Mr Elling is a legend and he, Laurence Hobgood, Rob Amster, Kobie Watkins and Claire Martin and her band turned in a great performance at the Barbican in London last Thursday. It was terrific and it's good to see that Kurt seems to be developing a bit of a following in merrie olde England. All the hard work seems to be paying off for him. However, I grow weary of writing straight-up reviews of performances. Thus with many apologies to the man himself, here's my attempted homage to Elling-style lyricism. Don't take it too seriously. Just go with it. It could have been worse. I could have tried to write it in hipster.
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The heady whiff of intellectual jazz is hanging like a benevolent, blessed fog over the chilly, dark streets of an autumnal London town. The slim, hunched afficiandos of the genre shuffle through the city, averting their eyes from the rampant eroticism of Lord Foster's gherkin as they pass it on their way to the Barbican. Once inside they drink wine and reminisce about times past, loves lost and books read but most of all they talk about the music. The music is what they live and breathe. The music is why they have ventured out from their offices and homes. Music hangs in the air, blended with poetry and expressed with a slight hint of sixties hipster patter - the language they long to speak in their everyday lives but that can only really be let loose in such a space as this. Kurt Elling must be in town again.
They fall silent first for Claire Martin, who makes this jazz business look easy. Effortless and easy yet totally in command, the quiet contemplation of the gathered throng retreats into the dark corners of the wood-panelled walls. Wood could have returned to elemental carbon and back again without them noticing, for this siren held them in the palm of her hand. From Sting to Streisand and beyond, she sang each song with something sublime that sent the crowd out dazed and dancing for their half-time refreshment.
More wine warms the soul and launches them headlong into the flow of the music once again following. Old, comfortable and friendly sounds, "My Foolish Heart" lifted with poetry, a classic standard now wholly owned by Elling and brought to life again here and now. In this moment they stop, start and stop, so concentrated with Kobie Watkins as he believes in the beat. Laurence Hobgood rides the ebb and flow of his piano keys and Rob Amster embraces the bass, driving "The Waking" beyond brain, body, below-dwelling things, up, up and heaven-bound. Homage and hymn, "A New Body and Soul" and "Luiza", from now to times gone, with curious loops in "Minuano" echoing memories from their own histories. They rise to their feet with a glorious noise of their own and they are rewarded. "In the Wee Small Hours..." eases them back into the outside world, the unmusic space, but now with grateful joy. "'Nightmoves' indeed," they think. The music. And wine, more wine.
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Friday, October 26, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Not being left on the shelf
The boyfriend and I have been a couple for almost ten years now. We've seen our relationship outlast those of most of our peers and whilst most of the times have been good, we've weathered a few storms along the way. In all of our time together I don't think anyone has ever asked me why I love him or what I see in him that's special (well, it would be a bit rude of them to ask, I suppose). If they did, two things spring to mind straight away: he loves books the way I do, reading ferociously and enjoying spending many hours in libraries and bookshops, and he's enthusiastic about things. When he develops a passion for something, he'll devote all his energy to it and work to see any related projects through to the bitter end. Yesterday he demonstrated both of these traits by putting up some shelves.
He went into town before I was even up and dressed yesterday morning and bought a hammer drill. The drill needed to be charged up for three hours before he could use it, which annoyed him a great deal. He was determined to get drilling as soon as he could. His toolbox was primed and ready for action. His spirit level was out. The shelving board was sawn to the right length and the position of the brackets was accurately measured out. When the drill was charged, he drilled like no man has ever drilled before. Soon he'd moved on to screwing up the shelf brackets, taking advantage of the ability of the drill to be a power screwdriver (he was fast becoming very attached to his tool). In no time at all we had six shelves in the alcoves either side of the chimney breast in our back bedroom (known to the estate agents as "bedroom two" and hopefully soon to be come a "study/dining room"). Even though he had been working like a demon all day, he seemed to have reserved the bulk of his energy for the next part of the process - sorting and shelving all of our books. Apart from a brief break to watch the rugby, he spent all evening categorising books and deciding where to put them. He agonised about the fine line between social science and philosophy. I got angry with him for classifying one of my military history books as fiction. At one point I casually remarked that the room looked like a branch of Waterstones and he came over all misty eyed, saying that was the nicest thing I'd ever said to him. When he'd finally finished filling half the shelves, put up some shelf lighting to illuminate the books and hung a picture on the wall I've got to admit that the room did look nice and he seemed pleased with himself. The rest of the books could wait. We both went to bed happy.
