Isabel Rogers's Blog, page 2

St Michael’s Arts Festival: in conversation with Stuart Barr

I was delighted to join St Michael’s Arts Festival when they approached me to talk about my Stockwell Park Orchestra books. Brixton Chamber Orchestra rehearses in St Michael’s Church on Stockwell Park Road, so of course they were interested in someone inventing a pretend orchestra and nicking their geography.

Stuart Barr and I sat down and chatted over Zoom, interspersed with the wonderful cellist Daisy Vatalaro playing three movements from Bach’s first cello suite. I was desperate to ask him about his work with stellar people (Shirley Bassey, for instance!) but in the end we didn’t have time. He was a total professional and kept asking about Stockwell Park Orchestra.

Thank you for inviting me along, Stuart!

You can listen here. It’s available until Saturday 7th November.

Continental Riff

The cover is finished, the links have gone live: the third book in my Stockwell Park Orchestra series will be published on 14th January 2021 and is available to preorder now.

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My publishers Farrago are so much better at writing the blurb than I am, so here’s what they say:

When Stockwell Park Orchestra goes on tour to Europe, it proves a challenge for even the most efficient German logistical planner.

A teenage stowaway, brass players falling in canals and a sabotaged timpani van are all in a day’s work for Sigrid Bauer of Note Perfect Tours, but even she can’t solve all the problems this week throws at her. Maybe a bit of surprise Bach can calm the muddy Brexit waters.

She just has to fish out the musicians first.

What can I add? We meet Alexander Leakey, the brilliant French horn player who reminds everyone of Chris Hemsworth. Eliot is conducting, Mrs Ford-Hughes drops in, and there are extra Wagner tuba players and shenanigans. One week, three cities, four separate vehicles. What could possibly go wrong?

Oh, and after hassling me to get into the last book’s acknowledgements, my friend Ben Blackman finds a version of himself actually written into this one. I wonder if he’ll save the day.

I hope you enjoy it. Please tell your friends, family and any book-buying acquaintances! I’ve said it before, but preorders and first week sales really are crucial to the life of a book. As Benjamin Dreyer – vice president, executive managing editor and copy chief of Random House and all-round book guru – says:

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We’re also going to be advertising Continental Riff on Classic FM radio, which is a very exciting adventure for me. I reckon that their audience of classical music lovers might be a perfect fit for Stockwell Park Orchestra.

Meanwhile, I’m putting the finishing touches to another short story that will be free to download between now and then, and have just signed my contract for Book 4. Watch this space.

Radio interview news

This coming Saturday (26th September) I’m the guest of writer Antonia Honeywell on her Chiltern Voice Book Club radio show. It runs from noon until two o’clock every Saturday, and is based on a Desert Island Discs format of the guest choosing some music and having a chat.

Chiltern Voice is an online community radio station. It doesn’t archive its shows, so if you want to catch me you’ll have to listen live at noon on Saturday. Here’s a link. Please be assured I was flailing my arms in a Kermit manner throughout, even though you can’t see it. Neither could Antonia, as we had to do this over Zoom and, while we were recording, we turned off our video feeds to concentrate bandwidth on the audio. Zig – snoozing by my side during the whole thing – ignored me, flails and all.

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It’s a pop station, so we didn’t get into choosing relevant classical bits from my books, but I hope you might like some of my picks. I did spend a while at the start of the interview apologising for all the things I’d had to leave off the list. It’s hard.

[I’ll soon have more news on exactly when Continental Riff, the third Stockwell Park Orchestra book, will be published. I know it will be some time in January. The cover will be ready to share soon.]

Watching Narrowly: a poetry reading in Gilbert White’s Barn

Kathryn Bevis recently led a socially-distant poetry reading in Gilbert White’s Barn, as part of the celebrations of the 300th anniversary of the naturalist’s birth. She asked two poets to join her: Stephen Boyce and me. As well as being a poet, Stephen is co-founder of the Winchester Poetry Festival and also its current Chair.

