only be achieved through extreme violence.

Though his main focus is 1917 to 1923, in the Epilogue Gerwarth surveys the traumas of the ensuing period. If 1918 had not brought peace, nor did 1923. As the Soviet-controlled lands were sinking into further turmoil, western Europe may have had a brief period of relative political and economic stability, but from 1929 the Great Depression triggered further crises for democracy. Authoritarian regimes became the norm. The new “logic of violence” culminated in the war on the Eastern Front from 1941:

The purpose […] was no longer to militarily defeat an opposing army and to impose harsh conditions of peace upon a defeated Soviet Union, but rather to destroy a regime and annihilate significant proportions of the civilian population in the process. Entire countries in central and eastern Europe were to be purged of those deemed racially or politically undesirable. […] The distinctions between civilians and combatants, already blurred during the First World War, completely vanished in this type of conflict. […]

The violent actors of 1917–23 were often identical with those who would unleash a new cycle of violence in the 1930s and early 1940s. […]

In the collective memories of the peoples of Europe this period featured prominently either as one of revolutionary turmoil, national triumph, or perceived national humiliation to be redeemed through yet another war.

Gerwarth leads us towards the conflicts in the Far East, and ends by noting the legacy for the Middle East in the wake of imperial dissolution:

Here violence has erupted with great regularity for nearly a century. It is not without grim historical irony that the centenary of the Great War was accompanied by civil war in Syria and Iraq, revolution in Egypt, and violent clashes between Jews and Arabs over the Palestinian question, as if to offer proof that some of the issues raised but not solved by the Great War and its immediate aftermath are still with us today.

It may be a truism, but all the faultlines of later years—not just in World War Two and its immediate aftermath, but all around the world since then—had troubled histories (see also The great siege of Przemyśl). And now our faith in the triumph of democracy is being challenged yet again.

So all this must qualify our rejoicing in the diverse creativity of European culture. And it’s always a challenge to return to Steven Pinker’s well-argued yet startling thesis (n.2 here) that violence has declined constantly through history, with the world wars of the 20th century mere spikes in a declining curve.

Some favourite posts

Punctuating my major articles on local ritual in rural China, having just added the contrasting recent posts Rāg Yaman Kalyan and Replies from the Complaints Department to my burgeoning *MUST READ!* category, they belong in this more radical distillation of the list—I am particularly attached to

As to listening, apart from the Chinese playlist in the sidebar (commentary here), there are links to a wealth of amazing music here:

And apart from my film, I consider the greatest gift of this blog to be

Ma Yuan

That’s just a selection—I find myself wanting to add more, but do also refer to leads on the home page!

Replies from the Complaints Department

Delving intrepidly in the dusty archives of the London County Council and Greater London Council Complaints Department, I’ve unearthed some well-meaning replies.

1st April 1960

Your ref.: My old man’s a dustman

Dear Mr Donegan,
Your message, in its novel audio format, [1] has just found its way to my desk. I am not entirely clear if it is intended as a complaint or a tribute, but I shall endeavour herewith to address your main points.

I am grateful for your vivid account of your father’s work apparel. While I am unfamiliar with what you evocatively describe as “gor-blimey trousers”, his choice of headgear certainly seems quite suitable to his métier. And I trust he is satisfied with the accommodation provided by the council.

The vocation of refuse collection officer is indeed valuable. With our recent time-and-efficiency directive, the pressures of the job have alas been increasing; but despite the provocations that such upstanding members of society sometimes encounter, I must remind all parties concerned that violence is not a viable option, and may lead to prosecution.

If there is anything further I can assist you with, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Yours etc.

cc Department of Refuse Collection;
Conflict Resolution; Legal Claims.

Another letter, six years later to the very day, already hints, albeit reluctantly, at a rapidly changing society:

1st April 1966

Your ref.: I can’t get no satisfaction

Dear Mr Jagger (perhaps I may be so bold as to call you Michael?),
With reference to your recent cri de coeur, expressed via the medium of film (whatever next?), I am sorry to learn of your troubles in achieving fulfilment. As you so wisely observe, perseverance is the key, although I am reliably informed that excessive indulgence may lead to injury. Apparently something called “foreplay” is currently “all the rage”.

Here at the Council we are always glad to learn of our constituents branching out into such novel ways of expression as what I believe is known as the “popular beat combo”, and we trust that your dabblings will make a diverting hobby for you, despite their very limited potential for material gain. As you may soon learn, such energetic pastimes belong to one’s youth, and can never be pursued into later years.

And as to our encounters with those of the female persuasion, I quite understand that a somewhat irregular lifestyle may mitigate against finding a suitable spouse. However, we have to recognise that a settled domestic routine, involving such wholesome pursuits as gardening (taking care to wrap up warm!), may be a most “satisfactory” recourse in the absence of any more stimulating liaisons—which, as you and your esteemed colleague Mr Richards will doubtless concur, remain purely in the realms of fantasy. I am sure you will be able to “settle down” soon—and if not, then many distinguished personages over the years have enjoyed the benefits of celibacy.

Yours etc.

P.S. For any matters of a more delicate nature that may be concerning you, please allow me to remind you that the Council operates a confidential Walk-in (or perhaps in your case, Strut-in) service.

cc Department of Parks and Recreation;
Personal Injury Compensation; Pension Planning;
Centre for Reproductive Health Within the Bonds of Holy Matrimony.

LOL. For a missive from the Isle of Wight, see here; and for a helpful letter from the BBC, see n. here. See also Bo Dudley.


[1] Wiki ambitiously suggests that the melody is borrowed from Stravinsky’s Petrushka. “Citation needed” indeed…

When you are engulfed in flames

a modesty seminar, a poem, kabuki,
and a safety booklet

Yet another wonderful collection by David Sedaris is

  • When you are engulfed in flames (2008).

His stories are even more trenchant if you’ve heard him reading them on BBC Radio 4. I’ll try not to give too much away.

“What I learned” evokes his imaginary days at Princeton. The “modesty seminar” for freshmen has echoes of faux Oxbridge self-deprecation:

In my time it took the form of a role-playing exercise, my classmates and I pretending to be graduates, and the teacher assuming the part of an average citizen: the soldier, the bloodletter, the whore with a heart of gold.

“Tell me, young man. Did you attend a university of higher learning?”

To anyone holding a tool or a weapon, we were trained to respond: “What? Me go to college? Whoever gave you that idea?” If, on the other hand, the character held a degree, you were allowed to say, ”Sort of,” or, sometimes, “I think so”.

And it was the next bit that you had to get just right. Inflection was everything, and it took the foreign students forever to master it.

“So where do you sort of think you went?”

“And we’d say, “Umm, Princeton?”—as if it were an oral exam, and we weren’t quite sure that this was the correct answer. […]

You had to play it down, which wasn’t easy when your dad was out there, reading your acceptance letter into a bullhorn.

I needed to temper his enthusiasm a bit, and so I announced that I would be majoring in patricide. The Princeton program was very strong back then, the best in the country, but it wasn’t the sort of thing your father could get too worked up about. Or at least, most fathers wouldn’t. Mine was over the moon. “Killed by a Princeton graduate!” he said. “And my own son, no less.”

My mom was actually jealous. “So what’s wrong with matricide?”she asked. “What, I’m not good enough to murder? You too high and mighty to take out your only mother?”

They started bickering, so in order to make peace, I promised to consider a double major.

“And how much more is that going to cost us?” they said.

I’ll leave you to read the excellent dénouement. For Sedaris, his father, and Li Manshan, see here.

In “The monster mash” he forks out on a copy of Medicolegal investigations of death,

a sort of bible for forensic pathologists. It showed what you might look like if you bit an extension cord while standing in a shallow pool of water, if you were crushed by a tractor, struck by lightning, strangled with a spiral or non-spiral telephone cord, hit with a claw hammer, burned, shot, drowned, stabbed, or feasted on by wild or domestic animals. The captions read like really great poem titles, my favourite being “Extensive Mildew on the face of a Recluse”. I stared at that picture for hours on end, hoping it might inspire me, but I know nothing about poetry, and the best I came up with was pretty lame:

Behold the recluse looking pensive!
Mildew, though, is quite extensive
On his head, both aft and fore.
He maybe shoulda got out more.

“Of mice and men” parades his social unease, featuring a bigoted cab driver (whose London counterpart is milked by Stewart Lee, e.g. here, and here).

When it comes to meeting strangers, I tend to get nervous and rely on a stash of pre-prepared stories. Sometimes they’re based on observation or hearsay, but just as often they’re taken from the newspaper.

One such clipping

concerned an eighty-one-year-old Vermont man whose home was overrun by mice. The actual house was not described, but in my mind it was two stories tall and isolated on a country road. I also decided that it was painted white—not that it mattered so much. I just thought it was a nice touch. So the retired guy’s house was overrun, and when he could no longer bear it, he fumigated. The mice fled into the yard and settled into a pile of dead leaves, whicih no doubt crackled beneath their weight. Thinking that he had them trapped, the man set the pile on fire, then watched as a single flaming mouse raced back into the basement and burned the house to the ground. […]

How could you go wrong with such a story? It was, to my mind, perfect, and I couldn’t wait to wedge it into whatever conversation presented itself.

A ride in a New Jersey cab seems to offer him a perfect pretext. But the driver is underwhelmed by the story, churlishly finding it implausible. They embark on a surreal and testy exchange, an irritated Sedaris floundering as he defends the report’s veracity:

“Isn’t no way that a mouse could cover all that distance without his flames going out. The wind would have snuffed them.”

“Well, what about that girl in Vietnam?”

Later, vindictively checking the clipping back home, his righteous anger is deflated.

In his lengthy diary of quitting smoking by going to live in Tokyo, an account of a visit to kabuki makes an interesting contrast with Clive James’s excursions into Japanese culture. Both are drôle, but whereas James seems patronising in his incomprehension, Sedaris is genuinely moved.

Four hours into Yohitsune and the Thousand Cherry Trees, and I wondered how I had survived all these many years without Kabuki.

The book’s title comes from a safety booklet in his hotel room, with the rubrics

  • When you check in the hotel room
  • When you find a fire
  • When you are engulfed in flames

—which leads nicely to my own script explaining the 1958 Teach Yourself Japanese.

Musics of Crete

Crete first

The music of the 1960s often appears on this blog—notably the BeatlesMotown, and so on. But meanwhile traditional genres were continuing to adapt; and since I also feature Mediterranean musicking (for island delights, see Sardinian chronicles, and Sicily under Italy: folk musicking), I’m reminded of the musics of Crete. *

As ever, these are largely village traditions for festivities, handed down in the family, based in dancing (syrtá, kondylies, and so on) and sung mantinades couplets. [1] Though audio recordings can’t reproduce the spirit of taking part, compilations of archive recordings can be evocative. I relish

  • Cretan musical tradition: radio broadcasts 1960–70 (3-CD set, Aerakis/Cretan Music Workshop, 1996),

featuring lyra (cf. Middle Eastern kamanche) or violin, with laouto lute and singing.

