World Music, and its current British suffocation

World music, perhaps you’ve heard of it? It’s that little afterthought category in the corner of your (increasingly rare) music store. So what exactly is it if it’s so small and unimportant?

Of course it essentially means “rest of the world” music from a western English-speaking perspective, since the store, its internet equivalents, the music media, and increasingly the live music scene, in Britain at least, are dominated by music made by and for English speakers, with a little gaelic folk and a fair bit of classical thrown in. After all, that’s what people want… isn’t it?

But hang on a minute, isn’t world music actually something rather enormous? In fact, strictly isn’t all that western English-speaking music really just a small subset of it, and given western English speakers probably make up considerably less than 10% of the world population, isn’t there an awful lot of great music to be had from the other 90% of that population? The answer, for anyone who’s taken the time to look, is an absolutely deafening YES; there’s an overwhelming amount of excitement, richness and diversity to be had everywhere you look, with genres and sub-genres galore. I’ve spent most of my adult life discovering and savouring this treasure trove and remain bewildered at what a minority interest it is given the gems on offer. The sheer scale of this missing (in Britain) music is nicely illustrated by the two massive tomes that comprise the Rough Guide to World Music, first published fifteen years ago at over 1400 pages in an act of apparently almost lunatic enthusiasm and erudition, and which has continued to grow significantly since. To put that in perspective, the corresponding Classical Music guide barely makes 500 pages.

A rather large catalogue of what's currently missing in British music coverage

To my mind this begs a few questions, mainly stemming from the basic point that people can only want what they know about. So who’s telling them, and more to the point who’s not? Of course there are specialist sources out there for those already plugged into this area (e.g. the excellent fRoots and Songlines magazines in Britain) but how do you get to listen to stuff to establish what floats your boat? How can you be serendipitously drawn into different areas of world music if you never chance across it being played? At this juncture it’s impossible to avoid pointing a finger at the mainstream broadcasters in Britain, and the BBC with its public service remit in particular.

Current BBC radio music broadcasting has four main channels to play with (Radio 1,2,3 on analogue and digital and BBC6 on digital only), with Radio 1 and 2 catering for the established mainstream music (all that English-speaking stuff from the music store). Classical-only Radio 3 roams the airwaves like some sort of superannuated dinosaur that has somehow failed to go extinct, with slightly patronising token forays into jazz and (very rarely now) world music; I have nothing against classical music but the monopoly the BBC allows it, given their limited resources, increasingly seems like something from a bygone age. To its credit BBC6 Music does try, and does manage to be more diverse and stimulating, but even it has not fully and openly grasped the whole world music thing. Interestingly though, following a robust repelling by listeners of BBC plans to axe it, BBC6 Music is now going from strength to strength with its listening figures beginning to outstrip those for Radio 3.

BBC World (Music) Service anytime soon?

So what of live music, which is usually the best way to do justice to outstanding talent? If all else fails surely you can just try going to a few concerts/gigs where recommended foreign musicians are playing? This may still work if you’re London-based, but good luck anywhere else in Britain. Within the last twenty five years there have never been fewer such world music performances going on than right now. It’s tricky to nail the reasons for sure, certainly they fell off very sharply after the last financial crisis perhaps because venues or labels couldn’t afford the costs, and the tightening of security may be making it trickier for some foreign performers to get visas. But my overwhelming sense is of a depressing level of conservatism amongst event organisers. Festivals are more popular than ever all over Britain and run through much of the year, and yet when I scan the impressively long lists of performers for them, they’re full of competent but same old same old names that you only want to see so many times, and it’s rare indeed to spot a truly outstanding and exciting new name from overseas despite the vast untapped talent out there.

Rumour has it that the new controller of Radio 3 has a taste for world music, and the editor of fRoots keeps hammering festival organisers to show some gumption, so let’s hope things have reached rock bottom and that the only way is up – it certainly feels that way. If popularity and success require the oxygen of publicity then world music in Britain is currently suffocating.

As for me, I’m fine – the exciting and uplifting discoveries keep coming and the obscure CDs from sometimes equally obscure addresses keep arriving; it’s all those who are missing out I’m concerned about.

A Pyrenean Adventure - high camps, vultures and whistling marmots

It wasn’t the most dignified of arrivals. Stranded at the final motorway toll payment station with hazard lights flashing and my credit card well and truly stuck in the machine slot, awaiting the “man from Pau” to come and extricate us. Something of a Winnie-the-Pooh moment. After an increasingly sweaty ten hour drive from the Channel coast Mark and I were tantalisingly within sight of our objective; at least we could admire the jaggy Pyrenean skyline from where we sat, albeit partially obscured by black thunderclouds. After half an hour, and the partial dismantling of the recalcitrant machine, I was presented with a slightly battered card and a receipt for payment, and we were waved on our way. Skirting the tacky fringes of miracle-industry Lourdes, and eleven and a half hours after rolling off the ferry at Caen, we chugged dazed into the campsite at Cauterets: put tent up, have shower, knock up quick functional meal on stove, go to bed, sleep deeply.

