Prelude

Ah, there we are. Welcome to the other side! Now, where I will be by the time this goes out is an imprecise guess at best. According to this draft itinerary, we ought to be on the way to the boys' accommodation, arriving in a further hour and a half. Trying to predict my mental and emotional frame is difficult at this point, as there are so many factors at play: being in a confined space in the immediate vicinty of both choristers and the other Scholars exeunt (all of whom I haven't seen all together sing the middle of July all together), after many tedious hours travelling. I'll probably be hungry, thirsty, in need of a stiff drink... But who am I to focus on possible detractions? Oh yes, me...

But this is the beginning of a great week. A week away! Singing the same old stuff in a different Shed (substantial IV/P in the north side, red brick style church. Lots of pictures to follow) will be pretty good, he says in hope. I'm actually almost completely certain everything will be excellent, EXCEPT FOR THE PRICE OF ALCOHOL which is legendarily high. We'll have to see what it's really like when we get there, but I think that the £120 I have for Kronor at time of writing won't be quite enough.

This is the last hurrah I will have as a Scholar in the choir of the Cathedral of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Truro. It is itself a prelude to Lay-Vicarship, a more permanent tenure in this Cathedral. I remember when the offer was made, very early in the year... I think shock was the first emotion I managed to successfully express.

I suppose the Lay-Vicarship is a prelude itself too, because I have already thought about moving. It's sad in a way that one has to plan so far ahead in order to do anything (train fare hikes notwithstanding), but I'm looking to the States for post-graduate study. I've always said I don't want to go through London, and having been around just Ealing for a few days can say that given the choice, I don't want to even now. The size, the roads, the brain-meltingly expensive public transport, the price of EVERYTHING for that matter... Is it really worth it? For me?

America's a big and ambitious move, but I have always had the ambition to carry me places. To Norwich, where I bucked the trend of autistic students and moved out to a private rent; in fact, even having the ambition to move out (and stay moved out) in the first place! To Truro, where a successful audition landed me the Lay-Vicarship two years later. To play in organ recitals, to sing solo in front of audiences unfamiliar repertoire with a voice not originally intended for, and to perform a Cello Suite on the Tenor Banjo.

So, here's to the future. I know it's quite unlike me to look forward to things, but cogs have been moving in positive directions really, even if I have become intimately familiar with my limitations... But unless you push, you'll never know. And really, I can't stand being bored. Some people are happy to accept their limitations and live below their means. I'm not quite advocating a Tyler Durden style temple of destruction and fight anonymous strangers, but it's better than sitting on your arse, ain't it?

Don't forget to keep tuning in!

A Suite, or Sett

After the last week, with two major posts, I'm actually happy to be back and merrily typing away. Seeing as I'm off to Sweden for the following week I shan't be connected at all. I have finally decided that I'm not taking my laptop because I need to learn to stop taking so much. I'm going to write in advance. How exciting! As I have been saying for a long time now, I'm off to Sweden with Truro Cathedral Choir for the week from Wednesday, and I thought I'd do a short series and set them to publish themselves, one a day, for the next week. That's a lot of work in one go sure (I am sat on the train from Worcester currently STILL, so I have the time), but they shouldn't be too long.

In a cheap move, so I don't have to worry about my own witty titles (even though I know how much you love my witty titles), I'm going to use the seven movements of BWV 1007, the suite for Cello in G major (ahhh... Sunny Sol majeur) which I performed almost a year ago (bloody 'ell) in St. Mary's Aisle of Truro Cathedral. Wow...

I'm going to set them all for half past five in the afternoon, GMT, and each day will be a different movement, which I will try and imbue with the character of the movement in Bach's Suite: Saturday will be the spacious and calm Sarabande, while the following Monday will be the minor Menuet II. I remember in drafting programme notes for the suite that I saw the G major as a day and its weather: the wide broken chords and rising scales of the Prelude ending with those high chords being the dawn into a fine and sunny day, the Sarabande's gentle breezes across an afternoon, the Menuets showing a passing downpour and return to sunshine later in the day, before the eventide Gigue takes us to the fading light. Ahhhh... such poetry. Okay, enough laughing at the back there.

Because I'll be off in Dyvers other lands, I doubt I'll have any Facebook or Twitter access (Jesus Fried Chicken, how will I survive?), so you'll just have to remember for yourselves that all this week, at 17:30 Greenwich Meantime (12:30 EST, 11:30 Central), there'll be a post drop.

Turn on, tune in...and don't forget to drop out.

Postscriptum

Predictably, I didn't get everything finished on the train.  Just like my packing, I've left everything til the last moment.  Oh well... At least I got the saddest one all done and sorted.  I must see to the sunnier of the two galanterys, however... If there's one thing I've always done with this blog it's pull it through.

