Never been Hip

I’m writing this while listening to Takin Off by Herbie Hancock – on vinyl. I’ve only been buying vinyl since the end of last year. I spent a few months on a temporary promotion, and when it finished, my team of hip twentysomethings bought me The Queen is Dead. I took this as a massive compliment – it beats socks by a whisker – although with hindsight it might have been a way to keep the old bloke happy while they got on with getting to know their new manager. Whatever the reason, I had to buy a record player, which in turn lead to me buying a lot of vinyl.

Buying vinyl has given me the opportunity to wind up fellow fortysomethings who still listen to CDs: I mean, how old hat can you get? A medium that has now been replaced twice (first by downloads and now by vinyl). I am old enough to remember when CDswere invented and for a while they seemed like an unimaginable luxury that only friends with affluent parents could afford, while I was reduced to listening to illegal copies on cassette. I’ve now got hundreds of CDs, sitting in a disorganised pile in a cupboard. I’ve got hundreds of cassettes too, sitting in several even more disorganised piles in the drawers of a sideboard. These drawers could easily be used for storing something more useful, but I probably won’t get rid of the cassettes until I move house (which isn’t on the cards at the moment).

Cassettes are also making a comeback, according to the BBC website. I don’t know how I feel about all of this. When I was young, men in their forties seemed to be set in their ways, scared of anything new, and happy to carry on doing what they’d been doing since the 1950s. People my age seem to find it easier to keep up with things – a Twitter account, a smartphone, a blog, what’s the big deal? – we aren’t scared of anything new because we’re a generation bought up on change; but just as we’re getting complacent, someone comes along and points out that we also don’t need to be scared of anything new because it isn’t new at all.

So, this morning I sat down after breakfast and listened to a moment’s crackle, before the sound of ‘Watermelon Man’ came out of the speakers, and for a few minutes I feel what it would have been like to be cool in 1962. I wasn’t born in 1962, and I’ve never been cool.

Standing in the Rain

Yesterday I saw A Midsummer Night's Dream at Shakespeare's Globe.  It was the first time I'd seen that particular play, as well as the first time I'd seen a play at the Globe (I went on a guided tour a few years ago, but didn't see a play for reasons that needn't detain us.)

I bought a ticket for the yard, partly to save money - not a fortune, but when added to a train ticket a saving worth making - but also for the hell of it.  I kidded myself that I could feel like a 'groundling' standing in an Elizabethan theatre.  Complete rubbish, of course: aside from anything else modern health and safety rules wouldn't allow the theatre to get that overcrowded.  Nevertheless, the experience was part of the attraction.

And then I saw the weather forecast for yesterday: frequent heavy showers throughout the afternoon.  I told myself I wouldn't let the weather spoil things, without believing a word.  Willpower (indeed) is key to these things and I have loads.  I have willpower by the bucketload.  Indeed, I once willed myself to walk to the garden shed in a torrential downpour.  What's more, I'm a northerner: bit of light blather can't put me off.

The truth is the rain knocked off for most of the afternoon and wasn't that heavy anyway.  I won't say it enhanced the experience, but A Midsummer Night's Dream is quite an earthy play and this was a suitably earthy performance, more than suited to the outdoor experience.  The music was perhaps patchy (some wonderful sitar playing from Sheema Mukherjee and some sleazy jazz guitar, but the occasional detour into the cocktail lounge).  The performances were great, although there was a strange lack of chemistry between Hermius and Lysandra.  There were some modern additions, but these were suitably smutty and not overwhelming.  It's not for everyone, I guess, but if you're up for an experience - linguistic and kinaesthetic - go now.  If you can't go now, go as soon as now has finished.

Books of the Year

Despite a reply I recently posted on a certain social network, I haven't a clue how many books I've read this year.  This isn't unusual.  Below I've listed 5 that I've really enjoyed.  Right now, I would say they are my top 5, but I've probably forgotten about that dazzling collection of poetry I read last January.  Several of these books were published in 2015 – it is unusual for me to be this up-to-date.  I haven't made a list like this before for this reason, and don't hold your breath waiting for one next year.

A Brief History of Seven Killings: Marlon James 

The days of me keeping up with the Booker Prize are long gone (and were brief anyway).  I went to a shop looking for this on a recommendation and found it along with the other shortlisted books.  It's easy to see why this novel won.  I've always been unsure about historical novels: most seem desperate to shoehorn research into the story, or speculate about what Henry VIII was thinking as Ann Boleyn was executed.  A Brief History of Seven Killings centres on the attempt on Bob Marley's life in 1978, but its relationship with historical fact is loose.  It is a book with an epic scope and linguistic experimentation that is as thrillingly inventive as anything Anthony Burgess wrote.

The Most Dangerous Book: Kevin Birmingham 

You don't have to have read James Joyce's Uylsses to enjoy this account of the novel's publication, censorship and eventual triumph.  Birmingham's book is more accessible (understandably) and is a thrilling and thought-provoking story of art and censorship.  Read this if you are interested in how art triumphs over censorship.  And if you haven't read Uylsses, read that as well. 

Unfaithful Music & Disappearing Ink: Elvis Costello 

It probably does help to be familiar with the work of Elvis Costello before reading this.  There is no ghostwriter, which shouldn't be a surprise – Costello is noted for his ambition as well as a way with words – but manages to be readable and innovative at the same time.  More than anything it is a moving account of the loss of his father, Ross MacManus, but it is also an incisive commentary on pop music from about 1963 to date.

