I watched this morning's opening match between New Zealand and Tonga. Whilst the All Blacks started vigorously, they took their collective foot off the accelerator after the interval and Tonga were able to make some inroads. New Zealand's performance, whilst efficient, will not have deeply concerned the other leading nations.
Perusing the tournament draw, I have calculated that the semi-final line up will be Australia v England and South Africa v New Zealand, with the All Blacks to defeat Australia in the final. It remains to be seen whether New Zealand will fall short of expectations, as they have a habit of doing come World Cup time. It is remarkable to think that they have only won one World Cup, the inaugural event in 1987.
Friday, 9 September 2011
Saturday, 3 September 2011
Relics From Our Childhood
One of my favourite sitcom episodes is "Storm in a Tea Chest", from "Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads". In this particular episode, the Bob Ferris character, played by Rodney Bewes, agonizes over whether to dispose of some of his childhood nik naks and keepsakes, such as toys, books and such like, which are all contained in an old tea chest.
The dilemma is presented to Bob because he has just moved into a new house, and his wife Thelma is averse to what she regards as clutter. Bob, on the other hand, realises how his life is undergoing changes, and is anxious to retain a link to his past, and to assert his own identity.
I have myself recently been ruminating over this subject, prompted by a couple of very different occurences. Some of my recent philosophical reading has centred on the need to maintain some contact with one's beginnings, and not to become divorced from a sense of roots and humility. Then, yesterday, I saw a picture of a teddy bear on the internet, and this sowed a seed in my mind!
Upon closer contemplation, it has dawned on me that I have retained very few reminders of my childhood years, save for a few fairly inconsequential items. This situation has arisen for two main reasons. My mother was always virulently opposed to things being "hoarded" in her house, and lots was therefore disposed of. More importantly, however, in my late teens and twenties, I lost contact with my past and my identity as an individual, retreating into my own "bubble", which merely gave the illusion of comfort and contentment. Little did I know how hollow and misguided this approach was.
My biggest regret in this area is discarding things such as football and comic annuals, and diaries. It is a sign of how divorced I was from my true "self" for much of my adult life, that I did not wish to maintain any sense of continuity or progression, but just preferred to sleepwalk from crisis to crisis. Getting rid of the aforementioned items may also have been a sub-conscious attempt on my part to distance myself from years past, in parallel with the many deluded "relaunches" which have punctuated my life.
Tangible reminders of our formative years, and beyond, can help us to determine how we travelled to our current point, and in some ways indicate how we can plot a path back there, to those carefree days of innocence and purity, or at least to the mindset which still prevailed at that stage.
Some of us whose existence became largely devoid of such mementos, or at least the state of mind which they helped to foster, were forced to take a very different route back to where it all began.
The dilemma is presented to Bob because he has just moved into a new house, and his wife Thelma is averse to what she regards as clutter. Bob, on the other hand, realises how his life is undergoing changes, and is anxious to retain a link to his past, and to assert his own identity.
I have myself recently been ruminating over this subject, prompted by a couple of very different occurences. Some of my recent philosophical reading has centred on the need to maintain some contact with one's beginnings, and not to become divorced from a sense of roots and humility. Then, yesterday, I saw a picture of a teddy bear on the internet, and this sowed a seed in my mind!
Upon closer contemplation, it has dawned on me that I have retained very few reminders of my childhood years, save for a few fairly inconsequential items. This situation has arisen for two main reasons. My mother was always virulently opposed to things being "hoarded" in her house, and lots was therefore disposed of. More importantly, however, in my late teens and twenties, I lost contact with my past and my identity as an individual, retreating into my own "bubble", which merely gave the illusion of comfort and contentment. Little did I know how hollow and misguided this approach was.
My biggest regret in this area is discarding things such as football and comic annuals, and diaries. It is a sign of how divorced I was from my true "self" for much of my adult life, that I did not wish to maintain any sense of continuity or progression, but just preferred to sleepwalk from crisis to crisis. Getting rid of the aforementioned items may also have been a sub-conscious attempt on my part to distance myself from years past, in parallel with the many deluded "relaunches" which have punctuated my life.
Tangible reminders of our formative years, and beyond, can help us to determine how we travelled to our current point, and in some ways indicate how we can plot a path back there, to those carefree days of innocence and purity, or at least to the mindset which still prevailed at that stage.
Some of us whose existence became largely devoid of such mementos, or at least the state of mind which they helped to foster, were forced to take a very different route back to where it all began.
Thursday, 1 September 2011
A Brief Encounter
Just recently, and totally out of the blue, I bumped into an old female acquaintance, who I had lost contact with a few years previously.