The Grande Tour part 2

So! This time I'm on the train home. It's gonna be a long trip, I can tell you that: not only is the original arrival time at TRU 20:10, but we're 4 minutes behind. Four minutes?! Maybe we'll make the time back, I dunno.

Friday and Saturday has been a lot packed into two days as well. More organ playing, wandering around Ealing, Cider, Cards Against Humanity, Oafs on tour, and finally, Worcester! Don't worry, I actually took lots of pictures this time, which will all go up in the fullness of time, which might even be after Sweden because of how long messing about with Facebook will take... Anyway, even though I've had an excellent time, it really is all right and good to go home now. I've got a week long tour to Truro's link Diocese to prepare for, and also actually moving out of the Scholary itself yet to come. I'm going to need all the suitcases to pack my clothes up, I just hope my future wardrobe (possibly still in flatpack form at the time of writing) is enough to hold my great variety of suits and shirts. When I actually step back into the house, I hope that Ireland's finest export will be there to greet me, before reporting to the bar for pints of soy sauce.  

Last night's drinking was completely different, finding myself enjoying the taste of a pint of Thatchers Cider in Ealing's fabulous local JD Wetherspoons establishment, the Sir Michael Balcon. There I reposed and finally took the weight of my feet after a long afternoon of traipsing round the Ealing Broadway Centre. Even though there was the sheer novelty of there being a Primark(!), I couldn't find anything that really suited my purpose. Something I've noticed recently is the arrival of the 26” waistline in men's departments (what women's size equates to a 26, I wonder...). It's been a good few years since I was a 26” on the waist, and it's now no use to me at all! Not only could I not find any vests, but all the shorts were far too small. I was distraught (no not really). I also found myself in TK Maxx, which is just about as exciting as you would expect, and almost bought a pair of shorts that had a waxed appearance, which I then rejected as they had no back pockets. Huh! Surprisingly picky.

That was yesterday evening, however. The morning was once again taken up by much Organ playing on the fine T.C Lewis and company instrument that St. Mary's on the Hill is so lucky to have. The devastation provided by the pedal Trombone was excellent: Thursday's Buxtehude and yesterday's Piece d'Orgue were well serviced by the foundational character and sheer power of the pedal, which, in finest Neo-Classical registering tradition, remained uncoupled throughout. Over the past few days having the Grand Piano to practice on and visiting the Church for hours at a time have made me feel much better about the state of my keyboard skills. I might even hazard that I feel confident! The choir Tierce, though distant in comparison to the Great chorus (aided by a hefty mixture), still made its presence felt, that characteristically reedy tang just there in the background. After a lunch composed primarily of the worst pre-packed Stressco's sandwich, with added donuts, the day progressed quietly until I ended up in Ealing Broadway, dealt with previously. Let us progress to the barely remembered night...

Yes, of course there was booze. Quite a lot. As I mentioned earlier, I opened my bidding with the relatively novel taste of apple Cider, Bulmers then Thatchers, before toddling off to meet my chum at the Wheatsheaf. The Wheatsheaf, Ealing, is a fine public house tended to by Fullers, itself none too far away. In the fridge, bottles of Pride, ESB, Honeydew and London Porter; on the taps, Pride, ESB and Chiswick Bitter. Wot, no Guinness? The hell am I paying for Guinness in London. Pints of Pride and ESB set me back £3.65 a piece, and that's more than bloody enough. It's becoming more and more expensive to drink almost everywhere now, sadly. I'm just looking for a chemical barrier between reality and my senses that might end up in irreversible liver damage... Is that too much to ask for? Honestly. Anyway, like I was saying, the Wheatsheaf was a pretty nice place, actually. Critically, it felt like a pub. It didn't have any sort of quirky theme or anything, but it was as rammed as hell. I met my chumrade at the bar, and there the journey to inebriation and beyond began.

We were joined by an ex-scholar of Worcester, and then, at some length by the Chief himself. After his abort on coming down to me last week, it was at long last that we met again, and in such fine surrounding. The party started, we moved on to the main event: Cards Against Humanity. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this game, allow me to describe:

• Each participant takes 10 'answer' cards.
• A 'question' card is drawn, and placed in the centre of proceedings
• From the 10 answers, the funniest and/or most inappropriate is chosen
• A vote is taken (nothing formal, like), and the winner is appointed!
• Continue until you reach a natural end. (Death not necessary)

It became clear that the Chief had the most wicked eye, and won the good majority of the rounds. The only answer card I can remember is “pooping back and forth endlessly”, which even out of context should give you an idea of how ridiculous it is. 10/10, will play again. After wrapping up, we drank even more, and I think we left at closing time, to walk through Ealing back to base. Here, Kebab was both sought and enjoyed, and I made some friends in the shape of two very lovely girls, one of whom was having her very first kebab! I was gifted the name “Mr. Kebab”, and they even took my picture. God knows what they'll do with that though. We three oafish characters, stumbling through the Broadway, made a huge racket singing the opening of the Vierne Messe Sollenelle Kyrie (because obviously it would have to be the Vierne), which appreciably utterly wrecked our voices.

