Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘Scribal Gathering’

Mixed reception for Carl Hiaasen’s Stormy weather (1995) at September’s Book Group, meeting as it did in the immediate aftermath of the far from fictional Hurricane Irma, which provided a bit of context.  It was a re-read for me, but I was happy to do it.  Some thought the book ‘over the top’, which really, it has to be said, for Carl Hiaasen, rather misses the point.  Given Donald Trump’s political ascendency and his personal and business interests in Florida exactly how much over the top Hiaasen is – a native Floridan, investigative journalism came before the novels – how much he indulges himself becomes debatable.  Here’s a trademark Hiaasenism, taken from Stormy weather’s hurricane’s aftermath, “The death of Tony Torres did not go unnoticed by homicide detectives, crucifixions being rare even in Miami“.   That ‘even in Miami’.  You laughed, right?  Don’t worry, in context it is righteous.

Basically Carl Hiaasen is a moralist, a savage Swiftian humourist with harlequin bells on.  But he is also a relativist, so what happens is that in the end the bad guys usually get it in spades, but the nuanced bad and so not so bad guys and gals can sometimes get the breaks, while the good, suffering, people of his world will lean towards purity of heart if not deed.  His books start out with 5 or 6 people, maybe a couple of them paired up in some way, at a certain stage in their lives – something criminal, new or odd going on therein – whose lives get not so much thrown together as entangled in various ways by a triggering event (in Stormy weather a destructive hurricane) as the narrative unfolds apace with many interesting twists and turns along the way.  Again, some nay-sayers in the Book Group complained that Hiaasen’s characters are stereotypes; they may well be, but they are also magnificent living and breathing examples of their kind, complete with quirks and the potential to surprise; like, um, skull juggling.

Stormy weather also strongly features one of the great creations of late twentieth century literature; this was his third appearance.  Skink, an anti-superhero (not that he’s a force for bad, just no cool costumery or scientific backstory) who, Hiaasen subsequently, I hazard to suggest, resorts to when he needs something to help the plot on its entertaining way, along the lines of Raymond Chandler’s apocryphalWhen in doubt have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand“, except he transcends this usefulness to the extent one is disappointed when he doesn’t appear in a Hiaasen novel.  Skink, the ex-politician previously known as Clinton Tyree,  is big enough to have his own Wikipedia entry.

Here he explains himself to a tourist he has kidnapped (there are reasons):

My name is Tyree. I served in the Vietnam conflict and later as governor of this fair state. I resigned because of disturbing moral and philosophical conflicts.   The details would mean nothing to you.

Having failed to change the system from within he has retreated, gone native in the Florida Everglades.  Another kind of Swamp Man, he’d had high hopes of the hurricane.  Here are some of the details:

Clinton Tyree’s only political liability was a five-year stint as an English professor at the University of Florida, a job that historically would have marked a candidate as too thoughtful, educated and broad-minded for state office. But, in a stunning upset, voters forgave Clint Tyree’s erudition and elected him governor.

So far, so good.  But the “barkers, pimps and fast-change artists who controlled the legislature” weren’t unduly worried: “He was, after all, a local boy. Surely he understood how things worked.”  But when he won’t take bribes, they begin to doubt his sanity.  “Save the rivers. Save the coast. Save the Big Cypress. Where would it end?”  He might as well be a ‘damn communist’.  They use every trick in the book to foil him:

So he quit, fled Tallahassee on a melancholy morning in the back of a state limousine, and melted into the tangled wilderness. […] He moved by night, fed off the road, and adopted the solitary existence of a swamp rattler. Those who encountered him knew him by the name of Skink, or simply “captain”, a solemn hermitage interrupted by the occasional righteous arson, aggravated battery or highway sniping.

Imagine a beach or two with no ugly high-rises. Imagine a lake without golf courses,” he suggests towards the end of the tale.  Donald Trump makes an appearance in the capacity of a negative character reference, the kidnapee as it happens, who “was into ditties and jingles, not metaphysics. “And he doesn’t read much,” she added. “The last book he finished was one of Trump’s autobiographies.””  (Trump has ‘written’ more ‘autobiographies’ than David Beckham and Wayne Rooney).

Carl Hiaasen is deadly serious and laugh-out-loud funny.  He can drive a narrative, paint a vivid picture and delivers great dialogue.  Because I’ve given space to Skink here I’ve hardly touched the riches elsewhere to be found in Stormy weather.  He’s a highly quotable phrase maker too: a 160 home housing development (called Sugar Palm Hammocks) is “platted sadistically on only forty acres of land”  (yup, definitely ‘platted’, not ‘plotted’).  The damaging avoidance of building regulations is, someone bemoans, “exactly the sort of thing that gave corruption a bad name.”  How masterful a scene-setter is “after a day of inept drinking“?  Enjoy! 

A Scribal interval

As it happens, poster-girl Naomi Rose had a song called Hurricane in her immaculate October Scribal Gathering set.  She described it as ‘a worksong’.  Contains the lines “Know that you can never be good enough” expanding as the song progresses to “None of us … ”  (Thinks: is she singing about OFSTED investigations here?).  Naomi is a much more than good enough singer-songwriter and an intriguing guitarist.  Hear for yourself with a link https://soundcloud.com/naomi-rose-2/hurricane .  She also did her “song about football” which for all its “Smiling David Beckham’s on your wall” and damnably catchy chorus (says this Arsenal supporter) of “I love you Manchester United / and I would be delighted / to dance with you tonight / for the rest of my life” is not about football.  It’s a challenge i) not to sing along , and ii) not to be tripping the light fantastic in your waltzing head; you might find yourself agreeing if you go to:   https://soundcloud.com/naomi-rose-2/manchester-united .  I’ve said it before: sad (mostly) rainy day songs delivered with a sunny smile, queen of the earworms.  This was a Scribal with a difference, with Pat Nicholson ably MC-ing and Mitchell Taylor ending proceedings in fine voice, songs punctuated with a heartfelt spoken word anti-imperialist flourish.

Doesn’t time fly?

And so October’s Book Group book divided the team too, though thankfully not along the same lines as to Stormy weatherGeoffrey Household‘s extraordinary 1939 thriller Rogue male certainly took me by surprise.  In attitude and feeling it’s a revealing period piece, both cringe-worthy in places yet prescient in others – both ancient and modern, you could say.  As a founding genre classic of the better class of contemporary thriller it has lost none of its power, while retaining all the drive of a simpler enterprise.  One of the Book Group members said she was reminded of the excitement of reading as a child again, engrossed in the adventure.

It’s a first person narrative:

I will not mention who I am. My name is widely known. I have been frequently and unavoidably dishonoured by the banners and praises of the penny press.

That ‘dishonoured’ by the ‘praises’ tells you a lot about our man – sardonic, charming, socially aware.  This is on one level is his confession, decently left in case someone innocent might get the blame (and to let the government off the hook), on another a journal of self-discovery, replete with philosophical meditations and asides on the nation-state and Englishness among other things.  Given his affinity with the land and nature in general, the book’s title, Rogue male, has to take some of its meaning from the wild animal kingdom – the solitary, dangerous animal, adrift from the herd – an ‘anarchial aristocrat’ (yes, ‘anarchial’) as it is put to him at one stage, and he doesn’t demur.

