Tim Atkinson's Blog, page 20
January 18, 2018
It was on the... 18th January, actually
Another musical post, another 'today in history' post, but another musical moment that deserves marking. In this case, the event being the first performance - in Bradford - of the exquisite orchestral rhapsody Brigg Fair by that rather reluctant son of the city, Frederick (or Fritz) Delius.
Delius was of German-Jewish origin, first generation Yorkshireman and longtime exile. He lived in France for most of his adult life, having spend a few formative years in America.
But if he couldn't wait to shake the dust of England from his boots, he couldn't shake the memory of this English folk song from his mind.
It was collected (by an Aussie ex-pat, Percy Grainger) early in the 20th century, during a period when finding folk song was the rage. Vaughan-Williams, Holst (of 'Planets' fame) and George Butterworth all did it.
And so did Grainger. He fetched up in Brigg, Lincolnshire, with his wax cylinder recording device in April 1905. There had been a music festival. It's said that Joseph Taylor, a carpenter from nearby Saxby, having failed to win went privately to the judges' tent and - rather than remonstrating or challenging their decision - sang another song. This one.
It was on the fifth of August-er' the weather fine and fair,
Unto Brigg Fair I did repair, for love I was inclined.
I rose up with the lark in the morning, with my heart so full of glee,
Of thinking there to meet my dear, long time I'd wished to see.
Grainger arranged the song for a capella chorus and tenor soloist, extending it by adding verses from two more folksongs: Low Down in the Broom and The Merry King. It was this arrangement that Delius heard and fell in love with while at home in Grez-sur-Loing, near Paris.
So, from Germany via Bradford, through Australia, from France and then back - for that world premiere performance - to Bradford, comes this little, local Lincolnshire folk song, nowhere else known or even mentioned. Oh, and here it is played by a Japanese orchestra.
It's a well-travelled song!
Delius was of German-Jewish origin, first generation Yorkshireman and longtime exile. He lived in France for most of his adult life, having spend a few formative years in America.
But if he couldn't wait to shake the dust of England from his boots, he couldn't shake the memory of this English folk song from his mind.
It was collected (by an Aussie ex-pat, Percy Grainger) early in the 20th century, during a period when finding folk song was the rage. Vaughan-Williams, Holst (of 'Planets' fame) and George Butterworth all did it.
And so did Grainger. He fetched up in Brigg, Lincolnshire, with his wax cylinder recording device in April 1905. There had been a music festival. It's said that Joseph Taylor, a carpenter from nearby Saxby, having failed to win went privately to the judges' tent and - rather than remonstrating or challenging their decision - sang another song. This one.
It was on the fifth of August-er' the weather fine and fair,
Unto Brigg Fair I did repair, for love I was inclined.
I rose up with the lark in the morning, with my heart so full of glee,
Of thinking there to meet my dear, long time I'd wished to see.
Grainger arranged the song for a capella chorus and tenor soloist, extending it by adding verses from two more folksongs: Low Down in the Broom and The Merry King. It was this arrangement that Delius heard and fell in love with while at home in Grez-sur-Loing, near Paris.
So, from Germany via Bradford, through Australia, from France and then back - for that world premiere performance - to Bradford, comes this little, local Lincolnshire folk song, nowhere else known or even mentioned. Oh, and here it is played by a Japanese orchestra.
It's a well-travelled song!
January 16, 2018
Only the good die young...
Close or careful readers of this blog (don't laugh, there might be one) will be aware that my musical tastes tend towards the classical. But it's a tendency. Not exclusivity.
In fact, I like to think my musical tastes are quite broad, catholic even. They certainly extend to at least the first two Cranberries albums, partly for the musicality of the band and originality of the songs but mainly because of the beautifully haunting voice of Dolores O'Riordan, now sadly, listed among the ever-increasing realm of those artists and musicians taken from us far too early.
