William Howard: Bach, Schubert and Skempton, Kings Place review – piano is not my forte

Let’s try a little piano recital again. I thought I’d try and make use out of Kings Place, seeing as I’m there all the time, and they have concerts on four or five nights a week and there’s me, you know, trying to be cultural, or at least find things to do that aren’t Twitter. So, a piano recital it was, this one given by William Howard, playing some Schubert and Bach spliced between two modernist sets from the composer Howard Skempton. Howard the lads, as they say up north.

I wasn’t in a great mood when I got there, an hour early, and sitting in the art gallery reading about Kierkegaard didn’t really help, so my first impression of the crowd waiting outside the hall was a) Christ, everyone’s so old; old people should chop all their fucking hair off so they don’t look so fucking old; and b) Lord almighty everyone’s very, very posh. Horrendously posh. So posh it made me want to go and vote for Brexit.

But anyway. Once the music started, my alienation abated and I enjoyed the first Skempton piece, a set of sketches called Reflections. The first few were quite ambient, using the piano more for its sound-design qualities than its melodism, then it turned a little plinkyplonky, more like Philip Glass. All the pieces were very short, and would stop abruptly, as if someone had lifted the needle off a record.

It turned out that Skempton was in the audience and Howard got him up to take a bow, and they had a conversation that I read as Skempton saying: “Marvellous playing, William, magnificent.” I don't know what else he'd have been saying, unless they were arranging to buy drugs.

Following that he played Schumann’s Four Impromptus. Up to now, Schumann has only been associated in my mind with the moody pianist in Peanuts, but it turns out he’s a lovely romantic with impassioned, rolling, playful music that put me in mind of a cat toying with a ball of wool. Somewhere between Chopin and Debussy, I’d venture, if I was feeling cocky; the heart and emotion of Chopin with added impressionism. But I might retract that, when it inevitably turns out that Schumann was before Chopin, and way before Debussy. (Quick Wikipedia break: they were contemporaries.)

After the break it was three of Bach’s prelude and fugue pairs, which were, obviously, great. I can't really say anything about them; it would be like critiquing the psalms. And then on to the second Skempton set, a London premiere of his attempt at 24 preludes and fugues. Most of these came in at the 30-second mark, so we were back to the abrupt stopping. In fact, even more abrupt than with Reflections, where the pieces were at least able to get out the blocks before being ruthlessly cut down. These were more like listening to the radio on a very windy day. Just as you were beginning to get into the mood or texture of the piece, it vanished. I know that Satie was adamant you should never bore your audience, but this seemed extreme. I began to resent the fact that I knew when I gave my ears up to the pieces (which were all lovely) they would too soon be snatched away (the pieces, not my ears). It got to be like going on Tinder knowing that everyone you connect with will immediately ghost you; it becomes difficult to allow yourself the emotion. Furthermore, I wasn’t sure why they had to be cut. It wasn’t obvious to me what was so great about outlining a lovely melody or rhythm and then yanking it from under you. I’m sure there’s a very clever reason, but frankly that was part of the problem. Brexit again, you see.

There was an encore, after a pronounced bout of bowing (do they teach them that bowing at the conservatory, I wondered. It's very precise, and always exactly the same). He played another Skempton piece, some kind of song of the Highlands, which he introduced as "one of the most beautiful pieces I’ve ever played”. I mean, that's just setting it up for a fall, really – and it wasn't helped by the fact that he’d played more beautiful pieces that very evening. Especially by that Schumann. One to watch, him.

Visions in Meditation, Sarah Davachi, Philip Jeck, Darkstar, Union Chapel review

 

Philip Jeck

This happened in October, but I forgot to press go on this until today

It was a strange one at the Union Chapel, an odd Friday night. A screening of four films by Stan Brakhage – the programme had him as “a non-narrative film-maker, the most famous experimental film-maker of the 20^th century” – called Visions in Meditation. These were abstract footage of a journey through the US in the late 80s, filmed on 16mm, and set – with the exception of one film – to a soundtrack of silence. Interspersed between the showings was music – minimalist, experimental, electronic, ambient – commissioned specially for this show, to respond to the films. And that’s what I was there for.

All three pieces were performed by the composer seated at a desk, twiddling nobs on a synthesiser, accompanied by a string trio, two violins and a cello from the London Contemporary Orchestra. The first to go up was Sarah Davachi, a Canadian composer who specialises in “disclosing the delicate psychoacoustics of intimate aural spaces” – this means drones – and who has made some great albums that I’ve enjoyed listening to on YouTube.   

