Parakeets

I wrote most of the day, finished the seventh draft of the script of Brass in the morning, worked on orchestrations in the evenings, and in the afternoon, I disappeared into the loft and took my first tentative steps into the crazy world of Invisible Voices, which I’m not ashamed to say is freaking me out somewhat. I’m not sure I’ve written anything useful for it as of yet, but at least pen has been applied to manuscript paper and one or two little musical dots have appeared.

In the late afternoon, frustrated by my inability to write anything meaningful, and hot and bothered and aching on account of having been in the loft for a little too long, I took myself to the gym for the first time in like sixty years and went for a swim. My osteopath has banned me from running this week, and suggested swimming instead, so I thought I’d give it a whirl. I decided not to cane it (my usual approach to anything remotely health and fitness-like) and did about 40 lengths staring at a poster on the wall which said “Butterfly? I dare you!” Every time I looked at the picture I became a little more angry. As if anyone would be allowed to do the butterfly in that tiny pool. It would be a health and safety catastrophe. There’d be some kind of tidal wave, and a small child having a swimming lesson would drown.

As I dried myself off in the changing room, I became aware of an enormously fat, but very cool black man strutting about. There was something incredibly filmic about the scene and it was only when I tuned into the music on the radio that I realised why. They were playing an obscure track by Barry White!

On the way back from the gym I called Nathan, and asked him to come down with a few snacks to take onto the Heath. The weather was so glorious, it seemed a shame to waste it. In England I think you have to make the most of good weather when it comes, and the joy of being freelance is that you can do just that. The heath looked glorious, bathed in extraordinary early evening sunshine. We ate the remnants of Saturday’s party; cheese and bread, a few little treats. Hampstead Heath has become the favoured spot of one of the rare British colonies of parakeets. It’s such a strange sight to see the curious bright green birds squawking and flitting around in the blue sky. We actually saw more parakeets than all the other birds put together! I was reminded of a time in a lazy San Francisco Square, some 15 years ago, when I lay on my back and looked up to see a flock of brightly coloured parrots roosting in the trees above me. I remember thinking what an astonishing sight it was, and how I rather wished we had native parrots in the UK. I’m not sure I could ever have predicted that they’d arrive in my local park!

It felt rather good to make use of the last bits of party food, particularly after a huge disaster at lunchtime when I decided to make a soup out of a plate of withered salad vegetables. I think my big mistake was throwing the last burnt portion of vegetable lasagne into the pot, thereby creating a caramelized, stodgy, mushy mess which looked like diarrhoea and tasted a little like sick! Needless to say it all went in the dustbin.

Chair-shaped

I started writing at 9 this morning and worked rather solidly until 11 tonight, primarily on the seventh... (That's right, seventh) draft of the script for Brass! I spent the last two hours of the day orchestrating I Make The Shells on the basis that a change is as good as a rest. It's a song which has caused me an abnormal amount of bother over the last few days. I've been on it since Thursday, chipping away at it bit by bit. I thought the process would be a great deal speedier, as the song initially wrote itself in about two hours flat just before Christmas. It's quite a fragile song with delicate dissonances which begin to sound insane, when you start layering them up with brass instruments.

I escaped for a few hours at tea time to meet Fiona and Nathan in Camden for a quick stroll and a bit of Italian food.

They've put the most tragic piece of street art on the pavement outside the tube which appears to be a load of giant multi-coloured drinking straws hanging above a box covered in astro turf. We decided it was going to look lovely at night time, but when we returned from tea it looked even worse!

There's very little else to say about the day. It seems I've drunk at least ten cups of tea and been sitting at the kitchen table for hours upon end. By the end of the week my body will have become kitchen-chair shaped!

Is it a Monday or a Tuesday today?

Emergency osteopathy

I had a fairly unpleasant start to my day. There'd been some tube problem at Kentish Town, and I stood on the platform at Highgate waiting for what seemed an age whilst people tutted and stormed about, shouting at station staff. I'm usually the one doing the shouting, so it was quite interesting to passively watch the process of someone blowing a gasket! I suspect it will make me less likely to blow one in the future!

My back was absolutely killing me. Since last Wednesday, I've been in rather constant pain, which hasn't done a great deal to alleviate my ever-growing stress levels.

To add considerable insult to injury, a  young couple had decided to stand in the middle of the platform snogging. And I don't just mean snogging. We're talking tongues-down-throats-get-a-room-you-mucky-buggers snogging. I'd had the misfortune of following them down the escalators, and they spent the entire ride entwined most inappropriately. It was, however, their decision to continue their make-out in the middle of the platform, where people had to pass either side, which made me feel positively furious. It was desperately inappropriate.