In theory we’d gained a day by covering the length of France in a single push, In practice of course we were too knackered to hit the trail next morning and wisely spent the day gathering our wits, planning in detail our first sortie into the mountains, and desperately trying to distil out of the absurd amount of kit and food in the car what was actually needed for this initial two day backpacking trip. The philosophy of the holiday was to do a series of separate mainly multi-day backpacking trips to get up and deeply amongst the Pyrenees, and through high camps experience them to the full without the subtle insulation and constraints that tend to come with mountain hut use. The obvious down side to this approach was the sizeable packs we would have to carry, often in hot sun, a combination I have neatly managed to avoid for most of my mountain experience – so this first outing was always going to be something of a personal test, not to mention a shakedown/proving of the whole approach for both of us for the next fortnight.

Beautiful Lac d'Estom at the head of the Vallee de Lutour

Thankfully, while initially a struggle to put on the next day, my rucsac didn’t prove crippling once in place, and as we steadily climbed southwards up the pleasant Vallee de Lutour the sun had the decency to stay behind the clouds for a few hours, helping us acclimatise to the level of effort required. We cruised nicely to the beautiful Lac d’Estom with its deep green waters, overlooked by many day trippers eating their lunches. We had our lunch too, we’d done over half the days distance so maybe this lark wasn’t going to be too bad after all. Unfortunately we hadn’t done half the days climbing or any of its rougher terrain, we’d ascended 700m so far but a squint at the map revealed another 900m to come, over the rugged Col d’Arraille. Hauling myself over this bouldery col so early in the holiday with full camping gear was the biggest physical struggle of the whole thing for me, and it was a very weary descent westward from there to our camping spot at 2150m, dramatically located directly below the north face of the Vignemale and one of the biggest rock walls in the Pyrenees.

The Vignemale (3298m)

No sooner had we got the tent up and got ourselves organised than weariness was temporarily eclipsed by the adrenaline rush of intense lightning, deafening thunder and torrential rain, the thunderclaps booming off the huge nearby rock faces. The weather persisted and we were forced to seal ourselves up in the tent and cook our evening meal listening to the lashing rain, which continued into the night. In a repeat of the miracle of the very first night I slept beautifully in the tent; this for a person who can’t normally fall asleep in a tent (a tricky shortcoming for a backpacking holiday), clearly total exhaustion is a good cure and one I was able to encore a few more times yet.

The morning dawned clear and sunny and we savoured our situation over what was to become our standard simple wild camping breakfast (large mug of tea, large bowl of muesli, both with rehydrated milk powder). The drama of the Vignemale dominated, gradually being lit by the rising sun, with a small but striking glacier sitting below it. The original plan had been to leave the tent where it was and climb the relatively easy Petit Vignemale summit in the morning before returning, packing up, and descending the Vallee de Gaube. However we were both too weary, after such a strenuous preceding day, to contemplate the climb and so packed up and made the most of the (actually rather long) beautiful descent down the Vallee de Gaube in sunny weather, to Lac de Gaube, Pont d’Espagne and ultimately the car at la Raillere.

Mark at Lac de Gaube, after descending the valley in the background

It was a satisfying first outing, which hence set the tone for the rest of the trip. It was good to simply confirm I could walk all day with a large enough rucsac to enable sustained backpacking, including substantial climbing and hot sun, and we’d both learnt that we wouldn’t be climbing 1600m in a single day with such packs again! After a nice rest day in Cauterets (cafes, pizzas,…) we were re-energised for a more substantial trip, this time a planned five day foray across the border into Spain and back, with possible summits in the offing. It was however interesting to note how reaching summits played a very secondary role on this holiday compared to most mountain walking I’ve done, it was more than satisfying enough to be traversing through the stunning high valleys and over cols that were generally only a few hundred metres lower than the multitude of jagged peaks.

Vallee du Marcadau

Despite the extra food that had to be carried we felt stronger on this longer outing and got into a good steady routine. The heavy packs made for a more measured pace and outlook that arguably allowed more to be taken in and appreciated. From Pont d’Espagne we wandered up the exquisite Vallee du Marcadau to camp at the Chapelle du Marcadau near the Refuge Wallon hut, within sight of the peaks clustered around the 3005m Grande Fache. We dozed off to the sound of the nearby stream and the cowbells from the slopes opposite. The next day was a particularly fine meander up through the small lakes of the Lacs de Cambales, toward the tricky boulder fields guarding the Col de Cambales. On this stretch we were regularly leapfrogging a friendly Spanish couple, Maria and Alberto, also with big packs and their beautiful white Pyrenean mountain dog which carried its own supplies in its panniers. We all converged at the col, which at 2706m was the highest point we hauled large rucsacs to, and had a chat over lunch with our new friends, one of whom thankfully spoke workable English. Large vultures could be seen drifting along the ridgelines looking for small furry fodder below as we ate. Further down the subsequent descent we met again for the last time, and I was astonished to see that Maria, having kicked off her boots and socks to chill out, had immaculate pink-painted toe nails; quite an achievement amongst hardened mountain goers who generally have battered and bruised toes!

