Out In The Street

I put Springsteen's The River into the car's CD changer a couple of weeks back (along with other goodies) and found myself listening to Out In The Street just before arriving at work a couple of mornings ago. I've always liked the song, tuneful & cheerful as it is, but didn't relate to any great degree with the lyric when I first played the album back in the last century. It's very much blue collar territory - unloading crates down on the dock - and there seemed to me then traces of the early Springsteen's attitudinizing as urban hero - fun, but not something I could take all that seriously, except as a kind of inspired performance. Like playing at being Brando.

It was only when I saw a live performance on DVD (the one in New York), by a distinctly elderly E Street Band, that I twigged what the song was really about and how wrong I'd been. Or perhaps the song has necessarily changed as we've all aged. It's essentially a celebration of the joy of being outside the grinding systems we inhabit; a metaphor for the desire to escape, rather than the escape, impossible, in itself. But this is an escape into the life of the city - the creativity of those who take the trouble to put their hair up right. So it is a performance, finally, but a willed performance becomes the reality of the escape.

Am I reading too much into a simple song (and it is, lyrically, gloriously simple.) Yes, of course, because the song doesn't need explaining. It just is. And it made me curiously cheerful going to work that morning.

Out On The Street

With the weekend (and after) being so busy I haven't had the chance to say much about Avenue Q so here's a little bit to make up for that. First of all it was an entertaining evening and I got a sense of what a good show this is. It was also well produced and well performed. But it wasn't done by an American cast and I think it needed to be to capture some kind of authenticity since it is very much an American show. Case in point: one of the running gags is that the janitor of the buildings constituting the avenue is supposed to be child star and sad human being Gary Coleman. The guy playing the part attempted a valiant impersonation, but looked white. This just didn't work. It was almost like watching a school production which is pretending to do an adult musical but can't quite pull it off. (But don't get me wrong, the show was thoroughly, impressively, professional.)

Secondly, the concept of the cast themselves performing all out whilst manipulating the puppets performing alongside them is a fascinating one that achieves an oddly alienating effect. But it doesn't work so well in ensemble scenes when there's so much going on that the eye becomes distracted. It works best in solo bits where you find yourself sort of superimposing one 'performer' on another in a kind of unity. I first saw this done in a play for children directed by Brian Seward, with whom I had the pleasure of working sometimes in schools, and in that case there was just one puppet involved. That achieved a greater sense of magic, for me at least, I think due to the intensity involved and the fact that you could give it your full focus.

Finally, the songs were ace. I urgently want to hear them again.

Secret Geographies

When we go to the Esplanade by bus, to save on the exorbitant parking, and because we enjoy a bus journey once in a while, Noi and I take the underpass to the bus stop over the road on the way home. I did the same last Friday and, as usual, the space below the road was crowded with kids, teenagers, making the area their own. There are always at least three dance groups rehearsing, practising, performing down there with conflicting music in attendance. Most of these look pretty funky, sometimes to the point of being a wee bit intimidating, but there're also geeky ones to even the score. And there's generally a few skate-boarders around. I don't know whether the authorities are aware of what goes on - surely they can't miss it? do they actually encourage it? - but if they are then they are turning an unusually wise blind eye.

It all looks splendid to me, though the lingering smell of perspiration, and the need to catch the bus, means I never stay to watch too long. The guys down there seem to be making the city, one small part of it, their own, almost as if it were their secret.

I remember doing something similar, with my friends, in a little bit of grassland, a park of sorts, near where I lived in Audenshaw when I was around ten years old, except that was a place kids were expected to make their own, I suppose. After England won the World Cup we were down there for a kick around, late on a Saturday afternoon, with coats for goalposts. There was real pitch there, with real posts, but someone must have been using it then because I distinctly remember using our coats. We played soldiers a lot, Japs vs Americans, near the railway lines. We got to be good at dying. There was always plenty of grass to hide in, and a sewage works in the distance for glamour.

The last time I was there was with Noi, some four years ago, and it was all very small, very tawdry, very ordinary. But I remember its days of glory on the endless Saturdays of 1966.

You never really know a city. You can only guess at its secret places and you're lucky if you've had access to just one.

Omissions

Just back from Khir's wedding. Noi has stayed there to help with the on-going recovery of Mak.