O'Riordan had a troubled early life but triumphed in spectacular circumstances, joining a band who by their own admission could barely play, bringing her own performing and writing talent to bear, and triumphing in the US after a distinctly underwhelming experience in the UK.
The rest, of course, is history. As, sadly, is O'Riordan's voice, now.
Only the good die young, as Billy Joel once sang. And if that might not, quite, be literally true it certainly seems painfully appropriate yet again as we mourn the premature death of another talented singer.
In fact, I like to think my musical tastes are quite broad, catholic even. They certainly extend to at least the first two Cranberries albums, partly for the musicality of the band and originality of the songs but mainly because of the beautifully haunting voice of Dolores O'Riordan, now sadly, listed among the ever-increasing realm of those artists and musicians taken from us far too early.
O'Riordan had a troubled early life but triumphed in spectacular circumstances, joining a band who by their own admission could barely play, bringing her own performing and writing talent to bear, and triumphing in the US after a distinctly underwhelming experience in the UK.
The rest, of course, is history. As, sadly, is O'Riordan's voice, now.
Only the good die young, as Billy Joel once sang. And if that might not, quite, be literally true it certainly seems painfully appropriate yet again as we mourn the premature death of another talented singer.
January 14, 2018
Liar, liar!
Most - if not quite all of us - agree that it's good to talk. That talking - especially to children, particularly about tricky subjects - is the most important way to help them. If you don't like knowledge, try ignorance, as someone once said.
But talking about tricky subjects is, well... tricky.
And there's maybe nothing more tricky than sexual abuse.
Mine you, you wouldn't not tell your children about the dangers of crossing the road or playing with matches just because it might not be all that easy, would you?
What's key is talking appropriately, finding an age-appropriate way to handle sensitive issues. And that isn't easy.
Thankfully, no parent has to approach it single-handedly. The NSPCC campaign called 'Talking PANTS' allocates a simple rule to each letter from P to S and enlists the help of Pantosaurus (it's a cartoon dinosaur game which is free to download from the iOS and Android app store) to make things easier.
Here are the rules:
Privates are private
Always remember your body belongs to you
No means no
Talk about secrets that upset you, and
Speak up – someone can help.
And here's a link where you can find both information and support about the PANTS campaign as well as talking and listening techniques: nspcc.org.uk/pants
And finally, here's the TV ad that accompanies the campaign.
But talking about tricky subjects is, well... tricky.
And there's maybe nothing more tricky than sexual abuse.
Mine you, you wouldn't not tell your children about the dangers of crossing the road or playing with matches just because it might not be all that easy, would you?
What's key is talking appropriately, finding an age-appropriate way to handle sensitive issues. And that isn't easy.
Thankfully, no parent has to approach it single-handedly. The NSPCC campaign called 'Talking PANTS' allocates a simple rule to each letter from P to S and enlists the help of Pantosaurus (it's a cartoon dinosaur game which is free to download from the iOS and Android app store) to make things easier.
Here are the rules:
Privates are private
Always remember your body belongs to you
No means no
Talk about secrets that upset you, and
Speak up – someone can help.
And here's a link where you can find both information and support about the PANTS campaign as well as talking and listening techniques: nspcc.org.uk/pants
And finally, here's the TV ad that accompanies the campaign.
January 11, 2018
Duruflé Requiem
On this day in 1902 the French organist and composer Maurice Duruflé was born.
It's probably not a name many people know, although he wrote a Requiem mass every bit the equal of (and possibly better than) that of his more famous countryman, Gabriel Faure.
But that's not the reason I want to mark the anniversary.
Just before Christmas, a friend was killed in a road accident. He was a talented musician and a fine singer. And I remembered that, some years ago when we put on a performance of the Duruflé Requiem in Boston, he came at our invitation to sing the baritone solo.
He stayed with us, too. Repaired our curtains, in fact, when we made a complete hash of hanging them. ("No, really - I enjoy it" were his words when offering - nay, insisting - on doing so.)
