Remembered Imagined

I left work around 5.45 thinking I would catch the end of the rather lovely spring day by walking through The Meadows, and there might be a sunset.  Had a lovely walk, reached the venue, Summerhall, then went past it to get money from the cash machine on the next street.  On my way back to Summerhall, walking down Hope Park Terrace ( I think it’s called) I heard someone call my name  - “Jennifer”.  Not an urgent call, not demanding attention, more just an observational call, soft and melodic, to say that they had seen me.  I looked around, but could see no-one.  I assumed it was someone calling to another Jennifer, but then, for some reason, I started to wonder if it was just a voice in my head – dream-like.  I got to Summerhall and bought my ticket then repaired to the bar to drink a glass of wine.  I was on my own for the whole of this glass of wine, so indulged myself by thinking again about the voice in my head thing, and whose voices might be there.  I reckoned that family voices would be the most likely ones.  In particular, my parents, both are now dead, but both of whom I often remember/imagine/meet in dreams.  So, I started to wonder if I still could remember my mother’s voice. She has been dead nearly 20 years, and I think I can, but it was hard to recollect it in my head.

Luckily, then, perhaps, some people I knew appeared in the bar, not any of the people I was expecting to meet, but lovely to see them all the same.  I had another drink, with them, then we went to the concert.  I was pleasantly surprised to meet two very good friends, in the audience, people I have been close friends with for so long I am going to call them Fred and Wilma.  They chatted a while then said that they had seen me earlier and that one of their sons, Pebble, had called out to me from the car!!  Mystery solved.  I am not imagining things, nor am I remembering voices! 

Now the concert, was a treat.  I didn’t quite work it out, even having talked to Fred and Wilma, about young Pebble, but it turned out that he, and his brother Cobble, were both part of this show, as members of a youth orchestra – gathered together at the last minute to appear, due to sickness of one of the original cast. It was really splendid to see them playing, so confidently and tunefully and smiling all the while. 

Then, the “real” scripted show began.  Very moody  from the start – atmospheric, much staccato plucking of strings, evoking bird calls, and weather and stormy uneasiness.  Hugely enjoyable, if not melodic!!  I was grateful for having grown up with Peter Maxwell Davis (as it were) a composer who uses similar, often discordant noises to conjure up moods and thereby enhance his works.  Then, the voices were brought in – quietly, and Gaelic, so the meaning was lost to me.  Only the melody of the human voices could reach me, none of the meaning.  So, the music had no melody, but lots of meaning, and the voices had no meaning but lots of melody.  I have no idea if this was the intended effect, but I loved it.  Some Gaelic poetry followed, partially translated into English, some funny stories, in poetic form, all very enjoyable, then back to the voices and music. This time, the music followed the melody of the voices, anchoring them;  and the meaning of their words, at least for me, started to fade gently into the background.   This was soothing, and calming, for me, the angry bird calls and the nervy wind flurries were still and the music could provide a landscape to support  the human voices, providing the mountainous backdrop, accentuating the hills and the valleys of the speech pattern.  Grounding and centring, bringing us home again to the meaning of the voices, making us listen to what they were saying, as well as how they were saying it. 

The whole thing was glorious, really enjoyable.  I want to do it again tomorrow night, to check whether my interpretation is “right”.  I am glad that got the chance to reflect on a remembered / imagined voice of my own, before the show; and that I met people that I could, very briefly, discuss St Kilda with, before the show as well.  My imagination and memory were very well primed for this concert.  If I could see it again tomorrow I would know whether that influenced my enjoyment of it or not. But, my suspicion is that the music, and the poetry, and the clever use of lighting, and the general talents displayed that evening, made it so great, and my remembered imaginings played little part. 

Then, a lovely chat with a friend and erstwhile colleague from many years ago, with whom I only really interact on Facebook now. He generously drove me home and we chatted about film music and its ability to inspire, enliven, upset and depress the audience.

Great evening, with lots to consider.