Once morning had broken after a short slumber, we sprang into action and departed in peace from the Ealing Mansion. Making a short detour to pick up our other comrade, elect of the LSE, we began our road trip to Worcester! Hurrah! The Chief's car, an exceptionally comfortable vehicle, served us with speed and stability, as it ferried our loathsome corpses across the country. I became more and more aware of how hungry I was, which alongside the developing headache, proved to be quite a challenge to my patience. My hunger went unsatisfied until about half past two this afternoon, and we must have only left London at around 11am. In those frustrating hours, everything became a problem, and I became remarkably more grumpy than usual. A trip to Phat Nancy's, a top-class sandwich joint solved that thankfully, and I remain convinced that Horseradish Mayonnaise is proof that God exists and he loves us. Of course, no trip to Worcester is complete without visiting the Cathedral, and many pictures were taken: the new organ cases, what's left of the Hope-Jones with its magnificent painted pipes and full length 32's, the choir screen, various tombs and memorials... What a fine place it is! I am of course spoiled by the Neo-Gothic of Truro, and the understated Baroque of Derby, but the Norman fabric made quite an impact with the nave completely devoid of chairs. It is here that my friends will attend the wedding of a University friend of theirs tomorrow. Mazel Tov!

Now, I still have just under three hours left on the rails. In fact, just pulling into Tiverton Parkway right now. I'm aware of being rather worn out, actually, but home isn't that far away! Pulling away from the station at Taunton, Gothic church towers rise from the town, before passing into the mist. In a few short hours, the Three Spires will rise to greet me, as I remind myself that “I can see my house from here”. Only three whole days until the 4am departure for Strangnas once I'm back, and we get to go all over again... But by coach, this time. And then by plane (how exciting). Once that's all done and dusted, the final steps of moving out before I can start the new year in a new place, with a new title.

Not that it's in any way indicative of a “new me” or some other such rubbish. Thank God.

The Grande Tour part I

It's early in the afternoon on a Thursday. I'm sat in the kitchen of my friend's house, slightly aware of the drizzle that's formed outside, accompanied by a pernicious breeze. A typical English summer, and nothing less. Aside form the fact that I'm in Ealing, London... Nothing is too different!

Already, this Grande tour des Londres has been a trip of firsts. Last night I attended my very first concert Henry Wood's Promenade series, or the BBC Proms as they're now ubiquitously known, and earlier that afternoon found myself behind the wheel trying desperately to find the biting point on the clutch of a manual car. What a time to be alive! Suffice to say I will be endeavouring to find myself an automatic when I finally take serious driving lessons (will I even be in this country though?), as the critical lack of spacial awareness that means I can't use the pedalboard correctly also takes a serious toll on my ability to use three pedals in a car. Laugh all you like (as I'm sure many of you do), but I literally have no idea what's going on at the end of my legs. It's ridiculous.

Anyway. The Proms. After queueing for what seemed like less than a half hour, and possibly recognising and being recognised myself (I could be more certain, and their expression seemed to indicate that they'd seen a ghost), we entered the Royal Albert Hall, a building I have never set foot in before. The late Prom last night was the Tallis Scholars, singing a program of motets by Gesualdo, who is remembered as not only an Italian noble and composer, but also an insane murderer, and the Missa Gloria Tibi Trinitas by John Taverner. Gesualdo is most famously known even outside of madrigalist circles as the composer of some of the most chromatic and chaotic pieces in the repertoire; in fact, it would not be a completely ridiculous statement to say that this kind of approach to chromaticism and treatment of harmonic texture was repeated until the early twentieth century. In the late 16^th and early 17^th century in Italy there was an experimental approach to chromaticism and temperament, as can be seen in the works of Claudio Merulo and Girolamo Frescobaldi, most notably in their organ works, where the sustained tone and transparent ripieno chorus was well suited to allowing the shifting nature of the temperament to show its own colours, rather than those developed from the pipes themselves. Anyway, I'm getting away from the point.

Taverner's Missa Gloria Tibi Trinitas (hereafter GTT) is one of the great works of Old England, and I do mean old. Just like his other masses of note, Missa L'homme Arme and “The Westerne Wynde” mass, it is a 'Cantus Firmus' mass, where the melody it is named after forms the core of the points of imitation, a popular technique of his time. For whatever reason, the plainsong melody that begins the 'In Nomine' (in the alto, of course) section of the Benedictus became something on its own, and spawned the In Nomine genre, very specifically English, which lasted itself for around 150 years as an unbroken tradition. The 'In Nomine' melody was set as the point of imitation for polyphonic compositions, called fantasias, both consorted and solo instrumentation. Many of these survive in the Mulliner Book, where the consort fantasies have been transcribed (originally onto one great 12 line stave) for keyboard. Notably, Thomas Tomkins, the 'last Elizabethan', was responsible for many keyboard settings (not only of the In Nomine but also of other plainsong chants that had long fallen out of fashion) alongside his fine consort settings, and John Dowland even set it as a Lute Fantasia, called “Farewell In Nomine”. Orlando Gibbons' infamous piece for viols and voyces in consert, The Cries of London, is also an In Nomine.

