Not too old to dream

Of Scandinavian Jazz Divas, Jordanian Camel Herders and Kanteles

2011-11-27T12:52:00.010+01:00

This beautiful smiling woman is Rigmor Gustafsson. She is pictured with members of the radio.string.quartet.vienna with whom she played on her 2010 release Calling You. I 'found' her thanks to Spotify, of course, having been listening to another gorgeous Swedish jazz diva, namely Jeannete Lindström. This photo forms the basis of the cover of her 2009 album Attitude & Orbit Control:

And I 'discovered' her because I had been listening to a lot of Robert Wyatt and he appears as a guest vocalist on that album. They can be heard together on four tracks: 'River', 'Morning', 'You Say' and 'Blur Room Yellow Tree'. My Spotify Playlist 'Featuring Robert Wyatt' is worth a listen.

Further divas awaiting exploration include Ida Sand; Rebecka Törnqvist; Lisa Nilsson; Viktoria Tolstoy; Margareta Bengston; Sinne Eeg; Anna Nygren; Suss Von Ahn; Veronica Mortensen; Malene Mortensen; Cæcilie Norby .... Ahh, who says the nordic region is cold? Musically, these ladies would warm absolutely the coldest of hearts.

Here is Törnqvist in action:

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This week I became a co-blogger with my first year English literature class. We decided to try to keep a blog, with some basic rules of netiquette in place, and see how long we can keep it going. It is to be hoped that the students find the motivation to upload their thoughts and comments regularly and frequently as this will make the exercise more worthwhile.

The blog is called The Camel Herders of Jordan. You can have a look at it here. My entry focuses on two Murakami-linked items, by coincidence. One was sent by a student; the other appeared in The Guardian the next day. I think the award for bad sex writing is a good idea as it is to be hoped it will emabarrass some writers into stopping writing about it all together. Some are okay (Lee Childs).

You still can't really beat (ahem!) the directness of Anaïs Nin, Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski and even, in a satirical vein, certain scenes in Brett Eston Ellis's 'American Psycho'.

Miller's trilogy The Rosy Crucifixion, consisting of 'Sexus', 'Plexus' and 'Nexus' gives the reader plenty of graphic sex scenes which Miller then uses as springboards to more philiosphical pontifications on love, marriage, age, death. I remember 'safely' reading this trilogy as a teenager at home, since neither of my parents knew of Miller or his work (my mother was lost to her Mills & Boon world; my father to cheap thrillers in which it seemed as if women existed merely for fucking or shooting and then throwing away).

My memory of the sex scenes is that they were no more erotic than when Miller was writing about the cafes, streets, liquour, rain, cheap food or garrets of Paris. Anaïs Nin was different, of course, because I had never read a female describing sex so graphically before (or since) and I can't help wondering even today what the rather neutered female librarians in Dewsbury public library thought of this precocious grammar school boy and his penchant for Nin, Miller and Bukowski. Perhaps, like my own parents, they were blissfully ignorant of what lay (and was laid) between the covers?

Steven Berkoff reads Miller's 'Sexus' here.

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This is a kantele, a traditional plucked instrument of the zither family, and native to Finland, Estonia and Karelia (accoring to Wikipedia).

Yesterday with TMWPOTP and a friend we drove through the gloom and the wind and the rain to Guddal church to hear Sinikka Langeland play her kantale, accompanied by her jazz trio of Trygve Seim (saxaphones), Anders Jormin (double bass) and Markku Ounaskari (drums).

The music was transcendental, reminding me of certain ECM artists (Terje Rypdal; Lennart Åberg for example) in its spaciousness, slowness and atmospherics. When I bought the CD 'The Land That Is Not' it was no surprise, then, to find it is on ECM!

I am going this afternoon with #2 son and a friend to hear the group again in Dale. The music is compelling, crystalline, beautiful yet often stark, too. Songs included versions of texts by Olav H. Hauge set to music, including a personal favourite, 'Det er den draumen'. The album was recorded in Oslo in September last year and was released this year.

Here is Langeland with some of those same musicians:

Wow! As I embedded that video, the sun suddenly burst through the clouds across the fjord and I am now squinting to see as I write through dazzling shafts of light. Oh, so Blakeian!!

And that seems an appropriate sign to stop staring at this screen and lift up mine eyes, yea, to the divine .... yeah, whatever.

Til next time: ciao!

Back in the groove again... kind of

2011-09-03T13:27:00.006+01:00

Having last blogged some 3 months ago, I have some catching up to do. The best way to do this, I think, is to cover things in categories: work, music, travel, family, sport. That should do it.

Work

Workwise, it is 'arriverderci' to UWC Adriatic in Duino, and 'velkommen hjem' to UWCRCN at Haugland, Fjaler (photo above). It truly feels like being home, which indeed it is. The new school year has begun and I find myself teaching three first year classes and a second year class as well as a TOK class. The first year students are so far very relaxed and friendly and good to work with. The second years are getting to know me after having had a different teacher last year.

In one of my first year classes a student is blogging about being here and mentioned me in his first entry, comparing me to Ricky Gervais. If you are reading this, J. - thanks!

Two first year classes are working on looking at how English has become a Global Language, and the linguistic, social, political and cultural implactions of this. My other first year class is following a pure literature course and we have kicked off with 'Lucy' by Jamaica Kincaid. Already the students find the protagonist a bit of a pain, I think. I only began with this book because I could not find enough copies of 'The Elephant Vanishes' by Haruki Murakami! Oh well, after surviving 'Lucy', 'Elephant' will be a refreshing reward.

The second year lit class has only five students and we only need to do two texts this term. We have begun with 'Othello' and will also work with Timothy Findley's 'The Wars'. In TOK we are looking at Mathematics as an Area of Knowledge. This is quite a large class and highly diverse. I find TOK really stimulating and hope my excitement transmits itself to the students, at least sometimes.

I had also been hoping to be teaching a new course this year, Literature and Performance, but it did not recruit. Interestingly the training workshop I was supposed to attend in Florence in July was also cancelled due to lack of teacher interest. One wonders whether this course will survive its future curriculum review if only small numbers are taking it.

A graduate of the college is back, five years later, to teach Economics for at least the coming year. It is good to have some young, new blood amongst the staff. He is keen to learn, open to advice and energetic. All fine qualities.

Yesterday I was the ref for the traditional season opener Year 1 vs Year 2 football match, which the second years won comfortably 6-1. I had to send one of their side off for a professional foul, but even down to ten men they were more organised and simply too stronf for the first years. The return match will be played near the end of next term, before the second years graduate.

Music

In early August TMWPOTP and I flew down to Oslo for the Øyafestival. Our main target was to see/hear the reformed Pulp in action, fronted by the inimitable (and now 46-year old) Jarvis Cocker, of course. We were not disappointed. On the Friday night, Pulp headlined on the main stage and were simply fantastic. Jarvis had impressive energy levels and elasticity. The band was rock solid and ran through a carefully selected set, I thought, with some less obvious numbers among the out-and-out crowd-pleasers, culminating in 'Common People'. The lighting was powerful; you could see the band on two giant screens either side of the stage; the sound was crystal clear and thumpingly loud. All-in-all, worth the admission price alone.

Here is a playlist I made to celebrate the event and also to highlight some of the bands we hadn't heard before but who now "rock our world", as it were: http://open.spotify.com/user/flekkepete/playlist/1DlCIS9ZOOlh8cjpK8hG3o

And here are vsome videos of artistes we particularly enjoyed:

TMWPOTP didn't enjoy Aphex Twin's laser show accompanying the hardcore music, but I thought it was pretty cool. Øya is a relaxing, uncrowded festival, well-organised, family-friendly and, for all that, typically Norwegian somehow.

Amy Winehouse succumbed to the excesses of her lifestyle - in a sense, at least. I thought her first album, 'Frank', superior to the bigger-selling 'Back to Black'. Here she is doing my favourite number:

Travel

TMWPOTP and I flew up to Trondeim at the end of June to see/hear junior son and his band play in the Symphony Hall. We discovered that Trondheim is an unbelievably tranquil and relaxing city to be in. Apparently this makes it one of Norway's most expensive to live in. We lodged in a centrally-located hotel that had a Scottish bar next door.

Junior son's band are act 13 on the video list here. Shades of Frank Zappa there, for me. We're proud of him!

From Trondheim TMWPOTP and I flew directly to Gatwick for a 10-day tour of family and friends in England, taking in Hampshire, Suffolk, the West Midlands, West Yorkshire and County Durham. We remarked on how in all the shops there were endless sales, 2-for-1 offers and that prices seemed absurdly low. On our Norwegian salaries, we took advantage of England's economic plight.

Family

Junior son is still commuting 90km a day to college, while Senior Son has now officially moved out (sob!). He has begun his course in computer science at the University of Bergen and now lives in a basement flat with two other guys, one a second-year student, the other a jobseeker. The house, not unsurprisingly, seems a little emptier without him, but certainly not quieter since junior son bought a drum kit from a friend and installed it in senior son's vacated room!

Later this week TMWPOTP's youngest sister and her bloke are coming to visit as they have not seen the ouse since we moved in. Let's hope the weather improves a bit, as today it is just constant rain.

Sport

Yorkshire face relegation from the first division in cricket's LV Championship. I can't remember the last time they weren't in the first division. It used to be said that a healthy Yorkshire meant a healthy England, but only a few Yorkshire players these days get into the various England squads. Today is the last day of the Warwickshire-Yorkshire clash at Edgbaston, and at tea the hosts need 215 to win, or Yorkshire 7 wickets. If they fail to win this match they are almost certainly relegated, barring a miracle. (Update: bad light stopped play and the match ended in a draw. This means almost certain relegation now.)

Leeds United have not invested much in new players and have taken just 4 points from 15 in the early stages of this new season and languish five places from te bottom of the Championship. At the same time, millions have been invested in new corporate boxes at Elland Road. Many fans are disgrunteled, to say the least. Those that took their displeasure as far as demonstrating outside the ground before a recent home game have been dubbed 'morons' by the foul-mouthed Chairman, Ken Bates. An intensely dislikeable character, Bates bears an uncanny resemblance to a vampire in certain pictures, such as this one. I am not optimistic for this season, and certainly not for the upcoming Carling Cup third-round tie against Man Utd, whom Leeds famously beat at Old Trafford in the FA Cup two season ago. That day's hero, jermaine Beckford left Leeds on a Bosman at the end of that season for Everton, who have just sold him to Leicester for around £3 million. 'Moneybags' Bates seems very reluctant to spend on players. One conspiracy theory has it that, if Leeds were to be promoted this season, the club would have to pay out £20 milion to creditirs under a previous insolvency agreement. Who knows? It's all such a mess, I expect nothing and then any win is just a bonus.

To end this entry, a cheery compilation of great Leeds goals from over the years:

My personal favorites are not in that collection, but never mind.

Ciao a presto!

The view from here

2011-06-19T13:46:00.006+01:00

Back in western Norway three weeks and Italy is now a collection of memories, photographs, contacts, Facebook messages and self-consciousness about my belly.

Work to do, places to go, people to see. Now that I am on the Village Council, there will be new things to get involved in.

On holiday now until mid-August, but I like to keep busy doing stuff. Such 'stuff' includes redesigning the Volunteer Programme website, much reading, some travelling - Trondheim, a 10-day tour of England, Florence, Oslo - and preparing for life back at UWCRCN, which includes several new courses to teach, thanks to rejigging by the IB.

Have already been on a few hikes since coming home, with different people. Here are some hike photos:

I'd say the view from here looks pretty good.

TMWPOTHP got a lot of plants from a local garden in the village. The 85-year-old gardener has decided to call it a day and the little plot is being sold off, so it was opened up for anyone to take what they wanted. Three car loads for our garden. She has been out there this morning while I have been ironing, making brunch for our younger sprog and looking through a thousand-plus Word Press themes for the Vol Prog site.

I have put together a Spotify playlist to celebrate my homecoming.

Here it is: Home.

This month's Word magazine has an article about 'Rock WAGs'. It is depressing to read about how one's musical heroes, like most men, seem to treat their better halves like shit. George Harrison was a real bastard, it seems. John Martyn and Frank Zappa are two more who get short shrift from those quizzed about their domestic lives.

So, to counterbalance this a bit, here are the three aforesaid - ahem! - gentlemen in action:

Ah, well. No one's perfect.

Ciao!

Gil Scott-Heron April 1 1947 - May 27 2011

2011-05-31T21:50:00.003+01:00

"Contribute or shut up..."

Gil Scott-Heron was a contributor to the soundtrack of my life since 1977. How I discovered and got into his music, I don't really remember. I know at that time I was taking risks, buying and trying new artists I read about in 'The New Musical Express', or sometimes heard on Radio 1. Had I seen him on 'The Old Grey Whistle Test'? Possibly.

All I know is that I am extremely thankful for his music he gave to the world. For me, it was the first truly political music I listened to. I doubt now that, as a naive and unworldly 17 or 18 year old, I got all the references in his music, but a big part of my political education began there. Because of GSH, I went on to explore the writings of Langston Hughes, LeRoi Jones, Richard Wright and his own poetry and novels.

With Scott-Heron's music, being a white kid did not matter. I was not embarrassed to like his music. I tried to share it with friends, most of whom didn't seem to want to go where it was taking them.

My wife and I were due to see Scott-Heron in concert at Colne Town Hall in Lancashire in - I think - 1992. The concert was cancelled because he had been busted at Heathrow airport with some coke in his luggage. Now he's gone, and we'll never have that chance again.

In appreciation, here are three of my defining GSH moments:

This is from his 2010 comeback alabum, 'I'm New Here'.

This next was the first song of his I really tried to understand. It's from his 1976 album 'From South Africa to South Carolina' and this performance comes from a 1988 Artists Against Apartheid concert:

Finally, this is the song I consider his most beautiful, even if the sentiments in it are quite bitter. It's 'Winter In America', which has featured on several of his albums:

I look forward to Jamie Byng's film about GSH, which is due out later this year. There is an interview between them on GSH's official website here.

Goodbye, Gil. And thanks...

Season's End

2011-05-07T14:51:00.004+01:00

"Being a Leeds United supporter and having a cultural life are not mutually exclusive." -Francis Barry-Walsh

Barry-Walsh is commenting on one thing he's learned from his reading of Anthony Clavane's "Promised Land: The Reinvention of Leeds United" in his review on page 103 of the April 2001 edition of The Word.

He is absolutely correct. Personally, I have never understood the unthinkingly-accepted stereotype of football fans in general, and Leeds United fans in particular, as mindless morons with an IQ firmly stuck in single figures and knuckles trailing along the ground. A work colleague once commented similarly about me - or rather to the effect that another, mutual colleague was quite surprised that I could be so passionate about football, yet still be a teacher of literature, language and theatre, enjoy good music so much and be able to tie my own shoe laces. The first colleague is himself a fan of Leeds's arch enemies from across the Pennine divide; although he can be quoted as saying supporting Them is rather like supporting Coca Cola. As They grind inexorably towards Their 19th league title, I know what he means.

Leeds have just beaten QPR 2-1 at Loftus Road, where QPR as I write are being presented with the Championship trophy. They will be playing in the Premiership next season (funded by extremely wealthy owners, billionaire Formula 1 bigwig Bernie Ecclestone amongst them), whereas Leeds, finishing in 7th place, just 3 poins short of the play-offs, will try to kick on, as we say in football parlance, and make a concerted effort at promotion next season, owned, apparently by the vampiric Ken Bates.

It cannot be said that this season was a concerted effort; there were just too may weird results along the way. What was frustrating - apart from these results, such as losing 4-6 at home to Preston after being 4-1 ahead at half-time - was that against the teams in the top half of the league Leeds performed well, on the whole (today's win gives us the double over QPR, for example). But, that is one of the reasons why I love football so much and always will: it is utterly unpredicatble - at least once you step beyond the three or four moneybags clubs in the Premiership it is.

The review of Clavane's book makes it sound like one to search out, perhaps when TMWPOTP and I are in England later this summer. Books which contextualise football, and particularly the embedding of a club within the socio-historical and cultural milieu of its city will always find a readership, because, as Bill Shankly famously put it: "Some people think football is a matter of life and death: I can assure them, it's far more serious than that."

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As Leeds's season comes to an end and a period of reflection, evaluation and planning begins, so does my time in Duino approach its end. I will be on my way home to Flekke three weeks today. Precisely three weeks from today, I should be cruising on flight LH 870 towards Bergen. And, oh, how I am looking forward to this. Yes, this afternoon was very pleasant sitting in the hot sunshine over the road at the Al Castel cafe nursing an Illy coffee, and if I am honest I will miss that. But, and it is a big BUT, it is not worth living so far away from home for so long just to be able to drink good coffee in the sunshine!! Dear God, I can do that at home!

Well, the summer ahead should be interesting for Leeds United and also for me. There'll be some work, some play, lots of walks and listening to music and reading and ... and ... and to top it all off two days of the Øya Festival in Oslo, where, amongst others, I am really looking forward to hearing these people live:

and these:

and these:

Here is the new Fleet Foxes album on Spotify, and here is some old stuff that has currently got my knees creaking in delight.

Fuck, yeah .... as son Number 2 would say.

Ciao!

Privilege

2011-04-16T11:31:00.004+01:00

Privilege is a concept that is much discussed at the international school in Italy where I currently teach. It is also part of the debate at my permanent school in Norway.

Both schools are members of the same international movement, which has been in existence since the 1960s. Students are selected for scholarships. They are selected not on the basis of ability to pay.

Thus, students from wealthy families live cheek-by-jowl for two years with students from refugee camps, chartiable organisations or, frankly, just damned poor families. This creates some interesting and challenging scenarios, of course. And many of those are linked to interpretations of this notion of 'privilege'.

I fear that the word has become a pejorative term applied to words such as 'chance' or 'opportunity', or even 'good fortune'.

Researching definitions provides us with:

1. a right, immunity, or benefit enjoyed only by a person beyond the advantage of most, e.g. the privileges of the very rich

2. a special right, immunity, or exemption granted to persons in authority or office to free them from certain obligations or liabilities, e.g. the privileges of a Senator to speak in Congress without danger of a libel suit

3. a grant to an individual, corporation, etc., of a special right or immunity under certain conditions

4. the principle or condition of enjoying special rights or immunities

5. any of the rights common to all citizens under a modern constitutional government: we enjoy the privileges of a free people

6. an advantage or source of pleasure granted to a person: It's my privilege to be here

7. Stock Exchange: an option to buy or sell stock at a stipulated price for a limited time, including puts, calls, spreads and straddles

In the international, scholarship-driven school setting, only defintion number 7 has no direct application, I would suggest.

A student on a scholarship for two years, worth thousands of dollars, clearly has a form of privilege that is an amalgamation of defintions 1 to 6.

I too am privileged, in many ways. I need not enumerate them here; many of the ways are very obvious; others are more subtle, but those of you who know me will understand to what I am referring.

What happens, however, when a clearly privileged person either cannot see that they are privileged or - and this is more problematic - knows and acknowledges they are indeed privileged but then casually, or systematically, uses that privilege in distinctly negative ways? Let me explain what I mean.

It will help, I think, to present some examples. Perhaps the most extreme example we might think of is dictatorship. One of the worst examples I will share with you is former president of Zaire (now The Democratic Republic of the Congo) Mobutu Sesou Seko. The best book on this murderous, tyrannical despot is 'In the Footsteps of Mr Kurtz' by Michela Wrong. Here is the amazon.com summary of the book:

During Mobutu Sese Seko's 30 years as president of Zaire (now the Congo), he managed to plunder his nation's economy and live a life of excess unparalleled in modern history. A foreign correspondent in Zaire for six years, Michela Wrong has plenty of titillating stories to tell about Mobutu's excesses, such as the Versailles-like palace he built in the jungle, or his insistence that he needed $10 million a month to live on. However, these are not the stories that most interest Wrong. Her aim is to understand all of the reasons behind the economic disintegration of the most mineral-rich country on the African continent; in so doing, she turns over the mammoth rock that was Mobutu and finds a seething underworld of parasites with names like the CIA, the World Bank and the IMF, the French and Belgian governments, mercenaries, and a host of fat cats who benefited from Mobutu's largesse and even exceeded his rapaciousness. Wrong turns first to Belgium's King Leopold II, who instituted a brutal colonial regime in the Congo in order to extract the natural and mineral wealth for his personal gain. Mobutu, with the aid of a U.S. government determined to sabotage Soviet expansion, stepped easily into Leopold's footsteps, continuing a culture built on government-sanctioned sleaze and theft. Under the circumstances, it's hard not to feel some sympathy for the people who survived in the only ways they could--teachers trading passing grades for groceries, hospitals refusing to let patients leave until they paid up, cassava patches cultivated next to the frighteningly unsafe nuclear reactor. What is less comprehensible--and rightly due for an airing--are Wrong's revelations about foreign interventions. Why, for example, did the World Bank and IMF give Mobutu $9.3 billion in aid, knowing full well that he was pocketing most of it?

My highlights suggest that the abuses of privilege in this case were multilateral, shared, collective, agreed, accepted and multi-directional.

How many ordinary Zaireans died because of Mobutu's sanctioned despotism, funded by the World Bank, in other words by so-called democratic countries' taxpayers' money? (It really is time the World Bank lost its licence to trade in people's lives, by the way.)

The Mobutu model has been, and continues to be, repeated across the world. And actually, no one in power - i.e. with the privilege of power - really, seriuosly seems to give a fuck. You don't dethrone despots with blue-helmeted rhetoric.

Closer to "home", Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi continues to run Italy like his own little private fiefdom. Slippery as an eel - or a Moroccan belly dancer - and cunning as a fox, the man who allegedly spends over 500 euros a month on hair products continues to elude prosecution, having been in court more than 50 times during his tenureship of the presidency, facing charges from tax evasion, nepotism and harassment to monopolisation of media interests and bribery. Far more sophisticated, charming and subtle than Mobutu, nevertheless Berlusconi is another example of a prominent public figure entrusted by his people to govern them who, instead, laughs at their trust and treats the whole political process as a cross between a game of Monopoly and charades.

Schooling, education ... what are they for?

My employers' mission statement claims the movement is working to " [make] education a force to unite people, nations and cultures for peace and a sustainable future". This sounds very laudable, and hardly something one could argue against. Would you want to work to disunite people, nations and cultures, to create conflict and wreck the future? No, I thought not.

