Reasons To Be Cheerful, Part 4

Two days' moaning and groaning is quite enough, thank you. And how ungrateful it has been. It's time to count those uncountable reasons to feel good about the world, and almost embarrassing to do so:

my wife - Haydn's string quartets - a plentiful supply of water - peaceful elections in Indonesia - Mum's birthday, coming soon - living in a warm climate - the New York Review of Books - having a job - sup tulang - my big, thick Collected Poems of Robert Lowell - the wonder and occasional terror of supporting Man U - being able to travel up to KL later today - curry puffs - the mysteries of language - an American president who doesn't make you squirm in embarrassment - trees - having access to the technology that allows me to post this - the cartoons in the Straits Times, especially Get Fuzzy - elephants - the standard of care at East Shore Hospital -

Could go on forever but that's just a quick twenty.

The Heat Is On

More moaning today from me, I'm afraid. It's been hot and humid since early morning, and I mean very. The missus was commenting on the perspiration on my shirt before I'd stepped out of the apartment, around 6.05, so imagine how things were once the sun was actually up.

I rarely complain about the heat. As a cold-blooded, reptilian type it generally suits me - in contrast to the suffering I endure in Manchester winters. But today was an exception. Since I was lecturing for much of the day in what I assumed were going to be icily air-conditioned lecture theatres, I wore a long-sleeved shirt. Big mistake. By the end of the first hour of a less than animated performance (I spent a fair amount of the time sitting, quite a few of the kids sleeping) I became uncomfortably aware that I was what a Victorian lady might have referred to as glowing. The prospect of stepping outside into the real heat was most unwelcome and, in the event, just the effort of swapping lecture theatres for another round (of the same lecture, not exactly the most interesting way to spend the day) was enough to convince me that the day in general was one to forget.

Fortunately our plans to travel north this evening, ahead of the long weekend with a holiday on Good Friday, were abandoned a couple of days back. We're postponing until tomorrow. I have no idea how I would have coped with the drive to KL after the trials of the day, and suspect I would not have coped at all. A grim thought, but avoiding the ordeal is something to be thankful for.

Keep Taking The Tablets

I'm not keen on being highly medicated. Apart from anything else just remembering to take the stuff three times a day is a hassle, and I'm always on the verge of forgetting. I'm also suffering from a rash on the upper part of my torso which, I'm guessing, is an allergic reaction to one of the latest pills. (The doc keeps switching the little blighters around.) But if all this helps repair this old body it'll all be more than worth it. And if it doesn't, it's a timely reminder that these things our spirits ride in will wear out eventually no matter what we do.

For the last two nights I've been suffering ferocious cramp in both legs, the lower bits. This is not conducive to a good night's sleep. It sounds as if I'm moaning about it, I know, and, of course, I am. But there's a kind of fascination involved in the body rebelling in this way. It's unpleasant but distinctly interesting.

But not interesting enough to wish for another night of it. At this moment in time I can think of nothing that would be more rewarding than six or seven hours of uninterrupted sleep.

And Another Bit

Forgot to mention yesterday that the New York Review of Books early April edition has been supplementing my visits to he worlds of Marquez and Ackrroyd. It's a particularly juicy issue, worth buying just for the review of Margaret Atwood's Payback. Her ferocious intelligence has been letting rip on the whole business of debt and the great novelist has some intriguing things to say. Must get this when it becomes available in paperback.

However, much as I've enjoyed dipping into this particular edition at least two of the essays left me feeling rather down in the dumps regarding the insanity of our species. Richard Bernstein's At Last, Justice for Monsters focusing on the Closing Order Indicting Kaing Guek Eav alias Duch lifted the lid a little on the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge. A little in this case felt more than enough. Whilst Mark Danner's US Torture: Voices from the Black Sites pretty much takes the lid off the whole rotten system of 'renditions'. The details of exactly what was done to particular individuals to extract information seen as somehow necessary to winning the 'War on Terror' is monotonously compelling. Danner argues cogently that the information gained wasn't worth much, if anything at all, and that the 'gloves coming off' was a disaster in legal, moral and political terms for the U.S. I've just discovered that there's a follow-up essay from the later April edition posted online which can be read here. I'm preparing to feel even more depressed. Oh, and the original Danner article itself is here.