Lyra players, 1961: left, Nikos Xilouris; right: Vasilis Skoulas. 

Along with the pleasures of the recordings, the liner notes offer a window on the lives of musicians through the travails of the modern era (for more biographies, see here).

Often they came from family traditions in rural Rethimnon, spending periods in Heraklion and Athens, sometimes touring for the diaspora. Musicians include Giannis Dermitzakis (Dermitzogiannis) (1907–84) on lyra and violin, also the author of popular couplets satirising post-war Cretan society; and the blind violinist Giannis Papachatzakis (Stravogiannios) (b.1905)—here he is playing syrtó from Chaniá:

PapadakiIn a highly macho society, the only woman performer here is Aspasia Papadaki (b.1932), the first female lyra player in Cretan music. At the age of 14 she made her own instrument; though her widowed mother persuaded Aspasia to play violin instead, by 1960 she found that she could only record for radio if she reverted to the lyra (see below). Here’s a track:

And here she is on violin, and singing, in later years:

Going back further,

  • Oi protomastores 1920–1955: Kritiki mousiki paradosi (10-CD set, Aerakis, 1994) and
  • The first recordings of Cretan music: original recordings made between 1940–60 (Greek folk and popular music series, 6) (Aerakis), sadly not annotated (some clues hereapart from naming the performers—mostly on violin: Dermitzogiannis, Pantelis Baritantonakis (also heard on the 1920-1955 set), Yannis Papahatzakis, and Georgis Lapokonstantakis.

Here’s the latter CD as a playlist:

As radio broadcasts and festivals on stage came to dominate the media, videos of musicking for local festivities are not easily found on YouTube, although judicious searches using the Greek alphabet may yield more results…

* * *

For all Crete’s long history of Venetian and then Ottoman occupation, the use of violin or lyra seems to have been mainly regional until the mid-20th century. What we might not notice at first when listening to such recordings from before and after 1955 is that the choice became a hotly-contested ideological issue. As we learn from

competing myths now came to portray the lyra either as bearer of the true Cretan and Hellenic identity, or as an inferior Turkish importation.

Thus the violin became an unlikely casualty in the whole troubled story of Greek–Turkish relations. Whereas it had long dominated in western Crete, the ideologically-driven musicologist Simón Karás sought to rescue Greek music from “the tastes of people who play heinous foreign music that feminises and stupefies the youth”—a common lament among dictators, such as Salazar and Mussolini (cf. foreign music in Tang China). So in February 1955 (just before the Istanbul pogrom) the violin was banned from Chaniá radio station, to the “bewilderment and outrage” of locals.

The renowned violinist Kóstas Papadákis (1920–2003) mounted a spirited (if equally polemical) defence of the tradition.

tells his story in revealing detail. Forced to keep on the move by the risk of vendetta (a disturbing feature of Cretan and other Mediterranean cultures), after making a living on the Athens rebetika scene during the war, he returned to Chaniá in 1953, and continued to adapt while resident in the USA from 1959. But after returning to Crete in 1976, he no longer “recycled himself”, instead engaging in vehement cultural resistance against the violin ban. Here he is:

Though the ban still remains in nominal effect today, the violin did resurface on the radio from 1983; but by then most musicians and audiences had accepted the dominance of the lyra. Anyway, the association of Cretan music with lyra is a rather recent fabrication.

For a less ideologically-driven audience, the choice of violin or lyra may seem barely relevant: in many world traditions, indigenous bowed lutes and Western violins can sound equally idiomatic (e.g. in Indian, Uyghur and indeed Turkish musics). Listening to the 1940–1960 tracks, what I’d have imagined as a more likely target of cultural ideologues is not the choice of bowed fiddle, but the use of simple Western harmonies in the plucked accompaniment.

It’s always worth considering Bruno Nettl‘s wider taxonomy of musical change. Argyro Pavlopoulou cites Ross Daly, who considers tradition an illusion: rather than a body of material from the past, it refers to the internal dynamism of a music which develops in time—while it’s not a restricted system that cannot include new components, the novel elements should be compatible with the pre-existing system. 

Gauhur JanGauhur Jan accompanied by harmonium, 1902.

Meanwhile in India, the violin had long been popular in Carnatic music, while in the north, sarangi still dominated as accompaniment to the voice, so there seem to have been no principled assaults on the violin. Instead, over the course of the 20th century some singers began to favour the harmonium, threatening the livelihood of sarangi players, which prompted it to be banned from All India Radio from the 1940 to 1971. Though the sonic differences between sarangi and harmonium were more striking than those between the Cretan violin and lyra, the impetus again came from ideologues rather than performers. [2] 

For now I’ll resist exploring the lyra style of the island of Karpathos… Anyway, you get the idea: the diversity of Mediterranean musical cultures is to be treasured.


[1] Some useful sources in English, with further refs., are Kevin Dawe, Music and musicians in Crete: performance and ethnography in a Mediterranean island society (2007) and “The engendered lyra: music, poetry, and manhood in Crete”, British journal of ethnomusicology 5 (1996), as well as Argyro Pavlopoulou, Musical tradition and change on the island of Crete (2011).

[2] See Matt Rahaim, “That ban(e) of Indian music: hearing politics in the harmonium”, Journal of Asian studies 70.3 (2011).

* On a lighter note, do read the wonderful story from Captain Corelli’s mandolin. This post on Crete also marks an improvement over my previous coverage of Greek music, limited to the bouzouki in the Monty Python cheeseshop sketch. I have at least explored the rituals of Mount Athos.

Musicology: igneous rocks and window-smashing

What’s up Doc? (Peter Bogdanovich, 1972) must be the musicologist’s favourite movie, Withstanding the Test of Time.

Dr Howard Banister (Ryan O’Neal), earnest scholar of the musical attributes of ancient igneous rocks at the Iowa Conservatory of Music (whither I hope the film has drawn numerous students), is at loggerheads with unscrupulous Yugoslavian musicologist Hugh Simon (Kenneth Mars) as they compete for a major grant from the suave yet impressionable Frederick Larabee (Austin Pendleton). In the gendered dichotomy of its time, Howard is distracted from his straight-laced fiancée Eunice (the magnificent Madeleine Kahn) by the trouble-magnet Judy Maxwell (Barbra Streisand).

I’m not exactly saying that these characters bear any precise resemblance to real participants at musicological conferences. However, the film may strike an (igneous) chord.

The dénouement of the final chase is the most elegantly-wrought silent slapstick:

A dream: the Tibetan ancestry of I Will Survive

Songs are commonly revealed in dreams—from Aboriginal and Native American cultures to Paul McCartney’s Yesterday.

In my own life I tend to eschew dreams as a source of insight, though they have provided me with some inspiring moments—reminding me of songs I had long neglected, or coming up with a wonderful linguistic reproach to my pretensions to insider status in Lisbon.

The elements of my dream last week can all be identified in my recent experience. * But, typically, they were recombined: somehow I was researching the Tibetan ancestry of I will survive and its links to the Chinese shifan ritual ensemble. And the yunluo frame of ten pitched gongs was a prominent part of the sound. Niche or what?

I’ve already featured Gloria Gaynor’s iconic disco anthem in this post on feminist songs. BBC Radio 4’s long-running series Soul music is always evocative (cf. Moon river). While its themes of loss and recovery tend to recur, its personal vignettes remind us of the transformative power of music in people’s lives—as in the recent programme on I will survive.

Rather than the song’s adoption by the camp “community”, it’s the cathartic theme of women’s empowerment that is important. The message of survival should resonate with Tibetan people too. To me it suggests not the bland propaganda of Princess Wencheng “civilising” Tibet, but rather the tragic tale of Lady Meng Jiang.

For all I know, I will survive may long have been a karaoke hit in the nangma-töshe bars of Lhasa—but I have in mind a more traditional version.

* * *

labrang-jc-1

Dodar ensemble, Labrang. Source: Anthology, Gansu vol.

I’ve no idea how the gong-frame worked its way into my dream. The mkhar-rnga bcu-pa frame of ten pitched gongs is one of the lesser-known instruments of Tibetan music. Apart from its use in the dodar ensemble of monasteries around Amdo, it also accompanied the loud shawms and drums of the Dalai Lama’s gar courtly ceremonial ensemble—a most exceptional combination. This image (from the rare, silent 1945 footage in the section on gar here) shows the gong-frame and shawms together on procession—blurry as it is, unlike the sharp focus of dreams, I might try and suggest that it suits my hazy recollections:

gar 1945

The Chinese equivalent yunluo, while mainly a component of the shengguan ritual ensembles of north Chinese temple and folk ritual groups, was also part of Daoist shifan groups in south Jiangsu—which appeared in my dream.

Left: Shifan, Wuxi c1962, showing yunluo on left, next to gongs.
Right: Kaikou village ritual association, Xiongxian county, Hebei, with two frames of yunluo. My photo, 1995.

To everyone’s great relief, just as I was starting to pursue arcane, spurious historical clues in detail, I woke up.

My new Tibetan version of I will survive might also feature an ondes-martenot à la Messiaen. I imagine it as a big hit on the world-music fusion scene; it might even become a component of my global Matthew Passion (cf. Bach, um, marches towards the world).

Mind you, I don’t have to be asleep, or even drunk, to come up with such wacky connections—see e.g. Bhutan: a tongue-twister, archery festivals, and teasing cheerleaders.


* For likely Tibetan ingredients of my dream, see e.g. Labrang 1How not to describe 1950s’ Tibet, and Women in Tibetan expressive culture.

By the sleepy lagoon (Bognor)

Sleepy lagoon

It was Daphnis and Chloé that got me going on this—all will become clear.

In 1905, Debussy’s inspiration for La mer was the sea at Eastbourne: “the sea unfurls itself with an utterly British correctness”, as he observed. * By 1930, it was the exotic acquatic vistas of Bognor that inspired Eric Coates to compose the “valse serenade” By the sleepy lagoon.

radio

It’s been the theme tune of Desert island discs ever since the series began in 1942, soon becoming a comfy old sonic armchair. But like Tchaikovsky’s 1st piano concerto and Also sprach Zarathustra, it’s been truncated into a soundbite, so one rarely gets to hear more than the opening. This seems to be the original version, with Eric Coates directing “the Symphony Orchestra” (a name that all the other symphony orchestras will be kicking themselves that they didn’t think up); it’s good to hear it in full at last— complete with modulation, and a whimsical middle section:

In 1940 Jack Lawrence made it into a song, which Coates loved. Here’s Richard Tauber, being Richard Tauber:

and Kate Smith—a name you don’t often hear nowadays, what with all these young upstarts like Dusty Springfield and Madonna:

Now then, here’s what I came in here for.

The piece soon became a favourite with American big bands. The Harry James arrangement (1942) opens, wonderfully, with a fleeting homage to the magical Lever du jour from Ravel’s Daphnis and Chloé, and goes on to introduce some abrupt, evocative key shifts:

Other band versions, within a far more contained world than that of bebop, are also creative, with fine details—such as Jimmy King:

By way of a Chinese interlude, here’s his arrangement of Shanghai at night:

and for good measure, Zhou Xuan‘s 1946 original (see also A Shanghai Prom):

Meanwhile back at the sleepy lagoon, here’s Tommy Dorsey, with more key shifts:

and Glenn Miller:

Would it be sacrilegious for Desert island discs to ring the changes?

