I should be in Dublin with Elena and Rod today, which is just as well considering my current guest here: Barry is shy. He's also an artist. We may have been standing next to each other at the big Rothko exhibit at the Tate Modern a few years back, both gazing in rapt awe, but not noticing one another. No, we had to run into each other on Twitter. Fortunately, we did. He's even put in a tentative foot into the Facebook world, though he tends to post a few pictures and then run off again. He can be coaxed out again with sweets, I have discovered.
1. What's the first thing you do upon waking in the morning?
Turn the computer on.
2. What's a song you might be persuaded to dance to?
Dress - PJ Harvey.
3. Where in the world do you live?
Mainly but not exclusively in my head.
4. What's a great night out for you?
No such thing as a great night out at my age :-) (I might be lying)
5. What's a great night in?
A great night in of course means drawing and books and sweets and more
books and more drawing and sweets and music. Did I mention sweets ? Hope
so.
6. If you were offered an all expenses paid trip anywhere in the world, where would you go?
Rajasthan.
7. What book do you wish everyone would read so you could talk about it?
Proust.
8. What movie makes you cry?
Magnolia (but only once).
9. What makes you laugh?
I Heart Huckabees.
10. Are there fairies at the bottom of your garden?
Not under that much concrete I should think.
Or they're suffering if they are o_O! Thank you for letting me bully you into this :-) Here's a lovely photo Barry took: beautiful. And hey, it's Peter Cook's birthday.
Saturday kicked off another trip to the Big Smoke with the aim of seeing Mr Moore and his compatriots re-imagine a journey through the English. Apropos, non? We took the train into Liverpool Street station and then stopped at Hamilton Hall for a pint and lunch with Ruth. I love burgers with slabs of real bacon on top! Even better to enjoy them in the opulence of an old hotel ballroom. Mr Murphy headed off for the finer establishments of Whitechapel, while Ruth and I headed toward the Tate Mod.
We stopped at St. Paul's on the way, to see how the Occupy London folks were doing. Wonderful to see so many exhortations to social justice and reminders that this was a peaceful protest (regardless of what the Oakland police might think). Glad to see the scaffolding around the church gone, but somehow wonderful to see all the tents and the people speaking from the steps with power and conviction. St. Paul's was built upon a temple of Diana, so no surprise the hunter goddess inspires the urge to fight back.
We had fun watching the Tacita Dean film piece in the turbine hall at the Tate Modern, even more so watching the people watch it. One kid tried to leap over the waves, another tried to capture the falling bubbles. We headed up to the Rothkos -- my weakness! Fortunately, Ruth is also fond of them. We sat for quite a time in that quiet place chatting. Ruth is a fascinating woman who's lived in France for some years though now based in London for a time. She repairs vintage fans -- what a rare skill! She's also designing scarves and does botanical painting. I'm always in awe of people who can do tangible things (like the rest of my family). I'm all thumbs.
We headed up to the Barbican in a cool clear London eve. I was really lucky with weather, bringing the sunshine with me, of course! Disappointing to find that there was a pre-concert talk we missed and that Shirley Collins was ill and wouldn't be performing, but the show made up for those minor sighs. Front row seats! How to describe it all? JB Priestly's English Journey mashed up with "Northamptonshire Peasant Poet" John Clare's own journey from the asylum in Essex to his home, thinking he was going to meet his dead first love, and the paintings of Turner and Martin. Sinclair looking like a librarian (to me anyway :-) reading from his own works of travel and place, Alan -- in his peacock blue long coat with sparkly paisleys and those spotted shoes, looking elegant -- reading from Voice of the Fire as well as Clare's own works with his usual arresting delivery. The video pieces set the scene, from London to Newcastle, where poet Tom Pickard brought the audience in the second half. The music -- both live and recorded -- featured Susan Stenger on flute and samples, Steve Tyler on hurdy-gurdy, Andy May on border pipes (which looked like Uilleann pipes) and the amazing FM Einheit on percussion.
You know what a sucker I am for percussion (Evelyn Glennie rocks!) but Einheit was a madman! Tapping and pounding on a big sheet of steel, later hammering and drilling on it too as well as throwing buckets of pebbles (I got hit by one :-) and then breaking cement blocks on it, too, with the hammer and then with the bits of block. Wonderful! He also played upon a huge steel coil. I loved it. He also had great hair and an amazing profile. Magnificent show. Very pleased.