But ... I return to the privileged status of our students. They are intelligent - often frighteningly so, in terms of their academic prowess, and progress from here on scholarships to Ivy League and Oxbridge universities. They are highly idealistic -they want to go 'out there' and 'change the world'.

Well, strange as it may seem, dear students, so do millions of other young people in the world who don't have a scholarship here, and who won't ever get anywhere near a university scholarship worth, in total, often in excess of a quarter of a million dollars.

Not all the 40,000 alumni of this movement have had these generous scholarships (in more recent times mostly funded by a single, immensely wealthy philanthropist who decided to use some of that wealth for a good purpose).But let us, conservatively, say that they have had an educational experience worth, on average, $50,000 each. That works out as an investment in people of $2 billion. And that does not include the cost of building or acquiring the 13 schools that are members of this movement, the ongoing running costs including staffing, accommodation, transport, heating, rates, electricity, food, cleaning, recruitment, administration and so forth. We could probably double that $2 billion quoted above. That's a hell of a lot of money, some of it private, a lot of it public.

Perhaps you think I am too cynical. What difference can 40,000 people make in a world of over 6 billion? Well, frankly, they should be making SOME difference: otherwise, what is the point of this movement and its idealistic mission statement? What is the point in investing millions of dollars every year in a thousand or so young people from across the world if it produces nothing tangible, measurable?

Don't all schools aim to produce global citizens, envrironmentally and socially aware, with a sense of responsibility, self-confidence, critical nous and a desire to make the world a better place. (If they don't, by the way, then what exactly are they doing?)

What prompted this particular blog entry? (Or 'rant', as some of you may be thinking... which, of course, is your privilege.) It's quite simple really: the inability of these privileged students to keep their residence reasonably clean and tidy. To keep it clean enough that it does not become a health hazard, impinging on local govermental health and hygiene standards. (When this was pointed out to some of the students, I received some interesting responses, some bordering on the obscene or racist.)

Oh, I know it is a commonly held belief among many parents of teenagers (myself included) that most teenagers are preternaturally incapable of keeping their rooms tidy. But 'tidy' is not the issue here. How about 'filthy'? 'Disgusting'? A 'fire hazard'?

Most parents would use some strategy - ranging, I imagine, from everything including physical violence, 'grounding' and threats to hiring a goddamned maid - to address the situation. Only one of these possible strategies is available to this institution - because of a simple lack of understanding of the concept of privilege.

I close this edition with two quotations on privilege:

"Since it is seldom clear whether intellectual activity denotes a superior mode of being or a vital deficiency, opinion swings between considering intellect a privilege and seeing it as a handicap." - Jacques Barzun (103 year-old French-born historian of culture and ideas)

"When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive -to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love." - Marcus Aurelius (121 - 180 AD, Roman Emperor)

Ciao.

Do I want a new blog??

2011-04-09T12:04:00.004+01:00

Google are changing the services they offer their users.

This should be fine, except that, because I have several different Google accounts, I am now in the confusing position of being two separate beings with, potentially, two separate blogs.

Here we are in the world of 'Not too old to dream'. But google mail has also set up 'All roads lead to Flekke' for me.

My worry is, when I sign out of here, will I only be able to get into the other blog? And what will happen to this one, which I rather like?

I guess there is only one way to find out...

You can keep your Kindle

2011-04-05T08:35:00.012+01:00

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read-

Groucho Marx

A package of four books arrives from Amazon.

Opening it, I am struck by the flush of a combination of excitement and of my senses working: the first thing I notice is the feel of the package, knowing there are four books in there.

When I tear open the serated strip, the next thing to hit me is the smell of the books themselves - it is a smell I have always loved and always will, a smell not just of paper and ink but of promise and the undiscovered.

Then I take each book out in turn, hold each in my hands, look at the covers, notice the designs, the fonts chosen for the titles, the different textures of the covers, the authors' names, the publishers'.

These names themselves are evocative, and - in one case - wholly new to me: Pomona, Ebury Press, Harper, Bloomsbury.

The titles: The Celestial Cafe, Falling & Laughing, Cash, Just Kids. Four books about music and musicians.

But also, I hope, four very different books by four very diferent writers: Stuart Murdoch (of Belle & Sebastian), Grace Maxwell (Edwyn Collins's partner), Johnny Cash (needs no introduction, surely) and Patti Smith.

The covers:

Here is a song by each of them in a mini-playlist.

So, you can keep your Kindle and your e-books and your e-readers. Give me good old-fashioned paper, ink, smells and weight every time.

Ciao.

2011-04-03T16:20:00.004+01:00

"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time"

-T. S. Eliot, 'Little Gidding', The Four Quartets

Eight weeks from now my sojourn in Duino will have come to an end. Despite everything, the passage of time since December has increased its speed.

Today is like a day back in August when I took a book across the road to the 'Il Castel' cafe to sit and read over a coffee in bright, warm sunshine. Then, as now, I left more quickly than wanted because of the noise form tourists here to visit the real 'castello'. Today it was teenage girls giggling over ringtones; on the remembered day in August it was aggressive dogs barking at each other.

Today is like a day back in time that no longer exists, other than as a memory and perhaps some stored digital images.

Currently I feel like two distinct "me"s: there is the teacher and residence tutor who goes about his required business without too much fuss or engagement, who returns to his rather empty apartment to listen to music, cook a solitary meal and read. Then there is the "me" who watches this first "me", quite consciously, as "he" goes about his required business without too much fuss or engagement, who returns to his rather empty apartment ... to be observed by this other "me".

Never before have I been so conscious of myself and my actions, as if indeed I were watching them rather than committing them. It is a curious sensation, one which I ascribe to being alone a good deal of the time. It is not that I think about this constantly. Infact, I hardly think about it at all. Something that has changed noticeably in me over these months in Duino is the reduction of thought and analysis that I subject things to. To me, this feels like a very good thing. It feels as if my thoughts only occur in response to direct stimulii - such as questions - and that the rest of the time they are either dormant or non-existent. This state of 'being' without thinking about what that 'being' means is very pleasant. It opens up the space for the enjoyment of so many other, simpler things, such as training my neighbours' dog to sit just outside my kitchen rather than automatically running in in search of tidbits, or such as sitting out on the balcony at the side of my apartment and watching the movement of just one single boat among many and watching it unworried for more than twenty minutes (I guess, since I did not have my watch on while doing this), and so many more.

My use of time is in stark contrast to that of the students around me, of course, for whom I have come to have more and more pity. What is it that drives them on in their anxious pursuits? This week I overheard snatches of conversation about what time Harvard and Yale were going to release the results of international students' applications and what was the time zone difference and what would happen if they didn't get accepted and was Wartburg on a full scholarship good enough ... and I could not relate to it in any way whatsoever. I think I am thankful for this. I am thankful I am 52 and not 17 or 18 with so many decisions expected of me. Why do we do this to them? Why do they do it to themselves?

I am not living in suspended animation, however. I am enjoying my time here, but I am also positively conscious that this year away from all the things that are closest to me is coming to an end. People here would like me to stay; I cannot. People would like me to come back to visit; I would hope that that will be possible. Only after I have been away from here for some time will I start to understand what being here was.

****************************************

This week my Volunteer Programme website was attacked and destroyed by a virus of some sort. No one knows how or when, exactly. It is almost certainly irrecoverable. I know that in the past this would have really angered me. My reaction now was one of stoical acceptance, in a sense, since I know there is actualy no point in getting angry, since anger usually is directed at something specific. In this case, however, this is not possible; thus it is pointless. The 'death' of the website gives me the opportunity to build something new and possibly better.

*****************************************

In recognition of my solitary status, my Playlist this edition is based solely on one word - solitude - and of course includes a number of interpretations of the Duke Ellington number of the same name:

http://open.spotify.com/user/flekkepete/playlist/5tLjqqzDt1oGprEea79v0X

My personal favourite from the list is the final track.

No Youtube clips this week, although I am very happy to have found the 'This Is Modern Art' series with Matthew Collings on there. Why was it never released on DVD?

Hunger beckons me to the kitchen. Sunday dinner today will be stir-fried chicken with green pepper.

Ciao.

Six new albums I've discovered

2011-03-20T16:09:00.008+01:00

Recently TMWPOTP took me to the tiny island of St. Giorgio, across the water from piazza St. Marco in Venice, because she had read that there are a few surviving Benedictine monks who do Gregorian chanting as part of the 11a.m. Mass each Sunday. As she rightly pointed out, in looking at one of the old monks there, we could have been staring at, and listening to, something from a cold morning 500 years ago.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I stumbled across the above album by a group of people calling themselves Community of St. Laurence. Nothing to do with Benedictine monks, per se, but there is nonetheless something intensely spiritual and moving about this album.

It is quite stark on first listening, and definitely hard to categorise. I am reminded of John Adams at times, of Arvo Part, even bits of John Cale's film scores. The music drifts, then pulsates and surges towards you, then drifts away again. The long fade out of the last track (all of the tracks are simply labelled from Part 1 through to Part 14) is particularly effective, evocative of sunset, or boats setting out to sea at dusk. An album to soothe the soul as well as relieve the tedium of daily life.

Being already familiar with the banjo-laden jigs of The Carolina Chocolate Drops, I was enamoured of this collective's spin on traditional Carolinian dance and country-folk very quickly. The playing is shared by the six band members (4 girls and 2 guys - twin brothers, it seems) and a veritable plethora of instrumentation is on offer: banjo, guitar, jaw's harp, jug, washboard, drums, various percussive devices, whistles, a tin flute, something called an 'ocarette' (a baby ocarina, perhaps?) and hand claps.

One of the strengths of the album is that, even on the slower numbers (such as 'Laundry Day at Aunt May's', 'Starlight over Cypress Creek' and 'I ain't got no body but that's alright with me') the musicians all sound as if they are having tremendous fun making this music together.

There are twenty seven tracks on the album, ranging in length from just under a minute ('Daniel's Reel' clocks in at 0:57), to nearly six minutes (the medley 'Farmer Palmer Ain't No Charmer / Piney Green Dream / Summerville Girl'). This is music full of sunlight, energy and charm. Highly recommended - and they must be amazing live!

Have you heard the soundtrack to the film 'Moon'?

The film was made by David Bowie's son, Duncan Jones, and centres around a man who experiences a personal crisis as he comes near to the end of his three-year, solitary assignment as a miner on the moon.

I have always felt that one of the biggest challenges when scoring a film must be accepting that not all the music you would like to put in will fit. This is where 'In his inner sanctuary' comes in: as a kind of repository of those pieces composed for films such as 'Moon' (but definitely not 2001: A Space Odyssey) which were left unused in the final edit.

I know nothing about this outfit, other than that they hail from somewhere in Canada and are a three-piece, all male outfit (credits on the compositions go to Jackker, Momer and Reed, or combinations thereof ... which actually makes my claim that this is an all-male outfit presumptuous and spurious at the same time, doesn't it?).

This is other-worldly atmospherics at its best, with tracks emerging from darkness and returning to it. No single track simply 'begins' or 'ends', in the traditional sense of those terms. What you get is 66 minutes of neo-ambient, often disturbing hums, groans, creaks, bleeps, bits of sampled voices (speaking I know not what languages) and no drums, no guitars - in fact no recognisable instrumentation at all to speak of. Give it a try; you might be pleasantly disturbed.

How many albums of Hawaiian-guitar driven black gospel music have you heard before? Yeah, me neither.

Enter Ida Chong.

I have been able to glean scant information about who Ida Chong might be. (There is an Ida Chong who is British Columbia's Minister for Technology, Trade and Economic Development. If this album is just a side product for you, Ms. Chong, I would say: Give up the day job and concentrate on your musical career!)

The album appears to be a collection of traditional southern gospel including numbers such as 'Guide me, O thou great Jehovah', 'Go Tell it on the Mountain', 'Run on Down to the Jordan River', 'Give me that Old Time Religion' and many more. These are nothing new in themselves, of course, and have been recorded by many singers down the years, most notably the likes of Sister Odetta Tharpe, Aretha Franklin, various community gospel choirs, and even Elvis Presley.

But Ms. Chong brings an interesting angle to her interpretations of these standards and classics: her voice, combined with the spartan musical accompaniment - the aforementioned Hawaiian guitar, an acoustic bass and hand claps - booms out at you with passion, warmth and glory rolled up in it. It's almost enough to make a confirmed non-believer like myself change tack. Almost. Powerful stuff. I say 'Amen' to that!!

Indie singer-songwriters are two-a-penny (twelve for a Euro). But every so often one comes along that - like the bus telling you it's alright not to believe in God (sorry, Ms. Chong) - stands out from the rest. Step up to the microphone, Hank Gannon.

Hank, we are told, is just 19 years old, and dropped out of school aged 15 to work first in the local laundromat (yes, apparently they still exist and are still called this) and then, his horizon narrowing significantly, at the local McDonald's. However, it would appear that this change in employment would prove to be a blessing in disguise.

His publicity handout would have us believe that "once Hank had mastered the technicalities [sic] of the system at McDonald's, he was able to put his acute observational skills to good use in imagining into song some of the customers who past [sic] through the restaurant each day".

I can imagine his patter: 'Would you like fries with that and do you mind if I put you into one of my songs?'

Many of the songs - like the album itself - have titles and lyrics that are elliptical, opaque, downright frustrating at times. Here, for example (as far as I understand them, since I have not found them written down anywhere) are the opening lines to the first track, chillingly titled 'Well, I'd do it with an axe':

"Not been in here before
sawdust on the red tiled floor
Jayne says she'll be in later
John's gone to buy a rotovator
what do you want to drink
hang on a minute I'll have to think
a rotovator you said
well I'd do it with an axe"

The other titles are just as intriguing (or unhelpful, depending on your view of what titles are for) and include: "Not when you're eating licorice", "Hardly worth getting pissed for", "He'll be sorry he ate that", "Pass the salt and fuck off, would you?", "I feel constipated after all that", "My memory's not what it used to be. What did it used to be? I don't know, I've forgotten" and my own personal favourite "Jackin' off in a jacket potato".

If working in McDonald's can inspire the kind of brittle lyricism and Carveresque dirty realism evident in this collection, then perhaps all putative indie singer-songwriters ought to sign up for a stint in their local branch before hitting the gig circuit?

What kind of band, I hear you asking yourself (I am psychic, you see: duck! Oops, I told you - I bet that hurt...) names itself after a 2006 Tamil crime thriller movie? Well, these eight guys and four girls do, for a start. Twelve members in a band! Phew! How do they survive financially? Do they have to use more than three vans to transport themselves around from gig to gig? How do they work out who uses the bathroom first? And what has the sports car on their debut album cover got to do with anything?

None of the band members gives their surnames (I could be wrong about this) which gives me the impression that they are quite young. They give their names in alphabetical order, which is helpful if you want to test yourself later: Ari, Donal, Ellie, Hari, Jadwinder, Kumar, Maria, Nathan, Paula, Quentin (yahay!!), Sally and Yemen (presumably not a real name? How should I know these days!). Collectively, Vettiyaadu Vilaiyaadu create an agreeably loose jumble of jungle-funk, urban neo-jazz, Fela-like rhythms and a happily cacophonous, at times gospel-tinged vocal explosion that reminds me of everything and everyone from the aforementioned Fela, through Tony Allen and Afrobeat, to the Brooklyn Funk Essentials, the Average White Band, Earth Wind and Fire, Ornette Coleman, Antibalas and, in the more dare-I-say 'cohesive' moments, Gil Scott Heron, Bill Withers and even - lawd 'a mercy - Sister Odetta herself.

If the album has a failing, I would say it's this final lack of a sense of self. This is a band finding out what it can do, what it might want to do in the future and what the past has to offer for mining its rich strata of influences. You can bop to this, you can flop to this, but one thing is for sure - you probably won't hear another single album quite like it this year, although you will hear lots of bits of other albums that make you go: 'Wait a moment, wasn't that covered earlier this year by...'

No bad thing to create yourselves as the precursors to other people's musics.

In Rememberance of Things Past: 2

2011-02-20T17:43:00.003+01:00

http://open.spotify.com/user/flekkepete/playlist/2fgvYOif5LQtvXQ36DFLYk

This is the house where I grew up.

It's 34 Victoria Crescent, Dewsbury. My family moved there when I was three or four years old and I lived there until I went to university when I was nineteen.

I took this photo three or four years ago. I was surprised how dramatically the house had changed since I lived there. But I stopped living there in 1978, so there is of course no reason why it should look the same all those years later.

To the left, where the car is parked, used to be a lawn leading to a brick coal shed. The lawn was banked from left to right, sloping down to a flagstone path leading to the kitchen door, to the left. My mother grew roses and other flowers in the l-shaped bed. In front of the kitchen window was an apple tree. I cannot remember it ever bearing any fruit. We used to hang net bags of nuts in it for the birds, especially in winter. To the right in the foreground stood a brick garage with a flat roof. Next to it, to the right and next to the boundary wall was a huge horse chestnut tree. Eventually my father had it cut down, after years of autumns battling with schoolkids climbing on the garage roof and throwing sticks and stones into the tree to get at the conkers. It was a losing battle. I think my father was most worried that someone one day would fall through the garage roof, which was neither strong nor well-made. To the right of the path to the kitchen door was a wide area of lawn. I have memories of taking a table and chair out there from when I was fifteen or so and writing my journal (long lost), early short stories and other juvenalia. I also remember playing catch, badminton, frisbee and football there. The garden seemed big enough then, compared to when I took this photograph.

From left to right on the ground floor are: the kitchen window; the main door (which led straight into the kitchen); the dining-room window (which was only used at Christmas and birthdays, the family usually eating at a long, drop-leaf table in the kitchen); the door to my father's workshop (sealed and blocked-off by one of his workbenches when we lived there ). From left to right on the first floor are: the window to a large double bedroom (in which were the bunk beds my brother and I slept in for years, until we got separate bedrooms); the window to the 'spare room' (which became my bedroom from when I was about 12 years old); and the bathroom window.

At the back of the house (which was really the front, giving on to the curved garden area that filled in the space between the houses and the horseshoe-shaped driveway that gave the crescent its distinctive shape) on the ground floor were the entrance hallway and a very large sitting-room where my parents watched television and my father listened to his records. The stairs led up to the landing, where my mother had a small, single bedroom and my father the biggest bedroom in the house, over the back sitting-room. When we lived there, too, the house walls had not been plastered and painted but were still redbrick.

As a child the house felt very spacious, and there were places we could all escape from one another when it was necessary - which was quite often. My father spent many hours tinkering in his workshop, often on things to do with one of our many cars over the years: I remember at least two Saab 96s and a Lada estate with a curious back window that wound down so you could put things in the back without opening the tailgate, at least one Volkswagen Beetle. The Saabs in particular had a very distinctive engine sound and, with the passage of time and the deterioration in the relationship between my father and mother, the puttering sound of him returning from work seemed to send a frisson through the house. We never quite knew what to expect, in terms of his mood.

When my father changed his old stereo for a new, sleeker system, he gave me the old one and I began to make the dining-room more and more into 'my' room. From this point on, when I was 14 and had my first paper round and began asking for money at birthdays and Christmas instead of gifts, music began to play a more and more significant role in my life. One of the last presents my father and mother - more likely my father - bought me was a radio-cassette recorder, which I used to record songs from the top 40 which used to be on Radio 1 on Sunday afternoons. Later in the evening came the Annie Nightingale Request Show. I had a request played on there one year at sixth form college: 'Faith Healer' by The Sensational Alex Harvey Band. On my postcard I had asked for the song to be played for 'Tim, Malcolm, Tiny, Mouse, Dave, Dave and Dave'. On playing the track, Annie said: "Sounds like a conspiracy of Daves."

I remember an encounter before I got the old stereo: on Dewsbury market there was a stall selling used records, especially singles from pub jukeboxes; I had bought a copy of Bowie's 'Life On Mars', with its opening lines "It's a godawful small affair / To the girl with the mousy hair"; as soon as my father heard the word "godawful" he whipped the record off the turntable and banned me from ever using it again, with the astonishing claim that "rubbish like that will ruin the stylus"! Of course, once the record player became mine, it was one of my most-played records, until I realised that part of the reason I was playing it so frequently was simply to assert my right to play it and, since it wasn't that fantastic a record really, I stopped playing it.

Singles I recall acquiring from that era, in no particular order, include: 'Double Barrel' by Dave and Ansel Collins; 'Photograph' by Ringo Starr; 'Without You' by Harry Nilsson; 'Albatross' by Fleetwood Mac; "Rocket Man" by Elton John; "Caroline", "Paper Plane" and "Down Down" by Status Quo; "Sylvia" and "Hocus Pocus" by Focus; "Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll" by Ian Dury and the Blockheads (one of the last singles I bought before going off to university and first heard on a jukebox in a cafe in Marseille, where I played it to death); "Alone Again (Naturally)" by Gilbert O'Sullivan; "When You Are A King" by White Plains; "Frankenstein" by The Edgar Winter Group; "10538 Overture" and "Roll Over Beethoven" by ELO; "All the Young Dudes" by Mott the Hoople (Ian Hunter's "Diary of a Rock 'n' Roll Star" was a book I shoplifted from W.H. Smiths); "Virginia Plain" by Roxy Music; "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes" by Bryan Ferry; "I Can Help" by Billy Swan; "Fooled Around and Fell In Love" by Elvin Bishop; the perfect "Easy" by The Commodores (another jukebox favourite in Dewsbury pubs at the time) and "The Prince" by Madness. There were more, but these are the first that resurfaced as I cast back. I blogged earlier about some of the albums I bought or traded (via an interesting company in Wales called 'Cob Records') at the time, and include in the soundtrack to this blog a couple of favorite tracks from The Crusaders, Little Feat, Joni Mitchell and Gil Scott-Heron and Brian Jackson.

After messing up my 'A'-levels and having to take a year off, I worked for six months in Dewsbury General Hospital. This gave me more money to spend on music and books. I had a girlfriend at the time, too. I tended to drink quite a bit at weekends and I remember waking one morning to find vomit in my slippers. But this was good preparation for the darker years that lay just ahead, as blogged about in my last entry.