Kathryn is Hampshire Poet Laureate in this strangest of Covid years, and was able to arrange the reading under that umbrella. We were supposed to be talking to a barn full of people, but were actually just grateful we could go ahead at all. It is a beautiful building, with fairy lights in its rafters, and we only wished it could have been filled with an audience of poetry-lovers.

Most of our poems had a nature theme, in honour of Gilbert White. In fact, I was the least Gilberty out of anyone: Kathryn grew up very nearby, and Stephen revealed he shared a birthday with him. All I can claim is that I am probably about the same height as the tiny Gilbert.

I – of course – cannot stand hearing or looking at myself reading, and always think my performance could be improved with a bit more Kermit-flailing or jokes. Kathryn and Stephen, however, are both superb, and Matt Grover worked his magic over the filming.

Enjoy the reading:

 

Lockdown diary

The following is an edited recording found in the flat of Gregory Fawcett.

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DAY ONE

Decided to record my thoughts during this exciting opportunity. I’m four floors up and have three months’ worth of pot noodles and vitamin tablets. Not that I’m going to admit to it on the neighbourhood WhatsApp group. Finally, I can achieve my dream of learning to play my grandmother’s cello – it’s been next to the wardrobe for fifteen years. I can do this. If the kids in the flat upstairs can do flute and trumpet, and Mrs Kowalski over the road can start the piano, I too can be a musician!

DAY TWO

Downloaded sheet music for Elgar’s cello concerto and it looks great. Familiarising myself by singing along to a record. Yesterday’s practice session went well. I think the new strings are roughly right. There are only four of them. This is going to be so much easier than the guitar. Mrs Kowalski has noticed what I’m doing. Maybe we can duet across the street soon? She’s getting on very well indeed. Sometimes I hear her when her window’s open: her piano is right next to it. Her face looks so lovely when she plays.

DAY THREE

It’s early afternoon now, or ‘half past second pot noodle’, as I’m calling it! [laughter, sigh] Couldn’t concentrate earlier as Trumpet Kid upstairs was squirting out Silent Night, really badly. In April, duh! Anyway, I’m going to do some warm up studies like my online tutorial says. I’ll tackle the Elgar tomorrow. After all, Bill Murray in Groundhog Day took ages to get brilliant.

DAY FOUR

[whispered, close to microphone] It’s five am. I’ve realised the only way an artist can focus is in absolute silence. Going to read through some Bach before Trumpet Kid gets any ideas. No sign of Mrs Kowalski yet. Curtains closed. Not that it’s a race or anything.

DAY FIVE

After yesterday’s debacle, I’ve waited until eleven a.m. to begin today’s study. Honestly, you’d have thought I was trying to drill through their ceiling instead of bringing the joy of music into their lives, the way they were carrying on, with their frankly intrusive shouts of “shut up” and “our family is trying to sleep” and “you deranged lunatic”. Anyway, today I make up lost time. Apparently I must practise for ten thousand hours to be any good. I can fit in maybe eighteen a day. As long as I don’t start before mid-morning. Mrs Kowalski waved earlier. Her playing is coming on really well. I think we have a connection.

DAY SIX

[External ambience, sounds of gulls] We must reflect on our journey towards musicianship. For what is more noble than striving for excellence? We must make sacrifices. Looking down at the street below, it brings home how lonely the life of a musician is. Not for me the waving of passers-by through the window, bringing precious human contact. Up here on the fourth floor, we know solitude. Me and Mrs Kowalski. United in art. [noise of something dropping in liquid] Oh god, no! You little b– [liquid spilling, clothes brushing microphone] Right in my tea, you bugger! Bloody hell. [shouts] And you can bog off, Mrs Kowalski! It’s not funny. [sound of door slamming]

DAY SEVEN

Decided to take a day off, as God intended. My confidence has received a setback, I don’t mind admitting. Mrs Kowalski had her window open yesterday, playing something rather marvellous – Chopin, I think. I was drawn to my balcony, to enjoy her open air concert. Then she looked straight at me, put both her hands in the air and laughed. It’s a bloody Clavinova! All this time. I don’t know what truth is any more.

