Monday, October 31, 2011

Always, always, always the sea


Guide Me O Though Great Jehovah; Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise; Finlandia and the 3rd movement of the Karelia Suite by Jean Sibelius; The Intermezzo from the English Folk Song Suite and Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus by Ralph Vaughan Williams; The Queen Bee by the Count Basie Orchestra; Carrion by British Sea Power: If I were to have a funeral to which people would come and pay their respects, they’d have to listen to a CD featuring, in an as-yet undecided order, this selection of tunes. How the Brighton-based purveyors of high-church amplified rock music came to be in such exalted company is something for another place and time, but it speaks volumes for them that they are.

As the clock struck midnight at the end of the first day of GMT, and Sunday became Monday, I arrived home after a tiring and stressful 100-mile round trip to Edinburgh where I had gone to see BSP at the Liquid Rooms in Victoria Street. I was compelled to make this pilgrimage, not by warnings that this would be the last tour for some time, but because of the significance of the venue. On Saturday the 9th of April 2005, the day Prince Charles eventually married Camilla Parker-Bowles, I hopped on a train to our nation’s capital on a damp, spring evening for my first live encounter with a band that the fates and me had conspired to miss on a number of occasions in the previous couple of years. Was last night’s sojourn the final chapter in a five and a half year saga of ups and downs and to and fro and trains and boats and planes (and cars and buses)? I am less sure of the answer, and less secure in my opinions, than I was when I left home just before six o’clock.

I witnessed a mature, sensible, polished, yet jolly performance from a band renowned for its on-stage antics, as much as its music and its passionate, enthusiastic fans. The Liquid Rooms does not lend itself to climbing, jumping, stage diving and other frivolities (I have a vague memory from 2005 of Eamon being trapped at the back of the stage unable to perform his trademark march around the audience with the big drum) and this has an effect on the crowd, which was so subdued that I wondered if they'd all been tranquillised. I didn’t go to the front, to avoid any hearing difficulties but also to avoid the legendary Bill, but it transpired that he had been ejected for urinating against a wall. I presume he couldn’t navigate his way to the toilet. Even one of the staff had no idea where it was!

I arrived too late to see the first support act, Ducks Fly To Moscow, otherwise known as the band’s guitar tech, Malcolm. I also missed most of Electric Soft Parade’s set, but they were sounding better than I have ever heard them. Then it was time.

They opened with Remember Me, not a particularly inspiring rendition, but sometimes it’s a good idea for a band to get its best-known song out of the way before a set of more recent material. Next came We Are Sound, which Scott dedicated to the recently departed Bill. In my belated, initial appraisal of Valhalla Dancehall, this was one of the tracks I resolved to ignore in future and it appears I was more than a tad hasty in arriving at my assessment: having not seen them for over two years, I had not heard any of the album’s songs live and the stage is where this band and its songs can come to life and assume totally new personalities. The immediately recognisable bass introduction to Oh Larsen B was sufficient to warm the cockles of my cold, dead heart, as it brings back wonderful memories of the late-2005 tour.  They followed this with Who's In Control?, which, no matter how many times I hear it, is unlikely to become one of my favourites. Bear from the Zeus EP followed and, again, I had never heard this track live, and it shone in that setting. Neil took centre stage for a trio of songs and opened his mini-set with a complete surprise; Open The Door. I was disappointed not to be treated to Moley and Me or A Lovely Day Tomorrow, as Open The Door is not one of my favourite tracks, but it reminds me so much of one particular gig (New Brighton) and two wonderful people (Deborah and Morgan) that I can’t complain too much about its inclusion. One of the best tracks on Valhalla Dancehall came next, Mongk II, a track ideally suited to a live setting. It was one of my highlights of the evening.

I’ve said it before, in other places, that the ‘easy, easy’ chant annoys me, but last night I came to the conclusion that it distracts (and detracts) from what is one of the best tunes (and lyrics) ever written by Neil and one of the finest tracks ever recorded by BSP, No Lucifer. In another, more enlightened world, this song would have been top of the charts for a long, long time. Next came a song from Open Season, and one that I will always associate with that night in 2005, North Hanging Rock, and this was followed by another one of my non-favourites, Living Is So Easy. It would be ironic if the lyrics weren’t ironic.

Another one I underestimated at the time was Observe The Skies and again my opinion has been changed by hearing it live. This is no bad thing, as it means that I am finally warming to more of what I still believe is a rather incoherent jumble of an album. Their last dip in form occurred, strangely enough, with their second album, the lead single from which was the very Echo and The Bunnymen-like It Ended On An Oily Stage; again, no bad thing, as the Bunnymen were the only band I ever felt similarly about. The (uncharacteristic, and hopefully, temporary) mature, sensible side of the band was obvious during The Spirit Of St. Louis, which was always one of those numbers that provided an excuse for mayhem, both on and off the stage, but not last night. Next came Waving Flags from Do You Like Rock Music and, finally, from the same album, The Great Skua; a flawless performance and a powerful, emotional ending to the set.

After a few minutes, an encore: Apologies To Insect Life, another one of those tunes designed to get the band and audience going; again, not tonight, and finally, Carrion, topped off with All In It.