Our man an experienced hunter, is captured in a foreign land with a dictator in his telescopic gun-sights.  Could be Hitler or Stalin; we are never told.  Claiming he was only doing it to see if ‘a sporting assassination‘ was possible.  (Was he really? – you’ll have to read the book).  Interrogation and a punishing, gruelling escape.  In London, accurately guessing that wouldn’t be the end of it, he puts his affairs in order, and goes to ground (literally, in an elaborately constructed burrow) in Dorset.  As if this were not gruelling enough, the agents of the totalitarian state find him and he becomes a prisoner in his own hiding place, interrogated at length, over days, through a ventilation space, with a subtlety out of a John Le Carré novel.  No big spoiler to say he escapes again – some tense moments indeed – and lights out for new territory.  It’s riveting stuff.

But as I say, there’s this weird mix of snobbery and decency, of one-ness with the natural world, and personal detachment.  It’s beautifully written, a wonderful mélange of by turns the calm, charming, candid and disingenuous; keenly literate observation accompanies the  enthralling, gruelling and scornful yet nicely self-deprecating prose.  A few tasters to whet your appetite.  After his first escape:

Glaring back at me from the mirror, deep and enormous,, it seemed to belong to someone intensely alive, so much more alive than I felt. My face was all pallors and angles, like that of a Christian martyr in a medieval painting. – and I had the added villainy of bristles. I marvelled at how such a beastly crop could grow in so poor and spiritual a soil.
[but then later, on a foray to buy materials in Lyme Regis]: 
I had a straggly beard that was quite as convincing as most of those one sees in Bloomsbury.

A couple of Ouch! moments.  Here he considers the ‘modern’ incarnation of the ‘hiker’ :

A hideous word – hiker.  It has nothing to do with the gentle souls of my youth who wandered in tweeds and stout shoes from pub to pub. But, by God, it fits those bawling English-women whose tight shorts and loose voices are turning every beauty spot in Europe into a Skegness holiday camp.
[and here’s another contemporary holidaymaker]: 
She was a sturdy wench in corduroy shorts no longer than bum-bags, and with legs so red that the golden hairs showed a continuous fur. Not my taste at all. But my taste is far from eugenic.  [Did I really just read that? – yes you did.]

Here, a couple more encounters with the common man:

There was a man on the fence, meditative and unbuttoned, and obviously digesting his breakfast while mistaking that process for thought.
[and of a naval man]:
I calmed his suspicions with two double whiskies and my most engaging dirty story, whereupon he declared that I was a Bit of All Right and consented to talk about his officers. [tell us the joke!]

And yet he has interesting things to say about class and class consciousness, and, in settling his affairs before disappearing makes plans to turn over his lands to a ‘Tenants Cooperative Society’.

The edition I read has a worthwhile introduction from by Robert Macfarlane, author of Wild places and another celebrated book on walking the old tracks and pathways, which enhanced my reading (always read such introductions last!).  Our man’s first escape involves resting up in a tree to convalesce: “I was growing to my tree and aware of immense good nature …”.  Then there’s the Dorset experience:

It was a disgusting day. The flats of England on a grey morning remind me of the classical hell – a featureless landscape where the peewits twitter and the half-alive remember hills and sunshine. And the asphodel of this Hades is the cabbage. To lie among cabbages in my own country should have been nothing after the pain and exposure I suffered during my escape, but it was summer then and it was autumn now. To lie still on a clay soil in a gentle drizzle was exasperating. But safe!

Asphodel? – “Old World herbs of the lily family with flowers in usually long erect racemes” the dictionary tells me.  And it’s no fun down in the bunker either: “I have no chance even of illusion. Luck has reached a stage of equilibrium and stopped.”  He befriends a feral cat, who plays a crucial role in his final escape, who he names Asmodeus.

There is a revelation near the end of Rogue male, conjured out of our man down in his wretched temporary abode as his interrogation progresses, but I’m not going say anything more about that other than that it prompts an outbreak of the most wonderful technicolour prose, a passage that is like nothing else in the book.

Rogue male is a great adventure story and so much more.  I leave you with what would be a great exam question for students of twentieth century history – discuss this!  Our man achieves a certain understanding with Quiver-Smith, his interrogator, that deep spy from a totalitarian state with the well-constructed English identity, but:

I didn’t tell him that natural leaders don’t have any will to power. He wouldn’t have understood what I meant.

 

 

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

Augustus

How do you oppose a foe who is wholly irrational and unpredictable – and yet who, out of animal energy and accident of circumstance, has attained a most frightening power?”

It’s a problem, right?  In  this instance – John Williams‘ brilliant historical novel Augustus (1973) – they’re talking about Mark Anthony.  I am so in awe of this novel that I feel the need to escape from hyperbole by slipping into anecdotage.

One of those significant moments of advance in one’s intellectual life: an A-level essay on Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, which I kick off with a quote from Dylan’s recently released Maggie’s Farm – “Well I’ve tried my best / to be just like I am / But every body wants me / to be just like them.”  Turns out in the end he was a bit of a tosser “who did not even perform his own suicide well …

It is often suggested that life in Ancient Greece and Rome – events, ideas, dilemmas that I have skipped over – have in essence anticipated pretty much everything that has gone down since.  It seems a reasonable notion, and one I’m a lot more likely to explore after reading Augustus.

It’s an incredible story.  When he was 19, Octavius Caesar, Julius Caesar’s nephew, JC’s recently adopted son and successor, was off on a Greek island doing student stuff with his mates (and being educated).  No long after, in 44 BC,  JC was famously assassinated, and Octavius – like Brazilian footballers he took to being known as Augustus a bit later, as Emperor and, um, god – hastened back to a Rome that was in chaos, with civil war in prospect.  No-one expected him to pick up the reins, but he did.  When he was 19.  Diversionary tactic 2: cue my mate Naomi Rose’s song Nineteen because now it’s there it won’t go away:

By the time Augustus died he had left an economically prosperous Roman Empire at peace within itself and secure within its extensive borders – the era that is known as the Pax Romana.  But not without huge personal cost.  The story is told in a patchwork of lletters, memos and memoirs, petitions and poems, senatorial proceedings, reports, military orders, and journal notes – chronologically, but with the dates of the sources jumping backwards and forwards, providing a commentary on events. 

As the book progresses more and more space is given to the journal of Augustus’s daughter, Julia, whom he loves, but who has been callously, strategically, used over the years, and is sentenced to a lonely exile by him, for treason.  She has been on a hell of a journey.  Ordered by her father, “I returned to Rome in the consulship of Tiberius Claudius Nero … Who had been a goddess returned to Rome a mere woman, and in bitterness.”  Furthermore “I was not to be free. One year and four months after the death of Marcus Agrippa [an old, gay, mate of his] my father betrothed me to Tiberius Claudius Nero. He was the only one of my husbands whom I ever hated.”  Her fate: “So I am once again to be the brood sow for the pleasure of Rome.”  Hers is a tale that could easily stand as an outstanding work of its own.  She achieves a certain liberation, experiences sensual pleasure and ultimately reaches a peace in her situation:

Father,” I asked, “has it been worth it? “Your authority, this Rome that you have saved, this Rome that you have built? Has it been worth all that you have had to do?”
My father looked at me for a long time, and then he looked away. “I must believe it has,” he said. “We both must believe it has.”