For more nostalgia, see Pique nique; The Archers; Unpromising chromaticisms. See also The art of the miniature.

Harwich* Cf. the classic graffiti addition to

Harwich for the Continent

Bognor for the incontinent

A deflated pupil

Isfahan cope

Along with my veneration for the Matthew Passion, you may have noticed my cognitive dissonance in confessing to some, um, lighter moments that some musos associate with it—such as Mein Gott, with Always look on the bright side of life as a fantasy encore. Sorry, but here’s another one:

Rehearsing the Matthew Passion in the Albert Hall for an English Concert Prom, during a longueur while the conductor is busy sorting out some point with the continuo, my desk partner leans over to me. I guess she’s going to share some profound insight with me about phrasing, but she whispers me this joke:

What did the inflatable schoolmaster in the inflatable school say to the inflatable pupil?

“You’ve let me down, you’ve let the school down—but most of all you’ve let yourself down.”

Just the kind of thing to get us in the mood for the Crucifixion scene…

I continue to relish this joke—all the more because of the context in which I first heard it. It goes back a long time, and one still hears it regularly; but now I wonder if it still has the same resonance for the younger generation, or if it’s more popular among those educated in posh schools before the 1980s. Returning to The life of Brian, its tone calls to mind Michael Palin’s benign marshalling of crucifixion candidates.

For more stories of musical deviation, see here.

Responses to crisis

flood

I’ve been retweeting some of these posts, but I now realise they make a topical mini-series on drôle responses to the current crisis:

Waggish replies from freelance musicians in adversity:

A worthy pastime in an age of limited mobility:

  • Armchair ethnography (“Come and live in Chiswick, your statistical chance of survival is relatively high”).

One may even be reduced to cooking:

The current parade on our screens of bookshelves as background eye-candy cries out for Flann O’Brien’s Buchhandlung service—in

GL haircut

You may even be able to get a haircut:

And as the purgatory of global travel grinds into gear again, a bassoon soloist is

search

For plucky Brits running the gauntlet of quarantine (sallying forth from Chinese cliché):

On a more serious note, here you can find four responses to the

More fantasy headlines

Under the headlines tag, I’ve cited Kate Fox on the English propensity for headline punning, and offered gems such as Nut Screws Washers and Bolts and King Kong Ping-Pong Sing-Song Ding-Dong.

I now propose:

Rodney, moderator for an Arizona-based evangelical podcast, controversially endorses a kitsch image of the star of Fresh Meat, to the delight of a bohemian Native American:

God Pod Mod

By contrast with another regular now excluded from the station, grandmother of Daniel, who is locally renowned for his eccentrically-adorned camper:

Can Van Man

OK, back to those Daoist ritual manuals…

Better than ever: more Bach

Bach Sarabande

Another balm to lockdown ennui (aka My Normal Life):

I don’t wanna get into specifics“, so I won’t divulge how long it is since I took out my trusty violin—suffice it to refer you to Inspector Clouseau and “It was in tune when I bought it” (see also “It doesn’t make any difference if your strings are in tune!“). But “What I can tell you is this”:

First I warm up by seeing how much I can still recall of the movements of Bach cello suites that I learned some years ago—a remarkable amount, as it turns out (speaking as someone who doesn’t even know what day of the week it is at the moment). Then I devoutly set about learning the intense Sarabande from Bach’s 5th cello suite, inspired as I am by the great Steven Isserlis (for his rendition of the complete suite, click here; the Sarabande from 13.12).

Short as it looks on the page, this should be a manageable task, though here the usual challenge of transposing from cello to violin—the preliminary spadework—is further complicated both by its highly chromatic melodic lines and by the score, with its scordatura, the E string tuned down to D. The ear is the best guide: once the piece is in my heart and under my fingers, I can dispense with the notation (as one does). Playing it on the modern violin (I don’t quite know why), I soon adopt higher, more veiled positions; so in the end, ironically, I don’t require the top string at all.

Steven imagines the 5th suite as representing the Crucifixion—before the Resurrection of the 6th suite. As he writes:

The tragic atmosphere of the suite reaches its emotional peak in the desolate loneliness of the famous Sarabande. What an extraordinary movement this is: no discernible melody as such, no particular rhythmic interest, no obvious dynamic changes, no chords*—and yet, one of the most powerful pieces of music ever composed.

To irritate Tweety McTangerine (cf. They come over ‘ere…), I note that the Sarabande was Latin in origin, with Arab influences; like many dances, it was once considered “so loose in its words and so ugly in its motions that it is enough to excite bad emotions in even very decent people”. This one may seem remote from its dance ancestry (it’s hardly a track to get the kids onto the dance floor), but I find myself trying to convey a stately balletic rhythm alongside the anguish.

And now even the other movements aren’t safe: next, the Allemande. This beats household chores and gardening any day.

While I’d love to hear the Sarabande on the Uyghur satar (cf. the exquisite muqaddime here), I’m also rising to the challenge of making it work on the ethereal Chinese erhu, like the Feuchtwang variations and the Allemande for flute. This requires yet more vertiginous positions. “They said it couldn’t be done—and they were right!”

Chiswick House Prices Take Another Tumble

For some real, nay astounding, erhu playing, click here.

 

* Um, OK: in WAM such monophonic melodies, even an extremely tortuous one like this, always spell out a harmonic structure horizontally, but hey.

Daoist non-action

Hanfeizi, Liezi, Martin Gabel, Walt Disney—but not quite Miles Davis

Don’t just do something, stand there!

Ancient Chinese thought is replete with the virtues of Daoist non-action (wuwei 無為)—both personal and political (cf. Confucius and Laozi, as well as Liezi).

However, it took a long time to enter the language of Western, um, philosophy. Thanks to the intrepid researchers of quoteinvestigator.com, we have a drôle list of candidates for the popular expression “Don’t just do something, stand there!”. I might have guessed Miles Davis, whose minimal style prompted him to dispense sage advice like “Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there“.

But rather, the site adduces Martin Gabel (1945), Adlai Stevenson citing Dwight D. Eisenhower (1956), Elvis Presley, and Clint Eastwood. A likely vehicle for the popularising of the phrase may have been the White Rabbit in Walt Disney’s Alice in wonderland (1951):

I’ve already cited Disney as a Zen-like source of wisdom (see note here).

As to the ancient Chinese political extension of wuwei, in the words of the wiki page, Hanfeizi’s ideal “enlightened ruler strikes terror into his ministers by doing nothing”. Pace Tweety McTangerine, dismantling the entire apparatus of humane democratic government in order to maintain the brute power of an evil kleptocracy really doesn’t count.

See also How to bibleAncient Chinese humour, and The Tao of Pooh.

 

 

 

 

Modulation: Schubert and Coltrane

I used to love hearing the late great Hugh Maguire leading the Allegri quartet in the Quartettsatz of Schubert. It’s the first movement of an unfinished quartet—and if you ask me (as you don’t), it deserves to be a lot better known than the symphony (for which, see Alan Bennett, and the classic Kronenburg ad).

Anyway, I digress, as usual. You can (or could) hear the Chilingirian quartet playing it in Classic quartets at the BBCThis fine performance by the Jasper quartet, from 2009, seems prophetic in its isolation:

Qsatz
On and off, the beguiling little ppp sequence from 2.06 has been an earworm for me over fifty years. Schubert manages to restrain himself (he may just have wanted to get down the pub, as in the Kronenburg ad), but in my head I often find myself taking the sequence on and on [Weirdo—Ed.], imagining playing it on the violin (though it’s just as fun in the lower parts)—it only takes six phases to get back where you started. But OK, probably just as well that Schubert resisted the temptation… 

Giant steps

In a typical segue, I recommend playing this game with pop songs too, like the “I love you baby” refrain of Can’t take my eyes off you (which, like Schubert, knows when to stop). And since jazzers are the True Masters of harmony, here’s Coltrane‘s Giant steps (fast-moving chord sequences shown to your left; for analysis, see e.g. here):

And then there’s the enchanting The windmills of your mind, crafted by varying a single motif.

Of course (my usual reminder!), efficacity doesn’t depend on complexity; in art, folk, and popular genres, pieces can communicate without harmony or modulation…

More Schubert here!

Profane embroidery

Fuckety

Annie Taylor, Fucketyfucketyfuckfuckfuck.

A most worthy cause is the Profanity Embroidery Group, formed by Annie Taylor and Wendy Robinson in 2014, based in Whitstable (see e.g. here). Admirable as were the early suffragettes, they may not have been quite ready for this (cf. the embroidered handkerchief).

As Annie Taylor reflects in this interview,

No skills are necessary: we’ve had people join who are excellent at swearing but complete novices at stitching, who are now producing amazing work, and then fortunately (otherwise our Quilt of Profanity would have been a nightmare) we’ve had people join with brilliant stitching abilities, but lacking a profane vocabulary. I’m glad to say they are also coming along fine and their use of swearing has improved immensely.  One of my favourite reasons for someone joining was that they wanted to do something that was in no way “self improving”. […]

Some of our work is more subtle than others, but there is something rather glorious in beautifully embroidering the word Cunt. It is an old old word, but is seen as vicious and derogatory, the worst of the worst, but if you can happily use it, and stitch it, the word has lost its power to hurt you.

For more on the c-word, see here, including links to China. For further purposeful uses of profanity, see Ellie Taylor

Twat

 

Talking heads

Talking heads

What a treat to watch new versions of Alan Bennett’s disturbing Talking heads monologues on BBC iPlayer, following the first two series from 1988 and 1998.

No wonder that the project has again attracted such outstanding actors for these mesmerisingly painful vignettes of Middle England. Apart from Martin Freeman and Lucian Msamati, the roles are female; and women (who know best) say that AB has a gift for writing about their world. Their monologues are played by Imelda Staunton, Harriet Walter, Lesley Manville, Kristin Scott Thomas, Maxine Peake, Rochenda Sandall, Tamsin Greig, and Jodie Comer, with new items from Sarah Lancashire (An ordinary woman) and Monica Dolan (The shrine).

Following her wonderful scene in FleabagKristin Scott Thomas appears in The hand of god. With by far the youngest role, Jodie Comer (hot on the heels of Killing Eve) delivers Her big chance (originally played by Julie Walters), and she too is brilliant as ever.

Amidst the mass adulation, Rachel Cooke takes a contrary, virtually heretical view, suggesting that for Bennett it is forever 1978 (or perhaps 1958), the characters set in aspic—even the world of the two new scripts “as if vicars loitered on every corner”. Even more grumpy is James Delingpole in the Spectator.

Among a plethora of posts under the Bennett tag, I relish his appearance on Family guy.