They think it’s all over. It had better not be.


Saturday, October 29, 2011

Nightmare on Kerrydale Street


It was a dark and stormy night afternoon. It was Halloween weekend (no day is ever alone with rampant consumerism). I saw the Pope, some nuns, a couple of Scooby Doos, a (solitary) 118 and what may or may not have been a panda. Hibernian came as Parma Violets. Celtic masqueraded as a football team. I discovered that time travel is not a thing of Science Fiction or Fantasy; it’s reality, and I’ve just gone back two years.

Last Sunday, Aberdeen came to town. In the equivalent fixture last season, in the presence of Henrik Larsson (King of Kings), Chris Sutton and Lubomir Moravcik, Celtic trounced the Dons 9-0. The crowd chanted ‘we want ten’ and it wouldn’t have taken a gargantuan effort to give the people what they wanted, but the job was done. We all went home elated but under no illusion that we would see anything like that again in our lifetimes. The dismal Mark McGhee limped on for another couple of games before being sacked, and so began the Craig Brown era. Under old Werther’s Originals, Aberdeen FC has hardly set the heather on fire. They’ve learned, as all his teams do, to defend to the point of boredom (and put in the occasional nasty tackle), but they haven’t exactly improved since McGhee’s time. They did, however, win the second half of last season’s League Cup semi-final (well, he is 70, isn’t he?). Celtic put something like 21 goals past the Dons’ keeper last season but we have only managed three in two games this term. After going ahead through a goal from Ki, some amateurish defending allowed Aberdeen back into the game. It took a strike from captain for the day, Charlie Mulgrew, scoring his first Celtic goal at Parkhead, to restore our advantage, but at no time did we look like we were safe. There was even a Halloween prequel, and Steven Moffat couldn’t have come up with a scarier scenario; Glenn Loovens being substituted early on by Daniel Majstorovic. We held on, though and at least there was no post-Europa League slip-up. The league leaders drew at home, so the status quo was maintained.

On Wednesday night, in the League Cup Quarter-Final tie at Easter Road, Celtic went behind and (to all accounts) were lucky not to be down by three or four at half-time. A spirited fight-back resulted in a 4-1 win, but it appears to have come at a cost. If Neil Lennon were to take a seat in the Directors’ box, would he be able to see what I, and many others, can see? It’s not just the ever-growing injury list, and a host of off-form or inept players, it’s the jaded look and the tired legs of men who are being expected to do everything twice a week with no help whatsoever. Joe Ledley, 19-year-old Adam Matthews and James Forrest, who only turned 20 in the summer, are being relied upon too much because of a paucity of talent, heart and endeavour in our current match-day squad. Another 19-year old, new signing Victor Wanyama, has put in a couple of good performances, particularly in the Europa League games in which he has featured, and looks like he could be of use, but apart from them and Charlie Mulgrew, few other players have been what I could call ‘first on the team sheet’.

Gary Hooper is starting to resemble Scott McDonald (who is not a first choice for Tony Mowbray’s revitalised Middlesbrough) and Anthony Stokes is half the player he was last season (which means he’s quarter of the player he should be). As I have said before, Ki should never be a regular starter; Kayal, in particular, is missing Scott Brown and I have finally realised what is ailing Mark Wilson: Dennis Hopper has strapped a bomb to him - if he exceeds two miles an hour, one of his knees will explode! Then there’s Kris Commons: mystery injuries, strange Twitter messages - what’s going on? The team is comprised of (mostly) the same players from last season, so why, apart from there never being the same line-up twice, is there no consistency in performance (apart from their inconsistency which, you have to admit, is consistent)? With seven minutes of regulation time left, there came the last act of a desperate man; Samaras on for Hooper, the same Samaras that Neil said could get him the sack. This time, the Greek was far from top of a very long list.

The sickening thing about today is that a team that has lost stupid goals all season keeps a clean sheet (Big Dan take note) but can’t win the game against a poor Hibs side. I could take it if we were losing to, or drawing with, the likes of Manchester City, or the entertaining and cavalier Norwich City, or even Mowbray’s Boro, but we are doing nothing less than making some of the worst excuses for football teams look so much better than they really are. This coming Thursday, Celtic play Rennes in the Europa League, but next Sunday (eek), they’ll go to Fir Park at lunchtime (double eek) to face in-form Motherwell (triple eek?). The omens are not good. If, God forbid, those Swiss clowns get back into what has been, for Celtic, a curse of a tournament, there will be at least two more games for a team that can barely cope with the ones they have to play domestically.