On first hearing without a score to follow, the GTT is quite amazing. It sounds very much like the lower voices are more together in their tessitura, but then this terrifyingly high treble part is sat on top. The effect is frankly staggering. I would say that the complexity of the mass itself on the whole is not beyond the average Cathedral Choir, just a matter of treble stamina! This of course reminds me once again of the great pitch standard debates, and having subsequently looked at the score (where the high thirds in the Treble part are in fact F sharps), can't help but wonder at why in God's name they transposed up...

The only real detraction from the effect was that it was performed in the truly cavernous acoustic of the RAH. Say what you like about the size of the acoustic in Lincoln Cathedral (where the GTT would have doubtlessly been sung), I doubt the polyphony and counterpoint would have got quite as lost as last night. I'm sure listeners to the simultaneous broadcast on Radio 3 would have got the most benefit from it. It may not be chamber music, but maybe it should have been a chamber prom. Who am I to criticise, anyway? It was certainly quite an experience,even if I didn't get one of those plush looking seats to park myself in. Oh well. Maybe next time? Will there be a next time?

The greatest problem I actually faced last night was in fact that I had to leave my phone (which of course is camera and media player in one) behind on charge, and thus took no pictures of the night at all. What a shambles.

Hiatus

It is now Thursday evening. The weather has cleared up somewhat, and I'm back at the keys. Today was entirely more sedate than yesterday with its 7am start and four hour journey. This time, we attempted to access the Speech Room of Harrow School, high on the hill (pardon?), but were thwarted once more by locked doors! Instead, we made to to St. Mary's of Harrow (on the hill), a rather nice church with an exceptionally fine organ inside it, a very complete 3 manual and pedal Lewis: Cornet Separe on the choir (also enclosed), 16/8/4 high pressure reeds in the Swell box (but available on the Great), a devastating pedal Trombone, a top notch Great and a pleasing Swell chorus (shame about the lack of 16 in the box though). A crisp and responsive Electro-Pneumatic action, and a Pedalboard that I could at least agree with. Plenty of pictures taken and even a few of me! At present, I'm taking in some fresh air in the Garden, while waiting for a dinner of kebabs and rice, before striking out to a local public house later this evening. The plan today was to go to the Great British Beer Festival, but at £10 for entrance things could have gotten out of hand quickly, and I'm in no position to allow that. I haven't changed any sterling to the mighty Swedish Kroner... There isn't even that long now until the tour, let alone once I get back. I'm looking forward to it, if a little disappointed that there isn't that much to sing: Two services and two concerts. I am however, a noted workaholic as far as choral service is concerned. Remembering the tour to Exeter I took with Derby many years ago, the 8am rehearsals were actually rather enjoyable! I just hope I don't get too bored, with not terribly much singing and that visit to a water park (oy gevalt) that's timetabled.

That's quite enough for now. There's another entire day down here, and then the trip along to Worcester on Saturday...and then the 6 hours on the train back to Truro! Plenty of time to do more things and look back. Just as long as my phone doesn't run out of battery again.

Overdue

It's been a while.  All cobwebs are figurative, because this is the internet and they don't have that sort of thing here.  In spite of the lack of any new content, page views are ticking over though, and I won't be surprised if this post facilitates the 11,000th view, an amazing number of unexpected magnitude - although this is barely over the three years mark, that "Blog Every Day in May" thing certainly helped, with May itself having some 2000 visits alone.  Had I not have put myself through such a grueling schedule, perhaps I would still be looking forward to the big ten thou?  Having no formal training in style, and often showing dreadful inconsistencies of tone, I can't help but wonder just what is so compelling about all this.  I moan, wail and hammer on about how miserable things are, perhaps impart secrets of hopeless devotion, the lack of definition or direction.  There are even posts about that time I was dreadfully ill and lost almost half a stone overnight, I suppose there must be something about the time I had the Swine Flu...?  I can't imagine it happened before I started writing surely not?  Oh I can't find anything, not even circumstantial evidence from that time I went to a Green Party social in the Eton Cottage (pictures are on my laptop, not on the internet) and looked the then-leader of the Green Party for Norwich straight in the eye, after firmly shaking his hand, and answered the question "So what's your interest in the Green Party?" with 'None at all; I do not believe in centralised government.', which really put the wind up him.  In all honesty, my interest in the Green Party was completely invested in the girl I was seeing at the time, a young lady I now regard with very mixed emotions: some pride and a little envy, possibly even a hint of regret and perhaps something I'm not quite equipped linguistically or emotionally to express, as I am met by wave upon wave repeating of her wedding photos from her recent ceremony.  It's certainly odd, but not ill-meant by any degree.