Disgruntled Sparrow Blog no 1 - Bob Dylan and Radical Independence

I will survive

Two very big things, in my life, happened last week, both in Glasgow.  As a natural Edinburgh person, trips to Glasgow fill me with slight trepidation, solely because I invariably get lost there.  However, the appearance of Bob Dylan, at the SECC was worth hazarding a trip over to the Dear Green Place, even though I had got very thoroughly lost making the simple journey from Glasgow Queen Street Station to the SECC only three years ago.  That may have been the fault of Google Maps, still in its infancy then, and the application’s, and my, misunderstanding of Glasgow’s buses.  On the way back it turned out to be incredibly simple to travel by train. 
Returning to the map app recently, I discovered that it is even easier, a three minute journey, from Central Station, which left only the walk of shame from GQS to GC to be negotiated.  

This is a route I have taken at least ten times in the last ten years, but it is never familiar.  This may be due to the grid system in Glasgow allowing you to take a myriad of routes between the two, as long as you first set out in the right direction (right) you can zig-zag your way across without any trouble.  I felt sure that my companion Albert, would know how to do this though, he being blessed, as are most of you, with a much better sense of direction than I have.  We did, indeed complete the trip in record time, leaving space for a quick reward drink in the bar at Central station, to admire the architecture and general aesthetic loveliness of the station.  The sticky-carpet and 70s music were an additional bonus; and the man sitting at the bar with a wine glass and a half-empty bottle of white beside him, another empty bottle beside that (at 7pm) was either a warning, or a old-time Dylan ballad waiting to happen. 

As we found the platform and train destined for Exhibition Centre Station (so straightforward), I was delighted to see lots of young people heading off in our direction.  No, there really were, and yes, properly young, not 30 or so!  Teenagers, in fact.  “Are you going to The Concert?” I burbled to one duo of girls.  And when they affirmed that they were I expressed my delight to them, and my relief to Albert that we would not, in fact, be the youngest people at the “gig”, (as people of Dylan’s vintage say).  I then speculated loudly on the aging legendary star’s universal appeal to persons of all ages, by which time my bright young audience had escaped from my dotage onto the train.  On alighting the train three minutes later, and walking up the covered walkway to the SECC, Albert asked another group of teenaged girls what they were off to see.  It turned out another band were playing, at the same venue, that night.  How huge is Glasgow that this can happen, two huge gigs at one public transport destination?

So, as Albert and I hobbled geriatrically (on my part at least) towards our gig, marvelling at the new brightly coloured modernist architectural wonder next to the Armadillo, and tutting at the lack of atmosphere in the hall where our hero was performing, streams of young, bright, gaily painted people whizzed off elsewhere. 

As I hirpled up the stairs, and we debated the (financial) wisdom of buying a drink in this venue, the unmistakeable multi-guitar electronic joy of the Dylan backing group became audible, and it was clear that, arriving at 19:36, we had already missed the start of the gig (Doors Open 19:00; Show Starts 19:30).  But, we were only a few bars into the first song, so no harm done.  I am not going to warble on about the set list, or even attempt to try to describe the excellence of the music; the former is available on-line (bobdylan.com) and the latter would exceed my musical knowledge.  But it was great.  The venue slightly lacking in atmosphere, though perhaps that was only in comparison to the bar in Central Station!


Anyway, the man himself is worth a few words, I feel.  This was my fourth Dylan concert.  The others were in the Edinburgh Playhouse in April 1995; the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre in September 2000, and back to the Playhouse again in May 2009.  He is famous for the variability of his live performances, and, to be honest, back in 2009 he didn’t seem to be in great form.  It had been the last night of a long European tour, and he seemed tired and sore.  Standing stiffly at the keyboards he seemed to have a sore back (as a sufferer myself I can recognise the signs); his face was gaunt, and his band appeared to be concentrating so very hard on his every move that they didn’t seem to be having any fun.  While “tightness” and clarity in music is to be applauded, it should, maybe, not stretch to the point where the tension is noticeable.  But, last Tuesday, in Glasgow, there was a different man on the stage.  He moved around the stage, taking centre-stage to sing and play harmonica for several songs; singing at the grand piano for the others.  He smiled, and he even danced!  