So, this period in my life was a curious one: working, on the cusp of adulthood, soon to leave for university, yet still living at home under the tyranny of a hateful and hating father and trying to act as a shield for a more and more desperate mother. Looking back on that time, it seems strange to think that hardly anyone else seemed to realise what was going on. Or, if they did know, they did not seem to care too much. My mother used to go often to one of her sister's and to her mother's, so she must have spoken a lot about what she was going through. (I know this to be so from talking over the years to my one surviving aunt.) But then, what could they have done? In the end, it should have come as no surprise to anyone when my mother moved out in late September 1978.

Rememberance of Things Past: 1

2011-02-12T12:02:00.007+01:00

It's a family affair

My mother died a couple of weeks before my 21st birthday while I was at university. She had cancer and died only six months after diagnosis. The last time I went to see her, she sent me away, saying she did not want me to see her in such a state (she was yellow, thin and had lost much of her hair). She was propped up in bed at her mother's house, smoking. My poor grandmother could not understand how she could lose two of her four daughters (an aunt died of a sudden brain haemorrhage aged 42) while she herself was still hardy and robust.

I returned to university and tried to get on with life. It wasn't easy. I drank too much and slept through the days when I should have been in lectures. Three weeks after that final visit, my girlfriend and I were getting ready to go out to yet another party. The doorbell rang. My girlfriend went because I was getting dressed. Into the room stepped two police - a man and a woman. I knew it was over.

After the police left, my girlfriend asked me what I wanted to do. 'Go to the party', I said, so we did. I don't remember the party at all.

I continued drinking too much, and gambling, too, which had become the only thing that seemed to keep my mind active. I played a lot of pool and snooker and darts in local pubs and clubs. My girlfriend got on with her studies. I don't think we saw so much of each other for a while.

At the funeral I met my father. It was awkward, because my parents had separated the day after I started at university. My brother had been in the army for over two years by then. My parents had had a terrible relationship which had only become noticeable as my brother and I grew older. My brother kept out of it but I tried to mediate. This led to horrific arguments with my father. He accused me of taking sides. I was, because he treated my mother so badly. The worst day was when he reduced my mother to tears yet again and slammed out of the house. I looked at my mother on the floor by the kitchen sink and followed him out of the house. I caught up with him, pulled him by the shoulder and as he turned, hit him. He sprawled on the ground and looked up at me. I think I said something like "Keep your fucking hands off my mother, you bastard" and walked away. The event had been witnessed by a near neighbour, in whose house my father often sought escape. It wasn't the last time my father and I spoke, but it might have been the last honest moment between us.

So, at my mother's funeral it was a total shock to see my father smoking, for this had been the cause of so many of their screaming matches. When they had met and married and emigrated to the USA and then Canada, everyone smoked. At some point in their relationship my father stopped. Instead of trying to encourage my mother to do the same, my rememberance of events is of his constantly berating, mocking, belittling and angering her about her habit. Naturally, this strengthened her defiance and I believe she wilfully and deliberately smoked as much and as often as she could. Everything in the kitchen smelled of smoke, including my clean clothes which dried on a creel over the fire. I remember getting fried eggs on a plate, specks of cigarette ash on the yolks. I remember her standing at the kitchen sink peeling potatoes, a cigarette in the corner of her mouth. She seemed to be able to do anything with a cigarette on the go. I often found tab ends down the toilet, in the bin under the bathroom sink, in ashtrays in the kitchen, the back sitting room and the larder. And of course everywhere in the garden.

Her smoking became her identity. It was her rejection of my father. It was a barrier, a defiance, a weapon and a passion. It killed her. But I hope, at least, that she died happy, or at least happier than she had been.

For she had moved out of the family home into a flat two streets away, paying for it from her own income. When she died she divided her estate between my brother and I. My father was angry at the amount of money she had been "stashing away", feeling she had not been contributing her fair share to the household costs. I inherited the lease of the flat, as I had decided to base myself with her when not at university. After the funeral and all the paperwork and meetings and condolences, all the bickering and recriminations had been got through, I drove back to university in my first car - bought with some of the inheritance - a red Renault 5 with dashboard gearshift. I thought about my father. I thought about him a lot in the coming months.

But there was a more pressing worry. The university authorities were not happy with me. I was summoned to a review panel. I was informed I had missed 80% of lectures this year and seven of ten compulsory seminars. I had failed to submit most of my assignments, and of those I had submitted, only two had achieved a passing grade. Basically, the authorities wanted to know what was going on and what I intended to do about it.

I remember I said nothing for several seconds. I looked at the faces that made up the review panel: one of them was my Personal Tutor, a kind, gentle man who was a Romantic Poets specialist. He looked at me and I could see he wanted me to say something. But I can remember swallowing and saying 'I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind.'

To this day, I still don't know why I had not spoken to anyone (other than my girlfriend and one or two other student friends and friends at home) about what had been happening. I suppose I felt it was nothing to do with them (wrong, since as one of their students, my welfare was their concern), or that I would not be able to explain the drinking, gambling and laxity in a believable way (probably right, since it was fairly pathetic behaviour). This latter supposition also proved unfounded. After the panel had been adjourned to give my Personal Tutor time to speak to me one-to-one, we moved into his office and I sat in one of the deep leather armchairs he had and began to cry. He did not allow smoking in his room, but when I took my pack out and lit one he did not try to stop me. He moved the waste paper bin next to me and stood with his back to me for a while, looking out of the window.

I finished the ciagrette and stubbed it out in the bin. I took out a tissue and blew my nose, the signal for him to take up his usual thoughtful position behind his desk. Neither of us spoke. (This was one of the things I liked about him as a tutor - that he did not push things, but let things develop in their own time. I liked that, and his all-black outfits...) I could feel him looking at me and knew I would not be able to leave without saying something. I knew what I was going to say. I knew that I was going to tell him what had happened, because for him, I could. But I had to compose the words in my mind first, and I had to let the feeling subside that I could cry again at any moment. (In these momemts of acute self-consciousness, why was I so concerened about how he would perceive me if I cried again?)

I pushed myself up in the chair in which it was so much easier to slouch, to let yourself be sucked down into its warm, creaking comfort.

'My mother died', I said.

He placed his hands palm down on the desk and pushed himself out of his chair and came to perch on the edge of the desk in front of me. The way we were in relation to each other meant my eyes were focused on his black Chelsea boots. I felt like a child and I felt like crying again. I looked down at the carpet.

'Why didn't you say something before?' he asked.

All I could do was shake my head. My throat and chest were clogged with too much emotion for me to trust my voice. I knew if I tried to speak I would weep.

'I need to tell this to the panel', he said. 'Will you let me do that?'

I could not speak.

He went back to his seat and picked up the telephone. I was aware of him speaking, but not of the words themselves. I busied myself wiping snot from my nose into the tissue. My lungs filled again with air. My throat and chest seemed to slacken.

Three words had done this. Three words: My mother died.

My mother was 56 years old.

There she is in the picture at the top of this entry. This is at my 18th birthday party, which she had agreed could happen at our house, against my father's wishes. She said it could happen there on one condition: that she could join in.

So much happened between the time of that picture and her death two years and fifty weeks later. It was possibly the most difficult time of my life, but perhaps at that age life is not meant to be easy. I was in love with one of the girls in the picture. That came to nothing. Two other friends in the picture went to the same university a year ahead of me, as I messed up my 'A'-levels, and we hardly saw each other there. My brother was already away as an army cadet. And my father is conspicuous by his absence, of course.

After my brother left home, things worsened, since my father saw me as siding with my mother. Which I was. It was us against him. He was impossible to talk to. He was a bigot, a racist, quite possibly misogynistic and a misanthrope. If you wrote him as a charater in a novel, no one would find him believable.

From the time of my mother's death in 1980 to my father's death in 1997, our relationship was characterised by long silences, pathetic attempts on my part to try to understand him - what was there to understand? where had all his bile come from? I hardly knew his parents as they died when I was very young. My father was 42 when I was born, my mother 36. There was a sense of inevitable doom about his relationship with me, from early on. He is not easy to write about, because I still feel so much about thim that I have not yet come to terms with.

From university one weekened I sat down and wrote him a long letter. In it I was honest. I told him how I saw it from my point of view. I held back nothing. It mus thave been a horrible letter for him to read, but I could not not write it.

When he died, it turned out that he had written me out of his will and left everything to my brother. My brother had the opportunity to do something about that, of course. He chose not to. Thus, my brother and I have been estranged for all these years. I only recently discovered I have another nephew, and that my brother and his family live in Canada.

Families.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Time and Motion Studies

2011-01-30T16:09:00.005+01:00

TIME

26 days, 624 hours, 37,440 minutes or 2,246,400 seconds.

MOTION

STUDIES

Currently Vivian Stanshall's life, Kerouac's rhythms, Spotify's deepest recesses, Italian vocabulary for recipes, places in Italy for March and Easter visits, student democracy, waking earlier than necessary, Massive Attack, Chronicle of a Death Foretold with Moses, John Pilger's The News You Don't See, folkehøgskole, Top Girls, the British working classes, epiphany, fathers, educational paradigms, transparency, SEED, reasons to be cheerful, Withnail & I

rites of passage, florists, female emancipation, badminton injuries, mobile phones, literary awards, Youtube, the Bora, book club meetings, Jimi Hendrix, heating systems in Fiat vans, the absence of sky, pizza that tastes of absolutely nothing, Illy coffee, The Old Man and the Sea, Facebook, email, orange laundry, TMWPOTP, Croatia, chewing gum, dates, the train strike, prospects, onanism, dust, the colour of the Adriatic, Ryanair vs. Alitalia, dusk, mushrooms, psychological disorders, Berlusconi, globalisation, Frode Grytten, amnesia, telephone wires, Pope Joan, cold hands, disorder, labelling, Steely Dan, ruccola, loneliness, toenails, the space we inhabit, not knowing, Bedlam, red orange juice, left-footed defenders, Aaron Neville's voice, candles, rainlessness, Lady Nijo, rivers, Norway, Lipton's Yellow Label tea reminding me of

agendas or agendae, The Word, 'Gardenia' by Kyuss, Lost In Translation, weekends, mouthwash, Buddha, paper, seventeen weeks, transparency, short cuts, trial exams, water, Northern Exposure on the couch, Ras Selas Diversity School, Verona, tracks that don't fade out, language and identity, cheese, Isabella Bird, "The fucker will rue the day", Egypt, unreliable internet connections, horn sections, jazz, great big cities, Leeds United, no, being frozen in time in someone's memory, first to five, Q, alt-control-delete, slow food, grit, bubbles, church bells, "with you in mind", anything in green, seating, and returning after drifting through all these thoughts, images, impressions and considerations to the same conclusion that has haunted me since I returned here sixteen days ago: what in the sweet name of all that's holy am I doing here when I didn't have to be?

Tremendous moustache.

Radio Free Duino celebrates Vivian Stanshall this edition:
http://open.spotify.com/user/flekkepete/playlist/7phdvMvulm8YhFrbOcFEAv

And I leave you, dear Reader, with the Ginger Geezer himself in action in The Magical Mystery Tour. Watch out for Ivor Cutler vigorously polishing his lenses...

Love you to bits!!

I Serge into 2011

2011-01-04T17:29:00.011+01:00

No, that is not a spelling mistake in the title - and a Happy New Year to you, too, dear reader!

The book I have been reading, which has taken me across the boundary between 2010 and 2011 is Sylvie Simmons' 2001 biography of Serge Gainsbourg (above), entitled "A Fistful of Gitanes", one of apparently only two books in English on the 'Roi des Gitanes'. These days, my French is so rusty the thought of trying to read a biography - or any book, for that matter - in French, is pure 'folie'. But I would like to get back to reading in French again, somehow, because I want to be able to tackle Gainsbourg's lyrics, collected in "Dernières nouvelles des étoiles" (how does one blog in French, without copying and pasting so-called 'symbols' from Word?) and Verlant's biography. It can be my challenge for this year (on top of my ongoing learning of Italian? Oh, yeah...)

Here are some typical clips of Serge at various points in his career. Allez-y, Serge!!

Gainsbourg was amazing - and his output as an artist astonishing in its breadth and variety and for being so ahead of its time. (It's no exaggeration to say he turned France on to reggae in 1979 with his 'Aux armes etcetera' album.) It's also amazing he lived as long as he did, given the amount he drank and smoked (fans have said he didn't smoke cigarettes, he "made love" to them.) Gainsbourg himself claimed doing national service in the army turned him into an alcoholic.

One particularly intersting fact Simmons relates is how 'pudique' he was. (Pudique is an almost untranslatable word, the equivalent to something like 'bashful' or 'modest'. He never let anyone see his penis, for example - which must have been quite difficult at times...) And this from the man who gave us the notorious 'Je t'aime, moi non plus', and images such as these:

I think his expression in that last photograph says it all, really. And he is indeed 'pudique', while Jane Birkin clearly was not.

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Ah, it's good to have this month at home to catch up with organising my room a bit better. I have to get some more bookshelves, I think, and have an idea to have a glass table at the window - so it restricts as little of the view as possible - and a good 2-seater sofa. Then, it will be getting close to how I envisaged it when the house was being built two years ago. The room is full of paper, stuff I am sorting out and most of which, I hope, will throw out.

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A big game for Leeds, away to Cardiff tonight. Back in October, Cardiff were the last team to beat Leeds - by an emabarrassing 4-0 at Elland Road - so I feel it is time for revenge. The team is still overachieving so far this season, according to many fans and commentators, and lies in fourth place before this evening's game. Fingers crossed ...

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When I return to Italy at the end of next week, I will have 17 weeks to do and then can come home at the end of May, ready to evaluate the year. Now, at mid-point, is too soon.

This edition's Spotify Playlist, is a gift from The Producer: Cover Cover - an eclectic collection of cover versions, if ever there was one. Enjoy!

And to end with a laugh or two, as per usual, on a musical theme:

Take care, campers!

I was only .... 58 hours from Duino...

2010-12-21T19:18:00.009+01:00

That's right.

Only 58 hours from Duino to Flekke.

I don't know how far it is as the crow flies, but unfortunately I wasn't on a crow. I was on an airplane. Occasionally. Although I spent more time in a long queue at Frankfurt airport trying to get on an airplane - any airplane, really - than on one.

Leaving my apartment (below) at ten on Friday morning I was optimistic that the two inches of snow in Duino (above) would not be a major hindrance to either APT buses or Trenitalia.

Wrong.

The buses were running late. When S. and I reached Monfalcone station (below) to take a train to Venezia Mestre the next train was already 75 minutes late. No real panic for me, as my flight wasn't due to take off from Marco Polo airport until 6.45 that evening, but a bit worrying for S. whose flight to Madrid was due for lift-off at 3.45. And she had already been waiting for non-appearing buses.

The next train heading in the right direction we decided to take anyway, only realizing after it had departed Monfalcone that it was not a direct train but was going to loop-the-loop via Gorizia and Udine. Oh well. At least we were rolling. And in approximately the right direction.

Once at Marco Polo, we found S.'s flight was delayed until 17.15, so had lunch and S. then checked in and then was gone. Happy Christmas, etc.

I settled down to wait for my flight. And wait and wait.

Eventually we took off almost two hours late and this meant, of course, that I had missed my 21.25 connection to Bergen. Most frustrating was to have spent so long just getting to Frankfurt, which is only a 1 hour 25 minute flight from Venice.

The photograph below, however, shows the situation next morning, having spent the night at a hotel about 35km from Frankfurt airport because all nearby hotels were full to bursting. This, after queueing for three hours to close to midnight to get a hotel voucher. In the queue I met K. from Bergen and he and I grabbed the last taxi voucher and last two single room vouchers and vowed to be back at 8 the next morning. Ho ho ho.

What was most impressive was how calm everyone remained throughtout the long wait. The airport staff were good too: free sandwiches and drinks every so often materialised, and then clowns and a man on stilts to amuse the kiddies. K. and I also met S., another Bergenser and we passed the nine hours' queueing time - somehwow. When we got to the re-booking desk we managed to get transferred onto a SAS flight to Oslo due to leave at 20.10. This was because the only flight to Bergen was full. So we sat at a cafe to wait and K. proceeded to demolish double vodka-oranges for the next six hours or so.

Finally, the flight was announced.

We set off for Gate 42. We got to Gate 42. We sat down near Gate 42 and began to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Then the flight was announced as delayed - by someone with mobile internet access, not by the SAS staff. Then there was a Gate change. To 21. It gave us the chance for some exercise.

We reached Gate 21 and we began to wait.

And wait.

At 22.15 we began to board. At 22.50 we took off. At 00.30 we landed at Oslo Gardemoen in a snow flurry and minus 5 degrees. K. had found three single rooms at a nearby hotel. By the time we realised our bags had not followed us to Oslo and had queued in order to report this and fill in the requisite forms, and found a taxi, we got to the hotel a few minutes after 01.30.

Checking online next morning at 0800, I found there were flights to Førde, bypassing Bergen. It was tempting. But they were almost 1800 kroner one way. Then I found Oslo to Bergen with SAS for 595 kroner, arriving in time for me to check up on my missing bag, get a haircut and still catch the 1630 fastboat to Rysedalsvika.

Ha ha.

After having had my litre bottle of gin confiscated because it wasn't in a sealed bag (I bet it is now... bastards) I wasn't in the best of moods to find the flight was ... delayed. But only 25 minutes. Hooray. Thus, I touched down in Bergen at 14.35 and headed straight for the luggage office. Listening to an irate Brit tell a mild-mannered Norwegian official to "go fuck himself and stick his fucking head up his fucking arse" I waited patiently in line to discover that no, my bag had not come from Frankfurt yet, but that as soon as it arrived SAS would deliver it as quickly as possible to Flekke. Well, hooray.

Stuck in rush-hour traffic on the airport bus some 45 minutes later - this IS Norway - I realised the planned haircut and beard trim would have to be ditched. Of course, the fastboat pulled out BANG ON TIME at 16.30. I met the bus at Rysedalsvika - its red LCD destination sign reading 'GOD JUL' - two hours later and at 19.35 there was TMWPOTP coming out of her workplace door to greet me with a smile and a kiss. HURRAHH!! Later, we walked up the hill together under gently falling snow, the only sound our crunching boots: no announcements in several lanaguages of so many minutes' delay, or such-and-such a flight being cancelled. Just us, the night and our house on the hill.

(Food for thought: When I go back to Italy in mid January, I am booked to go Bergen - Copenhagen - Munich - Trieste. I am hoping for an unseasonal tropical heatwave then.)

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Given all of the above, Radio Free Duino's Producer has given me permission to put together a suitable playlist on the subject of - tee! hee! - TIME!!

Here it is:Time waits for snow, man

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While I was in limbo, Leeds continued their winning streak by dispatching QPR 2-0, both goals courtesy of impish Max Gradel and captured - very atmospherically, too - on this fan-in-the-stands clip:

So, dear reader, all's well that end's well. The festive season is nigh and all around is deep and crisp and even. Which makes me feel hungry. TMWPOTP will be home from her late shift soon. Dinner is on the go; the fire is burning bright; the house is warm and toasty; so all that remains is for me to insert a couple of Comedy Crackers:

Forkandews?

Ciao a presto! Har det! See you soon....

Snow bound

2010-12-17T15:01:00.006+01:00

Tomorrow I should be travelling home.

But, checking the departures from Venice and Frankfurt just now I see that Venice is fully functioning, but many flights out of Frankfurt are delayed or cancelled. I really don't want to get stranded in Frankfurt, or indeed Venice, or anywhere. I just want to go home. Some students were rerouted via Rome and one has had to return to college and try again tomorrow.

Snow...

It's actually snowing lightly here at the moment. I like the idea of setting off in the snow for my winter break. If all goes well, it'll be: bus from Duino to Monfalcone; walk to the train station; train to Venice Mestre; bus out to Marco Polo airport; flight to Frankfurt; flight to Bergen; a night at the airport hotel; airport bus into Bergen; bus to Lavik via the Oppedal ferry; meet TMWPOTP and drive to Flekke in time for afternoon tea.

Snow...

Radio Free Duino will be going off the airwaves over the next month (perhaps to be replaced by something a little different?). In the meantime, here is the Producer's latest offering, appropriately enough called Snow.

It's snowing harder now and the wind has picked up, so that the snow is whizzing around before landing on the leaves of the olive trees outside my kitchen and the grass outside the living room. It doesn't look real at all.

This last week or so has seemed to go by very slowly, compared to the month before when each week seemed to zoom by, marked by driving to Trieste on Tuesday afternoons in strong winds and rain, and walking back in the dark from badminton at the elementary school gym on Thursday evenings.

15:50 and cancelled flights out of Frankfurt are currently: two to Hamburg, Vienna, Berlin, Amsterdam, Madrid, Paris - and that's between 14:30 and 15:55.

Shit. It gets worse. Between 15:55 and 16:35 cancellations added include: London City, Hamburg (third cancellation), Stockholm, Poznan, Paris (again), Vienna (again), London Heathrow, Basle, Stavanger, Hannover, Katowice, Dresden, Billund, Dusseldorf and Berlin (again). That Stavanger cancellation is particularly worrying.

Oh, well. Perhaps by tomorrow the worst of the snow will have blown over.

So, I pass the time as it grows dark outiside listening to Spotify radio, rock songs from the 70s (Carly Simon... rock?) and searching for photographs of 70s album covers I liked and bought at the time. Such as these:

Meanwhile, the list of cancellations at Frankfurt just grows and grows.

Snow...

And this just makes me REALLY want to get home and be with TMWPOTP:

Snow....................................

I don't know why, but I like this

2010-12-09T21:27:00.001+01:00

Christmas number 1, anybody?

Death again? Cor blimey...

2010-12-05T15:01:00.008+01:00

A couple of entries ago I wrote about how I could not hear Samuel Butler's 'Adagio for Strings' without seeing in my mind's eye Willem Dafoe (above) as Sergeant Elias dying in slow motion in Oliver Stone's 'Platoon' (1986). Yesterday evening I tried to watch David Lynch's 'The Elephant Man' (1980)for the first time and lo and behold Lynch employs the same piece of music for the death of John Hurt as John Merrick (below).