The remote Chapelle du Marcadau, below the Grande Fache (centre)

Climbing through the Lacs de Cambales, towards the Col de Cambales (low point on the skyline)

Entering Spain shortly afterwards, we spent a lot of time finding a good campsite on rock-strewn ground in a neighbouring valley at about 2400m since the plan was to keep the tent here for two nights to allow a single relatively unladen day for peak bagging. It was a great perch for admiring the sunset over the Spanish mountains and the mists battling over the mountains from France; there is a natural weather divide between the two sides with mists regularly drifting south in the evenings but struggling to convincingly establish themselves on the Spanish side.

The next day was spent climbing eastward with light rucsacs up to the Col de la Fache back on the border, and then eschewing the obvious and popular ascent of Grande Fache itself (which Mark has climbed before) for the rarer pleasures of the Pic de Cambales to the north. Err, only to realise after a while that we had taken the wrong line and were climbing the rather more obscure Pene d’Aragon instead! We were suitably chilled about this however, and carried on with the serendipitous route change, to a very photogenic and prolonged lunch on the 2918m summit. Often the slightly lower peaks provide the best views of all, putting the highest mountains in context, and that certainly seemed the case on this occasion.

Mark on the summit of Pene d'Aragon (2918m)

After returning to the tent and another memorable overnight on the Spanish side, including watching the ubiquitous whistling marmots hurtling around the hillsides, it was time to head back into France. We’d originally intended to take two days over this but had realised it was achievable in one at a push, and that push came with deteriorating weather. Hence we scrabbled back up the Col de la Fache in light rain with occasional thunder, and began the long descent back to the Refuge Wallon and then the Vallee du Marcadau. The weather chased us all the way with waterproofs on and off more times than I can remember, and startling thunder and lightning at increasing frequency as we approached Pont d’Espagne.

Returning to Cauterets, for which we were developing a certain attachment, we felt we had earned a bit of a blow-out evening meal, but to keep costs down we headed for the take-away pizza parlour. Slightly anxious at the moderate size of box a customer left this establishment with, we decided that maybe three pizzas between two was the best policy to avoid any possibility of under-nourishment. Suffice it to say that this was an act of gross underestimation on our part, each of these three pizzas was a major meal in itself. We got through two and half before hurting enough to call a halt! Fortunately cold pizza is good packed lunch fodder so the leftovers kept us going for the next couple of days.

After another rest day, and drying out day for our kit, it was time to plan out the remainder of the holiday. We wanted to explore a little further from Cauterets, and also fancied a single day outing with smaller rucsacs, so we headed east over to Gavarnie in the car and did a strenuous and highly rewarding ascent of the distinct peak Pimene, which at 2801m proved a nicely varied and interesting climb and viewpoint. The Cirque de Gavarnie is justifiable regarded as a highlight of the whole Pyrenees, being a dramatic semi-circular distinctly terraced rock wall rising to 3000m, and we had an outstanding view of it from the summit ridge of Pimene.

Carl approaching the summit of Pimene (2801m)

Cirque de Gavarnie from Pimene

To finish the holiday we decided to go for one last special high wild camp, and headed further east to the less frequented Neouvielle region. The drive over to our start point near Bareges took us along the start of the ascent to the Col du Tourmalet, famous as a regular climb in the Tour de France. Quite a few cyclists were out and I confess to a compelling mixture of envy and sympathy for them, I would love to ride this and other classic continental climbs on my bike, yet the scale of even just this early part of the climb was inescapably daunting.

Setting off with full packs from the enticing looking country restaurant of Chez Louisette, typical of the establishments which the French seem to excel at, we headed south and steadily climbed up the steepening tracks to the rather ugly Refuge de la Glere at 2150m. Beyond this however we entered beautiful intricate higher ground from which we could look down on a number of small lakes and valleys, as well as out to wider horizons to the west and north. Idyllically a healthy stream was flowing through this just where we wanted to camp, providing our water supply and soundtrack for the night.

Camping at 2200m in the Neouvielle region

We savoured this camp and its situation which was in many ways the best of the holiday, and in the morning made a meandering foray further south, delayed by early rain, towards our original objective of the peak of Turon de Neouvielle at 3035m. However, due to the late start but also our general pleasure in our surroundings, we didn’t feel the need to push on to the summit and decided to turn around on reaching the high Lacs de Maniportet. This felt more like a success than a failure, an acknowledgement perhaps that simply ticking off summits risked tokenising a more rooted and all-encompassing appreciation of our surroundings and why we were really there. The whole fortnight had developed and matured such feelings, encouraged by our approach but also the very nature of the Pyrenees that seems subtly to invite it, a fine thing indeed to take back home.

 

And what of the Welsh? - the most elusive music in Britain

Since the spine-tingling performance by 9Bach I described in May, and the deserved recognition they’ve been building in the mainstream press ever since, I’ve found myself repeatedly musing on the curious state of creative Welsh-rooted music more generally. Wales resolutely remains a place apart within the UK despite its intimately close proximity to its dominant English neighbour, a situation long sustained by geography and history. That the only motorway links between the two run along the north and south coasts like the rods in a wall hanging, neatly isolating and preserving the vast rural heartland in between, surely assists this even into modern times.