Last season, Celtic came within a whisker (one goal, for or against, actually) of winning the SPL. They had the best defensive record of any senior, professional team in the entire United Kingdom (and Celtic fan Steve Evans’ Crawley Town). This season, they have lost NINE away goals in the league, alone, and have won only 7 out of 12 SPL matches. The buck stops with the manager. Neil Lennon, the Celtic board and the fans must realise that he is one league defeat away from parting company with the club he loves. Celtic have to win EVERY remaining league game, some very handsomely, in order to win the title. Current, and recent, form suggests that this is beyond both the manager and the players. Stranger things have happened, however, and Celtic’s history is full of tales of derring-do in the face of adversity, but it’s hard to ‘keep the faith’ when sitting in the pouring rain watching THAT, like I did today. Prior to the match there was some protest or other against the Scottish Government’s ‘Offensive Behaviour at Football Matches’ legislation, or whatever it’s called. Talk elsewhere is of our city rivals possibly going into administration and the consequent docking of points (trust me, no harsh, meaningful sanction would ever be taken against them). I think that some people are too easily distracted from the problems that are right in front of their faces, week-in and week-out.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Land of my high endeavour

For my fortieth birthday, I climbed aboard a Ryanair jet and headed for Dublin’s fair city. It took about five minutes to get there and half a day to get back. When I come to write my autobiography (what do you mean ‘you mean this isn’t it?’) the return leg of the journey may well take pride of place, as it is still one of the most exciting things that ever happened to me, for all the wrong reasons, but I digress (as usual).

I never used to support the idea of Scottish independence. I’m British, my ancestors were British (even the Irish ones, whether or not they approved) and I’ve been steeped in British (English) history and culture since I was knee-high to the proverbial grasshopper. Scaremongering wasn't going to work on me. I was never frightened of the prospect of living in a poverty-stricken, Third World country at the back of beyond because I was already living in one. By the time the Scottish National Party was making waves in all those General Elections we had in 1974, I’d already lived through one Wilson administration’s devaluing the Pound and most of the last of our colonies telling the Man from the Ministry to shove it.

Over the years, the SNP’s fortunes at the ballot box waxed and waned (relatively speaking), it had leadership troubles and it made up enough slogans to keep Saatchi & Saatchi in business for a generation. It even expelled the very man who one day would lead it to the brink of achieving its ultimate aim. No, I was against Independence because, as a Glaswegian, the idea of an independent Scotland run by Labour was not only anathema, it was the stuff of nightmares.

At that early age, and for many years after, I resolved that I’d move to England should the split occur, but I was too naïve to realise that the political establishment would never allow it to happen (Independence, not my moving to England). The Tories, friends of the landed gentry (and, in some cases, the actual landed gentry) would never sanction it in case the old duffers found themselves relieved of their grouse moors. To this day, post-Thatcher, the lesser-spotted Tories are only elected to national office in Scotland from rural constituencies and posh Edinburgh postcodes. Labour, on the other hand, has almost always required Scottish MPs to give it a majority (or what passes for one in these days of low turnout) to form a Government and get its legislation on to the Statute Book. In return, Scottish Labour MPs are given power and patronage disproportionate to their ability, their grace and favour benefits bestowed in perpetuity. It’s no wonder that the People’s Party, the party of the workers, the downtrodden and the dispossessed, doesn’t want any man to put asunder, especially when that man is Alexander Elliot Anderson Salmond.

The coach trip from the airport and subsequent perambulations revealed what was to me a hitherto unknown wealth of Georgian and Victorian architecture that made Dublin look like any other British city. For the five days I was there, I found it hard to believe I was in a foreign country, even if that country was, is and always will be inextricably linked to its neighbour across the Irish Sea. The currency was different, the accent was different, the attitude of the people was different, but I could almost feel at home. Of course, a trip to the Post Office in O’Connell Street was sufficient to shake me out of that particular dream, but it also made me think ‘what if?’ What if we had faith enough to step out on our own? What if, for once, we took a risk and decided that we wanted more control over our affairs? What if we grew up and became, in the words of an Irish song, a nation once again?

That time is almost upon us. The SNP won an unexpected landslide victory in May’s Scottish elections, defying the very system that was meant to prevent such an occurrence. Their vote in Aberdeenshire, for example, where they won all of the first-past-the-post seats, was so great that they were even awarded a List seat, an unprecedented event that surprised the victor: he can be seen in video footage as one of a huddle of party workers celebrating in a luminous yellow jacket before he realises that he’s the one who has been elected! 

The party has a clear mandate to govern as it promised in its manifesto. With great power comes great responsibility but none of those returned would claim to be superheroes. What they can claim, however, is that they will be honest with the electorate, and I hope they will be. They have said that there will be a referendum in the second half of the parliamentary term (extended, very considerately by Mr. Salmond, to five years to avoid a clash with the UK General Election in 2015). Even for the hard of thinking, that means that we will not encounter this plebiscite, or have to worry about it, much before 2014.

What’s so wrong with keeping promises made in an election manifesto or during a campaign? I know Labour has trouble with that concept: Tuition fees? Top-up tuition fees? Re-nationalising the railways? If I could be bothered to read their election literature, I could probably have filled this entire blog with their broken promises and their surprise packages. The Tory Health bill alone shows that one half of the Coalition is happy to deceive, and as for the LibDems, playing fast and loose with the truth for the sake of a ride in a Ministerial car is becoming the norm. Not one of them can be trusted to do the right thing, so if the SNP adheres to even a fraction of its manifesto commitments, it will be able to command the moral high ground, with only itself for company.

