Naive? Pathetic? Silly? Yes, And Worth Every Penny!

Well, not once in last night’s Bob Dylan concert in Nottingham did I sit and think to myself sadly of the spent £140 for our two tickets to see the show! (Blog: “And you never ask questions when God’s on your side” http://arbeale.blogspot.com/2011/07/and-you-never-ask-questions-when-gods.html ). I’d do it again tomorrow! Worth every penny. And, as we sat high in the Nottingham Arena with almost 10000 others looking down at the distant stage, teeth vibrating with the ear bursting sound from the backing group the one thing that kept coming into my mind was here I was, Joe Public, having the opportunity to share the same few feet of the planet’s surface with one of the age’s great icons.

Perhaps younger people or those of a less idealistic bent would have taken it all in their stride – after all, what is there to it?  You pay your money, get your ticket and see the show. End of story. And that’s true. Except to my warped mind I see it a little differently. Let me explain why – and if any of my family read this, they will immediately recognise my line of argument! So to them I apologise for revisiting old ground.

Knopfler and Dylan together a few years ago
- when Knopfler still had hair!

People of my generation  have lived through 60 years of relative peace and increasing wealth. My mother in law, Winnie Green - a woman of huge compassion and great wisdom - often said (and especially as she approached her 90th year) that no other generation could have lived through so much change as her generation. She was right – horse drawn carriages to computers, a world ever smaller as travel became easier, corner shops becoming great supermarkets. If her comments were true, then I also believe that it is equally true to say that no other  generation – we “Baby Boomers” -  has had the opportunities for success and self improvement  that mine has had – increasing wealth, access to education, access to information in various forms, increased health prospects and many others. True there are, and continue to be, many disgraceful exceptions to this rule but overall vast numbers of people growing up in post war Britain, and indeed much of the remainder of the western world have had opportunities and  a way of life their parents and grandparents could not have even dreamt of.

And I have been incredibly lucky – I’m not “wealthy”, not famous, I’ve spent my life teaching in a classroom rather than some more glamorous occupation, never mixed with the rich and famous or the shakers and movers of the world. But, like very many of my generation I have been increasingly able to do things that only a very few years ago would have been quite out of the question for an ordinary person.

Dylan (right) on the keyboard - a distant view from my seat.

Some years ago, my wife and I overheard a youngster  - I think a University friend of my son or daughter – listing all the places they had visited on the earth’s surface and at the same time outlining those still yet to be seen. It was discussed  in a matter of fact way and carried the implicit assumption that it was quite reasonable, the natural order of things, that trips abroad, experiencing exotic events were quite part of a person’s right and reasonable expectations.

But not for me. If someone had told me, when I was a child living in the back street of a northern industrial town  in a tiny house with no hot water or inside lavatory, that one day I would sit on an elephant’s shoulders as it strode through the bush in Sri Lanka. Or that I would stand in New York’s Central Park and look down at the memorial to one of the world’s great icon’s, John Lennon. Or that I would stand at dawn and watch the sun rise over Ayres Rock, and at the same time drink white wine in a dawn picnic - then I would never have believed it. Nearer to home I have sat in the Royal Shakespeare Theatre at Stratford on Avon an many occasions; I have been able to see the world’s great shows in the West End. In a few week’s time I will sit and watch one of the world’s great operas, Madam Butterfly, here in Nottingham and just before Christmas I will sit in the Thomaskirche in Leipzig and listen to  the Christmas Oratorio performed in the place where Bach wrote it three centuries ago.

I could go on. The point is that I have been very lucky – and so too, for the most part, has been my generation. There may be all sorts of issues and criticisms of we “Baby Boomers” – “the generation that had it all” I read of us being so  described  the other day. And it cannot be denied – but that doesn’t prevent me being amazed, humbled and grateful for the opportunities that I have had.

One of the few bits of audience interaction - a quick final bow!

So, back to Bob Dylan. As anyone who read my recent blog (“You never ask questions when God’s on  your side”) will know, I was looking forward to it but hesitant and a little worried that seeing Dylan would not live up to my expectations, that my £140 for our tickets would seem wasted.. But no, it was not wasted - it hugely surpassed my expectations.

This was not the Dylan of protest. It was not the Dylan who motivated a generation to go out and change the world. It was not the Dylan that I remember  exciting me as young trainee teacher in the mid sixties when at the college folk club,held each Tuesday night in the skittle alley of the "Man of Trent" pub in Clifton, Nottingham, I first heard “Masters of War” or “With God on our Side”. This was a growling Dylan singing the blues with an ultra loud band behind him. It was a Dylan dressed virtually all in black with a wide brimmed hat shading his face on a dimly lit set aggressively  barking at the words. But it was Dylan – the man who half a century after his fame as a folk poet had inspired and been the back drop to changing the world – has this year been one of the major contenders for the Nobel Literature prize. Some of the old favourites from “Highway 61 Revisited” were beaten out and the evening ended with one of my favourites “Don’t Think Twice it’s All Right” and what I once read described as arguably the greatest song ever written, “Like a Rolling Stone”. Listening to some of these – all of which I have on CD – I was again taken back to my college days – the guy on the next room borrowed my copies of the Dylan LPs “The Freewheelin Bob Dylan” and “Highway 61 Revisited” . We swapped LPs for a few weeks – Dylan in exchange for his favourites “The Beachboys” – and I never got mine back. I’ve never forgiven him!

And, as I said above and hoped for before the concert, here I was sharing something with one of the world’s great icons –  and getting excited about it! Naive? Pathetic? Silly? – yes all of these - but still true. And worth every penny and more!

Knopfler in full flight

And, of course, it wasn’t only Dylan. He was sharing the show with Mark Knoplfer of Dire Straits one of my very favourite groups and, like Dylan, part of my life – a group and their music that will always be associated with my children growing up in the 80s. For me too Knopfler and Dire Staits will always be associated with a sad tale which is probably best left as the subject of another blog. But, briefly, when I was teaching one of the children in my class and who had gone through the school was a boy who had a rare form of cancer from birth. He  was about 10 and everyone knew he would not live beyond his early teens. Dad was a keen amateur guitarist and played in local pubs. He taught Paul to play – the lad had a great talent for it  and when we had discos at school Paul and dad would play for the disco – Rock and Roll.  Dad wrote to Dire Straits and asked if they could supply autographed pictures of Paul’s heroes . They did more – Paul was invited to London to watch them record and a relationship was built up. And when Paul died a year or two later there were many tears in the church when a tape was played of Knopfler and the group singing – the group were touring in the USA but a huge wreath and the tape had been sent. There’s more to it than that – but perhaps that is for another blog. The main thing is that, music apart, Knopfler has always come over as a nice guy  - a thinking man, with something rather more to offer. And so it was last night – the audience were with him. It was as much the man as his music that they were cheering.

Knopfler has the audience in his hands

I have seen him before and he  was again superb. Like Dylan he has moved on since his Dire Straits days but the sound was still there. Yes, the rock, blues underpins everything but now more folky type music – fiddles and flutes, a distinctly Celtic sound. Had you entered the Arena unknowing you would have still instantly recognised  the sound of Dire Straits and the  distinctive  Knopfler. He  looks more a middle aged gent now – no longer sporting  the head band -  than a rock star but the sound in unmistakable. Like Dylan there was much of his newer stuff  but towards the end he launched into “Brothers in Arms” – the signature song from the CD – the fifth best selling CD in UK history and then from the same CD “So Far Away” – and the audience approved wildly! But perhaps the song that took the evening – certainly for me and many others was a new one “Privateering” – Knopfler at his best. I‘ll look for this on any new CDs brought out. It’s not just me saying how good it is – looking at the reviews on the web many others think the same: “If this doesn’t get him his knighthood then nothing will” was representative of many.

"So far away" - sang Knopfler, and he was!

