All At Sea

I spent the early part of the afternoon at an Italian restaurant off Upper Bukit Timah Road enjoying some rather pleasant grub with colleagues from the English Department. Generally I'm not keen on staff makans, lunches, dinners, and the like but this one went down well enough. I found it easy to resist the desire to eat too much following last weekend when we definitely overdid it for two days. Last night we paid a visit to the gym at Katong in an attempt to restore some kind of equilibrium and it seems to have done the trick. We're aiming to get back to our routine of two bouts of exercise a week, possibly increasing this in the last months of the year when I'm a bit freer in terms of the demands of work.

After picking up Noi and getting home I found time to sit and really listen to Vaughn Williams's A Sea Symphony. The last time I went to HMV I shelled out for a box set of the symphonies, conducted by Sir Adrian Boult. The set is part of Decca's British Music Collection (I love the packaging - very British design) which has a number of gems in it. When I bought it I thought it was the set recorded from 1968 - 70 which I used to own on vinyl. (In fact, I still own the records, but there's nothing to play them on, even if they were playable, which I doubt.) These were the versions I first heard when I fell in love with the music of VW so I was a bit disappointed when I realised the Decca set is a lot earlier, being recorded around 1957 - 58, in mono. However, my disappointment evaporated when I started dipping into them. Boult's readings of the symphonies have something special, sort of definitive about them. There a kind of rawness to the sound I like, especially the brass, almost as if you can hear the elements of the music being assembled.

But I've not really been able to sit and listen to a full symphony for the last few weeks. Our CD player is now extremely old and cranky and tends to skip tracks on CDs it doesn't like, and it doesn't like these. So I've sort of been dipping in to a movement here and there or just had the CDs on as background (sinful, I know.) I've decided this isn't even close to being good enough and full attention must now be devoted to what must surely be one of the great symphonic series of the last century.

A Sea Symphony is probably my least favourite of the bunch, though there are moments I love, like the gorgeous swirling melody for the strings early in the first movement after the brassy Behold the sea! Generally the piece seems to be looking backward to a Germanic tradition of oratorio which sounds heavy if not downright clunky. And though I can understand how and why Whitman's poetry appealed to VW it doesn't have the same appeal for me, being a bit too earnest and questing and soul stirring. But eventually the sheer generous expansiveness of the music wins out.

He was in his late thirties when the symphony was written, by the way. Nothing of the infant prodigy about this. I think you can sense that in the music of all the symphonies. These are the products of a hard fought maturity.

Blockbuster?

Annie's daughter Li Jing (I think that's how you spell it), a confirmed Pullman fan (for which I take some credit), was telling me that publicity material for the movie of The Golden Compass is now in the public domain. It sounds exciting. We had a good chin-wag regarding how we felt the film might fare with neither of us regarding its success as a foregone conclusion. In truth, I think we recognised the possibility the book may prove unfilmable - and even if it is a success it is difficult to see how the remainder of the trilogy could be made to work.

I must say it would be interesting if they did get as far as The Amber Spyglass (Li Jing tells me the producers are not entirely committed to filming all three) just to see how much controversy the war in heaven would stir up. When you consider there are those who find Harry Potter objectionable, it's frightening and funny in equal degrees to imagine the degree of apoplexy Pullman at full throttle is likely to engender.

With regard to those who are prone to worry about the perils of indoctrination I have some reassuring news. The most rewarding thing about being a teacher is seeing at first hand the impossibility of indoctrinating the young. Whatever you tell them, eventually they'll think (and often do) otherwise. Annoying. Marvellous.

Oh and apropos yesterday's comment about the 'old fashioned' music of Duke Ellington et al: it took me several years to realise the stunningly obvious - that this music will always be cutting edge, as long as people have ears.

Too Old to Rock 'n' Roll

I recall watching bands like those of Duke Ellington and Count Basie on tv in the sixties and not thinking it at all unusual that a number of the gentlemen performing looked as if they had been born with the century. Jazz was old men's music, no anomaly there. Similarly watching Allen Toussaint and Elvis Costello, on Later With Jools, perform classic New Orleans numbers was entirely unexceptionable. But David Gilmour's performance sat more awkwardly somehow, and the Paul Simon numbers felt the same. Is this simply because they were more squarely in the rock idiom? So you're watching guys playing instruments that more appropriately fit the hands of twenty-year-olds in a style that would do the same (though the younger bands on the show rarely emulate the classic rock sound) and it doesn't quite gel.