He also played our very out-of-tune piano both accompanying my wife on the flute and in duets with her, the latter providing an hilarious 'Les Dawson' moment as - being blessed with perfect pitch - 'Wez' (as he was universally known) transposed at sight what he was reading, the better to match what he was hearing!
He was that good. He will be desperately, sadly missed.
Requiescat in pace.
It's probably not a name many people know, although he wrote a Requiem mass every bit the equal of (and possibly better than) that of his more famous countryman, Gabriel Faure.
But that's not the reason I want to mark the anniversary.
Just before Christmas, a friend was killed in a road accident. He was a talented musician and a fine singer. And I remembered that, some years ago when we put on a performance of the Duruflé Requiem in Boston, he came at our invitation to sing the baritone solo.
He stayed with us, too. Repaired our curtains, in fact, when we made a complete hash of hanging them. ("No, really - I enjoy it" were his words when offering - nay, insisting - on doing so.)
He also played our very out-of-tune piano both accompanying my wife on the flute and in duets with her, the latter providing an hilarious 'Les Dawson' moment as - being blessed with perfect pitch - 'Wez' (as he was universally known) transposed at sight what he was reading, the better to match what he was hearing!
He was that good. He will be desperately, sadly missed.
Requiescat in pace.
January 9, 2018
The doctor will see you now... if you can afford it
Here's a question for you this morning. Why should a student (full-time, but over nineteen years of age) have to pay healthcare costs (prescriptions, dental charges etc.)?
Feel free to answer in the comment box below, especially if there's something obvious about the logic of making some of the poorest among us pay for things others get for free.
Perhaps you could also answer me this: why should the same student(s) (if they're applying for a possible exemption to the above costs) be expected to declare as INCOME the amount they receive as a student LOAN? (The clue is in the name there, but I've capitalised it, just in case!)
Oh, and while we're about it, perhaps we can also talk about the fact that the esteemed learning institution said student attends sees fit to blow almost the entire total of said student's LOAN (see what I did there? That's for the benefit of any Conservative politicians or Daily Mail journalists who might be reading) the minute s/he (this is, of course, entirely hypothetical) sets foot in the establishment at the start of term. Because it does.
And... (sorry, I just keep thinking of them) can someone also tell me how it's acceptable to penalise a student for happening to have savings - savings saved (as you do with savings) in a variety of ways including working hard at temporary jobs in order both to fund her/his higher education and also, maybe, just maybe, to give him/her self a decent start once he/she graduates.
In debt. Up to fifty grand's worth of debt, to be precise.
But a debt that the NHS seem to want to count as 'income', when applying for healthcare costs exemption!
Feel free to answer in the comment box below, especially if there's something obvious about the logic of making some of the poorest among us pay for things others get for free.
Perhaps you could also answer me this: why should the same student(s) (if they're applying for a possible exemption to the above costs) be expected to declare as INCOME the amount they receive as a student LOAN? (The clue is in the name there, but I've capitalised it, just in case!)
Oh, and while we're about it, perhaps we can also talk about the fact that the esteemed learning institution said student attends sees fit to blow almost the entire total of said student's LOAN (see what I did there? That's for the benefit of any Conservative politicians or Daily Mail journalists who might be reading) the minute s/he (this is, of course, entirely hypothetical) sets foot in the establishment at the start of term. Because it does.
And... (sorry, I just keep thinking of them) can someone also tell me how it's acceptable to penalise a student for happening to have savings - savings saved (as you do with savings) in a variety of ways including working hard at temporary jobs in order both to fund her/his higher education and also, maybe, just maybe, to give him/her self a decent start once he/she graduates.
In debt. Up to fifty grand's worth of debt, to be precise.
But a debt that the NHS seem to want to count as 'income', when applying for healthcare costs exemption!
January 4, 2018
Tax shouldn't be taxing...
Should it?