Her aura of serenity, undoubtedly underpinned by domestic contentment, was very noticeable. She has changed, and has a sense of purpose and direction. By contrast, I thought to myself, I have altered very little in some vital respects, and still fall prey to the same inertia and traps which befell me in my past.
I think the moral of this episode is that we should always strive to learn from how others move forward and enhance their lives, and take some inspiration from the steps which they have taken.
I am not one to believe in fate, but this meeting probably came at an apposite stage in my recent development. Perhaps when things like this happen, we need to take a long hard look at ourselves, and where we are heading?
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Big Star
Around 1994/95, I began to purchase the "serious" music magazines, and I continually read about an American group called Big Star, who it seemed had released a couple of seminal albums in the 1970s, and who were being cited as an influence by artists on both sides of the Atlantic. They, so the articles and reviews informed me, had also inspired many American "alternative" and underground bands of the 1980s.
Well, as my musical palette was beginning to expand during that time, I checked out Big Star's music, after finding that their first two albums, "#1 Record" and "Radio City", were available together on one CD. Having listened, my initial impressions were "pleasant enough, a few catchy songs, nice harmonies", but nothing more than that. Big Star were filed away in my mind as a good group, but they were half-forgotten as my musical attentions were drawn elsewhere.
It was only very recently that Big Star re-appeared on my radar, and almost by accident, as I heard one of their best-known tracks on an internet radio station. This prompted me to go back and re-evaluate those first two albums.
Well, maybe my musical instincts and antennae have become keener and more discerning in the intervening period, but I was struck by how much I had initially under-rated Big Star. I now appreciate how important they were, and why they are recalled with such fondness by so many people.
The music is more diverse and hard-edged than I had remembered it, with the emphasis on Power Pop, rather than just pretty harmonies. The remastered versions which I have been listening to evidently accentuated some of the nuances.
Whilst Big Star were themselves hugely influential, it is worth examining from which artists and musical styles they derived their own inspiration. The conventional wisdom has been that their music was in many ways similar to The Byrds and some of the pioneering US power-pop combos. However, I detect major signs of The Who in their songs, melodically as well as in the vocal harmonies and "clanging" guitar sound. A healthy dash of Stonesy swagger is also evident at times. In the slower acoustic numbers there are distinct echoes of Gene Clark and Neil Young.
The lyrics straddle the line between youthful innocence and self-consciousness, but thankfully never becoming fully immersed in either. Innocent and simple at times, but equally intelligent and thoughtful.
Big Star's songs tend to be compact and concise three or four minute affairs, more often than not effortlessly tuneful. The word "songcraft" could almost have been invented to describe their work. A few of their melodies owe a lot to the girl-group/Brill Building pop of the early 1960s.
One of the things which I have noticed in my revisit of Big Star is how technically intricate some of the guitar playing is. Similar in sound to The Byrds and The Who, but tending to be more complex and elaborate. Some pleasing acoustic picking is also on display.
Those first two albums contain few genuinely weak songs, but the stand-out tracks are probably "In The Street", "Thirteen", "O My Soul" and "September Gurls". In particular, "In The Street", with its punchy melody, angelic harmonies and hypnotic guitar lines, is a minor classic of its type.
So, given that so many observers wax lyrical about Big Star, and their early offerings, why did they not achieve more commercial popularity and recognition in the early to mid 1970s? Plain bad luck may partially explain it. However, my own theory, for what it's worth, is that they were "a band out of time", and simply did not fit in to any of the convenient pigeon-holes of the prevailing musical genres of the era.
Big Star could not be accurately described as glam rock, prog rock, or mainstream album rock. If anything, their sound has more in common with some of the American punk artists who came along not long afterwards. They unluckily fell into the gap of having a retro sound, but also being ahead of their time in some respects (their music presaged the New Wave music which emerged in the aftermath of punk).
For anyone who appreciates true pop craftsmanship, and the pure joy of guitars and vocal harmonies, "#1 Record" and "Radio City" are essential listening. They are very difficult to dislike.
Well, as my musical palette was beginning to expand during that time, I checked out Big Star's music, after finding that their first two albums, "#1 Record" and "Radio City", were available together on one CD. Having listened, my initial impressions were "pleasant enough, a few catchy songs, nice harmonies", but nothing more than that. Big Star were filed away in my mind as a good group, but they were half-forgotten as my musical attentions were drawn elsewhere.
It was only very recently that Big Star re-appeared on my radar, and almost by accident, as I heard one of their best-known tracks on an internet radio station. This prompted me to go back and re-evaluate those first two albums.
