Old Musicians Never Die - They Just De-compose...

The media has been - depending on which papers you read or websites you visit - aghast, fulsomely admiring, or just plain amazed that David Bowie has just released a new album and single at the ripe old age of 66.

OK, granted, he has had major heart problems, has not performed since 2006 or released any new music for nearly a decade, and is now known more for his reclusive lifestyle than for changing his hair and makeup evy other week, but still, is it so amazing that one of the most talented and in his day most prolific rock musicians of our age wants to make more music?

Even more extreme is the praise and opprobrium, about fifty percent each way, greeting the new single. It is alternately the worst song he has ever released, the product of a lost genius, a man deluded into thinking he still has what it takes; or the subject of laudation dripping with adjectives like elegiac, and phrases such as "like hearing King Arthur's voice from the cave."

Let's get this bit over quickly: having heard the song once, I like it: the words are poetic and the melody is haunting. But I have to say while it is undeniably and indisbutably Bowie, it is not his best work. Having said that, I am aware I am comparing it on one hearing to well known and well loved songs like Starman and Life on Mars. So I am quite prepared for it to grow on me on further listening.

But for now, that is my opinion - not worth the hype but not worth the insults hurled in its direction either.

More importantly, what I find difficult to understand is the media amazement that Bowie could have come out of what we had all assumed was a permanent retirement to record again.

Surely, music is, apart from his wife and children, the passion that has governed Bowie's life. He is a musician, first and foremost and is it therefore so surprising that he has one day got up, decided to jot a few Ideas down, come up with a few songs he thinks worth singing, then made his way - staggering on his zimmer frame if the media are to be believed, into the recording studio to warble the tunes into a microphone so that they can be preserved for posterity before he shuffles off this mortal coil?

Yes, there are those who are reading this foray back into the recording studio and the music charts as a swansong from a man who knows his end is near. Is he dying? they are asking, as if only the prospect of imminent demise would force him to release more music to be remembered by, or possibly with the foresight that his death would propel the album to the top of the charts and ensure maximum sales, thus providing his widow and daughter with a legacy.

But no, my view is he just wanted to share the songs he has written, like any artist - why DO people want to sing, dance, write? The creative impulse, which has beat unceasingly in Bowie's breast since the late sixties until he has (almost) reached his own late sixties.

And as for the idea that 66 is geriatric, I wonder if anyone has told Mick Jagger or Bob Dylan they should have given up the ghost at their advanced years?

The former is setting out with his compatriots on yet another tour, still strutting around the stage with his voice and physique in extremely good nick. The latter has just released another album, Tempest, which is worthy to be placed alongside any of his preceding work, and the last I heard he is still on his Never-Ending Tour. Without the aid of a Zimmer(man) frame. Sorry, just had to work that bad pun in.

I acknowledge that Mick and Bob have kept their careers going while Bowie has appeared to have left the music and performing world behind, but maybe that,s the mark of the great and talented artist - the music (or art, poetry, prose, whatever) keeps coming. And while some areas of the arts may demand a younger frame, such as dancing - though again Jagger seems to call that into question - singing, playing instruments and song writing are not solely the preserve of the young.

And the older songwriter has a message to convey that the younger writer cannot - not without the use of a high level of imagination anyway. They can speak of a long life, of looking back with nostalgia, sadness, joy or whatever emotion, on the past.

Bowie seems to be doing just that in his new song, as Dylan does at times on his new album. And it is wonderful to hear. Old musicians never die - they just keep singing till they can sing no more. Lets hope that day can be delayed as long as possible for these great talents.

Why we should listen to comedians

I have just read an article by Victoria Coren here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2013/jan/06/jim-davidson-arrest-standup-comedy
She comments on the arrest of Jim Davidson and his resulting withdrawal from Celebrity Big Brother, and laments it: the context is that years ago there were two types of comedian: the old school such as Davidson who we knew were racist, sexist etc and the new young things who traded on being the opposite: she opines that everyone under 45 liked the latter, while over 45's preferred the former.