I do not need such a vantage point to see what is afoot at Westminster. A whispering campaign by vested interests to have London call a referendum on ‘its’ terms is well and truly gathering steam. Salmond and others are playing it cool, up to a point, but this patronising, imperialist attitude cannot go unchallenged indefinitely. If I hadn’t felt that patriotic tingling in Ireland’s capital all those years ago, I would now. If there’s one thing sure to get my dander up, it’s people who poke their nose into my business and tell me what I can and can’t do. Bring it on, Alex.

Finally, for now, the death was announced yesterday of bandleader Edmundo Ros, at the age of 100. As a very small child, I remember hearing him presenting a show on the Light Programme (which became Radio 2). I used to stand in front of the wireless with a pen or pencil and conduct the music he played. There’s one 78rpm record by Edmundo in my mother’s collection, and it was a source of great amusement and delight to me in my early teenage years when I finally got a record player but had nothing of my own to play. It was his rendition of ‘Scotland The Brave’.


Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Down time

I'm bored. I'm the Chairperson of the Bored. I shouldn't be, I've got work to do; reading, writing (this counts, I believe), practising, counting, tidying, relaxing. Did I say 'relaxing'? I'm surprised that word is in my vocabulary. I'm permanently wired (or should that be 'totally wired'?) and the least relaxing time for me is when I know I've got nothing to do.

I listened to an album the other day, 'A Creature I Don't Know' by Laura Marling. How can someone so young sound like she's been alive forever and seen everything and done everything? She's 21! I've not read reviews of it (I heard a track when driving home one night), but I'll wager a few contain the word 'mature'. I'm hearing Joni Mitchell, Jennifer Warnes ('Famous Blue Raincoat' vintage), Joan As Policewoman and someone else I can't recall. She's in good company (apart from the last one, until I find out who she is). I've ignored her (and everyone else; no money for CDs, and no space to store them); unfairly, it seems. What else have I been missing out on?

I went on an impromptu holiday in November 2007. OK, it wasn't a holiday, it was business, music business. After that, I found it difficult to cope with Marc Riley's show being extended to four nights per week, and I've never recovered. I don't mean that I only hear music I might like on his show, but it had become the only place for me (no longer having access to daytime radio) to get exposure to new (and old) bands playing the kind of music I enjoy, as he is a reliable barometer on such matters. I've been forcing myself to tune in recently, and it's beginning to pay dividends, though it is to Hairy Toes herself (Jo Whiley, for non-Mark and Lard types) that I owe thanks for Miss Marling's delightful masterpiece.

I've not really been ignoring Metronomy, having had subliminal images (erm) of them on Marc's show for quite a while. Their CD arrived in the post with the Marling one, and the first half of it is worthy of the Mercury alone. They lost out, as we all know, to the legend that is Polly Jean Harvey. It's all subjective. I've never been a fan of Peej (another M&L-ism, I think) but that doesn't mean that I can't appreciate her artistry. I'd still prefer being locked in a room with Metronomy on a loop, though.

Veronica Falls' album dropped through the letter box today. I've not opened it, yet, and it may have to wait until the weekend. Why hurry? Their predecessors, the Royal We, split up before I could buy anything they released or get to see them, so I'll just play it cool. No point in running for the train after it's pulled out of the station. What's that you say? They're playing in Glasgow on Saturday? Nah. I'm not up to going to gigs anymore. I can turn the volume down on the CD player.

I've no idea what happened to my musical life. It's not just because I'm old or have wonky ears or loved one band too much. I don't want to go back in time, I just want to get back to a place where I can feel. I'll leave you (whoever YOU may be) with these words by Leonard Cohen

'...and if you ever come by here
for Jane or for me...'

Imagine Jennifer Warnes singing it. I do, frequently. It has a strange effect on me, just as it should.


Sunday, October 16, 2011

Cleaning out the rooms


If Kim and Aggie walked through my front door (probably not together, as they no longer speak) they’d be appalled. This whole place is a disgrace, and not even the proprietor of a crack den would lower himself to live here. My work/life balance is wrong (call it unbalanced); five days there and two days here, barely enough time to do anything. It’s all about priorities, though. Why do housework when you can waste time blogging, tweeting, watching the telly, going out or, God forbid, sleeping? Why do it when, as Kim or Aggie (probably Kim, though it could have been Aggie) would say, it’s like polishing a turd? It’s not much of a house to come over all house-proud about and not much of a home to get all homely about. It is, however, where all my stuff is.

I reacquainted myself with the vacuum cleaner a couple of hours ago and took it for a walk around my bedroom. It’s now cleaner and a little tidier than when I eventually fell out of bed around noon. There’s still not enough room to swing the proverbial cat (metaphorically; I am NOT related to Cat Bin Lady). Ideally, everything needs to come out and only some of it should go back in, but where would I put everything else? I’ve already got hundreds of books in the attic (I’m not sure this is an exaggeration, actually) and a large cupboard I can barely get a big toe into. I tend to have a bit of a clearout of (ill-fitting) clothes after Christmas (because I’m on holiday at that time) and head for a charity shop or two, but there’s only so much you can discard before you start to chip away at what’s left of your identity.