DAY EIGHT

Trumpet Kid and Flute Kid are doing some kind of duet. It’s a bit difficult to hear the flute when the trumpet’s going, to be honest. Unless the flute goes really high. I think they’ve noticed that too, so Flute Kid has been playing really high since breakfast. My tinnitus has kicked in.

DAY NINE

Built a drum kit out of empty pot noodles. Can’t get the full range, as they’re all the same size, so it’s a bit monotonous. Chap downstairs is joining in every now and then on his ceiling, which gives a lovely sense of community. I wonder if Mrs Kowalski wants to try an old-fashioned walkie talkie with two of them and a bit of string stretched over the street. [pause] Everything is starting to look like a noodle and my kettle is scared.

DAY TEN

[whispering] I’ve found the frequency of the universe! Listen! [cello C string plucked] If I lie down with the cello here under the coffee table, the resonance is [plucks string again] amazing. Wow. [plucks string again]I’ve been doing this all night and, honestly, it just gets better.

DAY ELEVEN

Mrs Kowalski keeps calling to me from her window. I don’t want to answer. I don’t think her playing is ready to meld with my one-ness in the frequency universe. She didn’t catch any of the Noodle Walkie Talkies I threw yesterday. [plucks cello string] We don’t need her. We’re going solo.

DAY TWELVE

[whispering] I think Mrs Kowalski can fly! I can hear her on the other side of my front door now. She’s brought some friends. I wonder if they can fly too? [sound of cracking wood, footsteps, questioning voices] Mrs Kowalski! Hello. You smell lovely up close. I’m playing my one-note Bach suites – wanna hear them? [plucks cello string] Put down my coffee table this instant! Wait – are we doing a flash mob? Brilliant!

And that was how The Fawcett Follies were born: Gregory found companionship and musical fulfilment during his hospital stay, going on to record multi-million selling work, giving us the first immersive, cross-medium, tastable concept album based around pot noodle timbres.

We hope you enjoyed your trip to Fawcett Follies World, curated in Gregory’s original flat. The coffee table and Gregory’s grandmother’s cello are on display in the sitting room. In the window opposite, you can see a life-size cut-out of Mrs Kowalski waving. The gift shop is on your right. Please return this audio guide in the deposit box provided. Have a great day, and keep noodling!

 

A High-Choir Act

I know we have more worrying things to think about right now, but a little good news can’t hurt. If we’re stuck inside self-isolating, we’re going to need something to take our mind off it.

What’s better than entertainment? Free entertainment, that’s what. And even more splendid for our wandering apocalyptic attention span, something shorter and snappier than a whole novel.

May I present a new, standalone short story set in the same world as my Stockwell Park Orchestra novels: A High-Choir Act.

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[I wrote this blurb myself. I’m quite proud:] When not conducting Stockwell Park Orchestra, Eliot Yarrow can be found singing baritone. But in one performance of Spem in Alium by Thomas Tallis, even he isn’t prepared for what can happen on a church balcony in the name of art. Forty singers and an audience that isn’t afraid to get involved: what, as they say, can possibly go wrong?

You get this because there’s a gap between publication of my second Stockwell Park Orchestra book (Bold as Brass) and my third (title still secret I think), and my editor and I didn’t want you to wander off thinking we had forgotten about you. Book Three will be published next January. You will not be able to escape me banging on about it nearer the time.

Meanwhile, here’s a link to a free short story, A High-Choir Act. Tell your friends. Sing a bit of Tallis. Enjoy yourselves.

When is a book spoiler a poem?

I tweeted a flippant idea recently. So far, so normal:

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[image error]People were intrigued. Replies streamed in faster than Hogwarts letters forcing themselves into the Dursley’s house telling Harry he should be in school. Literary podcast account @TheLitBoost said “This might be the greatest thread I’ve ever seen. Part literary encyclopaedia, part pub quiz!”

 

I tried to retain a semblance of control – didn’t want to be responsible for ruining people’s first readings with real spoilers, hence the title ban. But some replies named characters that instantly identified a book, so I added another rule:

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A few men (oh really?) treated the whole thread as their specialised subject on Mastermind and, in the words of our Great Liar, spaffed as many quickfire answers as they could up the wall before I politely asked them to stop ruining it.