Bit By Bit

Progress in reading has been slow of late. It's been almost a fortnight since I embarked on One Hundred Years of Solitude and I'm only halfway through. Having said that, I'm enjoying reading it so much that the slow pace is in some ways welcome - there's something to relish in every paragraph, and how nice it is to have such long paragraphs.

And the same is true of Peter Ackroyd's London - The Biography, which I actually started when in hospital. Sometimes I've only managed one page in a day, but each has been worth lingering over. Which helps account for the fact that I'm only around 60 pages in.

All Hyped Up

Spent part of this morning listening to my recently acquired 2 CD set of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, Hammersmith Odeon, London 1975. Following yesterday's Procol Harum party it was fascinating to listen to another band employing a two keyboard sound with piano and organ. The difference in texture is astonishing. The chunky Procol sound doesn't give a lot of room for much else, hence the need for a guitarist of Geoff Whitehorn's ability to find a space to wail in occasionally, but more often to embroider the essential texture on which everything rests. I suppose it all comes down to Gary Brooker's chordal, full, bluesy approach to the piano. In contrast, Roy Bittan of the E Street Band is all pianistic filigree, with the late, sorely-missed Danny Federici sliding in and out. These guys, if anything, create space. I remember someone commenting to this effect on the Blood Brothers video of a few years back - one of the many strengths of the E Street Band was that everyone involved knew what, when and when not to play. The sound is always lean and sharp, never cluttered, even at its most frenetic.

I've been listening a fair amount to early Springsteen lately, having picked up The Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle last month and reminding myself of what an impossibly romantic record it was. The E Street sound is not fully worked out on it, of course, and it was a surprise to be reminded of just how different the band were with David Sancious on board. It's my understanding that he didn't get on too well with Danny Federici and certainly there's not enough Federici to satisfy. In contrast, The Hammersmith Odeon is recognisably the whole machine fitting effortfully, effortlessly into place.

So why did the original London shows (I think there were two nights in total) get such tepid reviews? The recording confirms that the band were so hot they were on fire (though I don't care much for the electric piano sound - presumably Bittan was not playing his usual instrument?) But I vividly remember reading that Springsteen had been a bit of a let-down in the British music press of the period. By that time I was a major fan, though it wasn't until 1988 that I actually got to see him, and the band, live, and I found it difficult to believe what I was reading.

The reason, undoubtedly, lay in the huge hype that surrounded the event, rather well described by Springsteen in the liner notes for the CD. The press went to pour cold water on the future of rock and roll, not to listen. It's clear from the recording that the audience were listening and rightly going ga ga over the treat they were being served. Which leads me to what I think would be an excellent TOK presentation topic for anyone who's heavily into music: How can we know when something is being hyped that it's worthy of the attention that the PR people are telling you to give it?

A Voice From The Past

I got lucky yesterday, picking up a bargain price DVD at Sembawang Records at Parkway. For a mere 17 bucks I got my hand on Procol Harum - Live At The Union Chapel, which also boasts a rather nifty CD of edited material from the DVD itself. I'd actually spotted it on their shelves a couple of weeks back, but hadn't bought it then as it cost over 40 dollars at that point in time (the mysteries of capitalism!) and I've got several unwatched DVDs on the shelves from our time in the UK and still three cheapo cheapo ones from the Medan trip. It's nice to own things, but only if you do them some sort of justice. But in the couple of weeks following my sighting of the Union Chapel DVD I found myself thinking that perhaps I'd made a mistake. Procol are one of my favourite bands and I'd seen very positive reviews of the live DVD which had even made me consider ordering from amazon or somewhere, and here it was (against the odds!) in a shop within walking distance. So given how much I finally paid for it, having decided I was going to buy it if it was still there, I think I can say things worked out for the best.