Another year, another January ruined not by the need to do the blessed thing per se, but by the sheer perverse difficulty of the bl**dy HMRC website together with their inability - once its completed - to accept the damned document. Just look - hours spent with bits of paper and a calculator - and then this...
Bastards!
I don't mind paying tax, not really. Not doing so is a bit like - I don't know - nicking those free sauce sachets from cafes: fine as long as everyone doesn't do it. What I DO mind - mind terrifically - is those rich bastards (yes, including royalty) who devise (or who employ others to devise) ingenious ways of avoiding their whack.
But even more than that I mind the way the HMRC website is so ridiculously user-unfriendly. Even logging in (as I did today) in order to complete the job I started last week takes you not to where you where before but to a completely different website, from where you struggle (well, I did) to navigate your way back to where you need to be.
And then, once it's done, it won't let you send it to them. Marvellous! I imagine they'd be just as sympathetic if I told them I couldn't submit it on time because my 'puter said 'no'.
But... but. There may just be the slightest glimmer of a silver lining. Because while I was waiting for what eventually didn't happen I was studying the PDF (colour, too!) version of the return I'd just completed. It's the equivalent of the twenty-odd page document I could have filled in by hand if I'd chosen to, I suppose.
Except it's not. It's different. Yes, it has all the answers to my questions, all the figures I've entered neatly placed in all the relevant boxes. But it also contains other boxes - whole sections - breaking down things like additional income into different categories with the aid of actually helpful explanatory notes (i.e. that actually explain things, and in a way that's easy to understand). And, as a result, I realised I'd made a mistake and added stuff that shouldn't be there. And going back and taking it off made a difference - quite a big one - to my bill.
Yes, unfortunately I do still owe them money. Which is just as well, really. Because if they owed me they'd have had to raise a cheque in order to pay me given that I was forced to tick the 'I don't have a bank account' box after failing utterly to be able to fill in the 'bank reference name or number' section.
No, it's not the sort code or the bank's name or my account number. It's some mysterious figure that I can't find anywhere, can't find anyone who seems to know about it, either. But a magic number that you need in order to get past the fierce monster that is section 7 (or whatever).
So, all in all, it's a good job I owe them, don't you think?
Just got to work out now how to let them know...
Another year, another January ruined not by the need to do the blessed thing per se, but by the sheer perverse difficulty of the bl**dy HMRC website together with their inability - once its completed - to accept the damned document. Just look - hours spent with bits of paper and a calculator - and then this...
Bastards!
I don't mind paying tax, not really. Not doing so is a bit like - I don't know - nicking those free sauce sachets from cafes: fine as long as everyone doesn't do it. What I DO mind - mind terrifically - is those rich bastards (yes, including royalty) who devise (or who employ others to devise) ingenious ways of avoiding their whack.
But even more than that I mind the way the HMRC website is so ridiculously user-unfriendly. Even logging in (as I did today) in order to complete the job I started last week takes you not to where you where before but to a completely different website, from where you struggle (well, I did) to navigate your way back to where you need to be.
And then, once it's done, it won't let you send it to them. Marvellous! I imagine they'd be just as sympathetic if I told them I couldn't submit it on time because my 'puter said 'no'.
But... but. There may just be the slightest glimmer of a silver lining. Because while I was waiting for what eventually didn't happen I was studying the PDF (colour, too!) version of the return I'd just completed. It's the equivalent of the twenty-odd page document I could have filled in by hand if I'd chosen to, I suppose.
Except it's not. It's different. Yes, it has all the answers to my questions, all the figures I've entered neatly placed in all the relevant boxes. But it also contains other boxes - whole sections - breaking down things like additional income into different categories with the aid of actually helpful explanatory notes (i.e. that actually explain things, and in a way that's easy to understand). And, as a result, I realised I'd made a mistake and added stuff that shouldn't be there. And going back and taking it off made a difference - quite a big one - to my bill.
