The Word Cloud

When she was home at Easter Jenny, who is currently away at uni, finally admitted that I am not quite as ridiculous as she once thought. Or that she is perhaps maturing. She has always mocked me for tapping the wheel and even an occasional singing moment to the radio or CD, or whatever, while driving along. She has now discovered the joy of driving to music and has admitted that she caught herself doing exactly that on her last trip home.

But she has not seen, or more to the point heard me when I’m in the car by myself. By definition she can’t of, course.

I am a big fan of railway travel but as far as I am concerned you can’t beat a road trip alone. When you have the car to yourself there are certain things you can do, that I have no doubt everyone does from time to time. Of course there is no need for concern about minor gaseous emissions and nasal excavation is not an issue. But most importantly you can play music really loud and sing along at the top of your voice. We all do it, or have done it. Don’t deny it! Recently I saw a news article recommending against playing loud music in the car on the basis that you can damage your ears. I mean, for gawd’s sake. They may as tell you to never go listen to Quo from less than a mile away. Alright you can’t hear the outside world, but cruising on a boring motorway journey that’s not significant.

So I thought I might do my Desert Motorway Disks. Ten tracks that just have to be played at full volume, have the steering wheel pounded to distortion and sung along to until your throat can’t take any more. They may not be obvious choices, but these are my picks for today:

In no particular order:

•    Born to Run – Bruce Springsteen (Just gotta be there)
•    Graceland – Paul Simon (It’s the primal beat of the drums and the guitar solo)
•    Caroline – Kirsty MacColl (Magical lady)
•    Little Lies – Fleetwood Mac
•    Dancing Queen – ABBA (I know, I know. Just try it though)
•    Crocodile Rock – Elton John
•    Rubber Bullets – 10cc
•    Suspicious Minds - Elvis
•    Dancing in the Dark – Bruce Springsteen (He gets two, naturally)
•    Vienna - Ultravox (It's slow but it works for those great high notes that I always hit perfectly)

Old aren't I? On another day I might pick another ten. I was tempted to put in Twist and Shout - The Beatles, but I wondered if I might be mocked a bit beyond my normal tolerance levels. And anyway, if I don't draw the line at ten I'll go on for ever.

I suspect that Born to Run will always be there. It’s the first ten seconds or so. So Born to run is my number one pick.

Anyone else willing to ‘fess up?

As the crowd streamed in, it was apparent that friendships were being renewed and news was being exchanged. This was the beginning of the ritual. About every six weeks we did it, anticipating an evening of delightful pleasure. But it was going to be different this evening, although we didn’t know it yet.

We took our seats, several hundred of us in rows, all facing the same direction, all looking at a square empty space, empty that is apart from chairs and some instruments; a square space that had been constructed vertically. This was a large square space, possibly thirty to forty feet tall and the same distance from left to right. The large square had significant depth as well, it needed that to accommodate a further sixty to seventy people who were to enter that space.

The left and right sides of the square were lined with wooden panels; the top of the square was fringed with banks of lights facing away from us. At the back of the space long white curtains were suspended, they too were thirty to forty feet long.

Gradually, musicians entered the space from several points, some carrying an instrument, others taking a seat where their instrument had already been placed. Soon, they all settled and started one of their rituals, that of tuning the instruments. To applause the leader of the orchestra entered the square space and took his seat. The crowd hushed ready to welcome the conductor, Leo Hussain, as he took his place on the rostrum.

All was still, silent and wonderful; great music was about to be performed by one of the most accomplished orchestras in the world.

A warm-up piece, the overture from Mozart’s Idomeneo opera, set the scene for what was to follow. The male musicians then adjusted their evening dress tails and bow ties, whilst the ladies added grace and charm to the occasion.

We now awaited the appearance of Francesco Piemontesi, for it was he who would now play Mozart’s Piano Concerto No.25. To enthusiastic applause he took his place at the grand piano. He was slightly built and gave the impression of being sensitive and uneasy but this possible discomfort disappeared in the moment his fingers touched the keys. He played as though he had never ever done anything else; it was as though he had only been born to generate beautiful piano music. For thirty three minutes he gentled the keys into the softest of melodies, hammered the keys to express the composer’s passion, and bewildered us who were there in the audience with his effortless dexterity and the speed of his fingers as he mastered the score.  We get used to such professionals playing without the score actually in from of them but it was extraordinary to watch Francesco play sometimes as though in a trance with his eyes shut, at other times engaging closely with individual members of the orchestra as they played supporting roles. His performance completed, he acknowledged the audience’s appreciation and left only to be recalled three times in response to the crowd’s continuing applause.