Llanthony Priory, in the peaceful Vale of Ewyas

As to the people, I should first declare a piece of personal baggage:

Some twenty or so years ago a couple of friends and I found ourselves in Caenarfon, the epicentre of Welsh-speaking North Wales, early on a Saturday evening after a long day on the hills of Snowdonia, dishevelled and in search of food and drink. We went into a busy, promising looking pub in the main square, whereupon the place fell silent within seconds. Undeterred we strolled to the bar and waited for the oddly absent staff to reappear, to no avail. As the minutes passed customers quietly and smugly peered round at us, and after a while we realised this was going nowhere and headed for the door. As we opened the door to leave, the banter in the main bar smartly rose, the apparent culmination of an impressive and well-practiced piece of communal passive aggression. Given that we knew that if we’d strolled into a similar establishment in Scotland or Ireland we would have been new best mates with the locals at the bar within minutes, it all seemed rather sad. Fortunately the staff at the Chinese takeaway in a nearby side street had no such hang-ups and did us proud.

While possibly an overreaction, I’ve never entirely shaken off the sense this gave me of a certain wilful insularity in parts of Wales, and particularly in the Welsh speaking areas that also currently provide the source of much of its finest and most exciting music. This combination does however seem to have created a strange situation where that music is held very close, and rarely strays outside the homeland, which is why 9Bachs uninhibited recent breakout into England and the stir they’re currently causing at a number of major festivals has been so striking. Many with even a casual interest in the locally rooted but creative music of Britain and Ireland will be able to name major singers or bands that represent most geographic regions whether singing in English or Gaelic; but for Wales?

I’m still in the early stages of my exploring, but two key things I’ve discovered are (a) there is absolutely no shortage of terrific Welsh-rooted music whether instrumental or sung in Welsh and/or English, and ( b) if you currently want to hear the best Welsh music live you are (with very rare exceptions) going to have to go to it because it’s not coming to you. This second issue even extends to the difficulty of buying recordings of the music, a number of the best artists I’ve found being unavailable via mainstream websites or shops, and only obtainable via an individual specialised website that needs seeking out. Deliberate insularity? Lack of confidence? If the music was so-so it might be understandable, but it’s absolutely wonderful! So to stop whinging and start promoting, here are some current favourites:

 

The harp permeates much Welsh music, giving it a unique and often gentle or delicate texture, and to enjoy it in its purest form with spell-binding compositions and playing of the highest order you can do no better than to savour the work of Anglesey-based Llio Rhydderch. Don’t be fooled that she looks like everyones favourite bright-eyed gran, this woman is exceptional and mentors a number of young up and coming players. Blending harp with exhilarating Welsh vocals, soaring and gentle by turns, Sian James is an established and justly major artist within Wales but has been inexplicably absent much further afield down the years. Her 1993 album Distaw remains her clear masterpiece and is well worth seeking out. More outward looking is harpist Catrin Finch from Aberystwyth who has teamed up with renowned Senegalese kora player Seckou Keita to recently create the mesmerising intricate instrumental album Clychau Dibon, so good that in a coup for Welsh music it won this years highly prestigious fRoots magazine album of the year award.

So far, so refined, but Wales does edgy and pulse-racing too. I won’t rave any more about 9Bach here but the absurdly unknown Taran really do need some trumpeting. This is varied, innovative and energetic pulsing dance/house-influenced music with a sharp Welsh cultural edge, with both Welsh and English lyrics and occasional powerful use of the spoken word. At the heart of the spine-tingling final track of their recent captivating album Hotel Rex is a riveting reading of the Dylan Thomas poem And Death Shall Have No Dominion, the gravitas of which is quite something. Good luck finding this album which comes on a particularly home-recorded looking CD!

 

And so to Fernhill, named after another fine Dylan Thomas poem. Not so much a case of Wales reaching out, as of someone reaching in. Core singer Julie Murphy hails from Essex but married a Welshman, moved to deepest rural Wales, and speaks fluent Welsh (better than her husband!). I’ve found it impossible to liken Fernhill's style to anyone else’s; it is quiet, complex, often jazz-influenced and sung in an intriguing mix of Welsh and English. As such it has over the years become a unique and sophisticated Welsh sound. It is certainly not “easy listening”, but if the listener has the appetite it is hugely rewarding, more like the musical equivalent of a good piece of literary fiction than a lightweight chick-lit novel. With time I’ve got the hang of this music, and perhaps it has also been made a little more accessible, certainly the most recent album Amser is proving particularly stimulating as the layers and subtleties emerge with each new listening, marvellous intelligent stuff! Once again, you won’t yet find this on Amazon.

The diversity and pleasure to be had from all the above music is considerable, and interestingly they all have a distinctly Welsh feel in their own individual ways which are hard to nail with any single glib explanation and it’s probably foolhardy to try. Nonetheless, appreciating it all, I’m drawn strongly to the dark suspicion that they all thrive on a degree of apartness and otherness that a measure of insularity may be necessary to preserve. Maybe the Welsh know exactly what they’re doing!

Useful Welsh music source: www.sadwrn.com

Afon Cwm Llan, Snowdonia

 

Something Else - 9Bach hits Winchester

I’m not sure how to start this, but Wow! feels about right.