Earlier, I stayed in bed long enough to try and clean out some other rooms; the nooks and crannies in my mind where the ideas go after I’ve thought of them. I found about a dozen lurking under floor boards and in priest holes and at the back of a large wardrobe (sans lion and witch) and committed them to paper before Alzheimer’s kicked in. Who knows when, if ever, they’ll be developed? After all, it’s taken nearly five and a half years to get started with this!

“What about the weekend?”, you say. Very kind of you to ask, so I shall bore you with it. I had another mad dash to a cash machine on Friday on the way to the first (official) recital in Milngavie Music Club’s new season. I missed the free, extra one a month ago due to a dose of the galloping heebeegeebees, so I was relieved to finally make it to Cairns Church where I was relieved of my subscription and where, instead of the flowers on a stand, two standard lamps (floor lamps, for any young ‘uns reading) are strategically placed near the musicians to help them read their parts in the dark. This month’s performers were the Fidelio Trio, and they treated those assembled to Schumann’s Piano Trio No. 1 in D Minor, something by Scottish composer Alasdair Nicholson (which verged on the plinky-plonky*), Percy Grainger’s ‘Colonial Song’, which I quite liked, and Ravel’s Piano trio, which I also quite liked. For an encore, they played something about meerkats by a South African composer. Well, it was different. I went to Tesco on my way home, but was dismayed to find that they didn’t have any Cornflakes.

I was forced to have toast for breakfast on Saturday. I know I have to rethink my breakfast fare, as neither are very filling and almost always lead to mid-morning snacking or the overpowering desire for a sugar rush at lunchtime, but I hate porridge and don’t have time to ‘cook’ anything more substantial. Yet again, I left home over an hour later than planned and headed for M&S via the local Royal Mail sorting office, where I picked up some top secret documents that may either change my life or confirm what everyone already knows about me (ask me in three months time). After some over-expensive food was purchased and transported back to the car, I went to the Mitchell Library, though not for the seminar on the Spanish Civil War. One of these days, I’ll find out about such events well in advance and buy a ticket.

I read for a while, from a book about understanding what Shakespeare was on about, but couldn’t help checking Twitter or the radio for news from Rugby Park. I needn’t have bothered. Somehow or other, my team decided that they’d like to go in at half-time 3-0 down to the team second bottom of the league. With one or two exceptions, noted below, performances have been poor this season, so far, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who would like to know why. I expected to tune in an hour or so later to hear that the manager had resigned or been fired, but the news was slightly better, a 3-3 draw. This time last season, before the (comparatively minor) slump that cost the league title, they’d lost one game, not three, and didn’t draw until the disastrous last minute shambles against Dundee United on the 20th of November. They are now ten points adrift of the leaders and sit third in the table. It’s not an impossible position but an embarrassing one when you consider that we have almost the same match-day squad of players, the same guys who played some wonderful football last season, ultimately with very little reward. Questions are being asked, but no answers have been forthcoming up to now. Round 2 of the SPL begins next week against Aberdeen. I shudder to think what the outcome will be.


*Standard musicological term for tuneless crap

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Winners and losers

What’s the significance of the 12th of October? On this day in 1973, we got a colour telly. Not only were we waving a belated goodbye to the black and white era on that Friday afternoon, but we were also bidding our old 405-line set a not-very-fond farewell and replacing it with one that had BBC2! I don’t recall many details about it, other than my being unable to move from it for hours, but I could easily jog my memory by going to the Mitchell Library and asking to see copies of the Radio Times from back in the day. I had never seen ‘The High Chaparral’, ‘Alias Smith and Jones’, snooker or ‘The Old Grey Whistle Test’ (or whatever), so I was like a kid in a sweet shop or, to be more accurate, a TV shop. Gone were the days of my standing and drooling outside electrical retailers, wishing we could afford a new set. Gone also were the days of struggling to get a picture with a broken set-top aerial, as we now had one on the roof!

One final indignity from a few weeks before ‘colour’ saw me standing by the TV, holding the aerial in the air, whilst we tried to follow Scotland’s World Cup qualifying game against Czechoslovakia. We won that game 2-1, and so went through to the finals in Germany in the summer of ’74. Those were the days (relatively speaking), and such achievements are as distant a memory as a 405-line black and white TV that got us through ‘Dad’s Army’, ‘The Forsyte Saga’, ‘The Avengers’, ‘’Til Death Us Do Part’, ‘Steptoe and Son’, ‘Doctor Who’, and countless other great British classics. Losing to the current World and European champions is nothing to be ashamed of. Playing 4-6-0 is, as is selecting players who don’t get a game for their clubs. Things might have been different if the sons of those Czechs hadn’t cheated at Hampden a few weeks back. Fourteen years without a sniff of a major tournament is too long for a country that lives for its football. The countdown to Craig Levein’s departure begins today. He has a maximum of two years to get us at least as far as a play-off, which is the best we can hope for, or he, too, will be history.