Sunday was more leisurely: up early to watch the All Blacks win the Rugby World Cup. Love the Haka! Watched the Bukowski doco, Born into This, then I was allowed to visit Murphy's local where Americans were rare. They seemed to think I was all right for a Yank. Later we watched The Guard which many people have recommended to me which was fun. The Monday morning flight was a bit too early, but that's the jet-setter life, eh?
Because no one would want to travel ruthlessly, surely: I zipped off to London this weekend because I could. Is there any better reason? Well, I suppose fun and a couple of Alan Moore performances were also a good reason. I got in rather late, so Friday also got a late start but my pal Murphy and I kicked things off with a good English breakfast in Essex before meeting up with his mates in the pub, three of whom came to London with us to see the performance at the Horse Hospital.
It's a fascinating venue with an interesting history and provided a great space for an unusual performance. After a visit to the pub next door, The Friend at Hand, the guys were just happy there was a bar (although the ringing sound of empty bottles on concrete punctuated a few moments awkwardly). The opening act was the Scots singer MacGillivray. I'm not sure I'd envy anyone who had to share a bill with Moore, but it was a challenge to get into the mannered performance of overly earnest aggressively retro sensibilities. She announced after the first song it was for a wee child who died in 1842; while the Essex men may have led the giggles, they were not alone. It's the kind of thing that Dame Darcy and Rasputina do quite successfully with humour as well as a sense of the macabre. It probably didn't help that there were a number of rolling beer bottles as she sang about stoning mermaids, "wolf waters" and "steaming the eyes of hope."
Alan came out with his usual aplomb and fancy black & white spotted shoes. He introduced the reading by saying we seemed too nice a group to hear it cold, so he spoke a little about Jerusalem and its unbridled growth, now "bigger than the bible and, I hope, better" before turning to the chapter he would be reading from which had to do with angels, or as they were known in the novel, "builders" (a more neutral term). In part his depiction of the archangel Michael came from the image of the archangel atop the Northampton church bearing his name, which Moore says carries a snooker cue. He introduced his ideas about the afterlife, dismissing the typical depiction of heaven. "All that marble," Moore said, cocking an eyebrow at the audience, "It's a bit middle class." Instead he posited the idea that our lives repeat without our knowledge, taking us back to our happinesses over and over, "So, hello again."
The reading held the audience spellbound, rushing from onomatopoeic whoomphs to the builders' ambivalence about their charges and the nature of the all-encompassing holy perspective. Good stuff: I can't wait to read the novel -- well, when he finally decides it's done. The audience responded with laughter and close attention and sent him off with enthusiastic applause. While coming out of the loo afterward, I heard my name and turned to find Ruth, a fellow member of the Kraken, the Russell Hoban gang. She had seen my post on Facebook about the event and decided it sounded fun. She recognised me from my picture :-) I asked her to join us, then peeked around the corner to see if I could chat with Alan. Fortunately he was still there, so we had a chat and I mentioned finally meeting Pádraig last weekend as well as the Marvelman-like curse on his Marvelman book: Alan joked that maybe he should write a book about Pádraig's book and create a kind of infinite repeating loop. I mentioned I'd be seeing him the next night at the Barbican. Yes, got a hug and a kiss, too.
Ruth joined us and we all headed out for a tasty Indian meal then dropped by the Bree Louise for a pint before they closed. Then we hopped the last train back to Harlow, another late night. I'll have to write up the second day a bit later as this has grown long: more Moore, Occupy London at St. Paul's (the photo above from the old UK phone so poor quality), Rothko and Ruth. Anon!
For the full list of Friday's Forgotten (or neglected or insufficiently trumpeted) Books, see Patti Abbott's blog. If you're in need of reading material, there are always wonderful suggestions.
I remember when Marko asked if I had got The Fallenyet and I said, "Nah, I'm really only interested in MES, don't think I'll be interested." But then my editor Simon at the Spectator sent me a copy of the updated edition and suggested I follow the author Dave Simpson on Twitter and, well, they were right. This is an amazing book about a singular band and the obsession it provokes -- which really is all about Smith. Shot through the main narrative is also Simpson's account of the unraveling of his own relationship as his obsession with tracking down the dozens of former Fall members grows. He finally realises he has hit bottom when he finds himself listening to -- and liking -- Phil Collins songs:
What greater slur can a man carry than admitting to listening to Phil Collins?