Two useful lessons: it's wise not to leave your bags and clothes under an air-conditioning unit in a strange room, in case it leaks. And it's a good idea to travel with more than just a single pair of jeans. Those who enjoy filling the gaps in narratives might make much of what a difficult (and wet) day I've had.

And that's not saying anything about the large and vocal contingent of Arsenal supporters at the house.

Rush Hour

It's all go - change money, change car, change country (for a couple of days.) The plan is for to set off for Melaka tomorrow in the early hours immediately after swubuh prayers, picking up various members of the family on the way. Why not tonight? Because a few weeks back we made arrangements for a trip with some of our drama guys to see Avenue Q at the Esplanade. It's a sort of adult version of Sesame Street, as I understand it - very adult (nudge, nudge, wink, wink, if you know what I mean.) Sounds fun, and I'm looking forward to it, but the timing could have been better.

But then almost every time I go to anything worth attending I find myself thinking much the same thing. Still, there are worse ways to live frantically.

Caught Napping

I dozed off yesterday late in the evening, lying in front of our less than trusty stereo system, to be awoken by the ringing of the phone. In truth, I was not so much dozing as deeply asleep, which accounts for the fact that on waking I had no idea what time it was, what day it was or where I was. It took about a minute of conversation with my brother-in-law ringing from Manchester to piece together a picture of what was actually happening. Oddly enough I quite enjoyed the sensation as I was reasonably sure I wasn't supposed to be in work or some such serious location. Also it helped that I've had these experiences before (sometimes panicking that I was somewhere where I needed to be awake) and recognised the condition. Again rather oddly, I don't think I've ever done this when the missus has been around.

Bernard at work was asking for stories of students falling asleep in class, I'm not sure for what purpose, but he was after funny ones. I'm afraid I could only think of the times I've nodded off when I'm not supposed to, which I suppose says something about derogation of duty. When I first started teaching I used to regularly fall asleep going home from work on the bus from Rotherham to Sheffield and have to be awoken at the terminus by a generally gleeful conductor. Fortunately that was my stop so no great harm was done, other than being made to look like a complete idiot. But that in itself was useful as those experiences made me immune to the embarrassment of being seen to fall asleep publicly. Isn't the deeply ingrained sense of embarrassment at being seen to sleep interesting? Keats is very good on this, just as he's very good on sleep in general. A napper himself, I suspect.

Loose Ended

Someone, somewhere, somehow is making history, I guess, pretty much as usual. But for me the world is grievously shrunk to an absence: that of my wife who has gone off to Melaka to help out with stuff at home now Mak is out of hospital, and more specifically to do the industrial scale cooking necessary for Khir's wedding this weekend. Actually we'd planned for some time, well before Mak's illness, that she should go on the Tuesday, but we're now thinking of her staying there quite a bit longer than was originally intended.

Fortunately I'm the kind of person who has no problems with solitude. I don't see myself as a loner exactly, but I can easily cope with being alone to the point at which solitude has often been a real friend. So I'm not worried by being alone here, but without Noi I'm at the loosest of loose ends. Fortunately she left behind a seriously wonderful banana and walnut cake. And I will be seeing her at the wedding this weekend, so there are reasons to be cheerful.

And I must say, the news out of the States has cheered me, though I think it's all getting a bit needlessly messianic. Well soon enough reality will bite. I've never known it not to.

Circles

I suppose it's a virtuous circle. I read a chunk of Ross's The Rest Is Noise - last night it was the excellent chapter on Sibelius - and I rediscover my CDs of whatever he's covered that I've got, as I am doing with the Sibelius series, listening to them with new ears. The problem is that I'm building up a significant wish-list of stuff I'll need to buy, including a good many twentieth century operas, but in the meantime I can refresh my ears on the cheap just listening to what I've got and, not exactly failed to appreciate, but certainly failed to do justice to.

Another bit of reading involving a circle of sorts: I finished A Clockwork Orange over the weekend, in between visiting Mak, it being rather more than thirty years since the first time I finished it. This time the book had changed completely, or possibly I have, which is, in effect, the same thing. After all, essentially we're reading ourselves. This time I found myself engaged in what was obviously a theological tract - a very lively one, but a kind of extended sermon on the nature of aggression and its relation to creativity and the nature of choice. The shocking aspect of this sermon is the way it convincingly connects aspects of ourselves we'd rather keep mentally sundered from each other.