Every now and again I wonder what the future holds for my blog; in fact, not just that but also writing and my creativity in general.  I publish it and disseminate links in public for a reason: so people can read it.  That's sort of the point, and I'd hate to labour it any further.  One...issue(problem?) I've come up against is in referring to other people, or in fact things being read into.  I usually keep other names down to a minimum, and have fallen out of the habit of conferring pseudonyms.  I've touched on this before, the great and thorny topic of authorial intent, previously unrecognised, is now at a forefront of my mind as I type.  This road leads to witless paranoia however, which is where I have languished for at least a week now.  What use is it trying to run a blog if I'm worried that things will get taken the wrong way and make trouble of it?  Jesus H. Christ, there always have been and always will be those who take issue or even straight up stand in opposition to the way I do, say, think, sing, write, dress... The list goes on.  To live constantly worried is no life at all!  How desperate have things become?  It's probably why, after a month of pre-packed titles, I turned to things like Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaan and why I like stories without happy endings: safe to middling territory that can't be dissected.  Oh well.  Damned if I do and damned if I don't.

!?!

The past two weeks have been flecked with madness, loneliness and some small notes of triumph!  It never really stops being stressed in my head really, as I do live at a certain level of nerves.  Call it whatever you will, but I'd hate to be any other way.  Similarly, I detest being massaged.  Interpersonal contact issues notwithstanding, the act of having my shoulders rubbed is actually rather painful; it appears that I am composed entirely of knotted muscle, and actually I can get on just fine like that thanks.  Who are these people who must be perpetually relaxed?  I am not one of them.  Anyway, I was talking about being alone.  The house is all but empty, with the occasional visit of one of my fellows and his newly Facebook-official girlfriend.  Other than that... Well, one of the Lay-Vicars and his wife came round the week previous, but my visiting schedule is still wide open, YOU WILL ALL BE PLEASED TO HEAR SO COME ROUND.  It isn't awful living alone... The house is quiet (something I sorely missed before), I can stay up til whatever hour I like in the living room, usually doing some sort of cleaning or similar, bombarding the house with various albums ranging from the time I listened to Major four times in a row to the recent rediscovery of a Handel box set.  Not having a set of surround speakers downstairs means I play less from my phone, but that's a small sacrifice.  Last night I dragged the Freezer back in after several days defrosting outside sat over a drain.  Most of the time, blasting out Baroque concertos is an effort to replace the booming bass and raised voices spilling over the back wall from what I can only describe as one of the finest and most popular venues in the whole of Truro.  It could be worse.  Most Friday and Saturday nights I am actually out drinking, usually there, myself.

I must now turn my focus from the Scholary to my future lodging.  I am genuinely sad to be leaving the Scholary, the first house except for my mother's that I have lived in for more than 2 years in the last 5.  It's funny really, but I like the old place, creaky and moldy as it is, in severe need of damp coursing, new carpets, a wiring overhaul, new white goods, fresh wallpaper, new sash windows... I think you get what I'm saying.  Not to do the place a disservice, but it just needs a bit more care.  I am sad to be leaving it, make no mistake.  This place has been more than some sort of doss-hole student house to me, it has been my home, a site of dread triumph and fantastic unprecedented failure.  Those of you who are card-carrying members of my "Fan Club" will be pleased to hear that I have secured a place to live for next academic year, and at a price that is remarkably affordable for the South West, particularly in Truro.  A stones' heave from the Cathedral (rather than the Scholary's comparative lob) from the Shed, I already feel confident that things will be okay, and the extra few hundreds of yards distance will help me establish myself as a Lay-Vicar rather than be tied in to the Scholars.  Already, plans to move from Truro are in an embryonic state, but let's just say I'm thinking big.  Fed up to past the back teeth with living a boring life of no event, it's high time I did something about it and cast away.  I'm much more capable now than I ever was when I was 18, but as always, money is the big problem and it's a problem that will never go away really, as we all need to find funds from somewhere.  As much as I know that we are not our jobs or our bank balances, society is sadly geared the other way around!

As for employment?  To be frank, I haven't bothered lately.  I've had enough with trying to budget my way out of a dead end and finding somewhere to live to take on the extra stress of finding a new job.  I have, however, been working at the Cathedral Office again, which will keep me in enough money to pay my phone bill in August while I'm gallivanting around Sweden with the rest of the choir, hemorrhaging SEK like there's no tomorrow.  All I ever hear about Sweden is how expensive it  is, which is less than inspirational.  What is happening before that tour, though should prove pretty inspirational in itself is the return of a great dream team, Toon and Get!  If there was anything that I could ask for to return my spirits to their position once on-high, it is this pair of terrible oafs, ready to hit Truro once again!  Last year's Banter Tour took us through the lanes at some 60 miles an hour in a Fiat 500; the words "death defying" have never been so well applied.  All the money that I have earned will inevitably be spent with abandon and in all honesty, without regret.  It'll be a time to cherish, not to be ridiculous about it, but we three bad men will ride again.