The books ends with an astonishing 36 pages, as a lonely dying Augustus, voyaging out at sea, looks back over his life in a sequence of letters to the only surviving friend of his youth, a scholar.  It is one of the most powerful sustained passages I have read in a long time.  It’s fiction, of course, so one doesn’t know, but … well, try this:

Thus I did not determine to change the world out of an easy idealism and selfish righteousness that are invariably the harbingers of failure, nor did I determine to change the world so that my wealth and power might be enhanced; wealth beyond one’s comfort has always seemed to me the most boring of possessions, and power beyond its usefulness has seemed the most contemptible. It was destiny that seized me that afternoon at Apollonia nearly 60 years ago, and I chose not to avoid its embrace.

Compared to Alexander the Great, he opines that Alexander had it lucky, dying so young, “else he would have come to know that if to conquer the world is a small thing, to rule it is even less.”
“… I have never wished to conquer the world, and I have been more nearly ruled than ruler.”

He puts in a good word for the poets, whose company was often held against him:

Of the many services that Maecenas performed for me, the most important seems to me now to be this: He allowed me to know the poets to whom he gave his friendship. They were among the most remarkable men I have ever known …

I could trust the poets because I was unable to give them what they wanted …

Horace once told me that laws were powerless against the private passions of the human heart, and only he who has no power over it, such as the poet or the philosopher, may persuade the human spirit to virtue.

Great book.  Capital G.

Razor Girl

And now for something completely different.  I love reading Carl Hiaasen, just gulp his books down.  What it says on the cover.  He specialises in outlandish, yet I thought the actions of the woman of the title of his latest book were too much, even for the Florida of his oeuvre.  And then I read the disclaimer to Razor Girl (Sphere, 2016):

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. However, true events in South Florida provided the lurid material for certain strands of this novel, beginning with the opening scene. The author also wishes he’d dreamed up the part about the giant Gambian pouched rats, but he didn’t. Those suckers are real.

There’s a lovely rhythm to his writing that just pulls you along.  Here’s the opening paragraph:

On the first day of February, sunny but cold as a frog’s balls, a man named Lane Coolman stepped off a flight at Miami International, rented a mainstream Buick and headed south to meet a man in Key West. He nearly made it.

That ‘He nearly made it’, if you’re familiar with Carl Hiaasen, is no harbinger of doom for Coolman, but rather an invitation to the reading treat in store.  He keeps a handful of narratives going and works seamlessly to intertwine them with calamitous and desperate irony.

There‘s the central character, Yancey, a disgraced detective who now, busted to public hygiene inspector, works the roach patrol in local restaurants, is anxious to get his old job back.  So he involves himself in what starts as a mistaken kidnapping which introduces into the plot a top-rated scripted fake reality TV show called Bayou Brethren about a hillbilly family business breeding speciality chickens for fly-fishing flies.  Enter a psychopathic fan of the show who has bought into its conceit – including unofficial dodgy right-wing rants on YouTube –  wholesale. Then there’s the out-of-his-depth guy running an eco-destructive con providing sand to hotel beaches who owes money to the mafia, who ends up mid-chase electrocuting himself trying to recharge a stolen Tesla.  Not to mention the tangled love lives and Yancey’s real estate problem of how to get rid of potential next-door neighbours threatening to build big and destroy his view. Among other things.

Hiaasen is basically a moralist, appalled at what big money has done and is doing to Florida.  Razor Girl displays less of the eco-warrior than usual – and it’s hard not to rue the non-appearance of Skink, the ragged one-eyed wild man ex-governor of Florida who’s gone native in the Keys, who features in some of his other books, but Hiaasen is still rooting – relatively speaking – for the good guys, albeit with many degrees of grey on the way.  The mafia guy is appalled to discover that the beach con man has been using a fake Helper Dog jacket on any old mutt to milk the privileges that one brings.

Carl Hiaasen is a master of dialogue and pushing the action along.  And he can be very very funny.

The reader on the 6.27

Weird, touching on desolation, yet charming, Jean-Paul Didierlaurent‘s The reader on the 6.27 (Mantle, 2015), translated by Ros Schwartz), is one of those shortish books that seem to only ever appear in translation.

Guylain Vignolles has not had it easy with a name that, subjected to spoonerist manipulation, gets him called ‘Ugly Puppet’.  He has a soul-crushing job in a factory pulping books.  He rescues random pages that escape the machine and recites them out loud next day to commuters on the train to work.  Some even look forward to it.  At work there’s a bossy boss and a jealous assistant.  There’s a sub-plot that takes in his reading for an hour, by invitation, at an old people’s home.

A while ago there had been an accident at work and a friend had lost a leg to the grinding machine; he, the friend, had traced how the pulp produced that day had been used, and was buying up copies of the cook book printed on that paper; he’s buying copies up.  Guylain helps him by pursuing second-hand copies at weekends, looking to help his friend get some sort of closure from a full set on his bookshelves.

One day on the train home Guylain finds a USB stick and discovers thereon a quirky document written by a woman working as a concierge in a public toilet in a shopping centre.  Enchanted, it is from this he now reads to his fellow commuters, and makes it his mission to find the writer.  And in the end, a drawn out love story.  Weird, charming, and highly recommended.

Scribal Gathering

You’d think the energy, industry and invention that went into The Antipoet would be enough for most mortals, but no, Paul Eccentric (“the mouthy half of … the beatrantin’ rhythm’n’views act” as estimable host Jonathan JT Taylor described him in the events page for the evening on FB) is an accomplished solo spoken word performer and, after a change of jacket, seated vocalist with the entertaining Polkabililly Circus,  who variously rocked, folked, emoted and mixed it up as you’d expect from their name. (Not to mention his other side projects:  http://pauleccentric.co.uk/ ).  Another fine way to spend an evening with Scribal: other poets and musicians were standing.

Archivists please note: JMD was unable to attend.

YorkieFest 2017

Best for me at YorkieFest this year, the fifth no less, were tucked away in the middle of the day.  Innocent Hare‘s repertoire draws masterfully from a number of folk traditions and the trio – a family affair – ebulliently led by Chloe Middleton-Metcalfe, went down a storm with the modest collection of souls in attendance at that time.  The ever immaculate harmonies and musicality of The Straw Horses followed, and in retrospect it was a mistake on my part to try to eat a vegetarian crepe (from La Crepe Franglais) – delicious though it was, it required concentration with that plastic fork – while they were on.  The continent-wide African guitar work from Safari Boots impressed. 

Special mention should also be made for my introduction to the sport and art of Tea Duelling from The Order of the Teapot, aka the local Steampunks.  It involves biscuit dunking, judgment skills and a lot of nerve.  Shame a few more didn’t come given all Pat Nicholson (one half of Growing Old Disgracefully, or GOD) and others’ hard work, but glad to say, money was made for the charities supported.

Chloe gave me a sticker to stick on an instrument to spread the word. I guess this my instrument. And I’ll stick it on the notebook I carry.

