I love my MP3

I don't know if I'm alone in this, but I could swear my MP3 has a little sentient creature living inside it. Not a scary Dalek-type creature, but rather more cute and friendly.

It started with the naming. Back when iPods started, Richard got himself a big old Creative Zen Touch (not as cool looking as an iPod, but rather more robust, with a massive memory and a lovely strokey-strokey control panel). Since it wasn't actually an iPod we christened it Pseudopod. Then he bought me a tiny Creative Zen V for my birthday (see picture) - aah, how cute is that! - so of course that became 'Diddypod'. And very happy we have been together ever since.

Now both Richard and I have noticed the tendency of our pods to 'bond' with us. This is particularly strong for Richard and his pseudopod, so much so that it started to play the only song in history (probably) that mentioned the name of the Irish town we were pulling into on a tour (and it wasn't Dublin or Belfast). That's spooky. It frequently selects tracks that are uncannily appropriate. Mine, too, seems to have a mind of its own, though it's rather less in tune with mine (although it seems to have my stubborn streak). For example, judging by how often it chooses them:

It likes Kirsty McColl, but not Suzanne Vega.

It likes Fiona Apple, but not Aimee Mann.

It really really hates '1234' by Feist, and will avoid it if it's in a playlist of 2.

It likes rather jolly and slightly novelty songs on the walk to work - Sparks, Ian Dury, Kaiser Chiefs (it really loves Kirsty McColl's 'There's a guy works down the chipshop swears he's Elvis', which obviously presses all of its buttons); and prefers more mellow stuff on the way home (suits me!)

It likes Prince when I'm in the gym.

Tell me I'm not going mad, that there is something other than coincidence to all this!

A Child of our Time

Richard and I attended a performance of Michael Tippett's 'A Child of our Time' on Saturday, which was a school performance aided and abetted by 4 professional soloists with local connections and a few professional musicians. Oh - and Jordan was in the chorus. I didn't know the piece at all, and my enjoyment of it was not enhanced by the extreme pain transmitted to my buttocks by the hard chairs. However, despite my amazement that the school managed to pull off a creditable if slightly under-rehearsed performance, I have to say I didn't appreciate the composition itself.

Tippett began writing this oratorio in 1938 in response to events surrounding a political assassination by Hershel Grynszpan, events which triggered widespread persecution of the Jews in the Kristallnacht (night of broken glass); the actions of Grynszpan were used by Nazis to justify their actions. Tippett took this concept of scapegoating together with his staunch pacifist sympathies (he was later imprisoned as a conscientious objector) and a bit of Jungian resonance to form the basis of his libretto.

Now I'm not really an appreciator of classical music. I like classical music; I don't like all of it, not by a long way; and I don't often know why I do or don't like something. I liked bits of this. But what I do have strong feelings about is words. And I didn't like these words. I found them rather naff, to be honest. Interestingly Tippett first took the idea of the libretto to T S Eliot, hoping that the great poet would write it for him. It's reported that Eliot declined on the basis that Tippett's music would provide the emotion, and that there was no need for further poetry. I reckon Eliot was being polite, and secretly didn't want to be saddled with such a restrictive brief ('I want it to be about a specific event, but also the universality of conflict, resolution, suffering and oppression together with a bit of acceptance, all wrapped in a Jungian subtext with a smidge of the Bible thrown in for good measure'). So Tippett wrote it all himself. Here's one of my 'favourite' bits:

MOTHER Oh my son! In the dread terror they have brought me near to death.
BOY Mother, mother! Though men hurt me like an animal, I will defy the world to reach you.
AUNT Have patience. Throw not your life away in futile sacrifice.
UNCLE You are as one against all. Accept the impotence of your humanity.
BOY No! I must save her.

...and so on and so on. OK so this is personal taste. But the thing I really objected to was also the thing this piece is often lauded for; the inclusion of several traditional African -American Spirituals. I understand that Tippett was trying to convey the universality of such persecution and suffering, across the sweep of human history. And they certainly worked well in terms of the music (and the words were a welcome relief too!). But I found it hard to stomach hearing about the persecution of the Jewish people alongside Christian songs such as 'Nobody knows the trouble I see'. 'Go down Moses' worked far better, reflecting the Jewish story as it did. Richard was of the mind that these songs were just as alien to the original faith and culture of the African slaves, so therefore they work well as a cross-cultural reference. But I kept wondering how this odd juxtaposition would sound to someone Jewish.

