vertigo

My reading matter at the moment is W. G. Sebald’s “Vertigo,” a strange and intricately woven book typical of the author’s compulsive interest in memory and his own origins. One short sentence struck me particularly forcefully, written of the year 1913:

It is curious to observe, added Salvatore, how in that year everything was moving towards a single point, at which something would have to happen, whatever the cost.

Of course, those words were laid down with the benefit of hindsight, but whereas ordinary peoples of the world learn by experience, politicians and the very powerful are too self-absorbed to heed such lessons because they seek only self-gratification. As a common person of the world, I recognise that the essence of Sebald’s few words can equally be applied to 2018, for I have a sense that today events are moving towards each other, like parallel lines converging at an impending vanishing point. Britain, Europe, Russia, Korea, the Middle-East, USA, China… meeting at a single point in time and space when and where something must happen. Something cataclysmic, because the energy of power must find an outlet.

For now, there is plucked tension in the air, a gravid deliberate suspense as though the plot of a film is ravelling and building towards an explosive conclusion. Those caring to look are witnessing the denouement of an incomprehensible political and demographic storyline – all we lack is the dramatic accompanying music to guide us. Although I can’t foresee the conclusion, I have the feeling that when the climax is finally resolved, as it eventually must, everyone involved will emerge into a stained landscape as if waking from a dream, and they will look around and say “what have we done?” and “what were we thinking to allow it to get to this?”

Before that, people of the world will likely be drawn into performing the most horrendous acts, some in enthusiastic driving seats, others as passengers allowing themselves to be herded towards internal abattoirs – but mostly (perhaps the worst of all) looking away and pretending nothing is happening because of apathy, complaisance and a fearful self-preservation. When it’s over, we will blame somebody else, of course, for how otherwise can we cope with the guilt? And we’ll all feel the guilt for a generation or two – then it will all start again.

Man's inhumanity to man is exceeded not only by the capacity to mourn (hands behind our backs, fingers crossed) but by our inclination to forget. I hope I'm not being prophetic, but I'm scared for my grandchildren's future. In the meantime, party on.

bbc jjr and shafi hadi

Did anyone listen to Saturday’s (14 April 2018) Jazz Record Requests on BBC Radio 3?

A listener asked for a track by Hank Mobley and Shafi Hadi, apparently partly out of an interest in discovering what happened to the latter. Could this be a trending enquiry… whatever happened to Shafi Hadi (Curtis Porter)? I’d be interested to hear whether the great British jazz-listening public is able to provide a few nuggets of enlightenment. Hopefully there’ll be a follow up in due course.

The track played was a lovely and archetypical example of Hadi’s alto playing, written by him and titled “Mighty Moe and Joe.” Recorded on 23 June 1957, the track featured Bill Hardman (t) Shafi Hadi (as) Hank Mobley (ts) Sonny Clark (p) Paul Chambers (b) Art Taylor (d). From the Mosaic label album “Complete Blue Note Hank Mobley Fifties Sessions” the track was 6 minutes 57 seconds of pure honeyed-single-malt-and-asparagus delight.

That edition of Jazz Record Requests is available on BBC iPlayer and will be for the next few weeks. Thanks to Alyn Shipton for choosing that listener’s request. And if you know more about Shafi Hadi, please do email to let me know.

at the forthcoming local elections

What baffles me about modern-day democratic politics is how anyone with lesser wealth than that possessed by a billionaire could possibly vote a billionaire into a position as premier of a nation, be it a president, prime minister or ‘statesperson.’

Have you ever heard of a rich politician becoming poorer as a result of serving the nation? In modern days, almost invariably anyone entering politics ends up much wealthier than when they started. With few exceptions, repeatedly our leaders have proven they are very proficient at one aspect of public life – making money for themselves, even when they already own obscene amounts.

Bear in mind that wealth cannot be created or destroyed – it can only be converted or transferred, so when one person makes a mint, another loses a mint. And guess who loses? Not the rich politician. So the richer our leaders become, the deeper into poverty the rest of us must sink. Yet we vote for them, time and time again! Isn’t that astounding?

On the other hand, look at the majority of jazz musicians. How many of them are able to boast of vast wealth? I bet lots of them are hardly making a living other than by taking a job during the day and playing during their ‘leisure’ time. Maybe a few can command hefty appearance fees, or plump royalties, but I reckon they’re few and far between. Unarguably, jazz musicians bring far more pleasure to our lives than any of our self-serving, self-aggrandizing politicians, many of whom I’m sad to say are liars, cheats and fakes.

So – in future elections, vote for the impecunious, and to make sure your interests are served, vote for a jazz musician. They are more creative, honest and civic minded than any of the corrupt and smug self-satisfied rich we have in charge at the moment.

radio three jazz podcasts

Lagging behind as usual, I’ve finally stumbled over ‘Jazz Library,” a luscious series of over 100 podcasts produced by BBC Radio 3, most episodes featuring the output of individual musicians or a specific genre or area of jazz.

Each episode runs for about 30 minutes and the format is a narrative by the modestly-spoken Alyn Shipton interspersed with representative extracts of relevant music usually augmented by recorded interviews with the featured musician or by the sometimes lively comments of well-known jazz commentators (my favourite of whom is a sporadic contributor, Brian Priestly).

Apparently as these are podcasts they’re unable to play full tracks, although I’m not sure whether that’s because of intellectual rights or time restrictions, but that doesn’t matter because bear in mind the object (achieved brilliantly) is to whet the appetite with delicacies – and all vital recording details, including album titles, line-ups and dates, are cited during the podcast, and can also be found on the BBC Jazz’s website, so nobody need complain about not being able to track- down treasured pieces if wanting to hear more.