Read Full Post »

What, you say The April Scribal Gathering featuring a UK National Slam Poetry Champion followed by Scribal Gathering hosting  The mighty Antipoet‘s album launch the very next night?  Yes, how spiffing indeedie!

A great night of entertainment and nobody died …” was how support act Robin das Boot-Illischuss (familiar rock tunes with amended lyrics – the eye of the tiger transmuted into a camel’s hoof) described the evening on his FaceBook page, continuing:  “a pleasant surprise considering the audience demographic.”  Ouch.

You’d have to say that compared with the exuberant launch of The Bards of Bugger All last year, this was a more sedate (probably soberer – I was), less raucous affair, but come on, we’re still talking about The Antipoet here.

The evening kicked off with ebullient compère Chris Norton Walker; you could extend the meaning of that adjective by way of how it sounds to include his physique, which was, after all, the source of a chunk of his material.  He too was a bit puzzled by the Stony audience.  I’d tell you his best joke – about a particular nickname – but that would be a bit of a spoiler alert, would it not?

First surprise was the inclusion of some filmed sketches – to give the lads a bit of a breather between numbers, they said (what was that about the demographic?) – in The Antipoet‘s presentation of We play for food .  For the evening they were joined on drums by the CD’s producer Marc Gordon.  The sketches are also on the CD, listed in red on the back cover, providing (ahem) comedic context and depth to the social, professional and philosophical dilemmas explored in the new material.  Which is characterised by energetic bouts of introspection, self-doubt and explication.  Sort of.

OK, for those unfortunate souls unaware of the phenomenon that is The Antipoet, in their own words … Paul Eccentric and Ian Newman are “artists of a sensitive disposition“.  The pair of them (geddit?):

  • Antipoetry is “a poetic movement that merely assumes the formal rules and intentions of mainstream poetry. We’re beat poets; I [Ian] slap the bass and he [Paul] does the talking.” (to quote from Gizza gig?)
  • We are a peripatetic beaty poeting pair with a musical comedy flair /Patent pending genre bending / in offending bondage wear” (Patent pending)
  • advice is given more than once: “You need to make your mind up / what it is you’re trying to be / cos you’re not quite poets, musicians or stand up comedy.”  (Patent pending)
  • Leading to the query whether: “It is never too late to rethink a mis-chosen career.”  Nah, it’s too late to stop now (as they used to say in the ’60s).  And they are poets; poetry needs them.
  • Misunderstandings can occur: “I’m not sure what they were expecting / but it probably wasn’t this /two middle-aged blokes in fancy dress / I think we might have been mis-booked again.” (An awkward moment)

The title track Of We play for food may be a cry of pain, but it’s an infectiously good one: “There’s not a lot of money in performance poetry / That’s why we poets are the paupers of the art world hegemony / But on the plus side we don’t earn enough to pay VAT.”  There are limits though: “Don’t try and palm us of with crisps and hummus dips / cos that’s just rude / that’s not food / that’s just fuckin’ rude.”  On the other hand, poetry slams (“competitive arts“) are unflatteringly examined in Slammin‘.  In the nursery delightfully murders The wheels on the bus: “The poet at the front goes whinge, whinge, whinge …”

The hard driving Pointy dancing is the track that will almost certainly take its place in the ‘greatest hits’ repertoire.  “Finger jabbing prancing” – a worrying phenomena at wedding receptions and other celebrations – is nostalgically explored and deplored: When did jogging round a handbag / get aggressive and alarming?”  Various scenarios are visited: “The vicar’s in the corner / she’s [nice touch] pigging out on cake”, which contagion leads to the situation where “now she’s gesticulating from the pew with pious unreserve” (it scans better when they say it).  Of course, when set against such rhythmic backing, rants like these can become infectious and dangerously counter-productive; indeed, when a friend of the artistes donned the gimp mask usually worn by Paul later in the evening for the rendition of Gimp night down at the fighting cocks, this was precisely the nature of dance adopted.

The Antipoet – the latest publicity shot

Other delights on the CD include a couple of classic Music Hall numbers (see – in another age they would not have had such a definition problem) in Mrs Worthington and the fiercely egalitarian Flesh’n blood; in Miss Adventure they exquisitely describe the selfie phenomenon as being  “to validate [one’s] place in this online peer review forum of the human race“, while pointing out that more people die of selfie accidents than shark attacks.

The evening’s entertainment was rounded off with a quick sprint through some of the combo’s  crowd favourites.  Oh to be a virgin where exposure to The Antipoet is concerned, though it has to be said the ritual audience chanting of Tights not stockings does rather lose the number’s edge without the explanation of it being the strangulated thoughts of a middle-aged lecher who is trying to be good.  Those introductory rubrics are worth being there.

There’s another track – You should’ve been there! – on We play for food that regrets a current performance compared to a previous word-perfect on the beat one.  Nah, I’m not having it.  Part of the charm is the anarchic energy and commitment they bring to every gig I’ve seen (which is quite a few).  They are endlessly inventive moralists, a combo full of rhythm, joy and wit, delivering good-natured and/or righteous scorn and loads of big fun.  In a rational world they’d have their own telly programme.  For more info: http://www.theantipoet.co.uk/ or http://pauleccentric.co.uk/the-antipoet/

Bonus paragraph: there are bonus tracks on the CD – three live performances of older stuff including the rather atypical but wondrous 1420 MHz, about one man’s search for extra-terrestrial intelligence (from which the title of this review is taken), and … The scariest day of the year (unreleasable Christmas single) which is worth the price of entry on its own.

April Scribal

Now, here’s a thing.  Both the featured artists at the April Scribal Gathering made reference to JCBs in their respective sets, Sam Deed in his buoyant take on Nizlopi’s The JCB song, and Pete the Temp in a context I can’t recall.

A fine performer, Pete kicked off his set with his compelling and inspirational Keep it lit, a sort of punk and more specific take on Bob Dylan’s Chimes of freedom’s “For every hung-up person / in the whole wide universe” and further inspired and entertained with a lengthy Remember that you’re going to die.  In between fun was taken.

Sam is not just remarkable for his youth (16) but is an accomplished singer and guitarist by any token, acknowledging the influence of people I’ve never heard of.  Another good, varied and well-attended evening, enhanced by the rare sighting and performing at Scribal of the good ship Naomi Rose.

 

Read Full Post »

And so, early in March, to Linford Wood, in Milton Keynes, while the trees are still bare:

Sad to say the wood sculptures are not what they once were – the grand old bearded philosopher and the big gorilla are long-lost to the elements – but it’s still a worthwhile wander, eyes primed for the crafted creatures; the bluebells will be out again soon and there’s a decent chance of seeing a jay.  Here’s one of the survivors:

2011

2017

Meanwhile, back indoors …

Engrossing evening of a dialogue outside ‘the bubble’ with Milton Keynes Humanists guest speaker Salah Al-Ansari, Senior Researcher with the Quilliam Foundation, an academic theologian and a practising imam.  Salah is one of the leading lights of the liberal wing of his faith – what is becoming known as Reform Islam – which recognises the Koran as a sacred text but significantly also regards it very much as an historical document – pretty much as the Christian Bible is seen by most these days.