The tale begins and ends and really never travels too far from the enigmatic frontman (whose autobiographical tome I have also written about for FFB). Many of the Fallen have gone on to success on their own -- Brix Smith is a fashionista, Mark Riley a popular DJ, Julia [Nagle] Adamson head of Invisible Girl Records -- but so many expressed a willingness to return to the fold should the boss ever ask them to do so, despite the acrimony that often accompanied their departure. Smith's philosophy gets likened to a football coach, an intimidating schoolmaster and an experimental psychologist, who thinks, "routine is 'the enemy of music'" and that regular shake-ups help keep the team on their toes (as does fiddling with their instruments and equipment on stage in the midst of a show.
While people like to celebrate groups like the Rolling Stones that have been together since the Pleistocene era (yawn) because they don't want their favourite things to change, Smith has managed a musical sleight of hand by means of constant if unpredictable change. He's famously claimed that even if it's "me and your granny on bongos" it's still the Fall and he's right. A Simpson realises,
...for all the hiring and firing in the group, the person most feeling the pressure of carrying the legend like The Fall is Smith -- because, after all, it's his reputation on the line.
By the end of the book, there's a distorted collage of the genius behind the band. Smith seems to grow and change, to be all things to all people, a "God" to some and "the boss" to others, a trusted friend and an unruly psychopath. But singular -- and indeed genius. The Fall are musical Marmite, but I think anyone who loves the music scene will find this book riveting as it delves into the 70s, 80s, 90s and noughties. It's an amazing tale well told by Simpson. Highly recommended.
I won't say I flew into Manchester instead of Heathrow in June just to see The Fall, but once I realised the opportunity existed -- well, no way I was going to pass it up. Besides, I'd never visited Manchester and had the chance to meet up with a couple of friends, so it was all good. I should add that I don't have the set list, I just swiped it from one of the guys on the forum.
Moho Live looked like any of a million subterranean venues, painted black and kept in the dark because if you saw what it looked like in the light you would be horrified. No ticket stub: it's all digital now. The woman from Action Records was there with all the merch. I passed up on the chance to get the blue lyrics book (I'll give in one of these days, but £30?!) but I got a t-shirt for Marko and some badges for us both.
There are so few female Fall fans that I never had to wait in line at the loo. Those who know me well will know how significant that fact is. When I met up with fellow female Fall fan Julie in Leicester (who friended me after reading my Spectator piece on the Fall) it was good to talk to another woman who has the madness.
The first band hit the stage in a squall of noise, pseudo-punks whose name I did not catch though I immediately regretted leaving my earplugs in the hotel room. A thrashing, assaultive barrage requiring only that they all play as loudly and as fast as possible. Yawn. I wandered around crowd-watching and texting Marko just to make him envious share the excitement.
The second band intrigued even as they were starting up. Scumbag Philosopher (no, not a promising name, but oh well) drummer Anne Reekie had just a two piece kit, accentuated by fairy lights, including some hanging out of her pockets. I loved her playing. They started out with a "cut-rate" John Cooper Clark intro which got the audience going. Fun, odd stuff -- check them out. I can see why MES chose them.
Of course the buzz only grew after that, especially once they unfurled the Fall backdrop: a guitar-playing cowboy. I fought my way up near the stage because I just had to do it, though I knew I wouldn't last long. I kept close to a bunch of old geezers, clearly long time fans, who helped keep the obnoxious drunk young guys in check. Quiet menace in action: I was impressed with the polite but utterly unflinching threat when he turned to the stupid kid who'd been shoving people around him and laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "You're going to stop that now."
After what seemed like an impossibly long time, at last the band came out and it sounded like a jet had landed in the tiny club. Hometown crowd, eh? The space in front of the stage began to sway wildly and slam back and forth, erupting even further when MES came out -- just a roar of delight. The old curmudgeon even looked pleased for a moment before hiding it behind a scowl, launching into the new song "Cosmos" with gusto. He looked good: much healthier than the first time I saw them.