In these times we are perhaps more careful to respect the differences and celebrate the individuality of races and cultures, rather than to embrace the similarities. I am as much a child of my time as Tippett was of his (albeit Tippett was out of step with the prevailing culture, his counter-cultural stance was still one of 1938). I am not sure that I can lay aside my knee-jerk reactions long enough to really appreciate the thought process behind a work such as this.

Many Times

I visited London for the day on Thursday, with my mum and Annie (off school due to the NUT strike). Mum had wanted to visit the Terracotta Army exhibition, but we had failed to get tickets; so instead I took her to see the Juan Munoz retrospective at Tate Modern, which included the piece 'Many Times'. With 100 figures all with similar Chinese features, I reckoned this was the next best thing to the Terracotta Army.

Other people round the world have seen this piece and blogged about it. Lots of people feel a little unsettled by it - the figures all seem to be in on the same joke, leaving the observer feeling as if they are excluded and perhaps as if they are themselves being observed, even ridiculed. I had no such sense, and rather felt joyful in the presence of all these laughing, footless little men. There was something ridiculous about them that made we want to smile the whole time we were in there. One figure alone could not have accomplished this; rather, it was in the lavish repetition that the genius lay. Many other people seemed similarly affected whilst we were there - as viewers were free to wander at will between the figures I positioned myself in a corner and watched as people walked in, all wearing their terribly serious and earnest art gallery faces, then as their expressions changed to smiles and wonder.

Of course all the best art allows the viewer to become a participant in some way, and this was certainly true for our little party. Not only did we wander between the figures, choosing our favourites and imagining the topics of conversation between them. On the way in Annie had caught a tiny caterpillar in her hair, which she had carried carefully around the exhibition (I think she said its name was 'Kevin'). By the time we left the 'Many Times' room it contained 100 small grey resin figures; and one teeny-tiny green caterpillar, sitting on the shoulder of a laughing grey man.

Songs that end well, songs that don't

I heard someone on the radio the other day complaining that too many songs just drift away, fading out instead of ending properly. I think I agree. It led me to think about some favourite - and not so favourite - endings. So, in my opinion...

Songs that end well...

A Day in the Life The Beatles - class.
Big Time Peter Gabriel - altogether now: Big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big!
London Calling The Clash - Morse code moment.
Love Cats The Cure - time for lots of silly dancing. Or is that just me?
Deeply Dippy Right Said Fred - you'll have to trust me on that one.
This Charming Man The Smiths - altogether now - dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum ...diddle-iddle, dum-dum-di-dum-dum, diddle-iddle DUM DUM!
This town ain't big enough for the both of us Sparks - I love a bit of falsetto, me.
Slave to the Rhythm Grace Jones - you're just waiting for that last intake of breath.

Songs that end badly...

Will you? Hazel O'Connor - yes we know you've paid good money for that saxophonist. But he can stop now. No, really. We've had enough.
Atomic Blondie - what a great song. What a dribble away ending. A good example of the type.
War Baby Tom Robinson - someone else who doesn't know when to pull the plug.
Light my Fire The Doors - eek! The last chord is a nails-on-blackboard experience.

And the jury's still out on...

Sinnerman Nina Simone - any of the endings played would have been great. I just think she should have picked one, and stuck to it. The song starts ending after about 7 minutes, and finally grinds to a halt after another 3.

Face off

Richard, Annie and I watched the final part of BBC's 'The Passion' last night with a small amount of trepidation that the usual cynical approach to the resurrection would prevail. We had only watched the previous episode, not the ones earlier in the week: I'm always a bit reticent to see interpretations of Jesus, afraid that someone else's version of Christ will stick in my head in an unhelpful way. Even if the version is potentialy a good one - remembering Zeffirelli's 'Jesus of Nazareth' - it can still 'stick' a bit too well, so that I can feel I'm praying to Robert Powell at times - even now!

But I loved the way that last night's production interpreted two of the gospel readings. The Bible tells us that both Mary in the garden and the two on the road to Emmaus failed to recognise Jesus at first; then 'saw' him in the simple and familiar - Mary as he called her name, and the two as they watched him break bread. 'The Passion' demonstrated this by using different actors, the first one looking more like the original than the second (or was that the same person with different hair, prosthetics etc?), who used some familiar body language and turns of phrase to make both the disciples in the story and the audience wonder if it was the same person or not.

The whole effect made me more conscious of the ordinary humanity of Jesus - dirty fingernails, calloused feet, sunburned face and all; and of the ability he has to get under our skin, to force us to recognise his presence even when everything in us wants to deny it.