A wide-ranging, open-ended conversation ensued, which was both enlightening and entertaining.  Salah kicked off the discussion with the view that we should be talking about Islams in the plural.  Interesting to learn that when he was studying to become an imam in an Egyptian university, his professor was a woman.  It was agreed that secularism does not imply atheism.  Positive change, albeit slow and not so often visible, is happening among the Islamic communities.  An ex-Muslim atheist in the audience added spice.  There is more about Salah at www.quilliaminternational.com/about/staff/salah-al-ansari/ and from there, if you are not familiar with them, it is well worth exploring the work of the anti-extremist (from all sides) Quilliam Foundation further.

Because it was there

I have piles of books I intend to read but I often take an impulse book out from the local library for no other reason than because it’s there.  The library I mean.  Use it or lose it!  Hence the next book, that happened to catch my eye.

I’ve always looked upon the American artist Edward Hopper as the painter’s equivalent of a one hit wonder – you know, the haunting Nighthawks, all the lonely people in that late night cafe.  Ivo Kranzfelder‘s Edward Hopper 1882-1967: Vision of reality (Taschen, 1995/2006) has disabused me of this but, to continue the metaphor, I still wouldn’t want more than a single disc ‘Best of’, and vinyl at that.  A bit samey, and I’m not convinced by the (please don’t take this the wrong way) proportions and posture of some of his women (like the one on the book’s cover, actually).

It’s a handsomely produced volume, with some stunning black and white photos by Hans Namuth of the man himself, not least those taken in places he painted.  Frankly, sometimes I struggle with writing about painters and what they were trying to do, and a chapter head like The secularization of experience doesn’t help.  Apparently he didn’t say much about it himself, but what did strike me was that 1942’s Nighthawks, and a number of his other more well-known paintings, were being done at precisely the same time as Abstract Expressionism (not that I’ve got much against …) was evolving and taking hold of American art in New York.  So good for him for sticking to his guns to the end.

Anyway, not to in any way get things out of proportion, I have to claim it was a bit of a trauma – after all the landscapes, townscapes, buildings, room interiors, urban scenes and absorbed individuals, all the mustards and terracotta, muted browns, dull turquoise, beiges, greys and olive greens – to turn over from page 105 and suddenly be all at sea; as it happens one of these was the first painting he ever sold.  Normal service was quickly restored.

What it says on the poster

Staying in the library, I learned a bit and was mightily entertained by this FoSSL (Friends of Stony Stratford Library) presentation. The turbo-driven opening chords of musical director Paul Martin on the mandola suggested we were in for a treat and so it proved.  Shakespeare – a musical celebration, curated by Vicki Shakeshaft, was a fascinating and nicely paced mix of music, songs (take a bow soloist Simon Woodhead), readings and contextual history with a colourful morris dance duo thrown in for good measure.  And all, if my powers of recall are functioning properly, without resort to “If music be the food of love …”  Came as a surprise to me that “Who is Sylvia / What is she” was the Bard’s (from Two gentlemen of Verona – if asked I’d have said music hall), and my English teacher never told me that Hamlet’s advice to the players was a rant and that “Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them” was a gripe at Shakespeare’s company’s erstwhile clown, Will Kemp, who once morris danced from London to Norwich.

Further musical adventures

No poster for the early March Vaultage, but it was a good ‘un.  Folkish duo Phil Riley & Neil Mercer – guitar and mandolin – did a great set of their own material with a singalong of Neil Young’s Rockin’ in the free world somewhere in the middle, finishing with a thrilling Russian folk dance-based tune.  Oi!  The March Aortas – nice and varied – deserves a mention too.

First Scribal I’ve managed this year  – Out! Damn virus! – was another good one too.  Stephen Ferneyhough kicked off with a musical history of the Brackley Morris with one of those squeeze box things – I can never remember which is which.  A storming set from featured singer Bella Collins – great voice and material (folk, blues and beyond), skilled emphatic guitar, foot stomping on the floor.  Own songs and a couple of covers – Jimmy Reed’s Shame, shame, shame morphing into Prince’s Kiss and back again!  Stephen Hobbs is wearing his bardship well, as if there was any chance he wouldn’t.  Mark ‘Slowhand’ Owen’s dazzling fretwork on one of his songs had a couple of us fearing for our own fingers just thinking about it.

And finally … best book review ever (click on the picture if you can’t read what’s between the cat’s legs):

 

 

 

Read Full Post »

patti-smith-m-train

Patti Smith’s M Train

Roaming around, my title today, comes from a random dip and blind finger point into Patti Smith‘s M Train (Bloomsbury, 2015), a book that opens with the words, “It’s not so easy writing about nothing“, addressed to her by a cowpoke in a dream.  A malaise is upon her and she’s drifting.  Being Patti Smith she has some interesting options, like a bizarre chat with ex-chess champ Bobby Fischer in Iceland, with Buddy Holly (about as rock and roll as the book gets, actually), and, he stipulates not chess on the agenda.  Or slobbing out to Midsomer Murders and other tv crime repeats, which I find wonderfully reassuring, in a London hotel; big fan of Scandi-crime too.

She drinks a lot of coffee – has her spot in a cafe over the road from her frugal New York apartment, mostly furnished with books.  When the coffee shop guys move to Redondo Beach (yup) to set up there, she visits and buys an old wreck of a house there on impulse (I say, impulse, but she’s not a cash buyer); in the storm that comes in hard later in the year the boardwalks are washed away, his cafe is lost but her house survives.  Along the way she writes with feeling about life with her late husband.  She’s more beat and Euro-bohemian than rock and roll in M Train.  There’s an engrossing trip to Japan.

I admire Patti Smith enormously.  She goes her own modest, decent and powerful way.  I love a lot of her songs, and she’s a compelling performer (when not shrieking).  She is steeped in culture, with and without a capital C.  I’ll admit don’t really get the Polaroid photos that illustrate M Train – my guess is they bear the same relationship to her friend Robert Mapplethorpe’s photographic work as Samuel Beckett’s prose does to his pal James Joyce’s – but this is an absorbing memoir of a year that in other hands would seem self-indulgent and pseud.  I can see myself reading it again, not least to try and catch that fleeting reference to the actual M train to see where she was coming from in choosing her title.

strange-library-01The strange library

One of the springboards of  Patti Smith‘s actions in M Train is the writing of the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami (hell, I was even prompted to pick up a cheap copy of his 600-page Wind-up bird chronicle that I’ll probably never get round to reading as a result).  As it happens, I’ve had a copy of his The strange library (Harvill Secker, 2014) sitting around for a while now (I used to be a librarian), so it seemed an auspicious time to actually read it.  Which I have done twice now – it’s not a big book – and it’s only a struggling to justify itself better judgement that is stopping me playing the emperor’s new clothes card.

strange-library-02It’s certainly a handsome, fascinating and fun exercise in book design, or even art; that library issue pocket on the cover is three-dimensional, there’s, for example, a full-page illustration of 8 variously decorated ring donuts against a pink background and many other enterprising graphic injections, some of the pages show signs of wear, marbled endpapers etc.  Here’s an example of a double-page spread.  Plot line?  A bit of a swot is on his way home from school wondering about tax collection in the Ottoman Empire.  (I know – why?).  He drops into his local library and is led down into a labyrinthine basement where he is abducted and confronted with all sorts of Borgesian creatures, friends and monstrous foes both, and undergoes various trials.  Or various sillinesses, the sceptic in me says.  “All I did was go to the library to borrow some books” is his complaint.