With public displays like that, I often feel that passers-by should attempt to join in. If people insist on bringing their sexual activity into a public forum then they need to expect people to treat them as though they're fair game at an orgy!

I walked from Old Street to meet Philippa in a cafe in Shoreditch. Whilst in transit, I booked myself in for an emergency appointment with my osteopath. At one stage I passed a street cleaner pushing a large wheelie bin, which had been decorated with a collection of cuddly toys, no doubt things which he'd picked up and felt bad about throwing away. I like to think he was displaying them all in the hope that the children who'd dropped them would recognise them and take them back home.

The meeting with Philippa was about Brass. We're looking at the story arcs within the piece and trying to make sure the character of Alf, who's the work's protagonist, has a clear journey through the piece. The thought of writing another draft of the script fills me with horror, but it's a necessary evil.

On the way to Borough I was charmed by the woman sitting next to me on the tube. She was a delightfully glamorous Chinese lady, who was humming a song from Blood Brothers in a glorious soprano voice. I think she must have been off to an audition because she took a big file of music out of her bag and started flicking through it.

I had lunch in a cafe around the corner from the osteopath. It's one of those places which serves "mixed leaf" salads. I took a punt on one the last time I was there and was sorely disappointed. I hate faffy food. Lettuce is lettuce in my opinion; the blander the better. It's only going to end up tasting of dressing. This place offered up a series of inedible and jagged bits of green stuff, some of which were incredibly bitter, some of which looked suspiciously like coriander. Most horrific of all were the little leaves which looked like geranium plants. Not appropriate.

The osteopathy went well. My new osteopath collects shoes, so it's always interesting to see what he's decided to wear.

I feel a lot better this evening, and came home for a second session with Philippa on the script, this time on Skype. I think we're there now, and all remains is for me to slowly work my way through her thoughts.

I say all that remains.... There's a lot to get through. So many words, so many musical notes, so little time...

So here's what you guys think it means to be English

Friends of mine on Facebook will have noticed the astonishing amount of comments which have been posted as a result of the question I asked in this blog two days ago. My question was about the nature of 21^st Century England and what sets it, and the English apart from the rest of Great Britain. I have attempted to gather up all the comments and emails I’ve received  and turn them into something coherent. Much of this is, of course, conjecture, based on people’s thoughts and instincts, and a brief attempt on my part to group the comments which were made into a series of headings which I will nevertheless share with you now.

Eccentricity/ Individuality/ Pragmatism:

English people are viewed as more individual and often more eccentric than their neighbours. This may have its roots in Common Law, described by many Scots (who are governed by Roman law) as the “finest system of judgement in the world.” In simple terms (and please forgive me; I’m no lawyer)  one of the many differences between the two systems is that Roman law tells you what you CAN do, whereas Common Law tells you what you CAN’T. It could be argued that this subtle distinction encourages individuality because it means that those living under Common Law are freer to push boundaries. The English are, after all, renowned for their slightly left-field, anarchic, rule-breaking humour and approach to the arts. We cannot ignore the ground-breaking contributions to world pop and rock from the likes of Bowie, Kate Bush, The Beatles and Queen; all specifically English, despite Kate Bush’s proud Irish heritage and Freddie Mercury being born in Colonial Africa. I’m going out on a slight limb here, but perhaps there’s more of a tendency for the Celts, who tend to veer towards the group, to respect the laws and safety of their own folk arts?

The celebration of individuality in England may also explain why the English tend to lean to the right in political terms when the Scots and the Welsh tend to lean more to the left. According to one friend, the Scots have a keener sense of the group consciousness; more of a desire to fit in and a tendency to place an importance on being “down-to-earth.”

English Regionalism undermining Englishness.

There is a definite lack of a sense of what Englishness is. Part of this, I would argue, is to due to the perceived (and actual) supremacy of London, which is seen as a quintessentially English city. Many criticise our London-focussed government for basing its laws on the interests of Londoners and not the will of those who live in the country’s regions. It doesn’t recognise, for example, the individuality of Yorkshire, or Manchester. Homogenisation leads to a mistrust of London and a sense that Englanders feel more pride in being Northern or Lancastrian or West Country folk, than they feel in being English. England in terms of accents, dialect and even topography is a great deal more diverse than any of its neighbours. Diversity isn’t just about racial minorities in inner city districts and many English people feel that successive governments have forgotten this fact.

The rural idyll.