It’s perhaps worth mentioning the big difference (for me – and I think for many others) between the two performers. Knopfler came over, as I say, a nice guy – he related to the audience, acknowledged them. Dylan didn’t. Aloof, little or no dialogue – and that which there was, at the very end of the show was unintelligible. Some found this disconcerting and a failing. I suppose it was – but, and I think this is important – I think that is one of the essentials of Dylan’s character. It’s what makes him tick. It’s the same trait that has allowed him to write the scathingly biting verse and songs that he has. A rejection of convention and the accepted codes of life. That is not to  minimise his aloofness or to  justify it, but to recognise that that is the man. Indeed, as I watched him I mused what it must be like when he wakes each morning in some strange hotel room in some far off city and think to himself “I’m Bob Dylan”. Like John Lennon his every word picked over as people look for some pearl of wisdom and insight – or some stick to beat him with.  To walk through the hotel’s reception or sit in its dining room and to be aware – not in  a boastful way – that he is one of the very few people in the world who is ultra famous and has been rightly or wrongly a shaper of the world and its opinions for the past half century. Combine that with the fact that his renown is built upon his rebelliousness and rejection of convention and I can understand a certain measure of aloofness. No, what we saw was Dylan.

Dylan 2011 - still the rebel and rejecter of the expected

And I suppose that brings me back to where I started. It was simply great to be part of it. When we arrived at the Nottingham Arena ticket touts stood outside asking if we would sell our tickets! When we took our seats high on the tiered balcony we looked down on a sea of people. It must be said that this was not a teenage audience – although there were many youngsters there, by far the audience was filled with greying people of our generation – many having some difficulty to mount the steep steps to the upper seats! But, like me they had come to see two of the icons of the last fifty years  - and I think everyone must have gone home happy.

And as I climbed into bed, my head still thumping and buzzing from the volume I thought again how, fifty years ago when I stood with my college friends in the skittle alley at the “Man of Trent” pub on Clifton estate in Nottingham, where every Tuesday night we used to hold our folk evenings, I would never have imagined and believed that one day I would see Dylan for real – if only from a long way away and in a vast auditorium filled with almost  10,000 others. No, we really have been the generation of opportunity and so very, very lucky.

Laughable? Childish? No, Deeply Worrying.

Blog followers in the UK will be familiar with this week’s political spat at the Conservative Party Conference between Home Secretary, Theresa May and Justice Minister Ken Clarke. For those further afield, however, I will give a very brief run down. At the Conference Theresa May gave a key note speech in which she cited a number of instances where she and the government intended to tighten up the laws concerning illegal immigrants. She suggested (probably correctly)  that some illegal immigrants are using (and maybe abusing) the Human Rights Act to fight deportation from Britain and  illustrated her case by, amongst other examples, citing the case of a Bolivian national who resisted deportation on the grounds that he owned a cat. May, who wants to abolish the Human Rights Act, said : "The illegal immigrant who cannot be deported because – I am not making this up – he had a pet cat." She further cast a shadow on the wisdom and professionalism of judges who had made the decision.

In fact virtually all of what she said was incorrect – the person concerned was not an “illegal immigrant” but someone who was making an application to stay in this country after their previous right had expired.  The cat item was merely one of many pieces of required evidence submitted to show that the person concerned had an established life in this country – a settled relationship,  employment, life style etc. What Theresa May said was nothing more than an unpleasant “sound bite”, an assertion not backed up by fact. She had not checked her facts and was playing to the Tory “gallery”.

Home Secretary Theresa May

Interviewed minutes afterwards, Ken Clarke, who as Justice Minister has some responsibility for Courts and their workings, denied any knowledge of the particular case and rightly suggested that he thought it very unlikely that the ownership of a cat alone would be sufficient reason for an illegal immigrant to be granted a stay in this country. It all looked a mess – two senior government ministers disputing a particular matter of fact.

And today, Ken Clarke  has followed this up by  describing Theresa May’s speech as “laughable” and “childlike”.  He is in some ways correct – except, I believe, that the whole issue is far more serious than that.  Underlying May’s comments is a very real and deeply worrying concern. Clarke (who is my MP) has had his wrists slapped by Downing Street and announced that he  “regrets his colourful use of language” .  He should, I believe, not regret it but rather  pursue Mrs May more vigorously.

In making the comments that she did – she not only trivialised a serious issue but did so with a mocking use of  emotive half truths. In using phrases like “I’m not making this up” and doing so with a smirk on her face - she was playing to the audience in the worst possible way. Even had the case she was describing been perfectly as she described it, the manner in which she used language and truth were quite unacceptable and unbefitting of a government minister. In that sense Clarke is wrong – her comments were not “childlike” or “laughable”, they were unpleasant and calculated to be vicious. May’s tactics were the tactics of rabble rousers and bullies the world over – the National Front, Nazi groups, lynch mobs. Tell the crowd half truths, spice it up with a smirk, mock those you perceive (from your position of superiority) to be inferior or vulnerable, pour scorn – in short,  stir up anger and hatred. And to make matters worse May was not only pouring scorn on those who might be described as “illegal immigrants” she was also venting her spleen on what is currently the law of the land and the judges who are responsible for upholding it. And the "faithful" at the Conference, sheep like as is the " dutiful, mindless mob" "lapped it up" - after all, it must be true, the Home Secretary said so!

I would like Mrs  May to explain which part of her job description as Home Secretary provides her with the right or privilege to do this?

But, from where I am sitting there is a terrible symmetry to all this. Ken Clarke made his comments in my local newspaper “The Nottingham Evening Post”. Well, in another bit of local news, a local Nottingham coroner yesterday criticised what she called a “baying crowd” of bystanders in Nottingham when they called for an asylum seeker Osman Rasul Mohammed – to “jump”. The Iraqi Kurd, had been in Britain for almost 10 years when an application to stay in the country was rejected and the inquest  heard  that in a distressed state he  climbed on to the railing of a seventh floor balcony and fell to his death.

Mrs May cannot, of course, be held responsible for this. Nor I suspect did the “baying crowd” even know that Mr Mohammed was an asylum seeker – they were simply being a mob and doing what mobs do – following the loudest, most strident voice. And, for me, it highlights the importance of those who are supposed to lead leading in a responsible manner.  Mrs May’s speech the other day was totally irresponsible – trivialising, mocking, smirking, playing to the audience, reducing everything to the lowest common denominator - that is what crowds and mobs thrive upon. She should be ashamed. It also further confirms my belief that we have some very third rate people in government – and especially this government. Much as I dislike and despised Margaret Thatcher her attention to detail and her ability to run government would have ensured that people like May would never have achieved such high status.

Justice Minister Ken Clarke

And, I note that “No 10 said it was delighted [at what] May had said in her conference speech“. If that is the case then it is another example of our Prime Minister’s poor judgement on these matters – she should have been sacked on the spot. But, for me - and following the comments that I made in my blog last week ("Hungarian musicians, Indian curries and German composers") - it reinforces my feeling that there is much intolerance and ill disguised prejudice stalking not only our streets but also our government at the very highest levels. Clearly, had Rudolf Botta (see blog: http://arbeale.blogspot.com/2011/09/hungarian-musicians-indian-curries.html) pleaded to Mrs May half a century ago that he should be allowed to stay in this country after fleeing his native Hungary he would have been similarly mocked and scorned as an "itinerant fiddler" not worthy of respect or consideration.

And, as a  postscript to the events, one sees the mob behaviour and mentality again in today's (Friday, Oct 7th) Tory press - the Daily Telegraph (the paper that had, I understand, carried the incorrect story that May had picked up and used). Having been exposed for  what it was - an incorrect and ill thought out piece of dirty politics - the Telegraph now reports that the immigrant in question had in fact received a police caution for shop lifting - which presumably, linked with his ownership of a pet cat proves what an undesirable he is. It also, presumably "justifies" May's comments. But of course it doesn't - the issue was not whether the man concerned  was or was not an illegal immigrant - for all I know he may be Osama bin Laden's Godfather - it was the incorrect, unpleasant manner in which the Home Secretary did her job. But, of course in the mob mentality that doesn't matter. Over forty years I have seen the gang on the school playground justify their  actions, when cornered, by any manner they choose - usually be casting irrelevant doubt on the poor victim of their bullying. The gang in Nottingham who chanted "Jump" would individually all have reasons for why they each shouted - but I would venture that none of the reasons would have anything to do with truth, logic or right. No, they would stick together and still strive to blame the victim that it was his fault - as I said above, it is what gangs and mobs do. Theresa May - would make an admirable gang leader - manipulative, mocking, scornful. But very much not, in Clarke's words, "childish and laughable".