I lasted the first two songs and then had to stagger out of the madness and find a new vantage point. Deafened, dripping with sweat but grinning because -- well, just because. I took up a position on the exit stairs which put me on eye level with MES. I was thirty feet away instead of five but I could breathe -- and more importantly -- stand. It was fantastic. I won't give the blow by blow (check the forums for that in abundance) but they were on: the band working, heads down, unsmiling except for Elena who was grinning and having a grand time. MES pottering around the stage adjusting this and that, keeping the band on their toes and sticking his tongue out at Elena and even occasionally addressing the crowd. "Funnel of Love" really seemed to get the crowd going (such a catchy rockabilly tune) and "Psychik Dance Hall" roared along. It was odd that the band came out on stage eventually for an encore but MES stayed back stage -- odd, but not unprecedented. We all left deafened, dripping and vibrating from head to toe.
"That's all you need to know about tonight," a woman said in the toilets after the show, pointing to her mud-spattered, sandal-clad feet. Yep.
I will get to the Fall concert, but anon. Earlier in the day I had a fabulous lunch with Hannah Priest who ran the Werewolf Women Conference last fall and will be part of the Gender and Punishment Medieval Conference in January (which I'll probably go to since I'll be near by). We had a great chat about academia—and how to survive it successfully—publishing and her new murder-mystery company. Always glad to get to know other dynamic women :-)
Saturday morning I caught the train to London, but once I got there, I hopped on the tube and headed out to Epping with the final destination Great Dunmow, land of bacon (at least since the Middle Ages). Jo and James took me for a ramble around the village. Last time I'd stayed with them it had been pouring so I only saw the view from a car. It's really a lovely place, although the drought has been so bad that there were huge cracks in ground at the cricket pitch and the river was just about down to a trickle.
It's an odd mix of quiet life and recent arrivals; the new local car dealership sells Rolls-Royces. It's Dick Turpin territory, too. Saturday night we went to a great old pub, The Three Horseshoes. The landlord was rumoured to have been an actor and you could certainly believe it. Small crowd, terrific atmosphere—the maypole was still up out in the back garden, too.
Some much-needed rain arrived overnight, so a relaxing morning reading the papers seemed in order. I had a nice chat with Jo's mum who had been evacuated to Ascot for six years during the war. She had been at a special school for kids at risk from tuberculosis because her father had died from it. We had a nice Sunday roast dinner and watched a couple of Ken Loach films, Looking for Eric and Route Irish: both great, both totally different.
Rain again as I headed back to the Big Smoke. Village life is lovely, but I miss the dirty old town.
As always, CCTV is everywhere in Britain. This is on the train from the airport to Picadilly Station. I had managed to get some sleep despite my somewhat disjointed journey that took me to Atlanta instead of NYC due to tornadoes (!?) in western Massachusetts. Oh and then there was the slight "lamination" of the engine, but it was all all right (well, after running from Terminal T to Terminal E!).
Manchester has its own carnivalesque wheel.
Of course it also has historic pubs.
My intrepid native guide David kept me from keeling over with jet lag until I could get into my hotel room and have a lie down.
I had an excellent dinner in Chinatown my first night, although there was an American businessman at the next table eagerly telling a Mancunian all about Shackleton and why he was a great example for leadership training (O_o)
This is the venue where I saw The Fall on Friday night!
Just around the corner is Affleck's which has a wild range of vendors selling all sorts of things...
...including Sailor Moon costumes (oh, Miss Wendy!)
...and this fun sculpture across the street.
Of course as a medievalist I had to pay a visit to the cathedral.
And as always, snap any reference to St. Eustace.
Wow, this camera is really crap unless you're resting your elbows on a secure surface. I tried to take a picture of one of the angels playing instruments that fill the cathedral (double headed drum) and this was the best I could do.
Great gargoyles!
Because I bought my ticket online, I didn't actually get a stub, so the stamp on my wrist was the only tangible proof I was there to see The Fall -- well, that and my ringing ears and soaked-with-sweat clothes and big grin :-) but I'll have to write that up separately. Same for Great Dunmow (with more pictures). Hello from the lobby of my hotel in London. Looks like the rain has ended, so I'm heading out.