This is not just an American fiction. Thatched houses, rolling hills and village greens with duck ponds are a definite and unique part of the English countryside. It’s the thing which English composers and poets picked up as quintessentially English at the turn of the 20^th Century and it remains an important part of the make-up of this country. The Scots and Welsh tended to build houses out of more available substances like stone rather than wood, which means the chocolate box timber-framed houses we associate with England are indeed more likely to appear in England. In brutal terms, the reason why so many Elizabethan houses have survived in England is due to the wealth which rolled into the country during that particular era, which led to houses being built to last for the first time. It’s also worth pointing out that the English didn’t really want to annex Scotland under the Stuarts. Elizabeth I did much to unify the English, and give them a real sense of who they were based on the Arts and exploration. For the first time in history, English people under Elizabeth felt unified and patriotic. Ask them what it meant to be English, and everyone would venture an opinion.

The embarrassment of the invaders.

So much of Britishness is defined by the Empire, which ultimately collapsed after the Second World War and led to a crisis of British identity which was only briefly revived in the 1960s. There’s a sense that the English, as the guys who started the business, need to go down with the sinking ship, whilst the Celts get to say they never wanted to be part of it in the first place, and celebrate a new dawn; a phoenix rising from the ashes of disaster. The Scots ,of course, are accused of wanting this to all happen on their own terms, as one reader said, “it’s like the woman in the divorce demanding the house, the car, the pension, the kids and a monthly income.” To an extent, the post-imperialist English were forced to keep their heads down and put up with a degree of bashing from the Scots. But after many, many years of being told we CAN’T celebrate being English, because being English is wrapped up with an innate sense of superiority and failed supremacy, the English have started to lose their love for and pride in their country, and in the process their sense of national identity. My Dad reminded me of a headline in The Times in the 1890s which read; “fog in the channel. France cut off.” That superiority is a far distant thing, but there remains a hint of it in the English, who I still believe, in many ways think we can still punch above our weight. It’s a little sad. When I think about being English, part of me feels like a half-coloured-in cartoon, or a faded photograph.

Immigration altering the perception of Britishness.

There is some sense that waves of immigration and invasion have left us with a watered-down sense of identity. There is also a sense that the rapid immigration witnessed in recent years has led to a lack of integration of immigrants, and therefore England has become defined by a series of ghettos of alien cultures, which weakens its over-all cohesion.

The effect of Thatcherism:

England was plainly more affected by Thatcherism than the more naturally socialist-leaning Celtic nations. So, if you asked a pre-Thatcher England what it means to be English, their response would almost definitely include discussions about class; stiff upper lips and all that. Thatcher, however, replaced class-obsession with an obsession with money without really changing the language. Posh people were suddenly the ones driving around in Porches and carrying mobile phones rather than those who had been born with a silver spoon in their mouths or those with certain values. However we defining class these days, England, in many people's opinions remains more class-obsessed than its neighbours.

So those are my thoughts. In no particular order. I am pained to point out that they are just my views based on what people have written to me in the last 48 hours. I am more than happy to be shouted down, or told I’m talking stereotypical bullshit, but I rather like the debate the question has opened, and would love to hear more thoughts on the issue.

The best result

It's 3am and the party is still going. There are seven of us left from the thirty or so who came to ours to watch Eurovision. We're playing Meryl; a game which people call many things including The Name Game and Who's In The Hat? It's riotous. We're all pissed, none of us can remember the rules and Dan keeps playing odd noises on his iPhone and dropping his trousers. I haven't had a party like this for years. I feel 22 again!

We're all thrilled with the result of the Eurovision Song Contest, which was won by Conchita Wurst, the bearded lady from Austria, who made a deeply stirring acceptance speech which concluded with the phrase "we are unstoppable" as one in the eye to Russia, and the people who tried to ban her performance because she represents a community which some people still deem unacceptable. Has our wedding taught them nothing?!!

Speaking of Russia, the entire live audience boo'd when the bimbo from that hateful country appeared to read their scores. I'm also told that during the Russian entry (which was actually quite a strong song) a sea of rainbow flags was being waved in the stadium, but this was all edited out by the programme makers who obviously felt it was too much of a political hot potato.

Brother Edward and Sascha were there in the crowd and periodically sent texts and called us with updates. Apparently there was an incredibly electric atmosphere on Eurovision Island and everyone's thrilled that the competition went the way it did.

The giant wall-mounted scoreboard made out of brown paper in our sitting room has become an ode to Conchita, with her scoring 100 points more than her nearest rival in our own poll. When she won, everyone at our party stood up and applauded. Very moving, really.

Anyway. I'm exhausted... And slightly drunk. I better post before I fall asleep. I haven't been to bed this late in an age.

What is England?

I had a meeting with Uncle Archie at Wingspan today and we talked about the possibility of making a film about England. Specifically England, you understand. Not Britain. A musical journey which attempts to analyse what it actually means to be English. If indeed it means anything at all.