On second reading I began to wonder if I was meant to wonder about each actual choice of word and phrase, something to do with the magic of the written word.  I was struck by the notion of the boy worrying about his pet starling being fed while he was trapped; ridiculous I thought, until I googled it and, yes, it seems people do keep starlings as pets, especially in Japan.  Fantasy horror has never been a genre I’ve managed to live with, so I’m floundering a lot of the time, though I’ll grant a sense of the young hero’s devastation that haunts.  And I worry about that “After that, I never visited the city library again” line near the end.  But The strange library is a splendid object, that I flip through again now, with a strange affection.  Maybe the charity shop will have to wait, after all.

i-capture-the-castleI conquer the castle

No such ambiguity about December’s Book Group book.  I loved Dodie Smith‘s novel I capture the castle (1949) to bits, all suspension of disbelief willingly surrendered to one of the great opening paragraphs:

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining board, which I have padded with our dog’s blanket and the tea cosy.

I capture the castle is Cassandra’s journal.  The conceit is she’s 17, wants to be a novelist and is recording family life to hone her writing skills.  Hers is a wonderful voice – naive, moral yet seeking wisdom, full of heart and good intentions, modern even – looking forward to Adrian Mole, backwards to Janes Eyre and Austen : “I kept pretending we were in a Victorian novel” she says.  She has an older sister, Rose – “I know she is a beauty. She is nearly twenty-one and very bitter with life. I am seventeen, look younger, feel older.  I am no beauty but have a neatish face.”  At a certain stage she says of her sibling: “And I regret to say there were moments when my deep and loving pity for her merged into a desire to kick her fairly hard.”

It’s an eccentric family in the eccentric setting of an old ruin taking in a castle tower in the country.  Father – Mortmain – once had success as an avant-garde novelist: “Years and years ago wrote a very unusual book called Jacob Wrestling, a mixture of fiction, philosophy and poetry,”  a novel that critics, whom he scorns, have given the label ‘enigmatism’; “he says the American critic has discovered things in Jacob Wrestling that he certainly never put there“.  He’s written nothing for years, their income is practically nothing.   In response to the family’s urging, “His only weapon has been silence – and sometimes a little sarcasm“.  This neat little nod to James Joyce‘s conclusion – “silence, exile and cunning” – in The portrait of the artist as a young man is a nice example of just one of the strands, a look at contemporary artistic circles, of this splendidly exuberant novel.  Mortmain’s second wife, Topaz, was an artist’s model in London taken to expressing risible attitudes, cavorting naked in nature worship, and capable of kind of Topazism it requires much affection to tolerate“.

Nevermind the plot, which involves a rich American family inheriting the pile, with the two young sons thereof doubling as romantic leads, leading to Rose’s pursuit of financial stability through marriage, Cassandra’s poignant discovery of love herself, and how they get Mortmain writing again, along with the progress of various other characters’ storylines … the joy of I capture the castle is in the playful invention (a village called Godsend with a sceptical priest, pets named after Heloise and Abelard) and the voice, Cassandra’s thoughts and voyage of self-discovery.  Here just three prime examples:

As we walked back to the house he asked if I thought La Belle dame sans Merci would have lived in a tower like Belmotte. I said it seemed very likely, though I never really thought of her having a home life.

The last stage of a bath, when the water is cooling and there is nothing to look forward to, can be pretty disillusioning. I expect alcohol works much the same way.

A year ago, I would have made a poem out of that idea. I tried to, yesterday, but it wasn’t any use. Oh, I could think of lines that rhymed and scanned but that is all they were. I know now that is all my poems ever were, yet I used to feel I could leap over the moon when I had made one up. I miss that rather.

But still capable of “She is a good-looking girl. Enormous feet, though“.  How can you resist?  It has a rather lovely ending too.

Roaming around locally

scribal-dec-2016December Scribal: Brian & Krysstal a sublime old style Music Hall or Variety act for the twenty-first century.  Think Hylda Baker and the ‘She knows ya know’ routine and then forget it.  Krysstal the bored gormless glamorous assistant cum straight woman (but with a killer dead pan delivery when left to her own fill-in devices), Brian musically a shambling long-haired filthier Lonnie Donegan combined with a loquacious dash of Tommy Cooper without the fez just for starters.  “They reckon observational comedy is funny, but I can’t see it.”  Probably the funniest act I saw last year.  Immaculate timing.  Try http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6aiSdg0UEc0

we-built-this-cityAt Milton Keynes Central Library until the end of January, and a contribution to the MK 50th anniversary celebrations (yes – celebrations!), We built this city on rock’n’roll is a collage of MK’s musical history – both local and The Bowl as national venue (when we lived on Eaglestone we could hear the guitar lines coming over on the wind) – collated by contemporary local historian Lee Scriven, along with artefacts and a collection of some very fine portrait photography by the man himself of some of the major players in the city’s cultural evolution.  Let’s let him speak for himself:

To some rock n roll is Brylcreem, drainpipes and blue suede shoes, to others like me, it’s a turn of phrase to describe an attitude towards life. The talented, gifted and maverick ensemble of the Milton Keynes Development Corporation, who created this city back in the 1970s, possessed a true rock n roll arrogance.
But as you are about to discover, the real pioneering heroes of Milton Keynes were the local residents and personalities who individually and collectively got off their backsides to create a very unique culture. Their collective efforts left more than just memories, they created the City’s cultural DNA and embodied the true spirit of Milton Keynes; be daring, be original and be brave, in other words be: Rock n Roll.

I’m not nit-picking about any of that (well not much, and not right now), though I will say that, for all it’s – and ultimately, I guess, ok, excusable – rhetorical power in this context, I’m still cringing from the thought of that horrible Starship song.  I have always run screaming from it.  Seems I’m not alone in my musical fear and loathing either, of what GQ in this article, called “the most detested song in human history”; beware, though – the fucking thing starts playing of its own accord from that page unless you are careful.  How strangely reassuring to learn Bernie Taupin had a hand in its writing.

No photos of my favourites at Stony Stratford’s New Year’s Day Classic Car Show this year, I’m afraid.  It was pissing down.  Did my duty and went – as hearteningly did plenty of others – but kept my camera dry.