 

Some recent headlines

Sisters

Irony is far from dead (and hasn’t even been resting)—as two striking recent headlines from the Guardian confirm:

Boris Johnson to warn public to “act responsibly”

Few will welcome this any more than his parenting advice (here, along with “common sense”, another stick with which to beat the plebs). Meanwhile Priti Patel still won’t move on from the fatuous, damaging clichés of “the brightest and best” and “taking back control“.

Further afield,

Critics say Russian vote that could allow Putin to rule until 2036 was rigged

Well who’d have thought it? See also “Vote for us and you’ll never have to vote again“.

And for China, a tag from Sixth Tone (actually an interesting article):

At best, Sisters reminds viewers that just because a woman’s turned 30
doesn’t mean her life is over.

 There’s an embarras de richesse in the headlines tag; see also under China Daily.

Exotic travels

Crashing

Some more English irony.

Talking of exotic adventures in far-flung climes, * besides Fleabag and Killing Eve Phoebe Waller-Bridge shows a sure ear for dialogue in Channel 4’s Crashing (2016)—such as this exchange, where two cool students are catching up:

I left town, did a bit of travelling…

What? Where did you go?

Mainly the Midlands, but, er, I spent a bit of time in Bristol, which was really intense…

 

* Such as

See also The English, home and abroad.

Ancient Chinese humour—with a moral

rabbit

In The joys of indexing I essayed a rough classification of the many Chinese jokes on this blog; with this one I can now add the subhead “ancient”.

The man of Song (a kingdom during the Warring States era, equivalent to modern Henan) is a niche early butt of many stories, recalling similar jokes around the world targetting out-groups such as the Irish.

A story from chapter 49 of the Hanfeizi tells how a man of Song, tilling his fields, sees a rabbit hurtle into a tree-stump and break its neck; whereupon he gives up farming and waits for more rabbits to suffer a similar fate. LOL 😀

With this early experiment in the “Man walks into a bar” trope, it’s no wonder that Hanfeizi was in such demand as a standup on the Warring States Comedy Club circuit. Of course, audience response varied by kingdom, as Ken Dodd later found:

You can tell a joke in Liverpool and they won’t laugh in London… they can’t hear it.

But wait, there’s more! Hanfeizi’s story has a moral, à la Stewart Lee: it’s a metaphor for “those who attempt to rule people of the current era with the governance of previous kings”:

宋人有耕者。田中有株,兔走觸株,折頸而死。因釋其耒而守株,冀复得兔。兔不可复得,而身为宋國笑。今欲以先王之政,治當世之民,皆守株之類也。

Jacob Rees-Mogg (“Minister for the 18th century”) take note.

The story gave rise to the popular proverb

shouzhu daitu 守株待兔
guarding the stump, waiting for rabbits

Chinese kids’ cartoons are so cute (cf. No silver here, a rather similar theme):

See also A feminist Chinese proverb. For more from Hanfeizi, click here.

 

Philharmonia: a kitsch-off

Philharmonie

As you may have noticed, I’m a sucker for TV thrillers with subtitles (Scandi noir, Spiral, even Montalbano). But the recent French drama Philharmonia, from the normally dependable Walter Presents on Channel 4, is compelling for different reasons.

Like Stuart Jeffries in this brilliant review (“Acorn Antiques with subtitles”), I love it for all the wrong reasons. His review largely relieves me of the burden of slagging off this piece of posh Eurotrash, but hey.

OK, I am very hard to please when it comes to feature films about WAM—possibly because they’re all rubbish, falling for every single deluded romantic cliché going (or long gone) about Artists. I make an exception for the films of Ken Russell, redeemed by excess.

This flaw applies to films about sport too (Wimbledon, football…). What is it about culture that film-makers get so wrong—why can’t they just stick to the grimy underworld? Sure, career criminals doubtless watch cop dramas with similar disdain—“FFS, no-one’s cut an ear off like that since the 1960s”—but at least we also have conscious spoofs there. I guess people who work in offices felt like this about The office. Not to mention medical soaps…

In the first episode Marie-Sophie Ferdane approaches her role gamely as conductor Hélen Barizet struggling against sexists unreconstructed since about the 1950s zzzzz while she pouts in heels. As Stuart Jeffries wrote, “Imagine a musician as brilliant and scary as Nadia Boulanger, but with a pearl-handled Beretta in her top drawer.”

Sure enough, her fit husband is a composer; naturally, she’s had a 1950 Erard grand put in her hotel room, As You Do; and inevitably, as he plays his latest composition for her (which by hallowed film decree must be in the retro style of Richard Clayderman), she straddles him at the piano. Of course she does. Just excuse me while I throw up. The only upside of her keeping him busy between the sheets and on top of the Erard is that he may never get to finish his piece (cf. Schubert). Oh no—she’s announced that she’s going to premiere it with the orchestra! Later, when he’s suffering from that good ol’ composer’s block, she inspires him to finish it—if she hasn’t committed other crimes, she should be locked up for this, at least. And YAY—there’s a family curse!

With the orchestra she’s a new broom sweeping clean, to the players’ outrage—OK, so far, so realistic, until the melodramatic script hams it up. But she wins them over rather quickly. At least she, like her enigmatic young protégée, really does play the violin, although they both have magic instruments that never need tuning up (cf. the muso’s old excuse “It was in tune when I bought it”). And why do all these films never synchronise the image of the conductor’s beat with the musical sound?

It’s not just her unfaithful cad of a husband—they’re all at it comme des lapins. And so we become voyeurs of this imagined posh, capricious, temperamental world.

The script offers every musical cliché in the book, with sexist clichés liberally thrown in. The gags come as thick and fast as in Airplane—only inadvertently. I couldn’t resist watching the whole series, a divertissement from weightier matters.

However, as the series wears on, I confess that I did find myself becoming more involved in the whodunit of the drama—if you can leave the orchestral flapdoodle out of it, it’s quite involving, my quibbles just making an entertaining diversion. Rather like enjoying Titanic while blanking out the whole ship/sea scenario.

* * *

Appassionata

Philharmonia makes a worthy Gallic companion with Appassionata by Jilly Cooper, “queen of the bonkbuster”—which is at least tongue-in-cheek. Here’s another gleeful review.

The blurb alone is hilarious (particular credit to the names!):

Abigail Rosen, nicknamed Appassionata, was the sexiest, most flamboyant violinist in classical music, but she was also the loneliest and the most exploited girl in the world. When a dramatic suicide attempt destroyed her violin career, she set her sights on the male-dominated heights of the conductor’s rostrum.

Given the chance to take over the Rutminster Symphony Orchestra, Abby is ecstatic, not realising the RSO is in hock up to its neck and is composed of the wildest bunch of musicians ever to blow a horn or caress a fiddle. Abby finds it increasingly difficult to control her undisciplined rabble and pretend she is not madly attracted to the fatally glamorous horn player, Viking O’Neill, who claims droit du seigneur over every pretty woman joining the orchestra. And then Rannaldini, arch-fiend and international maestro, rolls up with Machiavellian plans of his own to sabotage the RSO. Effervescent as champagne, Jilly Cooper’s novel brings back old favourites like Rupert and Taggie Campbell-Black, but also ends triumphantly with a rampageous orchestral tour of Spain and the high drama of an international piano competition.

YAY, YAY, and thrice YAY! Gimme Mozart in the jungle any day.

Among many gifted, real, female conductors, see Barbara Hannigan and Oxana Thaili here.

 

Revolver

Revolver

In 1966, only a year after Rubber soul, the Beatles released Revolver. In a 1996 interview, George found the two albums quite similar: “to me, they could be Volume 1 and Volume 2”. But it is Revolver that is increasingly recognised as one of the greatest and most innovative albums in popular music.

Here it is as a playlist, again in the 2009 remastered version:

Studio technology and psychedelia are coming to the fore; love songs are becoming subsidiary. Yet again I’ll cite Wilfred Mellers and Alan W. Pollack. Mellers opens:

Though Revolver still contains ritual elements, one can no longer discuss it in terms of adolescent ceremonial, nor is it relatable to the conventions of commercialized pop music. Halfway between ritual and art, it’s both verbally and musically an extraordinary breakthrough; and since the songs complement one another without forming a sequence, one cannot avoid some comment on each.

I won’t do so, but some songs most dear to me are;

  • Eleanor Rigby, the polar opposite of the satirical opening Taxman, is accompanied only by string octet—an innovation that one might hardly notice (cf. She’s leaving home on Sgt Pepper). Mellers is in fine form again:

It is about compassion, loneliness, and implicitly about the generation gap—three basic themes of second period Beatle music—and there is no precedent for its musical idiom, which has nothing to do with jazz, but is an amalgam of rural folk and urban music-hall. The tonality is a dorian E minor, though the initial invocation of “all the lonely people” is a rising and falling scale (with sharpened fourth) over a C minor triad, with a rocking and chugging accompaniment. The song proper is narrative ballad, and the words are poetry, evoking with precise economy Eleanor Rigby, the middle-aged spinster who picks up the rice at somebody else’s wedding, lives in a dream, keeps her face “in a jar by the door”; and Father Mackenzie, the priest who lives alone, darns his socks in the empty night, writes the sermon that no-one wants to listen to, wipes off his hands the dirt from the grave where he’s buried Eleanor Rigby after administering the last rites by which “no-one was saved”. The words reverberate through their very plainness; and manage to characterise not only those two lonely people but also (as George Melly has put it) “the big soot-black sandstone Catholic churches with the trams rattling past, the redbrick terraced houses with laced curtains and holy-stoned steps” of the Beatles’ boyhood Liverpool. The tune, lyrically sung by Paul, never modulates but has a tentative, groping tenderness as it stretches up the scale to those modally sharpened sixths, only to droop again, in a flexible rhythm that often overrides the barlines; so when it returns to the choric introductory phrase as a refrain, the scope of the song is marvellously extended. Miss Rigby and Father Mackenzie, the soaring refrain tells us, may be founded on real characters from the Beatles’ childhood, yet none the less represent all the lonely people; and that includes us, and the young Beatles (who were soon to be members of Sgt Pepper’s LONELY HEARTS club band). Yet there is never a suspicion of emotional indulgence in this song; that is belied by the rigidity of the chugging accompaniment, even though it is given to emotive strings. Occasionally (after that dismayed octave leap for “where do they all come from”) the violins wing up scalewise; more often they reinforce the thumping crotchet pulse, or the rocking quavers. In the final phrase of the tune and in the coda the “where do they all come from” query reaches up not through an octave but through a tenth. This makes something like a climax, and the song has an end which is not, however, decisive. The final cadence is the only V I progression in the piece, and even here the dominant chord is in second inversion. All the other cadences reinforce the tonal ambiguity of the submediant introduction, an effect the more disturbing because the C major triads conflict with the sharpened Cs in the modal tune.

Pollack notes:

You can look at this song from at least two angles and try to pull it apart with great clinical precision; the Verismo lyrics and grainy, tintype backing arrangement for strings on the one side, and the more familiar bluesy, syncopated, boxy form on the other. But the truth here is even more elusive than usual, and I dare say that the real irony of this song is to be confronted in the extreme to which the otherwise analytically separable elements within its blend are so well synthesised. Think of it as an amalgam whose elements can no longer be so easily separated ever again once combined.