I've been a little perturbed of late by the sheer amount of time we spend as British people discussing what it means to be Scottish, Welsh or Irish. I've said this many times before - it's one of my soap box issues - but calling oneself British is a curiously English phenomenon. We use the phrase to be inclusive, and to make the countries we brutally annexed feel like part of a team. But, with the possible exception of some of the more loyalist factions in Northern Ireland, I don't think British is a phrase which carries much weight outside England. Perhaps I'm wrong, but I've never heard a Scottish person outside politics calling him or herself British. Even Americans will describe English accents as "British" accents, yet, still refer to Scottish people as Scots.

All of this leaves us English people with an issue. We don't get to celebrate our specific identity. We don't get to crow about our beautiful country or celebrate our own folk arts. If you're a shanty singer from Essex you can forget about being taken seriously, but don an Aran sweater and sit on a windswept beach in Scotland and you've got a permanent slot on the BBC! In fact, worse than this, by calling ourselves Brits, we're subconsciously acknowledging
that our country is only great with the Celtic regions attached!

So I want to celebrate England... but unfortunately this can't happen until I get my head around what it is which makes the English different to the Scots, the Irish and the Welsh. We know what Britain is... but what IS England? Are we more eccentric than our neighbours? Are we more reserved? Are we less down to earth?

So this blog is something of an appeal. Can anyone answer this question? Does anyone have any thoughts? If you're Scottish or Welsh, what is it about being you which is different to the English? If you're one of my Canadian, American or Australian readers, how would you define Englishness?

I ended up in Kentish Town High Street after the meeting, which, after I'd got myself all excited about the concept of Englishness, was a bit of a fall from heaven. Police were milling about everywhere, because some poor woman had been stabbed in a nearby house, and a poor old bloke was in a right old state outside Gregg's. He seemed to be holding a Stephen King book with one hand and with the other was trying to keep his trousers on, which has split so badly at the back that they wouldn't stay up on their own. He was muttering to himself. I think he was trying to flog the book to a passer-by and wanted 20p. Everyone was ignoring him and then he burst into tears. It was hopeless.

And I hope it wasn't a sign; the universe trying to show me what being English is actually about.... Come on, readers. We can do better than that!

Why Austria needs to win Eurovision

My back hurts today. I wonder if it's because I've done too many stretches. I went running before lunch and the whole of my lower back went into spasm. What's that all that about?

I've spent the day orchestrating Brass. It's mind-numbing work, which I have to do at speed to get my mind to a stage where I can focus on Invisible Voices. The process of orchestration for me is a series of stages, the first of which is to get everything splurged onto the page. That's the process which is the most tiring. Sometimes you get on a roll, and can't get the notes down quickly enough. Other times I realise I'm just marking the bars with any old rubbish.

After this stage, things become a great deal more refreshing as everything gets finessed, and slowly comes into focus. The third stage is to put the piece away, ideally for as long as possible to gain a bit of objectivity, because the fourth stage is thinning things down. Making sure there isn't a single bar which isn't necessary;  not a single note which is in conflict with any other. The earlier you do stages one to three, the better the work becomes in the long run. And Brass needs to be perfect.

It was the second semi-final of Eurovision tonight and I was looking forward to it all day. Jem came over to watch it with us and we looked very carefully to see if we could see Brother Edward and Sascha there in the actual audience in Copenhagen.

The stand out performance was plainly Austria, which is being performed by a bearded trans-woman with a fabulous look and a devastatingly beautiful voice.

I think it would be surprising if she didn't win. Russia, Ukraine and Belarus are all trying to schedule advert breaks to coincide with her performance, because the promotion of a trans-person goes against everything their arcane laws stand for. The question, of course, becomes, would one be allowed to vote for a trans-performer in Russia, because surely voting for one is tantamount to promoting one?  Will police track down all the names of people who voted for Austria and try to arrest them I wonder?

Never underestimate the power of Eurovision. Just as you thought it was becoming an out-dated camp-fest, it becomes a political hot potato, and the battle lines this year have been well-and-truly drawn.

I'd go as far as to say that Austria NEEDS to win this competition; not just because it's a great song, sung by a country which has never won before, but because the win would send an incredibly strong message to Eastern European countries who ought to be dragged into the 21st Century. And be under no illusion, countries like Russia and the Ukraine set great store by their performance at Eurovision. When the iron curtain existed, the competition was seen as a shining example of the unified, free West and Russia watched on with great envy. If Austria wins, Russia recoils.

So even if you don't watch the show itself, I do suggest you vote. This is another one of those landmark events where, if Austria wins, you'll always remember where you were!