This has made me think about Barber's piece and its collocation with death scenes; shallow research reveals this relationship has grown over time. The Adagio was broadcast over the announcement of Roosevelt's death in 1945 and at the funerals of Albert Einstein (1955) and Princess Grace of Monaco (1982). In 2001 at The Last Night of the Proms it was played to commemorate the victims of 9/11, in place of the usual more upbeat, patriotic music. It was part of the opening ceremony for the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics. In 2004 listeners to BBC radio's 'Today' programme voted it "the saddest classical" work ever. The piece has had an active life in the visual media. As well as Stone's and Lynch's films, it has featured in Michael Moore's 'Sicko', and in 'Lorenzo's Oil', 'A Very Natural Thing', 'Reconstruction' and 'Amelie'. TV series that have made use of the piece include The Simpsons, Big Brother 2010, That Mitchell and Webb Look, The Boondocks, South Park, Seinfeld, ER and Big Love. For a time, a recording by the BBC Symphony Orchestra was the biggest-selling classical piece on iTunes. Not surprisingly (but horribly) it has proved popular with electronic dance / trance artisits, including Armin Van Buuren, William Orbit, Ferry Corsten and DJ Tiesto. (I have heard Orbit and Tiesto. I do not recommend them.)

What makes a piece of music become so popular? There is no doubt Barber's piece is highly emotive and suggestive - but, of death? And how many times can a piece be used before it ceases to be what it was and becomes either a parody of itself or a cliche? Isn't there a danger, as with a lot of music used in film (as opposed to composed for film), that a piece such as the Adagio becomes tainted and corrupted by its being associated in the hearer's mind with some falsely-constructed connected images? (I feel similarly aggrieved at the use of certain pieces of music in advertisements, too.)

Well, these were just a few thoughts I had as I walked home last night after trying to watch the film with a group of students, in less than ideal circumstances (lots of background noise, people coming and going, lights going on and off). None of the other viewers of the film related the music to anything else. I don't think any of them knew what it was, so it is perhaps again another example of a generational thing. I worry or think about these issues, but people my children's ages do not, or do so, if at all, to a much lesser degree. Should this in itself be of concern at all? Does it matter what happens to a work of art once it is in the public domain? Can we any longer expect reverence and sanctity?

I was also struck by several of the comments about Lynch's 1980 film, the most naïve being: 'They did have colour in those days, didn't they?'

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On this day in 1938 John Weldon Cale, better known as 'J.J.', was born in Oklahoma City. It is said the 'J.J.' moniker was given to Cale by a nightclub owner, who was employing him in the mid-1960s, to avoid people confusing him with John Cale.

J.J. seems to have spent most of the past 35 years avoiding fame and stardom. There are (probably apochryphal) stories of him playing behind a screen, or with his back to the audience when in concert, although I haven't been able to find any photos showing this idiosyncrasy. In most recent times, collaborations with Eric Clapton have brought Cale more into the spotlight. Here, the two of them talk about working together on their 2006 collaboration 'The Road to Escondido':

And here they are, live, duetting on one of Cale's classics:

To celebrate his birthday today, Radio Free Duino's producer has put together 'J J Breezes By', this week's Spotify playlist: JJ breezes by.

Today, for some reason, I have no real wish to write about my teenage years (of which JJ was a significant part). But one album that I seriously DUG (maaan!) and which deserves a mention is Little Feat's 'The Last Record Album'. The album was the band's fifth, coming out in 1975. It came into my possession because I had a friend who had a Saturday job in W.H. Smith's record department and would willingly exchange albums for you if you had bought something from them you didn't like. I'd got a copy of Stevie Wonder's 'Songs in the Key of Life', didn't really dig it enough for me to imagine I would listen to the whole album very many times, so, after taping it, returned it one Saturday afternoon and exchanged it for 'The Last Record Album' and about £3 cash. I had read reviews of Little Feat in Melody Maker and The New Musical Express and was curious to know more. Also enticing was Neon Parks' cover art:

Okay, all you postmodern deconstructionists, analyze that!

The back cover featured the hospital bills incurred by drummer Richie Hayward after a motorbike crash. This seemed very human and anti-star, to me as a 16-year old. The album was not an easy listen, to start with, but I was instantly struck by Lowell George's seemingly effortless soul singing on 'Long Distance Love' and 'Down Below the Borderline'. It's no coincidence, I'm sure, that of the eight tracks on the original LP release, these were the only two songs George composed (he co-wrote 'Mercenary Territory' with Hayward). The former song remains nailed in my heart 35 years later. This clip from a Japanese TV show via Youtube is the only one I can find of the original version (and it's out of sync!):

Lowell George was just 34 years old when he died in 1979 of "an accidental drug overdose". Tragic.

The voice alone deserves another clip. This one gives you not only the voice, but some shit-hot guitar and the seen (but barely heard) Emmylou Harris and Bonnie Raitt:

I have to end this section with this. Of course:

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In the wonderful world of Championship football, with many games this weekend postponed because of snow, Leeds came from a goal down at half-time to beat Crystal Palace 2-1 and move back into a play-off spot.

Here are the goals:

To end this week two comedy moments as usual. Until next week, I'll say 'Ciao!' and hope you have a better week than these folks:

Births, marriages and deaths

2010-11-28T12:20:00.005+01:00

Years ago - I forget exactly which year, but it may have been 1983, after my stint in Sudan - I was interviewed for a post as a trainee reporter on The Dewsbury Reporter newspaper. I think they were kind to give me the opportunity, having been persuaded by a friend who was a journalist there at the time. There were a number of written tests, and some proofreading exercises to do. I was given the 'Births, Marriages and Deaths' column for one of these. I pondered the text for some time and could find eight mistakes in it. I was supposed to find ten. One I missed was a reversed digit in somebody's date of death; it thus looked as if they had died before they had been born. When I look back over my 18 years or so growing up in Dewsbury, I can entirely sympathise with such a mathematical conundrum.

Thirty plus years later my teenage years are a mystery to me, like a poor novel written by someone else. A manuscript I produced at the time (over-influenced by my reading of the Beats at the time, especially Kerouac) was described by a friend as "mental masturbation". I still have that manuscript back home in Norway. I may dig it out and re-read it over the winter break. See if it is really just a load of old wank.

In those days I also tried reading 'local' writers including Alan Sillitoe, David Storey and Ted Hughes. When writing my university thesis on Hughes, there were even 'research' trips to Todmorden and Hebden Bridge (looking for Sylvia Plath's gravestone in the rain) and out onto the moors to look at Fay Godwin's black-and-white hills and Hughes's "sluttiest sheep in England". Sillitoe I remember as leaving me somewhat cold, although very recently I re-read 'The Loneliness of the Long Disatnce Runner' and found it to be not as bad as I remembered it, if dated. David Storey conjures up ginnels, rugby league, bitter in pubs and rough male-female relationships. I don't think I was able to relate particularly closely to his ideas, but I remember thinking how it was possible to make art out of ordinary, working-class lives. (I was young...)

I think I thought about how hard it was to grow up as a 'sensitive' grammar school lad in a place like Dewsbury. Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays there was a lot of social drinking with friends in pubs with names like 'The Turk's Head', 'The Imperial' (with Ray, the racist landlord, who laughed at charging 'Pakkies' 10p to use the gents'), 'The Shoulder of Mutton', 'The John F Kennedy' (how the hell did it get its name? - located where it was on an oddly tight downhill junction, twice in the years I'm describing lorries ran into it, out of control), and further out from the centre, 'The Shepherd's Boy' (good jukebox, soapy beer). I don't think these pubs are all still there. I could surf and find out, but it doesn't really matter.

Three abiding memories of 'The Imperial': we played a lot of pool there on Tuesday nights and Ray's wife Connie would bring out free 'mucky fat' sandwiches - dripping on bread; the jukebox was also pretty good and sometimes would be coveted by a group of men in black leather jackets who would play the same songs over and over again (Black Sabbath and ZZ Top, if memory serves) - anyway, I dubbed them 'The Imperial Leather Boys' (Imperial leather was a range of toiletries then advertised on TV); and, thirdly, meeting there with friends the night before I left for London to get my flight to Sudan and receiving toilet rolls as a going away gift from one friend.

From 'The Imperial', Halifax Road, Dewsbury, to clinging onto the back of the El Obeid to Khartoum 'express' train four months later is the kind of mind-fuck journey that cannot be described but is something akin perhaps to the 'Jupiter and Beyond the Infinte' sequence in Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I wasn't born in a crossfire hurricane; nor do I think I ever howled at my ma in the driving rain, but there is no doubt in my mind that it's alright now. In fact, it's a gas...

I was utterly amazed - and still am to this day - that TMWPOTP said 'Yes' when I aksed her to marry me. She looked stunning in her wedding dress, laughing with her dad before heading off to the little Hampshire church for our Monday vows (we plumped for a Monday, I think, to give people chance to travel there from all over the country). A couple of weeks later, we were off to Malaysia together, me to a job, TMWPOTP to The Great Unknown. I have never, ever, for one nanosecond regretted getting married when I did to whom I did. I think that is fantastic. To paraphrase Brian Wilson, God only knows what I'd be without her. This year we passed 23 years. Raise a glass to the next 23!

This month's edition of The Word revealed that Gregory Isaacs and Norman Wisdom died recently. For me, Isaacs is THE voice of lover's rock in reggae. And 'Night Nurse' is my favourite of all his songs, I guess. 'Niabinghi' posted the classic 10" song plus dub version on Youtube. Only music, no visuals, sadly. Listen while you read on (the song ends around 7:06, leaving you three and a half minutes of cool medidation):

Isaacs died of lung cancer on October 25th, aged just 59. 'Quantosanos' posts "is not a woman him singing about ... is his addiction", thus missing the point completely. The song is just beautiful and whether it is about a woman or crack cocaine, it doesn't really matter to me. If you read biographical notes about the man, you realise he had a troubled existence, as do many great artists, but that is no reason to denigrate their work. Morals and art? Morals in art? Pah!

In complete contrast to Isaacs is Norman Wisdom (or, Sir Norman Joseph Wisdom OBE, to be precise). We have a number of his films on VHS at home; our younger son used to be into Wisdom (now, he's just wise - heh heh) and here are a couple of my own favourite scenes:

Radio Free Duino this week celebrates the 'Well, awwwwwrriiiight!!' factor in music, with a killer playlist (The Producer says) giving you, dear listener, music to watch the girls go by, hoover that carpet to, chop those onions to or, just generally whoop 'Awwwrriiighht!' to and enjoy. For your listening this week you'll find: Spydaman, Jacknife Lee, The Brooklyn Funk Essentials, James Brown, Shuggie Otis, King Curtis, Esther Phillips, T.Rex, Gilberto Gil, Marvin Gaye, Big Youth, Little Beaver, The Carolina Chocolate Drops, Joss Stone, Tower of Power, Noora Noor, Dr. John, Bo Diddley, Howlin' Wolf, Cascade Colonels, Brother Jack McDuff, Art Pepper, Jimmy McGriff, David Mann, Down to the Bone, Orchester Roberto Delgado, Quincy Jones, The New Mastersounds and Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings. Awwwwwrrrighhhttt!!!

Here 's your link: Awwwwwwright!! You can find it on Fb, too.

Another mind / world-view and position-altering album I bought in my teen years was Gil Scott-Heron's 'From South Africa to South Carolina'. It took me a while to get into, especially the track 'Essex', but one benefit was that it sent me off to investigate his earlier work and life. In around 1990 TMWPOTP and I were due to see Scott-Heron live in Colne (that's Colne, Lancashire, not the cooler-sounding Cologne, Germany). When we arrived at the concert hall there was no one there, just a poor ticket guy handing out refunds: Scott-Heron had been busted at Heathrow for possession of cocaine. In recent years he has disappeared from the music scene because of his drugs (hello, Mr Isaacs!) use and brushes with the law and rehabilitation. But in 2009 he realeased 'I'm New Here', a semi-autobigraphical album of new material and this killer cover version of Robert Johnson's 'Me and the Devil Blues':

It is said Scott-Heron will be releasing new material in 2011. I certainly hope so. Because this is just beautiful, and we need more of this in the world:

From that 1976 album, though, here is its best-known song:

Pity it's not the whole Whistle Test performance.

There's a gale rattling the windows and rain smashing against them, so my plan to take a walk down to the porto is on hold. Gives me the chance, anyway, to throw a couple of prime TV moments your way.

The first sort of continues the northern theme which began this entry and is another long-time favourite of TMWPOTP and I:

And to end this week, some niiice parody; yes, it's The Fast Show's 'Jazz Club'. Grrreat!! See you next week, hepcats.

Everyone's Gone To The Movies

2010-11-20T14:05:00.009+01:00

Film music, film soundtracks: I have been pondering this week the effect of music in films or, more precisely, wondering why certain pieces of music that have been used in films or especially composed for the purpose take on a life of their own. The opposite is also true: for example now I can no longer hear Barber's 'Adagio for Strings' without Willem Dafoe as Sergeant Elias's death scene in 'Platoon' coming to mind. Copyright restrictions mean I can't get blog that scene here.

It is true that some directors use the music score in their films as ear candy; others use it to help sell the film; others use it as emotional blackmail. The film scores that work for me do so on two levels: firstly, they enhance the action taking place in front of my eyes, acting as a kind of sonic commentary on events; and, secondly, they resonate long after the film is over, remaining in the mind as testament to their own individual qualities (sometimes in combination with the first level).

So this week's Radio Free Duino broadcast collects some of The Producers' favourite musical signatures and moments from film: What's the score?

There is little doubt that Lalo Schiffrin's score for 'Bullitt' (1968) works for me on both levels. A curious memory is of my father trying to take me to see the film at the cinema in Dewsbury on its release. I would have been 9 years old! I seem to recall the film came out with a AA rating (14 years and above). What was my father thinking? I can still recall the bemused and naive look on his face as an usher approached us in the queue to enquire after my age, and then escorted us off the premises. Maybe this bizarre genetic strand emerged in me a couple of years ago when I was sitting watching 'Kill Bill' on Norwegian TV with my kids who were 17 and 15 at the time? The "usher" this time was rightly furious and disgusted with me (it was the scene with Uma Thurman in a coma in the hospital...).

Schiffrin's score captures and reflects not only the tensions and dangers in the film, but also the effortless coolness of Steve McQueen's character. Retrospectivley we might claim the music is cool because late sixties film music is cool in its own right and iconically - hence, for example, David Holmes' reworked homages in the remodelled 'Ocean's' trilogy.

Although Frank Sinatra

is cooler than George Clooney:

Here is a fans' trailer for the original Lewis Milestone 1960 film:

And here is the 2001 Steven Soderbergh remake trailer:

Of composers of film music Ennio Morricone, Lalo Schiffrin, Thomas Newman, Michael Nyman, Phillip Glass, and Isaac Hayes are impeccable, amongst others.

For me, Morricone's score for 'Once Upon A Time In America' is consummate:

Thomas Newman's score for 'American Beauty' (and the use of The Who's 'Baba O'Reilly, too) is perfect:

It is difficult to choose between Michael Nyman's work for 'A Zed and Two Noughts' and 'The Piano', so I offer a piece from both. First, this from 'A Zed...':

and this from 'The Piano':

Like Nyman, Phillip Glass is very difficult to narrow down, so I have chosen a piece each from two very different films. The first is the opening from the existentialist 'Koyaanisqatsi (Life Out of Balance)' (1982):

The second is from the black and white and neon nightmare of 'Mishima' (1985):

With Isaac Hayes, the choice is simple, obvious and ice-cool:

The 1971 film 'Shaft' was on my 'must-see' list for years (I was 12 when it came out in cinemas). I finally got a VHS copy a few years back. It doesn't disappoint. The film and the acting may not be great, but the style, the music and the portrayal of New York through John Shaft's eyes make a winning combination.

But, I would have to say that my all-time favourite has to be Francis Lai's much-covered theme for Claude Lelouch's 1966 'Un Homme et Une Femme'. Not only does the film itself look stunningly stylish, but the story is irresistible (from Wikipedia):

The film tells the story of a young widow, Anne (Anouk Aimée), a film script supervisor whose late husband (Pierre Barouh) was a stuntman and died in an on-set accident, and a widower, Jean-Louis (Jean-Louis Trintignant), a race car driver whose wife committed suicide after Jean-Louis was in a near fatal crash during the 24 hours of Le Mans. They meet at their respective children's school in Deauville. They share a ride home to Paris one night after Anne misses the last train, and their mutual attraction is immediate. The story follows their budding relationship over the course of several trips back to Deauville, and as they fall in love despite Anne's feelings of guilt and loss over her deceased husband. After a night together in Deauville, Anne finds herself unable to be unfaithful to the memory of her husband, and decides to leave Jean-Louis. While she is traveling back to Paris by train, Jean-Louis races to meet her at the station, and when she gets off the train she is surprised to see him there. Happy that her lover had come back for her, they embrace as the film ends, the final outcome of the relationship left open to interpretation.

Here is the orginal trailer for the film:

I must buy the DVD and watch the film again - and again.

**************************************************************

Speaking of scores - what's the score?

It's half-time at Carrow Road and it is Norwich 0 Leeds 1. Time to pause the blog...

Well, it finished 1-1, with which I am satisfied. The commentary suggested there was controversy with the Norwich equaliser, with Kasper Schmeichel appearing to be fouled as the ball was headed home. But a point away at Norwich is definitely a good result, and Leeds remain in fifth position in the Championship.

Traditionally I have been ending these blogs with classic comedic clips. This week it is the turn of Eddie Izzard, assisted by Lego:

And at 10.30 tonight I will be hugging a lamp post.... Hmmm....

I'm in pieces, bits and pieces...

2010-11-07T15:29:00.005+01:00

Two weeks since my last posting and what have we had? In reverse chronolgical order: 'The Art Marathon', four days of classes, long weekend in Venice, five days of classes, a Sunday. One by one, each will be dealt with. But let us begin with a few things of significance from today.

To whit, this week's Radio Free Duino Spotcast (like it? Wonder if I have coined a new word here?) The Producer wanted another themed broadcast this week, having thoroughly enjoyed the John Peel Festive 50. Opening my curtains to seek inspiration I settled on 'It feels like rain'.

Enjoy, dear reader-listener: It feels like rain. (As I writeThe Producer is bopping in the corner to The Bees' upbeat little number.)

Also of note today (cherry-picked from Wikipedia, where else?):

Events
1665 The London Gazette, the oldest surviving journal, is first published
1872 The ship the Mary Celeste sails from New York, later to be found deserted
1893 Women in the state of Colorado are granted the right to vote
1908 Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid are reportedly killed in San Vicente, Bolivia

Is this how they died, though?

1916 Jeanette Rankin is elected the first woman to the US Congress
1917 in the Gregorian calendar, the Bolsheviks storm the Winter Palace
1921 in Italy the National Fascist Party is formed (it is currently banned under the Constitution)
1944 Roosevelt is elected for a record fourth term as US President
1967 Carl B. Stokes is elected as mayor of Clevelend, Ohio - the first African-American to win such an office
1989 Douglas Wilder is elected Governor of Virginia - the first African-American to be elected to Congress

Births

1728 Captain James Cook, British naval officer, explorer and cartographer
1879 Leon Trotsky, Russian revolutionary and politician
1885 Niels Bohr, Danish physicist
1903 Konrad Lorenz, Austrian zoologist, winner of the Nobel Prize in Physiology
1913 Albert Camus, French writer and philosopher, Nobel Prize laureate
1935 W. S. Rendra, Indonesian poet and playwright
1942 Jean Shrimpton, British supermodel and actress

1952 David Petraeus, American military commander

1960 Tommy Thayer, US guitarist with heavy metal band Kiss

1970 Neil Hannon, Northern Irish singer-songwriter (The Divine Comedy)
1974 Chris Summers, Norwegian drummer (Turbonegro)

1978 Rio Ferdinand, English footballer

Deaths

1980 Steve McQueen, American actor

You cannot follow that news with anything other than this:

So, that is today. Rain, events, births and deaths. Just a normal day in history, then.

Last night I took part in a student-organised 'Art Marathon' that went on from 8 til 12. I showed photos of around Flekke fjord, an art installation I had there a couple of winters ago, accompanied by music by Brian Eno, John Cale, John Cage, Biosphere and The Penguin Cafe Orchestra.

(Man, the rain is coming down in torrents now, after an explosion of thunder and a huge lightning flash.)

Here is something by each of those in turn. Firstly, Brian Eno:

John Cale:

John Cage:

Biosphere:

And The Penguin Cafe Orchestra:

I did not necessarily like everything that happened yesterday evening, but I was thankful for some comments emailed to me today about my work:

"by the way, I was really impressed by your art (the pictures with effective music). It reminded me of what I had forgot in my life "nature". I have been to Norway twice, last winter and summer. jeg savne norge"

"Foto utstillinga vart veldig fin! Kjempe fine bilder. Kjenner at eg saknar Noreg litt."

Venice last weekend. Bright, sunny Saturday. Misty, rainy Sunday. Rainy, wet and weary Monday. Took in this exhibition of Kubrick's photography and, of course, switched to b & w mode as soon as I came out of the building myself. Some of the results can be seen in an album on my Facebook page. I found Venice a great city to explore on foot and disregarding the map brought surprise discoveries galore. Loved the architecture biennale, especially New Zealand and Japan. Loved the food. Liked my hotel out in Mirano and the bus ride to and fro. But did not like being on my own all the time. I want to share Venice with TMWPOTP next spring, I hope.

Some influential albums from 1974 that entered my musical consciousness include:

Eno - Here Come the Warm Jets
Eagles - On The Border (my copy jumped all the time - a 'faulty pressing' according to the salesman in Thornes' Music Shop - they never did manage to replace it, either)
King Crimson - Starless and Bible Black (via my cousin, the drummer)
Steely Dan - Pretzel Logic (though I did not buy a copy till a couple of years later; I lent my entire Dan LP collection to a schoolfriend who went on to become an undertaker; never got them back, the bastard...)
David Bowie - Diamond Dogs (mentioned in my last blog)
Focus - Hamburger Concerto (I still love the overblown pomposity of this album!)
Rick Wakeman - Journey to the Centre of the Earth (hmmm...)
10cc - Sheet Music
Gil-Scott Heron - Winter in America (I didn't get into Scott-Heron till I was at sixth form college, three years later)
Be-Bop Deluxe - Axe Victim
Mike Oldfield - Hergest Ridge (I actually bought a second-hand copy on CD last year so I could hear this again)
Randy Newman - Good Old Boys (an album which I've started putting into one of my IB English courses the last three years)
Little Feat - Feats Don't Fail Me Now
Supertramp - Crime of the Century
Man - Slow Motion
Kraftwerk - Authobhan (did I buy it that year?)
Joe Walsh - So What
Robert Palmer - Sneakin' Sally Through the Alley (I remember someone at school had this, because Palmer came from Batley, just up the road, and I think this guy was in some way related to Robert Palmer, or something...)