Something else that looks like it is about to go the way of the dodo is the National Health Service. When Cameron said that the NHS was safe with the Tories, it appears that he meant it was safe for plundering by private (probably foreign) companies, speculators and asset strippers. Britain’s poor will have to do as their ancestors (from pre-1948) did; check how much money they have in their wallets or piggy banks before going to hospital, getting a prescription or even visiting a GP, or they’ll have to go to the council or churches or charities and beg for money. This isn’t scaremongering; this is recent history, family history and, in some households, living history, unless, of course, you’re Cameron or Osborne or the Peers who today refused to back Lord Owen’s amendment.

In Scotland, we still have an NHS. None of these reforms will see the light of day north of the border (and, hopefully, not in Wales), but they could come back to bite us in the consequentials. Every day, in every way, the Tory-led UK Government shoots itself in the foot. It’s a pity that, for reasons of self-interest, Labour does not support Independence for Scotland. We need a united front against these ideological attacks on the NHS and the Welfare State. In the meantime, let’s just hope that someone in Salmond’s office is keeping a list of words and deeds that, one day, we may use as the key to Independence; not a bitter or bloody separation from like-minded people in England, but the building of a thoughtful and compassionate country where no Tory will ever again hold the reigns of power.

Finally, here’s this week’s rehearsal report. Tuesday night was meant to be Handel night. We should have been getting stuck into ‘Zadok the Priest’ (now, now), but we digressed. Fresh from last week’s triumphant BBC SSO performance of the Tchaikovsky, which over half of our lot attended, we played the entire 4th movement all the way through (at a much slower tempo, obviously). Having survived that, we tackled bits of ‘Finlandia’ but without any brass present! My abiding memory of the first meeting, my first time ever in a musical ensemble of any description, was how it sounded when deconstructed section by section, and the power of the brass was all too evident. Without it, in a much smaller room, it may be easy on the ear, but I’d rather have it than not. I promise never to criticise brass players again, no matter how much they deafen me, or how often they go to the pub!

Saturday, October 08, 2011

Who knows where the time goes?

Blogging is not an efficient use of my time. On second thoughts, TYPING is not an efficient use of my time. I spend far too long correcting typographical errors and not enough time expressing myself. I need a secretary.

I also need a laundry maid. Surveying this room, trying not to dwell on the large, growing heap of dirty clothes, and remembering last week's iron catastrophe, I can't help thinking that my body will be strained and my soul will go hungry for as long as this clutter remains unattended. I just can't get out of bed in the morning. It's cold, it's dark and I don't get enough sleep. I could stop going out, I suppose....

It's easy to take the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra for granted. They're so good that I forget to enthuse about them as often as I should, but just once in a while they turn in a performance that blows my socks off ('Pictures At An Exhibition' a couple of years ago, Janacek's 'Sinfonietta', and so on). If the aforementioned Schubert 8, the 'Unfinished', and Tchaikovsky 4 were the bread, Prokofiev's Piano Concerto No. 3 was the very satisfying filling in a thrilling and delightful musical sandwich that I suspect had everyone in the audience skipping out of the doors of the City Halls at the end of the evening. Those who were able to stay for a while after the concert proper were treated to some of the Orchestra's principals and the young Russian pianist Denis Kozhukhin's rendition of Prokofiev's Overture on Hebrew Themes. My faith in music restored, I skipped off home to watch 'Question Time' and found myself rapidly descending into the torpor I had been in prior to 7:30pm.

I'd have preferred not to get out of bed on the Friday morning, but I had to. I'd have preferred not to go out at night and, this time, I had a choice. I plucked for a recital by pianist James Willshire, the opening concert in Kilmardinny Music Circle's season. I love these little evenings, and find the tall stand with the vase of flowers placed at the side of the stage very endearing. I keep expecting Hinge and Bracket, or even Armstrong & Miller, to enter stage left and give us a song or two. Young James played a couple of things by Scarlatti followed by Schubert's Impromptus (is that the correct plural?), a number of which I had heard before. After the interval, one of the local up-and-coming musicians (who turned out to be the daughter of composer Sally Beamish) treated us to a couple of traditional tunes on the clarsach then Mr. Willshire returned to play short pieces by Scottish composers Rory Boyle and Ronald Stevenson, as well as something by Lizst, which made him (Lizst) sound melodramatic and utterly bonkers, which I suppose he was, or Ken Russell would not have made a film about him.

Saturdays aren't much better than weekdays at the moment, so it's always good to get out and do something interesting like going to the library, eating half one's body weight and seeing the annual production by the Glasgow Light Opera Company. They don't do any opera these days, light or otherwise, as there's not much demand for it, but they're starting to do a very good line in musicals. This year, it was my favourite British musical, 'Me and My Girl'. Last year, it was my favourite American one, 'Calamity Jane'. The company has come a long was since I first saw them doing the latter in 1992, helped (mostly, but sometimes hindered) by an increasing number of young people developing an interest in musicals. I came to love 'Me and My Girl' on a trip to London earlier in the same year, when I think the lead was Les Dennis. I'd rather have seen Bryan Conley, but I was too late for that. It's funny, some would say camp, and very English, and it's a refreshing change from even the best American shows, though not as slick. GLOC is an amateur company, and you have to make allowances for that in terms of the acting and singing, but the enthusiasm of the performers never fails to compensate for any faults the most cynical of critics would find with such a production.