Relaxed Bob, he was actually enjoying himself.  With the benefit of binoculars it was possible to see his facial expressions from our excellent seats in the middle of front row of the balcony.  I am sure we made eye contact on more than one occasion – though he might have just been concerned about whether that pair of elderly bird-watchers knew where they were.  But, indisputably, for a man of 72, Bob is in tremendous form.

(I didn't take this photo - it is the stock photo that accompanies most of the reviews of this Dylan tour).

There has been a rash of elderly people making “come-backs”, I watched the Rolling Stones at Glastonbury from the comfort of my sofa last summer; also enjoying John Humphys’ slant on the festival on the Today programme.  Humphys and Jagger, both around the same age – 70, did a great interview; and John seemed mellow and agreeable throughout the festival.  The Stones didn’t seem affected by the passing of time, Mick pranced and pouted, Keith swayed and smiled, all seemed well.  This week the surviving Pythons announced a re-union concert, to the inevitable barrage of witticisms about the difficulty of doing Silly Walks when you have had two hips and one knee replaced.  In the last five years I have seen John Cooper Clarke three times, he is 64, my Internet research tells me, and still very much on form, although that may not be his natural hair.  All very encouraging from my perspective, from an often painful middle-age, to think that there might be productive years to come.

And so to my second visit to Glasgow this week, to The Radical Independence Campaign conference.  Again, I will spare you the details, it is reported on elsewhere.  I will also not be giving any political opinions here (though this may change in future), instead I will focus, rather selfishly, on how the day affected me.

Again I arrived late, this time due to my own inability to get out of bed, nothing to do with navigating Glasgow or stopping for Abba-fuelled drinks.  This meant that I missed the whole of the first session – of plenary speeches, arriving in time for a lot of milling about as they emptied the huge hall in order to set it up for the workshops.  This involved sliding temporary walls and doors into place, turning one big space into three smaller ones.  This seems to work very effectively, although cheering and clapping filtered through the temporary barriers throughout the workshops.  It is tempting to wonder, as Lesley Riddoch did, whether the venue was a deliberate metaphor, one space so easily divided into three, yet connection unavoidable. The day was splendid, so many inspiring speakers, such a variety of talent, from journalists like Lesley; through economics professors; to working-class and grass-roots activists who work, tirelessly, campaigning against poverty and injustice.  The focus of the day was not at all about flag waving or any sort of smug “Wha’s Like Us” nationalism; but very much on the “Radical” part of the name.  It was a great meeting of people from many different political parties, united in their wish for a fairer and more just society.  People working hard in their communities to help the poor; people working hard in their communities to help others understand the issues involved in the independence debate (issues which the media are obscuring at best and misrepresenting at worst – but, oops, I said no politics).  And such a variety of people too, admittedly, mainly white, but certainly not exclusively so, and a wide range of ages from young to old.  Women’s activists, disabilities activists, youth activists, trade unionists, academics, politicians and many “ordinary” people like myself, to whom any word containing “active” would surely not apply.

But, here’s the thing.  I have never felt so included, so relevant, so much part of a political movement; certainly not since my (undergraduate) student days in CND and Anti-Apartheid.  So many people (over a thousand) all sharing a positive outlook on how we can make a better society.  All keen to work together, and to work with others with different political goals, to bring about a common weal (http://scottishcommonweal.org/what-is-common-weal/), so that people in Scotland can live in a more equal, fairer society.

And, so, I have made a decision.  I am going to stop hiding behind my sore back and my slow walking.  I am going to stop worrying that I don’t have all the answers and that I might get asked difficult or aggressive questions.  I am going to get involved in campaigning for this better future.  There will be some way in which I can use the abilities I do have.  There will be some way in which I can help, beyond posting on Twitter and Facebook.  If all these ageing rockers and comedians can feel it is worth continuing to do what they do, despite age, pain, criticism and occasional bad reviews, why should I give up?  I hope to use this blog to post some political argument and to point to useful things I have read.  I will also write some more reflective stuff, maybe more about me, and my life, and how I see the world.  I will try to keep it entertaining and light.