1974 was also the year that this AWFUL record was number one in nine countries, although it seemed like the entire bloody universe. Students here used it to introduce Asian Week, for God's sake!!

Abba with 'Waterloo' and The Steve Miller Band with 'The Joker' were also massive that year. You can only conclude that there seemed to be a lot more variety in the charts thirty five years ago than now!

As is my wont, I try to leave you with a little humour. Here are two more favourites. Have a happy week, only some massive number of shopping days to Xmas!!

Funny how my poo never laughs at me...

John Robert Parker Ravenscroft

2010-10-24T14:34:00.005+01:00

"Some people have suggested that I only play records at this point because the title has rude words in it. Nonsense - here's 'Inverted Throat Fuck' "

John Peel died on October 25th 2004.

This edition of 'Not Too Old To Dream' is dedicated to him.

It will be punctuated by quotes from Peel that were collated at discogs.com.

My life from about 1970 to 2004 was punctuated by Peel. Specific moments I can recall at this moment, without thinking too hard about it:

taping Bowie's 'Diamond Dogs' LP on its first play on Peel's late-night show in 1974
hearing him play The Undertones' 'Teenage Kicks' twice in a row on its release in 1978; Peel often awarded a song 1 to 5 points, depending how much he liked it; he gave 'Teenage Kicks' 28 points
lying on my bed in my room on the 18th floor of the tower block at Owens Park at Manchester University in late September 1978, the room spinning and tipping around me because I was drunk because my mother had called me that day to inform me she and my father were splitting up, trying hard to concentrate on Peel's soothing voice, using it to anchor me to the bed; but when I stood up to go to the bathroom I threw up all over the floor
seeing him on Top of the Pops in 1971 pretending to play the mandolin accompanying Rod Stewart and The Faces on 'Maggie May'
his interleaving of reggae tracks into his programmes undoubtedly deepened my love for the music

It is remarkable how popular Peel was with so many people, from so many walks of life. I just watched his 'This Is Your Life' on Youtube and found it really moving. There are numerous interviews with him in which he seems genuinely bemused by the acclaim and reverence. He was a lover of almost all types of music, always prepared to take a chance on behalf of unknown artists (in the first part of the aforemetioned 'This Is Your Life', David Bowies gives a perfect example of this).

"...and this is called 'I'll Turn You On'. Highly unlikely I think"

Here is Peel, interviewed about the influence of punk:

It is worth watching the other two parts of the interview.

"I used to do loads of gigs in Scunthorpe, thoroughly enjoyed it, although whether the audience did is open to question"

During Peel's time at the BBC more than 4,000 Peel Sessions were recorded with more than 2,000 artists. The full Wikipedia list is breathtakingly impressive.

At some point between in late 1978 or early 1979 I saw and heard Peel as the support act for Kevin Coyne at Manchester University Students' Union. Coyne had released the album 'Dynamite Daze' and was touring to promote it. Again, the range of music Peel played was vast. He stood behind a desk with two big boxes of records and basically played one record after another to warm up the audience (or keep us warm - I seem to recall it was freezing in that hall). I wanted to thank him when he was finished - he was not even up on stage, but down 'among' the audience to play the discs - but he was deep in conversation with some other people and I retired to the bar instead and bought a pint of lager at 9 pence. As a nod to the memory of that evening, here is Kevin Coyne with a song from 'Dynamite Daze', live in 1979 in Cologne:

"We've had a flood of e-mails... actually, no - more like an incontinent trickle"

At university in Manchester from 1978 to 1981 I was able to follow up on many of the artists appearing on Peel's programme in that period: the Ramones, the Buzzcocks, Joy Division, The Specials, The Selecter, Madness, The Ruts, Scritti Politti, Stiff Little Fingers, Aswad.... There were loads more. I spent a lot of my grant money going to gigs and drinking. I remember going to see a band called The Royal Rasses at what was then Manchester Polytechnic. Awesome. Bass ripping up through your legs. Mad dancing. Dreads a-plenty. I remember bouncing away to their 'Unconventional People' track which, live, became a mad 15-minute song-plus-dub workout, opening my eyes at one point and finding myself flanked by two rastas smiling at me. One of them bellowed into my ear: "Hey! Ya dance good! Ya smoke too?" In my utter naivity at that point in my life I genuinely assumed he was referring to cigarettes.... Nevertheless, later that night (or more accuratley, early the next morning) my friends and I were suffering our first bout of the munchies....

That night was something like this:

Prince Lincoln, an angel of a voice... and them dreads!!

"You'll notice I've perked up in the last ten minutes - this is one of the benefits of having diabetes and then eating a biscuit. Fantastic!"

I have to end this tribute section of this blog with the inevitable:

Christ, they look so young! It's like watching your own kids on TV!! Peel wanted the words 'Teenage kicks, so hard to beat' engraved on his grave stone. I direct you, gentle reader, to the Wikipedia entry on Peel, as it is fascinating and full of other excellent links. As a fan of John Peel, I can only thank him for all those late night hours listening to music I am sure otherwise I might never have discovered. Thanks, John. Thanks.

***********************************************************************

Reestablishing contact with friends from the past, and indeed the present, has been a theme this week. I am a hopeless correspondent at the best of times, but the further distractions of the Internet - especially the pointless time I spend goofing around on Facebook - only worsens this.

There have been friends who have lost loved ones this week. This inevitably starts to give your 51-year old blogger pause for thought.

On the other hand, briefly seeing what my family were up to today via Skype video made me kick into touch any maudlin thoughts that might have been forming. And a fine student performance earlier this week for an Amnesty petition signing sent me to this uplifting anthem:

Ah, those broad Bury vowels against the strings and choir - what a fine combination. 'I can only think it must be love...'

I left home for Manchester University after fucking up my A levels in 1977 and having to re-apply. Originally my plan was to do languages - I had this vision of myself living in a garrett translating unreadable but important novels and poetry from French and German - and instead I put Manchester down as all of my choices on my UCAS form and got in to "read" English (and Theatre) without even an interview. In future blogs I will try to recover some of those lost, dark times after my parents split up and a few months later my mother was diagnosed with cancer and, a few months after that, died. Two weeks before my 21st birthday. Fucking hell. Wish me luck.

Our closing humorous moments this week come from another favourite, from back in my teenage years:

Rodney Bewes, who plays Bob in 'Whatever Happened...' is still going strong aged 72, according to his Wiki entry. James Bolam ('Terry') is now 75 and was made an MBE in 2009.

So, that's what happened to them, then.

Very finally, this week, a Radio Free Duino tribute to John Peel:
http://open.spotify.com/user/flekkepete/playlist/7MaFdoE9G9kxAdztcVk7sK

I could not locate every single song, but I did my best. Enjoy!

Ta ra till next time!!

Premature ejaculation? Surely some mistake...

2010-10-16T10:42:00.007+01:00

Always strive to excel, but only on weekends. ~Richard Rorty

We know full well that certain words shift their meaning over time. 'Gay', for example, and 'American intelligence'. Another case in point is the verb 'to ejaculate', and its concomitant noun 'ejaculation'. Going back through my blog posts I noticed a tendency on my part to try to post on a Sunday. This may be because to me Sunday feels like the end of the week and so a good juncture at which to review the seven preceding days. (The post for Thursday Ocober 7th was exceptioanlly late, for reasons explained in it.) By posting today - Saturday - I am therefore speaking sooner than usual. This is actually a form of premature ejaculation, in an older sense of the word; the OED (Online Etymological Dictionary) corrects my assumption that 'ejaculate' and 'ejaculation' are examples of semantic (steady!) shift; it appears that 'ejaculate', which first appeared in English in the 1570s, meant and still means primarily "to eject semen, to come, to spurt, to have an orgasm", and 'ejaculation' is the act of this. It is the secondary and less oft-used meaning to which I am referring in my blog post title today, to whit: "to cry, call out, yell". This latter usage has many interesting synonyms, including 'bark, bawl, bay, bellow, bleat ... exclaim, gabble, growl ... howl, low, meow ... shriek, sing out, snarl ... tweet, twitter, vociferate...'. But not yet, 'blog'. I hereby announce that blogging, to blog, a blog, should be added to this list of synonyms, since, if tweeting and twittering qualify synonymistically, then surely blogging, a more considered, planned and structured form of ejaculating, should too? Just a thought. The first time I recall being puzzled by this secondary meaning of 'ejaculate' was when reading a Henry James novel at university (might it have been 'The Golden Bowl'?) in a literature seminar and being mildly astonished when no one reacted in the slightest when a certain male character walked into the room "and ejaculated" - in the novel, I hasten to add, not in the seminar room.

Well, having washed our hands of this nonsense, it is time to press on...

Certain female singers have been nibbling away at my ears and musical affections recently - hence, in part at least, the recent Radio Free Duino broadcast 'Hot Babes'. It is primarily a voice thing, of course, but it would be churlish of me not to admit that looks play a part too.

One such ear-nibbling-eye-pleasing combination can be found in the statuesque presence and husky lyricism of Ms Imogen Heap, here performing at Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club as a guest of the less than statuesque (physically, at least) and somewhat gnarled-looking Jeff Beck:

Thanks go to Edmund for first turning me on to this particular clip.

The same concert saw Beck team up with Joss Stone on this skin-tingling version of Curtis Mayfield's political consciousness-raising 'People Get Ready':

Man, that chord change - and the soul-shaking organ...

Such a magnificent song demands a slight thematic detour, for here is the great man himself. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Curtis Mayfield:

Jeez, what a voice. What a tragically early death, too. Here you can read about 'People Get Ready'.

One more voice/looks combination that has gripped my soul for a number of years now. I'm talking about the one-and-only Dusty Springfield. I got into Dusty more recently, of course, being born too late for the 60s, but hindsight (and hindhearing??) is indeed a wonderful thing. This is one of my favourite Dusty songs:

There's definitely something kinda spooky about that whole performance: why have a great singer such as DS miming to one of her songs? And what's with the bizzare fluorescent box?

To continue this short sojourn in the land of soulful divas, I give you the voice of Nina Simone, but accompanied by a truly wonderful animation, on what is essentially her signature tune (although it was written by Walter Donaldson and Gus Khan for the 1930 film version of the 1928 Broadway musical 'Whoopee!'):

And to conclude, this truly beautiful collection of female voices which first came to my attention back in the late 1980s - but does anyone out there who knows me remember how or why? I give you the Bulgarian Voices:

Last night I watched Altman's 'Short Cuts' (1993) with some students and was impressed with their endurance, as the film runs to 187 minutes. We had been reading Carver's 'What We Talk About When We Talk About Love' in class. I think Carver is perfect to introduce these students to the so-called 'dirty realism' of which he has been dubbed an exponent. We have now moved on to Hemingway's short stories, which made it apposite for me to run into his spirit in Monfalcone last weekend.

The writer who has attracted my own private time and attention in the past few weeks is Ian Rankin, and in particular his Inspector Rebus novels. I just completed the trilogy of his first three, 'Knots and Crosses', 'Hide and Seek' and 'Tooth and Nail'. What appeals is the believability of the characters and their very human foibles, contrasted with the seedy underbelly of Edinburgh's criminal world (although 'Tooth and Nail' takes Rebus to London). As a reader you feel what Rebus feels: his hangovers, his jealousy when his ex-wife gets a new partner, his frustrations with petty bureacracy, his love of Edinburgh. I rather like this post on Youtube by broaddaylightphoto for its combination of words (Rankin, McDiarmid) and images:

It was inevitable that a TV Rebus should emerge, and here is a clip showing actor Ken Stott bringing Rankin's inspector pretty successfully to life:

That looks to me like the opening scene from 'The Naming of the Dead', the 16th Rebus novel, the action taking place against the backdrop of Edinburgh as host setting for the G8 summit in 2005.

I have lent the trilogy to an Italian student who is applying to study at Edinburgh Uni. It'll be interesting to hear what he thinks of the books...

Radio Free Duino this week goes regional and casts its musical eyes across the Gulf of Trieste and the Adriatic Sea to the Balkans. Get those tubas ready! http://open.spotify.com/user/flekkepete/playlist/4ZrO73sNmQgiXUGbutZRtC Wow! What a collection, listeners!

Here at college it has been Asian Week, although it really seems to have come to life yesterday with colurful and informative displays in the corridors and instructions for students and staff on how to 'act Asian' - which seems to boil down, in the case of students, to being subservient, humble and punctual, and in the case of teachers disciplinarian, brutal and unfriendly. My memories of teaching in Malaysia twenty years ago are certainly peppered with a flavour of all those aspects. Many students were dressed yesterday as 'nerds' or 'geeks' to raise awareness of the sterotype of the Asian student as held by ... well, as held by whom? Themselves? Other Asians? This part of the event seemed the least clear to me. This evening is The Cultural Showcase. Teachers' invitations instruct us to dress up for this. My invitation says I should dress like 'An Indian Salesman'. Oh, I feel a link coming on:

There are many such advertisements on Youtube, not all of them as 'very funny' as their posters seem to think, but worth surfing anyway.

Moving along to the next section of my personal musical sentimental education, last post I left off in 1973 with the likes of ELP, PFM and the prog rock influence in my life. In parallel to this, I was also becoming aware, as I posted prior to that, of soul and funk. Prog and soul have been highlighted, so I think it is now turn to look at some influential funk from that year. I am going to cheat slightly again here because I want to include a particlular performance by Stevie Wonder on Sesame Street. There are several things that make this clip so memorable: firstly, here is Wonder with a big band playing LIVE on set; secondly, the performance is 6:48 long - yes!; and thirdly, the kid with the wild hair on the balcony at the back - yeehah!!!

I also love the way the performance ends with Wonder's giggle. As one commentator says: "It doesn't get much better than this..."

Funk, one letter away from being the music of sex, which of course is exactly what it is. And who are the funk meisters from 1973 who began to rock my pubescent world? Funk albums released that year include 'Fresh' by Sly and the Family Stone, 'Innervisions' by Stevie Wonder, 'Let's Get It On' by Marvin Gaye, '3 +3' by The Isley Brothers, 'Headhunters' by Herbie Hancock (who was into his crossover phase by then), 'Wild and Peaceful' by Kool and the Gang, 'You've Got It Bad Girl' by Quincy Jones, 'Cosmic Slop' by Funkadelic, 'Deliver the World' by War, 'Rufus' by Rufus (as in Rufus feat. Chaka Khan), James Brown's soundtrack album for 'Slaughter's Big Rip-off', 'I've Got So Much To Give' by Barry White, 'Tower of Power' by Tower of Power and 'Joy' by Isaac Hayes.

Hit funk singles from that year included 'The Cisco Kid' by War, 'Daddy's Home' by Jermaine Jackson, 'Gypsy Man' by War (again), 'Higher Ground' by Stevie Wonder, 'I'm Gonna Love You Just A Little More Baby' by the mighty Barry White, 'If You Want Me To Stay' by Sly and the Family Stone, 'Keep On Truckin' by Eddie Kendricks, 'Let's Get It On' by Marvin Gaye, 'Living for the City' by Stevie Wonder (again), 'Love Train' by the O'Jays, 'Nutbush City Limits' by Ike and Tina Turner, 'Soul Makossa' by Manu Dibango, the aforementioned 'Superstition' by Stevie Wonder (a prolific year), 'That Lady Pts 1 and 2' by The Isley Brothers, 'Trouble Man' by Marvin Gaye (again), 'The World Is A Ghetto' by War (yet again) and Mr Wonder yet again with 'You Are The Sunshine Of My Life'.

Let's take a look at a multi-hit band from that year, namely War:

And one of the one-hit wonders from '73 was Eddie Kendricks with 'Keep On Truckin':

Not a great visual treat admittedly, but plenty of good old 'wackka wackka chawakka' going on in there. Awwright!!

From the funk albums released in '73 comes 'The Tower of Power', the band's third studio album and the opening track of which posits a crucial question - 'What Is Hip?:

Okay, that clip is from 1977, but the one I found from 1973 had such poor sound I could not get it past the Quality Controller! Besides, the dance moves, the fashion and hair on display here are alone worth the entry fee.

To finish this week, I have sought out another pair of comedy moments that I dedicate to Hannah and Robin in appreciation of the excellent pizza. Thanks guys!!

October Sunday in Monfalcone with Ernest Hemingway

2010-10-10T16:47:00.017+01:00

Due to a last-minute change of plans and a shortage of Trieste bus tickets, I found myself instead in sunny, sleepy Sunday afternoon Monfalcone today. Just how quiet it was between two and four is evidenced by these photos:

In the photo above where the red mat is to the right is a little bar where I had a huge ham, cheese and mozarella sandwich with an equally generous glass of house red, while reading the opening of Hemingway's 'A Farewell to Arms' which, as many will know, takes place just up the road from here between Udine and Gorizia.

So, here is Nick Adams describing the bar where I had lunch:

'The sun was bright in the streets which were empty on this Sunday in October. In a quiet back street Nick came upon a bar and he went in. It was cool inside and the light was dim. There was a long bar and two tables and chairs. Nick sat at the table nearest the bar and looked at the food in the glass counter in front of him. It looked good. The sandwiches were large and looked good. Nick listened for a few moments to the talk of the customers. There were two men at the bar. They were drinking something in small glasses and talking. From time to time they exchanged words with one of the two barmen and one or all of them laughed. The older barman came to Nick's table. He had a shaved head and glasses that made his eyes look sad. Nick ordered one of the good big sandwiches and a glass of the house red wine. Almost at once the wine was brought to his table and Nick looked at the wine in the glass. It was a good wine, a good red wine. The glass was dirty, but Nick did not mind the dirtiness because he knew the wine was going to be good. He looked once more around the cafe. On the wall above his head hung a small crossbow. There were two large cool cupboards for white wine and two wood racks of red wine. All the bottles were different. Nick thought, These people know wine. They know good wine and they only serve good wine. Nick took a good mouthful of his red. He held it in his mouth and let it run over his tongue and his teeth. Yes, it was a good wine. It was not chilled and it was not warm. It was good. The television over the bar was showing motorcycle racing and an Italian rider, Rossi, was in the lead. The men at the bar had stopped talking to watch Rossi. The younger barman was watching Rossi too. He said something to one of the men without looking away from the screen and the man nodded. Then the younger barman demonstrated something Rossi was doing by moving his arm through the air. The other customer tipped back his head and finished his drink. Just then, the older barman brought Nick's sandwich. It was hot from the oven and the bread was hard and crisp. Nick placed his hand over the sandwich and let the warmth of it enter his hand. It felt good. He held the glass of wine in his other hand, and it too felt good. The food was good, the wine was good. This is a good place, thought Nick. I am glad I found this place. It is a good place.

Nick is right: it was a very good sandwich, and the wine was rich and fruity (words Hemingway himself would not use, of course). Perhaps the rightness of everything was reward for having to search for some time to find the bar, which in fact I came upon by accident after all?

I didn't used to like Hemingway at that time in my life when I was supposed to like him, i.e. at university and early in my teaching career. Now, with age, I think I am coming to appreciate his work more, its economy and directness. Let's celebrate this fact with a couple more archetypal photos of the man:

Here are a few more pix of drowsy Monfalcone:

I don't know if Hemingway ever passed through Monfalcone. Had he done, and had he, like me, stumbled upon that little bar, I think he would have approved of it. Chin chin, Ernest.

*****************************************************

Back in 1973 - it struck me today that '73 is 37 years ago, and that this has a nice symmetry about it - my musical sentimental education progressed with the aid of my cousin's LP collection. Thus it was I was exposed to the likes of Emerson, Lake & Palmer (usually referred to knowingly simply as ELP), The Nice, Yes and Colosseum. Because my cousin was a drummer in those days (since then he has carved out a niche career for himself as a photographer) he was into bands with technically accomplished percussionists. In the bands listed this would have been Carl Palmer, Brian Davison, Alan White and Jon Hiseman. With help from the ever-willing Youtube, let's see if we can see these chaps in action, shall we?

Thank you, Carl. And now, Mr Davison:

Alan White:

And finally, Jon Hiseman:

Phew! Lot's of sweat evident there, but also amazing technique (opines he, totally unknowingly). I recall going to hear my cousin at a gig in Batley Carr - I don't recall the name of the band, sadly - in my duffle coat and first real sprouting of long hair. My cousin played so furiuosly that he got blisters, which then burst, spraying his drumkit with blood - highly dramatic and an effect Iggy Pop would have been proud of!

Prog rock ... like so many once maligned 'genres' (daahling) it seems to be undergoing a re-evaluation in recent times. It is no longer embarrassing to admit you are into the likes of these four groups, for example. Old albums, long hidden away perhaps in cellars and attics, are seeing the light of day and feeling the sharp caress of stylii again. Of course, many people are staunchly insisting they were always into prog. For them, it was never shameful or embarrassing to admit to liking it. Not that they probably had that many friends or acquaintances to whom they could admit it, of course!

One band I was struck by, partly because of my cousin and partly because the one album of theirs I purchased caused a bit of a ruckus at school (more on this in a moment) was P.F.M. or, to give them their full name, Premiata Forneria Marconi. Their album, 'Photos of Ghosts' (1973) was released on ELP's own Manticore record label. Before I tell you about the ruckus this album caused at Wheelwright Grammar School, here is the band in action the following year:

Groovy .... though careful with those tight pants, Giorgio!!

To the ruckus, then. I took my copy of the album to Mr Wood's music class one week and a certain Donald McBurney, who was in my class, borrowed it. Donald had a reputation for being a hard case: at 14 he had false teeth and would delight in twirling his penis at the rest of us in the showers and I believe he joined the army after school (i.e. after leaving school at 16, not later that day...). Anyway, a couple of days later in the school playground - yes, that arena of all things melodramatic - I was looking for Donald to get my LP back. It seems that, moments earlier, a stray football had hit Donald and caused him to drop the LP out of its sleeve onto the ground. Around the corner he was furiously rubbing the plastic disc with his blazer sleeve trying to clean it, when I appeared. This 'hard case' blushed furiously and began to apologise before I could say anything. Knowing Donald - or, more accuratly, his reputation - I stuttered something about it making no difference, I was sure it would still play and not to w-w-w-w-worry ab-b-b-bout it. But Donald, bless him, said no, he would take the album home and check it and if it was scratched he would get me a new copy. We all knew Donald spent most of his pocket money - of which he seemed to have far more than any of us, rather like his penis - on booze, fags and tarts (his words, not mine, dear reader), so I was none too confident in predicting just jow long I would have to wait for a replacement copy, should one be necessary. However, Donald was a man of his word (in our last year at Grammar School when Wheelwright went co-educational, several girls agreed he was, too) and the following Monday he turned up with a brand new copy of the album, still in its vacuum packing and bearing the £2.17 W.H. Smiths price tag. He handed it over to me, once again apologising - totally un-n-n-n-necessarily. For days, weeks, months afterwards no-one could quite believe how, well, just how plain nice Donald had been about the whole episode.