There followed a brief interval; time for a stretch, a coffee and a chat.

When we returned to our seats in the auditorium the piano had been lowered out of sight beneath the stage, more chairs had been placed for the now enlarged orchestra and once more we sat, now refreshed, awaiting the main part of the evening. The square we stared at was now familiar territory, many of the musicians we recognised from previous events, but now the power of that square space started to affect me. Such power in the sense of emotional beauty was so often generated within its four sides; such wonderful music was re-created within its boundaries.

The appreciative audience once more quietened, shuffling to get comfortable, not wanting to spoil the occasion by later fidgeting. The young British conductor, Leo Hussain, once more to much applause, took his place on the rostrum and melded his musicians into a single source of great musicianship.

Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony was about to begin.

I cannot read music, nor can I play an instrument and perhaps that is why I can admire so much the artistry of those professionals. Perhaps that too is why I don’t detect the sometimes controversial judgements about tempo, or emphasis. I am carried by the skill of sixty or more musicians playing as a team, all individually dependant on each other, all integrated by the conductor. Somehow together they generate sounds that take me totally away from the reality of this life into a zone that can only be sensed.

But something was being added to that sensation as they performed the four movements of the Fifth Symphony. Somehow the members of the orchestra almost managed to bring Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky onto the stage. It seemed as though he was there with us. His music, bequeathed to us since he wrote it in 1888, was played in a way that we could so clearly imagine him sitting at his desk expressing his personal feelings through the notes in the score. When the music ended there was silence for a moment as we gathered our senses and came back to earth, then once more we showed our appreciation to the composer and to those who had brought him back onto the stage to share the concert with us.

I look forward to my next visit to that vertical square space in the Great Hall of Exeter University when once again the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra will create magic within its boundaries.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tZ46Ot4_lLo&feature=related

I started the evening watching Michael Buble, feeling all warm and fuzzy (and a wee bit Christmassy). When it finished , I flicked over to BBC and caught coverage of Take That's 'Progress' Tour. It's quite a show. The production that's gone into it is quite astounding. But what a waste! Energy, water, paper....lost count but I had to turn off in the end because it was annoying me so much. I'm probably a killjoy. But it brought to mind scenes from The Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins) - the citizens of the Capitol enjoying outrageously extravagant lifestyles and entertainment at the expense of the poor people who are forced to scratch a living in the outlying Districts. And the point is that a good entertainer doesn't need all that production. Michael Buble was spinetinglingly brilliant, without any strobe lights, flame throwing machines or fountains. And, for that matter, the best moment of the Take That show that I watched was when Robbie Williams sang by himself with nothing to look at but him. Raw energy, a stunning voice, no gimmicks and he had several thousand people right there with him in the moment. The rest of the show was just ridiculous.

To mark the 70th anniversary of Desert Island Discs, you get the chance to save one track from the waves if it were you marooned on the sand. And you get to tell the BBC why.
 
I'm sorry to place such a dilemma at your door, but which ONE track would you choose?

 BBC - Desert Island Discs - Your Desert Island Discs

I chose Baba Yaga's Ball by local band Sheelanagig. An amazingly happy tune that tells a story of a Russian witch who steals children and eats them. It makes me jump up and down to an extent that spells bad news for my ankles.

http://sheelanagig.bandcamp.com/

As I sit at my desk supposedly working but in fact contemplating the nature of cock up, pointless litigation and why I do what I do I have shut the “Friday happy ” banter in this open plan office out, so that I can get a little bit done, by setting my pc to play random tracks into my headphones.

Taking me completely by surprise Jim Croce – “I had to say I love you in a song” just wandered into my ears. This is so embarrassing as I try to secretly mop away the tears without anyone noticing.

I’m such a wuss!