Do three good outings compensate for the mess this place is in? At the moment, yes. Tomorrow, I may not look upon it so favourably.

Tuesday, October 04, 2011

It's a cat's life

According to Britain's answer to Imelda Marcos, Theresa May, an illegal immigrant was allowed to stay in the country because he had a cat. Last week, it was revealed that the estranged wife of some LibDem MP kidnapped a kitten from a house she claimed to part own. When you add to this the tale of the mad woman who threw a cat in a wheelie bin, our inscrutable furry friends have been in the news for all the wrong reasons. If I had time, I'd trawl the Internet for even sillier cat pictures than one normally finds out there; like this, for example:


I've tried to avoid coverage of the Tory conference, even more than I tried to avoid the LibDem and Labour events over the last two weeks. I figured that if I heard the phrase 'we're all in this together' one more time, I'd throw a heavy object at the telly. This wouldn't be a good idea, as I'd not be able to replace it due to the pay freeze and the upcoming industrial action, only one of which would be happening if this mob had never been born. The cat business almost got me interested. On the BBC News website this evening, we have the headline 'Theresa May in deportation cat flap'. I wonder if she's having kittens about the tomorrow's newspaper reaction, or that of her boss.

In other news, the orchestra had another go at the fourth movement of the Tchaikovsky. Just in case any of us has no idea what it's meant to sound like, the BBC SSO will be playing that symphony and Schubert's 'Unfinished' on Thursday evening.

Sunday, October 02, 2011

How far we have come

This blog is about opinions, my opinions. It's not the scene of my acting out any delusions you may think I possess about being a journalist; an arts critic or an expert on football or politics. I can only say that I did or didn't enjoy something, or that I like or dislike something or someone, and, in a limited fashion, I may even say why. It is not dressing those opinions as facts; I leave that sort of thing to other people.

When I can afford the time and/or money, I go out, ostensibly to ‘have fun’, but primarily to convince myself that the world is not the uninspiring, miserable place the daily grind would suggest. I go to concerts (classical and jazz); I go to football (which is, at the moment, uninspiring and depressing); I visit art galleries, museums and castles; I go out bird-watching. The theatre has been somewhat neglected in the past few years, so it is unusual for me to have attended two plays in almost as many weeks. This is an example of what I alluded to earlier; it’s a recounting of my experience, not a review.

I don’t know much about Ena Lamont Stewart, or about the left-wing inspiration behind the plays written and produced by the Glasgow Unity Theatre in the late 1940s. I had, however, seen the title ‘Men Should Weep’ before, associated with the theatre company 7:84. If I cast my mind back to the 80s, and Glasgow’s Mayfest, I’m amazed that I’ve never seen the play, though I do recall seeing 'The Gorbals Story' (not that I recall anything about it).

The play is set in a tenement flat in Glasgow’s East End during the depression of the 1930s. The man of the house, in common with many others, is out of work, and the burden of providing for the family falls on the mother and immediate relatives, with a little help from neighbours, and charity in the form of the local church mission. It’s a slice of gritty, social realism that could almost be treated as nostalgia (even I remember my elders talking in a form of the Glaswegian dialect more akin to auld Scots than the alien language spoken by some of the ‘less-fortunate souls’ who inhabit the poorer areas of the city today), and, in between the undoubted misery, it depicts community spirit and family cohesion (with obvious exceptions like the feckless son and his grasping wife, or the daughter who was the apple of her dad’s eye but grew up and turned to prostitution, or being a ‘kept-woman’, to escape her embarrassing family circumstances) to a degree Cameron and his friends on multi-millionaires row could only dream about for their sham of a ‘Big Society’. I saw a revised version; in the original version, life, and the play itself, were far more harrowing.

The most uplifting aspect was a sign that life was beginning to improve for the Morrison family once John had found regular employment, but it was also sad to think that many of the men of that era only escaped their grinding poverty by joining the armed forces when the war came along, leaving plenty of jobs for anyone else who wanted to work. Living standards eventually increased, the Welfare State became a safety net for some (and a crutch for others, in time) and slowly, over a number of years, the country got back on its feet. Yet I remember visiting a relative in 1970 and having to use a ‘stair-heid lavvy’.

Something went horribly wrong in Glasgow. The money was supposed to be there, but the poverty has never really gone away, we just have poor people in slightly better houses, a thin veneer of respectability. Leaving aside the Scottish Parliament and Government for another time, we still have a Labour council in Glasgow and we have in Westminster, as in the 1930s, a coalition including ‘Liberals’. Then, there was a schism followed by some traitors going off and joining the Tories. Are we on the verge of history repeating, in the same way, in so many ways? I couldn’t help thinking that with welfare reform, rampant unemployment, and the ideological desire to destroy the public sector, the themes and setting of this play could transfer seamlessly to the latter years of this decade or into the next; a terrifying vision of the future.