FAIRS, FLAGS AND FINZI

We have been experiencing some very unseasonal October weather over the past few days – a real Indian summer with temperatures reaching the upper twenties or even thirty degrees. Pat and I have managed a couple of barbeques and, as I write this, she is taking advantage of what will surely be the last days of summer – she is asleep on the garden bed soaking up the afternoon sun! To be honest, although the days have been lovely it’s all a bit hot for me so I prefer the shade.

But, whatever the weather says, Autumn is almost on us. The paths are beginning to fill up with fallen leaves, the summer flowers are starting to drop their flowers and everywhere, especially first thing in the morning, spider’s webs are clearly visible covered on early morning droplets of dew. In a few weeks or perhaps even days time Nottingham folk will looking out of their windows first thing in the morning and saying “It’s a bit Goose Fairish this morning”. By that they will mean it’s a bit chilly, misty and with, perhaps, a hint of frost. In other words – an autumn morning.

For hundreds of years the first week of October has been in Nottingham “Goose Fair”. The time when fairground entertainers and entertainment descend on the city for the annual Goose Fair – one of the great fairgrounds of England – indeed Europe. The Fair always opens on the first Thursday in October and lasts over the weekend on a special site close to the city centre. When we first came to live in Nottingham , almost fifty years ago, the children always had a day off school for Goose Fair – it was known as the Goose Fair Day. Sadly, that day has now been swallowed up on the centrally imposed school holiday pattern. It’s a wonderful thing progress!

 Nottingham's Goose Fair

The Fair dates back more than seven hundred years and its origins are to be found in the traditions and needs of medieval England. There is probably no single reason for the establishment of the Fair. It grew out of the way of life of the time. The Goose Fair started as a trade event and enjoyed a reputation for the sale of geese and its high-quality cheese, although it is now known for its rides and games. Its name is derived from the thousands of geese that were driven from Lincolnshire to be sold in Nottingham. Originally, the fair was held on the 21st of September, but in 1752, with the change to the Gregorian calendar, it moved to early October. The duration of the fair was shortened from eight days to three days in the 1800s.

Goose Fair 1912 - in the
City's Market Square

Another element in the establishment of the Fair and the timing of it is related to the tradition of “Quarter Days” – days when servants were hired, rents had to be paid and all bills settled. The Quarter Days fell on four religious festivals roughly three months apart and close to the two solstices and two equinoxes. The dates of these days were: Lady Day (25th March), Midsummer Day (24th June), Michaelmas (29th September )and Christmas (25th December) . Michaelmas Day is sometimes referred to as Goose Day – this allegedly dates from the time that Queen Elizabeth 1st received news of the defeat of the Spanish Armada (on Michaelmas Day) . She was at the time eating goose and declared from that day forward she would always eat goose on Michaelmas Day!

The huge Goose that welcomes
visitors to the Gair

Added into this story is the belief that in medieval times, once the rents had been paid, servants hired, jobs obtained, the harvest brought in (Michaelmas Day is traditionally the last day of the harvest) it was time for a celebration – everything was ready for the cold and uncertainty of Winter. So, a hearty meal of goose and some entertainment was what people wanted – and Goose Fair began!

But whatever the reason, Goose Fair has been part of the Nottingham scene for many hundreds of years. When our children were small the house that we lived in then faced Nottingham Ring Road and on the Sunday before Goose Fair we would stand for ages watching the hundreds of great lorries driving past our house all pulling the funfair rides that would be set up on the Goose Fair site and our two children would know that later that week we would all visit the fair as a family!

My neighbour's Autumn flag

And, as I said above, for Nottingham folk, the coming of Goose Fair is associated with the coming of Autumn weather – misty and chilly mornings, the shortening days, blowing leaves, conkers, the occasional frost, spider’s webs, migrating birds – Autumn is here: “It’s a bit Goose Fairish”!

And in close up

And I am reminded that Autumn is just around the corner – despite the present heat wave – each time I walk down my street. At the end of my street, the lady who lives there brightens up her house frontage and indeed the whole street throughout the year by hanging a colourful flag outside. She tells me that the flags come from the USA where there is a tradition of them –what a lovely idea. Her son sends them – he lives in the US. Beautifully decorated, colourful and a real asset to the road the flag changes with the seasons. A couple of days ago she put up a lovely flag saying “Autumn Welcome”. She has similar ones for other seasons of the year or for particular events – Christmas, St George’s Day, American Independence Day and the like – it’s a lovely touch. A few weeks ago she put up the Stars and Stripes as a mark of respect to the victims of 9/11 – again, just right, not jingoistic but tasteful and acknowledging a sad event. As we walked past the house this morning and looked at the “Autumn Welcome” flag Pat grumbled that she didn’t welcome Autumn – it means we will lose the heat wave and her sun bathing days will be gone for a few months – but there you go, you can’t please everyone!

So, Autumn is just around the corner. I love Autumn – more than any other season. Summer I find too hot and sticky and Winter too cold – especially now that I am a little older. But Spring and especially Autumn I love. I love the cosiness of night’s drawing in, the morning mists, the “nip” in the air, the dew on the grass. When I was teaching one of the favourite songs of the children – and of me – was called Autumn Days”

Autumn days, when the grass is jewelled, And the silk inside a chestnut shell
Jet planes meeting in the air to be refuelled, All these things I love so well
So I mustn’t forget, No, I mustn’t forget, To say a great big thank you, I mustn’t forget.


Clouds that look like familiar faces, And a winter’s moon with frosted rings
Smell of bacon as I fasten up my laces, And the song the milkman sings.
So I mustn’t forget, No, I mustn’t forget, To say a great big thank you, I mustn’t forget.


Whipped-up spray that is rainbow-scattered, And a swallow curving in the sky
Shoes so comfy though they’re worn out and they’re battered, And the taste of apple pie.
So I mustn’t forget, No, I mustn’t forget, To say a great big thank you I mustn’t forget.


Scent of gardens when the rain’s been falling, And a minnow darting down a stream
Picked-up engine that’s been stuttering and stalling, And a win for my home team.
So I mustn’t forget, No, I mustn’t forget, To say a great big thank you I mustn’t forget.

Autumn leaves on
our village green

Yes – jewelled, cloudy skies dew covered grass, conkers, silky spiders’ webs, frost, cooked breakfasts, rainy days, hedges covered with red berries, warm dinners rather than daily salads, the start of the football season............... I like Autumn. The flag is just right “Autumn Welcome”!

And finally, as we enter this season of “Mists and mellow fruitfulness.....” - to coin the words of the poet John Keats when he wrote his wonderful poem “To Autumn” in September 1819 – I am reminded of some wonderful music. The music is not strictly autumnal nor was it written with Autumn particularly in mind. But I find it wonderfully evocative of the season. The music is by the English composer Gerald Finzi and two pieces in particular are, in my view, very autumnal.  The two pieces are his “Five Bagatelles” and “Eclogue”.

Finzi was born in 1901 and died in 1956. He was best known as a song and choral composer but also wrote other pieces – including a wonderful Clarinet Concerto (which has a very Autumnal third movement) and the two short pieces that I mentioned above. Finzi’s music teacher was  killed in the 1st World War and his three brothers, too, died. This made him reflective, perhaps with a bleak outlook on life and a confirmed pacifist and I believe this is reflected in much of his work – slightly melancholy, gentle and harking back to a more peaceful, simpler time.

