keep on knockin'...

Suddenly, I want to know about my Jewishness. After a life time of disinterest, if not uninterest, my curiosity has finally been pricked and I find myself seeking new knowledge about the life of a people that I feel otherwise are destined forever to be a mystery to me.


My paternal forebears were Germanic Jewish. If I go back far enough (to the late 19th century) they were all even fully-fledged Jews. Am I allowed to differentiate without breaking moral ethnic codes? I ask because strictly speaking I’m an in-betweener. I don’t actually belong anywhere. If Hitler had succeeded, I’m one of those post-war people who would have tasted the bitterness of the man’s ‘Final Solution’ by virtue of my name (Dodman is a soubriquet) and probably appearance. On the other hand, Jews don’t want to know me because my mother and grandmother were gentiles, and we all know Jewishness passes down through the maternal bloodline. So I’m stuck in the middle – out on my own: damned as if I were and damned because I’m not.

One of my first objectives, therefore, is to determine whether the Hebraic way of life is a religion, a race or a culture. I feel this is a valid starting point because I’m not in the least religious; in fact I eschew all forms of religion. Eternal life! Can you imagine anything worse? Also, if Jewishness is a race I can’t suddenly perform a Kafkaesque metamorphosis as something I’m not already. Cultures on the other hand can be learnt and assimilated.

Let me make this clear: I’m not applying for membership. I’m not even sure I know anyone well enough to ask for sponsorship. And I’m not like Treslove in ‘The Finkler Question,” the man for whom the status of vicarious Jew by association was the result of his ambition to be accepted and absorbed into Jewishness.

This is rather a ground level “Who do you think you are?” question. I’m not fussed about knowing where I fit into the theoretical grand scheme of things. Intellects far superior to mine have tried (and failed) to make philosophical sense of the meaning of life. I’m more pragmatic.

Being almost 64, I realise that if I don’t educate myself now I probably never will. I failed at school and school failed at me. As a result, I launched myself into the adult world with the belief that I’d finished learning. So I was late acquiring the inquisitive impetus to discover more. As an opsimath, I now want to know about my family’s Jewish history. Genealogy has been my pastime (pun intended) for many years, but only recently have I delved back far enough to uncover solid pedigree Jewish roots. And I’m swamped and wallowing in ignorance.

Recent research has been an eye opener. So far, I’ve found over 600 German Jews with whom I can claim a direct (if meandering) lineage. And yet I know nothing about Jewishness, motives and aspirations, life and culture, apart from what I learnt through “The Merchant of Venice.” Is this irony? I played Shylock. Could Mr Morrison at Dartford West have been more perceptive that I thought?

I have a long way to go. From what I understand from my readings, even elderly Jews who have been Jews all their lives have no idea what Jewishness is. But I’m making a start. I’m about to download ‘Oliver Twist’ to my Kindle. I shall study intently.

Shalom.

russian lullaby

My collection of jazz on old LPs is steadily growing. However, as I’ve probably said before, real jazz fans don’t discard good recordings. This is perhaps the reason I’m often disappointed at the quality of tracks on pre-owned albums I buy. Usually only the lacklustre get into the second-hand shops. But there are exceptions.

Recently I had a grand piece of luck. Poking around in a charity shop, I noticed a Vic Dickenson record languishing beneath a pane of grubby glass at the counter. It was a little more than I usually like to pay (I was charged £2 for it) but I bought it anyway.

It’s not actually an LP. It’s a 10” long-playing single with one extended track on each side. The title: Vic Dickenson Septet Vol. 1. They really knew how to create compelling names for records back in 1953. The producers probably burnt gallons of midnight oil to come up with the sequel: Vic Dickenson Septet Vol. 2.

Here’s the good news. Side 1 is Russian Lullaby, a superb example of fifties jazz. The liner notes by Stanley Dance call it ‘mainstream,’ a genre sitting slightly awkwardly between New Orleans and Modern. Whatever type of jazz it is, Russian Lullaby swings like a catkin in a summer breeze. Now that probably seems a contradiction; a swinging lullaby sounds like an oxymoron. But take a look at the line-up of the rhythm section and genuine aficionados will understand me: Sir Charles Thompson (p) Steve Jordan (g) Walter Page (b) Les Erskine (d).

These lads might sit at the back, but they surge forward like the metaphorical Formula 1 drivers they are. And the three in the front row (Vic Dickenson (tb) – Ruby Braff (t) and Edmond Hall (cl) rise to the occasion and turn what could so easily be a desultory ramble into a championship event. And they all cross the line together. The pace isn’t fast, but it’s driven. The momentum carries it ahead of so many rivals. Too much jazz just doesn’t swing. This recording does.