Well, maybe my musical instincts and antennae have become keener and more discerning in the intervening period, but I was struck by how much I had initially under-rated Big Star. I now appreciate how important they were, and why they are recalled with such fondness by so many people.
The music is more diverse and hard-edged than I had remembered it, with the emphasis on Power Pop, rather than just pretty harmonies. The remastered versions which I have been listening to evidently accentuated some of the nuances.
Whilst Big Star were themselves hugely influential, it is worth examining from which artists and musical styles they derived their own inspiration. The conventional wisdom has been that their music was in many ways similar to The Byrds and some of the pioneering US power-pop combos. However, I detect major signs of The Who in their songs, melodically as well as in the vocal harmonies and "clanging" guitar sound. A healthy dash of Stonesy swagger is also evident at times. In the slower acoustic numbers there are distinct echoes of Gene Clark and Neil Young.
The lyrics straddle the line between youthful innocence and self-consciousness, but thankfully never becoming fully immersed in either. Innocent and simple at times, but equally intelligent and thoughtful.
Big Star's songs tend to be compact and concise three or four minute affairs, more often than not effortlessly tuneful. The word "songcraft" could almost have been invented to describe their work. A few of their melodies owe a lot to the girl-group/Brill Building pop of the early 1960s.
One of the things which I have noticed in my revisit of Big Star is how technically intricate some of the guitar playing is. Similar in sound to The Byrds and The Who, but tending to be more complex and elaborate. Some pleasing acoustic picking is also on display.
Those first two albums contain few genuinely weak songs, but the stand-out tracks are probably "In The Street", "Thirteen", "O My Soul" and "September Gurls". In particular, "In The Street", with its punchy melody, angelic harmonies and hypnotic guitar lines, is a minor classic of its type.
So, given that so many observers wax lyrical about Big Star, and their early offerings, why did they not achieve more commercial popularity and recognition in the early to mid 1970s? Plain bad luck may partially explain it. However, my own theory, for what it's worth, is that they were "a band out of time", and simply did not fit in to any of the convenient pigeon-holes of the prevailing musical genres of the era.
Big Star could not be accurately described as glam rock, prog rock, or mainstream album rock. If anything, their sound has more in common with some of the American punk artists who came along not long afterwards. They unluckily fell into the gap of having a retro sound, but also being ahead of their time in some respects (their music presaged the New Wave music which emerged in the aftermath of punk).
For anyone who appreciates true pop craftsmanship, and the pure joy of guitars and vocal harmonies, "#1 Record" and "Radio City" are essential listening. They are very difficult to dislike.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
It's Only Music....Or Is it?
This post was originally intended to ruminate on the pretentiousness and vapidity of much comment by music critics, and often people in general. Also, the post would have touched on the "taste-snobbery" and intellectual dishonesty which I feel that much music "scholarship" embodies. Following all this would have been a reasoned argument for us all to take music a little less seriously, to allow ourselves to enjoy music for its own sake, and for at least some objective aesthetic analysis, rather than constant reference to the "cred-meter". The title of the post was to have been "It's Only Music".
Although I stand by much of what I say about music writing and the "arbiters of cool", in the early hours of this morning I was given pause for thought concerning my assertion that "It's Only Music".
I had read about the supposed transcendental qualities of Richard Wagner's music, but whilst finding his work stirring, had not encountered these myself. However, this morning I found myself lying alone in bed in the darkness, listening to some of Wagner's orchestral work on my MP3 player. Browsing various tracks, I found myself returning to "Siegfried Idyll".
Much popular (and indeed, classical) music seeks to tug at the heart strings, or to summon up our sensual desires and instincts, but this sensation was something entirely different. I felt as if my entire body and mind had been joined, and transported to another plane, and that myself and the music were the only two things remaining in the world.
Attempting to put these phenomena into cogent language is a troublesome task, and the best approximation I can come up with is having for a few moments experienced life and living at their most intense and pure, purged of all insecurities and irritants. Half expecting to break into tears of joy and/or euphoria, instead I found myself breaking into the broadest smile imaginable. The exultation was still present following several hours of sleep.
Of course, I am not suggesting that the music of Wagner, or classical music generally, has a monopoly on such properties. Indeed, jazz, dance music and progressive rock possess the capacity to deliver altered states of consciousness. Our minds and bodies all have different tolerances. This brings us back to our debate regarding musical "taste" and snobbery. I would venture to suggest that transcendent attributes and perceived "artistic integrity" do not always coincide.