Gerald Finzi

Many pieces of music capture the spirit of a place or period: Copeland’s “Appalachian Spring” is redolent of the early settler communities in the Appalachian Mountains in the USA; hot, dry Spanish days can be pictured in Rodrigo’s “Concerto de Aranjuez”; Debussy’s “Prelude a l’apres-midi d’un faune” makes me think of a hot, sultry afternoons in a shady  wood; the frozen Venetian lagoon in Vivaldi’s “Winter” movement from “The Four Seasons” is rich in colour and texture, and Smetana's Má vlast ("My Motherland") is as good as a painting for describing the countryside and traditions of his beloved Bohemia – the movement called “Vltava” (or “The Moldau”) is the most wonderful musical depiction of the river's course through Bohemian fields and mountains.

And, many English composers, too, have successfully captured aspects of English life and times – Vaughan Williams, Elgar (especially in his great Cello Concerto), George Butterworth, Peter Warlock, Gustav Holst. But for me Finzi is the one – reflective, gentle, evocative of the countryside at different times of the year. Much of Finzi’s work was inspired by English poetry – especially that of Thomas Hardy and his music also, I think, reflects the man himself – gentle, a man who enjoyed his garden, who grew apples, who lived a secluded and quiet life. Finzi never felt at home in the city. His first home as a young man was in Painswick Gloucestershire where he composed in the tranquillity of the Gloucestershire countryside – his first published work was a song cycle “By Footpath and Stile” to accompany words by Thomas Hardy. Later, having married the artist Joyce Black, he settled in Wiltshire, where he devoted himself to composing and apple-growing, saving a number of rare English apple varieties from extinction. He also amassed a valuable library of some 3000 volumes of English poetry, philosophy and literature, now in the library of the University of Reading, and a fine collection (some 700 volumes including books, manuscripts and printed scores) of 18th-century English music, now at the University of St Andrews. The Gerald Finzi Trust describes Finzi thus: “20th century English composer, renowned for inspired, flexible Thomas Hardy verse settings and lyrical instrumental style. Lover of reading, collector of books, conservationist - whether of 18th century music or apples: scholar, aesthete, stalwart citizen - directing amateur music-making, hosting war evacuees. Cherished husband of Joy, artist and poet.”

The man seems to be his music – or should that be the other way around!

A woodcut -
"The Shepheardes Calendar" -
 printed in a
sixteenth century edition of
Eclogue 1 by Vergil

Sadly, in 1951, Finzi learned that he was suffering from the then incurable Hodgkin's disease and had less than ten years to live. He died in 1956. The first performance of his Cello Concerto having been given on the radio the night before.

The two pieces that I love are both very short – each only a few minutes long. “Eclogue” was originally a movement from a piano concerto that Finzi was writing when he died and so did not complete. “Eclogue” means a pastoral or idyllic poem or piece of music. Finzi’s piece for piano and strings seems (to me!) to speak of Spring or Autumn mornings or evenings; of the English countryside; of smoke curling up into the sunset from a country cottage; of red berried trees; of a long gone world of quiet country lanes and village festivals; of wood smoke and silence; of a coming rain storm followed by a return to quiet peace. It would in my view make a wonderful accompaniment to a reading of Keats’ “To Autumn” or indeed to that greatest of English pastoral poems “Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” :

"Season of mists and
mellow fruitfulness"?

“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me............”

And the other piece – or rather five very short pieces –“ Five Bagatelles” is similar. The pieces are not, I think, intentionally pastoral or Autumnal but, like ”Eclogue”, they speak of English apple orchards; of village merrymaking; of red sunsets: of the gathering in of the harvest; of misty damp mornings and spiders’ webs; of lowing herds and an England that is perhaps no more. My particular favourite is the third Bagatelle which is entitled “Carol” - a very quiet, reflective piece and similar to “Eclogue”.

Berries on the hedge -
a sign of a hard winter?

Finzi had first written "Carol" in December 1925 for the daughter of fellow composer Herbert Howells. It is a setting for a poem also entitled ‘Carol’ from the collection of poems “Severn and Somme” by 1st World War poet Ivor Gurney. The poem begins “Winter now has bared the trees............” All Gurney’s poetry reflects his love of the Gloucestershire countryside and his desire to return there from the devastation and death that he was witnessing each day on the Western Front. “Winter now has bared the trees” is as much a metaphor for the destruction and death of the war as much as it is a statement of the season. This, too, was something very near to Finzi’s pacifist heart – and in my view his sympathetic feeling for Gurney’s words come through in the music. The quiet combination of piano and clarinet give the piece a melancholy air of the fading year – Autumn.

And, finally, as I researched this blog I discovered something else – which I like. And those who have read my pieces before will make a connection from my recent blog “Smoke – and other things – gets In Your Eyes”. In that blog I mentioned the long running radio programme “Desert Island Discs”. One of the guests in that programme a few years ago was the broadcaster and antique porcelain - especially Royal Worcester - expert Henry Sandon. Sandon, has with his appearances over many years on the TV programme, “The Antiques Roadshow” become nationally and perhaps internationally famous – almost a national treasure. He is everyone's stereotyped picture of an Englishman – jolly, round of face, rich Worcestshire accent. He could easily be a character from Dickens’ “Pickwick Papers”. One can just imagine him sitting near a roaring fire with his pint of English ale in some country inn surrounded by the locals – or sitting with a jolly smile atop the haycart as the harvest is gathered in. And Sandon’s favourite piece of music, the one he would have on his desert island? – a piece by Finzi “Salutation” from Finzi’s “Dies Natalis”. And Sandon’s favourite book? – the great English poem of the countryside, the seasons and the years - Houseman’s epic masterpiece“A Shropshire Lad” – a poem very close to the heart of Finzi as a nostalgic depiction of rural life and young men's early deaths in war. A poem which would “fit” sublimely with “Eclogue” or “Five Bagatelles” :

Henry Sandon - porcelain expert
 and fan of Finzi

“........On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves........”

So, Goose Fair mornings, “Autumn Welcome” flags to brighten my street and the evocative music of Gerald Finzi – I’m almost already snuggling down with my cup of cocoa, closing the curtains and forgetting the hot sticky unseasonal heat wave that we have had in the last few days. This morning as I showered I noticed, for the first time this year, a spider in the bath! When that happens we always know that Autumn is upon us. He scurried up the bath side as the spray fell into the basin and hid beneath the tap. I somehow managed to let him crawl onto my finger and I deposited him safely in the darkness of our bathroom airing cupboard – but no doubt he will be back again later today!

Yes, Autumn is here - "Autumn Welcome"!

Hungarian Musicians, Indian Curries, German Composers & “Fundamental British Values”

We’ve been away again! What an  exciting life we do lead! This time it was up to Manchester – to be more precise Hale Barns which is adjacent to Altrincham on the Cheshire border. The reason for the visit ? – our daughter, Kate, was playing in a concert and it seemed a good excuse to enjoy the concert and see the grandchildren.

The Vivaldi ensemble gets
under way

Kate plays in a string group, “The Vivaldi Ensemble” (http://www.vivaldiensemble.co.uk/),  and has done so since she moved to Manchester over ten years ago. It’s a hobby. At one stage Kate considered playing professionally but in the end decided that she would prefer to keep  her music as a hobby and a love rather than a wage earner.

Rehearsal night

I have long been of the belief that the musical (as with the sporting) health of a nation is better judged by what happens at the "grassroots" rather than in the big stadiums and concert halls. In football our stadiums are packed every week and millions watch the big named millionaires who play the game at that level. But our national team is incapable of winning anything which says much about what we are doing for our young players. And so too with music - except the opposite is true. Many of our young musicians are famous throughout the world and this reflects, I believe, the good work, fine teaching and high level of interest that is shown in the church halls and village halls of the country. And for me, especially as I get older, I find infinitely more pleasure out of watching "amateurs" play music or sport than big name professionals. In music this is especially true since most baroque music was written for the small, intimate audience - not the large concert hall. Friday night was superb example of this.

It was a lovely concert – held in the lovely Church of All Saints, Hale Barns (http://www.allsaintshalebarns.org/), the area where my daughter lives. It was  especially  enjoyable for me since it was wholly baroque music and contained one of my favourite pieces -  a little known and even less played piece by  Telemann (a contemporary of J.S. Bach and in his day more popular than Bach!). It was the Festive Suite – “Festliche Suite in A major (TWV 55A5)”. Indeed this piece opened the evening and as I sat there listening I felt a warm glow since I had brought this piece to my daughter’s attention (she didn’t know it previously) and had suggested that it would be a nice piece to play at a future concert – and there it was, so I felt a kind of "ownership"!