Enough!  But just for the record, the launch of the Stony Bardic Trials at the library on Lantern Parade and Lights switch-on day and a Vaultage:

mitchell-taylor-at-bardic-launch

An intense Mitchell Taylor sans guitar. Photo (c) Bardic Council.

bardic-council-of-ss-photo-liam-farmer-malone

Liam ‘Farmer’ Malone. Photo (c) Bardic Council.

vaultage-early-dec-2016


 

Read Full Post »

The Tuesday evening here of the day over there of the US Presidential election, at Watford Colosseum I see the Czech National Symphony Orchestra performing Dvorak‘s New World Symphony – you czech-national-symphony-orchestra-natalie-cleinknow, the one with all those old world immigrant folk melodies woven in.  Also featured is his Cello Concerto, the dramatic Natalie Clein soloing, which I enjoyed immensely when the cello was to the fore but was less keen when the composer chose to turn it up to 11 – I’ve got a full orchestra big bass drum’n’all and by God I’m gonna use it! – something that also, to these ears, spoiled the New World, and maybe a problematic predilection for some nineteenth century composers.  It still deserved more than the barely half-full hall they got.  With a raised stage and not much of a rake to where we were sitting it was slightly disconcerting to not have a minimal view of that full orchestra behind the string section, even when at full blast.  I hardly ever see classical music live but always find it amusing to watch the percussionists hanging around waiting for the odd triangle tinkle.

vaultage-early-nov-2016scribal-2016-novLocal words and music

The first Scribal Gathering after the Brexit vote the audience felt flat, unbelieving, devoid of energy.  Scribal Gathering the day after the Trump presidential victory was a vibrant what-else-can-you-show-me? affair, with interesting first timers (hey, a strident flirting with finger-style rendition of Come together), Taylor Smith keeping up the developing Scribal tradition for featured duos of one half thereof being ill – no probs for Michell Taylor to solo – and a lively and colourful set from featured poet Tina Sederholm, including her Prediction (“I’m sorry / but you have just given birth / to a poet“) and her contribution to the self-help industry, Let your dog out (try this YouTube link for a taste).  Then the surprise treat of a storming end: two blues, a John Martyn song and ‘a bit of gypsy jazz‘ from Bella from Cardiff – great voice, great guitar – who was, it seems, just passing through.

Next day’s Vaultage saw a welcome extended set of striking originals (“It takes its toll, toll, toll“) from co-host Lois Barrett and what was probably a first for the Vaults bar, a rendition of a Take That song among the originals from the hard rocking solo John Michael Davies; decent song that,  Gary Barlow’s Back for good.

don-giovanni-on-tour_83486aDon Giovanni

Friday and – I’m no opera buff, but, joy of joys – it’s touring Glyndebourne at MK Theatre.  Doing Mozart!  A La Dolce Vita era Don Giovanni, no less.  The set was a strikingly clever cube – revolving, expanding, contracting – adapted as the action unfolds.  As always with Glyndebourne there’s the energy, fun and fine detail of the party scene, and while it has to be said I wasn’t the only one who thought the second act went repetitiously on a bit, the conclusion – the Don’s scary comeuppance and his descent into the fires of hell was nicely done.  I appreciated  how at the start the splendid orchestra broke straight into the overture without the indulgence of the conductor having to arrive to customary applause – why? they haven’t done anything yet!  I was strangely disconcerted when the surtitles (‘subtitles’ in English projected above the stage) suggested someone was effectively singing, “I am strangely disconcerted by what you say“.  Self-proclaimed opera-phobes: give Glyndebourne and Mozart a try; you never know – it happened to me.

After all that I needed a week to recover.

monsignor-quixoteMonsignor Quixote

Really enjoyed Graham Greene‘s late novel Monsignor Quixote (1982).  Here is a great novelist and chronicler of his times having fun in his old age with the themes – faith and commitment to a cause or belief – that dominated his life’s work.

Set in post-Franco Spain, Don Quixote, a Roman Catholic priest upgraded to Monsignor by a stroke of luck and to the disgust of his bishop, and a godless Communist ex-mayor who inevitably becomes Sancho (though it’s not his name), embark on a road trip, a modern reflection on the experiences of the priest’s namesake in the Cervantes’ seventeenth century Spanish novel, Don Quixote, whereby his tired old horse, Rocinante, becomes in Green’s hand, a knackered old Seat 600 (a Fiat 500 made under licence in Spain).

They drink a lot as they venture – sometimes perilously – along, debating one another’s allegiances and beliefs, increasingly acknowledging their common decency.  As well as arguing against the tenets of each other’s beliefs, they discover a shared scepticism of their respective institutions and dogmas that have clouded their hopes and aspirations.  The priest is pleasantly surprised by what he reads in the Communist Manifesto, has more time for the mystics than the rigid moral theology of his textbooks.  The places they pass through all have their lessons.  There’s a lovely running joke of their drinking to the health of the Holy Trinity – come on, you remember: the father, son and holy ghost – and short-changing the holy ghost with only two and a half bottles of Manchegan wine.

Behind the humour there is a seriousness and a rueful anger concerning how life should be lived and enjoyed, but it never gets in the way of the fun.  Though the mayor still prefers ‘Marx to mystery’, no-one wins, both are changed; the atheist in me can easily live with that.  It’s also subtly educative along the way. To say it ends poignantly is an understatement.

Read Full Post »

a strip of fly paper,” says the sage in the first book I mumble about here, “Every thought, however fleeting and inconsequential, sticks to it.”  But later for that.

Languor, laxity (spell-check suggests laxative), and a lack of discipline in the powerful face of television narratives – yea, even unto Lovejoy and Pie in the sky, the unique qualities of which were hidden from me first time around – those things and a tendency for procrastination, combined with the regular practice of grand-parentry, all these things cry out for a timely return to the brevity that once existed here on Lillabullero.  Well, that’s the intention anyway.

garden-of-evening-mistsThe Garden of Evening Mists

Tan Twang Eng‘s novel The garden of evening mists (2012) was last month’s Book Group book.  In as much as we probably talked more about this book – without going off at tangents – than any other, it certainly engaged most of us, but I wasn’t the only one who concluded after all the discussion that my mixed feelings and confusion about it remained un-un-mixed, albeit with amendments therein.  And life is too short for a clarifying re-read.

But I’m not sorry to have given the book its reading time, though.  Those critics’ words on the cover certainly apply some of the time (though Reading Group members didn’t necessarily agree to which parts).  Rich and indeed over-rich similes abound (you can judge for yourself later on here).  It’s set in Malaya, and one gets to feel and learn a lot about the place, its history, and the times.  Senses are mobilised: the garden, the tea plantation, the mountains, the rain forest.

There are three time-lines running for Yun Ling, a recently retired Cambridge educated judge suffering from the early stages of aphasia, who is the narrative centre of the book.  It has to be said for a long time I had to keep reminding myself she’s a woman; the author is a man.  It’s a curiously detached voice a lot of the time.  Anyway, (mid-1980s?) she returns to the place in the country where many years previously she had spent time with the remarkable Arimoto, a Japanese gardener who is introduced with the book’s humdinger opening line: “On a mountain above the clouds once lived a man who had been the gardener of the Emperor of Japan.”  In order to counter her aphasia she chronicles her time spent as his apprentice during the anti-Communist emergency in the 1950s.  Both time streams hark back to her earlier traumatic experiences as a teenager in a Japanese slave camp in World War 2, with various characters, and/or their friends or relatives tangling relationships over all three.  I’m abdicating on the actual plot details.