The wafting smoke, pentagram candle holders hanging from the ceiling and most especially the general ambience of grinding discondant drones gave the whole thing somewhat more of a Satanic ritual vibe than your average Friday night in Upper Street – unless you count the Slug and Lettuce, obviously. It would be harsh to call Davachi’s output “anti-music”, but being as it dispenses with rhythm, harmony and melody, it wouldn’t be unfair. In much the same way as in jazz you can play anything except the wrong notes, in this kind of music you can play anything as long as it’s not musical. But I’m a great fan, because by dispensing of all the usual techniques, you get music that is free of the manipulations, end-seeking and confinement typical of most performance*. 

This focus on means rather than ends gives ambient, experimental music a refreshing, egoless and what I am going to call “dis-rational” character. The benefit of disrationality is that by offering nothing for the ego-mind to hold on to, it points to the reality beyond experience. But of course, when we dispense with rationality, it becomes difficult to say whether things are pointing to reality or just stealing a living. It’s one thing to listen to this on YouTube, but something else to pay actual money and spend your actual Friday night doing it in public. There was definitely an emperor’s new clothes/Arts Council funding/#WhitePeopleTwitter about the whole thing; as though at any moment, someone sensible might walk in, turn on the lights and go: “What the fuck are you lot doing?”

The second composer was Philip Jeck, an avuncular-looking figure with white hair, pate shining in the purple light, wearing a blazer. I did enjoy watching this grandfatherly character conjure some extremely dark horror soundtrack on his go. The third was Darkstar – or at least one of them – who played the most “musical” music of the three, which was actually a relief by this point, and gave the string trio some actual playing to do, which was nice. But I was never close to an insight in how the music was responding to the films. 

As for the films, the lack of narrative was challenging. I was struck by how much I craved some – any – narrative. I took to reading the programme by the light of my phone: Oh! He’s travelling across America. Oh! He’s the most famous experimental film-maker of the 20^th century. And these little titbits of narrative did in fact make the experience more compelling. I was left to wonder how much more I would have enjoyed them had I known more about the story of why he had made them, but that did seem as if it might defeat the point of non-narrative cinema.

In fact, I realised, my need of narrative was mostly to justify why I was watching them. If I could tell myself a story about why I was bothering, I’d happily sit there, even if I didn’t “enjoy” the experience. 

It seemed a form over content kind of thing. The films were of the American landscape, but whatever it was they were trying to say – their narrative, for want of a better word – seemed to be carried more by the arrangement of the shots than the shots themselves. There were moments in the films where the rhythm of the cuts and the repetition of shots did come together to offer something like a visual music, but those moments soon passed. Many of the shots were dark, dim or blurred. I was left feeling that if you are going to have no soundtrack and no narrative, the least you could do is have some decent pictures, but that is clearly something else I have to learn about.

A strange one, then. I would have liked to have asked someone who did enjoy it to explain what I was missing, but that’s probably cheating.

* Can you see I’m struggling to explain this bit?

Singing for their supper

I was recently in Norfolk and I spent some time ambling along the public footpaths, across fields, over rivers, and across more fields mainly, it being Norfolk, and also singing a lot to myself, and it occurred to me that it might be possible to take a backpack and amble across the country, singing to myself and I might enjoy it, if only I had enough money to get things to eat and places to sleep. It has long seemed to me that walking is the only way to travel, all other forms of travel being more about arriving than travelling. But whereas I managed to keep the idea going for all of a couple of hours, these guys go on ambles for months at a time, busking and working for cash, and often bedding down in woods under a tarpaulin, when they've not been taken in by the gentle good folk of old England. Ed and Will, and sometimes Ed's brother Ginger, are on a walk around Britain singing, learning and recording songs (some of which you can hear there), foraging, sleeping out, and meeting people and getting on with them, which is possibly their greatest achievement. They're frightfully well-spoken and earnest but basically on to a good thing, although perhaps I'll give their book a swerve, being a cold-hearted Londoner with writing standards.

Their appearances throughout the country are seemingly inspiring to England's cosetted comfortables and probably many more, although not particularly to sub-editors. They're definitely an advert for just getting on with something and not thinking about it until you don't do it. I can't help wishing I'd gone on a walk myself, but now wonder that if I turned up at some village they might not say: "Oh we had them lot in last week. They were much friendlier than you. And their songs were better." But even though they stole my idea - and actually went through with it - and even though all that fresh air seems to have made them a bit too perky for company, I wish them good luck.

Who the fuck is critical bill?

One of the benefits of taking an internet pseudonym from a popular Hollywood film is that you get to share it with all sorts. There aren't actually that many criticalbills out there, but there is this lot of Detroit rock-rappers. They've been teasing me for ages with a t-shirt that says "Who the fuck is criticalbill?" but whenever I've tried to actually see it, I've come back empty-browsered. Maybe I should make it and sell it to them. Anyway in the spirit of name-sharing promotion, here's a rather jaunty ditty by them, accompanied by a tasteful, bauhaus-influenced video, called My Sewer Side. At least that's what I think he's saying. I wonder whether MTV would film me and them doing a life swap.