Let's not even talk about dating, shall we.  I know it's usually the last (or really the first) of the big three, but can we just leave it for now?  Thanks.  I suspect that it'll all come out in the wash in the next few weeks, so for those of you who watch very closely just be patient because the Tell-All account is on the way.

&!&

It's good to write again.  I've been venting most of the madness through Twitter and Facebook.  Regular followers will obviously have noticed, I'm not exactly embarrassed by it, and those of you who take my pathetic cries for attention too seriously are advised to calm the fuck down, basically.  Often, there are plenty of people who are probably welcome to hear from me, which I am reminded of regularly enough - but of course, my lack of communication and poor confidence often shuts me down.  It's only three weeks until the tour, and I might see about taking my computer so at least I'll have a word processor available.  Lord knows I need to get one of those international plug things for my phone anyway.  A few more good weeks of good behaviour, and then we're off!  And after that, it all begins again.  Christ.

Comfortably Disturbed

“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comforted”.  Discuss.

What a great phrase, huh?  An excellent tent pole for discussion about what art really is, and what its purpose may be.  More and more I feel that art should have the capacity to challenge, an opinion I have discovered not so much by sitting and thinking that it ought to be that way, but more as a retrospective of what art I prefer, and how I engage with it.

My shelves are full of dystopian fiction, be that in print or on film (well, DVD) and I champion the works of George Orwell and Philip K. Dick.  While the latter author may not be strictly dystopian per se, his neatly written and sharply witty science fiction is far more preferable than the reams of ponderous teen-fiction trilogies that are cropping up in response to the sudden boom created by the wild success of the Hunger Games trilogy, itself seeming to borrow heavily from the genre-defining Battle Royale.  In truth, it seems that it’s a case of convergent evolution rather than direct imitation, but for the record I prefer BR.  The premise seems more intriguing to me; rather than being set in some sort of near future post-apocalyptic world where society has been restructured to a kind of neo-feudalism with televised death matches (cf. The Running Man), but where the death game is actually part of a contemporary society (although in an alternate timeline) in 1997.  There are slight cultural barriers (although the fine translations make light work of these), and I suppose that the fact that names in the Hunger Games being in English (if deliberately slightly unfamiliar to heighten the sense of societal breakdown as we know it) makes it easier for the general trilogy reading public to engage with.  Hot on the heels of Hunger Games races the Divergent trilogy, or whatever its series’ name will eventually become, on course for a film adaption of its own (and also another source of my constant gripes about everything having to be a trilogy these days).  Books of this particular genre all continue an underlying theme of current and familiar societal rules and regulations breaking down as we join our cast in the aftermath of the apocalypse.  In all truth and honesty, I’m not particularly excited by this genre.  I know plenty of you are, and God forbid I should express any sort of alternative.  There’s a sort of “identikit” feel to these: not too far in the future, modern democratic practice has ceased as we know it, with teenaged protagonists who are the agents of change.  I doubt that there would have been much to say about this particular style a decade ago: BR is almost 15 years old now, and we’re almost at the stage now (and not then) where these dystopias are becoming believable.

I much prefer the political fables of 1984 and Animal Farm by George Orwell, while we’re still on the subject of dystopias, and I’m sure Philip K. Dick will feature sooner rather than later.  Another issue I take with the previously discussed trilogies and their ilk (although not with BR, but also 1984) is their ‘after-the-fact’ settings.  The revolution has already been and gone, but it still hangs heavy in the air.  Star Trek, even though it is utopian fiction, is set many years into the future after their universe’s revolution, where war ravaged the planet (particularly the Eugenics Wars in the 1990s with my good chum Khan Noonien Singh) before humanity pulled together out of the ashes, the dust having settled.  Here, Orwell differs with Animal Farm, which has the reader follow the action of the ‘revolutionaries’ and the creation and degradation of a new regime.  In fact, when you look at the two together from a slightly side on angle, Animal Farm shows a precursory environment that could indeed lead to a 1984 situation, mostly in the use of propaganda to keep the other farm animals from asking too many questions, and the ‘vaporisation’ of animals within the farm who have become considered dangerous by the Farmer’s dogs as raised by Napoleon. 