Some people were desperate to know the answers. I witnessed persistent badgering, rebuffed by stalwart denials. It was like watching the old 140 vs 280 Twitter War all over again, marvelling at how someone could hold the line with steely nerve. I think in the end the information was passed across covertly in a DM, like a state secret hidden in the lining of a le Carré briefcase.

There were definite favourite spoilers, turning up multiple times. I’m sorry to break it to you, but it is apparently inescapable: Beth dies. Over and over again. The other hugely popular one was that they all did it. Death soon established itself as the greatest spoiler of all. There were any number of pronouns who ended up doing it, and I became helpless in a whirling Agatha Christie tornado of subject-verb-object gender fluid possibility.

I saw two replies close to each other which I assumed referred to the same book: “she’s in the loft” and “reader, she married him”. I quipped this back to both of them with a mental smirk worthy of Mr Collins, only to be informed that one of them referred to Anne Frank. There’s a gif for that.

People shared wonderful anecdotes. @Rachel_Curzon said: “This reminds me of teaching Of Mice and Men at a new school one year. Had to go through 32 copies of the book, rubbing out a three-word spoiler that was on the first page of EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM. You’ll know what they’d written. Couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry…” I’m sorry to say this exact three-word spoiler turned up several times in the thread. People, despite my urging, can still be monsters.

The spoiler list grew like Alice after she’d nibbled Eat Me cake. When a poet is faced with a data set like that, there is legally only one option: create a found poem. The rules are simple – you can’t invent any of it yourself, only rearrange what already exists. I wrote down my favourites, and over the next couple of days produced a composite poem which reads like a surreal literary criticism textbook on plot.

Why yes, I am on a deadline for my next novel. What do you think I was doing hanging round on Twitter so much? Have a poem on me and the wonderful people who replied to my daft invitation:

The Book Spoiler Found Poem

The dog dies, the spider dies; ants endure.

She’s not really dead. He dies instead.

She cut the head off the snake.

The sister never goes to a conservatory for violin.

They could not tell them apart.

She doesn’t die of cancer, he does.

They’re really dead. The kestrel dies.

The boy and his mother survive.

It’s not kinky romance, it’s domestic violence.

You were complicit. No personal odour.

Drowns.

Girl back again. Green food tastes good.

It ate everything. The whale dunnit.

It was the minister. The kid did it.

The detective did it.

Marries the arsehole. She couldn’t read.

She was his sister. The good guys win.

Horse becomes glue.

Whale 1 – Ahab 0.

It was her mum. It’s not his mum.

They didn’t all live happily ever after.

After all that, she dies.

The fish dies. The gorilla dies.

She’s a chimpanzee.

The ring melts.

He escapes.

Reader, she married him.

He’s a girl. She’s in the attic.

One of them WAS lying.

His wife’s in the attic love.

Life was better in 1983.

Everybody dies. They were all alive

the entire time. He was dead the whole time.

They were too menny.

They are the same person.

Nobody learned anything.

Given away by the bricked up cat.

Beth dies. They all did it.

She’s not furniture.

Beth dies. She meets her dad at the station.

The bling is toast.

He was a horcrux.

Beth dies. It doesn’t matter who did it.

It just stopped.

The mouse gets to eat his nut in peace.

They did need a bigger boat.

42

It was on the pages of the books.

Beth dies.

He gets shot in his swimming pool.

yes yes she says yes

Good dog … BANG!

Adulteress eats arsenic.

He gets shot by his lover’s husband’s lover’s husband.

The narrator did it.

He finally makes it home.

Beth dies.

And then there were three

First: an apology. I intended this blog to be regular bits of silliness we could all enjoy, not a one-way forhorn for news. Recently, I have failed. Maybe Brexit has worn me down. I promise to try harder … meanwhile, out of the silence, I have news.

