Igor Stravinsky [that 20+ CD set of Stravinsky composed and conducted music]

It's all Russian composers all the time here in Panda Mansions. We are gradually working our way through this. Now at last I know the difference between the two versions of The Firebird. Does everyone prefer the suite version? It seems to have considerably more oomph.

This is a very short review of a lot of music. To make the commentary on the review longer than the review itself, my advice to you is to find and acquire the Sony Music 20 CD set of Stravinsky conducting Stravinsky; there is a lot of of amazing music to be had there for very little money.

Awesome Pictures

No, seriously, check out my pictures from Minehead last weekend, where I went on THE MINEHEAD MEANDER (and went to a music festival).

There will eventually be more, but Flickr takes an eternity to upload pictures and I must now go and satiate my raging hunger.

v/a "Choubi Choubi (Folk and Pop Songs from Iraq)"

Another Sublime Frequencies record! This is of Iraqi music, I think mainly compiled from tapes being played by Iraqi exiles working as taxi drivers in Syria. The music here is in a variety of styles – folk-rock tunes from some Ja'afar Hassan fellow, Choubi music (which seems to feature a lot of women singers saying "Choubi!" in an imploring tone of voice), and also Dabke (which is a music and dance I had hitherto primarily associated with Palestine, though it seems like Iraq is the home of this acoustic rave music). Many of the singers are anonymous – apparently lady singers in Iraq would often keep their identity secret as a way of discouraging the wrong kind of attention.

This is easily the best compilation of Arab music I have. What is so great about it? Well, the range, and its general evocation of the music you hear in Levantine taxis. I must look out for some of the other SF compilations from that part of the world.

image source

Radio Muezzin

This was my only visit to the Dublin Theatre Festival. A muezzin is that fellow who issues the call to prayer from mosques. This piece begins with some Cairene muezzins telling their stories. Some of them were basically amateur hobbyists, but one of them being a professional employed by the Egyptian Ministry for Religious Affairs. And then another person came on stage, a radio engineer. And then we had another muezzin, but this one just appeared on a screen, talking about how his (live) calls to prayer were going to be broadcast to every mosque in Egypt, putting the other guys out of work*. Then another fellow came onstage and said that the star muezzin had to leave the show, due to musical differences, and that he would be saying his lines henceforth.

And that was it, conceptually. The muezzins did their calling to prayer, and we got a sense of another bit of the world's greatness being swept away by pointless modernity.


* Perhaps not entirely, aside from the calling, the muezzins also function as mosque janitors.

"Mesrine: Killer Instinct"

This is part one of a two part story. It is a most impressive crime film, with an astonishing performance by Vincent Kassel, but it does suffer form the fundamental criminal-centred picture problem: crims are fundamentally unsympathetic, so who cares what happens to them? And while the set-piece action sequence are v. flash, there is a cinematic oversupply of flash action scenes.

Sain Zahoor

I bet you've never heard of this guy – I know I hadn't before I went to see him. He was playing in the Dun Laoghaire Festival of World Culture, heading a bill of Sufi action. The openers were originally meant to be the Master Musicians of Jajouka, but they did not make it, so we got these Dhouad Gypsies of Rajasthan instead. You will have to forgive me if I remember little about them, it was a long time ago – the day after the last Frank's APA collation, the day after I went to a wedding*, the day before we went on holiday.

They were followed, somewhat bizarrely, by Gabriel Rosenstock reciting translated Sufi Persian poetry to us. I am well-known for my dislike of poetry, in particular for unsolicited poetry, but I found this surprisingly enjoyable. And why? Well, the Persian poetry was translated not into English but into Irish, so I still could not understand any of it. This meant that I was able to just listen to it as a series of sounds, which was rather enjoyable.