Hence the amendment to the title of this thread.....
Although I stand by much of what I say about music writing and the "arbiters of cool", in the early hours of this morning I was given pause for thought concerning my assertion that "It's Only Music".
I had read about the supposed transcendental qualities of Richard Wagner's music, but whilst finding his work stirring, had not encountered these myself. However, this morning I found myself lying alone in bed in the darkness, listening to some of Wagner's orchestral work on my MP3 player. Browsing various tracks, I found myself returning to "Siegfried Idyll".
Much popular (and indeed, classical) music seeks to tug at the heart strings, or to summon up our sensual desires and instincts, but this sensation was something entirely different. I felt as if my entire body and mind had been joined, and transported to another plane, and that myself and the music were the only two things remaining in the world.
Attempting to put these phenomena into cogent language is a troublesome task, and the best approximation I can come up with is having for a few moments experienced life and living at their most intense and pure, purged of all insecurities and irritants. Half expecting to break into tears of joy and/or euphoria, instead I found myself breaking into the broadest smile imaginable. The exultation was still present following several hours of sleep.
Of course, I am not suggesting that the music of Wagner, or classical music generally, has a monopoly on such properties. Indeed, jazz, dance music and progressive rock possess the capacity to deliver altered states of consciousness. Our minds and bodies all have different tolerances. This brings us back to our debate regarding musical "taste" and snobbery. I would venture to suggest that transcendent attributes and perceived "artistic integrity" do not always coincide.
Hence the amendment to the title of this thread.....
Thursday, 25 August 2011
Ayn Rand's "Anthem"
I am in the process of working my way through Ayn Rand's most famous novels and novellas.
After much enjoying "We The Living", next on the agenda was "Anthem".
I approached the book with few pre-conceptions, not knowing much about its themes or subject matter, but even allowing for this, it was not what I was expecting!
Reading the first few pages, I became acutely aware that this was a fierce critique of collectivism, and although receptive to many of the messages contained within, I feared that it would become a turgid read. The style is clearly intended to assist in vividly conveying the author's points of view, and once the reader accepts this it should become more accessible. The pace quickens appreciably as the scenes progress, as the main character's journey progresses, and the final sections are quite powerful, even invoking a sense of "catharsis". The concept of moving from addressing oneself as "We" to "I" is a clever idea, but needs to be fully embraced if the narrative is to be fully appreciated.
I must confess, even as a libertarian, that some elements of Ayn Rand's philosophy, particularly the emphasis on ego and selfishness, leave me slightly cold, but I was still impressed with the way in which "Anthem" builds to a crescendo, climaxing with a passionate espousal of individualist values.
After reading the book from start to finish in a couple of hours, I was inclined to regard it less as a novel than as a form of manifesto. Although compelling in its own way, it had little of the charm and flow of "We The Living". In fairness, comparisons between the two works are unfair, in that they adopt totally differing approaches.
Well, just "Fountainhead" and "Atlas Shrugged" to go now!
After much enjoying "We The Living", next on the agenda was "Anthem".
I approached the book with few pre-conceptions, not knowing much about its themes or subject matter, but even allowing for this, it was not what I was expecting!
Reading the first few pages, I became acutely aware that this was a fierce critique of collectivism, and although receptive to many of the messages contained within, I feared that it would become a turgid read. The style is clearly intended to assist in vividly conveying the author's points of view, and once the reader accepts this it should become more accessible. The pace quickens appreciably as the scenes progress, as the main character's journey progresses, and the final sections are quite powerful, even invoking a sense of "catharsis". The concept of moving from addressing oneself as "We" to "I" is a clever idea, but needs to be fully embraced if the narrative is to be fully appreciated.
I must confess, even as a libertarian, that some elements of Ayn Rand's philosophy, particularly the emphasis on ego and selfishness, leave me slightly cold, but I was still impressed with the way in which "Anthem" builds to a crescendo, climaxing with a passionate espousal of individualist values.
After reading the book from start to finish in a couple of hours, I was inclined to regard it less as a novel than as a form of manifesto. Although compelling in its own way, it had little of the charm and flow of "We The Living". In fairness, comparisons between the two works are unfair, in that they adopt totally differing approaches.
Well, just "Fountainhead" and "Atlas Shrugged" to go now!
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
Book Review - "Shunt - The Story of James Hunt", by Tom Rubython
Having received distinctly mixed feedback, I had delayed purchasing this book, but eventually relented and decided to judge it for myself.
The first thing to make clear is that this is a very lengthy book, and it cannot be accused of skimping on detail. The style of writing will certainly not be to everyone's taste, but it can still be quite a rewarding read, for several reasons.