A picture from a few years ago
with Rudolf Botta  conducting.
The concert was in a tiny but
beautiful church in the Forest of
Bowland - north Lancashire 

We received a very warm welcome from the Vicar - Fr Clarke - and as I sat there listening it made me think. Firstly, here was the “big society” at work – local people using their own skills and enthusiasms to provide something positive for the local community – and in the process raising money for worthwhile ventures. Our PM and his Community Minister, the illustrious  erudite (I use the term loosely!) Eric Pickles – “Big Eric”, would be proud! The trouble is that we don’t need a government minister to claim it as their big idea – it’s what ordinary  people do quite naturally and have been doing so for generations! The lady who sat at the side of me - who was quite unknown to me -  turned and whispered to me in one of the breaks between movements "I was at the Bridgewater Hall last week - this is much better!"

The orchestra was founded over 40 years ago by a refugee from the Hungarian uprising in 1956 – Rudolf Botta. Botta fled his native country and settled in Manchester where he taught violin and viola at the Royal Manchester College of Music. Indeed if you “google” Botta’s name you will find a wealth of accomplished and established musicians who mention him as their mentor whist they studied at the Royal College.

Rudolf Botta set up his Vivaldi Orchestra as a vehicle for his students to play in and over the years they gradually assimilated other musicians such as my daughter. They played for charity events, in churches and the like. Botta was the archetypal middle European –  heavily accented , warm, with a sincere voice, bow tie and velvet jacket. He could have been mistaken as a maker of cuckoo clocks. A lovely, gentle old man when we knew him when my daughter first joined the orchestra . You could just imagine him as a young man playing his fiddle in some Viennese or Budapest cafe in the fading years  of the Austro-Hungarian Empire!

But with the Hungarian uprising of 1956 he fled to England – and brought his talents with him. He died in the late 1990s and  the orchestra was taken over for the next decade by his musically gifted daughter and son in law and now they too have retired. And in the last year or so my daughter and her friends from that orchestra have taken it over – now calling it the “Vivaldi Ensemble” – keeping the flame alive and still retaining the essence, feel, aspirations and ambitions of Rudolf. I hope that if Rudolf is somewhere up in the clouds playing his violin or conducting some angelic string group that he will also be listening to what is going on in south Manchester   and will approve of what they are doing in his name.  I’m sure  he will!

Saturday's Programme
cover - double click
to enlarge

And as I sat listening and thinking  I thought how much this man, this Hungarian refugee, had given to his adopted country – his musical skills which have influenced and benefitted the generations of the  talented young musicians he taught at the Royal College; the interest and opportunities and friendship that he provided for recreational musicians like my daughter; the churches and charities which have benefitted from the funds they have raised; the musical life of the locality and indeed the wider nation and the thousands of people over the years who have simply sat and listened and enjoyed – as we did on Friday night.

And I thought what a wonderful thing it is that an event in the middle of Europe - the Hungarian Uprising - half a century ago should still be having small repercussions in Manchester half a century later. I was a school boy at the time of that revolution and yet here I was, half a century later watching my own daughter take part in something that was in effect born of that far off uprising. I can vividly remember as an eleven year old looking at the black and white newspaper pictures of Russian tanks lumbering into Budapest  and each news broadcast giving the latest news. And even more vividly, I can remember one name from the period - Ferenc Puskas the great Hungarian footballer - then captain of the the greatest team in the world - Hungary. Puskas was abroad with his team at the time of the uprising and refused to go back to his homeland and there was much news comment as to whether he would be forced to return and whether his family would "get out" of troubled Hungary. As with Rudolf Botta all ended happily and Puskas found a new life in a new country and became the supreme footballer in the great Real Madrid side which dominated football for the next generation or so. Never, as an eleven year old, did I ever think that almost sixty years later I would sit in churches and village halls in and around Manchester and listen to  concerts where someone else who had been part of that uprising would be prominent in my life and would be very much part of my own daughter's life. What a very small world we have - and how intertwined we are. How dependent we are on each other - and how easily can the past return to haunt, move or touch us!

And as I sat and listened to the strains of Telemann, Corelli. Vivaldi and Handel drift through the church   I sadly thought that in this day and age, as our government cuts back on immigration into our country and increasingly requires potential immigrants to prove their usefulness, language skills and  potential economic contribution, perhaps Rudolf would not now be admitted, as an itinerant musician with no immediate job prospects! Indeed, only this morning I read in the Guardian that at the Labour Party Conference this week (and they should be ashamed)  the Party is intent on “wooing white working class voters” and  a way of doing  this, apparently, is to  “ration” housing so that “before you get something out you have to have put something in” – this, according to MP  Margaret Hodge, is the way forward.

The evening's programme -
double click to enlarge

Mmmm, presumably, if the innkeeper in Bethlehem had adopted that viewpoint then perhaps I would not have been sitting in "All Saints Church" on Friday evening.  No, no matter how much I try, I don't remember the bit in the Bible where the innkeeper turns to Joseph and Mary and says "Sorry mate, stables are rationed this year and you're new to this town. You've just wandered in on your donkey, no  money, no job prospects and I can see your wife's expecting. Typical! You're all the same you immigrants bringing your kids. We don't want your kids to become a drain on our resources - filling up school places, wanting nurseries, filling up beds in our maternity units, taking jobs from us locals. And you say that you're a carpenter - we're up to our eyes in carpenters in Bethlehem. We've got more Nazarene carpenters here than Polish plumbers. I've already had half a dozen shepherds here today - wandering around the place with a load of sheep, blocking the roads and causing traffic jams - looking for stars they said! And then just before you turned up three blokes on camels - called themselves wise men. All wanting accommodation and feeding. I ask you! Mind you these blokes were all right -camels weighed down with gold and posh scents. Servants too. Like kings they were. I reckon they were bankers, or venture capitalists - they can come any time and put some money into the town. I gave them the best dining room, threw out the ordinary punters. I asked if they'd like to put a bit of money into my business, help me expand. With this recession I can't get a bank loan. But they mumbled something about not trusting the government and King Herod in particular.  Said they were off back home - somewhere in the east they said - the minute they'd found this star. All the same these foreigners - stick together, don't mix, keep their money within  the family. No - push off you two. Go back where you came from - you've no money and no job.  Unemployment is high in the town and you'd just be three more mouths to feed - four if we include the donkey.  So, sorry, mate, on your donkey. Bethlehem for the Bethlehem residents I say. We can't subsidise immigrants with no prospects.  Get yourself a respectable job, get a bit of capital behind you, learn our ways and pass our annual 'Bethlehem Values Awareness Test' and we might consider you - but we do have a five year waiting list"

A splendid conductor and
a wonderful soloist.

No, the story went rather differently as I remember it - the town was crowded, the inn was full, but the innkeeper did what he could and provided shelter. And the rest, as they say, is history. Obviously the innkeeper wasn't a paid up member of the Bethlehem Labour or Conservative Parties.

No, and I’m glad that Ms Hodge and the present day Labour Party weren't around in 1956 when Rudolf arrived in these shores – he would have received short shrift. And had they been around in 1710 then George Frederick Handel would have been refused entry to Britain – and we would then have been denied some of the greatest of “English” music – no "Messiah" to fill our churches and concert  halls at Christmas, no "Water Music" or "Firework Music" to entertain the King and to give generations huge pleasure, no  "Coronation Anthems" that have been sung out in Westminster Abbey on  the coronation of every King and Queen of England since 1710. Old  Handel certainly hadn’t put anything into Britain when he arrived so the Labour Party (ably assisted by the Conservatives) would have given him soon seen him off. So, too, with Rudolf.