In the middle of watching Mike Leigh's Another Year, I realised why I usually dislike mimetic films. The reality they purport to capture has nothing to do with their glossy interiors and shiny surfaces. Actors -- especially Hollywood actors -- do not look like they do in real life without the flattering lighting, makeup and carefully adjusted wardrobe. They do not look like us. Give me fantastical films that heighten reality or offer a completely new world! I'll buy the artifice. But tell me it's a "grittily realistic" slice o' life where a beautiful star gains a few pounds or wears glasses -- no, I don't care.
Which is why Leigh's films are such a delight. While British films in general seem to be increasingly permeated by plasticity like Hollywood, Leigh continues to cast people who look like human beings who have lived. We believe in Tom and Gerri (Kim Broadbent and Ruth Sheen), the long term couple who potter around their daily lives with seemingly little drama except that provided by others. The film opens with Gerri trying to reach a prospective therapy patient, played with heartbreaking, shattered, vulnerability by Imelda Staunton, then Tom the geologist at work on the latest intrusion of London clay currently filling the Victorian plumbing of the capital city. But the central image of the film as it moves through the four seasons is their garden at the allotment. Much of the pleasure and tenderness of their lives is spent there, speaking little but tending, always keeping an eye on things.
Obviously it's a metaphor for their marriage, but more so for their approach to relationships as a whole. They prod their son for news about his life, but never intrusively and he shows himself to have learned from their example. They put up with Gerri's colleague Mary, the neediest woman on the planet, but not without tag-teaming to deal with her fatiguing ways. They tut over their various friends' miseries and offer genuine help, but they're not willing to be dragged down by them either. Their friends like Mary, Ken and Tom's brother Ronnie find themselves miserable and confused, mostly because they're so self-centered. They don't tend their relationships, they don't concern themselves with anything outside themselves. When Mary, desperate for a relationship, finally has a small moment of connection, she can't really capitalise on it, because she doesn't really know how to connect. The pace of the film is leisurely, but you will enjoy the time spent with Tom and Gerri.
Fela!was the most recent of the National Theatre broadcasts at the Spectrum. Bill T. Jones' vision of the Afrobeat pioneer and self-styled Nigerian revolutionary Fela Kuti pulsates with rhythm and dance of course! Even if you know nothing about Kuti (I really only knew his big international hit, "Zombie") you will be enraptured by the music -- it's simply irresistible. I was particularly captivated by the beginning of the second half which started with a bunch of kalimbas being played. My colleague Dave Rice once opined that if everyone were issued their own thumb piano the world would be a more peaceful place: I agree. The rising and falling fortunes of the singer (Sahr Ngaujah) were tied to the death of his mother Funmilayo (Melanie Marshall) who had fought against the corrupt government and was eventually murdered. The play manages to introduce the audience to Afrobeat, to tell Kuti's story without pulling punches (he was no angel!) and uplift the audience despite a whole lot of tragedy. I found the journey to the orishas in the second half simply mesmerising. It was a treat for the whole cast -- and audience, too -- to have director/choreographer Jones join them on stage for the encore, shirtless and looking awfully youthful (and muscular) at sixty as they all danced more. With the interval, the show came to nearly three hours, yet it never dragged. Energizing!
I lie -- I'm wearing grey at present, but how could I miss the opportunity to put a bad AC/DC tune in your head (okay, it's not that bad). Seems like LoudTwitter gave up the ghost the last couple days, so you missed fabulous tidbits like:
Kate Laity fell up steps Thameside, but did not drop her Magnum; gentleman who helped me up clearly impressed with my priorities. Slight bruising only. Tue at 4:05am · via Twitter [necessitating a link to explain which Magnum and the discovery that the camera appears to have been a casualty of the fall]
and
Kate Laity thinks it might take a crowbar to pry her away from London: yes, that is definitely needed. Waah! [included video thank you to all my pals in and about Britain] Yesterday at 2:14am · via Twitter
and of course,
Kate Laity has returned to Albany where, ironically, it's cold and rainy. 10 hours ago · via Twitter.
There are some more pictures to put up (yes, including Kew Gardens, Joey!) and of course, lots to write about, but first I have a few practical things to do, such as making certain no bills went astray while I was gone and that there's still enough money in my account, etc.
So -- what did I miss?
[by the by, photo above from the tube station at Green Park]
(I might be lying) 