PFM wanted a name, like many other Italian prog rock bands, that was long and complicated, the idea being long, complicated names, once learned, would be harder to forget. Their name translates as 'Prize-winning Marconi Bakery'. Cool. Anyway, this next was my favourite track from the album for a long time, and it also provides a free Italian lesson!!

After that musical education, it must be time to move on to pastures new, namely a few favourite televisual moments of mine. On my Facebook profile you will find links to similarly quintessential moments from the history of the marriage of the moving image, people and the spoken word:

Sebastian, please!!

Obscene lyrics? Frank, please!!

Sorry, Lesley, I know you loathe CYE with a passion, but hey .... watchagonnado??

Well, that's a pretty full menu for my reader - now reader / watcher / listener I guess - to choose from for this Sunday.

So, this week I end - radical, eh? - with Radio Free Duino's latest broadcast. It's another themed one this week, listener(s), so ... let's get trucking!!

Here you go: Radio Free Duino's Global Vilage Trucking Company

Ciao tutti!!

Out of sequence

2010-10-07T18:54:00.012+01:00

Apologies to my avid reader out there for the 10-day break since the last entry. My excuse is based on two levels: firstly, and most significantly, for five of those days The Most Wonderful Person On The Planet was here, and we had to get reacquainted and do some touristy things, too; secondly, and less excusably, I realise that I am, in essence, quite a lazy sod. There you go.

Anyway, let's kick off this week with Radio Free Duino's broadcast. After the 'girls only' broadcast last time out, it's back to a mixed bag this week, which the Producer is calling "Comes Recommended" for some reason I, your humble Blogger, cannot fathom. For your listening pleasure this week inspiration comes from a batch of new and recent releases, many of which came in our direction via those fine folk at The Word.

In this week's playlist are The Budos Band, Mark Ronson & The Business, Roots Manuva / Wrongtom, Tinie Tempah, Manic Street Preachers, Robert Plant, Underworld, Royksopp, Mavis Staples, The Black Angels, The Jim Jones Review, Blackberry Smoke, The Silver Seas, John Mellencamp, William Orbit, C. W. Stoneking, Get Cape. Wear Cape, Fly, Paul Heaton, Lloyd Cole and The Commotions, The Malchicks, Tartit, RPA and the United Nations of Sound, Martin Carr, Priscilla Ahn, Andreya Triana, Horace Silver, Youssou N'Dour, Jesse Fuller, Flight of the Conchords, Luther Russell, Emily Loizeau, Juldeh Camara with Justin Adams, Da Cruz and, finally, Yasmin Levy. The Producer hereby acknowledges The Word's contribution to this set of superfine tunes!

And here is the link: Comes recommended

The Most Wonderful Person On The Planet and I had three days in Padova over the weekend, a great city for walking and exploring, though we did a bit more of the former than we intended. Good hotel, a bus hop to the city centre, where the streets are narrow, cobbled, photogenic but not too crowded on the first weekend of October. Here are a few snaps of things we saw and places we went:

And here is one of TMWPOTP feeling 'lifted' on the seafront at Trieste:

All-too-short-a-visit, but only 11 weeks until I fly home for Christmas.

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A definite low-point of this week was an unwelcome visitor yesterday morning at breakfast time. This is not him (or her), but a distant relation:

Rattus norvegicus. Thanks, Norway. The smell of rat shit and pee under the kitchen sink is only mildly dimmed by my scrubbing in there with various types of disinfectant. Ugh! I cannot concur with the colleague who opined 'Oh, the poor rat!'. Let us move swiftly on.

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In the last post 1973 had been reached in the musical journey through my teenage years. Pink Floyd's 'Dark Side of the Moon' was the iconic release of that year, of course. Thirty years later came 'Dub Side of the Moon' by The Easy Star All-Stars' which Wikipedia calls "a dub reggae tribute to the Pink Floyd album". I don't think it's a tribute but more of a reworking of it in a rub-a-dub stylee. You can decide for yourself by comparing these two versions of 'Time':

I've really grown to like the All-Stars' version, and their reworking of Radiohead's OK Computer, 'Radiodread'. However, I was hugely disappointed when their third album was an interpretation of 'Sgt. Pepper', for me one of the most overated albums ever. Here are the All-Stars tackling 'Let Down' from OK Computer:

Back in 1973, having escaped my 'Glitter-y' phase, progrock and glam started to appeal, and so for some reason did funk and soul. My love of funk has lasted ever since, wheras my taste for soul has come and gone and come back again recently. One of my absolute all-time favourite soul numbers from 1972, though I did not buy a copy until the following year (I know I am cheating, but I had to have this in) is this gem:

And I LOVE the fact the poster just films the record going round! Brilliant!

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This Sunday I am going to the theatre in Trieste to see Simon Callow in 'Shakespeare: The Man from Stratford'. A matinee perfomance at four means I can have lunch first and then take a stroll before heading for the theatre, daaahling! Here is the man himself introducing the production:

As TMWPOTP said to me just now via Skype, I should make the most of the culture on offer. So this I shall do. Which reminds me, somewhat gratuitously I admit, of this fine piece of work:

I like Hans Magnus Enzensberger: "Culture is a little like dropping an Alka-Seltzer into a glass - you don't see it but somehow it does something". And "one of the undisputed kings of Britpop", Jarvis Cocker always has something interesting to say on such topics:

And there is even a programme on the Beeb called 'The Culture Show'. Here is an interview with another of my 'heroes', John Cale:

After all the heavy culture - well, not that heavy, I guess - the levity is lifted with a little laugh or two from these old(ish) favourites:

"It doesn't matter what they smell like..." You tell 'em, Jemaine!!

TTFN!!

The Gentle Rain

2010-09-26T07:41:00.003+01:00

Today the rain is back, but in a much gentler mode than Friday and Saturday. There has been so much rain lately that an environmental clean-up at La Isola della Cona is postponed due to flooding. This is a cooperative venture between a local environmental organisation, Legambiente Monfalcone, and the college in a local nature reserve. The clean-up will be re-arranged. I had agreed to drive a group of students so was up at 8am - which gives me the chance to blog early today!

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There is a confirmed report that a Leeds fan was stabbed outside Elland Road yesterday after Leeds beat Sheffield United 1-0. Let us hope the person makes a full recovery and the perpetrator(s) face the consequences. I first read about this on Leeds captain Jonny Howson's Facebook page.

It is Jonny's birthday today - Happy Birthday, sir!!

Here is one of the most important goals he has scored to date for Leeds (with Norwegian commentary, no less!):

Yesterday's game was a grim struggle, often the case in local derbies. Leeds had Snodgrass sent off for two yellow cards late on and the Blades had Jamie Ward dismissed in stoppage time for a lunge at Kilkenny. It was Snodgrass who had set up Bradley Johnson for the goal, a rare bit of "football" in the whole match. Jonny's comment to my post that the game was 'grim': 'Yer we just scraped it in the end'.

That's football for you - beautiful, almost poetic one minute, as attractive as a Tesco's carpark at four in the morning the next.

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This week's broadcast from Radio Free Duino returns to the numbered format that began the series. So, here is Broadcast number 3: http://open.spotify.com/user/flekkepete/playlist/46VOPhiF76PIgPGFIoecI3.

I hope the link works for you, dedicated listener(s).

This week's artistes include: The Isley Brothers, extreme fashion icons at all points in their long career, as evinced in this recent clip:

We move on to Lokua Kanza from the Congo; Jeff Buckley; the Brand New Heavies; Neil Diamond; US3; the Jackson Sisters; Ry Cooder; Swing Out Sister; Sam and Dave; Steely Dan; The Undertones; Joe Pesci; Madness; the Rolling Stones; Gregory Isaacs; Elvis Costello; Four Bitchin' Babes; Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention - and here is Mr. Zappa interacting with his devoted followers as his band zooms through the number:

... the Ramones, Sly and the Family Stone, Sondre Lerche, The Broken Family Band, Pat Metheny, The Handsome Family, The Blue Nile, Massive Attack, Syd Barrett, Vivian Stanshall, Stan Getz, Steve Martin, The Etchingham Steam Band and ..... Edvard Grieg!! Ooof!!

Let's return to one or two of those esteemed names to see them in action. Here is one of my favourite Massive Attack videos:

Vivian Stanshall was a brilliant absurdist poet, as the lyricism in these extracts from 'Rawlinson End' demonstrate:

Would this be acceptable in today's oh-so-politically-correct-world:

Another - ahem - comedian is Steve Martin, once a stand-up king, more recently purveyor of syrupy shit such as the execrable attempt to re-inflate Clouseau. But Martin has been funny:

and he plays a mean banjo:

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On to 1973 in my teenage years and the LP release of that year has to be Pink Floyd's 'Dark Side of the Moon'. What is there to say about this album that hasn't already been said? I remember our long-suffering music teacher at grammar school, Mr Wood, encouraged we boys to bring in to class records we were listening to at home, which he would then try and 'explain' to us, musically. He detested Bryan Ferry's version of 'Smoke Gets In Your Eyes' because it was too far removed from the original.

See for yourself:

compared, for example, to:

Mr Wood, was however, impressed with what he called the "unusual time signature" in the Floyd's 'Money'. If I recall, the song is in 7/4 and the guitar solo in 4/4. Judge for yourselves:

The Most Wonderful Human Being On The Planet arrives late on Tuesday and that means next week's blog may be delayed a day or two, as we shall be spending next weekend in Padua. It is hard to believe it is now seven weeks since we last saw each other - other than via chunky Skype video - which hardly counts.

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Finally got around to watching 'The Yes Men' film last night - a rare treat, especially having now run through all three series of 'Arrested Development'. I think my favourite character has proved to be Dr. Tobias Funke:

How can you not like the guy?

Finally this week, inspired by Tuck via Facebook linking to a classically strange Devo video, I leave you with this 1973 masterpiece:

Go, Animaaaaaaaaaaaaaal!!!!!!!!!!!!

The calm after the storm

2010-09-19T14:12:00.007+01:00

The sun is shining, the breeze is blowing and the ferocious storm we have had blasting through Duino the past 24 hours has departed. And this was not the infamous 'Bora' that we newcomers have been warned about! I shall compose this entry and then take the sea air...

This week's Radio Free Duino broadcast is a little different, focussing as it does on the fairer sex:
http://open.spotify.com/user/flekkepete/playlist/37x0mwm065rwXRZ7MYzV9u

Sorry guys, no room for you this week.

Particular favourites for me from this broadcast are LaVern Baker's take on Bessie Smith; Nancy Wilson from the superbly titled album "Mama's Got A Bag Of Her Own"; Gal Costa's album cover; Esperanza Spalding (great name, great looks, great voice, great playing, in short, just - great!); Dusty Springfield for being 'Dusky' Springfield; and, of course, naughty naughty Julia Lee.

Here is Ms Baker in action. I wonder what is going on offstage to her left?

The crowd dancing reminds me of a dance in Flekke...

I think I have fallen in love with Nancy Wilson's shoulders in this clip:

And how old is Bill Cosby here?

Gal Costa's album cover (below) was censored when the album was first released in 1973. Interestingly enough, the album is not listed at all in her discography on her website.

Here is Ms Spalding giving her bass a spanking:

The interviewer shouldn't drink so much coffee so early in the morning.

Here's Dusty giving it up duskily:

Here Miss Lee outlines her ideal man:

Back in 1972 your 13-year old correspondent had dipped his toes tentatively into the world of vinyl purchasing and had acquired his first single and first album, as reviewed last week.

Other albums I recall buying that year - saving up my pocket money and the money from a paper round begun that summer - are 'Back to Front' by Gilbert O'sullivan; 'Moving Waves' by Focus; 'Piledriver' by Status Quo (also blogged earlier); and 'Trilogy' by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. While singles bought (often second-hand from a guy on Dewsbury market who sold boxes of used ones from pub juke-boxes) included: 'Pocorn' by Hot Butter; '10538 Overture' by The Electric Light Orchestra; 'All the Young Dudes' by Mott the Hoople; 'Eye Level' by The Simon Park Orchestra; 'Happy Xmas (War Is Over)' by John Lennon and Yoko Ono; 'Hi Hi Hi / C Moon' by Wings; 'John, I'm Only Dancing' by David Bowie; 'Paper Plane' by Status Quo; 'Seaside Shuffle' by Terry Dactyl and the Dinosaurs (wahay!); 'Solid Gold Easy Action' by T Rex; and 'Virginia Plain' by Roxy Music.

Here are Messrs Ferry, Eno, Manzanera, Mackay and Thompson (is that Rik Kenton on bass?):

This week, I have to end with this glorious number, stumbled upon by accident when searching for Julia Lee:

Happy days!

Sunshine, here I come...

A Chinese lady, two Indian gentlemen and JJ in Trieste, nostalgia and turkeys in bacofoil to follow

2010-09-12T10:45:00.012+01:00

Firstly today, I kick off with the artistes' list for today's broadcast from Radio Free Duino - broadcasting on the www network via the imperious Spotify - which can be found here: http://open.spotify.com/user/flekkepete/playlist/5F0QT7bZbvVmPblRcmhhfp. Users just paste the link into your web browser.

For your aural delectation this week I give a spin to: Dave and Ansell Collins; Lewis Taylor; Cabaret Voltaire; Laraaji; the Kronos Quartet; Jaco Pastorius; Gotan Project; Tony Allen; Jacob Miller; Jimmy Cliff; Marvin Gaye; Ann Peebles; Traffic; Steve Winwood; Talking Heads; Roxy Music; the Bee Gees; The Beach Boys; The Monkees; The Mamas and the Papas; Dusty Springfield; Pablo Lubadika; Dinah Washington; Etta James; Solomon Burke; McAlmont and Nyman; Trio Ivoire; Brass Monkey; Deolinda; and conclude with The Carolina Chocolate Drops.

Yesterday I took the bus to Trieste to search out one of the "many" Asian food supply shops. I met a couple of students on the bus and they pointed me in the direction of one shop near the bus station. Deciding not to buy my supplies straight away instead I took a somewhat random tour around the parts of Trieste I had not seen on my previous visit. Having no map with me, I was quite content to follow my instincts and what looked like interesting streets.

Trieste is a fine small city for walking in. Here are some of the things I saw:

James Joyce is, of course, commemorated in bronze:

There are streets and streets of cafes, gelaterias, shops, bars and above them all, expensive apartments for sale. In one such street, a whole long row of cafes going on and on and on:

It was in this street that I came upon an Indian shop; unfortunately this shop sold clothes, including brightly glittering saris, slippers, bangles, hairpieces, jewellery, shoes - but not food. But there were two youngish Indian gentlemen in the back of the shop talking with a lady I took to be the manager: she was pale, with deeply hennaed hair and hands, the hair dragged sharply back from her brow. I asked if anyone spoke English and both young men claimed they did. It turned out that, with my stumbling Italian and their fractured English, I was able to communicate my needs. They decided it would be best to walk me to the nearest number 26 bus stop, so we set off in the mid-day heat at pace. By the time we came to the bus stop a few minutes later I was hot and sweaty, but a bus arrived alsmost immediately. They asked if Ihad a ticket. How could I? No problem, they said, Trieste is "tranquillo". They told me to go three or four stops, two minutes only, to Via Udine. This I failed miserably to do, I found out when having to walk back ten minutes to find Via Udine was much nearer the centre than I - or they - had thought. Nevertheless, I did find the little Chinese shop - it hardly qualifies for the word 'supermarket' - and was able to get all the things I needed: coriander, turmeric, cumin, paprika, curry powder, rice, noodles, oyster sauce, soya sauce, lime pickle, mango pickle, biryani sauce. No poppadoms, unfortunately. The proprietor awoke from her drowse at the counter and I treated myself to a cold can of tamarind juice to celebrate this successful excursion.

Earlier in the week I had driven to another part of Trieste with Simone and Susanna to visit the care centre where we will do our social service with groups of students, which will begin in two weeks' time. The centre cares for adults with varying degrees of need, from day care patients who return home each day at 4pm and who will constitute the majority our students we will work with, to patients who require full, round-the-clock care and cannot return home. It reminded me of my stint some 22 years ago in Bitterne, near Southampton, where I was a care worker for two young men with Downs' Syndrome. The appearance and behaviour of some of the pateients will be quite a challenge for some of the students, at least initially, I think.

Last night to the Scholz Residence with some colleagues for chilli and a film. The film was 'The Invention of Lying', with Ricky Gervais in the lead role. Checking on the IMDb, I see Gervais both co-wrote and co-directed the film. This explains why an interesting idea, often very funny at first (a world where no-one can ever tell a lie) soon grows quite wearisome and transforms itself slowly into a saccahrine vehicle to portray what a nice guy Gervais - he is not an actor; he just plays himself - turns out to be. I went off Gervais quite abruptly after watching his unfunniest stand-up, 'Fame'. Ugh. Nearly two hours of self-congratulatory moaning about the pains of being famous (including the media getting the price of his London home wrong, decreasing it by a million pounds - as if we care), the lack of privacy in his life, blah blah blah. My poor kids felt guilty for buying it for me for Christmas, but how were they to know they were buying such a lemon? Ricky Gervais is an overweight, slimy version of Tom Cruise.

The weather continues warm and sunny, and the Triestese were out in their numbers all along the esplanade that begins three or four kilometres out from the centre, and runs alongside the main road. In places it is pleasant, since there are cafes, bars and copses of pine trees. Nonetheless, it is hardly a pretty sight, the acres and acres of flesh in various stages of browning and collapse.

After four days of teaching, I have now met all of my classes. What a fine buch of young people they are (just as at RCNUWC!): smiling, eager, polite, tuning in to my sense of humour. The taster sessions for badminton were quite surreal, since the equipment had not arrived. The first session ended with an impromptu basketball session, which was fun. No one turned up for the second. In the end, a perfect eight students have signed up for each Thursday session.

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The first year of my teens, 1972, I remember very vaguely. I was at grammar school. My parents were constantly arguing and bickering. We lived in a large terraced house two minutes' walk from the school. I used to come home for lunch and, on Tuesday lunchtimes, would often be almost late back because that was the day the new TOP 40 came out.

It took a bit of searching to find the number one single on March 23rd 1972, but thanks to this great website, I discovered it was this song:

I didn't buy a copy of the single, although many, many years later I did buy a compilation CD (it was cheap) to find out how Harry had managed to make enough money to hang out with the likes of The Rolling Stones, The Who and many more, develop a debilitating drugs habit and, ultimately, die too young. Some of his songs are really haunting, almost disturbing. Others are almost mawkish. 'Without You' was written and first recorded by Badfinger, but it is Nilsson's version that everyone remembers to this day.

So, what were the first single and album I bought?

Okay, it's confessional time. Although, I am in no way ashamed to admit that the first single I bought was 'Double Barrel' by Dave and Ansell Collins. I remember it had 'Monkey Spanner' on the B-side. (It may even have been what was then known as a 'double A-side'. Was this just to allow DJs to choose which side to play?) This I bought with my pocket money in 1971. I was in a music shop in the arcade in Dewsbury (I forget the names of both arcade and shop) and looked up and down the Top 40 list that was on the wall for several minutes, I recall, before deciding that what was at Number 1 must be good. Thus, by pure chance, my relationship with reggae began. It is still a great piece of funky reggae and the relationship has blossomed into a deep love affair:

Apart from the (by today's politically correct standards) dodgy outfit sported by the bassist, the most interesting things about this performance remain the introductory lyric - a slight variation on the recorded original, but still just as oblique - and the microphone technique. Ah, but I lurrrrve this song, baby!

So, first single in the bag.

Now comes the really embarassing confession. Quickly, spit it out.... Okay, the first album I bought was 'Glitter' by Gary Glitter and the Glitter Band. There. I've said it. Nurse, the screens, please.

We all make mistakes, but come on, I was young, I thought a band with two drummers was something radical and none of us knew at that time that GG - Paul Raven - would turn out to be more than just a turkey wrapped in Bacofoil. Here he is in both guises:

Er, after all that I think I'd like to end this blog entry on a rather different note. To demonstrate that eclecticism was a catchword in my musical education very early on, can anyone guess what were the second single and album I bought?

Here is the second single (note, that lyrics do not appear to be an important element at this stage of my music education):

And here is the hit single from Staus Quo's 1972 album 'Piledriver' that persuaded me to cough up £1.79 (full price - those were the days!) for the album. It soundtracks a rundown of that week's TOTP top 30 as introduced by Noel Edmonds. Some pretty cool stuff in the charts at that point, along with some rather dodgy gear too - you can work out for yourselves which songs/artistes fall into which category. This clip is also interesting for its fashion, hairstyle and dance tips:

But I can't leave you without marking two quite contrasting birthdays today. More accuratley, the first is a birthday (in 1944), the second a death (in 2003).

Firstly, it would have been Barry White's 66th birthday today:

And The Man In Black, Johnny Cash, died on this day in 2003:

"..and long ago I stopped asking why..."

And do you see any black inmates at all? How times have changed in the good old US of A.

Radio Free Duino

2010-09-05T16:16:00.003+01:00

Spotify continues to delight and amuse me.

My latest wheeze is to run a 'virtual radio station', Radio Free Duino. The station does not broadcast live, of course, but its sole DJ - moi - publishes his weekly playlist via Facebook and Spotify.

For the non-addicted, I imagine this seems very geekish, nerdish - yes, even sad. But what the hell, it keeps me out of mischief.