Nowadays, she says - apart from the fact that most of those under 45's are no longer in that age bracket (me included,sadly) - things are not so simple and cut and dried. No longer can we accept Eddie Izzard's comedy credentials only on the basis that he is an executive transvestite (his description). And Coren argues that bringing back the Jim Davidsons of this world redraws the boundaries between the goodies (no, not Tim Brooke-Taylor et al) and the baddies. But one paragraph keys into something I was thinking about yesterday and strikes a familiar chord, especially in the light of comedians turning inward on themselves and criticising each others' choice of target and material:

"Our era's spirit of disapproval has triggered a widespread blandness and terror of challenging consensus, in everything from mainstream political discourse to the ordinary workplace, which makes the comedian or jester's traditional duty to shock and shake up more vital than ever. Haranguing them for shocking in the wrong way might be a luxury we can't afford."

Amen, Ms Coren - it is indeed the comedian's duty to shock and shake up. But how many nowadays do? Most are more mainstream than the daily dose of soap opera and even less in touch with the topical issues to be debated: their stock in trade is still relatiosnhips with the wife, mother, children - delete as applicable according to age of comedian.

So when a few months ago the Daily Mail was - not unexpectedly - aghast that the politicians were speaking to comedians about important social issues and listening to their views, and claimed it was appalling that we had to descend to listening to Hugh Grant and Russell Brand telling us what to think about phone hacking and drug taking, I could not be other than amused. Quite apart from the fact that Hugh's phone was hacked and Russell has experienced drug abuse both from having been an addict himself and working with drug charities, their comments made far more sense than anything any politician had said on the subjects throughout the discussions.

Of course we should ask people who have direct experience of an issue what their viewpoint is, and listen to an ex-drug addict when he explains that the law is totally irrelevant to a drug addict: his one thought when he wakes is how he is going to score, not whether he is breaking the law by doing so. And since the addict, as opposed to the casual user, is almost certain to be using drugs to escape from other problems and issues in his life, let's support him and see if we can dael with the issues and then he might be able to lead his life sober.

Makes sense, doesn't it?

And a comedian - at least, an intelligent one - should have something challenging to contribute because if he (or she) can find something funny and entertaining to say on stage about life, it should mean s/he looks at life in a slightly different way from most people, and can take an objective standpoint, which are crucial abilities for anyone who wishes to address a problem in society.

And unlike politicians, comedians are free spirits: they are not linked (or bound) to any political party or shade of thought - a few, Mr Izzard and Kenny Everett come to mind - do publicly espouse party politics in some form, but most are devoutly apolitical and will happily lampoon all political creed and beliefs. So a comedian can say exactly what he thinks, without the chief whip - er - whipping them into line.

Which is precisely why some comedians are feared - and therefore targeted - by the media. Let's tell everyone how stupid this person is so no one bothers to listen to him. Let's print and draw attention to the odd ridiculous, or even unkind, thing he says, or the one person he has offended, and no one will bother to listen to the thoughtful, insightful and challenging things he has to say. And let's only listen to one or two words - or perhaps a phrase or sentence - and then take them out of context and use them against him.

You can understand why most comedians take the easy - and cowardly - way out and deliver bland jokes about the mother/daughter/local takeaway.

But that just makes me admire even more those who risk being vilified in the media for challenging our views, to shock and shake us up.

Sindy and Donny: Days of Innocence

Today is the birthday of an old friend from primary school, Maxine.

She was the child who owned the first fashion doll I ever saw - and it was Tressy, whose selling point was that her hair grew. It is only now as I type this that I have realised where her name came from - the tresses that supposedly emanated from her plastic head. I wanted Tressy with a deep desire only an eight year old girl can understand.

Only to be disappointed when I saw the actual doll itself. Instead of the expected tresses sprouting from the whole head, there was a key in the doll's back which operated a mechanism by which you could pull out a tiny section of hair on the crown of her head. It was only this little bit of hair that could grow to almost waist length, and the only way it could be made to seem that the doll had long hair was by very careful arrangement of the section.

I suppose in retrospect it was good training for those girls who in later years would sport extensions, but the fact that most of Tressy's hair remained not only resolutely short but also styled in a definitive sixties bob reminiscent of the hairstyles favoured by our mums meant she was a distinct disappointment. It was only in later years that dolls were marketed especially to be made up and to have their hair done, and they tended to be disembodied plastic heads which - although I had grown past the age for these dolls by this time anyway - I always found rather macabre.