Dick’s work, on the other hand, feels much more contemporary.  As I’ve said before, A Scanner Darkly is one of my favourite films, and in comparison to the text is almost page for page just put on screen, a refreshingly excellent production.  The peculiar rotoscoping used gives the film a unique aesthetic.  Perhaps the familiarity is due to it being semi-autobiographical, and relatable to almost anyone who lives in shared accommodation at any time in their lives (although particularly student accommodation in the UK), and the particularly dystopian aspect found in the relationship between “Substance D” and the “New Path” clinics.  Over the course of the narrative, not much is as it seems, and Robert Downey Jnr.’s casting as a substance addict surprising nobody (truly, the world’s greatest method actor) particularly gifted delivery as Barris being a true highlight of the film.  The death of Charles Freck is completely the same in both book and motion picture, which is something that pleased me greatly.  Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said, with a plot too complicated to reduce to a few pithy lines is worth a read.  It encapsulates one of my favourite things about dystopian fiction – a lack of a typically ‘happy’ ending.

Another thing that I enjoy about dystopian fiction that works so well for me is the lack of hope.  On a day to day basis I often genuinely feel that there sometimes... there is no way anything can improve, and having lived through dreadful times where there has been little to no resolution, it’s nice to see that there are fictional characters saddled with much the same yoke as well.  Let’s put another favourite piece of dystopia under the spotlight: V for Vendetta, by Alan Moore and illustrated by David Lloyd.  All we know about the title character is that he dresses up as Guy Fawkes in order to maintain his anonymity, and performs acts that undermine, destabilise and expose the nature of a Government that subjugates the people by fear and brutality, and also having run genetic experiments in concentration camps known as “resettlement camps” after a brief nuclear war.  The themes presented by this work are vast, and are a reflection of the political environment they came from, but the fascist government sets a stage for racial segregation, institutionalised sexual discrimination, the manipulation of populace through media control... You know, the usual sort of dystopian checklist.  As we reach the conclusion of the story, sacrifices are made, allegiances questioned and chaos embraced – not a traditional happy ending by any standard; in fact; the last few frames of the book show just one man walking down a darkened motorway, having turned his back on everything that has gone before.  I don’t want to put any sort of spoilers in, because it’s so bloody good and if you’re remotely interested in reading it (and I do mean reading it, because while the film is good it just doesn’t quite measure up in the same way, even though it is rather good), just do.  The anti-heroic protagonist’s intellectualism and cultural knowledge stands in stark opposition to the fascist Government’s strict control on art and any form of self-expression.  When we reach the end, the country is in total chaos.  Rather than reach a resolution, we witness the next step in the journey.

Finally, the catalyst for all this: Fight Club.  The film adaption of Chuck Palahniuk’s 1997 novel has had all sorts of labels slapped on to it: neo-noir, slumming tragedy, black comedy... It’s even been analysed as what happens when Bill Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes grows up – the comparative points are both very amusing and worryingly believable.  I love Fight Club though.  It’s dark, it’s funny, it’s completely ridiculous, and the final revelation is a real stunner that lets you know just how steeped in madness the whole operation really is.  The unreliable narrator struggles with his own identity in a culture given over more and more to consumerism, surrounded by the deeper issue of masculine identity in the service trade (blue or ‘gray’ collar workers).  Tyler Durden, the dark reflection of, well, almost all of us, pontificates wildly on the subject of what freedom really is in this day and age, where the American Dream became a nightmare, where economic status is the real measure of class and from which people now draw their self-worth.  Conforming to society for the sake of acceptance is completely worthless.  Tyler’s Devil may Cry attitude is something I particularly enjoy – nihilistic yet engaging.  My anarchist tendencies tell me that there is always another way, always, and here is one, portrayed by Brad Pitt.  His continual popping up and witty monologues remind me of another force of cynicism in fiction: Travis Bell.  While Travis’s role in Killer7 is ever so slightly different that Tyler’s, they serve a similar purpose in showing the audience that there is something else happening behind the main players, and both exhibit a keen knowledge of the fourth wall (cf. Tyler’s Cigarette burns and Travis’s intimate knowledge of the Smiths’ abilities).  Tyler also bears resemblance to Travis Touchdown of No More Heroes fame, and although it’s widely publicised that Touchdown’s appearance is based on Johnny Knoxville, you can’t help but feel that SUDA51 is inspired by more things than first thought. 

What really got me about Fight Club was how it relates to one of my more worrying catchphrases, “I only find validation in self-destruction”.  It’s simple.  Direct.  I like to say it to point out the hopelessness of trying to play by the rules of a social environment that doesn’t work out for me.  Why bother seeking group acceptance if the effort makes me feel ill when I can just have a drink?  Maybe some answers are found at the end of a bottle, but you have to ask the right questions.  The original version of one of Tyler’s most Travis-esque statements “Self-improvement is masturbation.  Now, self-destruction...” bears an even more fatal resemblance to my outlook, after a year of trying to fit in and work with attitudes and approaches so violently removed from my own, faced by total ignorance and apathy, manipulation and more commonly, excuses... I mean honestly, “Maybe self-improvement isn’t the answer.  Maybe self-destruction is the answer.”  I can’t help but draw parallels between SUDA51’s ‘Kill the Past’ movement, where the protagonists must leave their pasts behind in order to move forward.  After all, “it’s only after we’ve lost everything are we free to do anything”, right?  Even our identities?  That’s quite enough to leave you with for the weekend, isn’t it?

