Six years ago I went on a writing retreat to Hawthornden. Somewhat daunted by its reputation for monkish austerity, I took a Walkman and a wallet of discs. In the event, I scarcely used it, and for various reasons the wallet remained largely unpacked until now. So here is a time capsule:
Philip Glass: Glassworks
Philip Glass: Songs from Liquid Days
Jan Garbarek: I Took up the Runes
Jan Garbarek: Works
Jan Garbarek/ Ustad Fateh Aki Khan: Ragas and Sagas
Miracles of Sant'Iago (Music from the Codex Cadixtinus)
Charpentier: Neuf Leçons de Ténèbres
Ali Farka Toure: Niafunké
Couperin: Quatrième Livre de Pièces
Meredith Monk: Book of Days
Meredith Monk: Volcano Songs
John Harle: Terror and Magnificence
The Sunday Times Music Collection: Gregorian Chant (I must have bought that edition specially)
Van Morrison: Enlightenment
Ewan McColl: Chorus from the Gallows
Zebda: Essence Ordinaire. Must be something my sister gave me.
I had a good time at Hawthornden. The wind howled, the snow hurled, and I was quite disciplined. Although I didn't think at the time I was making enough progress I went home with a stash of new work, revised work, and some drafts I have yet to grapple with - along with the twentyfirst century.
*Oh, and that's an unforgivable pun. Hawthornden is in the Lowlands.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
02 December 2010
02 March 2010
More gab about gab
In a comment on the last post I casually remarked that actors and musicians rely solely on their art to communicate with the audience. Poets, on the other hand, tend to gab.
Even as I clicked Publish, I realised I was wrong about musicians. How could I have forgotten? When I was a kid way back, folk song was popular and every little town had its folk club with regulars and itinerant performers. Ours was in The Bull on Friday nights, and in its heyday there would have been well over 100 people there. And musicians did links. They might tell something of the background to the song (fishing, canal-digging, mining, political struggle) or its origins (trad, Ewan MacColl), where they first heard it, or what they might have done to adapt it to the voices and instruments at hand.
It's not just folk singers, it's other popular forms like country and western, crooners and, sometimes, jazz. Even rockers might pause in the middle of a gig to ask the audience "Are you having a good time?" if they could be sure the answer would be a resounding "Yes!" (OK, maybe that was just to distract the audience from the retuning of guitars.)
I'd thought the habit was a feature of popular music, but in a recent Independent, there's a letter from Judy Vero, correcting an earlier article I'd missed:
Music, like poetry and theatre, is a temporal art. The curatorial notes* in art galleries are often written precisely because (most) visual art outstays the moment and context of its creation. For the same reason, they're easier to ignore: they occupy visual space, not temporal space.
But note how the curatorial can shift into the personality:
The music becomes far more personal when he explains what it means to him and how he interprets it. (Vero)
... Barenboim's charisma was only part of the reason that the audience was rapt... (Lister)
Conductors are some of the greatest personalities in the world of music, and by virtue of what they have to do with an orchestra, some of the greatest communicators, yet we never hear them speak or even see their faces. (Lister)
... would it be so terrible to have a screen above the orchestra so that one could see the facial expressions of the conductor, his or her glances at various sections of the orchestra, rather than just staring at a back all evening? (Lister)
(My bold. And yes, it would be so terrible.)
It was a treat to be addressed at all by a conductor at a classical music concert. One can imagine a few aficionados being disdainful of anything that mediated between them and the music, but perhaps they would stay at home anyway, just reading the score. More profess resentment of the curatorial notes at art exhibitions (and a fortiori those recorded Walkman tours), which they regard as patronising and limiting. I haven't hired one for years: surely they have improved. But I always read the notes. They are always informative. Sometimes they have a wonderful lightness and wit. For some brilliant curatorship, where the talk virtually takes the place of the object (cf poem, symphony, song), listen to Neil MacGregor on Radio 4: A History of the World in A Hundred Objects. MacGregor is the Director of the British Museum, and in each programme chooses one of its exhibits to cast light on the society from which it emerged. When he places the Olduvai artefact into the hands of someone like David Attenborough to respond to and interpret, it's beautiful radio.
Some poets' gab tends more to the curatorial than the charismatic. I suspect the poetry audience tolerates more of the latter than the former. And not much of that. They particularly resent being instructed how to interpret the poem. The Author is Dead, remember?