So I ended up with Sindy. Not as she is now, not much different from a Barbie - who was of course a brash American. No, the sixties' Sindy did not have the jutting boobs which frankly would have made it extremely difficult for her to remain standing if she were real - she would have been continually falling forwards under their sheer weight! Instead, Sindy had a trim, willowy figure and - in the case of mine anyway - came dressed in a patriotic red white and blue striped top and jeans, anlthough my favourite outfit was her sober brown tweed skirt and blouse.

She had, I remember, a dog she could take out for walks and the brown brogues on her plastic feet were far more suitable for tramping through muddy fields than dancing the night away at the disco. By the time she acquired a boyfriend called Paul, a younger sister, a range of clothes and furniture and a racier image, I had passed her on to my younger sister, because my interests - and those of my compatriots, including Maxine - had moved on to real make up applied to real faces - ours - and boys. Ah, the make up: Miners lipsticks, heavy blue Rimmel eye shadows and block mascara which you were supposed to mix with water but we used to spit on to make a paste which we then brushed on to our eyelashes with mini toothbrushes - and shared with our friends, long before we had heard of a little thing called hygiene!

But while the make up was real, the boys we fantasised about weren't - at least, they were real people but were far removed from our little Norfolk village and we only knew of them via our TV screens and - even more importantly - the pages of the teen magazines we assiduously bought and pored over every week. David Cassidy and Donny Osmond were the main focus - Maxine adored David and I loved Donny. So much so that we papered our bedrooms with their images.

I envied Maxine because I was only allowed a limited number of posters on my walls, while she literally covered every inch of the walls and ceiling of her room with pictures of David. Her paricular favourite was positioned carefully right above her bed so David was the first thing she saw when she awoke each morning. The best I could do, in the face of my mother's fear that a poster on my ceiling might fall down in the middle of the night and suffocate me - was to stick a poster of Donny compiled from three separate double page spreads from Jackie magazine on the wall at the head of my bed so I could kiss Donny goodnight.

Looking back, those were innocent days: we wished for nothing more from our heroes than a chaste kiss on the cheek and to walk hand in hand through a leafy meadow or sunwashed beach. Perhaps it's just as well that we never attained our dream of going to a Top of the Pops recording and meeting them in person - the reality, as we now know, may have been somewhat different from our expectations....although I am sure that to this day I would be perfectly safe in Donny's arms!

Appearance blinds whereas words reveal.

When I was in my teens I had a boyfriend who sported gorgeous shoulder- length hair and whose normal mode of dress was scruffy jeans and a T shirt bearing the logo of his favourite rock band. This was his outfit, accessorised by a silver chain bearing his football team's crest, when he came to pick me up from home for a date. My father was appalled and opined that the scruffy article could do with a bath, haircut and a stint in National Service. I retaliated by pointing out that not only were his clothes and body clean, his hair was as well cared for as any girl's, and surely we should judge not by appearance but by the person, and as well as being kind, honest and loving Richard was currently studying for four A Levels and was expected to get an Oxbridge scholarship. Dad's rejoinder? "He'll never get a job in a bank looking like that".  That may have been true and if so, in my opinion it said far more about society than Richard. But then, my Dad was the last of the generation brought up in the shadow of the Victorians: he had fought in World War 2 - surely so that the next generation couel be free to live as they chose rather than be subjected to some kind of Nazi Boot-Camp which stamped out any flicker of individuality.  And this exchange took place when the comedian Russell Brand would have been a small child, so a generation on, in a very different society, surely attitudes have changed. You'd think so, wouldn't you? Yet the comments of many people after Russell appeared in front of the Select Committee of MPs this week displayed prejudices which I thought were outdated when my dad expressed them thirty years ago. How dare he not wear a suit, address MPs by their first names and make a joke at the Home Secretary's expense? Never mind that what he actually contributed to the debate on society's attitudes towards drug addiction was a reasoned, intelligent, eloquent plea for understanding and support for addicts - not, as he said, for some airy-fairy do-good reason but because pragmatically it would help the addict to overcome his problems, make him less likely to commit crimes therefore helping potential victims and society as a whole - and save money. Sounds like a rational argument to me. Yet the majority of media coverage is far more interested in his choice of clothes and flamboyant presentation. Perhaps if MPs stopped referring to each other as "My honourable friend" when we all know most of them are less than honourable or indeed friendly toward each other, and started presenting arguments based on their honest opinion and clear fact and logic rather than spouting the party line, the public might have a modicum of respect for them. Wouldn't you prefer your MP to speak from the heart and engage in honest debate about issues that matter rather than turn up to the House in a dark suit? As Duncan says in Macbeth: "There is no art/ To find a man's construction in the face". Nor, he could have added, in his choice of dress or hairstyle. Sadly, so many of our respectably suited and booted politicians are laughable, if not actually comedians. Perhaps it is time to let the comedians run the country - they seem to speak more sense that those who do, even if their mode of dress would not have been approved of by my father...