Having first played sitar for Norwegian wood, George now developed the sound more prominently—the soundscape now augmented by tabla:

  • Love you to was “the Beatles’ first unambiguous exploration of orientalism”. Their use of Indian timbres was influential; indeed, it only strikes me now that this was the beginning of my own youthful fascination with raga. Introduced by the briefest quasi-alap, the song soon launches into a regular metre. Mellers:

The vocal line oscillates around G, moving up to B♭, the flattened seventh, down to F♮; and the music convinces not because it is “like” genuine Indian music (it is by Indian standards rudimentary), but because it is an extension of the anti-Western, anti-materialism, anti-action theme we have seen to be endemic in Beatle music. Though George seems to be singing (as did all the early Beatle songs) of sexual love and presumably of coitus itself, his point is that the act of love can destroy the temporal sense (“make love all day, making love singing songs”) which is what happens in the drone-coda and fade-out.

Pollack comments:

At the time it seemed like many people who, just the week before, had never seen a sitar or heard of Ravi Shankar, were running out, overnight, to buy what we nowadays call “world music” recordings, tickets to rug concerts, and even authentic instruments.

But as he goes on to note, it was a rather fickle fad:

It’s a chutzpah for the Westerner to expect to confront this stuff without sincere and patient preparation.

The only merit of attempts to suggest a specific raga as the basis for the scale of George’s Indian-based songs (such as Within you, without you on Sgt Pepper) is to draw us to the complexities of raga in its native form. Much as Pollack admires the experiment, he’s not entirely convinced by the result here; the connoisseur of raga may be still less convinced by some of these Indian-inspired songs.

And George was still a beginner on sitar; even supposing that he might have played the opening, the player for the rest of the track remains unidentified; it seems most unlikely that it is George that we hear.

As Mellers notes in a later chapter,

The Beatles’ tinkering with oriental metaphysics, even if sincere, as was certainly the case with George, hardly amounts to more than an alleviatory game if contrasted with the late music of John Coltrane, who might genuinely be said to have prayed with and through his horn.

Ravi Shankar liked both Trane and George; but he was perplexed by the disturbed results of the former’s immersion in Indian music and philosophy, whereas he seems to have looked more favourably on George’s experiments (for more, see e.g. here and here).

Love you to is followed by the gorgeous ballad

  • Here, there, and everywhere—as Mellers observes, deceptively simple: love as revelation, with tonal as well as metrical metamorphosis, further unpacked by Pollack.
  • Yellow submarine (cf. Octopus’s garden in Abbey road) is too easily taken for granted. Mellers hits the spot again:

Typically, the Beatles then torpedo this lyrical tenderness… Ringo’s blunt Liverpudlianism brings us back to earth, or anyway to “the town where I was born”, in a rhythm as strictly circumscribed, a diatonicism as plain, as that of the Celebrated Working Man’s Band. Yet the banality is as deceptive as was the simplicity of Here, there, and everywhere. For the song turns out to be a revocation of childhood memory that is also a liberation into dream—an “instant nursery rhyme”, as George Melly has put it, “as unselfconscious as a children’s street song, but true to their own experience… It’s not American comic book heroes who climb aboard the Yellow submarine but Desperate Dan and Lord Snooty and his pals. The departure for the Sea of Dreams is from the Liverpool pierhead.” On might even say that the song’s human triviality sets off the mystery of the “acquatic unknown tongues” we then hear bobbing on and in the waters; in which sense regression is prelude to another rebirth. If there’s nothing in the music that is memorable in itself—except the fact that it’s easy to memorise and so stays in the mind—we’re soon aware that the experience isn’t, and isn’t meant to be, purely musical. A hubbub of friends is heard on the quay, the town band blasts its blatant farewell, and we’re in a mythical world—to be more deeply explored in Sgt Pepper—which cannot be adequately realised in concert hall or on stage. The music has, again, a talismantic function, recalling a Liverpudlian childhood, launching the Beatles on a submarine voyage into the unconscious: out of which their later and greater music was to spring.

As Pollack observes, the musical simplicity

provides the firm platform needed to support the campy-yet-futuristic collage of sampled sound-bites overlaid upon it.

The extraordinary final track

  • Tomorrow never knows is again tinged with the Indian influence. Mellers:

Drums and a tambura drone on C re-establish an oriental atmosphere, while the melody alternates a non-metrical phrase on the triad of C major with a triplet on the fifth, rising to the flat seventh, then to the tonic. “It is not dying, it is shining, it is the end of the beginning”, we’re told, with sundry references to the Tibetan Book of the dead culled from Timothy Leary. […] The singing voice, which is here the mind alone, is gradually engulfed in an electronic hubbub emulating the cries of birds and beasts, the hurly-burly of the natural world. Having begun with adolescent regression, the Beatles conclude the first work of their young maturity with an almost-literal aural synonym for return to the womb. There are parallels to this in avant-garde jazz (the jungle noises possibly derive from Mingus) as well as in “art” music, but this doesn’t weaken the impact of the song.

Listeners may find some of these Indian-inspired songs more successful than others, but here the Beatles create an effective sound-world. Pollack notes that while Tomorrow never knows is a “kitchen sink” of the Beatles’ repertoire at the time, the effect is unified.

* * *

Revolver is indeed a great album. As I reflect in my introduction to this series, Call Me Old-fashioned, but I still find Sgt Pepper and Abbey road more consistent, and more cohesive as song-cycles—but hey, like Mahler symphonies, rather than making a futile attempt to rank them, let’s just rejoice in them all.

Rubber soul

Rubber soul

As the Beatles grew rapidly, after A hard day’s night came Rubber soul (1965).

Here’s the 2009 remastered version as a playlist:

Again I’ll cite the analyses of Wilfred Mellers and Alan W. Pollack (and as ever, do bear in mind these reflections on the merits of analysis). Mellers wonders if the prevalence of “anti” songs on the disc may be an inverted positive—a move towards self-reliance. Below I’ll focus on the ballads:

  • Norwegian Wood, unusually using triple metre, was George’s first venture on sitar. Mellers:

The girl in her elegantly-wooded apartment is strong on social, weak on sexual, intercourse; her polished archness is satirised in an arching waltz tune wearily fey, yet mildly surprising because in the mixolydian mode. Here the flat seventh gives to the comedy an undercurrent of wistfulness, and this embraces both John’s frustration and the girl’s pretentiousness—which is pointed by George’s playing the sitar, not in emulation of Indian styles, but as an exotic guitar. The middle section brings us to the crux of the situation (which is, for John, a night spent in the bath) with a stern intrusion of the tonic minor triad and a tune descending, with drooping appoggiatura, to the subdominant with flattened seventh. After this middle the lyricism of the waltz da capo suggests not so much plaintiveness as a comic dismay. The effect of the flattened seventh, followed by a rise through a fifth and a fall through a sixth, pendulum-like, even seems a trifle sinister in context; as perhaps it is, if “I lit a fire, isn’t it good, Norwegian wood” implies a slight case of arson.

For Pollack’s comments see here.

  • Nowhere Man (Mellers: a satire on “the socialite or all-too-civil servant who’s afraid of emotional commitment”), with its unprecedented a cappella opening, and a little guitar riff trailing each verse. Pollack:

Superficially, the melodic material of the song is straight away in the major mode. However, one’s interest in the tune is piqued on a more subtle level by a combination of the large number of appoggiaturas, the pseudo-pentatonic nature of the bridge, and the prominent role given to the flat sixth degree (C♮) in the backing vocals.

  • Michelle, [Mellers:] “harmonically sophisticated […], with tender chromatic sequences and tritonal inclusions”, and the pure pentatonic love call of the refrain. “The subtlety of the song lies in the contrast between chromatic sophistication and pentatonic innocence”, a duality already hinted at in the false relations of the F major and D♭ triads of the first two bars, giving “a tentative, exploratory quality to the tenderness, hinting that the barrier isn’t just one of language, but is inherent in the separateness of each individual, however loving”.

Pollack makes detailed comparisons with Yesterday. More whimsically, he muses

How can anyone be as desperately in love with someone with whom they cannot hold a decent conversation, no less an email correspondence?

Discuss

  • Girl, largely acoustic, is another instance of [Mellers:] “the interdependence of ‘reality’ and wit”, its tune “in an aeolian-sounding C minor, […] with an almost-comic pentatonic refrain sighfully and unexpectedly drooping to E♭ major. The middle section “veers abruptly to the minor of the supertonic of E♭ (or the subdominant of C minor), the fetching tune abandoned in favour of regularly repeated quavers on the syllable tit-tit (which sometimes sounds like tut-tut!).”

As the lyricism is banished, so the girl is deflated: from being a girl in a storybook she’s become a flesh-and-blood, immensely desirable young woman. […] The melismata are “cool”, the sighs verge on the ludicrous; yet this paradoxically intensifies the loving pathos of the lyrical tune when it’s sung da capo, since life is a tangled mesh of hopes and disappointments. […] The hurt inherent in living, as well as loving, is accepted without pretention, yet without rancour.

Pollack’s comments are here.

  • In my lifePollack notes the balance between intimacy and unease; and George Martin’s pseudo-baroque keyboard solo contrasts with the mood of the rest of the song.

And then came Revolver

Some pupils of Nadia Boulanger—real and alleged

Boulanger with Stravinsky

With Igor Stravinsky (“Gran visits York“), 1937.

Just in time before it was deleted, I viewed a suggestive wiki page listing well over two hundred distinguished pupils of the great pedagogue Nadia Boulanger (1887–1979; cf. my post on her sister Lili). The wiki editors may have decided it would be shorter to compile a list of musicians who didn’t study with her.

Sure, one might suspect that some of them just popped in for a pot of tea and a macaroon, à la Alan Bennett. The allure of Paris may have played a certain role in Mademoiselle’s popularity—dare I surmise that her wisdom might not have been in quite such demand had she been based in Scunthorpe.

Prominent in the populous Boulangerie were renowned WAM composers and performers—such as Walter Piston, Aaron Copland, Elliott Carter, Virgil Thomson, Roy Harris, Philip Glass (cf. Ned Rorem, “Am I the only living expatriate American composer who never studied with Nadia Boulanger?”); Darius Milhaud, Jean Françaix; Thea Musgrave, Lennox Berkeley; Shanghai composer Ding Shande; [1] Igor Markevitch, Dinu Lipatti, Idil Biret, Joseph Horovitz, Daniel Barenboim, Clifford Curzon, Kenneth Gilbert, John Kirkpatrick, Kathleen Ferrier…

As would be the case later (see here, under “Performance practice”), new composition and early music went hand in hand. Boulanger’s performances of Monteverdi and Bach were legendary—At A Time When It Was Neither Profitable Nor Popular. In the later HIP scene, she was a formative influence on performers such as John Eliot Gardiner and Robert Levin.