This one’s just for fun and nosiness. The thing is, I’ve noticed quite a few people on the Cloud who paint or draw – and quite a few others who play an instrument or sing. This is scarcely surprising: we may all be wordsmiths, but creativity will often spill into other areas.

But how many? My theory is this: we writers tend to have a second creative area, which will be either musical or visual but probably not both.

There: that gives plenty of room for amiable disagreement.

Do you both paint and play the saxophone? (But where do you get the time?) Or are you a words-only person? Or do you write, draw, sing, dance, make macramé lampshades and insist your garden is the highest form of art – all in between your acting work (and end-of-pier ventriloquist’s engagements)?

Maybe I’ll say what I do; maybe I won’t. But I do urge you to say what you do. Over to you...

I love words.  I love music.  Stravinsky and Picasso collaborated on numerous ballets for Diaghilev and their respective talents cross-fertilised to some extent; painting and music seem to work quite well together and you only have to listen to Debussy to know how beautiful impressionism in music can be – it’s like listening to a painting.  Music has a plot; an abstract one, I grant you, but it’s there.  It has structure.  It shows but doesn’t tell.  There is development of ideas.  It has a beginning a middle and an end and that ending must be satisfying.  It’s written on paper but comes to life in the mind.  On the face of it I see a lot of parallels with what we do.  Richard Strauss devoted an opera to it (Capriccio) concerning the question of which was more important; words or music, but the inherent conflict is, to my mind, misplaced.  The opera ends without answering the question, of course, although Strauss wrote both the words and the music. 

Maybe you’ve tried structuring a book or story like a piece of music.  Perhaps you’ve tried to create a character for whom music is important and informs their perspective.  I have to admit I’ve tried it and it really didn’t work but I’m still tempted by the possibility of doing it successfully.  I’d be interested in other Cloudsters’ views on this.  Have you tried it?  Did it work?  Can there ever be a cross-fertilisation between words and music?

It’s not always fashionable these days to admit to being a fan of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Not fashionable, that is, in certain circles, although there have been times in recent years when the world has kicked back and admitted that you know what, maybe we can allow ourselves a little admiration for a legend.

            Me, I’ve never made any apology for it; I grew up with Bruce, or at least it felt like I did. Listening to the late Roger Scott playing Springsteen bootlegs on Capital Radio because he felt that the world should hear them and realising that here was a songwriter and musician of such importance, such grandeur, that he would always transcend fashions and trendsetter foibles. It was music in its biggest sense, sweeping, cinematic and bold, conjuring Kerouac, Dennis Hopper, Steinbeck and rock and roll in Technicolour widescreen.

            And yesterday the pantone darkened a little as a light went out; Clarence Clemons, Springsteen’s sidekick and sax player for 40 years passed away.

            Clarence –

            The Big Man, the Bruce-proclaimed Master of the Universe –

            Gone.

            This. Is. Important.

            At least it is to me.

            At its finest, Springsteen’s music provides the backdrop to a nation, cramming stories that others would take 200,000 words to tell into four minutes of poetry, poetry that rides waves of guitar and keyboards and a big, crashing rhythm section. They’re stories of the lost and the troubled, stories of the wide-open spaces and highways and turnpikes and the people that travel along or live alongside these lonely, dream-filled, rattlesnake interstates. And much of their ability to connect, musically, to US history comes from the fact that in Clarence, there was man with a sound that gave them an unspoken resonance with music from an earlier era, one of prohibition and jazz clubs and John Coltrane.

            His soaring, joyous sax breaks were the starbursts, the thunder claps, the mile-high rollercoasters that projected a wall of sound up into the night and let it arc across the sky, from state to state and beyond.

            Blaze on, Clarence.

Something struck me the other day and it wasn’t the rocks that children traditionally throw at me either. I have realised, perhaps significantly later than many others, that our era is historically irrelevant. Ok, maybe not irrelevant, maybe... invisible?

Think about it. We are slowly eschewing the tactile physicality of media for the ephemeral nuance that is electronic information. As we abandoned vinyl so are we abandoning CD’s and to what replacement? Media players and downloads.

But what good is an iPod to tomorrow’s archaeologist? Sure, they have a physical object that can be poked and prodded and dissected, but to what end?