Half an hour later, as we drifted peacefully off to sleep, we heard a low rumble followed by protracted thudding, crashing and banging. The boyfriend was initially confused and sleepy, but it eventually dawned on him that there had been an incident in his new little library world. He went to investigate and found that the middle shelf (biography, history and reference books) had ripped itself away from the wall. There were books everywhere. Some had lodged themselves in a comedy manner behind the radiator. He was upset, but philosophical - it was only one shelf, one bracket in fact, that had come adrift and he could clear up in the morning. He returned to bed. At around 4a.m. we were both deeply asleep when the literary apocalypse began again in the room next door. This time it was louder. More books went flying, along with metal bookends. Philosophy and social science were now making a break for freedom. Only one book-laden shelf now remained standing, and the boyfriend took the sensible decision to take down the fiction section before it found its own way to the floor, taking chunks of plaster and paint with it.
The gentleman in the flat downstairs was very polite about it all. He said he didn't realise that the noises were coming from our flat. It must have sounded like the world was ending in his flat, though, because it sounded bad enough in ours. We apologised and bought him a bottle of wine (people in our building exchange bottles of wine a lot - it's all very civilised here). The boyfriend was a little upset that his shelving went wrong, but he's not been put off d.i.y. for life. In fact he's in our garden right now, with a friend and his trusty drill, putting up a shed. Next weekend he wants to try and shelve again, using more brackets this time. He doesn't give up easily - another reason why I still love him after all these years.
He went into town before I was even up and dressed yesterday morning and bought a hammer drill. The drill needed to be charged up for three hours before he could use it, which annoyed him a great deal. He was determined to get drilling as soon as he could. His toolbox was primed and ready for action. His spirit level was out. The shelving board was sawn to the right length and the position of the brackets was accurately measured out. When the drill was charged, he drilled like no man has ever drilled before. Soon he'd moved on to screwing up the shelf brackets, taking advantage of the ability of the drill to be a power screwdriver (he was fast becoming very attached to his tool). In no time at all we had six shelves in the alcoves either side of the chimney breast in our back bedroom (known to the estate agents as "bedroom two" and hopefully soon to be come a "study/dining room"). Even though he had been working like a demon all day, he seemed to have reserved the bulk of his energy for the next part of the process - sorting and shelving all of our books. Apart from a brief break to watch the rugby, he spent all evening categorising books and deciding where to put them. He agonised about the fine line between social science and philosophy. I got angry with him for classifying one of my military history books as fiction. At one point I casually remarked that the room looked like a branch of Waterstones and he came over all misty eyed, saying that was the nicest thing I'd ever said to him. When he'd finally finished filling half the shelves, put up some shelf lighting to illuminate the books and hung a picture on the wall I've got to admit that the room did look nice and he seemed pleased with himself. The rest of the books could wait. We both went to bed happy.
Half an hour later, as we drifted peacefully off to sleep, we heard a low rumble followed by protracted thudding, crashing and banging. The boyfriend was initially confused and sleepy, but it eventually dawned on him that there had been an incident in his new little library world. He went to investigate and found that the middle shelf (biography, history and reference books) had ripped itself away from the wall. There were books everywhere. Some had lodged themselves in a comedy manner behind the radiator. He was upset, but philosophical - it was only one shelf, one bracket in fact, that had come adrift and he could clear up in the morning. He returned to bed. At around 4a.m. we were both deeply asleep when the literary apocalypse began again in the room next door. This time it was louder. More books went flying, along with metal bookends. Philosophy and social science were now making a break for freedom. Only one book-laden shelf now remained standing, and the boyfriend took the sensible decision to take down the fiction section before it found its own way to the floor, taking chunks of plaster and paint with it.
The gentleman in the flat downstairs was very polite about it all. He said he didn't realise that the noises were coming from our flat. It must have sounded like the world was ending in his flat, though, because it sounded bad enough in ours. We apologised and bought him a bottle of wine (people in our building exchange bottles of wine a lot - it's all very civilised here). The boyfriend was a little upset that his shelving went wrong, but he's not been put off d.i.y. for life. In fact he's in our garden right now, with a friend and his trusty drill, putting up a shed. Next weekend he wants to try and shelve again, using more brackets this time. He doesn't give up easily - another reason why I still love him after all these years.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
The Mail Menopause
The recent postal strikes have given rise to some particularly bitter verbal wrangling between strikers, union officials and Royal Mail managers in the media. By way of some respite from this, the Today Programme this morning featured a specialist "postal economist" who was convinced that once people are exposed to e-mail they no longer want to write letters, and thus the postal service needs to adapt rapidly to a completely new market or it will be doomed. He's probably right, but I am a sad, anachronistic fool and I like to write and receive proper letters. Electronic mail is a quick, simple and cheap way of keeping in touch. I use it as frequently as anybody else does today, but somehow it doesn't match the romance of pen and paper.