But listening to people like Springsteen, Dylan, Neil Young, Richard Thompson and Van Morrison presents no problems, and nor does watching them. If anything they sound (and look) more relevantly themselves now than they ever did when younger, and the idiom in which they work seems wide enough to accommodate what they are doing. Musicians that grow with time expand the field they work within. A band like the Stones don't seem to have made that leap and all that's left is a kind of embarrassing posturing, but lots of money for their bank accounts. I don't think Gilmour is quite so guilty, and On An Island has an autumnal glow about it that makes it work, but the genre in which he's working remains a kind of MOR version of the early Floyd sound so you can't help but awkwardly impose the image of the older grandfatherly David upon that ultra-cool spaced-out long-haired chap who blew you away all those years ago. Paul Simon has tried to move with the times musically (possibly a touch too hard), but the voice was always that of a young man, and the hesitant, slightly shaky quality it has acquired doesn't sit well with that persona. In contrast the growl of Springsteen on the Live in Dublin set attains a kind of perfection.

Then again, I suppose any kids watching will assume, as I did about those aging jazzers in the sixties, that it's quite natural for these old timers to be making the kind of noise they do, and there's nothing awkward about it as it's all terribly old fashioned anyway.

Doors Closed

Heroic work by Noi and Rozita resulted in a great day yesterday, with some evidence of such above. Fortunately our visitors were spread out enough for us to enjoy reasonable conversations with most, if not all. There are few things better in this world than seeing old friends, particularly those whom you haven't met for far too long. And to cap it all, a resounding United victory with Tevez and Rooney looking suspiciously like long lost twins reunited. Let the premiership tremble.

Now we're in the middle of the great clean-up, except for me goofing off on the computer. We're off visiting this afternoon, with Fi Fi & Fa Fa & their Ibu, so I'll deal with the question of greying rockers another day.

Open All Hours

Noi stayed up last night, or rather this morning, to 4.00 am cooking and cleaning ahead of today's big event. I was safely tucked in by 11.15 pm, not to avoid work but because she doesn't want me around. For last year's open house she had one or two people around to help at various times; this year she is mounting an astounding solo operation. We went to the market this morning directly after the swubuh prayer to get the last of what she needs, and now it's full steam ahead in our little kitchen, and elsewhere.

I enjoyed a terrific Later with Jools Holland last night featuring appearances from major luminaries Paul Simon, Dave Gilmour - backed by David Crosby and Graham Nash with stellar vocal harmonies on the title song from the recent solo album, and with Rick Wright on keyboards and vocals for, gasp, Arnold Layne - and Elvis Costello with Allen Toussaint. In addition to these grizzled oldies (Paul Simon looked well past his sell-by date, and that flawlessly youthful voice is, not surprisingly, showing distinct signs of wear and tear) there were a couple of engaging young bands, The Streets from Brixton being the stand out. Question - is it just embarrassing to see old geezers playing young people's music? I think it might be so for young people, but not being one of them I wouldn't know. As for myself it's sort of yes and no, and I have no time to expand on this as I'm now rightfully required to make myself useful. More anon.

The Virtues of Anger

Good friend Len Webster has been in touch again. He provided a link to a splendidly angry poem he wrote about Burma, and here it is, and this in its turn linked to some equally splendid and irascible meditations which can be found here.

People sometimes seem to be afraid of anger - rightly, I suppose - but it can be a wonderfully exhilarating joyous sort of emotion when turned effectively on a target that deserves it. A list of great angry writers would be interesting (or should that be angry great writers?). I think Dickens might be near the top. The barely contained fury at the Skimpoles of this world in Bleak House (amongst other targets) still feels dangerous a century and a half on. And the great outburst at the death of Jo simply cannot be contained by the novel - it breaks the frame. The recent BBC version did a pretty good job of this but it's impossible to do justice to in any medium other than the novel that can't quite contain it.

And Blake would definitely make the top five. Who, now I think of it, says it best (as usual): Damn braces: bless relaxes.

Out Of Tune

Lorenzo to Jessica in the final act of The Merchant of Venice, sounding suspiciously like Shakespeare's spokesman in these matters: The man that hath no music in himself, / Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, / Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils, / The motions of his spirit are dull as night, / And his affections dark as Erebus: / Let no such man be trusted… I suppose we're meant to take this to some degree as ironically referring to Jessica's father, though in an odd way Shylock has by far the greatest music of the play in simple terms of utterance. But at the moment I feel my own motions are dull as night and it sounds as if I'm being addressed directly. I don't seem to have been listening at my best for weeks. That's partly explained by the fact that Noi likes to listen to the local Malay radio station during fasting month and in the general Hari Raya period, and I'm more than happy to go along with that as it adds considerably to the atmosphere of the season. But I don't seem to have had the energy lately to apply myself to sweet sounds as they deserve and I certainly feel treasonable as a result.