Quite where Arimoto fits in with the grand historical narrative of Japan’s war effort – what one Book group member rather harshly described as “the descent into Dan Brown territory” – is ambiguous, but his is the remarkable presence that dominates the book.  He’s a master gardener in the classic Japanese tradition – loads of fascinating detail about shakkei, or “borrowed scenery” and the like –  who ritually starts the day with a bit of zen in the art of archery (but is also taking blood pressure tablets).  He and Yun Ling become lovers but of that side of their life nothing is revealed.  Having spoken of the philosophy of Lao Tzu he just one day – the garden is finished? – makes a Lao Tzu-like disappearance and Yun Ling returns to Kuala Lumpar until when the novel starts.  His sketches (oh yeah, he did that pretty well too) play a big part in the final action.

It’s a novel of increasing moral complexity, a bit of a thriller, a spiritual fable and a consideration of the notion of memory, detached and yet in its setting sumptuous, a haunting sequence of tableaux running back and forth.  Along the way you get a look at the small details of imperialism and colonialism, and racial and community tensions in Malaya: a ‘banana’? – a Chinese who was yellow on the outside, white inside.  The conduct of the British in the Boer War is thrown into the mix, and I was ignorant about the Malayan Emergency of the ’50s, when the Brits (yup, us again) reined in the (British trained) Communist brigades who had been, in Malaya, the ones who successfully fought against the Japanese on the ground.  There is an extraordinary tale within a tale of a Japanese flying instructor falling in love with the young man who was scheduled to fly the last kamikaze mission of the war; and of the proud aircraft designer angry about the sloppy production values that were allowed in the making of the planes that the kamikaze pilots flew.  All sorts of details like these make for a fascinating, if at times frustrating book.  And I haven’t even mentioned horimono, the Japanese art of whole body tattoos.

I mentioned the language, the similes, earlier.  Fine writing, sheer poetry, or, oh give it a rest, won’t you?  Just three of my responses to stuff like this:

In the shallows, a grey heron cocked its head at me, one leg poised in the air, like the hand of a pianist who had forgotten the notes to his music.

He skims a large magnifying glass over the first print, distorting the shapes and colours beneath like the lights of a city skyline seen through a rain-splattered window.

he pointed to the barbed wire strung around the fence. ‘A weed that is strangling the country. It seems to have sprouted everywhere.’

talking-to-the-deadTalking to the dead

So much for the brevity of which I spoke.  Which means the second book here gets short shrift where normally I might have given it more time and sprayed choice quotes all over the place.  But Harry Bingham‘s Talking to the dead (Orion, 2012) is the first of a sequence and there’s a fair chance I shall be returning to the young peppermint tea drinking Detective Constable Fiona Griffiths’ professional and social life soonish.

The locale is a recognisable Cardiff and surrounds (where my wife comes from).  Fiona – Fi – tells her tale in the present tense, and there’s a nice taste of the Philip Marlowe at the back of her.  If you like the sound of:

I got a note this evening. Through my letterbox. It said, WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.’
That’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?’
I wasn’t asking for literary criticism.’

or this, arising from a text from a suspect on a phone she shouldn’t be using professionally:

I love everything about that message. I like the fact that it’s properly spelled and punctuated. I like the repetition of ‘fuck off’. Not elegant, but pithy, and you can give me pith over elegance every day of the week.

then I’m guessing you’re open to her crime fighting tales, stretching the bounds of credibility as the plot and action do at various points (like her escape of disciplinaries for starters – “I don’t think the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed DC Griffiths would thank me for fessing up to her evil twin, the house-breaking, phone-stealing, bad DC Griffiths“) as the story unfolds.

So yes, she’s – that inevitable word for a fictional female cop – feisty; and sassy with it too.  But also vulnerable, because her main ‘thing’ – fictional detectives have to have a ‘thing’ – is that for two of her teenage years she suffered from Cotard’s Syndrome, an extreme manifestation of depersonalisation, a feeling that you don’t exist, that you are dead.  In Talking to the dead she spends an extraordinary clandestine night in the room in the mortuary where two victims in the case’s bodies are being kept, but there is reassuringly no hint of the supernatural.  Fi’s struggles with the experience of living on what she calls ‘Planet Normal’ are nicely done.  Her other two ‘things’ are a secret buddy and guru – Lev, ex-Israeli secret service martial arts expert she met at Cambridge while getting her philosophy degree (not that you’d notice) – and her close family, including a dad, whose current success and local helpful influence was not exactly achieved by legitimate lawful means (but we don’t talk about that), and a cod Welsh mum.

The crimes are unpleasant – people smuggling, sex trade, high-level gangsterism – but related with candour and compassion.  As a police procedural it struck me as refreshing – “I have no musical taste at all” – effective and fun.

Musical adventures

scribal-oct-2016vaultage-mid-oct-2016Before the proceedings kicked off at the October Scribal I think I saw spoken word artist Rob Auton taking a close-up of the mic on his phone, begging the question, among many, of the existence of some sort of archive.  Wednesday’s Wolves – all two of them – scored with some great harmonies on original material and showed how a cajon can be a musical instrument, more than just percussion, in its own right.  Rob started with a more frenetic version of his delightfully exercise in logical absurdity Heaven food than the one on YouTube.  With Rob you’re never quite sure where (or if) the stage persona ends.  He wandered away from the mic at times.  He said about how his nephew had learnt the word ‘orange’ since he’d last seen him, and wondered to himself: What have you done in that time?  Which hit home vis-a-vis the grandparenting.  He finished with A letter from Father Christmas, a long piece from his Sleep show; after the entertainment a brave and vulnerable work-out way beyond self-help book territory: “As a gift to me I would like you to attempt to become as comfortable within yourself when you are awake as you are when you are asleep.”

At the mid-October Vaultage John Howarth managed to be both suitably raw and skillfully accomplished in a set taking in blues, township and more sophisticated African musics – nice one.  (Co-headliner on the poster was a no-show).  Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize announcement earlier that day was celebrated by the performance of his When the ship comes in at dirge-like speed; anonymity to protect the guilty, but it wasn’t Pat.

ss-shak-400willie-the-shakeSweeter than Roses one Saturday at York House saw the welcome return of Mr Simpson’s Little Consort to York House, featuring a programme of music and readings from Shakespeare and others.  This evening mostly as a consort of viols (small, medium and large; treble, tenor and a couple of bass viols, one with a pleasing figurehead of piratical appearance) and featuring soprano Cate McKee.  Entertainment, a touch of education, and much charm.  A couple of numbers – described as “mad music” – featured the bass viols up against one another.  A sort of Tudor Duelling banjos.

A week later, same venue, someone had to do the actual Duelling banjos in a very different musical landscape.  The fifth and broader flavoured Stony Breakdown featured five bands coming at Americana refreshingly from a variety directions of country and bluegrass.  Standouts for me were a couple of the guitarists – some classic country picking from he of the Jackson Creek Band (all the way from Cambridge) and stylings taking in Django Reinhart and country swing from John Lee (who I’d only known before leading a jazz group from the keyboards) with Oakland County.  It all blurs a bit in the memory, but hard to forget Stained Glass Blue Grass’s fine bluegrassification of Neil Sedaka’s Breaking up is hard to do; of course we joined in.  Take a bow, too, the Rocky Road Pilgrims and the Band of Brothers.  And that pint of Bucks Star’s Magnovinium 45, a dark ale, went down a treat.

Another brevity fail, then …

 

 

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: