Falling

On Monday night I ventured out to the Oxford Zodiac - sorry - the Carling Academy Oxford (gotta' love corporate chain-branding for that underground vibe) for some raucous post-punk noise with Mark E. Smith and The Fall.

Turning up far too early, I retired to a nearby pub which was full of St. Patrick's Day revellers and spent a couple of hours getting suitably leathered.

At around 9.45pm I stumbled into the venue just in time to catch some VJ doing an audio/visual scratch mix thing that went on far too long, although I thought the cries of "piss off!" and "get off the fucking stage, you wanker!" from the crowd were a little harsh.

Speaking of the crowd, I was curious to see what cross-section of the Oxford populace would be there. Oxford doesn't strike me as the kind of place that would embrace a mad, wasted Manc bloke mumbling and screeching scathing social commentary over abrasive punky guitar noise.

Turns out I was right. The band emerged on stage and started to thrash out an impressive racket for a minute or two before the man himself, the legend that is Mark E. Smith, took to the mic and I dutifully cheered and started jumping around with a gusto.

Sadly, though, there were only about ten of us down the front getting into the spirit of the thing. I kept looking around only to be greeted with the sight of a room full of people just standing there staring at the stage with their dead eyes, no joy, no enthusiasm.

Despite this apathetic response from the crowd, the band played tight and good and we dedicated few at the front did our utmost to show Mark & Co. that their efforts were not entirely in vain.

I left the gig exhausted, my ears ringing, and baring a big stupid grin. I had a fucking great time but I felt a little sorry for all those poor lifeless bastards in the crowd who didn't appear to have any idea of what was going on or why they were there. They probably should have stayed at home and listened to their Coldplay albums.

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Anyways, I am now off to Devon for the Easter weekend to chill out and finally reading that damn Tristram Shandy novel.

Whatever your plans, enjoy yourself and don't eat too much chocolate.

The final odyssey

Arthur C. Clarke
1917—2008

The talented Mr. Minghella

Anthony Minghella
1954—2008

I was saddened to hear of Anthony's passing despite the fact that I am not a huge fan of his films. I hated The English Patient, thought it trite and empty albeit beautifully shot. On the other hand, Truly, Madly, Deeply is a wonderful little film and I also quite enjoyed The Talented Mr. Ripley.

Even though I do not care greatly for his work he always came across in interviews as intelligent, good humoured, passionate about film and basically a lovely human being. I always felt a bit bad that I didn't like his films as much as I liked him.

One of life's little mysteries #1

How come I love Jamie Lidell...

... but could never stand Jamiroquai?

Curious.

Hunter S. Moses

This gave me a good chuckle this week:

In the third chapter of the biblical book of Exodus there is an account of how Moses hears the voice of God talking to him via a bush that "burned but was not consumed". According to Benny Shanon, professor of cognitive psychology at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, the explanation for Moses' experience in the wilderness is that he was under the influence of an extract from an acacia tree that altered his perception of time and made him believe that God was speaking to him through the burning bush.
- Pete Tobias, The Guardian, Saturday March 8 2008

Could it be that Moses wasn't conversing with the almighty at all but tripping his tits off and talking to a shrub? Could it be that the stories that form the very foundation of Christianity are merely the mad rambling hallucinations of whacked out dopeheads, that religion is just a load of made up nonsense? Surely not!

As my pal Wendy quipped, Book Of Exodus: Fear & Loathing On Mount Sinai. Imagine it:

And when the LORD saw that [Moses] turned aside to see, God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said, Moses, Moses, we're in bat country!

An awesome racket

In order to further fulfil my resolution to take in more live music and to augment my recent efforts to better familiarise myself with classical music, I found myself at the Barbican Centre in Thursday evening - "found myself" in the sense that I bought a ticket weeks ago and very deliberately got on various modes of public transport to arrive there at the allotted time. "Pray, Sir, to what end?" you might ask; calm yourselves, for I shall divulge my reasons.

I happened to quite deliberately arrive at said time and place for the purpose of attending a concert given by the BBC Symphony Orchestra accompanied by the BBC Symphony choir. The programme for the evening included a rendition of Johannes Brahms' Fourth Symphony and, more significantly, the United Kingdom premiere performance of Krzyzstof Penderecki's Eighth Symphony (Songs Of Transience).

What can I say? (Apparently, judging by the last two paragraphs, an awful lot about not very much at all. Damn that Sterne fellow and his accursed Shandy novel.) 'Twas - excuse me - it was a wonderful concert. First of all was the Brahms, a composer with whom I am not yet acquainted but, after this recital, I am about to rectify that.

Following the interlude came the main event, Penderecki's Eighth. I've owned this on CD for a month or so but my humble speakers have not done it justice, not by a mile. To hear this symphony performed live with the full orchestra and choir was spine-tingling. The sound was simply huge, the players and the venue fully projecting the beauty, subtlety and sheer power of the music. In a word, awesome.

As a result of this experience I have decided that I must:

1. go to more classical music concerts and,
2. get a better home sound system.

On an unrelated musical issue, I have got into the habit of listening to David Bowie on Sunday mornings. I don't know why but Sunday morning is Bowie-time - it somehow feels right. Just one of those curious little rituals.