For some reason as I read I kept thinking of Kubrick's film, which I saw just before Kubrick pulled it off general release in the UK. I wasn't so much thinking of how well Kubrick brought the tract to life - frankly I don't think he did to any great degree having plentiful concerns of his own - but I was aware that it was an amazing piece of work and realised I wouldn't mind seeing it again in the hope that I would react differently. Older and wiser, I pray I would not now be quite so stirred by the violence as I was then, and I recall being genuinely excited, which is even odder considering I detest violent movies. Unsettling.

Speaking Out

We finally did our bit in supporting the local theatre scene and got ourselves to one of the Necessary Stage's productions yesterday afternoon, conveniently staged at the Marine Parade Library's Black Box just five minutes walk from our apartment. And a jolly afternoon's entertainment it was, as provided by Haresh Sharma's Gemuk Girls. Well 'jolly' is the wrong word, I suppose - thought-provoking, stirring, challenging: those are the more appropriate terms, but in a genuinely engaging context - the ninety minutes felt short and the piece, though worthily serious, worked as entertainment in the best sense.

It helped that the subject matter was pretty controversial, certainly in terms of what is generally deemed the standard political discourse on this little island. There was an opportunity to genuinely think about thorny, possibly unresolvable issues related to difficult events transpiring over the years of independence. The play revolved around the experience of a man detained without trial in the early sixties, who spends the rest of his life in prison, and the effects of this upon his immediate family, into the present day. Although the play wore its liberal credentials a little too openly there was a real attempt to deal with the human cost yet not to resort to easy cliches.

As is so often the case with small scale productions here, the production values were high, especially in terms of the incorporation of multi-media material. The three cast members gave solid performances, with the one guy, Najib Soiman, being quite outstanding. The best scenes were those dealing head-on with Mazurki's (the detainee's name) arrest and imprisonment and he played these with admirable restraint.

In some ways the most striking, almost refreshing, aspect of the whole thing for me was the audience itself. First of all, it was incredibly youthful. I'd guess the majority were under twenty-four. Secondly, it was extremely focused; although responsive in terms of knowing where to laugh there was a powerful sense of concentration and thought in the little space. Thirdly, it was full, for a little, rather demanding, piece. I can't imagine this twenty years back.

I think the importance of what is going on in these small spaces on the island is underestimated.

Worrying

We went to see Mak in the High Dependency Unit a couple of times before heading back to Singapore, where we arrived early this morning, listening to the BBC's live commentary on the United vs Hull game as we drove in, which provided more excitement than was really welcome at that hour. The doctor is talking about letting Mak go home on Tuesday but there's quite a bit of discussion (of the lively variety) amongst her sons and daughters as to what exactly is the best thing to do, and what long term arrangements need to be made. Noi's family pull together eventually but, understandably, can spend time pulling in different directions before things get sorted and stablise.

Mak's speech is slurred, but clearer than I expected. She has some feeling in her left leg, but very little, if any, in her left arm. I'm not sure if she can be expected to walk again. She's worrying about the wedding next weekend, and her worrying is worrying us. Noi will be going back on Tuesday as she has been appointed head chef for the occasion and I'm hoping her remarkable capacity for taking control in these situations helps Mak relax through it all.

I was worried on Friday about driving up as I felt so tired. I've experienced sleepiness on the highway before and it's frightening. Perversely, worrying about the journey made me sleep badly on Thursday night (as usual I nodded off quickly but then came crashing awake far too early), that and the fact I knew Friday was going to be busy following tough days on Wednesday and Thursday. Worst of all was that our plan was to go up in two cars, with Noi driving the other. This meant there would be no back-up driver for me if my systems decided to close down. In the event the two car idea fell through, I did have back-up, and it turned out I didn't need it as I was wide awake from start to finish.

When we finally got to the house, after dropping in to see Mak in the hospital in Melaka, I lay on the mattress fully clothed and fell asleep in less than two minutes, which is about as long as I could stay awake after getting back this morning. That moment when you can surrender yourself to sleep somehow makes up for all the trials of getting there.