Three Moments of an Explosion: China Mieville 

China Mieville is quite happy to be categorised as science fiction, which is fair enough, and sometimes seems to get a little tetchy about people who say he transcends the genre.  You don't have to be a Marxist to enjoy this collection of short stories, but a fondness for science fiction (and an interest in environmentalism) would help.

The Blank Screen: Blogging: William Gallaher 

Don't read this if you aren't a writer interested in blogging.  Otherwise, do read it: It's rather good.

I have included links for each one.  If you do want to buy one or more based on my recommendation (it's a possibility I suppose) please try to buy from a shop, rather than a tax-avoiding online retailer.  

Viewing Pleasures

Yesterday, I visited London.  Along with some bookshops, I visited the Tates Britain and Modern - galleries I've visited before, but never been able to explore as much as I'd have liked - and the Courtauld Gallery - somewhere I've been meaning to visit for a while.

In the two Tate galleries, I noticed a number of other visitors taking photos, often quite prolifically.  It's something I find irritating, without being entirely sure why.  It doesn't particularly interfere with my viewing, at least no more than the behaviour of other visitors; and, although much of the work in Tate Modern is still covered by copyright law, the gallery staff didn't seem overly concerned, so why should I be?

In Tate Britain, I finally got to see Millais' Ophelia, which wasn't on display the last time I visited.  While I was stood near to this painting, another visitor walked over to it, took a photo with her tablet and then moved on to the next painting she wanted to photograph.  Was this her only experience of the paintings, viewing them on the screen of her tablet?  I don't know.

I can understand why people take photos to remind them of where they've been, but it seems that for some gallery viewers, the only way they feel they can enjoy the experience is through the small screen of a tablet or digital camera. 

This reminds me of Kate Bush's plea to her fans not to film her recent comeback gigs, but it also reminds me of a painting on the wall opposite Ophelia, Waterhouse's The Lady of Shalott.  The painting is based on Tennyson's poem of the same name.  The poem describes a 'lady' forced by an unspecified curse to stay in a tower weaving.  Because of the curse, she is only able to watch the world reflected in a mirror.  Is this what we are becoming, people only able to appreciate the world through a small digital screen?

Perhaps I'm being a bit airy-fairy about it, but it does seem to make the act of visiting a gallery redundant.  If you want to look at images of paintings, there are places they can be seen online.  Surely, to visit a gallery is to admit that there is more to experiencing visual art than just looking at the pictures - an act that can now be done anywhere.

Hello, Jack White

Blogger provides me with some stats about how many visits my blog gets, which posts get the most views and where readers come from.  I'm not entirely sure how reliable or useful they are.  I will admit to being slightly thrilled that I had 53 visitors on Monday, but I am slightly bemused at finding that no post has been read more than twice this week.

Up until quite recently, one of my most viewed posts was, apparently, a slight thing I wrote 6 years ago, pointing out a passing similarity between the White Stripes and the Black Keys.  I must admit, I thought I was stating the obvious at the time, but now it seems that Jack White has got into a spot of bother for pointing out the similarity in a private email.

I don't want to start a feud with Jack White for obvious reasons, and I'm not suggesting for one minute that he got the idea that the Black Keys ripped him off from my blog - as I've already said, I thought that was obvious.  I'd just like to note that Jack White has now issued an apology.  Jack, if you are reading this, you might want to check out a previous post about the misguidedness of the public apology.

Very pretty, very touching, but little substance

I went to see The Book Thief this afternoon.  Like a few films I've seen lately, it was very well made, and beautifully photographed in particular, but ultimately rather unsatisfying.  Set in Germany in the immediate pre-war and early war period, the film is about Liesel, the daughter of a communist, who is sent to live with a foster family.  Unable to read, she is mocked by all of her schoolmates, bar neighbour Rudy, who has a crush on her.  She learns to read with alacrity, thanks to the tuition of her foster father; develops a fascination for reading, thanks, in part, to seeing a bonfire of books; and learns about injustice, thanks to Max, a young Jewish man being sheltered by her new family.  At the end of the films everyone dies: this isn't a spoiler, as the film is framed by a voiceover narrative from the personification of death, who reminds us right at the start that everyone dies eventually.

Ultimately, that is it: everyone dies eventually.  It's a universal truth; it's of universal relevance; but, I didn't need to sit through a two-hour film to be told this.  

Other than the ubiquity of death, we see the world divided into goodies - liberal, essentially kind-hearted (even if they hide it under a gruff exterior) and individualist by temperament and baddies - prejudiced, domineering and with a tendency to follow the crowd.  In Nazi Germany this means that only Liesel, her family and her admirer Rudy express any reservations about the burning of books, persecution of Jews and other minorities, and the war with Britain (and America, who ahistorically liberate Liesel's unidentified German town).  I'm by no means an expert on Twentieth-century German history, but I suspect it was more complicated than that.

The only undercurrent comes from the casting: Liesel and Rudy are played by the prettiest blonde children, while Rudy, a strong runner, has a fascination with Jessie Owens: he reenacts Owens' triumph at the 1936 Olympics, after rolling in mud in order to look black.  The intention here is honourable, but left me slightly queasy: giving the film the benefit of the doubt, I would like to think that discomfort was the intended effect in what is otherwise a rather bland film.

Cross-promotion

Not something I'd usually do, but regular readers might what to have a look at my new blog, set up especially to promote my writing career.

Irregular readers can safely ignore this and move on to something more interesting.