Palm Sunday: Imagine if...

Through the dust and fumes of a Spring morning he rode,
Choosing the simplest and most humble of transports.
The crowd began to gather almost at once
As news of this most inauspicious of visitations spread from house to house.
Through the outlying regions he came, gathering momentum, freewheeling where the gradient allowed, smiling at those who had dropped everything to celebrate this moment.
Past Filton, Horfield, Bishopston, Montpelier, he paused at the traffic lights and gazed up the City Road towards St Pauls, not speaking but calling just the same.
Then, onward he cycled, slower now
Through Stokes Croft where the everyday artists sat smoking and waving, and the girls from the massage parlours smiled to acknowledge one who would not condemn.
Crossing to the Barton Roundabout he briefly dismounted
Clattering his bicycle down the ramp so that he could celebrate with those who also had nowhere to call home, as they whiled away the hours drinking toasts to the music of the subway tin whistle.
Back on the bike, chasing the skinny dogs that leaped around his wheels, he turned southwards; passing the temples of commerce and on to the place where the fountains danced for joy. The people came surging forwards now, rushing out of shops and bars to lay their fleeces and their city jackets over the fag-ends and discarded chewing gum at his feet. Unable to contain their wonder they kicked off their shoes and splashed through the fountains, reaching for songs that they half-remembered; then lapsing back into those they did –
- Mr Blue Sky –
- All you need is love –
And ‘Angels’, as some held their lighters aloft, whilst others captured the moment on their mobile cameras.
He did not wait for this photo-opportunity; instead he turned once more, and began the slower ascent up Park Street, pausing only briefly to beckon the clergy from the Cathedral gathered outside on the grass, and swerving to steer in and out of the skateboarders as they put on a show for him.
Laughing, he stood up on his pedals, leaning his head towards the handlebars, aware of those around who likewise bowed their heads.
As he reached the Triangle more crowds gathered, shouting his name now, and ‘Hosanna! Hosanna!’
Children on a school trip to the Museum called out ‘Look this way! This way!’ –
And he frowned,
As the teacher corralled them back into their orderly crocodile.
No sense of order was his domain this day
As the chaos of crowds and the cacophony of praise prevailed
And the traffic was brought to a standstill by one lone cyclist
Who nonetheless was a calm point in the midst of all this
And on whose actions rested all of the upheaval in other peoples’ lives.
Turning towards the Whiteladies Road
He rode on
Because even the rich people need saving.
Office windows were flung open
or lifted to the height that restraints would allow –
as the assembled crowd raised their frothy mochaccinos towards him
then turned back to the priorities of the day.

Ride on.
Ride on.

TAW March 2008

How to sleep during sermons whilst not discouraging the preacher

Some suggested methods....

1. Glaze over. Does not allow you to close your eyes, but in all other important respects you can sleep. Probably best not to be on the front row for this one.
2. Develop a habit of nodding your head, David-Gray-style, in order to infer agreement. Eyes may gradually come to a complete closure.
3. Have a baby, and then time its feeds appropriately. Rather an extreme method unless you're already planning to have a family.
4. Steal someone else's baby. Note: the child needs to be fairly young, and very compliant, or the opposite of sleep will occur.
5. Slump forward, head in hands (or resting on pew in front). Only a viable option if it's not the sort of church where this is taken as a sign that you want 'ministry'.
6. Shout 'Maranatha!' and prostrate yourself in front of the pulpit. Not one to try every week, but useful for special occasions, and very effective - it is possible to stay there for the duration of the service, as everyone will be too embarrassed or too awed to disturb you.
7. Become the vicar. Gradually leave longer and longer significant pauses between points, during which it is quite possible to grab if not forty then at least ten winks. As you are the preacher, it is unlikely that you will become discouraged by this practice.
8. Join the worship group, playing a large instrument that you can successfully hide behind whilst snoozing. Your choice will of course depend upon your body size and shape. Do not choose the piccolo.
9. Develop an 'inconvenient' bowel habit that allows you to sit down somewhere nice and quiet for the duration of the sermon.
10. Go on the church coffee rota, and take it so seriously that you need to put the kettle on at about the time the preacher stands up. Kitchens are generally nice warm places. On no account drink the caffeine until after a little nap.

Of course, I rarely need to use any of these methods, as the sermons at our church are invariably riveting and excellent (just in case the vicar reads this). But they do prove useful at the occasional wedding, licensing, ordination etc...