More music on this allegedly literary blog. People often claim to have very broad musical tastes, but this is frequently not borne out in fact. When some starlet or reality TV show participant says something like “Oh I love all kinds of music – anything from Rihanna to the Pussycat Dolls” you sense that their idea of music isn’t, shall we say, particularly well-developed.
Jools Holland, whom God preserve, said on his radio show recently that it really annoyed him when people said of a particular artist or type of music “Oh sorry, before my time” as if anything that existed before they were born could not possibly have any relevance to them. Yes, quite. Thus, I feel happy with a really wide range of music. I never understood rap, in which I always find the c is silent, and I’d rather folk songs were sung by folk, instead of Peter Pears. And don’t ever take me to your lieder. Apart from that, though, pretty much anything goes. So here’s the latest eclectic mix of live music encountered by me and ‘er indoors.
Quatuor Danel
If you are occasionally in Manchester on a Thursday lunchtime, and you need sustenance of the musical kind, the Martin Harris Centre is the place to be. This innovative centre presents regular free concerts at lunchtime, and recently this string quartet gave a performance of two standard repertoire items, Haydn’s String Quartet op.1 No 1 and Mozart’s String Quartet KV 465 together with a brand new piece by Pieter Schuermans. The Haydn and the Mozart were sublime, and the concentration of the players noticeable. I particular enjoyed the flourish which the leader, Marc Danel, brought to his work. The Schuermans piece was, as they say, “challenging”, but was played with enormous attack by the four musicians, and the single long movement impressed with its energy.
>Damien Maddison
Damien recently went solo after some time with his band Maddison – there were, in the time-honoured phrase, musical differences. Damien appeared as part of the annual In the Cityevent at The Moon Under Water, a huge Deansgate pub. We went with the estimable local DJ and rock chick (she wishes) Caroline Rennie. Damien played with a pick up band, with whom he had one hour’s rehearsal. Considering that, he was pretty good, and the current highlight of his set, the withering “Absolutely Tib St.” (spot the Dylan reference) was certainly enhanced by the beefed-up electric sound. Damien’s work is recognisably in an English singer-songwriter tradition, and whilst he clearly owes something to people such as Ray Daviesand Ian Broudie, he has a distinctive voice and a great facility with words. “Absolutely Tib St.”, which is even more effective when you know what occasioned it, spits out bile in splendid fashion – and it’s not often you come across “sanctimonious” in a pop lyric.
The Unthanks
To the newly refurbished Band on the Wall, last visited by me 27 years ago. It’s changed a bit, as have Rachel Unthank and the Winterset, now officially The Unthanks. Ten of them crowded on to the small stage. The line-up is basically a string quartet, two brass players, drums, bass, keyboards, guitar, and various other instruments- all the players swapped instruments at regular intervals. The ethereal sound of Rachel and her sister’s voices, that made the previous incarnation of the group such a success, is preserved in the big band version, but with hugely improved capacity for new textures and modulations. It helps that they have gathered some brilliant multi-instrumentalists around them, even if some of them looked like they had wandered in from the school band rehearsal. Great harmonies, some really unusual songs -not just folk – and some fantastic playing. The venue is mainly standing, but if you get there early, you can sit on the balcony, which is what we did.
So- an eclectic few days, and lots more to come in the musical maelstrom that is Manchester.
…especially by the mighty Normblog. Thanks Norm!
Clive James was 70 this week. When he was a mere stripling in his thirties, I discovered the work he had done with Pete Atkin on a series of albums just coming to a premature end in the face of indifference from the great British public and the big record companies. I’ve been a fan ever since, so when, not long after getting to grips with the internet, last century, I discovered Midnight Voices, an online community of Atkin / James fans, I joined up, and have watched with pleasure as Pete has responded to our interest by producing new versions of his older material, versions of previously unheard songs, and an album of all new material. This is one of the best things about the web- none of this would have been possible without it, although Steve Birkill, the onlie begetter of Midnight Voices deserves a huge vote of thanks for his tenacity in getting the whole thing moving, and keeping it going.
The website that Steve maintains contains more than you will ever need to know about Atkin and James, and I commend it to you. For the uninitiated, though, here’s why I think this work is important. The songs (lyrics by James, music by Atkin) struck me then as a callow youth, and strike me even more so now as a grizzled pantaloon, as being quite extraordinary in their lyrical dexterity and musical adventurousness. To listen to them alongside some of the other products of the early seventies is to hear consummate skill and intelligence up against the derivative and inept inanities of the semi-literate. The lyrics of James, intense, allusive, topical, poetic, are set by Atkin using the full range of musical styles available in popular song. So, rather than a typical guitar bass drums set up, those early Atkin albums featured the cream of British sessionmen, often with a jazz background, such as Henry Mackenzie, Chris Spedding,Kenny Clare, Herbie Flowers, Alan Wakeman and many others.
In a series of albums in the early seventies, they produced a long list of brilliant songs, often tackling unlikely topics with intelligence and humour. In my view, they have produced the best songs about the music business; the best song about alcoholism; the funniest song about drug abuse; the only song about the fears of a Mafia boss; the best songs about the death of sixties idealism and the Vietnam war…I could go on, but you get the picture.
It was a real pleasure and privilege, then, to attend this year’s Midnight Voices event, and to hear those songs again, often with new arrangements. My review is here.
If you are interested in intelligent lyrics, sung sensitively and with a brilliant musical setting, look no further. All the old albums are reissued in handsome new editions, and the later material is still available. You won’t be disappointed.