No infuriating adverts, pop-up or otherwise; no lengthy messages from sponsors – and it’s all free. Just download the BBC Radio iPlayer onto your computer or tablet, search for jazz, scroll down to ‘Jazz Library’ and browse through the listings to select your morsel of choice. Oysters and pearls, spring to mind.

epiphany on the road to oblivion

Since my last post, I've had a revelation. It came to me in the middle of the night probably because I'm currently reading a semi-biographical novel titled "Austerlitz" written by W.G. Sebald. It perhaps kindled a dream, although I can't remember what about, yet I know I read a phrase which must have triggered something in me.

Background to this post: I once tried to learn to play the alto saxophone. After two years I still produced what sounded like distant mournful echoes of how Charlie Parker might have sounded on the very day he first put the reed to his lips as a child. That discouraged me because I twigged that after over 104 weeks of learning I'd never play like Shafi Hadi or Art Pepper, so I abandoned my dream of becoming a jazz musician and sold the saxophone.

The same with writing. All my life I've written. No day goes by without me putting pen to paper, or latterly tapping on a key-board. I've had a dozen or so articles published in magazines and a few short stories printed as a result of competitions going back to 1990 and much later, but I've never felt myself to be a writer. I was no more than a publican who writes, primarily because what I write is crap, or at best is mediocrity personified. My reasoning has always been that whereas I enjoy writing (just as I enjoyed playing the saxophone) the world is too crowded with sunlight to permit the shade of mediocrity. We desire genius; we need brilliance and if I was unable to achieve it, my writings should not see daylight except perhaps in ramblings under a pseudonym. So in comparing my stuff with the likes of Sebald, Woolf, Morton and other luminaries, I found it painfully wanting and tucked it away in disbelief that I could ever have considered myself capable of good, never mind genius. What use does this world have for more of the mediocre?

Now for the epiphany sparked (I think) by Austerlitz. We can view all the art we can reach, we can read edifying and inspirational writing, we can listen to the best of music be it Dexter Gordon or Mozart - but when we dare to balance our own personal aspirations and needs against pleasures of the external, nothing is quite like producing our own. Even though I can't match the dazzling beauty of maestros of the craft, or the thought-provoking elite at their art, what I have created is mine, my original work, and nobody else can claim it. Anyone can take their art vicariously, in galleries, libraries and concert halls, and rightly be awed by the senses evoked, but what beats that thrill of finishing your own painting, writing your own story or blowing sounds which link together to make music? Nothing! Slap your hand on your thigh and repeat aloud - NOTHING.

Maybe what I do is not very good. But I do it, all on my own, and it's mine, including intellectual rights, copyright, ownership and pride. That's a cause for celebration and for making renewed efforts to improve. Because once I've learned that my writing and craft has incontrovertible value if only for me then I can start to accept that I can effect improvements, even at my late stage in life, and that I'm able to match and surpass what I've done in the past and can better it, thereby hiking me up a rung or two on the ladder of personal satisfaction and pride in achievement.

I suppose the coda is this: I take immense pleasure from what I do, and if it's not good enough for the proverbial you, I don't give a fuck. I've done something; I've produced. And that's an achievement. Slap hand on thigh and repeat aloud: ACHIEVEMENT!

Of course, nobody writes like Sebald.

fad of the day

The English language is a flux. It flows from one place to another and back again, according to the fad of the day. This phenomenon is especially noticeable with those irritating linguistic devices which allow conversationalists to avoid the need for an extensive vocabulary.

For example, a popular phrase was until fairly recently: "you know." In fact, many people still use the term frequently because it's so useful for avoiding the bother of expressing themselves properly. Instead of reaching for the right word, they'll simply break off mid-sentence and say "you know" heedless of whether or not the listener does actually know.

Another example is current and ubiquitous - a pet hate of mine: "like." All manner of people use it and it's so popular the young seem to employ it several times in  one short sentence, such as "Like, I went to the pictures, like, and it was, like, awesome, like funny, like."

"Basically" was used for a long time (perhaps still is) by those called upon to explain the working of something. They can't get their brain in gear without first prefixing every sentence with the word "basically" as in the phrase "basically what we're doing is..."

The latest I've noticed is even more annoying - beginning every explanation with the word "so."
"How many cows do you graze on this farm?" asks the presenter on TV and almost invariably the farmer stops, thinks for a fraction of a second and then launches into the answer. "So - we keep 200 head of Holsteins..." What does "so" mean in this context? How has it become so endemic?

Finally, one of the most infuriating devices is perhaps the cliche of our time: "It's not rocket science." It applies to anything from writing blogs through resolving political issues to sending satellites into space, except the last one could be deemed rocket science.

Let's have a little more imagination please.

shafi hadi - update

Regretfully I have no more news on the fate of Shafi Hadi.
This post is purely to bounce him to the top of the metaphorical page so my quiet quest is not overlooked by jazz fans across the world.
While writing though, I'd mention that I've started to write poetry. Actually, I've been writing poetry since I was 15 (with an intermission of nearly 60 years) but I've never considered myself any good at it so it's never seen the light of day. My aim with this renaissance was to see whether this semi-century or so of additional experience and acquired learning has improved my lyrical ability.
It hasn't. I'm still crap. Scansion is erratic; rhyme slack; meter fractured; and I can never find the right word or the right language or the right "voice" - not that I even know what "voice" means. And what the heck is an iambic foot?
Thus my poetry will remain unsung, unspoken and will accompany me to my eventual funeral pyre.