I like this story from Philip Glass’s memoirs:

After proffering his 20-page manuscript, Mademoiselle (as she was known) placed it on the piano’s music rack and cast her eyes over the densely written pages. At a certain point she paused, drew breath and enquired after his health.

“Not sick, no headache, no problems at home?”

“No, Mlle Boulanger, I am really fine.”

“Would you like to see a physician or a psychiatrist? It can be arranged very confidentially.”

“No, Mlle Boulanger.”

She wheeled her chair around and screamed “Then how do you explain this?”

She had found “hidden fifths” between an alto and bass part—a heinous crime, if ever there were one. After upbraiding him for his slackness and lack of commitment he was dismissed and the lesson was over.

Boulanger with Piazzolla 1955

With Astor Piazzolla, 1955.

Intriguing too are those names outside the world of WAM, notably jazzers—Donald Byrd, Quincy Jones, Astor Piazzolla, Michel Legrand, and so on. Most poignantly, Noor Inayat Khan and her siblings—on whom, do please read this moving post.

Here’s a precious 1977 film by Bruno Monsaingeon (cf. his films on Rozhdestvensky), showing evocative vignettes from her salon:

* * *

Descending into fantasy, I only began to wonder about some of these names when I switched on Football focus to hear Wayne Rooney claiming to be a disciple:

Emm… yeah Gary, me legendary hunger for the ball round the edge of the box—that’s all down to Mademoiselle, like… She taught me everything I know about Renaissance polyphony—[2] mind you, I taught ‘er everything she knows about dribbling, fair dos like. [3]

Perhaps it goes back to the popularity of a CV-writing manual that states “most importantly, always claim to be a pupil of Nadia Boulanger”.

This trend has also influenced historians, such as recent biographers of Genghis Khan (“under her tutelage, he became almost docile”) and Jane Austen—citing a recently-discovered early draft of Pride and Prejudice:

But I was not to be deterred by Mademoiselle’s stern rebukes pertaining to the supposed clumsiness of my chordal voicing on the pianoforte.

(Seriously though folks, do read this interesting article on music and class in Austen’s works).

YAY! Wayne Rooney, Genghis Khan, and Jane Austen—now there’s another great guest-list for a fantasy dinner-party. For some unlikely reviews of my own ouevre, click here.

Left, 1910; right, 1925.

 

[1] Meanwhile, other students were beating a path to the door of Olivier Messiaen, including the great Chinese composer Chen Qigang.

[2] See his little-known thesis: Wayne Mark Rooney, The art of counterpoint in the late Masses of Josquin des Prez, with special reference to penalty-taking, like (PhD, Université Paris-Sorbonne/Birkenhead Polytechnic, nd).
Note also the (real!) Improvisation for Michael Owen on the qin zither.

[3] Cf. the Harry and Paul spoof interview with S-Simon Rattle, introducing a fascinating (and otherwise earnest) post on Conducting from memory.

A hard day’s night

Following my tributes to Sgt Pepper and Abbey road, the earlier work of the Beatles deserves celebrating too (cf. Yesterday…). For an introduction to the series, see here.

Setting aside my personal attachment to the soundtrack of my youth, their 1964 LP A hard day’s night remains moving. Here it is as a playlist:

Again, Wilfred Mellers (Twilight of the Gods) and Alan W. Pollack (online) make perceptive guides for those who care to supplement sensuous experience with discursive analysis. Both writers combine technical analysis with thoughtful comments on the Beatles’ emotional world. For all the sophistication of the Beatles’ later albums, the equivocal roles of innocence and experience are clear in their early years too.

The album—like the film—opens with the most recognisable opening chord in all the world’s music! It’s been much analysed—e.g. wiki, and here’s Alan W. Pollack:

I’ve seen better people than myself argue (and in public, no less) about the exact guitar voicing of this chord and I’ll stay out of that question for now (what a cop-out, Alan!), and merely state that its sonority is akin to a superimposition of the chords of D minor, F major, and G major; i.e. it contains the notes D, F, A, C, and G — to my ears, only the B is missing. Even if you don’t know a thing about harmony or musical dictation, you can at least hear the G as a suspended fourth over the D on the bottom. Hullaballoo aside, this chord functions as a surrogate dominant (i.e. V) with respect to the chord on G which begins the first verse.

As often, it’s the ballads that continue to entrance, such as

  • If I fell in love with you, tinged with pain: after the complex chromatic intro, harmonic variety continues to decorate the melody, like the surprise of the 9th chord in the second verse at “Don’t hurt my pride like her“. With the elliptical, ambiguous word play of the lyrics, Pollack observes:

beneath the mere cleverness of it all, what makes this song so potent is the desperate vulnerability it manifests; a veritable obsession with the subjunctive “iffy-ness” of love, described as a state in which people might run and hide and pride be hurt. For me though, the greatest ambiguity of all here is in the tension between the hero’s begging for love’s being requited on the one hand, while at the same time holding back from freely offering it for fear of being rejected. Is this ingenuous realism, such a lot of chutzpah, or likely a bit of both?

  • And I love her, with characteristic ambiguity between major and minor, and the half-step modulation for the guitar break. Pollack notes the similar tonal design of the opening song of Schumann’s Dichterliebe.
  • Things we said today—for Mellers, their most beautiful and deep song up to this point. Again it’s enriched by subtle harmonic language.

The rhythm is grave, the percussion almost minatory, the vocal tessitura restricted, while the harmony oscillates between triads of G minor and D minor. The flavour is incantatory, even liturgical, a moment outside Time. The second strain hints at the possibility of loss, with a weeping chromatic descent in triplet rhythm, and with rapid but dreamy tonal movement flowing from B♭ by way of a rich dominant 9th to E♭: the subdominant triad of which then serves as a kind of Neapolitan cadence drooping back (without the linking dominant) to the grave pentatonic G minor. […]

Whether or not you’re aware of such harmonic language, it registers with the listener.

The film is also wonderful. And so, by way of Rubber soul and Revolver, to the genius of Sgt Pepper, The white album, and Abbey road. Incredible…

* * *

Meanwhile, in the great tradition of English satire, here’s the priceless narration of the great Peter Sellers reciting the lyrics of the title song in the Shakespearean style of Laurence Olivier’s Richard III:

Cf. Balham—gateway to the south, Alan Bennett’s Sermon, and Marty Feldman’s chanson to the HP sauce label. And don’t miss Cunk on Shakespeare!

Unpromising chromaticisms

Anglo-American popular music—like most music in the world—is so firmly based on the anhemitonic pentatonic (or at least diatonic) scale that it’s intriguing to note how successful songs can be despite unobtrusively break the rules.

Putting familiarity aside, few listeners even pause to reflect that the remarkably similar chromatic opening phrases of these two melodies from 1939 and 1942 are highly implausible:

We'll meet again

I'm dreaming

Hey, no-one’s ever going to listen to songs beginning like that—surely they could never catch on?! (For scathing reviews of Great Works, see Slonimsky’s Lexicon of musical invective.) Without context, you might suppose them to come from soundtracks for horror movies. OK, here’s a clue: like oxygen, it’s something to do with harmony (although no-one needs to know that)… Anyway, the composers soon realised that such slithery meanderings just weren’t going to work—but it was precisely those opening phrases that would become universal earworms. So here they are in context:

We’ll meet again, by Ross Parker and Hughie Charles, sung by Vera Lynn, R.I.P. (for reflections on the predicament of “our” current nostalgia, also unpacked by Stewart Lee, see here):

and (serving a similar role, for GIs spending their first Christmas away from home after entering the war) Bing Crosby with Irving Berlin’s I’m dreaming of a white Christmas * (“Dream on”—Greta Thunberg):

Who’d have thought it, eh? For a melodically less challenging early-music song, see Edouard Ibert’s Pique-nique. And listeners can get used to additive metres as well.

All this is yet more proof that I am O’Fay with the latest developments of these New-Fangled Popular Beat Combos (see also stile nuovo). See also When I’m sixty-four.

* With my ears attuned to Mahler, I can’t help hearing echoes of the motif in the third movement of the 9th symphony, which returns in the finale—its rhythmically related melody also opening on mi, but less chromatic:

Mahler 9.3

Verboten: GDR film, 1965

Left, Karla; right, Hands up or I’ll shoot!

My acquaintance with alternative culture behind the Iron Curtain was once largely limited to the flowering of Czech films during the Prague Spring (see also Life behind the Iron Curtain: a roundup). But now, having broached various subversive expressions under the GDR regime (e.g. here), I’m glad to learn of challenges to state orthodoxy in 1960s’ films there too, courtesy of the DEFA archive—which, along with eastgermancinema.com, has copious information on films for the whole period.

As this introduction comments,

These films were planned and legally produced with the authorisation of the German Democratic Republic, but banned shortly before or after being released. One may wonder: why didn’t this censorship occur earlier in the production process?

GDR DVDs

A DVD box set contains ten films from the period:

  • The rabbit is me (1965), made to encourage discussion of the democratisation of East German society
  • Just don’t think I’ll cry (1965): high-school senior Peter gets suspended for writing an essay that his teachers consider to be a challenge to the state
  • Spring takes time (1965): the non-party engineer Heinz Solter is suddenly arrested and accused of approving a defective pipeline
  • The lost angel (1966): August 24, 1937—a day in the life of expressionist sculptor and author Ernst Barlach
  • Karla (1965): romance about a non-conformist young school teacher and a disenchanted journalist turned fisherman.
  • When you grow up, dear Adam (1990): Adam receives a flashlight with special powers: every liar it shines on flies into the air.
  • Trace of stones (1966): a film about living and working conditions in 1960s’ GDR.
  • Hands up or I’ll shoot (1966): living in a small town, Investigator Holms is stuck looking for a stolen pet rabbit even as he dreams of cracking a big case
  • Born in ’45 (1966), telling the story of Al and Li, a married couple living in the Prenzlauer Berg district of Berlin, who have decided to get a divorce
  • Berlin through our eyes (1965): skilled workers confront hostile older colleagues who value experience over education.

Comments from the censors are revealing, such as:

  • spreads skepticism
  • questions young people’s socialist education and character
  • the buildings look sad, inhospitable, dirty, and unkempt [Tripadvisor review for Tory Britain?—Ed.]
  • propagates false ideals
  • provides a distorted picture of our socialist reality
  • anti-socialist, harmfully critical attitude.

Here’s a trailer for The rabbit is me:

And a clip from Born in ’45:

Here I suggested some parallels between depictions “after the event” of life under Chinese Maoism and the GDR.

 

How to bible

I don’t wanna get into specifics

—Jacques Derrida, oh no wait, it was none other than Tweety McTangerine

Bible

From Twitter.

Struggling to meet the challenge of identifying particular texts that you consider to encapsulate the deepest Ancient Wisdom of the Daoist and Buddhist canons? Well, doughty sinologists can just take their lead from the Orange Baby-in-Chief (for the brilliant Sarah Cooper, see note here):

I note that the attempt in the late Qing dynasty to condense the cavernous Ming Daoist Canon into the Daozang jiyao, a snappy version containing a mere 218 volumes, was even less succinct than the Bolton Choral Society’s failed fugal contribution to the Summarise Proust competition.

Returning neatly to our opening theme, a fugue well worth practising together is the splendid Handelian pastiche Donald Trump is a wanker.

Resumé of Daoist film!

Just a reminder:

I trust this trailer for my documentary Li Manshan: portrait of a folk Daoist will entice you to watch the whole film:

While you watch it—as you MUST!—do consult this drôle Franglais resumé (“Poseur? Moi? Je ne regrette rien!”). While meant as a jeu d’esprit for a screening in Paris (“île sacrée of Daoist studies”), I’ve added handy links to posts on particular themes. Click here:

A French letter

Bon appetit!

My work on the Li family Daoists (including the book, complementing the film) was the whole initial raison d’être for this increasingly diverse blog, and I continue to add updates and vignettes. The sidebar category Li family being so very voluminous even with subheads, I compiled a more manageable roundup of some major posts here.

Guest post: Handing over the Ming baton

From Wang Shixiang to Craig Clunas

BM1

Photo (as below): Kossen Ho.

Having featured both Ming Maestros in my tribute to Wang Shixiang’s wife Yuan Quanyou, here’s Craig with a charming reminiscence:

Random Gatherings of the Era of Lockdown 鎖閉野獲 , or

Collected Discourses from the Potato-Planting Studio 種薯齋叢說: An Extract

BM2In 1983 I organised a visit to London by the great art historian and Chinese furniture scholar Wang Shixiang 王世襄 (1914–2009); I had translated a piece by him. and we had first met in Beijing in the early 1980s. The trip was done on a shoestring, and it pains me to think how spartan was the Imperial College London student hostel I booked him into, though he would never have complained—he had after all done years and years in cadre school. One of the grandest of London’s dealers in Chinese art took us to a posh lunch; it was a measure of Mr Wang’s cosmopolitan youth that he ordered cheese for afters. He ate half, and asked the waiter to wrap the rest (presumably for his breakfast, which I had not provided). As the beginnings of a sneer formed on the waiter’s face, it being that kind of restaurant, one of the grandest of London’s dealers in Chinese art gave him a very ferocious look that eloquently said, “This gentleman is my guest. I eat here often. Wrap his cheese”.

One night Mr Wang came for supper to our North London house, where our extremely skittish and semi-feral cat Lexham went straight towards him (Lexham usually shunned strangers) and settled purring in his lap; that was when I learned that “to purr” in Chinese is nianjing 念经, literally “recite the sutras”. Mr Wang also took me with him one Sunday afternoon to visit Ling Shuhua 凌叔华 (1904–90), by then an elderly lady; my memory is of a very small flat, perhaps even a basement, in somewhere like Swiss Cottage. They practised calligraphy together, and I still have the bucolic poem he wrote for me on that occasion, one of a set of verses on pig-rearing he had composed in the cadre school; it has subsequently been to Beijing and back for an exhibition of his much-admired hand. I quite failed to realise at the time just how significant a figure in modern Chinese culture Ling Shuhua was—”modernist writer and painter”, lover of Julian Bell (1908–37), correspondent of Virginia Woolf (1882–1941).

I have many things to thank Mr Wang for, including my name. We were never—unlike many people I know who studied elsewhere—given “proper” Chinese names by our teachers at the Cambridge Faculty of Oriental Studies. At Beijing Languages Institute in 1974–5 I had been Keliege (可列格 , occasionally 克列格) a simple attempt at a phonologically Chinese transcription of “Craig”. Returning to Cambridge I made myself into Ke Liege 柯列格, substituting a character that was at least a viable Chinese surname. When Wang Shixiang saw this, he said “Huh, Too ugly!” (嗯! 太难看!) and made me into Ke Lüge 柯律格, which is who I have been ever since, and what it says on the covers of the Chinese translations of my books. I can invoke Mr Wang’s authority when people query it. (It was Steve Jones who once pointed out to me that one plausible implication of the meaning of Lüge 律格 was “Tight-arsed”, which we both agreed was about right.) [1]

[1] Note from SJ: see here for the diverse ramifications of my own Chinese name. For our time at Cambridge, and Craig’s early studies in China, click here. In 2014, he worked on the splendid British Museum exhibition “Ming: 50 years that changed China” (see his co-authored catalogue, and the conference proceedings), giving us the pretext to invite the musicians of the Zhihua temple for the first of two visits.

Craig’s embarrassment about the spartan conditions deemed acceptable by British hosts may strike a chord with other academics. I recall with chagrin the visit of two eminent colleagues from the Beijing Music Research Institute to the National Sound Archive in 1993 on a project to copy the precious early recordings by Yang Yinliu that they had managed to bring with them.

Like Wang Shixiang, my Chinese friends were billeted in a meagre student hostel; but surely our first lunch on this illustrious International Cultural Exchange required some kind of banquet. Instead our hosts sent out for miserable supermarket sandwiches (one each), which we munched absent-mindedly as we continued working. Again, my Chinese colleagues took such privations in good part, as I joked shamefacedly about the “waters deep, fires raging” (shuishen huore 水深火热) of the capitalist world.

News desk

 

Mash

Characteristically changing the mood after Bruno Nettl’s perspectives on Native American cultures (which you must read!):

Nish Kumar’s The Mash report (BBC) seems to work well with the current remote format, and continues to prompt entertaining harrumphs from the likes of Brigadier General Gervaise Brook-Hamster and Retired of Tunbridge Wells.

From the heady days when human interaction was still sanctioned, and when there were things called “audiences”,* I’m very keen on Rachel Parris:

A lesson doggedly ignored by Priti “I’m sorry if people feel that there have been failings—”I’ll be very very clear about that [I’m a heartless cynical monster]” Patel, not to mention Dominic “Specsavers” Cummings

Here Ms Parris considers immigration (cf. Stewart Lee and the UKIPs):

For her introduction to The Haunted Pencil (Minister for the 18th Century), see here.

And the news bulletins are always delightful:

Ellie Taylor is in fine form here too:

Another drôle headline:

Plans grow to re-open the economy, so we can enjoy it one last time before Brexit

Satire is All Very Well, but we should bear in mind Peter Cook’s caveat.

On a lighter note, to complement

Bake Off Winner Discovers You Can Buy Cake From Shops

the opening collage has some gems, like

Cat Desperate To Go Outside Until Door Opened

 

* Cf. my helpful explanation of the obscure term “pillarbox”.

A sporting medley: ritual and gender

After all these sacrifices (see note here), it transpires that what the plucky Brits really care about is not so much creating a fairer society, but playing golf and visiting garden centres. FFS. I give up. As Ian Rush is said to have commented about, um, living in Italy, it’s “like living in a foreign country”.

Anyway, following the recent moratorium (welcome to many, no doubt), as sport furtively reappears like a cockroach from behind the fridge, here’s a little roundup of some highlights from the sport tag—not least, connections with ritual, and with feminism.

Snooker—starting with 5’20” of inspired fluency from the great Ronnie:

Football: among many posts,

Rugby:

Tennis:

Not forgetting

 

What I can tell you is this…

bus

For “our” NHS, see here.

Just when you think this “government” can’t get any worse…

Memo for Tory politicians

The expression

What I can tell you is this…

is hereby banned in perpetuity.

FFS—we don’t want you to tell us what you can tell us, which is mendacious bullshit—we want you to tell us what you can’t tell us, which is the truth.

The only thing to be said for the phrase is that it alerts the audience to the fact that a shamelessly cynical evasion is coming up. It’s a figleaf that should be wrenched forthwith from the likes of Boris Piccaninny Watermelon Letterbox Johnson, ventriloquised by his eminence grise Dominic “I’ve got the negatives” Cummings (see also this from the splendid John Crace, and now Barnard Castle Gate); Tree-Frog (he who praises the “common sense” of said Cummings having deplored that of the inhabitants of Grenfell Tower), and Priti “I’m sorry if people feel that there have been failings—”I’ll be very very clear about that [I’m a heartless cynical monster]” Patel—here’s the brilliant Meggie Foster:

“With the greatest of respect”, “what I can tell you is this”: they’re a bunch of evil hypocrites. In a comment that evokes the dénouement of Cunk and other humans on 2019, David Baddiel tweets:

fatherhood

And talking of infantile politicians:

See also Some recent headlines.

 

 

 

 

I’m not a doctor, but…

Cunk

In these trying times, Charlie Brooker’s antiviral wipe is just what we need.

With my penchant for Philomena Cunk, her Moments of wonder (from 39.00) is yet another gem—updating a previous episode in which she amply displayed her qualifications for discussing medicine:

Why can’t we get medicine crisps?

It doesn’t look like a crown to me—it’s more like a big football. Sometimes it looks massive, like when I’ve seen people standing next to it on the news, it sort of comes up to their waist. How’s that going to get up your nose?

Right now a Coronovirus vaccine is on trial, but we’ll have to wait to discover if it’s guilty or not.

Her suggestions for remedies are every bit as valid as those of POTUS, the Baby in Chief (for the gems of Sarah Cooper, start here). Indeed, Rumour Has It that Ms Cunk’s recent application for the post of Publicity Officer to the White House was only rejected because she was vastly over-qualified.

Still, alongside all her hapless victims (such as Alice Roberts, Ashley Jackson, Robert Peston, and Howard Goodall), Tweety McTangerine would make a perfect interviewee—they speak each other’s language.

* * *

And if anyone can still remember last year, it’s also good to revisit Cunk and other humans on 2019:

At one point, the Amazon caught fire—which must have been a real blow to those people trying to chop it down.

Grown men taking the piss out of a 16-year-old girl sounds terrible, but when you think about what massive wankers it made them seem to literally everyone, it’s an act of extreme heroism in a way.

And finally, on Bumbling Boris,

It’s a lot of power for someone like him—but I’m sure it’ll be fine, and he’ll probably look after us like we were his own children

 

 

 

Quantifying time

Following the Isle of Wight gambit, even the Grumpy Luddite may concur that, like dentistry, departure boards at tube and bus stops are evidence of Human Progress:

1 Cockfosters         4 min
2 Shangri-La          eternity

For my haiku on the 94 bus, see here.

If you are so ill-fated as to have to fill in a form online, warnings of how long it will take you to complete the whole laborious procedure are almost, but not quite, helpful.

To complete this form you will also need

  • A Zen-like engagement with the mundane
  • Three large G&Ts
  • Utility bills dating back to the Magna Carta
  • A mature sense of long-term goals to overcome your sense of helplessness
  • A Squeezy bottle and an empty egg-carton,* a chainsaw, and a well-thumbed copy of The Higher common sense by the Abbé Fausse-Maigre

Such over-sharing also is now infecting articles on academia.edu:

  • time required to read this article
  • time before you lose the will to live
  • number of occasions you will think “Do people really make a living out of writing this kinda stuff?”
  • time before you go back to looking at cute pictures of cats on Twitter

And on a Terpsichorean note:

 

* Potent memes from the heady days of Blue Peter.