Anxious as ever to be present at the cutting edge of vibrantly youthful popular culture, I hied me to the Bridgewater Hall on Friday, accompanied by ‘er indoors and the man also known as the Silver Fox to witness a concert by two up and coming youngsters playing modern music. The elder of the two bandleaders, the prematurely grey Acker Bilk, was supporting the raven-haired whippersnapper Kenny Ball.
Blimey! Acker is 80, and Kenny a year younger. Between them, they’ve been trad-jazzing for over a century. That’s remarkable enough, though not as remarkable as Kenny’s hair. What is truly remarkable is that they can still put on an excellent show for a pretty good crowd of adoring fans.
Acker came on to stage painfully slowly – he’s obviously not too mobile – but he performed well, helped out considerably by his excellent trumpet player, Enrico Tomasso, who dominated proceedings, as the six-piece band ran through a series of standards. Acker introduced most of them with a joke, and a running gag (at least I think it was) where he’d say, “The next number is… (turning to the pianist) what the hell’s the next one called?” He had to do Stranger on the Shore, of course, and did, donning his bowler for the occasion,though his clarinet part was really reduced to some atmospheric noodlings. It was pleasant, but that was all.
Kenny Ball’s group, with an identical lineup – drums, bass, piano, and a front row of trumpet (obviously)trombone and clarinet, produced a much beefier sound, aided considerably by excellent playing from the rhythm section, and the clarinet playing of Andy Cooper that reminded you rather poignantly of how much power Acker had lost. Kenny Ball can still blast it out, and certainly contributed mightily to the overall impact. The Jazzmen had fun, and included, as they had to, “I Wanna Be Like You” played as a request for a young lad (with his grandparents presumably) in the audience. I think they might have played it anyway…Andy Cooper’s been singing that for 40 years now, but still obviously enjoyed it, and rocked the house, insofar as the Bridgewater is rockable. There were some surprises, notably an excursion into Jacques Loussier or David Rees-Williams territory, led by excellent pianist Hugh Ledigo and a fantastic (but, by definition, too long) drum solo by Nick Millward.
It was great fun, and I’m glad I saw these legends. Couldn’t get Midnight in Moscow out of my head all day Saturday.
One of the unexpected benefits of comment moderation has been that I’ve picked up on some comments on old posts that I wouldn’t have otherwise seen – including some spam from China.
So, it seems that my titanic struggle with Writers Bureau wasn’t quite the success I had thought judging by the new comment. I’ll see if I can get a copy of their brochure – but does this count as advertising? And thanks to Thomas for his comment on the ways people try to get more money out of us.
It’s a never-failing indication of creeping old age when icons of your youth die. I’m old enough to have been enthralled by Simon Dee’s tea-time show on TV. To an adolescent in grimy Moston, he seemed effortlessly cool, roaring off into the sunset in his E-type as the credits rolled at the end of the show. He was one of the first people who were famous for being famous- he had no discernible talent other than handsome features and a pleasantly unforced television manner. He seemed at the time to epitomise the new youth culture, as it took over the bastion of the establishment, the BBC. What happened after his flop at LWT is quite shocking. There were a couple of comeback attempts, but essentially, this man spent half his life on the scrapheap.
So I’m in the local Co-op buying a bottle of wine. Spotty youth at the checkout is trying to scan it but it won’t scan. He asks his camp co-worker why it won’t. “Well, it’s obvious”, he says. “This is an evil bottle of wine – it’s not Fairtrade, so it’s probably produced by enslaved North Korean children!”
“Er… it’s Italian,” I say.
“Yes, probably produced by Mussolini’s descendants” he says, and flounces theatrically to serve someone else.
I love this. It proves that, as John Shuttleworth wisely opined, “Shopkeepers in the north are nice.”
Just a quick post to say that I’ve enabled a new widget called Apture, which should produce lots of multi-media links at the click of a mouse, as MC Desmo says.
I suppose blogging is a kind of vanity publishing. There’s no quality control – I can write what I like. But the main difference between Topsyturvydom and some execrable self-published collection of poems is that I can, to some extent, control the reaction to it. After all, an author publishing in the usual way is open to criticism and has to take it. On the interweb, however, my space (someone should use that as the name for a web site) is my castle, and I can repel boarders if I wish.
In four years of blogging, I’ve never attracted the kind of malicious commenter designated a troll by the internet geeks. Until now, that is. Thanks to a friend who understands how these things work, I have been able to use my sitemeter to identify the troll’s IP address- not that I really needed to, as I know who the person is, but you never know when you might need proof. Having a colleague who is an expert in forensic linguistics is useful too.
The upshot is that comment moderation is now in place. It won’t trouble any genuine commenter, beyond having to wait a matter of some hours perhaps before their comment appears. But I really don’t see why I should give cyber house-room to people who simply want to insult me. So I won’t.
You would think I might get these all right. No, I got 6 / 7. I even got the question on To Kill a Bleeding Mockingbird right. What I got wrong is the question on The Charge of the Light Brigade, where I was invited to declare why Tennyson had used certain verbs. All the answers were reasonable, but only one is right, apparently. My respect for GCSE examiners has increased exponentially, as it is clear they can communicate with long dead poets laureate to ask footling questions about their poems.
“Alf, are you there? Can you tell us why you chose the verbs “volleyed” and “thundered” in that long poem of yours?”
“Certainly: it’s to reinforce the danger faced by the soldiers.”
“Righto. Sure it’s not to reinforce the noise of battle, what with those verbs being vaguely onamatopoeic and all?”
“Nope. Reinforce the danger.”
“OK. Thanks Alf. Is Charlotte there by the way? Got a couple of questions for her.”