Baileys on the Sofa…. or why I really like Christmas

It’s just about the end of the Christmas/New Yearfest again, and I’m sitting by the tree I stubbornly refuse to throw out until twelfth night, surrounded by the leftover chocolates and drink we haven’t been able to manage to cram down our throats in the last couple of weeks despite courageous attempts, and I’m strangely calm and at peace.

Because unlike so many people who seem to be stir crazy or sick of the sight of baubles and Chocolate Oranges, I am still enjoying Christmas.

At this point I have to concede that I am very lucky in so many respects: I have family and friends to celebrate with; I don’t work in an industry that forced the season on you at unseasonable times –I have never had to record a quintessentially English Christmas pop song in the heat of a New York July, nor, like a dear friend who works in retail, have I had to spend June planning the festive advertising campaign and October onwards listening to an unrelenting tinselled chain of said pop songs force fed through the PA system at work.

Anyone familiar with the work of Tim Minchin will recognise the reference in this blog’s title to one of his songs, ‘White Wine in the Sun’, which is a favourite of mine, and the sentiments expressed in it: objecting to the use of a religion I don’t believe in anyway as an excuse to sell stuff, yet enjoying the chance to spend time with those you care about, sum up my attitude to the festive season.

My parents made Christmas magical for us as children – my father in particular was himself a big kid at Christmas, decking the halls with boughs of holly, hiding presents around the house and making his own recipe rum sauce to grace the pudding – which ensured my aunt fell into a tipsy doze in front of the Queen’s Speech. I have recreated this atmosphere (with a little less alcohol!) for my children and even now they are grown, Christmas for us is a time of – yes, tricks and japes and larks of all kinds, but also family traditions. Making Christmas biscuits for the children to decorate then hanging them on the tree; playing and singing Christmas songs, whether on CDs, piano or just singing in the kitchen; making mountains of mince pies; ….

Once trick is to limit the season: in our house Christmas is not mentioned until December and the house is not decorated until a week or so before the day. The other trick is to enjoy the ritual of what has to be done – the gift wrapping, buying and preparing the food etc – and to reward yourself with treats which are linked in your mind to the season.

For me this means Christmas is the one time of year I drink Baileys – usually slouching on the sofa watching a Christmassy DVD (again there are certain ‘must watch’ films and programmes), the only time I can sit in the armchair at 11am drinking coffee and reading a novel feeling totally guilt-free about the pile of washing that needs to be done. Tomorrow it is back to work and real life, but essentially for me Christmas is a few weeks in which goodwill and peace to all men takes over, we can enjoy the company of family and friends and forget the little worries – or indeed bigger problems - that grind us down in our everyday life.

And to return to White Wine in the Sun (I guess Baileys on the sofa is the English version) my blue eyed baby daughter has just celebrated her twenty-first birthday and I am very grateful that when Christmas comes around she still makes her way back home to find her brothers, her nan, her dad and me waiting for her. Yes, I really like Christmas…. It’s sentimental I know….

On Inns, Operating Theatres, Cemeteries and Gaols

I’ve just enjoyed a short holiday in London with a like-minded friend. I’m well aware that holiday to most people implies lounging on a sun-soaked beach, delicately sipping cocktails while reading the latest Twilight blockbuster, followed by indelicately necking lager in sweaty nightclubs. Ugh! For us, Victorian obstetric instruments and dead poets are far more alluring.

The catalyst for the trip was the chance to see ‘The London Perambulator’ which is such a remarkable film that it deserves – and will have - its own blog. But sharing a few days with someone whose reaction to ‘Can we go to the only surviving Georgian operating theatre, based in Keats’ old training hospital?’ was actually enthusiastic agreement, was not an opportunity to be wasted.