And then there was Sain Zahoor, who is a Pakistani fellow. He seemed quite severe, maybe coming from the ascetic devotional end of Sufism, as opposed to the party end people in the West are often more drawn to. He sang while being accompanied by musicians and accompanying himself on an ektara, a lute-like instrument. The ektara seemed to be being played as much for his benefit as ours, as it was not very loud. And he seemed to be wearing a bright colourful outfit that was covered in jingly bells that rang as he moved. But the big instrument was voice, which allowed us to join him in his communion with the divine.


*relax ladies - it was not mine.

Tanks With Loudspeakers Blaring Music

Dmitri Shostakovich "Symphony No. 7: 'Leningrad'" (Ladislav Slovak (con.) Czecho-Slovak Radio Symphony Orchestra (Bratislava))

I got a yen to listen to this, after coming across some references to Shosty in The Rest Is Noise. The back story behind the music is fascinating. Shostakovich had been in Leningrad when the Germans were approaching that unfortunate city, but was evacuated so that his work could not be stopped. In exile, he composed this symphony as a stirring hymn to the brave people of his home town. The score was flown back to the city, and enough musicians who had not starved to death located to play at its premiere. Despite heavy German bombardment, the concert was completed. Loudspeakers along the frontline brought the stirring melodies to the city's defenders – and to the besiegers. As the Hitlerites listened to Shostakovich's music, they realised they were doomed.

I understand that some see this work as an example of the kind of kitsch Shostakovich could churn out when the Soviet authorities demanded it. Such people are objectively wrong. This is one of the great musical works of the 20th century.

Emmy The Great "First Love"

Unlike Bat For Lashes, Emmy The Great is all about the confessionalism, with many songs here telling apparently true stories of romantic and sexual awkwardness and disaster. A lot of this is borderline grim stuff, at least lyrically, yet it is odd how chipper Ms The Great is if you ever see her live. Maybe she is just making it up as well.

There is nothing on this record as good as the title track, but that, currently, is one of my most favourite songs ever, one that almost brings tears to my eyes when I hear it. If I had ever written a song that good I would feel like my work was done, so I cannot knock her.

I saw Emmy The Great live earlier this year in Dublin's Crawdaddy venue. I was impressed by how her band seemed far far better at creating a sonic envelopment than their status as session muso backers of a singer-songwriter would suggest. There is some evidence of this here too, but she is maybe a little bit better live.

"Brazil"

I saw this again as part of a film club showing in the Science Gallery*. It is still great, though I have started wondering if its greatness is not actually an indication that Terry Gilliam is some kind of genius.


*who seem to have carefully mislaid my film club application.

The Bright Club

This was this odd thing I went to in London with Mr "Chocolate Socialist". It took place in a pub, featured people giving somewhat brainy talks about stuff, was compered by some comedian Johnny (whose name I don't remember, but I think he might be famous as I saw him on TV a few nights later), and it had some cockney geezer come on and force participation in a sing-a-long. I thought maybe the comedy-not comedy transition jarred a bit, but it was a conceptually interesting evening. The talks were about various London things – sewage disposal, bugs, Bloomsbury.

Oh, and there was also some guy reading a bit of his book, which was called Foxy-T. I took against him at the time, as the book was written in this patois that was oh-so-street, while the guy who had written the book was plainly not street. However, in retrospect I am a bit more fond of him. Maybe I will keep an eye out for his book.

I'm not so sure about Chubby Charley (or was it Cheeky Charley?), the cockney sing-a-long geezer. Although I am a cockerneee by birth, I was brought up away from Bow Bells, and being forced to take part in a "knees up" goes against my reserved nature. Or maybe I am just a curmudgeon who hates fun. These are not incompatible positions.

I wish I could remember the comedian's name, he seemed quite good. Maybe he was Mr Ince or something. He seemed like a pleasant enough person from his interaction with the audience, which seemed more like friendly badinage rather than a smartarse encouraging roffles at some unfortunate's expense. The great paradox of my life is that while I conceptually hate stand up comedy, I typically enjoy it when I encounter it.