It has been a busy year. The first Stockwell Park Orchestra book (Life, Death and Cellos) was published in January; the second one (Bold as Brass) in July. I deliberately didn’t start writing a third before I knew how the first two were going, so I didn’t jinx anything.

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Happy to report that superstition worked, and my Farrago editor Abbie Headon has asked me to write a third instalment.

This will not please the anonymous Amazon Customer who thought there was ‘literally nothing funny’ about Life, Death and Cellos. My mistake. I should have aimed for An Equal Music vibe and cut the jokes. I’ve grown rather fond of this review:

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Thank you to everyone who has bought copies of the first two, because I certainly wouldn’t have got the chance at a third if you hadn’t. This time I think I’m going to send the orchestra off on tour somewhere. It’s time they got out of London and into scrapes elsewhere. I guarantee mayhem.

So, hurrah for lovely editors! We aim to publish the new one in Autumn 2020, or earlier if I can write at terrific speed.

Loads of time to catch up on the first two, if you haven’t already … info on Farrago site here.

The “difficult” second album

It wasn’t, though. When I originally met my editor, Abbie Headon, she put up with me waving my hands around Kermit-style while I shuffled seventeen sheets of paper with plots written on them, spider-style, all over the kitchen table. She sensibly ate cake throughout. The point is: I have loads of plot ideas. The difficult thing was deciding which one to go for.

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Cover by the clever people at Head Design, who also did Life, Death and Cellos

[image error]In the end, the second book in my Stockwell Park Orchestra series is called Bold As Brass. (No, I didn’t search the internet in case my jaunty title coincided with a Cliff Richard album. Why would I?

[image error]Or indeed if a Dragon’s Den entrepreneur had written an autobiography of the same name. We are unlikely to be confused with each other.)

*MY* Bold As Brass combines eviscerating satire of both the public school system and your bog-standard state comprehensive (sorry, Academy) with skulduggery from a washed-up composer and some frankly outstanding posh names. There is an off-duty police officer, a tweed outfit that puts the smoking into ‘smoking jacket’, and precision laser deployment of the words ‘stook’ and ‘befurbelowed’. Plus a trombone player called Carl. There are children and animals. There is gaffer tape and a drain plunger. There is a highly controversial brass fanfare. Take that, Cliff and Hilary. Bet you can’t compete with that kind of content.

All our old friends are still there, apart from Fenella who is staying with her mother until her wrist mends, and Joshua who is probably working in a Starbucks by now. If you haven’t read Life, Death and Cellos yet (and why not?), please don’t read this paragraph.

What have I made the musicians of Stockwell Park Orchestra do now? Find out on 11th July. Or get me drunk and you probably won’t be able to shut me up.

Better still, pre-order (yes, I know I swore I’d never use that term but it turns out it actually does mean something), because it makes an enormous difference to how much notice people take in the first week of publication. Even more so if you can pre-order through your local bookshop. More books are published in the UK per person than anywhere else. If a bookseller sees one of them is a solid sale before it is even published, it blips their radar and they get interested. Otherwise, the Farrago link here can connect you to Hive (a friendly online book ordering system that also donates to your chosen local bookshop) or others. It will be in eBook and paperback versions.

Think of this blog post as my version of plastering acres of poster across the tube and train network, and taking out a prime-time ad slot to play during The Durrells. I simply don’t have enough kidneys to sell for that kind of exposure.

As another incentive, if you tell me you have pre-ordered AND ARE TELLING THE TRUTH, I’ll send you a personal card to use as a book mark. Not that you’ll need it as you won’t be able to stop reading, obviously. Either tweet me or use the contact page here.

And if all this hard sell makes you feel awkward, let me explain that my publishing deal was for two books. If they don’t sell well enough, I won’t be asked to write a third (and quite understandably too). But I’d really like to – just let me dig out these spidery plot diagrams …

 

 

 

 

Isabel Costello’s Literary Sofa

I was delighted to be asked by Isabel Costello to write a guest post on her excellent Literary Sofa site. Hop over there to read how I approach the mind-wiltingly difficult task of writing about music. Here’s a link: To The Literary Sofa.