It’s just 48 hours since we got home from our terrific large sophisticated concert at the Barbican (see the previous blog) and we’re at it again, out on our musical adventures. The prospect before us however, couldn’t be more different or lacking in promise. We’re in a small, dark, battered and seat-less (aside from a single bench) back room to a tiny amiable pub of similar attributes behind the railway station in Winchester. The (highly competent) support act is gamely playing to about ten people, at the end of which he gets as much of a clap as ten people can muster, and we discover that six of those people comprise the main band for the evening. At least the ale from the bar at the back of the room is pretty good!

So… the six band members duly get up on stage and word goes out that the “main event” is about to start. After a short delay there is an influx from the main (i.e. tiny) pub of eight or nine people, phew - at least the audience has gone up rather than down, just! And if we add in the barman, the sound man and a roving photographer that makes about fifteen of us. Everyone stands coyly round the edges, clutching their drinks, terrified of the wide open space in the centre of the room. And then the music starts…

“We are 9Bach”, charismatic lead singer Lisa Jen Brown announces, and who with husband and guitarist Martin Hoyland form the core of the band. They hail from Bethesda in the heart of Welsh speaking North Wales, on the edge of Snowdonia, with the vast gash of the Penrhyn slate quarry dominating their view in contrast to the beautiful neighbouring Ogwen valley. Lisa sings in wonderfully soft and expressive Welsh (with one Greek exception), songs that are mostly interpretations of traditional Welsh material of generally weighty subject matter, which is perfectly complemented by the innovative slow and pulsing atmospheric sounds of the band with harp, guitars, drums, harmonium and frequent tinkles from xylophone and chimes which are extraordinarily engaging; gentle and powerful by turns, and highly evocative of the homeland. But if this is the context and the general sound, what is really astonishing is the quality and subtle creativity of the songs, arrangements and delivery. This is a class act.

The ever reliable fRoots magazine, ahead of the game as usual

After the first impressive song everyone is smiling, realising this isn’t going to be a duff performance. After two or three it’s broad grins and earnest concentration all round, this demands our full attention. Then comes the first of an outrageous number of spine-tingling “stop you in your tracks” songs that has my better half spontaneously standing up in excitement, not quite sure what to do with herself but knowing sitting on the bench is no longer satisfactory! The rest of the audience are similarly increasingly agitated and/or entranced and there is a growing awareness that we may be small in number but tonight we are some of the luckiest folk in the land. And so it goes on, innovative and bewitching throughout, interspersed with hilarious and unrepeatable banter between the band members, and increasingly the audience, often initiated by mischievous London cabbie and drummer (and token non-Welsh member) Ali Byworth. The emotional range and effect achieved is extraordinary, and the ultimate highlight is the stunning song Plentyn that Lisa herself has written after a visit to the aborigines of Australia, telling the appalling true story of the white man coming to take a mothers child away, and capturing the ensuing grief and despair. The piece as performed is a thing of astonishing beauty.

The understated, mesmerising first album from 2009

And then, too soon, it’s all over, and they’re off the stage and we’re shaking hands and having a good old natter. Lisa admits she’s thoroughly enjoyed the venue despite the turn-out; they’ve just played a couple of concerts in one to two hundred seat auditoriums in North Wales and found it a little too staid being spread out on a large stage which kills the banter within the band, and with the audience locked into their seats restricting the scope for dynamics and spontaneity and hence the atmosphere they clearly thrive on. Chatting to Martin he’s unassumingly chuffed to bits when we make clear what we thought of the evening’s performance, and that the new album Tincian has had rave reviews in the national broadsheets over the last couple of weeks; I waste no time in giving him a tenner for my copy. I’ve had their impressive eponymous debut album for the last four years and play it regularly, it’s extremely engaging in its unique understated way and many of its pieces were played this evening to great effect, but it has also always hinted at huge further potential – something that’s been finally realised in spades tonight and through the new release. Lisa and fellow singer Mirain Roberts ask sociably if we can stick around for a while as they are keen to extend the post-performance social – but with a heavy heart we have to make our excuses for the late drive home (a decision we naturally regret even more half way back).

The stunning new album... err, just buy it!

Walking through darkened Winchester back to the car the locals are turning in for the night, absurdly unaware of the uniquely special experience on their doorstep that they all missed out on. No it wasn’t a smart concert at the Barbican or Royal Festival Hall, it was something else.

 

For more information on 9Bach, including access to some nice videos, click on: www.9bach.com

A River, an Exhibition, and a Concert

It’s perhaps one of lifes underrated pleasures to simply sit outside the Royal Festival Hall, overlooking the Thames, sipping a good coffee on a summer Sunday morning with a cloudless sky and a cool breeze, before the crowds arrive and the heat builds. The place and the day are full of potential and we have a simple but interesting agenda, but there is no rush, yet; bliss.

A peaceful morning coffee before the culture and the crowds, Royal Festival Hall (18May14)

 

The perfect cooling-off facility, South Bank (18May14)

 

Loaded and ready for the onslaught, the outside bar at the Royal Festival Hall (18May14)

In the fine weather the Thames looks glorious, despite the tide being out. Folk are down on the “beaches” hunting for history or building sand castles where it’s not mud. Strolling eastwards along the South Bank it’s hard to stop taking pictures like all the foreign tourists, it all looks so damned good. The skyline continues to evolve and to be pecked away at by myriad cranes; it’s accumulating an increasing number of massive oddly shaped buildings all striving to be different. It’s getting a bit like grannies overcluttered mantelpiece full of nick-nacks, with even the splendour of St Pauls looking increasingly marginalised and lesser churches lost long ago in the deep canyons between the big new boys, with just the odd spire or tower top peeking out.