 

 

 

In the kitchen 2

risotto

Not my risotto, obvs—mine turns out more like this:

beans

Loth as I am to venture into areas about which I know Fuck Nothing (punk and art spring to mind), here’s a little jeu d’esprit on cuisine.

Unlike many people, I’m all too accustomed to solitude (cf. On visiting a hermit), so apart from not being able to enjoy my daily swim, my routine has hardly changed—including my activities in the kitchen.

Bearing in mind that pampered Grauniad readers like me have been panicking for some years about the shortage of hummus and avocados (“and other mysterious things that add up to nothing much when it comes to making meals”—Love, Nina), I must confess that I do now tend to stockpile. I recklessly bought two whole tins of baked beans the other day, and—undeterred by the fascist futurist fulminations of Marinetti—I now snap up pasta with unprecedented relish.

leftover wineThe present anxiety is having one influence on my culinary repertoire: a welcome comeback gig for risotto, a simple and versatile dish that I had cruelly neglected for several years. It’s a pleasure to relearn the subleties of proportions and timing (not entirely like jazz)—frying the leeks (onions, whatever), and then turning up the heat to add the rice and then the white wine; then lowering the heat as I gradually add the stock. Then toying with various combos of vegetables del giorno—lovingly picked by the migrants upon whom our so-called government temporarily finds itself dependent, just like “our” NHS. * All topped off (the risotto, not the migrants) with freshly-grated parmesan. That’s cheese, BTW.

Some last-minute lemon (or if you’re feeling really racy, lime), and rocket, can be pleasing too. Then, turning off the heat, cover and leave to stand (It Says ‘ere). Practice makes perfect.

And as a change from my legendary dinner parties [legendary in the sense that they never existed?—Ed.], I don’t even have to share it—YAY! Imagine if we started to realise that all that frantic economic and social activity was overestimated all along. Don’t be tempted to make enough risotto to last for several meals, though—it’s a kinda one-off (一次性) thing, like…

To borrow from Molvania, this fine main course is

followed by a fruit sorbet, designed to help cleanse the palate in preparation for dessert which, unfortunately, also happens to be fruit sorbet.

For more on cuisine, see Prick with a fork, and, for the regime on Mount Athos, Ritual, food, and chastisement. For more Italian menus, click here; and for the priceless headline “Bake Off winner discovers you can buy cake from shops”, here. See also Alexei Sayle on his youthful epiphany in Hungary (“Now I saw what a salad really could be under socialism”). For gems of culinary wisdom, see Love, Nina; and for some other accomplishments not commonly associated with him, here. For changing dietary wisdom, see here.

While my qualifications for writing about cooking are nugatory, they are more impressive than those of Tweety McTangerine in dispensing medical, or indeed any, advice:

* Note to so-called UK government: STOP CALLING IT “OUR” NHS, FFS! YOU’VE BEEN DOING YOUR UTMOST TO DESTROY IT FOR A DECADE! See also “How to suddenly support the NHS”, recent instalment in the fine series of guides by Rachel Parris (here, from 5.00; cf. Is Jacob Rees Mogg as much fun as he seems?). Also cf. “our European friends”, on whom see Stewart Lee. For more Tory mendacity, see here.

BTW, these may be trying times for anyone, of whatever age, asked what day of the week it is, or the name of the Prime Minister. On the recent return of the latter, the old Brezhnev joke may be apposite.

The wonders of technology

Where the Isle of Wight goes, Britain will follow
[into poorly-equipped care homes]

Even now a hand-written letter is Winging its Way to No.10 from the Isle of Wight:

Most Mighty and Supreme Helmsman, [1]
I am so glad to learn that you have recovered from your recent ordeal. [2] It must have been mortifying for you to have to come into contact with all those darkies. [3] I am sure you will soon be able to send ’em all packing again—back to Bongo-Bongo Land where they belong, eh! [4]

Jolly good show about the new arrival, too, Pitter Patter of Tiny Feet eh. Perhaps you will be able to remember this one—although a mnemonic might come in handy, like one of these new-fangled “passwords” [5] they have nowadays.

Meanwhile, I am most grateful for your latest directive, by which I shall endeavour to abide. Alexander Graham Bell was prophetic! However, kindly clarify:

  • How do you mean, an “app”?
  • How do you mean, “download”?
  • What might “Bluetooth” be When It’s At Home (as it should be, like other Responsible Citizens), and however might one “enable” it? Will it still work with dentures?
  • How do you mean, “mobile phone”? Does it resemble my stairlift at all?

I enclose what I believe is known as a “selfie”—I trust the stain will dry out.

Oh well, at least we’ve got our bendy bananas back at last! Rule Britannia!

With obsequious, nay deluded, gratitude—in eager anticipation of your guidance,

I trust I shall have the honour to remain your humble servant,

Brigadier General Gervaise Brook-Hamster, D.S.O. [6]

sent via Basildon Bond with Parker pen
[Whatever happened to quill and vellum?—The Haunted Pencil]

Editor’s notes
[1] Better known by his formal names, diligently chronicled by his faithful amanuensis Stewart Lee.
[2] Again, the Brezhnev joke comes to mind.
[3] Cf. the infamous Paul Foot story.
[4] For historical perspective, see They come over ‘ere… and the above-mentioned Stewart Lee on the UKIPs.
[5] Cf. the Snow White joke.
[6] Dick Shot Off.

See also Replies from the Complaints Department.

Consecrating the sacred space

chapel

Votive chapel of the New Cathedral, Linz.

Further to Buildings and music, and with Bruckner 7 featuring in my posts on Trauma: music, art, and objects and Celibidache, I recall Bruckner’s wonderful sacred a cappella motet Locus iste, composed in 1869 for the dedication ceremony of the votive chapel of the New Cathedral, Linz.

It made an impression on me while singing it in my school choir in the 1960s, but somehow all these decades later, hardly having heard it since, I still remember every note.

Locus iste a Deo factus est,
inaestimabile sacramentum,
irreprehensibilis est.

Here’s Harry Christophers with the Sixteen, a century after the first recording in 1907:

John Eliot Gardiner with the Monteverdi choir is slower and more ponderous:

* * *

Short and simple as Locus iste is (cf. The art of the miniature), even the wiki page gives a substantial analysis. Discursive analysis is so basic to the whole fabric of WAM, enshrined in academies, programme notes, and so on (see e.g. Heartland excursions); but it’s tangential to world and pop music—where it is no less (and no more) valid, but audiences in general feel less need, if any, to use it to valorise their direct experience (for world music, see Analysing world music, and Dream songs; for pop, see e.g. Abbey road; and for the schism between discursive and experiential approaches to Chinese religion, see Chau on “doing religion” in China).

So we can take or leave analysis of the hymns of the Li family Daoists (such as my Daoist priests of the Li family, ch.14—see e.g. here; or you may prefer just to watch my film), or I say a little prayer.

A cappella, harmonic, choral singing can be exquisite (e.g. Barber and Bach here). By contrast, choral singing in other cultures is usually monophonic, or heterophonic; and in his Cantometrics project Alan Lomax suggests cultural features of societies that may lead to a mellifluous or harsh timbre (among instances of the latter, see e.g. flamenco).

While Western culture also has its ceremonial fanfares, in Chinese ritual the consecration of temples and their statues is an exuberant and noisy affair. As Daoists perform the Opening to the Light (kaiguang 開光) ritual, the soundscape is filled with shawms and percussion “rousing the hall” (naoting 鬧廳). Here’s an instance from Malaysia, performed by emigrants from Yongchun in Fujian (cf.  Fujian, 1961 and onwards) before an elaborate altar:

 

 

 

 

Script to an iconic head-butt

headbutt

Since I mentioned Zidane’s iconic head-butt in the 2006 World Cup Final—one of the supreme sacrifices in the cause of performance art—further footage has come to light enabling us to reconstruct one side of the, um, conversations leading up to it [Yeah right—Ed.].

The angle of the grainy amateur video (filmed on one of those new-fangled contraptions that I believe are known as “smartphones”) only allows us to see Zidane’s own reactions to Materazzi’s foul-mouthed torrents of abuse. I hereby translate them, reconstructed with the help of a dedicated team of lip–readers:

Funny you should say that, Marco baby, but I Think You’ll Find that my mother is in fact somewhat conservative in the range of her social engagements. Please allow me to suggest that you must be mistaking her for someone else—might a trip to Specsaveurs be in order? I do also note that you seem to confuse my legs for the ball.

[…]

And as to my sister (and again, I’m not sure this is strictly relevant to the matter at hand)—well, Sir, I think you will concur with me that it ill behoves us to cast judgement on the explorations of young people as they negotiate the rules of social interaction of this complex world in which we find ourselves. Doubtless you are au fait with the ouevre of my esteemed compatriot Simone de Beauvoir—indeed, I believe your own country has some fine discussion groups on gender issues. Perhaps I might remind you that the behaviour of men might also be subject to such scrutiny—with their own all-too-human foibles, they cannot always be renowned as bastions of moral probity.

Anyway, With All Due Respect, I suppose we really should tear ourselves away for a while, however reluctantly, in order to display our athletic prowess in this Beautiful Game of ours for the benefit of the assembled multitudes. It’s been absolutely super chatting with you, little Marco—I must say how much I enjoy our little tête-a-têtes

BAM*@*@*

 

See also The c-word. For an off-pitch bust-up, and a brilliant headline, click here; for Daoist football, and men moving the goalposts, here. For more on women’s football, see here.

 

 

 

Bach’s Matthew Passion, staged

For virtual Easter, among the many blessings of the opening of the Digital Concert Hall website while live concerts are suspended (just create a free account here, valid for a month) is

  • Bach’s Matthew Passion in the staged version by Peter Sellars, with S–Simon Rattle directing the Berlin Phil in 2013:

Part I here, Part 2 here.

The audio of their 2014 Prom can currently be heard again on BBC Radio 3, but do immerse yourself in the ritual drama of the filmed version from Berlin.

At its heart is the astounding Mark Padmore as the Evangelist (note his illuminating discussion with Peter Sellars). Also moving is the human role of the chorus, as well as the staging of the arias—such as Aus liebe and Sehet, Jesus hat die Hand. The entire “collective meditation” is overwhelming.

On “intersubjective tears” in 18th-century German religious music, see here. Further to “performative tears” (links here), for anyone who doesn’t know Bach’s two settings of the Evangelist’s cry of “und ging hinaus/heraus… und weinete bitterlich“, then listen and weep, along with Peter and the Evangelist—

  • in the Matthew Passion (Part 2, from 18.55), leading into Erbarme Dich (for which, also click here and here),
  • and it’s just as moving in the John Passion (again with Mark Padmore here, from 33.48; cf. this Proms performance).

Jonathan Miller’s 1993 staged version is wonderful too:

For background on the Bach Passions—and,um, Daoist ritual—see here. For the Pasolini film, see here.

Some posts on Japanese culture

Here’s a varied selection from the Japan tag in the sidebar.

A little series on Noh:

and, less reverently:

On film:

Some haiku in English:

as well as

and some great Western proponents of Japanese culture:

Not forgetting the Must-read