At my age I need something to wake me, not send me nodding into a dribbling cocoon of senescent boredom. This Vic Dickenson is just what my psychiatrist prescribed.



red kites in the sunset

A couple of weekends ago we trundled the motor-home down to Henley-on-Thames. As I fumbled to untangle the electricity cable, I glanced up and saw immediately above my head a red kite soaring low and languid. Then a second appeared, and a third, and yet a fourth.

What amazed me is not that these powerful birds of prey are here on the Buckinghamshire/ Oxfordshire border, but that everybody else on a packed camp site ignored them as if such sights are everyday occurrences. A man walked past carrying his toilet (we do that sort of thing when we’re camping) and he shrugged as if to say ‘so what?’

With friends, we walked into town. Close to the old bridge over the river (engines one at a time please) we encountered more red kites. They are everywhere. The lovely and knowledgeable lady in the Tourist Office bubbled as she explained that now they reckon to have over 200 breeding pairs, and the families are slowly fanning out over wider and wider territories as the wily birds organise themselves not to compete with each other for food.

They ARE everyday sights then. The last time I saw one was on the Black Isle some years ago and then it was quite a rarity. Now, it seems, just to the west of London they are more common than house sparrows.

Of course I exhibited my tourist’s credentials. Instead of enthusing over the phalanxes of rowing boats sculling up the Thames, I focussed my monocular on the sky to watch graceful kites wreathe and loop over the brows of Remenham Hill. In fact, I was so engrossed I became an obstacle to the many cyclists pounding along the tow path in pursuit of the boats. Furiously pedalling team managers breathlessly exhorted “keep contact with the water,” a little pointlessly I thought for an oar-centred propulsion system. But I suppose they have to feel they’re making some contribution other than pushing me off the footpath.

The people of Henley seem blasé about these wonderful birds in their midst. We have marsh harriers around us, but I can’t believe I’ll ever stop being excited at the sight of one quartering the dykes and field edges.

So, good luck to you Henley. Apart from red kites, the Thames and the remarkably patient staff in Pizza Express, you have very little going for you.

swing to bop

Any jazz lover will know what BOP is. On the other hand, a birder will instinctively interpret the term as an acronym for bird of prey. Men of a certain age will give it yet another meaning: Boy’s Own Paper. I’m a jazz lover, a birder and a self-confessed former avid reader of the magazine. Note the apostrophe in the title, suggesting the magazine was mine and mine alone. If I was intended to share it, I figured the apostrophe would come after the s.


I hadn’t thought about BOP for about 50 years until I encountered a herd of cows. And I immediately recalled a tale I read from its pages when I was about 9 years old.

In the story, an intrepid explorer found himself alone and lost during a trek in the African jungle, or perhaps it was a remote part of the Hindu Kush. He’d left his gun behind, or maybe he’d lost it or run out of bullets. My memory is not what it used to be.

When he was at his weakest and most despairing, he suddenly found himself surrounded by a pride of lions, or tigers, or cheetahs. His situation was desperate. The panthers, or cougars, were evidently hungry. They sat eyeing him, slavering at the jowls and licking their licks with all the delicacy of a pack of starving wolves. Maybe they were wolves, come to think of it.

Then, the creatures started to circle him, crouching low like tabby-cat stalking a mouse. The explorer reached for his gun which would normally have been slung across his back. His hand felt something hard and long and he grasped it with a trembling fist, and dragged it quickly round to the front. With a sinking heart, he discovered it was no more than an umbrella. He was English, obviously.

What does the man do? As the big cats slowly close in for the kill, he waits until he can almost smell what they had for breakfast. And, as the leader of the pack (pride?) crouches for the ultimate tail-swishing gory leap, our intrepid hero opens the umbrella at the same time as emitting a blood-curling yell. The cats scattered and disappeared back into the bush, frightened by the awesome sight of an Englishman armed with a decorously rose-printed small bore umbrella.

If you’ve ever walked over London Bridge during a wet rush hour, you’ll appreciate that fear of the umbrella is not irrational. Big cats never risk having their eyes poked out.

The explorer lived to tell the tale. So did we. Cows can be dangerous, too. A herd of them were grazing below the bank of the River Great Ouse. As we approached, the entire bunch of them suddenly broke into a canter and hurtled up the grassy slope to greet us in one beef-mountainous stampede. I had an instant replay of the story from BOP and cursed my foolishness for not carrying a gamp. I’ve always wondered why Nicholas Crane always has an umbrella strapped to his rucksack. He never uses it in the rain, but then as far as I’m aware he’s never been attacked by a herd of thirsty jaguars. But I suppose it’s there if he ever needs it on his walks into big game jeopardy around Beachy Head.