Looking downstream to Blackfriars Bridge and St Pauls (18May14)

 

Assorted new stuff on the skyline, solar-panelled Blackfriars Bridge in the foreground,  River Thames (18May14)

Arriving at the relatively modest Bankside Gallery, we dip inside out of the shadow of the looming monster of Tate Modern next door. An hour of soaking up the Original Prints exhibition by the Royal Society of Painter-Printmakers is inspiring and good for the soul, so much diverse good work. Top quality original art doesn’t come much more affordable than this and I have to lock my wallet away and fight multiple temptations; I escape unscathed. The father-in-law’s work looks good and has a sale denoted by a red dot, so some good news to report back on.

On the beach at Gabriel's Wharf (18May14)

Lunch under a tree outside the gallery and the tide is clearly starting to come in, those shores will soon disappear. By 1pm we realise we need to scoot, we have an afternoon concert to get to at the Barbican that starts at 2pm, and we haven’t been there before. Zig-zagging through the crowds on the now non-bouncy (booh) Millenium Bridge, past St Pauls and down narrow streets to the Guildhall we finally reach the huge, confusing yet strangely appealing Barbican. It’s a rather wonderful high and low-rise complex of offices, housing, schools, and concert venues with embedded lakes, fountains and plantlife – but a real struggle to quickly assimilate how to navigate to our desired Milton Court concert hall, which proves to be out the far side of the main set-up. Fortunately we get there with fifteen minutes to spare.

The foyer’s hot and we’re sticky, but it’s now time to chill out again and get ourselves into the right frame of mind for a very novel and varied concert. Fortunately the auditorium is cool and we have prime seats at the front of the circle.

US-based Nonesuch Records are a pretty discerning and eclectic bunch as music labels go, with high-brow signings such as Philip Glass, Steve Reich and the Kronos Quartet, which have not been my natural territory to date; but also the more accessible likes of Emmylou Harris, Natalie Merchant and, most recently and intriguingly, Olivia Chaney (see my first blog of the year). To celebrate 50 years in the business Nonesuch pretty much took over the Barbican last weekend to run a sequence of five concerts where they deliberately mixed up a considerable number of the artists on their books in various experimental collaborations, to force both musicians and audiences to reconsider their musical boundaries. And so to our concert, the fourth out of the five, with an impressive line-up that at least contained some known and partially known quantities, but also plenty of unknowns…
 

First up were the extraordinary Dublin-based Crash Ensemble, a “contemporary music ensemble” who I groundlessly feared might be of an irredeemably  “squeaky bonky” persuasion but who were actually utterly captivating in their 25 minute rendition of the wonderfully novel, varied and creative piece Gra agus Bas, with riveting gaelic singing from Iarla O Lionaird throughout (for whom the piece was originally written). I have previously encountered Iarla’s unique singing style (largely the much maligned traditional Irish sean nos style) from his work with Afro Celt Sound System some years ago but this performance brought home just how versatile and powerful it can be and the whole integrated performance brought a solid much-deserved ovation from the audience.

Then followed the main part of the concert, anchored by the impressive four piece Kronos Quartet who were themselves celebrating their 40th anniversary, and who kicked off with a wonderfully quirky piece where all members simply plucked rather than bowed their instruments – terrific funky stuff. The session then developed with individually capable singers and musicians Rhiannon Giddens, Olivia Chaney, Sam Amidon and finally Natalie Merchant coming on in turn to perform folk songs in conjunction with the Kronos Quartet. These performances had their highs and lows for me with the clear stars being, somewhat surprisingly, the newcomer Chaney and Giddens. Chaney in particular, perhaps because of her classical training, seemed to totally get how to gel with the Kronos Quartet and brought to their joint performances a compelling singing style which writhes and emotes in the most unique and creative manner - hers were performances that resulted in that very special magic you always hope for on these occasions. Giddens almost matched this with her versatile southern US sensibilities and styles and clear powerful voice, and her final gaelic mouth-music piece was particularly impressive, if a little disorientating – having previously heard the song many times but only via Scottish gaelic singers. Apparently North Carolina had the largest immigrant Scottish population in the US at one time and so she legitimately claimed the right to sing this piece.

 

For me young Sam Amidon’s engaging folky singing and guitar/fiddle playing, which I think in its more normal contexts would be a winning combination, appeared to struggle a little at times to fit with the string accompaniments of the Kronos Quartet. On a few occasions his playing seemed to clash directly with the accomplished Kronos sound and his voice sometimes didn’t seem to have quite the heft required to get the desired impact out of the songs. But hey, this was an experiment and success is not always complete or unequivocal in such situations, nothing ventured nothing gained.