Yes, unfortunately I do still owe them money. Which is just as well, really. Because if they owed me they'd have had to raise a cheque in order to pay me given that I was forced to tick the 'I don't have a bank account' box after failing utterly to be able to fill in the 'bank reference name or number' section.
No, it's not the sort code or the bank's name or my account number. It's some mysterious figure that I can't find anywhere, can't find anyone who seems to know about it, either. But a magic number that you need in order to get past the fierce monster that is section 7 (or whatever).
So, all in all, it's a good job I owe them, don't you think?
Just got to work out now how to let them know...
January 2, 2018
Proof of the pudding
It's never to late to get correcting. In fact, New Year seems an especially appropriate time to make good all the mistakes of the past year. Or, in my case, the mistakes of the past five years - specifically, those mistakes that still appear on the MS of my book, The Glorious Dead, which I can now say (officially, it being 2018 an' all) will be published LATER THIS YEAR!
YES!
So far, it's been marked by the copy-editors. (Seriously, who knew ‘Level with you’ dates from the 1950s, or that ‘spiv’ was first recorded in 1934? Certainly not me! Or that ‘get your act together’ wasn’t said until the 1960s and that ‘threesome’ as a term for group sex dates from as late as the 1990s?) I stand corrected. (And very grateful for it!)
Next comes the the line-by-line re-reading, checking that all commas are in the right place, all names are spelt correctly and that everything else is shipshape and Bristol fasion. Luckily this is done in conjunction with a professsional proof-reader. If anything slips through the net from here on, it won't be for want of attention.
So, I'd better get cracking.
Only another 280-odd pages to go...
YES!
So far, it's been marked by the copy-editors. (Seriously, who knew ‘Level with you’ dates from the 1950s, or that ‘spiv’ was first recorded in 1934? Certainly not me! Or that ‘get your act together’ wasn’t said until the 1960s and that ‘threesome’ as a term for group sex dates from as late as the 1990s?) I stand corrected. (And very grateful for it!)
Next comes the the line-by-line re-reading, checking that all commas are in the right place, all names are spelt correctly and that everything else is shipshape and Bristol fasion. Luckily this is done in conjunction with a professsional proof-reader. If anything slips through the net from here on, it won't be for want of attention.
So, I'd better get cracking.
Only another 280-odd pages to go...
December 27, 2017
So, this is Christmas
... and what have you done?
Well, we've sung. Sung in a variety of carol services culminating in the candlelit glory that is midnight mass. We may not do the Kalenda Proclamation (but you can listen to that here) but otherwise it's the full fat version of midnight mass with all the trimmings. Lovely.
The musical highlight, though, came a little earlier in the evening. Here it is, that magical moment when - as they say on Radio Four - a chorister has just stepped forward to sing the first verse of the processional hymn, Once in Royal David's City.
Only this time, that chorister was Charlie.
How we managed to sing the remainder of the carol remains a mystery...
There certainly wasn't a dry eye in OUR house!
Well, we've sung. Sung in a variety of carol services culminating in the candlelit glory that is midnight mass. We may not do the Kalenda Proclamation (but you can listen to that here) but otherwise it's the full fat version of midnight mass with all the trimmings. Lovely.
The musical highlight, though, came a little earlier in the evening. Here it is, that magical moment when - as they say on Radio Four - a chorister has just stepped forward to sing the first verse of the processional hymn, Once in Royal David's City.
Only this time, that chorister was Charlie.
How we managed to sing the remainder of the carol remains a mystery...
There certainly wasn't a dry eye in OUR house!
December 24, 2017
December 23, 2017
Advent, door 24
Christmas Eve already, and there can't be a more appropriate way to end this sequence of seasonal posts than with one of the most memorable pieces of Christmas poetry.
For some years I sang with the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Choir and every year, there'd be a series of very grand carol concerts in the Philharmonic Hall. There'd be a star reader - Richard Baker, most years; Brian Kay; Alan Titchmarsh; Aled Jones. Some were decidedly better than others.
There were carols, of course. And orchestral favourites. And fun.