Rocket Festival, Alamaha de Granada

Excuse the dusty writing style, I thought I might flog this piece, but no joy

Some years ago many of the luminaries of Britain’s free festival scene decamped for Europe. Their reasoning was two-fold: practical, since the weather, which consistantly turns British festival gatherings into Somme-style endurances, is much better on the continent; but also practical, since the 1994 Criminal Justice Bill had given the police a new dynamism in combating the scourge of young people enjoying themselves. The continent promised more tolerance for the travelling free festival scene, and Spiral Tribe and others paraded their “teknival” around for western and central Europe for a good few years. For various reasons, however, that scene has not endured, but the spirit has had a huge impact on its adherents. And so it came about that a few years further down the line some of those same people should decide to set up a festival in the mould of Glastonbury in the dusty hills of Andalucia near Granada.

The three-day Rocket Festival began in 2005 and attempts, according to the website to be a “celebration of life and alternative culture. A meeting of minds for fun and music in a beautiful, rural and sun drenched site in the south of Spain.” Punters are promised “much more than just a concert … a three day celebration of life through music performance and art; a whirlwind weekend of delicious assaults on all the senses.” A fusion of the English festival energy with Spanish sensibilities and a chance to escape the breath-crushing rigmarole of the British licensing system.

So, for example, the line up ran through the night and into the morning. This was the first festival I’ve been to where it was possible to find out exactly who would be playing at 8.30 on Sunday morning on one of six or so different areas. The list of DJs and bands just carried on through the night, into the morning and on again into the afternoon. Of course, away from the main stage, the programme didn’t bear any resemblance to what was actually going on, but there really was no let up at the most of the stages between Friday afternoon and Monday morning.

Across the site were sculptures and installations, many built by Glastonbury favourites the Mutoid Waste Company, some of whom have decamped to Italy and who excelled themselves this time with their automated robot pole-dancing CCTV stormtroopers - which were even better than they sound. Elsewhere were billboards of graffiti art, a kids area with climbing nets that were swarming with kids, and a healing area featuring sincere-looking men sitting on blankets.

The line-up was patchy, but included nuggets of gold: Dalston heroes Bad Manners pitched up on Saturday night, Buster Bloodvessel and the boys solid but unspectacular. Mr Bloodvessel’s well reported illness has obviously taken its toll on his vitality, and he led proceedings more nonchalantly than one brought up on stories of his excesses might have expected. Turntablists JFB, alongside beatboxer Beardyman, took full advantage of a packed dance tent to show off their skills, and left the Nextmen, who played the next night, looking lacklustre. Coldcut blew away the main stage, and were the talk of the town for their live video-mixing show. From Spain there seemed at first to be quite a few angry rock bands but that was rectified when flamenco-blues band Los Delinquentes, and Barcelona-based Muchachito Bomo Infierno, with their bright, upbeat, modern rhumba, electrified the crowds. [Full disclosure: I didnt actually see Los Delinquentes and Muchachito Bomo, or Coldcut, because I was too busy tripping my bollocks off while looking after a terrified cuddly toy, but I was trying to appear professional]

The spectacular festival site, with a backdrop of epic Andalucian mountains, was compact, and it was possible to circle the whole site within ten minutes. It was doubtful whether the Spanish truly got the whole idea behind the festival. They didn’t turn up until late on Saturday and then left again sometime on Sunday morning, so the heaving main night was bookended by two of very thin crowds of English people milling around. But why should the Spanish, who are quite used to all night fiestas in the streets of their hometowns, want to lug themselves to a fenced off area in the middle of nowhere, pay good money and then camp in a dusty outcrop with a load of English people?

But thin though the crowd was, Sunday night did hold one golden moment: Zurrapa, a traditional but youthful flamenco group, took to the stage in the Cantina Galactica with a gang of fierce solo dancers and proceeded to show us jaded losers the all-too-rare sight of tradition safely treasured in the hands of the young.

Shaka

Saturday night. Shaka at the Rex. His first night since he burnt his hands in a fire that consumed half his record collection. The dance was absolutely full from start to finish and Shaka had lost none of his trademarks - shattering tops over iron basslines. In Shaka's hands reggae is stripped of its niceties, the melodies razed apart to reveal an angry, glaring bass, the hidden message lurking under roots' sweet harmonies. A true legend who continues to provide an authentic reggae experience, who has spawned a hundred imitators, Shaka's particular style and sound seems almost as important, at least in Britain, as Tubbys and Lee Perry. The rumours are that he is contemplating retirement, but the crowd left him in no doubt of their feelings by the widespread and heartfelt clapping at the end of the dance, a rare occurance at the best of times, but which showed exactly how glad the people were that he's recovered and is back, sound undiminished, heavy, rough.