Oh well.  We’re all mad here, Smith.  Straight up.

Week 52

I was trying to write a post over the weekend, I really was, but life got so busy and there was so much drink that I mostly forgot, but also found that I was boring myself, which is possibly the least favourable place to write from.  It was another post about a video game, specifically the contraversial masterpiece The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask, and how much I like it because it is one of the weirdest things in the world.  Like the aborted effort about Killer7, it was too close to an absolute description, even to the point of picking up the controller.  I have an abiding love for these strange and odd games, even though they belong to out-dated systems (I have the Gold cartridge for MM, not the disc), and I think it's because they are about altered perceptions and are set in realities that challenge.  Of course, I must feel some sort of 'kindred spirit' kind of thing for the characters therein, as I constantly find reality a challenge, mentally and physically taxing beyond the pale.  And indeed, no more so than now!  What with the end of the year, everyone else moving on and whatnot, where I need to find a job and somewhere to live and Jesus Christ I can barely cope!

This summer's main event is the Choir tour to Sweden!  Oh yes.  As I do love telling people, it'll only be my fourth flight, and the first such journey that won't end in Germany.  There are plans afoot to go to a water park, a zoo, possible opportunities for lake swimming... with the odd concert thrown in here and there (but we wouldn't want anything to be too taxing now would we!).  It promises to be an interesting week, although the fact that booze is punishingly expensive (somehow worse than Truro?) may lead to any sort of poverty, madness and desperation, and so on.  What am I saying?  Of course it'll be great!  It will also be the last time that I see certain members of the current Truro Cathedral Choir team, being this year's Scholar's last hurrah.  End of an era, huh?  Another chapter done and dusted, but at least I'm staying here.  I vacillate wildly about my appointment actually: sometimes I do wonder whether it was made out of convenience, but mostly I fret about the fact that...well, it doesn't seem terribly exciting.  I get the feeling I've written this before, but with people off to the Royal Northern, the Royal Academy, Collegiate choirs... What am I doing?  Staying in Truro?  Putting myself into the firing line for a life of financial hardship?  Actually having a job and being like, a... Grown up?  We're back to the end of the first paragraph again though, where I reach the very end of my limited (but still effective) set of coping skills. 

At least the weather's picked up!  Although I haven't really made much foray to the coasts (unlike my housemates, strong swimmers and keen surfers that they are), I do find it a rather enjoyable climate and will often take to just walking through town of an afternoon, deciding what I will spend my money on this time.  I find myself quite bored a lot of the time, so most of the time I'm thinking about what I'd like to eat.  I am the worst comfort eater in the world, I used to bank roll the local Chinese take out place at the end of my road in Norwich coming home from... well, anything really: choir, uni, also my home... Anything that had disturbed my delicate temperament that day would be answered with Roast Chicken Chinese style and Egg Fried Rice.  I spent a lot of money there, I can tell you.  Anyway.  I wear short trousers now.  Even under my cassock!  The secret's out, good lord.  Neither delighteth he in any man's legs.  I'm still really warm at night, obviously now because of the environment, not the central heating.  Thank GOD.

I guess now it's almost all over (again), things are a bit sad.  I've had a couple of really bad episodes and have come to the conclusion that I have almost no power over my mood, but at least I'm on a bit of an upswing currently.  The difference between one day and another can often be nothing short of staggering, and indeed, even catastrophic some times.  I do try though.  I hate being a shut in, and try to make some sort of positive difference, usually rescuing my items left for dead in that biohazardous desert that is the Scholary Kitchen.  Nothing can live in its disgusting mire.  Or having a cup of tea.  I will force myself to leave the house sometimes because I will not allow myself to be trapped in my own home. Sometimes, especially when my mood is particularly poor, I even feel as if I'm trapped in my own head.  It's awful, and it's terrible and sometimes there just isn't anything I can do about it, like I have to sort out a mask so people don't ask me questions I'm to anxious to even begin to consider answering and get out the house... And we're back to Majora's Mask!  

Oh well.  Things have a habit of evening out, I suppose.  A major factor to my poor moods is exactly because we are at the end of the year: everything must change and if there's one thing I hate it's change.  I mean, I hate everything, right?  Change is the worst though you guys I mean seriously it is.  Because change is unexpected, I am often ill-prepared to deal with whatever happens, and of course that gets me worked up as well.  It certainly isn't easy being me sometimes.  But then again... If it was easy, it'd be boring.  And I really can't stand being bored.