That was confirmed this morning when the sweet sounds of Mr Brooker and colleagues accompanied my marking; well, in between scripts anyway. I've actually seen the band live three times, but that was in the early seventies, and it's safe to say they have improved with age. In fact, now I think of it, they were one of the first bands I ever saw, quite soon after Pink Floyd's Atom Heart Mother concert (my first!!) at the Free Trade Hall, Manchester. They'd just released Broken Barricades, one of the first albums I owned, and I remember being quite surprised at just how much of Robin Trower's guitar work featured in concert. He soon left to form a rather dull Hendrix-type power trio. I was sort of impressed with Procol but didn't know enough of the back catalogue to get into all the material. The second time I saw them Trower had gone, and I didn’t miss him. I remember being entranced by B.J. Wilson's drumming (one of the greats, may he rest in peace) and generally realising how badly I'd listened to them the first time. The third time was really odd. They were on a double bill with Steeleye Span as support. This was just as Steeleye were beginning to break big, coming out of the folk rock ghetto, as it were, and Steeleye blew them off the stage. Or at least it seemed like that at the time. I was heavily into Steeleye and the musical press were saying that Procol were tired, and I've got a terrible feeling that I listened to them (the press, not Procol.) But, perhaps it was genuinely a bad night.

I think it must have been after that that I acquired (as a bargain-price lp on the Chrysalis label, confirming, for perceptive readers, that my cheapskatedness runs deep) Procol Harum Live In Concert with the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra. This album became something of a touchstone for me, proof that bands who played concerts with big orchestras were not necessarily being pretentious gits. Basically it's simply a perfect album. Brilliant songs, played brilliantly with note-perfect arrangements. And these were from Gary Brooker himself. Every time I listen to A Salty Dog from this album I find myself thinking the somewhat ridiculous thought that this is greatest song ever written by anybody, anywhere. Silly, but it always pops up. Much as I was sympathetic to the punk ethos of getting back to basics, there was always the idea of what Procol had captured on that magical night to remind me that there might be other ways of doing things.

And that voice. Of all the great white blues/soul voices (and I'm bearing in mind Van the Man here) no one can touch Brooker's for that curious fragility at the centre of all the power. I always get the sense that he's not that far from losing the pitch but he never does, even on the toughest melodies, and he's written more than a few major challenges for himself. The fact that he makes even the most abstruse of Keith Reid's lyrics expressive, speaks volumes for the intelligence of that voice.

So Live At The Union Chapel threatens to be on heavy rotation for quite some time, thus justifying an almost perfect purchase. By the way, this version of the band is stellar, to say the least. Ace organist Matthew Fisher is back on board (I never saw in any of the versions of the band when I caught them live) so I suppose his battle with Brooker over the composition rights for A Whiter Shade of Pale has been settled. They play out with an extended version on the DVD and it's interesting they're playing the song again. In the days I watched them it was never on the set list. I suppose they've come to terms with the fact that they've been unfairly identified with a miniscule part of a fantastic catalogue of songs. Personally I always preferred Homburg, A Salty Dog and Conquistador amongst the singles. A guy called Geoff Whitehorn plays guitar and makes the likes of Robin Trower sound stiff, whilst Mark Brzezicki and Mattt Pegg make a top-notch, and relatively young, rhythm section. I'm guessing that Matt is the son of the legendary Fairport and lately Tull bassist Dave Pegg, and he sounds as good as his dad, which is really saying something.

The problem now is that I'm developing a yearning to get hold of all the Procol albums from Broken Barricades onwards, none of which I own on CD. So this bargain buy might turn out to be rather expensive in the long run.

Hardly Standing Still

18.40

Still medicated. In fact, actually jabbed at one tender point. About to zoom off to watch some of our Theatre Arts students in performance. Hope the sleepy pills don't have too much effect: I've been told to ask at least one question post-performance and I'm hoping it will be a reasonably coherent one.

23.05

We fed on some deep moonfish at the theatre this evening, and a jolly good meal it was. Intense. But I sort of expected that. In addition to intensity two old favourites: clarity and control. Plus, a splendid discussion afterwards. And these guys are just at the beginning!

Bearing Fruit

The last couple of weeks have been fruitfully busy. It's not often I've been able to use such a positive phrase about work over the last twenty years or so, so I'll have a little celebration that I can at least use it now, temporary as the state may be.

Tomorrow I'll be seeing my back doctor again. I'm hoping we'll drop the medication for a time and see if life without painkillers is a possibility. It will be nice not to feel that I'm tripping out around mid-morning for once. Mind you, I suspect the haze has improved my teaching.

This Great Stage Of Fools

On a day when we tend to notice folly shining even more brightly than usual, I managed to do something even more than averagely foolish. I'll spare the reader the details and myself the blushes, but it will be valuable, if painful, to remember. I take solace in feeling wiser for knowing what an idiot I am.