But there you go – such is progress. I have supported the ideals and passions of the Labour Party all my life – not so anymore. They, like the Conservatives, are morally and intellectually bankrupt. The government tells us that with the financial melt down we are nearly economically bankrupt and that their economic measures will rescue us. I'm afraid I'm a bit more worried about the moral bankruptcy and the government don't seem to have a plan on that!

The ladies of the strings! Kate is
fifth from the left, under the Cross

And over the weekend I  read the latest “Professional Standards” being imposed on teachers by  our government. I read that a new imposition is that teachers must (rightly) “uphold public trust in the profession and maintain high standards of ethics and behaviour, within and outside school”. And how does the government in general and Michael Gove in particular envisage them doing this?  Wait for it....by  “ not undermining fundamental British values.....” . And I wonder what these “fundamental British values” are – and did Rudolf have them? Did Telemann? – after all he was a German and we have fought two great wars against his country and its values in the last century. Or what of Corelli or Handel or Vivaldi  after whom the orchestra is named – did they have the “fundamental British values” which are so important to Mr Pickles, Mr Gove and Mr Cameron? And are these the same "British values" that prompted the recent riots? Are they the same "British values" that I see on my local High Street as the pubs turn out? Are these the same “values” that encouraged many of our MPs to fiddle their expenses a year or two ago? Are these the same “British values" that for years motivated the hatred in Northern Ireland from the likes of the awful, hate filled Ian Paisley? Or just this last week or two we have followed the story of a group of gypsies being evicted from their homes in Basildon Essex. With real irony Basildon is the adjoining constituency to that of our Communities Minister, Eric Pickles - the man whose ministerial brief it is to develop and foster "good" communities and community spirit. I've noticed that Eric has been strangely quiet on this one and I wonder how this squares with our "British" value of "individual liberty and mutual respect and tolerance of those with different faiths and beliefs".  I could go on – I’m sure that you get the gist.

Wine at the interval - the vicar said
he would ring the church bell at the
end of the interval.

I don’t object to the espousal of the values suggested, they are laudable and worthwhile  – they include  “democracy, the rule of law, individual liberty and mutual respect and tolerance of those with different faiths and beliefs.....” but to describe them as “British” is, I believe, potentially insulting to other nations and beliefs. It implies that others - the French, the Germans, the Americans, the Hindu, the Sikh, the Jew or the Indian - may not possess these values and that French values or American values or Indian values may somehow be less worthy than our "British" values. Did Rudolf have "British" values? Did Handel?  Is our valuation of “democracy” better, more sincere than that of our friends from the USA – I think that many in the US might contest that. And if these values are so very "British" my mother was clearly wired differently – she had no time and was totally intolerant of Roman Catholic people, the Irish or people from ethnic minorities – but she was clearly “British”. And if one of our "fundamental British values" is "mutual respect and tolerance of those with different faiths" why is that the 1701 Act of Settlement  prohibits a Catholic or anyone who marries a Catholic from ascending the throne of England? Not much tolerance and mutual respect there. And, anyway, our Queen is of Germanic stock and the Duke of Edinburgh is of Greek background - do they have these "fundamental British values"? I find it quite hard to believe that as "outsiders" they could be quite so tolerant and mutually respectful as us "real Brits" - and especially the "white working class voters" that Ms Hodge and the Labour Party want to appeal to!

No, the notion of value and value systems is fraught with philosophical difficulties. In relation to the "British" values that teachers are required to display a number of points can be made. Firstly, are they "British" in the sense that every British person subscribes to them? That manifestly is not so and to insist that it should be so is to promote the totalitarian state. Are they "British" values in the sense that in order to be recognised as "British" in law or otherwise you have to subscribe to them? Clearly, for the reason given above this cannot be and our history and current news is filled with example of people (like Ian Paisley, my mother and the local council in Basildon) who clearly do not subscribe to some of them - so using that interpretation they cannot be considered  "British". Or, are they "British" in the sense that these values are inherently "British" - that we as a nation are born with them and other nations may not be. A kind of genetic inheritance that ensures that we all subscribe to this value system? I think not. No, the whole notion is unhelpful, wrong and downright dangerous. It is the same thinking that underpinned Hitler's Third Reich, promised a "thousand year Reich" and littered the pages of Mein Kampfe"

Eleanor was so engrossed she
left her seat to get closer!

No, I’m quite happy to expect aspiring teachers to engender and cultivate certain values agreed by society - indeed it is cornerstone of the teacher's professional role and always has been. But to confuse them with any "Britishness"  is simple prejudice and jingoistic flag waving quasi-patriotism. It is only a short step from that to the growth of societies such that which  developed in Germany in the 1930s where a society believes it has the monopoly on righteousness and superiority over others. And we all know where that led. 

And as I listened to the concert and thought what a lot this “immigrant musician", Rudolf Botta gave to our country – and still gives a decade after his death - I thought what shallow and worrying view of life our political masters have.  If those  people, who like me,  sat in the audience quietly appreciating the wonderful music in ten years time “google” David Cameron or Margaret Hodge, or Michael Gove, or Eric Pickles will they be directed to many young people all praising them for their individual contribution to their life  and skills – as I did when I “googled” Rudolf? I think not.

The Ensemble received a very warm round of applause at the end of the concert, some enthusiastic and obviously sincere thanks from the Vicar and as we all trooped out it was plain from the comments of the departing audience that the experience had been  enjoyed, memorable and, I believe, uplifting. My only complaint? In a society that knows the price of everything and the value of nothing, where everything has a cost, Fr Clarke could probably have charged a bit more and made a few more quid for his church. No-one would have objected!

Sophie  in her Sari

A lovely evening . And as Pat and I sat listening with Kate’s two daughters (Sophie and Eleanor), our grand children,  sitting entranced alongside I thought I’d much rather my grandchildren soaked up the values of old Rudolf than some nebulous and questionable piece of patriotic jingoism set out in the “Teachers’ Professional Standards”.  I’m so glad that I am no longer engaged in teacher education and working with newly qualified teachers.  I’m afraid that would have been one step too far for me to  make judgements about how far  my young aspiring entrants to the profession  were successfully  displaying “fundamental British values” – it has a ring of the totalitarian state about it.

And Eleanor  in hers

And with wonderful symmetry, on Saturday evening we all sat down for a family meal together – Kate, Andrew, Sophie, Eleanor, Pat and me. And our meal? It was provided by Mrs Shah -  a friend of my daughter’s - who helps the local children’s hospice by cooking Indian cuisine and selling as take away meals and the like. So we enjoyed a wonderful selection of real, home made, genuine Indian curries and supported the local charity at the same time. But in doing so did we have these core British values? Should we have been eating roast beef and Yorkshire pudding?  Does Mrs Shah have these values? – I mean, perhaps she wears a Sari – indeed, I think that she does . My daughter tells me that she has run courses at the local school where my grandchildren attend on “how to wrap and wear a Sari”. She has run PTA meetings for parents on Indian cuisine and culture.

And Kate in hers!

And another Pakistani  friend of my daughter’s passed on two beautiful children’s Saris to my grandchildren – they wore them when we all went away to a hotel recently and attracted many compliments  from other guests. In giving the girls these Sari’s was the lady displaying “British” values? All very confusing who is British and who has these nebulous values. I think I’ll stick to the values I know – a bit of Hungarian mixed in with a bit of Indian and stirred with a bit of "British" prejudice! (but would it be Scottish? Welsh?  Irish? English prejudice?).

What I know is that I don’t  support the sort of values envisaged by Eric Pickles, Margaret Hodge, Michael Gove and David Cameron et al – they will be jingoistic, shallow and questionable – and certainly not “values” – and...... by attaching the word “British” they become pure prejudice, stark and simple.

Smoke - And Other Things - Gets In Your Eyes!

Jim enjoys his choices!

We’ve been away for the weekend. Down to the Thames Valley to stay with our son and his family in Twyford, near Maidenhead. Apart from the opportunity to visit them and see the grandchildren there was another reason. Our daughter in law’s father, Jim, is celebrating his 80th birthday this week and was having a meal to celebrate the event – and we were invited. So on Saturday evening we all went off to the home of one of his other daughters for a lovely evening, good company, a wonderful meal.........and something a little different - a short CD with eight records that Jim had chosen as a sort of record of his life. Pieces he had enjoyed over his 80 years and which meant something to him. And, as an added bonus for Jim the CD had been put together and a splendid commentary added by his eleven year old grandson - Daniel - a very personal touch.