And so to Natalie Merchant. Her name on the bill was probably responsible for a fair number of ticket sales and as a long-term devotee it certainly influenced my decision to attend. As such her arrival on stage was keenly awaited and, reflecting this, she was held back until last. Rather surprisingly however, it turned out (for this member of the audience anyway) to be the low point of the afternoon; not only did she do the shortest of cameos with just two rather downbeat songs but she tripped over the words on the first one and had to sheepishly restart it –something you and your audience can recover from if you’re doing a full concert but more tricky within such a brief appearance. And talking of appearances (and I’m not one who normally worries much about such things), Merchants dress sense continues to confound even me, coming on as she did in what can best be described as a Nora Batty influenced combo (non-UK readers may wish to Google this name – a key British sartorial reference point). I was genuinely trying to discern for a while if she had rollers in her crinkled hair!
 

And so we strolled back out into the sunshine, and through the narrow London streets back to the river, with much to cogitate on. It was a brave, adventurous, stimulating concert with many different things to appreciate and contemplate, which is rather more than most performances achieve, …which I think makes it a considerable success.

In love with the South Downs, finally

Jammed onto a south coast train full of shoppers heading for Brighton last Saturday, the appeal of our days plan was not immediately apparent. Subsequently running the gauntlet of the pedestrian death-trap that is suburban Worthing (so many mini-roundabouts!) as we headed north from the station, things weren’t much better, until a rounded green hilly horizon hove into view. An hour from the station and it’s all change; we’re at the ancient hill top fort of Cissbury Ring, a peaceful elevated haven half a mile across, and the panorama is spectacular. The south coast from Beachy Head in the east to the Isle of Wight in the west is spread before us, with the sea all asparkle. To the north are the sensual rounded undulations of the gentle dip slope of the South Downs proper, whose inherent chalkiness means that that all farming impressions register clear and bright, the effect being extraordinarily, if unintentionally, creative and arresting to the eye. Tracks are etched in pure white, ploughing with the lie of the land results in bright brushstrokes in sweeps and patches, while crops are interspersed in abstract shapes. It’s almost as if the farmers are intent on some large scale piece of modern art. On the skyline some miles off is the distinctive tufted clump of trees of the sister hill fort of Chanctonbury Ring, our ultimate (i.e. lunch) and equally atmospheric destination on this walk.

Looking to Chanctonbury Ring (left skyline) from Cissbury Ring. (3May14)

Unreservedly savouring the views and atmosphere of this day, I had to acknowledge that I have finally fallen unequivocally for the South Downs. I may have lived near them most of my adult life but as an evangelical devotee of wild and high mountain country, my walking visits to the Downs have too often been beset with the mindset of modest expectations and enthusiasm, i.e. it was the best I could do to mark time until my next fix of “real” hills.


South to the sea from Chanctonbury Ring. (Oct12)



My appreciation of the Downs has slowly built through frequent walks with my better half, who as always has a much less prejudiced take, and as a result of frequent cycling forays in the lanes around and through them; always a delight, even if climbing the steep northern scarp slopes is an often tough proposition! And I really must get into the whole mountain biking thing for which I have finally registered the Downs are tailor-made (hence all those happy mountain bikers I keep seeing enjoying themselves, doh!)

On the chalk and flint, approaching Glatting Beacon from the west, on a cold early spring day (1Apr13)

Another substantial influence has been the discovery and delight in various cultural connections. The beguiling shapes and patterns of the hills have excited many artists, and perhaps no one has done better justice to this than painter Eric Ravilious. His is work I can’t get enough of, in its sparing sweeping elegance that beautifully matches the nature of the Downs. Once familiar with his approach it’s hard to walk anywhere on the chalk without seeing echoes of his work everywhere you look, a case of nature imitating art, or is nature the true art and his paintings simply a  beautiful acknowledgement of that? Whatever, familiarity with Ravilious’s work simply adds substantially to my appreciation and enjoyment of the Downs.

Walking the chalk lanes near the Trundle, north of Chichester, in high summer (Jul10)

I also find the beautiful evocations of Edward Thomas’s The South Country rattling around in my head whenever I’m out on foot or awheel in the rural south east generally, but on the Downs particularly. Thomas used to walk long and often, and almost obsessively, to stave of the depressions that dogged him throughout his adult life, and although probably his most upbeat work, The South Country does still have a touch of melancholy about it. Indeed that melancholic tinge extends to both Thomas and Ravilious insofar as both were to die far too young, in the First and Second World Wars respectively, just a handful of years after producing the fine works that sustain myself and many others now and into the future. Perhaps paradoxically however, there can still be no more uplifting company than these two men when striding out on the Downs and taking in the sweeping forms and vistas.

Legacies of the perfect walking companions

 

Books, the Booker, and the fiendish Folio Society

In this world of instant electronic communication and gratification, and inane knee-jerk tweeting, it’s good to remind yourself sometimes of how amazing and rewarding the simple book can be. As a source of knowledge, insight, new ideas and ways of thinking, and for general mind expansion (and yes, entertainment and escape) it’s hard to beat. In the fast-moving world it seems to be often regarded as slow and outmoded, which misses the point that things of real worth take time to be properly expressed and assimilated, and that sustained experiences can ultimately be more rewarding than the short-lived. The media recently reported that the average British home contains just 138 books, most of which are unread; why do these people limit themselves so? Especially given the implication that around half of homes have less than this number.