It would seem that the author had access to sources not available or sought out by Hunt's previous biographers. This ensures that some stories and information in Rubython's may be reaching a wide, mainstream audience for the first time. Certainly, several gaps in my knowledge were filled, particularly on matters hitherto submerged beneath the rich tapestry which was Formula 1 in the 1970s.
The life of Hunt both before and after his Formula 1 racing career are covered in more depth than in previous similar publications, although at times perhaps the level of detail is excessive.
One of the most illuminating aspects of the book was its concentration on the financial and promotional elements of motor racing at that time, when sponsorship and television coverage were still in their infancy. It was fascinating to read how informal, almost amateurish, things were as recently as 1975. The one thing I could do without was the constant quoting of figures and monetary amounts!
My main criticism of the book is its apparent tendency towards hyperbole and even exaggeration of some events. The life of James Hunt was hardly mundane, and little sensationalism is needed to turn it into a compelling story. Some fairly insignificant and unimportant incidents are overplayed in order to embellish parts of the tale, and the "all or nothing" mode of language employed is irritating at times.
Although casual readers will probably not notice, any F1 "anorak" will be surprised by the number of historical inaccuracies and errors contained in the text. This did slightly mar my enjoyment of the book as a whole.
The author is not afraid to pass judgement on aspects of Formula 1, particularly the transition towards ground-effect, and its impact on the quality of the racing. Not everyone will agree with his interpretation of events, but to his credit, he does not attempt to sugar-coat the Grand Prix scene of the time, or indeed Hunt's role in it.
Perhaps also I could have done without the constant references to economic and political events of the times. I accept that this is sometimes desirable for the purposes of context, but for me it went a little too far in this instance.
Later in the book, efforts are to made to analyse Hunt's complex persona, and also to document his trials and tribulations following retirement from racing. Doubtless many readers will find this the most revealing, and indeed moving, part of the book.
In summary, I would say that this is a mixed bag. Plenty of information to be extracted, if one can see past the "over the top" style of writing, and the inaccuracies. Those seeking a more condensed and temperate account of Hunt's life may wish to seek out the biography written by the Canadian journalist Gerald Donaldson.
The first thing to make clear is that this is a very lengthy book, and it cannot be accused of skimping on detail. The style of writing will certainly not be to everyone's taste, but it can still be quite a rewarding read, for several reasons.
It would seem that the author had access to sources not available or sought out by Hunt's previous biographers. This ensures that some stories and information in Rubython's may be reaching a wide, mainstream audience for the first time. Certainly, several gaps in my knowledge were filled, particularly on matters hitherto submerged beneath the rich tapestry which was Formula 1 in the 1970s.
The life of Hunt both before and after his Formula 1 racing career are covered in more depth than in previous similar publications, although at times perhaps the level of detail is excessive.
One of the most illuminating aspects of the book was its concentration on the financial and promotional elements of motor racing at that time, when sponsorship and television coverage were still in their infancy. It was fascinating to read how informal, almost amateurish, things were as recently as 1975. The one thing I could do without was the constant quoting of figures and monetary amounts!
My main criticism of the book is its apparent tendency towards hyperbole and even exaggeration of some events. The life of James Hunt was hardly mundane, and little sensationalism is needed to turn it into a compelling story. Some fairly insignificant and unimportant incidents are overplayed in order to embellish parts of the tale, and the "all or nothing" mode of language employed is irritating at times.
Although casual readers will probably not notice, any F1 "anorak" will be surprised by the number of historical inaccuracies and errors contained in the text. This did slightly mar my enjoyment of the book as a whole.
The author is not afraid to pass judgement on aspects of Formula 1, particularly the transition towards ground-effect, and its impact on the quality of the racing. Not everyone will agree with his interpretation of events, but to his credit, he does not attempt to sugar-coat the Grand Prix scene of the time, or indeed Hunt's role in it.
Perhaps also I could have done without the constant references to economic and political events of the times. I accept that this is sometimes desirable for the purposes of context, but for me it went a little too far in this instance.
Later in the book, efforts are to made to analyse Hunt's complex persona, and also to document his trials and tribulations following retirement from racing. Doubtless many readers will find this the most revealing, and indeed moving, part of the book.
In summary, I would say that this is a mixed bag. Plenty of information to be extracted, if one can see past the "over the top" style of writing, and the inaccuracies. Those seeking a more condensed and temperate account of Hunt's life may wish to seek out the biography written by the Canadian journalist Gerald Donaldson.
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