I must, and will, remedy this in the coming weeks and to this purpose, along with just being a greed-driven cog in the machinery of capitalism as manifested by the music industry (dreadful term - surely oxymoronic) I've bought a few CDs in the last few weeks which are waiting for more than a mere airing - they await the justice of the ready open ear. These are: Springsteen's Magic (latest CD, played once, sounded great), Live in Dublin with the Sessions Band (not played at all yet), The River (old favourite I once had on vinyl but which I've never owned a CD of); Dylan's Infidels (remastered CD, played three times now); Roger Waters's The Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking (had no interest when it came out, but wanted to see how it compares to Gilmour's solo work - played twice, not terribly impressed); Amy Winehouse's Frank (heard her live on Later with Jools and liked her voice - played CD once but distractedly); Richard Hawley's Lady's Bridge (also heard him live on Later - played twice, wonderful); Arctic Monkey's first CD (played once, wonderful); and The Style Council's Our Favourite Shop - Deluxe Edition, remastered 2 CD yadayadayada (played three times - Mr Weller can do and never could do any wrong.) Just listing this stuff makes me feel better. There are riches in store.

Profusion

Both yesterday and today we've been a bit late getting home after I've picked Noi up from the office as she's been doing bits of shopping for stuff she needs in order to do the cooking etc. for this Saturday's open house. Today we were at the market at Geylang Serai doing the necessary. I was struck by how much more I enjoyed being there than, say, shopping at Giant at Parkway Parade. There's profusion at the market but a kind of natural abundance. In big supermarkets, and Giant is nothing if not big, I increasingly have a sense that we're bleeding the world dry and packaging it for unnecessary consumption. Very puritanical of me, I know, and more than a little judgmental in tone, but I don't mean it that way. Rather I'm trying to describe a genuine feeling of dis-ease.

This ties in, in my mind, with material I'm noticing more and more regarding a kind of epidemic of obesity. I don't think we're built for this kind of abundance. It's overwhelming for many to the extent that self-harm becomes predictable. Commercial pressures to partake of the abundance are relentless: it's the logic of the market. I remember this time last year in a meeting in the school I used to teach in feeling a sense of hopelessness listening to ideas for a healthy eating campaign. The Head of Department responsible was lamenting our inability to really do very much about the obesity rates among the kids and wondering why it was so. I pointed out that we hadn't a fraction of the advertising budget of one or two of the more famous fast food chains. Game over, I'm afraid.

We were watching Downsize Me last night, a rather nifty, cheerful sort of diet and exercise progamme that airs on the Health & Home channel. It featured two rather jolly overweight ladies from Australia making a valiant effort to shed the kilos. I was struck by the fact that the ladies, though grossly obese (I'm using the medical classification here) did not look particularly unusual. There are lots of folk of the same build to be seen. Sad. A feeling of ruined lives.

The Journey, Not The Destination

If anyone had asked me whether I'd read Robert M. Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance up to a couple of weeks ago I would have confidently answered in the affirmative. After all this was the cult book of my years at university, having been published when I was about eighteen, and everybody read it. Except they didn't, as it turns out. Most student book shelves held a copy - except, for reasons of which I am unsure, mine. I now realise that I've never actually read the book, in the true cover-to-cover, getting involved in the actual story, sense. Certainly I've dipped into it, in a big way, and I know, speaking broadly, what takes place in its pages. (Oddly I don't actually know how I know this, I just do, sort of.) I realised I'd not read the book in anything approaching a satisfactory manner when I started to read it a few days ago. Which raises the question: at what point can we say we've read something (in a complete sense)? Is finishing a book enough to make the claim? Can we say we've read something when we haven't but somehow know enough about it to convince ourselves we have?

What I'm enjoying so far about the book is the journey, the motorcycles, the road. The philosophy is okay, I guess, but I'll need to get back to it more systematically to get hold of it in any reasonable kind of way and I'm not sure I'm bothered enough to be genuinely intending to make the effort.

Still Rayaing

The pictures above go back to last week in Melaka, when we were visiting various houses on the first day of Hari Raya. Yesterday evening we went to four houses and I was exhausted at the end of it. Why is sitting down in someone's living room and eating lots of biscuits so tiring?

I've made a bit more progress today in terms of viewing Bleak House and am now up to episode six. Dickens's so-called sentimentality translates extraordinarily well to the screen, especially as conveyed by brilliant actors. The scene between Lady Dedlock and Esther, after Esther's illness when her ladyship reveals all, reads like corny melodrama but plays with devastating power.

We did some buying-in for next week's open house at Parkway just now. These things take some preparation.