I love the mechanics of writing. I own proper writing paper, envelopes, stamps and a fountain pen. I bought an extension cable for my computer keyboard so I can lift it off my desk and set it aside, enabling me to actually write, not just type. Each Christmas my cards are always sent at the last minute because I try and write notes to my relatives and tell them what's going on in my life. I detest those awful "round robin" printed, generic news sheets that some people send out, detailing their achievements in the past year and how great their life is - I try and inject a little humour and not brag about anything good that happens (mainly because I have little to brag about, but there you go). I don't come from a close family and letters are an easy way to reach out to all the folks I don't see. When I do see them, the letters mean we have some connection and we have something to talk about. Elderly relatives like them especially. When my uncle was ill, he mentioned how much he liked my Christmas letters, so I made a point of writing to him regularly until he died. It wasn't hard to find stuff to write down. Sitting down and thinking about it, the little things I took for granted actually gained a significance - shopping on the internet, a day trip to Kew Gardens, a meal out or a daft announcement on the tube that made me laugh were all potential tales that might cheer him up or give him a glimpse of a world that was increasingly going on around him but that he couldn't be part of. I think maybe that without the meditative flow of ink onto paper I wouldn't have been able to see how I could reach out to him, how I could draw him into my life and give him something as his life was ending.
These days I write cards most often, especially "thank you" cards. I even wrote one to my friend to thank her for inviting me to her wedding. I had more to say than could be said comfortably face-to-face, and I had things to say that merited being committed to paper, held in time briefly by some sense of permanence and elevated somehow by being written by hand on a page. I like receiving letters and cards, too. When we moved into the flat and people sent us cards it was such a nice surprise. It's not like seeing someone pop up on MSN or say "I'll e-mail you this photo". There's something more to it. It isn't an instant, quick form of interaction - it requires time, thought and effort. I admit I write less now, because it can be a hard thing to find the time to do. When I first went away to university I wrote much more - we all did, all my friends from school, even though we had e-mail we still used to write. The same is not true today, but making the effort to write proper letters can bring rewards. Let's not sound the death knell for proper correspondence quite yet. Send something and you don't know what you might receive in return.
I love the mechanics of writing. I own proper writing paper, envelopes, stamps and a fountain pen. I bought an extension cable for my computer keyboard so I can lift it off my desk and set it aside, enabling me to actually write, not just type. Each Christmas my cards are always sent at the last minute because I try and write notes to my relatives and tell them what's going on in my life. I detest those awful "round robin" printed, generic news sheets that some people send out, detailing their achievements in the past year and how great their life is - I try and inject a little humour and not brag about anything good that happens (mainly because I have little to brag about, but there you go). I don't come from a close family and letters are an easy way to reach out to all the folks I don't see. When I do see them, the letters mean we have some connection and we have something to talk about. Elderly relatives like them especially. When my uncle was ill, he mentioned how much he liked my Christmas letters, so I made a point of writing to him regularly until he died. It wasn't hard to find stuff to write down. Sitting down and thinking about it, the little things I took for granted actually gained a significance - shopping on the internet, a day trip to Kew Gardens, a meal out or a daft announcement on the tube that made me laugh were all potential tales that might cheer him up or give him a glimpse of a world that was increasingly going on around him but that he couldn't be part of. I think maybe that without the meditative flow of ink onto paper I wouldn't have been able to see how I could reach out to him, how I could draw him into my life and give him something as his life was ending.
These days I write cards most often, especially "thank you" cards. I even wrote one to my friend to thank her for inviting me to her wedding. I had more to say than could be said comfortably face-to-face, and I had things to say that merited being committed to paper, held in time briefly by some sense of permanence and elevated somehow by being written by hand on a page. I like receiving letters and cards, too. When we moved into the flat and people sent us cards it was such a nice surprise. It's not like seeing someone pop up on MSN or say "I'll e-mail you this photo". There's something more to it. It isn't an instant, quick form of interaction - it requires time, thought and effort. I admit I write less now, because it can be a hard thing to find the time to do. When I first went away to university I wrote much more - we all did, all my friends from school, even though we had e-mail we still used to write. The same is not true today, but making the effort to write proper letters can bring rewards. Let's not sound the death knell for proper correspondence quite yet. Send something and you don't know what you might receive in return.
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