I'm straying from the point. I started looking at gab as an overlooked part of the performance, and it's led to the point where the gab is the performance, with the referent playing a supporting role - offstage, in the case of A History of the World.
I'm still developing my theory of gab. Meanwhile here are a few more thoughts.
Our receptivity to gab relies on
• the relevance of the gab
• the authority of the gabber
• the skill of the gabber
• the personality of the gabber
• our expectation that there will be gab
* I'm interested in the idea of museum object by way of contrast to performed art: immutable but open to interpretation the way a music score or a poem is - or at least the idea that the interpretation of it can be artistic as well as scholarly. How far can the museum artefact be distinguished from a contemporary work of art, like a painting or a poem? Of course it has a historic provenance and purpose which, however disputable, are in theory knowable. Or in another theory, perhaps not. I don't know the first thing about curatorship theory, but it must be as rife with different factions and revisions as any other area of intellectual effort.
Even as I clicked Publish, I realised I was wrong about musicians. How could I have forgotten? When I was a kid way back, folk song was popular and every little town had its folk club with regulars and itinerant performers. Ours was in The Bull on Friday nights, and in its heyday there would have been well over 100 people there. And musicians did links. They might tell something of the background to the song (fishing, canal-digging, mining, political struggle) or its origins (trad, Ewan MacColl), where they first heard it, or what they might have done to adapt it to the voices and instruments at hand.
It's not just folk singers, it's other popular forms like country and western, crooners and, sometimes, jazz. Even rockers might pause in the middle of a gig to ask the audience "Are you having a good time?" if they could be sure the answer would be a resounding "Yes!" (OK, maybe that was just to distract the audience from the retuning of guitars.)
I'd thought the habit was a feature of popular music, but in a recent Independent, there's a letter from Judy Vero, correcting an earlier article I'd missed:
David Lister asks why conductors do not address their audiences more often (6 February). Here in Birmingham it happens regularly.So I looked up the David Lister article:
Sir Simon Rattle began the trend many years ago, and it has now become an established feature of concerts by the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. Our dynamic and highly talented young Latvian conductor, Andris Nelsons, has clearly set out to build a rapport with his audience. We look forward to the moment when he turns to face us and addresses us as "Dear ladies and gentlemen..." The music become far more personal when he explains what it means to him and how he interprets it.
...Before conducting the Schoenberg piece, Barenboim gave what was described as an "illustrated talk" from the podium, introduced the various themes from sections of the orchestra, explained how they fitted together and how the motifs were subtly altered and repeated. This prelude to a 21-minute piece lasted nearly half an hour. The audience was rapt, partly because this was a master showman at work, with a sense of comedy and timing to be envied by many a stand-up comedian. By the end of the talk he had the audience, not quite whistling Schoenberg as he had promised, but at least learning to love him, which is quite an achievement.It's worth reading the whole article. It's instructive that Lister cites charisma and entertainment, but the main purpose of Barenboim's address was instruction. The talk lasted half an hour. That's not gab, that's a lecture. Clearly a lot of thought and preparation had gone into it. It was billed as an "illustrated talk", so they were expecting it. Even the most devoted Barenboim fan would have started to get a bit restless if they'd gone there expecting only music.
But Barenboim's charisma was only part of the reason that the audience was rapt. I also think it was because it was a treat to be addressed at all by a conductor at a classical music concert...
Music, like poetry and theatre, is a temporal art. The curatorial notes* in art galleries are often written precisely because (most) visual art outstays the moment and context of its creation. For the same reason, they're easier to ignore: they occupy visual space, not temporal space.
But note how the curatorial can shift into the personality:
The music becomes far more personal when he explains what it means to him and how he interprets it. (Vero)
... Barenboim's charisma was only part of the reason that the audience was rapt... (Lister)
Conductors are some of the greatest personalities in the world of music, and by virtue of what they have to do with an orchestra, some of the greatest communicators, yet we never hear them speak or even see their faces. (Lister)
... would it be so terrible to have a screen above the orchestra so that one could see the facial expressions of the conductor, his or her glances at various sections of the orchestra, rather than just staring at a back all evening? (Lister)
(My bold. And yes, it would be so terrible.)