So off we went, south of the river, to this place: http://www.thegarret.org.uk/ to wince at delivery forceps and enema syringes, marvel at herbal remedies that may or may not have proved efficacious and to try to imagine what it would have been like to have your arm amputated with no anaesthetic, save possibly a shot of brandy.

Fortuitously, Keats himself had lodgings the other side of the street while training, so I was able to pay homage to one of my heroes, as well as visiting his statue, situated in its own stone shelter, in the grounds of Guys Hospital just down the road. My plan to have my photograph taken with him was thwarted, since he was surrounded by giggling schoolgirls eating their lunch. I’m sure, while the giggling might have been annoying, Keats would have loved being surrounded by pretty young ladies.

We repaired to London’s only surviving galleried inn, The George, so that my friend could indulge her love of the seventeenth century by imagining Charles II and friends doing exactly what we were doing nearly 400 years later – chatting and drinking. Although, admittedly they wouldn’t have been drinking diet Coke and we weren’t eyeing up the women….

A stroll down Borough High Street took in the sites of the Tabard Inn, from where Chaucer’s pilgrims set off to Canterbury – this road was the main route out of London to Kent – as well as the Marshalsea Prison. Thence to Southwark Cathedral and along the south bank taking in Winchester Palace and the Clink Prison Museum: http://www.clink.co.uk/ From gory medical procedures to gory torture and punishment.

The following day we headed north to Highgate Cemetery where we spent a very happy morning among the dead, admiring ornate mausoleums and grave furniture, and visiting the remains of the famous, from George Eliot and Karl Marx to Douglas Adams and Malcolm McLaren. A bus took us to Hampstead Heath from where we walked to Keats’ House: http://www.keatshouse.cityoflondon.gov.uk/. In the few years since I was last there it has been further restored, and the thrill of standing in Keats’ own living area never palls. And I finally got my photograph taken with Keats!

A walk back to the tube station took in the site of Keats’ earlier lodgings as well as one-time homes of Kingsley Amis, DH Lawrence, JB Priestley and Marie Stopes, and then it was back to central London for bookshops, restaurants and cinemas to provide further entertainment. As well as the obligatory visit to our old friends Keats, Byron, John Wilmot et al at the National Portrait Gallery.

Thanks Kate for your marvellous company, shared enthusiasm, stimulating conversation and sheer stamina – a wonderful few days. Here’s to the next time!

The London Perambulator

As referred to in the last blog, I recently attended a screening of this remarkable film, made by John Rogers, about Nick Papadimitriou, who describes himself as a deep topographer, and it proved an intriguing introduction to an interesting, erudite and unconventional man. To the outsider, Nick could appear as an aimless wanderer around the suburbs of London; however, this walking and the observations and knowledge drawn from it make him the repository of a unique understanding of the social landscape.

I have always been drawn to original and independent thinkers, people who see the world from a different angle, who don’t so much defy convention as disregard it; who go beyond rebellion into a place where the rules that constrict most of society actually have little meaning. Nick is one of these people.

My first experience of a unique mind was my English teacher Roger Deakin, who introduced me to Bob Dylan and Keats. Never mind literature – he taught me to think for myself, to question convention and received wisdom and to do what seems right to me. Far more valuable than passing my A Levels – though I did that too thanks to him.

Nick has been able to use his interests for ‘practical’ purposes – notably research for one of my all-time favourite novels, ‘The Book of Dave’ by Will Self – but more importantly, he is able to see the landscape of the liminal areas around London in a way that few people do, and therefore to open the eyes of those he encounters to geographical and social features and history which is there for those who have the time and interest to look.

The film itself is absorbing: empathetic to its subject; sensitively framed and dense with words and ideas – hardly surprising considering that as well as Nick, it features interviews with Iain Sinclair, Will Self and Russell Brand – all eloquent and verbose individuals, and indeed original thinkers themselves. Just as one interesting observation is made, another is just a minute away, which means I need to see this wonderful film again.

Like Nick himself, I learned, I discovered John Rogers’ work via Russell Brand; through John I discovered Iain Sinclair; in Sinclair’s works I found a reference to the writings of my old mentor Roger Deakin, links to my love of poetry and old books, and an interest in deep topography. And through ‘The London Perambulator’ I have discovered Nick Papadimitriou. The world is a richer place for having people like this in it, and I feel privileged to have gained a small insight into his mind.