Here is the link to the first playlist: http://open.spotify.com/user/flekkepete/playlist/16NVYY7r9IeCREi8PLvub9

Artists this week include The Jam, David Bowie, Kraftwerk, Donald Fagen, Paul Weller, Matumbi, Max Romeo, The Who, Loudon Wainwright III, Jimmy Reed, Muddy Waters, Nick Lowe, Taj Mahal, Horace Silver, Smiley Maxedon, Agnostic Mountain Gospel Choir, T-Model Ford, Fred Hand, John Martyn, Ella Fitzgerald, The Supremes, Little Feat, All Good Funk Alliance, The Haggis Horns, Vinegar Joe, The James Gang, The Edgar Winter Group, Cream, Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble, Dr. Feelgood, Ian Dury, Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band, The Rutles, and Rolf Harris.

The radio station that reaches hearts other radio stations don't reach!

Today's advertising:

brought to you by

Pastor Pete, if you come across my Blog, please don't be offended by my using this clip. In fact, accept this bit of free advertising on my behalf. I'm older than you, so I clearly did not steal your name.

Amen.

On a lighter note:

Anybody out there recognise the music?

And listeners, don't forget, Radio Free Duino broadcasts on the www wavelength each Sunday between whenever and infinty.

As our motto says: If it ain't fixed, it's probably because we broke it.

A final word from another wise older man:

Living with scorpions

2010-09-02T20:19:00.002+01:00

I had just finished dinner and was sitting, barefoot, on the sofa, listening to Bill Evans' 'Live in Tokyo' when a movement to my righ caught my attention. The third scorpion I have seen in the apartment since I moved in was moving purposefully towards me across the floor, just a couple of feet away.

By the time I returned from the hallway, in my shoes and with another shoe to hand ready to whack him (or her), the scorpion had disappeared. My suspicion is, s/he is living under the sofa.

The knowledge that there is at least one scorpion living in the apartment makes me very self-conscious. I am aware of my bare ankles as I sit here typing, for example. This self-consciousness is because of my allergy to bites. In the bathroom lies my Epipen, a shot of adrenalin for me to self-administer should I go into anaphalactic shock after being bitten or stung. There don't seem to be many bees or wasps here. There are many mosquitoes, but their bites are itchy and annoying, not fatal.

Living with scorpions has changed my perception of the apartment so much in the past half an hour or so. Now I notice all the nooks and crannies where other scorpions could be living. The one I just saw was not huge - perhaps four inches from claws to sting - certainly not in comparison to the shiny black monsters that used to gather at twilight in my outside toilet in Kenya. Even so, not being able to walk around barefoot - which is very pleasant on these wooden floors - is a constant reminder that - I am not alone.

A busy few days since I last posted, with almost all the students here now, and the administration of their arrival and registration in full swing. Yesterday my colleagues in the English Department and I tested all the new students, including one-to-one interviews. This morning we marked all the tests. Then I had three hours' fire safety training this afternoon (obligatory under Italian law). There was dinner outside on the lawn followed by an Open Mic session, but the queues for food were so long that in the end I cooked for myself and unwound to Bill Evans.

Tomorrow is EE meetings and a Fire Drill, a Scavenger Hunt and then a social gathering at Tim's.

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I found the fifteen minutes you are allowed to do the My 15 Albums list that Ben had posted on his Facebook page.

In no particular order, my 15 albums were (or are):

1. Little Feat - The Last Record Album (1975)
2. Steely Dan - Katy Lied (1975)
3. Joni Mitchell - Hejira (1976)
4. Miles Davis - Kind of Blue (1959)
5. Steely Dan - Aja (1977)
6. Flaming Lips - The Soft Bulletin (1999)
7. Kraftwerk - Autobahn (1974)
8. Tony Allen - Secret Agent (2009)
9. Frank Zappa - Overnite Sensation (1973)
10. Konono no.1 - Congotronics (2004)
11. The Royal Rasses - Humanity (1974)
12. Tom Waits - Blue Valentine (1978)
13. Randy Newman - Good Old Boys (1974)
14. Gil Scott-Heron - From South Africa to South Carolina (1976)
15. David Bowie - Station to Station (1976)

When I posted this list on FB, I did not include the release years. What strikes me now is that the 70s was an influential decade in my musical and sentimental education. This prompts me to think more deeply into the earlier promise to blog about my teens and the music that shaped them. These thoughts will be shared. I promise.

Today, we celebrate Horace Silver's birthday. One of Silver's best-known compositions is 'Song For My Father'. Listen to it and you will hear echoes of it in Steely Dan's 'Rikki Don't Lose That Number'.

Here is Silver:

And here is Steely Dan:

I first started getting into jazz through listening to Errol Garner records my dad owned. One title I remember was 'Concert By The Sea' on CBS records, I think. Anyway, to close this blog, here is a clip of the great man himself (Garner, I mean):

Sunlight on Hergest Ridge and Snyder's peaks

2010-08-29T16:23:00.003+01:00

"Discipline of self-restraint is an easy one; being clear-cut, negative, and usually based on some accepted cultural values. Discipline of following desires, always doing what you want to do, is hardest. It presupposes self-knowledge of motives, a careful balance of free action and sense of where the cultural taboos lay - knowing whether a particular "desire" is instinctive, cultural, personal, a product of thought, contemplation, or the unconscious". (Gary Snyder writing in his journal, August 1953, atop Sourdough Mountain, North Cascades, Washington, where he worked as a fire look-out and lived in a cabin like the one below)

Sundays should be thus: temperate climate, occasional church bells, reading, food when hungry, snippets of conversation (Awas, Mohamed, Mark, Alexander, others), 'Hergest Ridge' quietly in the speakers, Snyder's 'Reader' (1999) a fat, juicy volume stuffed with wisdom, insights and gentle humanity.

A visiting wasp came in, had a good look around, decided outdoors offered more possibilities.

An attritional 1-0 away win at Watford yesterday leaves Leeds snug at sixth in the Championship for now.

In twenty minutes' time a Residence Meeting for second years to propose some changes. I will be there to listen only, I feel, not knowing how things were last year. I have still to meet any of my tutees.

Couscous and mushrooms and salad this evening. Then a walk, fresh air and a ponder in the dusk.

Wayne's World

2010-08-28T14:12:00.002+01:00

To celebrate the 77th birthday of saxophonist Wayne Shorter:

Happy 77th, Mr. Shorter.

I saw /heard him live in Valencia in March 1987. It was so intense that night - not to mention expensive - that I gave up listening to him for some years, but have gone back recently. I also remember that as we were waiting to go into the club that night, a white van slammed into a double-parked car on the other side of the road. No one was hurt and no one got angry. Very jazz....

It raine don and off this morning, the temperature has dropped to 23 degrees and Monfalcone is indeed a pleasant small city to stroll around in. Bought a funky Paul Frank diary, went to shop at Emisfero, chatted briefly to two friendly Phillipinoes waiting for the bus and came back to be met by Mark (USA) and Patrick (Canada), two second years in Fore.

More later after Watford vs. Leeds - gotta prioritize!

Laguna cruise

2010-08-27T10:56:00.017+01:00

Grado harbour

"Normal" service is resumed.

In other words it has been three days since I last posted in this "daily" blog. Ay, caramba.

Tuesday was a day of meetings: the whole teaching staff in the morning, followed by a picnic lunch on the lawn here at Fore, followed by an English Department meeting in the afternoon.

Wednesday morning was more meetings, computer checks, then a bus to Grado to meet up with the cruise boat that was taking us out into the Laguna di Grado. Around fifty staff and family members came on board and we motored slowly out into the laguna.

Leaving Grado

Our cruiser

I noticed the electronic thermometer on the wall of a bar read 36 degrees. And it was really humid. But once we got out into the lagoon and were able to accelerate slightly, a salty breeze made things bearable. Not surprisingly, the bar on the boat was kept busy!

The water is so shallow in the laguna that our boat had to follow a very winding channel between marker poles, where at least the water was a metre deep. You could see the mud flats just below the surface all around. Tiny islands were dotted about, some inhabited, most not. Herons waded in the mud and the sun bounced off the metallic surface of the water. We glided quietly through the channel for about an hour and a half before docking at a slightly larger, more solid-looking island that had a restaurant and a row of what looked like little cottages. Most of the group followed a footpath around the island to a swimming point. A group of us found seats under a shady tree and sat and chatted. We remained there an hour before re-embarking and heading out to sea to cruise more quickly back to Grado and dinner. Now the breeze was very refreshing.

The shady stopping point

Following the channel through the laguna

Tomorrow the second year students will begin arriving, so I have to psyche myself up for the real work to begin. So far, it has been like a pleasant -if hot and humid - holiday, with bits of work and a ton of information thrown in for good measure.

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An old school chum, Ben, has put an interesting challenge up on Facebook: in fifteen minutes make a list of the fifteen music albums that have meant the most to you. I have not tried this yet, because I need to give it quite a bit of thought (which, I guess, is kind of cheating...). Nice one, Ben.

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Mixed feelings about Leeds being knocked out of the Carling Cup at the second round stage by Leicester, not the least because we literally gifted them their winning goal (a handball in the penalty area). Last season in the third round we met Liverpool and gave them a real run for their money (they won 1-0) with Benitez saying it was the toughest match they had had at that point of the season. It is always good for a team on the way back to test itself against bigger opponents; now we will have to wait for the FA Cup (Hello to all you Man United supporters out there!).

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My listening this week has revolved around:

Bill Evans:

and Keith Jarrett:

and much from Blue Note records' catalogue.

Ciao a presto!

Ticket to ride

2010-08-23T16:45:00.007+01:00

Another hot and sunny day, confirmed by an electronic clock / thermometer passed on the bus into Monfalcone: 10:47 am, 30 degrees C.

I had taken the number 51 APT bus into Monfalcone to try to buy a hat before the staff boat outing on Wednesday when we are cruising from Duino to Grado, where there will be dinner, before a bus back. Given how easily my head can be made to resemble a ripe tomato I was glad to get a hat and suntan cream.

Monfalcone looks quite nice, one main tree-lined, shady, cafe-heavy avenue in particlar looked enticing. Not a beautiful or grand town, say like Firenze or Rome, but nevertheless I shall return when it is coller and have a good walk around the place.

The bus cuts through Villagio del Pescatore en route, which, as the name suggests, is a little fishing village, althogu from the bus it seemd like quite a recently built place with a small amrina for yachts and motor boats. Apparently, the villagio is the place to go to buy fresh fish. (Though I saw no sign of any pescatorially focused mercantile behaviour this morning.)

A very pleasant dinner yesterday evening with the rettore, Peter, and his family, and another new English teacher, Kirsten from Austria. Begun with drinks and nibbles on the balcony overlooking the sea, we dined al fresco and by the light of anti-insect candles in the arbour. The food was delicious, including the local fish, and the desert - a shortcake with berries and cream - prepared by 12-year old Beatrix. The conversation was wide ranging and flowed easily. I am going to like it here, I think.

I shopped at an enormous complex with a Media World, clothing shops, cafes and one giant supermarket appropriately named 'Emisfero:

I do find these places overwhelming after nine years of village existence, and find it hard to decide even if I am getting a bargain or not by shopping there. However, I found a not-too-obviously branded baseball cap in a nearby clothing store, and insect repellent spray in a pharmacy, so the trip was worthwhile in that sense.

After waiting more than 20 minutes for a number 51 I began to wonder if I was waiting at the right stop. In my wobbly Italian I asked a 'grande dame' who had arrived at the stop and she gave me a long and convoluted answer accompanied by much headshaking. Beginning to fear the worst, I turned at that moment to see a 51 merrily cruising towards us. The bus service is very impressive: air-conditioned coaches ply the route between Trieste and its airport, which is situated just north of Monfalcone, thus passing conveniently through both Duino and Monfalcone themselves.

Tomorrow things get properly under way with coffee in the staff room at 9 (how civilised) and the first staff meeting at 9.30. I am to convene the first English teachers' meeting in the afternoon. Wednesday morning another colleague, Rimma, will host a World Lit meeting. I need to acquire a bunch of keys from Demetrio and find out if anyone is planning a trip to the new IKEA. This apartment definitlely needs floor mops, reading lamps, spare bedding and so on. (Spare us the boring details, Pete.)

I managed to dowload and watch the 'Football League Programme' which is now set to become a regular viewing feature for me. I am still glowing from Leeds' powerful victory over Millwall and the fairytale entrance and brace of goals for Davide Somma. (Leeds fans on a certain chat site I go to are trying to come up with suitable terrace chants and songs based on his surname. 'Somma time and the scoring is easy' anyone?) Tomorrow night it is Leicester City at Elland Road in the second round of the League Cup. The impish Max Gradel (below) is now available after suspension; after Saturday's efforts against Millwall, however, he might even struggle to get into the side.

Here is an example of a great goal he scored against Wolves in pre-season. Interesting celebration, too.

Eating a huge amount of salad and fruit seems to be helping the cold to disappear. Tonight I am going to have tortellini in a tomato and cheese sauce. With salad. And fruit.

Found this great little short film about Tony Allen, thanks to Tuck.

My own personal recent Youtube favourites: this is just classic Zappa interview footage and this is just classic Zappa guitar footage.

And, yes, humour DOES belong in music, Frank, as this and this demonstrate.

"Depending on the street" .... love it.

By the way, I have not forgotten my recent threat / promise to trawl through my teenage years with a view to looking at the music that moved my world(s) during 1972 to 1979, but there is much background research going on before I can begin.

Honestly.

By the way, here is what Grado looks like ... apparently. No need for me to take a camera, then.

Hot and cold

2010-08-21T11:18:00.012+01:00

This morning there was a hot wind blowing in off the sea through my kitchen windows:

Because of my cold, I slept heavily last night and did not wake until almost 10, thus making me abandon my plan of getting up early and taking the bus into Monfalcone to have a look around there. Maybe I will do that on Monday instead.

Problems with my coffee pot: having successfully brewed several cups of strong Lavazza over the past few days, I sat puzzled this morning as the pot boiled over and splattered coffee over the cooker and the back wall. As far as I could tell, I had not done anything in the slightest bit different from previous brewings.

Problems with Spotify: following the curious incident of the coffee pot at breakfast, after logging into Spotify this morning my friendly virtual companion informed me there were problems with my sound card and therefore Spotify would not play music. I switched to iTunes to be met by similarly stony silence. Refusing to panic and sucking thoughtfully on a Halls honey and lemon lozenge, I rebooted the computer and - of course - everything worked perfectly. The oddest aspect of the sound card "incident" is that, moments earlier, I had been chatting merrily - and audibly - with Lesley via video Skype.

What do these two incidents reveal to us?

Never take anything for granted? Nope.

Machines control us? Nope.

You can't always get what you want? Nope.

I think these two incidents just reveal that life is never totally predictable. Vis-a-vis the coffee, I think I was probably half asleep and had the hotplate turned up too high, or something. (Although, it did happen twice!) And as for the Spotify incident - computers do have a habit sometimes of thinking they know best, when they don't, obviuosly.

Yesterday late afternoon I took a walk down to the harbour / marina.

It was crowded with sun worshippers. Clearly, many people here are unconcerned about the possible effects of skin cancer. Leathery, walnutty, teaky, saggy, six-packy - every variety of physique was on view, with shades of brown from the lightest tan to almost black. The dedication of these tanners is admirable, I suppose, given that there is no beach, no deck chairs, no loungers, just rocks, breakwaters, a curved pier. People come with towels and lie them on the hard surfaces and loll there all day. Occasionally I think some of them (a very few, if yesterday's evidence is anything to go by) take the plunge into the water. Yachts, dinghys, jet skis, canoes ply the water close in to the harbour, too. Including a small, blue Police dinghy with two male crew members redolent of extras in Baywatch.

There are cars from Austria, Germany, Slovenia almost outnumbering the Italians. There are grand looking houses, shutters down, either uninhabited or merely shading themselves against the heat and the glare. The place feels timeless down at the harbour, the sort of place where, as I said, people come to worship the sun oblivious to anything else happening anywhere else in the world, I imagine. I can't help looking at some of the silver-haired gentlemen - including one hirsute specimen yesterday so darkly tanned beneath his silver arm, shoulder, chest and back hair that he resembled nothing less than a silver-backed gorilla - and wondering what on earth they do or did. They made me think of some of the characters in J. G. Ballard's novel 'Super Cannes': listless, discretely wealthy but, quite possibly beneath their well-oiled carapace, cold. It is as if they need the sun to charge them up with warmth to see them through the rest of the months, when they go back to their anonymous offices in Zurich, Bonn and Vienna and watch numbers flickering on screens as raindrops dribble down window panes.

Of course, I could be completely wrong about them. They might just be sun-loving hedonists, the type described by Camus in his essays on summers in Algiers.

For Camus, browned bodies are beautiful bodies. (Yet - I cannot escape the memories of ignorantly racist members of my family, even former friends, sunning, tanning themselves, altering their skin colour to a closer approximation of the people whom they most loathed and mocked...) How times have changed, since - say - the Victorian period, when the palest of skins symbolised wealth, since their owners did not have to go outside to work, especially physical, oudoor labour. We have reached a time and place in the last 25 years or so where a browned body equates to leisure time, to holidays, travel - to wealth. A browned body that is also well proportioned - not necessarily what Brett Eston Ellis refers to in 'American Psycho' as "hardbodies" - even more so. For to be toned - to the non-toned observer - means one of two things: either the toned body has been acquired through assiduous application and hours spent in a gym, or - most annoying of all to the non-toned body as its owner tries spiritedly to fasten last year's shorts over this year's waistline - the toned body is simply a natural manifestation of its owner's inner metabolism. Eat yourself fit? Tried that, always peckish. Jogging? Tried that, always aching. Dieting? Never tried that, like real food too much.

Shouldn't we be allowed to be ourselves, and comfortable with what, who and how we are without being bombarded with messages constantly remindingus that we could - really, should - be otherwise?

The garden here is very pleasant. There is an arbour with vines and grapes, a pair of hammocks, garden furniture and many trees. On closer inspection, everything is very dusty and weathered. Having heard - I need to confirm this - that you are not supposed to dry your laundry outside, I need to check what other activities are or are not allowed here. For example, I did discover, when trying to log on to a favoured website that has allowed me to watch streamed Leeds games, that here there are strict regulations on accessing betting websites. It seems curiously old-fashioned, somehow. How much of a 'nanny state' is Italy going to turn out to be?

Work, officially, does not begin until Tuesday. That evening there will be a staff party, according to Sergio, who, with his wife and children, runs the local corner mini-mart. Affable and chatty, he helped me carry my shopping to the apartment on Thursday (all five bags of it!), when I decided I should just stock up on the stuff I needed and not wait for any shopping 'outing' that might occur later for new staff (I want to visit IKEA, for sure), as I needed cleaning materials as well as food. I am informed by a colleague that this shop is expensive and that I should go to a hypermarket instead. Having grown loyal to Joker, Flekke, however, I feel inclined to being loyal to the local shop here. Also, I would need to travel to Monfalcone or Trieste (I noticed a giant Co-op there on the way in by bus), and that needs time and planning, and I might not save that much, ultimately. Plus, once school starts, I am entitled to eat some meals in the 'mensa' (canteen) and that will simplify things.

Right, I need to add some links to this entry, so that I can get ready to listen to Leeds v Millwall in 20 minutes' time.

Back later...
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Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees!!!!

Leeds 3 (Sam 32, Somma 78, 90 + 1) Millwall 1(Naylor, o.g. 15)

Attendance: 25, 067

Davide Somma is this afternoon's hero. Last year he came to Britain from the USA on a one-way ticket (apparently he didn't have enough money to buy a return) seeking a professional contract and Leeds gave him a chance. After 9 goals in 14 games on loan to Licnoln at the back end of last season, Leeds manager Simon Grayson said there was no way Somma was going out on loan this season. Banned for the opening three games, he came off the subs' bench to slam home his first goal from 10 yards out after great work from Arsenal loanee Sanchez Watt. His second, a minute into stoppage time, was a rocket into the top right hand corner following a swift Leeds counter-attack. Leeds had so many chances (23 shots on goal to Millwall's 6) it could have been an even bigger victory. But, given Millwall have been such a bogey team for Leeds in recent seasons, getting only the second victory in seven meetings is sweet enough. Also, the fact that Millwall had won their opening two games 3-0 and 4-0 makes this win all the more impressive.

One Davide Somma, there's only one Davide Somma, one David Sooooooma... !!

Here is the great man himself:

You can see the goals from the game here.

Aaaah... now I can have a very satisfying late lunch., and here's some hot 'n' cold music to enjoy!

You win some, you lose some

2010-08-08T12:17:00.004+01:00

I missed the opportunity to write on Friday, because I wanted to wait until after the concert Lesley and I went to. This was in the auditorium at RCNUWC, Haugland. The concert featured Sigrid Moldestad, with band, as part of the annual Jakob Sande Festival that takes place here and in Dale, the local town. It helps to start the Dalsfjordveka (Dalsfjord Week).

Jakob Sande (1906-1967) was born in Dale into a liberal family and moved to Oslo in 1926 to study. He published his first poetry collection in 1929, "Svarte næter" ('Black nights'). In 1932 he crewed on the ship "Villanger" and visited, among other places, Canada and South America. "Straumer i djupet" was published in 1935, the year Sande took up a teaching position in Fredrikstad. He worked there until 1945, when he moved with his family back to Oslo.

At the end of the 1950s he built a cabin at 'Kobbeskjeret' in the Flekke fjord. (Our house overlooks the cabin, which these days is owned by a Bergen couple, and the 'kobbeskjeret' itself, the 'seal rock'. One of Sande's most famous and performed poems is 'Morgon på Kobbeskjeret' (Morning on Seal Rock) which has been set to music.

Much of Sande's poetry is melancholy in tone. His are poems of exile (living in Oslo and Fredrikstad, hundreds of mile away from his birthplace in Fjaler), the search for relationships, the connection bewteen Man and Nature. In some senses, then, they are typically Norwegian.

Sande is, for a certain generation here, a semi-mythical figure. He was also somewhat of a ladies' man and drinker. His work is - to my barely critical mind - not as strong as, say, Olav H. Hauge's. For me, the latter's poetry is more oblique, more open, less bounded by paricularities. Perhaps this is one reason why I find the various musical interpretations of his work more interesting than those of Sande's.

In her concert, Moldestad included interpretations of Sande's 'Eg ser inn i auge dine' and 'Aldri', amongst others. She talked about how, as a girl, her grandmother had first presented her with a collection of Sande's work. Thus had begun her ongoing interest in the man and his work. Sande was also an admirer of another 'ladies' poet', Robert Burns and Moldestad included interpretations of three Burns poems, including 'A red, red rose'.