A pensive Jim! Too much red wine?

I don’t know if the pieces that Jim chose were his all time favourites but, for whatever reason, they all meant something to him. I like that. Jim’s eight pieces perhaps reflected his age and the times through which he has lived – as they would with us all. Amongst the pieces we enjoyed one was by the chart topping 1950’s trumpeter Eddie Calvert “Oh Mein Papa”; we listened to the wonderful “Master of the House” from “Les Mis”; Jim remembered his time as a young man playing in a brass band when we listened to the “Punchinello March” and we listened to the glorious “Radetsky March” by Strauss. Apart from passing a pleasant half hour between meal courses the idea generated much comment and discussion – and it got me thinking: what would I choose?

Daughter 1 - Hilary with husband Ian

Of course, it is all reminiscent of the long running radio programme “Desert Island Discs” which for seventy years or so has been doing the same thing with famous people – asking them to name the eight pieces of music they would have with them if stranded on a desert island. And in between each piece the subject of the programme explains their significance and talks a little about their life.

Daughter 2 - Ruth
(our daughter  in law) and husband John

But what would I choose? My wife often says that it would be no good me appearing on “Desert Island Discs” because I would be boring and choose a selection completely of the music of Bach. Well that may be true, but I don’t think so. Certainly if I was choosing my favourite music it might well be all Bach. But I could equally choose eight pieces of popular music rather than eight classical pieces. And, in any case I’m not sure that the issue is about favourite music – it’s about pieces that have some significance for you. Additionally, although classical music is my love, I’m sure that for me (and, I might argue, for most other people) the sort of music that defines a life and its experiences and events is inevitably coloured by the society in which someone has grown and lived – and this often means the world of popular, everyday music – for that is what most people experience on a daily basis. But what would I choose? It’s certainly difficult to get it down to eight! For every one included there are many left out. But here goes!

Daughter 3 - Angela with husband Martin

First off would be Charles Penrose’s 1922 recording of “The Laughing Policeman”! It brings back so many memories of childhood. I didn’t have a particularly happy childhood - there were too many rows between my mother and dad - but one of the few bright spots was my Auntie Edna – “Nenny” as I called her and continued to do so till the day she died just a few years ago.

Nenny always enjoyed a laugh!

Nenny was a no-nonsense Lancashire Lass - a cotton weaver – always ready to enjoy a glass of beer and a good time. Anyone who has read my blogs before will recognise her from my blog “A night in with Klever Kaff” and how Nenny, quite without intention, was a major formative influence in my love of classical music – although she never knew it. She often told me stories as a child and a teenager of her escapades during the war when she was a young woman – sneaking out at night and putting on make up to go to the dance, drawing lines down the back of her legs with gravy powder to make it look as if she was wearing seamed stockings! It all seemed exciting and slightly rebellious. Her love then and for the rest of her life was unconditional. What you saw was what you got with Nenny and for her part she saw good in everyone. When I was a child she had an old wind up gramophone with a huge great horn on it – I played with the thing for hours.Putting on old 78 records, changing the needle to get a better sound. And amongst her records was “The Laughing Policeman”.

Charles Penrose - the laughing policeman

“I know a fat ole policeman, he’s always on our street
A fat old, jolly red-faced man, he really is a treat
He’s too fine for a policeman, he’s never known to frown
And everybody says he is the happiest man in town
Ho, Ho, Ho, Ho,..............................
He laughs upon his duty, he laughs upon his beat
He laughs at everybody when he’s walking in the street
He never can stop laughing, he says he'd never tried
But once he did arrest a man and laughed until he died
Ho, Ho, Ho, Ho,..............................”


Whenever it came on and Penrose began his uncontrollable manic laughter Nenny too would be reduced to fits of unstoppable laughter, tears would run down her cheek – and even as an old woman – if ever it came on the radio she would cry with laughter again. Wonderful. To me it brings back all my happy memories of my favourite Auntie.
And my second choice? A strange one – but again very evocative for me and very much one of my life’s markers. The street on which I lived had, at the top, a very large Roman Catholic Church – St Joseph’s. The church had a huge garden with lawn large enough for a small football match. Most of my friends were Roman Catholic and would, in the summer holidays, go to play football on the Church lawn. The young priests who lived and worked at the Church often joined in. On days when my mother was at work (I was about 10 or 11 at the time) I would join my friends. I was terrified lest my mother found out – she was very anti-Roman Catholic so I felt almost that I was committing a cardinal sin by venturing into the garden! It sounds stupid now, but I can remember at the time having a very real fear that some thunderbolt from heaven would strike me as punishment for entering this mysterious world, which as far as my mother was concerned was akin to Satanism! I never told my mother – the repercussions would have been too painful, there would have been rows and tears! In the Church garden were some old brick outbuildings – places for garden tools, old disused church impedimenta and the like. If the weather was bad we would often play in these buildings – hide and seek, look for treasure, talk football and the like. And we found an old wind up gramophone and a single record! We played that record over and over again! Looking back the song was dreadful – but it became ingrained on my mind and the whole experience part of my growing up. Even today it speaks of my mother’s intolerance, of the fear of my getting caught by her and equally of the exciting things we did on those long summer afternoons. And the record? - I can still remember every single word of “The Hand That Wore the Velvet Glove”:

Jimmy "Schnozzle" Durante

“Last night as I was strolling by,
There on the ground I found a velvet glove,
Whose can it be, and where is she,
Oh where is she,
The hand that wore the velvet glove........”

At this point my memory has perhaps played tricks. I have always firmly believed (and still do) that it was sung by Jimmy Durante  but on researching this blog I can find no record of a recording by “Schnozzle”. It was certainly recorded by many singers of that generation but which one I may never know.

My all time favourite

Number three. Easy. The one song that would probably be included if I was compiling a list of my eight favourite pieces. Perhaps the one piece of popular music that might take precedence over Bach. The Platters singing “Smoke gets In Your Eyes”. The 1958 recording by the Platters of this 1933 song which has been recorded by so many artists over the years is still the definitive version. I first heard it when I was becoming a teenager – Bill Haley had toured Britain, Elvis was the new teenage heart throb – pop music was here! Buddy Holly, the Everley Brothers and Eddie Cochran would become my favourites – but the Platters seemed to be the key to it all for me. In 1955 "The Great Pretender" was  the act's biggest R&B hit, with an 11-week run at the top. In 1956, The Platters appeared in the first major film based around rock and roll, "Rock Around The Clock", and performed both "Only You" and "The Great Pretender". And in 1958 came "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes" - I need only listen to the first few bars and I am transported back to those days – girls who looked like real girls in proper frocks and with bouffant hair styles, me and my friends with brylcreamed hair, drainpipe trousers and slim jim ties, a world of coffee bars and teddy boys; rock and roll was here and the world seemed new and exciting. The notion of as “teenager” with it's own music, styles, fashions and language was becoming part of the culture and I was a teenager - I was growing up.

Definitive musicians and iconic LP cover

And the next one? Almost the exact opposite of the Platters – this one would very definitely not feature in my favourites but it is so evocative of a time and place. What is it? The Beatles' - “Norwegian Wood”. Not by any means one of the greatest of the Beatles' repertoire and certainly a long way down my list of Beatles' favourites. By the time I went to teacher training college in the mid sixties the Beatles, the Stones, the Liverpool sound and the Swinging Sixties were at full throttle - it was my generation's "time". “Norwegian Wood” with John Lennon’s nasal, plaintive voice and George Harrison’s sitar backing was so often the background music as we played the Beatles’ “Rubber Soul” LP on my little Dansette record player in my room at college. Ask me to name one track on the LP and I know that “Norwegian Wood” is there – the rest I would have to guess. As I say, not even a favourite but seemed to be the background  for my college life, the sixties and for Pat and I as we became “an item” (what an awful phrase!).Within two or three years we would be married and "Norwegian Wood" seems to me to speak of the confidence that we had  at the time - everything seemed possible, the Beatle generation were, it seemed, rulers of the world, and we were part of it!

Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel - the voices of a generation

Number five? - Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Waters”. I’m a huge fan of Simon and Garfunkel and in the great scheme of things this is not one of my favourites – they did much better stuff than this: Wednesday Morning 3 a.m., Bleaker Street, The Boxer, America -  but it is a marker. When Pat and I married we seemed to spend every holiday decorating our new house. We had little money and whenever I listen to “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” I’m immediately back up a step ladder in our hall in the early 70s putting rolls of orange striped wallpaper onto our walls. The little stereo system we had at the time blaring out in the background and Pat and I singing along as we slapped on the paint and the wallpaper glue! We were establishing ourselves and our young family!

Pat (in 1970's mini skirt!) and the orange striped wallpaper!

Three quarters of the way there now. Number six is, like one of Jim’s selections, a piece from “Les Mis” . Not “Master of the House” (although a personal favourite) but “Do You Hear The People Sing”. Two reasons, two memories for this. For several years we joined with Pat’s family at New Year and each New Year’s Eve went up to London to see a show – “Cats”, “Phantom of the Opera”, “Les Mis”, “Miss Saigon”.............and many more. For me “Do You Hear The People Sing” is the essence of “Les Mis” and brings back memories of those New Year trips to London – going up to London at tea time, walking back through the centre at midnight, getting back to Pat’s parents’ house in Kent for a very late supper and welcoming the New Year in. The kids were teenagers and loved the excitement of the crowded West End – I found it all a bit noisy and threatening but enjoyable for all that. And the second reason for choosing this? At about the same time as we were making these New Year trips to the theatre we began to go abroad for our holidays – more specifically, we began to take the car abroad. I loved driving on the continent and especially in France. Whenever we drove through France it would not be long before “Les Mis” was put into the cassette player. I can still feel the wind on my face as we drove through the idyllic Loire countryside one hot Saturday afternoon with “Do You Hear The people Sing” filling the car. Alsace, Brittany, Beaune, Normandy ...... wherever we went “Les Mis” seemed to go with us! “Les Mis” still appears on my i-pod with regularity!

"Do you hear the people sing,
It is the song of angry men,
It's the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again..."

Number seven is easy – very much a favourite and one which I often find myself putting on when I’m driving. What is it? Dire Straits singing “Telegraph Road”. Listening to the words of Mark Knopfler’s darkly prophetic lyrics it seems today in 2011 even more pertinent than when it was written in the early 80’s at the height of Margaret Thatcher’s “slash and burn” policy with the British economy and industry. But it’s not for that reason that it is on my list – although that is good enough reason. No, it’s in because of Friday tea times. In the late 80’s Kate our daughter was doing her A levels – one of which was music and on Friday nights I would pick her up from college together with her cello. We had a little Ford Fiesta and the cello took up most of the space but at the height of the rush hour we would hurtle round Nottingham ring road looking forward to getting home to the fish and chip tea that Pat would cook for us. And as we hurtled through the traffic or sat in the traffic jam Dire Straits – and especially “Telegraph Road” would blast out of the little speakers. At over 14 minutes long the song would take up much of the journey home – but so evocative:

“.........And my radio says tonight it's gonna freeze
People driving home from the factories
Six lanes of traffic
Three lanes moving slow ......
I used to like to go to work but they shut it down
I got a right to go to work but there's no work here to be found
Yes and they say we're gonna have to pay what's owed
We're gonna have to reap from some seed that's been sowed
And the birds up on the wires and the telegraph poles
They can always fly away from this rain and this cold
You can hear them singing out their telegraph code
All the way down the telegraph road........”

And for me, my family were growing up – Kate would soon go off to University never to return home as she set up her own life and family in Manchester – but Dire Straits were so much part of that time and I know that if she reads this blog she will remember those drives too.

Mark Knopfler in his Dire Straits days

And to show what a creature of habit I am – when Kate and I got home each Friday evening having had a blast of Dire Straits I would put on the stereo and for the next half hour or so we would enjoy tea whilst listening to the glorious sound of one of the greatest exponents of Mozart’s piano music, Vladimir Ashkenazy, playing the greatest of Mozart’s Piano concerti - “Piano Concerto number 23 (K488)”. This would undoubtedly be in my list of eight classical favourites – even at the expense of Bach. As too would a piece of Telemann – the “Trumpet Concerto in D major” the first movement (the adagio) of which Kate and I walked down the aisle to when she got married – but that’s for another blog and another list!

And so to the last! Again there are two reasons for choosing it. The song? – Eric Clapton’s “My Father’s Eyes” The song is inspired by the fact that Clapton never met his father and refers also to the brief life of Clapton's son Conor, who died at age four after falling from an apartment window. "In it I tried to describe the parallel between looking through the eyes of my son, and the eyes of the father that I never met,” said Clapton in his autobiography. "My Father's Eyes" describes how Clapton wishes he knew his father. When I read Clapton’s autobiography a few years ago I was impressed and could relate to a lot of what he said about his father. For me, I felt a little the same way about my own father. Although he only died a few years ago, for a variety of reasons I wish we had known each other better. He was a long distance lorry driver and as a child I saw relatively little of him and when I did, the house was too often filled with angry rows always sparked off by my mother who was a very unbending person. Dad just took it, did what he was told, cleaned the house, cooked the weekend meals, never retaliated, took my mother's anger  and brought home the weekly pay packet - he was Mr Reliable. I always felt so sorry for him but dare not take his side. Had I done so my mother’s fury would have known no bounds and as he was on the road for much of each week it was mother who I lived with for most of the time. Sadly, I never really built up the father son relationship which I so much craved – there was always a barrier, the all pervading presence of my mother. By the time I did – once my mother died – he was an  old, ill man, and one of my life’s great regrets is that we had so little time to develop that relationship. But, on the brighter side and as I get older I have absolutely no doubt that I am becoming my father and seeing the world more and more through his eyes. Each day when I look into the shaving mirror my father peers back at me, I find myself saying the same things he did, I am increasingly using his mannerisms and believing what he believed!  Clapton touched a nerve here and was absolutely right. Eric Clapton has recorded many more famous songs than this – but for me it is very evocative and personal – and reflecting his lyrics, I can’t listen to it without thinking of my relationship with my father and the sort of relationship I have tried to have with my own son - and to my embarrassment what I am increasingly becoming!

Eric Clapton - rock star,world class guitarist
and  now musical elder statesman

“.....And I hear those ancient lullabies.
And as I watch this seedling grow,
Feel my heart start to overflow.
Where do I find the words to say?
How do I teach him?
What do we play?
Bit by bit, I've realized
That's when I need them,
That's when I need my father's eyes.......”

And, to add to all this, when I read in Clapton’s autobiography that he lives very close to where my son now lives, I have to say that when we travel down to the Thames Valley to visit (as we did this weekend) it’s not uncommon for Eric Clapton to float out of the car’s CD player as we drive down the A404 towards Marlow!

So that’s it – my eight pieces. Personal, not necessarily my favourites but simply pieces that have a meaning for me and reflect, I feel, my 60 odd years on the planet! On the radio show “Desert Island Discs” the guest has to choose just one out of the eight as the one they would take with them if forced to. I would find that amazingly difficult – Dire Straits and Clapton would be neck and neck and probably because I couldn’t choose between them I would instead go for The Platters’ “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” – one of the songs that heralded the music of my generation and of early rock and roll. It took me from childhood to young adult.  And, might I add, when it comes to my eightieth birthday and I decide to follow Jim’s example, I know that my children’s eyes will glaze over (not with admiration!) when I force them to listen politely to my eight choices – and especially the wonderful vocals of the Platters – but then again, I just think it’s another example of me (like Jim) wanting to ensure that my children enjoy, understand and appreciate the finer things of life – as surely my eight records (and Jim's) are!