It was a treat to be addressed at all by a conductor at a classical music concert. One can imagine a few aficionados being disdainful of anything that mediated between them and the music, but perhaps they would stay at home anyway, just reading the score. More profess resentment of the curatorial notes at art exhibitions (and a fortiori those recorded Walkman tours), which they regard as patronising and limiting. I haven't hired one for years: surely they have improved. But I always read the notes. They are always informative. Sometimes they have a wonderful lightness and wit. For some brilliant curatorship, where the talk virtually takes the place of the object (cf poem, symphony, song), listen to Neil MacGregor on Radio 4: A History of the World in A Hundred Objects. MacGregor is the Director of the British Museum, and in each programme chooses one of its exhibits to cast light on the society from which it emerged. When he places the Olduvai artefact into the hands of someone like David Attenborough to respond to and interpret, it's beautiful radio.
Some poets' gab tends more to the curatorial than the charismatic. I suspect the poetry audience tolerates more of the latter than the former. And not much of that. They particularly resent being instructed how to interpret the poem. The Author is Dead, remember?
I'm straying from the point. I started looking at gab as an overlooked part of the performance, and it's led to the point where the gab is the performance, with the referent playing a supporting role - offstage, in the case of A History of the World.
I'm still developing my theory of gab. Meanwhile here are a few more thoughts.
Our receptivity to gab relies on
• the relevance of the gab
• the authority of the gabber
• the skill of the gabber
• the personality of the gabber
• our expectation that there will be gab
* I'm interested in the idea of museum object by way of contrast to performed art: immutable but open to interpretation the way a music score or a poem is - or at least the idea that the interpretation of it can be artistic as well as scholarly. How far can the museum artefact be distinguished from a contemporary work of art, like a painting or a poem? Of course it has a historic provenance and purpose which, however disputable, are in theory knowable. Or in another theory, perhaps not. I don't know the first thing about curatorship theory, but it must be as rife with different factions and revisions as any other area of intellectual effort.
25 February 2009
O'Ryan's Belt
That's four pubs down, three to go. We lost one in the last credit crunch in the early nineties, and three in the past six months. We have also lost in the past six months: two freesheets, an estate agent, a shop selling nursery goods, a shop selling dresses sizes 16+, a shop selling sports gear, and our independent bookshop. This last was an amazing place in its heyday - they would order anything for you, often going to a great deal of trouble to track it down, with most things being available the next day. And we had poetry readings. It was tiny, and there were only about 3 stools available, so it was très intime. The owner had some kind of direct line to OUP in the good old days when they published poetry. So we had visits from Anne Stevenson, Michael Donaghy, Peter Porter, Stephen Romer, Katherine Porteous (who had only just had her first collection out) and, anomalously, Kevin Crossley-Holland.
The reading I remember best - it must have been at least 15 years ago now - was Michael Donaghy's. It was the first time I'd heard him, and he was witty and wild. Anyone who's ever heard him will know how privileged we were. He is the measure of performance.
And after many draughts of white wine from a plastic cup, he took out his tin whistle. That is what it should be like - conviviality, poetry and music.
The reading I remember best - it must have been at least 15 years ago now - was Michael Donaghy's. It was the first time I'd heard him, and he was witty and wild. Anyone who's ever heard him will know how privileged we were. He is the measure of performance.
And after many draughts of white wine from a plastic cup, he took out his tin whistle. That is what it should be like - conviviality, poetry and music.
17 September 2008
Galveston
This song has been on my mind. I last heard it in the 60s, and didn't know then that it was more than a love song. And all I could remember of it lately was the refrain, that half sob in the voice. It was a shock to hear it now, with all that cheesy backing that the memory had edited out.
The media over here has gone a bit quiet on what's happening over there. I haven't seen any appeals for help, but there must be people out there who have lost everything. I hope other people are around to pick them up.
The media over here has gone a bit quiet on what's happening over there. I haven't seen any appeals for help, but there must be people out there who have lost everything. I hope other people are around to pick them up.
27 June 2007
Tenebrae (de Waal 4)
If you dare tell it honestly. The chapel. The empty vessels. How you were one yourself. The light faded. Candles brightened. Music went in and out of harmony. Went on forever.
It should have been Easter. They should have stripped the altar.
14 pots. 14 Stations of the Cross. How similar they were, how each concealed something.
De Waal's work enacts individuality and withholding. It seems like endless attempts to identify what makes the unique precious, while valuing what we hold in common. The withholding is what's reserved for mystery, the ineffable.
It should have been Easter. They should have stripped the altar.
14 pots. 14 Stations of the Cross. How similar they were, how each concealed something.
De Waal's work enacts individuality and withholding. It seems like endless attempts to identify what makes the unique precious, while valuing what we hold in common. The withholding is what's reserved for mystery, the ineffable.
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