Lacking umbrellas, we utilised our cameras so at least our next-of-kin would have photographic evidence of the culprits should we be trampled underfoot. The cows halted instantly and posed considerately, turning their more elegant profiles towards us and, while they were engrossed in their own self-importance and conceit, we slipped by unharmed.

I’ve now bought an umbrella and give thanks for the wonderful Boy’s Own Paper

there - I've said it again

Here he goes again: recently I had an encounter in a charity shop in Sleaford. A solitary woman slouched over the counter looking bored in her job. She was a volunteer and I suppose we can’t expect unpaid staff to look as if they’re enjoying themselves. The charity is no doubt grateful for what it can get to run the place on a quiet weekday afternoon.

To her left, on a shelf below the ceiling, a vibrating loud speaker blasted out heavy rock music. It sounded like 1980s punk, but then I’m not the best judge given that I consider anything recorded after 1935 as modern music. Presumably she was either deaf or inured to the onslaught of unnecessary volume. I would have written immured there, but you’d probably think I was committing malapropism, even though ‘immured’ is probably more apposite.

As I grazed for my jazz LPs, or books not dominated by a photograph of Sharon Osborne, the music began to jar. The shop had about four customers raking through racks of clothes. They were all my age (elderly) or older. Admittedly, I seemed to be the only one flinching.

I bought a book of poetry by Ted Hughes. I’ve never understood much of his writings, but I’m a believer in trying a second time if I don’t at first succeed. As I paid, the music switched tracks to a ballistic attack of discordant guitar and pitch-free shouting.

Unfortunately, I’m generally too much of a coward to complain. But this blast of hot notes was too much. I said to the woman: “I must admit I’m not a great admirer of your choice of music.” She sniffed and replied “It’s not my choice. They insist on playing it.” We all know that ‘I’ am never responsible; it’s always ‘they’ who carry the can. But I could sense she hated me for daring to criticise. I was already identified as the day’s grumpy old man.

But damn it! I’m proud to be a grumpy old man. If we had more grumpy old men and women, albeit braver than I, this country would be a more pleasant land. Instead we accept whatever is thrown at us. I responded “Well please tell them that I find the music very off putting” and I walked out, unfortunately tripping over the doorstep as I went. I think hubris is the word; my dignity trailed limply behind me.

This is an appeal. I made the same appeal last year i.e. in the approach to Christmas. The situation seems to have deteriorated in the past 12 months. Loud inappropriate music is now becoming endemic in shops, malls, stores, narrow streets, pub, restaurants and most public places. STOP. Switch off your boring, insensitive, infuriating mechanical music and save those inevitable and unwarranted payments to the PPL and the PRS.

Shopkeepers and publicans – the fact is that the majority of your customers don’t even notice whether the music is on or off but we who are aware of it detest our lives being invaded because you are under the false belief that loud music improves trade. It doesn’t.

Let me prove it. A couple of Saturdays ago we ate at the Ebrington Arms in Kirkby-on-Bain. We heard no music at all. And the pub was heaving with customers of varying ages, all spending good money on food and drink. This amiable experience was repeated in the Wig & Mitre in Lincoln; the peace was almost sublime. On the other hand, musically-explicit pubs were standing empty, except for the ubiquitous young lad feeding a juke box over a single Diet Coke (£1.50) while his girlfriend allowed the baby to crawl all over the floor.

Peace be with you.

Kith & Kindle

The 21st Century has taken me by the scruff of the neck. Even as I search the charity shops and second-hand stores for a record player with a crank handle and a 78rpm setting, I’ve invested in an Amazon Kindle.

It’s lovely. It’s compact and as slender as Mr Creosote’s ‘wafer thin mint.’ The software is so easy to use even I can operate it without having to call for my wife’s help (she is, incidentally, the technical manager of our little partnership, as well as CEO, treasurer, social secretary, head chef etc etc – I have yet to find my true role but I’m tolerated on the board because I own 50% of the shares).

The Kindle came with a ‘leather’ cover (optional extra). I chose the red so it stands out in a crowd, but the limelight never suits my complexion so I swapped it for Mrs Dodman’s more modest tan version. Sitting in the palm of my hand, with the ‘leather’ cover open, the Kindle feels almost like a real book. It’s a virtual book, a sort of solid textual hologram. If I want, it will even read the story to me, albeit in a voice that comes across the way Prof. Hawkins would sound if he had no idea about English punctuation and word modulation.