The strong women were the stars of this, much like they tended to be in Coronation Street of old, and it came as a shock to me that Lorraine McIntosh, in the lead role of Maggie Morrison, is a better actress (albeit in this context) than a singer, bearing in mind that, in a former life, she was the bimbo backing singer in that most superfluous of shit, pointless bands, Deacon Blue. Praise must also go to the woman who played her sister Lily; Julie Wilson Nimmo, better known as Miss Hoolie from Balamory. In between scenes, we were also treated to songs from well-known folk singer Arthur Johnstone, who also had a bit part as a removal man, in this, his first acting role.

As I made my way to the Citizens Theatre for the matinee performance of this National Theatre of Scotland production, I drove close by those who were marching from Glasgow Green to Kelvingrove Park in a protest against the Tory cuts. They were heading in the opposite direction to me. They always used to, but now I am on their side, though yesterday it was only in spirit.

Saturday, October 01, 2011

May I just say...

...I love being so spectacularly wrong, especially when it makes me laugh so much.

Predictions in an envelope...

As I start to type this, I am, like everyone else, twelve hours from the end of this series of Doctor Who. It might be fun to try and second guess Steven Moffat, but it's also futile. I'm not clever enough to have predicted how the Pandorica two-parter was going to play out. If I was, I'd not have felt the onset of a headache every time I've thought about it since. I don't expect that anything I'm about to write will be in the same universe, never mind the same ball park, but here goes.

Based on the Sky TV Guide's description of tonight's (last-ever?) Doctor Who Confidential, there appears to be a (major?) plot development concerning River Song. Why do I think this? Well, why would the bulk of it be about River and/or Alex Kingston? Does this mean the end of the character? It shouldn't, as she died the first time we saw her, giving her life for The Doctor, who then 'saved' her in the Library (though, worringly, he did leave her diary for all to see). There is a bit of a pattern here; her saving him, him saving her. Presumably she saves his soul this time, turning him away from arrogance and violence (I'm still thinking that he saves his own body by substituting a, possibly more stable and sophisticated, Flesh avatar). So, if not her leaving then what? Another theory I've had for a while is that she is sent to prison (for killing the best man she's ever known, more of which later), but for her own protection, aranged by The Doctor, which might explain her ability to 'escape often enough, thank you'. She said that she had a promise to live up to. To The Doctor? To the Governor of the prison? To Amy and Rory? It appears to to me that she can look after herself (once she breaks free of Kovarian's control), and it's obvious that she's a risk taker, so escaping from prison would be a challenge she'd relish. Being able to do it at will, though, would have to have been agreed with someone in authority. Stormcage always makes me wonder just who Prisoner Zero was/is, and why it wanted to live in Amy's house.

To cut to the chase, something significant has to happen, or be hinted at, this evening. Who does it concern, particularly if it isn't River? Well, there has to be more to Rory than meets the eye. He says some unexpected, intelligent things, at times, and neither The Doctor nor Amy always pick up on them. He has two sides to his character; Rory the dithering suitor/boyfriend/husband and Rory the Roman, the boy who waited, the Last Centurion. No official confirmation of Arthur Darvill's continued participation in the series has been reported, so will he die (again), instead? Many girls and women will alway think of their dad as the best man they've ever known, and I picked up on that in 'Flesh and Stone', thinking it could mean The Doctor or her father, and no viewer knew it was Rory back then. Arthur has been wonderful as the straight man to Matt's ever-improving comedian, so I'd still love to see Rory reacting to River snogging The Doctor with what one would expect to be his fatherly concern for his errant daughter. I hope he's not out for too long, as both the character and the actor have only served to enhance this wonderful series and cast.

There appears to have been some sort of confirmation that Karen Gillan will be back, which means that she won't be staying in that house (for protection) or any other house, and will be back in the Tardis before too long. I do think, however, that it's not nice in a show written for 8-year olds, even in Science Fiction, to take a child from a young couple and not give them anything in return. So, for Amy, perhaps another baby is on the way? Either due to this, or the possible death of Rory (or loss by other means, cos you're not telling me we've had the real Rory all this time?), she tells The Doctor, he scans her, just to re-assure himself, and there's a happy ending all round (perhaps with some bittersweet connotations to which I have just alluded). She says farewell and then The Doctor takes River to prison in the Tardis, but the scanner is still on and he inadvertantly discovers something that River isn't telling him. It would explain these lines from 'A Good Man Goes To War'; 'Oh look, your cot, not seen that in a long time' (or something like that). Amy lived in the Tardis, and she hadn't seen a cot, so how did River see it (unless future Amy is travelling in the Tardis with another baby)? I'd also like to see 'Picnic at Asgard', perhaps ending with 'I've something to tell you'. Why not?

If Moffat wants any help with pushing River's story along, I'm here. All joking aside, though, the break up of what he himself described as a family will be hard for many of us to take. Moffat has made Russell T's show infinitely better, and has even managed to improve upon last year. This series has to end with something tantalising to bring the punters back next year and what better way, after a series or more riddled with themes like redemption and fatherhood, than to redeem The Doctor with impending fatherhood (with the baby to be raised by Amy and Rory)? Clearly, he won't have a clue how it happened! Cue end titles.

Seriously, Steven, I'm only a phone call away.