As we rapidly run out of oil, plastics with the half-life of Uranium become scarce, and new equipment will be made from bio-oil, grown on plantations around the world predominantly at the expense of the indigenous wildlife and until Orang-utans get a bank account are pretty much persona non grata. Bio-oil has the added disadvantage of attracting swarms of mice and rats to the electronics graveyards as the little critters feast upon version 6 of the iPad. So we will, as we have done in the past, leave scant physical evidence of our entertainment.

Maybe somewhere, in a moisture-free cave deep within the French countryside will be hidden a treasure trove of today’s toys-for-boys (and girls... chortle) and our descendants will, in, say, a thousand years, discover this time capsule and rejoice at the artisan that fashioned such a wondrous device.

But what is the point? Granted, the battery will probably be flat but that can be overcome by a quick boost from the portable thermo-nuclear recharger they carry as a matter of fashion. But once the machine is charged, then what? Ultimately, electronic devices are not going to maintain their state indefinitely so the state of the “toons” or “vids” will be degraded or perhaps just not even there. This is for solid state equipment, but even the old pit-and-plateaux of CD’s/DVD’s would, in that thousand years, become pit-and-more-pits as the metals oxidise or the plastic melts allowing the platinum to leach out at the speed of the ultimate tomato ketchup.

So they can power it up; maybe. Actually... this is unlikely too as time is the great leveller in many respects. Once a sufficient time has passed all the baby atoms in a material, straining like Charles Atlas on steroids (...!) calling out “look at me! Look at me!” and after a thousand years of no-one looking are likely to suddenly, one day say “ah, fuck it. What’s the point?” and relax causing a chain reaction amongst its atomic brethren who all follow suit and what was once bright shiny resistors and capacitors in day-glow colours or moody black become sad tramp-like blobs with their arses hanging out and their taupe duffel coats on back to front.

At least with vinyl you had a chance of playing it back. At least with vinyl you could see, under a microscope (ever done that?) the grooves and deep within those grooves the mountains and valleys that represented the pinnacle of musical talent such as Elvis Presley, The Beatles or... The Sex Pistols. So long, of course, as the temperature remained at a steady state; i.e. room temperature on typical English summers day (not too hot and not too cold but with the threat of rain...). Too cold and the records will become brittle and possibly not recover, and not too hot or you could pretty much drape the bloody things over your arm and create Roman gladiator wristbands (ever done that?)

And then... to be topical for this website... we have books. Books, for their delicate material have a proven track record of, in limited cases granted, survival. Of course, ignoring combustibility, both physical and metaphorical, with content igniting prejudice slightly earlier in the day than the prejudicial igniting a bonfire...

But what of eBooks? Like eMusic, eFilms and eByGum (I made that last one up so don’t go looking for it) the issue for me is, as a wannabe author, fame and fortune today are fine but will become quickly passé, so immortality through prose is my ascendancy. I can rise amongst the immortal and take my place in the pantheon next to Socrates (curiously... does anyone else call him so-crates? No? Must just be me then...), Plato, Homer (the hirsute historian not “Duff!” the tragic buffoon) and JK Rowling (I really must commend her on her choice of moniker; naming herself after an already famous and widely marketable musician was inspired; even I was fooled into picking up the wizard books in the mistaken belief it was Jamiroquai’s (or JK as he is known... for those of a classical bent) autobiography recanting his days as a scarred orphan with a cupboard fixation...)

So what chance do I stand when, one thousand years hence, the media upon which we are currently fixated will need someone to fix its current? The chances of an archaeologist of the future being able to critique my tome and declare “schmah, could do better...” are rapidly disappearing.

And if you think the Internet is eternal, think again. Check out http://info.cern.ch/hypertext/WWW/TheProject.html. It is the first ever web page and it no longer exists in situ. A copy exists, granted, that is two years old, but even that bastion of everything web, Google, does not contain an original copy – but then, why would it? Google didn’t exist in those days. In fact Google didn’t exist in the days of my first foray onto Internet. Now there is scary! (Also Google, whilst phenomenally comprehensive, falls short of having the whole Internet at your fingertips.)

Just a thought.