My first Amazon download was “The Finkel Question” by Howard Jacobson. The initial chapter is so witty and clever that I shall probably never write again. Who needs mediocrity when excellence can be had for the same price? I’m enjoying the author’s writing immensely.

BUT – I’m not reading a book. I’m reading a lot of dots on what is in reality a computer screen. Although I can pretend it’s a real book, I can’t smell the paper; I can’t turn the cover back and forth to skim quickly to see when it was written. I can’t indulge in little fantasies about he or she whom last held the book, or imagine the true meaning behind the coded message hand-written in blue ink on the frontispiece (I love second-hand books with inscriptions). And it looks very lonely on the book shelf, although it purports to be capable of holding more volumes than Sleaford library.

Worst of all, I dare not fall into a doze lest the thing crashes to the floor. If that occurs (and it does frequently I’m afraid) to a book, I’ll have the inconvenience of finding my place again but at least the spine and cover will be intact. How many times can I drop a Kindle before it takes umbrage and shuts down for ever? Manufacturers should cover such inevitable events under modern-day guarantees, but I bet they don’t.

I searched Kindle Store for books on jazz. The selection is very disappointing and the one or two which could be of interest are priced far too high for my meagre pocket.

So, the upshot is that Kindle will form a vital (but secondary) tool in my literary armoury. That’s a terrible metaphor but read paragraph 4 again. However, it’s like a Citroen C8 compared with the Citroen Dolly 2CV. It has Teutonic-style efficiency, but warmth, charm and character have somehow fallen by the wayside. Kindle will be my new friend, but it will never subvert my 60 years’ or so love affair with printed paper, board and spinal glue.

moanin' (again)

A requisite of our rambles is the pint of foaming real ale in a quiet pub at the end of the weary mile. After our promenade along the Sir Peter Scott Walk, we arrived in King’s Lynn full of Friday afternoon anticipation. From Ferry Lane, we turned left and walked into Tuesday Market Place. Here’s a hint for anyone following our slightly damp footprints: don’t. Turn right instead.

The first pub, the Crown & Mitre, was inexplicably closed at about 3pm on a Friday afternoon. Disappointed, we walked around the square. Smoking drunks were lounging in the doorway of the second pub we tried; the booming music from within was noxious. The next pub had a solitary smoker slumped against the doorjamb, but when I opened the door, I saw the floorboards vibrating with the power of music. “Too noisy for us,” I explained to the bleary-eyed and slightly bemused puffing herald on the door.

On a far corner, we found similar at the 4th pub. In the gloom we could see a couple of drinkers at the bar screaming at each other, not in aggression but in a failed attempt to ride above the fusillade of notes wailing from speakers throughout the bar. We turned and left.

Peering through the window of the 5th pub we could see an elderly barman chatting to his solitary customer. A safe haven, we thought, and entered. He had one hand-pump for real ale and the clip for that was turned in the traditional symbol of no hope. No Abbot? On a Friday afternoon? Thirst overcame us and we forced ourselves to drink awful keg swill and, as we took our seats, the 50 inch television leapt into life, blasting us with full-volume drivel from Radio Blabber. We drank quickly and left.

King’s Lynn on a Friday afternoon attracts a lot of shoppers. The pubs should be doing a brisk trade. Yet all the pubs we tried were almost empty. I can’t understand why, because don’t we all love to push past drunks blowing smoke over us as we try to enter the premises? Do we not thrill at the thought of being deafened by music being pumped out at full volume so we have to shout at each other to be heard? Surely it’s a pleasure to drink sub-standard and expensive beer at sticky tables standing on even stickier carpets? Pub landlords obviously think the answer is yes to all three questions.

A typical landlord leans against the bar saying “Drink & drive and smoking bans have killed the business” or “We can’t compete with the supermarkets.” No, my friend. YOU have killed the trade, because you can see only the money you’re taking and not the money you’re losing as a result. You cater for the half-dozen and forget the hundreds looking for solace in a quiet, welcoming and pleasant hostelry. Look around you – peaceful and amiable pubs are thriving. Why do you think that is?

The music, by the way, was not jazz. And even if it was, we’d still have walked away from the clamour and noise. Jazz is not background music; it demands to be listened to and appreciated. It’s for the club, the dance hall and the concert room. Jazz should never be played as a means to smother other sounds the way Pizza Express uses it, and the way pubs use modern pop music. All loud music in inappropriate settings ultimately repels.

Gripe about loud music over. Now – about those execrable fruit machines with the flashing lights and electronic gimmickry…