High Volume

Driving over to Serangoon Road yesterday evening, I was listening to Television's classic album Marquee Moon at a most satisfactory volume. Prior to the journey I'd never thought of it as a particularly well-produced record, despite the excellent musicianship and songs, but I came to realise that the slightly jangly quality I've always associated with it, as a result, I suppose, of the dual guitars high in the mix, disappears when you get the chance to listen to it really loud. That's when you realise what an exceptional rhythm section underpins it all and how authentically real that sounds when given its due. And how well the treble sounds blend with the lower frequencies once all is unleashed.

I suppose at lower volumes that heft is lost and since the band deliberately avoided the huge smacking drum sound producer Andy Johns was associated with (via John Bonham et al) you assume the bottom end is generally a bit thin. But heard as it should be heard I reckon Marquee Moon is one of the best produced albums I've ever heard. Guitarist Richard Lloyd talked of a dry sound with a nice, tight, smaller kit and that's what Johns delivers.

It sounds wonderfully uncluttered - sort of simple, really. But I suspect it's a kind of deceptive simplicity.

Volume

Question: What could be better than to come home to King Crimson played loud?

Answer: To come home to King Crimson played very loud indeed.

Hah!

The Frog Chorus

Spent a fair part of the evening considering some aspects of people's behaviour, sadly its less attractive aspects. There are many of these, by the way, in case you've not had the chance to notice. Then went down to lock up a couple of rooms located near a rather jolly pond. The frogs nearby could not be seen but, my goodness, they could be heard. And how wonderfully resonantly clean and sane they sounded.

Snoozing

For the first time for some three weeks I crashed out in the early evening in the deepest possible manner. I had a full stomach from an early dinner and nothing to stay awake for after the Maghrib Prayer, so the crash was deep and spectacular and fulfilling, even though it lasted less than an hour.

I've always felt that of all Shakespeare's tragic figures Macbeth gets the worst of it, simply because he can't sleep anymore. This evening's precious fifty minutes or so confirmed that intuition.

Not So Clever

Just watched the last episode of an extremely melodramatic Malay drama series. It dealt with a dark family secret in the most Dickensian manner. Thoroughly enjoyed the unlikely intensity of it all. Was reminded of how much we need this kind of story - as Dickens knew, of course - and how impoverished a culture becomes when it grows overly ironic, overly sophisticated, too clever by half.

Well Spent

We spent the morning, with niece Zahira, helping deliver packages from Darul Arqam as part of their Qurban Drive 2019. On our stint last year a couple of the intended recipients were not around, but this year we did rather better, managing to deliver all that was assigned to us. Funnily enough the final addresses we went to took me back to my old stomping grounds in Bedok, being adjacent to the school I taught at from 2004 to 2006. The buildings are now deserted since the place shut down some three or four years ago. A bit of a waste really since the site had been refurbished back in 2005 and was quite a pleasant location in which to teach.

Fortunately our morning felt quite the opposite of a waste. In an odd sort of way I reckon we benefitted quite as a much as those getting something to help fill their pantries for a little while.

Not Exactly Respectable

Spent the afternoon listening to a wide variety of students presenting their ideas on a wide variety of texts. Struck by the fact that this is all so new to them. Found myself trying to remember when Catch 22 was a new discovery for me and recalled the almost visceral excitement engendered by the simple fact that someone could write something so dark, so funny and so true. I hope the kids talking about the novel felt at least a little bit the same.

Isn't it fine, that moment you discover that great Literature not only doesn't need to be remotely respectable but gains immeasurably through not being so?

Something Different

I've been making extremely slow progress with The Portable Nietzsche, but it's not the great philosopher's fault. I'm not too sure it's really mine either. I suppose the Toad work's to blame, along with the siren song of Crimso's Radical Action blu-ray disc which I've found myself watching obsessively in what little spare time I've been carving out of late.
 
I'll tell you what, though - Nietzsche's thoughts on the Greeks are as ferocious as his astonishing moustache, and make for compelling reading even when there isn't time to read. Some familiarity with the basics of Greek culture (I've read my Homer, I know my tragedians, my Plato, my Aristotle) tends to lead to a sense that they're much like us, a sort of comfort in their company (despite the nightmare-inducing qualities of The Iliad.) But Nietzsche summons their Strangeness, their Otherness.

The greater and more sublime a Greek is, the brighter the flame of ambition that flares out of him, consuming everybody who runs on the same course. Golly. I don't think I would have lasted too long back then. 

Waxing Poetic

Not entirely random thought for today: If it survives your analysis, then it's poetry.

Not So Comfortable

I keep trying not to think of the state of the nation of which I am a citizen, and failing. It feels like looking at the scene of a very bad accident when you know you really shouldn't be doing so. I didn't want to read the piece in the London Review of Books entitled How Bad Can it Get? but I did. And I wish I hadn't. 

Mind you, I actually feel even worse thinking about climate change and the state of the planet. Not too sure that's much of a comfort though.