Here is that poem in nynorsk (translated by Johannes Gjerdåker):

Ei ruad raud rose er ho lik
Som ut i juni skein
Mi kjære ho er lik ein song
Som tonar klår og rein

Så kjære er du min vækre ven
Slik rår du alt mitt sinn
At eg skal elska deg endå
Til alle hav kverv inn

Til alle hav kverv inn min ven
Og alle berga brenn
Så lenge skal eg elska deg
Som tid og sankorn renn

Så far du vel ei lita stund
Far vel du eg har kjær
For eg skal koma att om så
Ti tusen mil frå her

Sigrid Moldestad takes the 'sandkorn' image as the title of her latest CD.

The concert was sold out, with latecomers and those buying last-minute tickets forced to sit on the steps of the auditorium. Fine musicians, a great voice, a well-balanced set, and a rousing encore. All in all, I thank Lesley for persuading me to go along, skeptic that I am.

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The 2010-2011 football season kicked off this weekend, with a sense of anticipation on my behalf.

What does the season hold for Leeds? After three wearying seasons in the 'wilderness' of League One, a season in the Championship will pit Leeds against a better group of teams overall, but will also mean the expectation levels are considerably lower.

In League One, Leeds was the big team that everyone else wanted to beat. Some 'minnows' did just that, of course! Along with Norwich, however, Leeds gained automatic promotion in May and I feel now, in this league, the pressure is off to some degree. For sure, Leeds is a 'bigger' team in terms of resources, fanbase and reputation (even past 'glories') than many in this league, but that may all count for nothing.

Yesterday the season kicked off with a 1-2 defeat at home to Derby, all the goals coming in the first half, the Derby winner a debateable penalty (aren't all penalties 'debateable'?). Leeds' new goalkeeper Kasper Schmeichel (son of the former Man Utd legend, Peter) had an amazing game, pulling off some quite outstanding saves. Thus, it could be argued 1-2 flattered Leeds. However, they did hit the woodwork twice and have a header cleared off the line. It was good to see a fast, open game of football (even though the live stream I saw was via a tiny window on a betting site!).

On Tuesday Leeds play Lincoln City in the first round of the League Cup; then their next league game is away to Nottingham Forest (who also lost yesterday, 1-0 at Burnley), another game on the Internet, I hope.

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Musically today I am grooving to 'The Essential Jaco Pastorius' as I write, in particular tracks from his work with Weather Report. Prior to that it was Sigrid Moldestad. I will be updating some Spotify playlists later.

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Meanwhile, later that day...

After a very good Sunday dinner of pork, potatoes, really red fresh beetroot, broccolli... and an 'exuberant' Tuscan red.

I have not forgotten the plan to re-visit my teenage years (I turned 13 in March 1972, and left the teens behind when I turned 20 in March 1979) and see what I was groovin' to back then. It needs a little research, thought and remembering. The last year is particularly tough, since I was by then at Uni and had discovered - ahem! - another way of living, shall we say. Patience, dear reader(s), patience....

Re-make, re-model

2010-08-05T12:05:00.004+01:00

Yesterday I decided on the 'look' for the Blog, but unless people searched through it with the cursor, they wouldn't find the links.

I am not sure about this. On the one hand I like the fact that only people who search will get to the links; on the other hand, I'd quite like anyone who comes to the blog to be able to appreciate the links, too. (So, now, they are in green.)

A design dilemma. And only day four of the relaunched blog.

The links to music from yesteryear and today are worth investigating further, "through the square window" of Youtube.

Let's see what we can find.

In yesterday's blog there were links to the following musical touchstones:

Señor Coconut
David Bowie's album 'Low'
The Carolina Chocolate Drops
Traffic
Steve Winwood
Timmy Thomas

Hopping over to Youtube we find the following:

Señor Coconut's cover version of Kraftwerk's 'Trans Europe Express' versus the original. Press your # buttons to vote now!

This is Bowie live in 2002 (?) versus the original 1977 recording. "Blue, blue electric blue..."

The Carolina Chocolate Drops live on French TV (not sure about the dude doing the beatboxing...) and they sho' can DANCE!!

Traffic give us 'Dear Mr. Fantasy' live in 1972, Santa Monica. On guitar and vocals ... Mr. Steve Winwood. Here he is on Jools Holland's 1995 Hootenanny, and here in 2005 live at the Soundstage groovin' on the Hammond to Timmy Thomas's 'Why can't we live together'. I tell you, if this doesn't send goosebumps racing up and down your body, you're almost certainly dead. Here's Thomas's original version. Dig the groovy dancing, baby...

Tomorrow I'll delve deeper into my teenage years (1972 - 1978). What a musical journey that's going to be. I can hardly wait. Ow!!

Spotify: how to describe its place in my life?

2010-08-04T17:48:00.005+01:00

The biggest thing to emerge and find a place in my life since my blogging break is, without doubt, Spotify. I wouldn't say I am a geek or an Internet nerd, but I am a big fan of all sorts of music from many eras. Thus, Spotify not only fulfills my wish to explore the greater world of music, but it also allows me to revisit my teenage years - when I first started 'getting into' particular bands (some of which sound just as great today; but more of that later) - to uncover music I might never otherwise hear and, yes, to geekily spend time drawing up Playlists to share with fellow Spotifiers and friends via Facebook.

You can approach Spotify in a number of ways, I guess. I signed up to a Premium account. It was not only because I got a little tired of the repetitive advertisements, but also it gives me the portability I need, since Italy is not yet one of the countries in which Spotify is licensed. But the Premium service gets round this simply and beautifully!

Now, in my posts, I'll be able to bore any readers (ahem!) with lists of what I have been listening to.

My first recommendations are Traffic and Steve Winwood. What a great soul voice this man has. And the Traffic stuff!! It sounds so new, so fresh, timeless in fact. The one song you must give an ear to is 'The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys'. Pure bliss. And Winwood's version of Timmy Thomas's 'Why Can't We Live Together' should kick off anyone's groovy weekend. I anticipate Friday evenings in my Duino den with some local ham, olives, a chilled glass and these musical greats. Yowzah!

Speaking of Facebook, I wonder how long I'll persevere with it as a user? I have allowed too many people to become my 'friends' and thus am party to some of the most inane drivel imagineable every time I log on. It has been mildly interesting to re-connect with a couple of long 'lost' pals, but beyond that the sheer vacuousness of most of the posts drives me to tears. Okay, I exaggerate. But you know what I mean...

Things have definitely improved in the life of my beloved Leeds United: automatic promotion back to the Championship under Simon Grayson and now, a few days away from the start of the new season, a carefully contained air of optimism. I cannot see "us" going straight up again next season, but would be more than happy with a comfortable mid-table finish and some attractive, attacking football played.

Here are a couple more pictures from around the house today:

It's a sunny evening here in Flekke, so time to blog off and do something useful instead.

Catching up a bit

2010-08-03T11:34:00.007+01:00

29 months is a long time in a Blogger's life. So much could have happened. A summary is probably the best way to do this - if I can remember - without it becoming tedious and self-indulgent:

in March 2009 I turned 50
in May 2009 we moved into our house (see photos below)
in July 2009 I had a big party in our new house with around 80 people; David Wales got the prize for longest journey here - from Beijing!
in March 2009 our elder son, Bill, turned 18
in the Winter Break 2008-2009 I volunteered with Dona, Ingunn, Jens and Ezequiel in Gambella, south-west Ethiopia
this summer we holidayed in Tuscany, to celebrate Lesley's parents' 50th wedding anniversary
in May this year I accepted a one-year position at UWC Adriatic

That's enough. It feels a bit strange, bullet pointing the 'highlights' of your recent life.

Here are a couple of photos of the house, and views from it:

The view is pretty wonderful, I must say, although sunsets such as this are not that common. You can see Lesley preparing the ground for seeding grass. This is now growing and turning the area around the house green. I am going to miss it.

Here is where I'll be living in Italy:

My apartment is round the right-hand side of this block, on the ground floor. No sea views, but a large garden.

Two weeks left in Flekke

2010-08-02T14:58:00.002+01:00

In a couple of weeks I will move to Duino, the small town on the Adriatic coast between Trieste and Venice that is the location of the United World College of the Adriatic. I have taken a one year sabbatical from RCNUWC and will be teaching at Duino until June next year.

It is my intention to try to maintain this Blog, to breathe fresh life into it.

I take my inspiration from Tim Crofton, who is maintaining a daily cookery blog. Tim is the theatre teacher at UWCUSA and a distant buddy.

I have no set ideas as to the content my own Blog will have. Past entries have been sporadic, eclectic and, some might say, banal. Nonetheless, I am going to try. I'm not sure there is an art to blogging; more likely, it is a way of putting down thoughts that might otherwise never reach the outside world, or be retained in the bloggers' memory. (This raises the interesting question about their value, of course.)

Whether I should have waited till I get to Italy and am ensconsed in my apartment before resuscitating this blog is moot. But I kind of stumbled here, so took the opportunity to re-begin...

February already

2008-02-25T15:07:00.001+01:00

Another month has passed since my last posting.

Some changes since then, good and bad.

Bad. Leeds have slipped to ninth in League One, have lost Dennis Wise to Newcastle, and brought in former player Gary McAllister as manager, with Steve Staunton as Assistant and Neil McDonald as First Team Coach. However, since that home loss to Oldham our record reads: P 9 W 2 D 4 L 3 F 8 A 8 Pts 10 (out of a possible 27). The season is fast grinding to an inglorious halt.

Good. Work has begun on our house. Here is a photo taken a couple of days ago:

Now it is really beginning to get exciting.

Last week was spent off campus at Utvikfjell, a skiing 'adventure' with the 100 first year students. Despite fairly bad weather, most people seemed to have a good time. At the hotel, the owner, Dina, has a bit more art on display. Here is one piece that took my fancy (not my wallet's!):

New Year, New ... ?

2008-01-02T23:44:00.000+01:00

So I last posted back in October despite promises to myself and any reader(s) out there. Truly pathetic.

However, having been shown Live Writer I have decided to try again. It is supposed to be very quick and easy to use. You can insert hyperlinks, pictures, tables, whatever.

So here we go.

First of all, my sticks are gone, lifted by ice and floated out into the fjord. Here is a picture of it happening:

Here are a few more pictures from that icy week in early December:

What is that last picture? Answers on a postcard...

I visited my home town over the break. I left there when I was 17 and have never really gone back, other than for very brief visits. In the weeks before my visit, tragedy struck, as you can read here.

This is the house where I grew up between the ages of 3 and 14:

My room when I was a teenager was the middle window. There used to be a huge old horse chestnut tree in the garden to the right of the picture, and lawns and a garage.

The former grammar school I went to:

A representative street scene:

And the railway station where the killing took place:

I visited my 76-year old aunt for a while, after going to Leeds with a couple of friends to see Leeds sneak a 1-0 win over Bristol Rovers. Since then, we have lost 3-2 at Swansea and, more painfully, 3-1 at home to Oldham Athletic. However, we have today signed a 23-year old Finnish winger, by the name of Sebastian Sorsa.

2008 will be the year of house building, a visit to Ethiopia, the growth and development of DROP, some staff leaving and some new staff arriving, 50% student turnover as per usual, the expansion of the Volunteer Programme and, perhaps, a trip to New Mexico in the autumn.

Here I am at the top of Jastardheia a few days ago:

The beard is a poor attempt to hide the double chin...

I have an idea for the upcoming PBL week in January / February. It is to do with Edward Hopper. More on this alter.

I think I might go on Ski week this year.

Upcoming reading includes:

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Funny Boy

The Wasp Factory

all with students.

My own reading has recently included Frode Grytten, Nik Cohn and Alexander Masters. To come soon are Michael Faber, Haruki Murakami, Ryu Murakami and Gail Levin. Grytten has written a collection of short stories based on a number of Hopper's paintings. An earlier collection, used pop songs as its stimulus.

Music?

My iTunes collection is ridiculous: 6779 items, for God's sake. From within this forest, a few trees have recently emerged. These include:

Richard Hawley

Tony Allen (drummer supreme)

Augustus Pablo

Eels

J. J. Cale

and

Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers (introduced by the magnificent Ivor Cutler.

Ah, magical music...

And now I'm away to emusic.com to download some more of the wonderful stuff!

See you!

Hmmph

2007-10-27T20:02:00.000+01:00

Last posted three weeks ago, despite some kind of resolution - to myself, if no one else - that I was going to make more of an effort to blog more frequently and regularly.

This goes to show the reality of my life. Time eludes me.

If I look at these three weeks in reverse there have been:

---- a four day training course in Førde: Grunnoplæring i arbeidsmiljø

---- feedback week and the first Volunteer Workshop

---- PBL week and Tarek's visit

---- the continued progress of Leeds

---- many more photos of my sticks in different weather and light conditions.

These latter are the most personally and continuously interesting of all these, although all have their interesting features. I just don't want to write about them all.

Let's however begin this time with Leeds.

Since I last wrote we have played Darlington away in the Johnstone's Paint Trophy (aka The League Trophy) and won 1-0; Leyton Orient at home in the league and drawn 1-1; Brighton away in the league and won 1-0; and, today, Millwall at home in the league and won 4-2. We are now up to sixth in League One. Were it not for the 15-point penalty at the start of the season, we'd be 11 (eleven) points clear. Today the crowd was 30, 319 - the fourth biggest in England in any division. Our league record reads: P 13 W 11 D 2 L 0 F 25 A 8 Pts 20 (-15).

Two away games in a row next - Carlisle, who are top, and Bournemouth, who are bottom. Who knows - by the time I get around to writing on here agin, we could be top.

Over the years, as Leeds fans, we have come to recognise and expect that every silver lining has a cloud. Our success has led to an approach from Tottenham - who sacked Martin Jol this week - for our assistant manager, Gus Poyet, to be assistant to their new manager, Juande Ramos.

Don't go, Gus. Stay and finish what you and Dennis have started here. A white revolution...

What's been happening with the sticks? And the sunshine of leaves?

The sticks are absorbing water, I think, and therefore getting darker in clour. Some have clearly got heavier, too, and as a result have either fallen over or are leaning more than when I first set them up. It's raining now, but I was able to use a week or so of dry weather to get some more pictures.

Here are some of them:

The 'leaf sun' on October 19th

Late afternoon low tide

Low light low tide low angle

Sepia reflections

Floating in clouds

And that's enough, I think.

Blogging - it's a lonely, solitary pastime.

Music?

iTunes now has all Van Morrison's back catalogue. But I've been feasting my eyes and ears on the DVD of Kraftwerk's 'Minumum Maximum' concert footage. Puting together dance CDs for my first year theatre students. Music by Penguin Cafe Orchestra, David Byrne, John Cale, Pat Metheny, Lester Bowie, Medeski, Martin & Wood, Huun-Huur-Tu, L. Pierre, Bill Laswell, Philip Glass, SambaSunda, Gotan Project and The Durutti Column.

Been reading two biographies of Ian Curtis, and wondering about re-buying Joy Division's back catalogue.

BODY

'Body am I entirely, and nothing else; and soul is only a word for something about the body' - Nietschze

SPACE

'A place is nothing, not even space, / unless at its heart a figure stands.' - Amy Lowell

IMAGE

'I see photographs everywhere, like everyone lese, nowadays; they come from the world to me, without my asking; they are only "images", their mode of appearance is heterogeneous.' - Roland Barthes

At the end of the coming week I'll travel to Andalucia.

Things will be different there, although I will still be alone, a solitary figure in a changing landscape.

Water sticks leaves

2007-10-07T14:08:00.000+01:00

saturday yesterday four hours in the afternoon outside changing light up and down between the forest and the fjord collecting already fallen branches and twigs to do something with in the water

began at the waters edge slight breeze working with against me

one stick thus

built up stick by stick to this

photos useless don't show full effect

changing light rising and falling tide

series of photos also video at the end

photos

line of yellow leaves left by the receding tide

put to use too

the video

went back today twenty hours later different water effects reflections light rain

yellow circle more or less intact

unable to photo from all desired angles no waterproof boots today

line of yellow leaves on shoreline completely disappeared washed away

personal favourite photos

method was quite sponaneous

had been looking at that bay for some time now

considering contemplating goldsworthy's similar instillations

this no attempt to emulate him or his work simply an act of creation

small insignificant

using found twigs branches and leaves and the ever present never the same water

the video tells some of my thoughts

the rest are lost or private

here's the end video

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Leeds did it again: an 89th minute winner, this time against Yeovil. On-loan striker mark DeVries scored the winner, a header. Wise had four strikers on for the last ten minutes or so - a sure sign of intent.

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PBL week from tomorrow, including, on Wednesday evening, a performance here from this man.

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Current music spins while working on this entry:

'I wish it would rain' by The Cougars

'Same old me' by Phil Campbell

'Forever my friend' by Ray LaMontagne

'Sleeping on the roof' by The Flaming Lips

'Heartbeats' by The Knife

'Ghost dance' by Patti Smith

'Stairway to heaven' by Led Zeppelin

'Walking contradiction' by Green Day

'Fratres for piano and violin' by Arvo Pärt

'Make love 2' by Kip Hanrahan

'Hocus Pocus' by Focus

'Today is the day' by Yo La Tengo

'The worm' by Jimmy McGriff

''Round midnight' by Miles Davis

and finally,

'Crazy' by Gnarls Barkley

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So, thought for the day has to be:

'We are all born mad. Some remain so' - Samuel Beckett Waiting for Godot (1952)

Autumn colours

2007-10-04T14:40:00.000+01:00

Subtle changes in the colours every day.

I take peaceful moments each day now, wherever I can find them.

Sitting in discussions this morning, looking out over the fjord in a room many people would love to own, discussing, discussing.

Beyond the window, nature quietly getting on with what she does best:

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Recently read:

Haruki Murakami: A Wild Sheep Chase

Currently being read:

William Fiennes: The Snow Geese

Next to be read:

Deborah Curtis: Touching from a Distance

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Recently listened to:

Mark Suozzo: Time Passes Strangely (from the 'American Splendour' soundtrack CD)

Currently being listened to:

Fauré: Requiem

About to be listened to:

Satie: Gymnopidie no.1

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Classes tomorrow, then I hope to do some Goldsworthy-related doodling in art at the weekend. There is a clip of Andy here. The same page gives links to many other clips.

And here is somone with the same idea as myself.

A pile of marking awaits, too. Urgh...

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A dramatic win for Leeds on Tuesday night, away at Oldham. Ian Westlake came off the substitutes' bench on 91 minutes and volleyed home the winner in the 94th minute with practically the last kick of the game. That makes eight wins and a draw from our first ten league games - amazing! Yeovil Town at Elland Road is up next.

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Time to do some real work, so I leave you with a thought for the day:

'October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations once more above them' - Hal Borland Sundial of the Seasons (1963)

October comes but once a year

2007-10-01T21:06:00.000+01:00

October feels like the true end of summer, and October 1st the beginning of that end. Here, autumn can seem to fly past in the shke of a tree. Already, trees that three or four days ago were green are now golden ywllo; the yellow now brown and shedding. With grey skies, it's been a frustrating time to try to capture these colur shifts on camera. I haven't managed it very well at all.

Here is one attempt:

And another:

The camera can rarely do nature justice, though.

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So Leeds have had to sign two strikers on loan. Given the season is in full swing, not surprisingly they hardly make a fan's blood race with excitement.

The first is Mark DeVries, the second Wayne Andrews. Both are likely to feature in our match at Oldham tomorrow night.

A rare chance next Tuesday to see Leeds in action on Skysports, away to Darlington in the "ahem" highly prestigious Johnstone's Paint Trophy, second round (having been given a bye in the first round).

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While writing this entry, iTunes has been shuffling away in the background and has given me: 'Sabou' by Mory Kanté, 'Round Midnight' by Miles Davis, 'Lullaby' by Merle Haggard, 'Honeymoon Blues' by Robert Johnson, 'Come Pick Me Up' by Ryan Adams, 'Don't Marry Her' by The Beautiful South, 'Marion' by Midlake, 'Gavota' by Bach played by Alirio Diaz and, now, 'Everyday' by The Cinematic Orchestra.

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An 8am class tomorrow, so I should hit the hay now.

Thought for the day: 'We spend our lives talking about this mystery: our lives' (Jules Renard, Journal, April 1894)

100% no longer

2007-09-30T21:41:00.000+01:00

Fickle football referees. Don't we love them?

On Saturday, Leeds' 100% start to this season came to an end, thanks to some very surreal refeering. If you think I am being biased, read this report, or this, or watch this. Tut! tut! Swearing at Mr Wise? That's just not on.

Well, we march on to mighty Oldham on Tuesday night. Back to winning ways, I hope, although with both our main strikers suspended (Beckford 6 goals so far this season, Kandol 5) Wise says he may have to bring in a loan signing. We have Tore Andre Flo coming back from injury, Leon Constantine out injured, then two teenagers - Tom Elliot and Tomi Ameobi - 16 and 19 respectively (years old that is, not goals scored...).

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A wonderful walk today, up from the village and up to the summer pasture for coffee, then on up to Nipa and the always stunning view over the village and out to sea. More than 70 people turned up for this annual walk, today being Michealmas, a village record.

Here's a picture of the view:

Not visible - right of pic - is where we are building our house. We hope to move in next summer. And have a lower level, but similar view every day to look at!

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Last night was The Drama of Human Rights Show. All went pretty well. I was especially pleased with and for the five young actors I had been directing. They really were a joy to work with and took direction very well. A good number of guests from our sister institution next door, which was heartening to see.

One more week of classes and then it will be PBL (Project Based Learning) Week. This year, a working collaboration with the local arts centre, the nearest major theatre and a Palestinian /US dancer, Tarek Halaby. He will have a workshop with some students and then there will be a show here, with Middle Eastern food and atmosphere. It's exciting and, I hope, different.

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We are near to registering our charity organisation, DROP (Do remember other People). More about this later, when it becomes 'official'. We are still fund-raising for Raselas Diversity School in Addis Ababa, to the tune of about 5000 kroner per month, when we are in session. More needs to be done. Much more. This was what happened to the school a year ago when private developers moved in to claim the land the school had been built on:

I hope to bring you more through this blog about Raselas and our work on behalf of the teachers and kids there .

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When I last ran my blog, I used to twitter on about the music I was listening to.

That's something else I'll return to.

For now, however, it's good night.