These thoughts came to the fore during my recent reading of Eleanor Cattons superb, Booker winning, novel The Luminaries which I would recommend to almost anyone. Don’t be put off by the erudite prize, it’s a real page turner of a murder, mystery, and ultimately romance, set in the New Zealand gold rush of the 1860s. Don’t be put off by its Dickensian length of 800 pages either, I got through this a lot quicker than some books a quarter the size. In fact it is remarkably reminiscent of Dickens, with much beautifully atmospheric description and building of characters and place, and set in the same era albeit on the opposite side of the globe – I think he might have approved. It’s also a book that doesn’t insult the intelligence of the reader, building a plot of initially bewildering colour, complexity and angles, dropping snippets of information for the reader to work on, before gradually resolving the whole into focus. I’ll need another read to more fully grasp it, but it’s an impressive and insightful work for someone the young side of thirty and bodes well for the future of literature.

That such a fine piece of work, that can entertain the reader for several weeks or more, is available so affordably is also surely something to cheer; good books are particularly accessible and democratic art forms.

Yet books are also, beyond the words, physical objects of potentially considerable allure - particularly in the hands of certain publishers. While I may like to believe the magic of a book is in the words alone, and hence can be extracted from the tattiest of cheap paperbacks, like many I am susceptible to the seduction of a beautiful edition. In fact I have recently had to admit the grubby truth that a beautiful edition can fundamentally affect my willingness to engage with certain books, and how avidly I read them! Enter the fiendish Folio Society who have produced stunning editions of major works for decades, and who, disturbingly, now seem to know my every weakness and predilection. I love them really of course, not just because of their jaw dropping  publications, but because by succumbing to their charms in a measured and selective way I have found myself contemplating and then devouring highly rewarding fiction that I seem in the last couple of years to have very belatedly developed an insatiable appetite for. For although the house is full of books fiction is very much in the minority and it seems to be time to put that right, so thank you Folio for making this happen.

The fruits of succumbing to temptation! Folio editions may be a guilty pleasure, but a substantial and long-lasting pleasure nonetheless.

It’s also good to note that the Folio Society is not all about the cover; as the Booker prize faltered a couple of years ago when it showed tendencies (since reversed I would suggest) towards putting populism above writing quality, the Folio stepped in smartly with a major new international literature prize which promised no such compromises. Nonetheless its first winner, announced earlier this month in George Saunders Tenth of December, looks a fascinating read; perhaps you really can have your quality cake and read it. Indeed maybe that’s the ultimate definition of a true classic.

Reaching for the Light - on the cusp of Spring in Gloucestershire

Munching our bacon butties and pouring our second cup of Lapsang Souchong from the flask, we’re managing to nicely stave off the worst effects of the cold drizzle as we wait on the bank of the River Severn, much to the envy of our fellow Bore watchers. We struck gold with our B&B this weekend; needing to get away too early for a full-on farmhouse breakfast we’re instead packed off two mornings in a row with a bag of butties and homemade flapjack for our riverside rendezvous. And here it comes, careering round the bend in the river…

Severn Bore near Minsterworth (3Mar14)

The Severn Bore is a strange thing, a wide fast quiet smooth ominous wave, a metre or more high, mostly audible due to its edges tearing along the banks. But more impressive still is registering that this is not an isolated lump moving rapidly up-river but rather the leading edge of a dramatic rise in river level, several metres in a matter of minutes and continuing to rise swiftly thereafter. And a complete reversal of a major river flow in seconds – from a fast flow towards the sea driven by rain sodden ground through the Midlands and Wales, to an even faster tide-driven “upstream” flow despite being tens of miles from anything that can be described as sea.

After all this excitement it was good to climb up to the local viewpoint of May Hill and get the wider perspective on the Severn down to the Bristol Channel. It was misty and atmospheric up there and the vista was stunning. And the sun also deigned to show itself eventually, joy!

Severn bends from May Hill (3Mar14)

Then it was on to Ross-on-Wye for lunch overlooking the river, and a subsequent stroll along the Wye. After chilling out in a fine café we pootled back to Gloucester to explore the renovated docks in the last light of the day, before a splendid pizza! A classic full day where a new spring light finally felt like it was emerging.

Chilling out in Ross-on-Wye (3Mar14)

 

Last light at Gloucester Docks (3Mar14)

This was reinforced the next morning, when we rose early to catch a second Bore, and opened the curtains to a glorious frosty sunny perfect morning. Sometimes the smallest things make all the difference; today it was heavy condensation on the inside of the bedroom window through which the rising sun shone fantastically. It created something magical that amplified enormously the wonderful morning light – we knew we were on a very special day. Today we walked a beautiful stretch of the Severn, and saw a smaller Bore, in brilliant sun, and all completely to ourselves. Such a perfect morning, in the new light, that after a briefer than planned stop in Chepstow we headed home, early, knowing we’d got what we came for...

Sunrise at Brawn Farm (4Mar14)

Sunrise at Brawn Farm (4Mar14)

Sunrise (Spring-rise?) at Brawn Farm (4Mar14)