But the most moving part of the evening was always the same. It was the final sequence. The lights were dimmed, we sang Andrew Carter's wonderful arrangement of 'Stile Nacht'. The reader read 'Christmas Landscape' by Laurie Lee and then the band played something appropriate (never more so than the lovey 'Cradle Song' by Martin Dalby). Then, finally, the moment for everyone to stand and sing 'O Come, All Ye Faithful' at the limit of their lung power, by way of release.
The formula was every bit as memorable as 'Nine Lessons and Carols' without in the slightest bit being an attempt to copy it. How could you? But in spite of the musicians and the wonderful music, in spite of being in one of the best choirs it's been my privilege to sing in, and in spite of the privilege of singing behind a professional symphony orchestra for so long, it was this poem - words, rather than music - that made it.
Tonight the wind gnaws
With teeth of glass,
The jackdaw shivers
In caged branches of iron,
The stars have talons.
There is hunger in the mouth
Of vole and badger,
Silver agonies of breath
In the nostril of the fox,
Ice on the rabbit’s paw.
Tonight has no moon,
No food for the pilgrim;
The fruit tree is bare,
The rose bush a thorn
And the ground is bitter with stones.
But the mole sleeps, and the hedgehog
Lies curled in a womb of leaves,
The bean and the wheat-seed
Hug their germs in the earth
And the stream moves under the ice.
Tonight there is no moon,
But a new star opens
Like a silver trumpet over the dead.
Tonight in a nest of ruins
The blessed babe is laid.
And the fir tree warms to a bloom of candles,
And the child lights his lantern,
Stares at his tinselled toy;
And our hearts and hearths
Smoulder with live ashes.
In the blood of our grief
The cold earth is suckled,
In our agony the womb
Convulses its seed;
In the first cry of anguish
The child’s first breath is born.
For some years I sang with the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Choir and every year, there'd be a series of very grand carol concerts in the Philharmonic Hall. There'd be a star reader - Richard Baker, most years; Brian Kay; Alan Titchmarsh; Aled Jones. Some were decidedly better than others.
There were carols, of course. And orchestral favourites. And fun.
But the most moving part of the evening was always the same. It was the final sequence. The lights were dimmed, we sang Andrew Carter's wonderful arrangement of 'Stile Nacht'. The reader read 'Christmas Landscape' by Laurie Lee and then the band played something appropriate (never more so than the lovey 'Cradle Song' by Martin Dalby). Then, finally, the moment for everyone to stand and sing 'O Come, All Ye Faithful' at the limit of their lung power, by way of release.
The formula was every bit as memorable as 'Nine Lessons and Carols' without in the slightest bit being an attempt to copy it. How could you? But in spite of the musicians and the wonderful music, in spite of being in one of the best choirs it's been my privilege to sing in, and in spite of the privilege of singing behind a professional symphony orchestra for so long, it was this poem - words, rather than music - that made it.
Tonight the wind gnaws
With teeth of glass,
The jackdaw shivers
In caged branches of iron,
The stars have talons.
There is hunger in the mouth
Of vole and badger,
Silver agonies of breath
In the nostril of the fox,
Ice on the rabbit’s paw.
Tonight has no moon,
No food for the pilgrim;
The fruit tree is bare,
The rose bush a thorn
And the ground is bitter with stones.
But the mole sleeps, and the hedgehog
Lies curled in a womb of leaves,
The bean and the wheat-seed
Hug their germs in the earth
And the stream moves under the ice.
Tonight there is no moon,
But a new star opens
Like a silver trumpet over the dead.
Tonight in a nest of ruins
The blessed babe is laid.
And the fir tree warms to a bloom of candles,
And the child lights his lantern,
Stares at his tinselled toy;
And our hearts and hearths
Smoulder with live ashes.
In the blood of our grief
The cold earth is suckled,
In our agony the womb
Convulses its seed;
In the first cry of anguish
The child’s first breath is born.
