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Let The Stormy Clouds Chase

October 24, 2011 //
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Sweeping up in All Saints. Again. I’ve done this many times – after gigs, mostly, but these days, it’s after the Lewes Junior Film Club events. At 7.30 on a Sunday morning I really do not want to get up: I arrive at the arts centre feeling grumpy and sluggish, and sticking things up rather slowly. Then you realize we’ve got an hour to get the crepe decorations up, the A-board sorted, the banner ‘Third Spectacular Season: SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN’, hung from the lamp-arch outside (takes much longer than you think), the ‘red carpet’ stuck down on the path…

The audience starts arriving early  – we’re still gaffer-taping the red carpet down – and Midge has rigged up a hose to shower them as they come through the gate. They don’t like to walk on the carpet, even though it’s for them – and they walk round it respectfully, as Jeremy and Ellie greet “Meryl Streep!”, “Welcome, Robert De Niro!”, and  “Oh, here’s little Tatum O’Neal!” over the PA, and we clap and whistle. Then the young dancers burst through the gate to the punch of ‘Good Morning! Good Mor-ning!’ and perform their choreographed piece up and down the path, and inside, in a mini-Busby-Berkeley routine – with chairs.

I used to find this film really cheesy, corny, embarrassing, dominated as it is by Gene Kelly’s crinkly big grin. Now it’s definitely in my top ten. It’s joyful, vibrant, dynamic, corny, sentimental, cheesy – and wonderful. It has the biggest audience so far at LJFC events – and the kids love it. I, of course, wipe away a silly tear as it ends. And start sweeping up.

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Modern Art: Discuss.

October 24, 2011 //
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On the tube with my trusty shoulder-bag – it feels like travelling again. The Miró exhibition is terrific, from his exquisite stylised painting of a farmhouse through to big white canvases with a single black line crawling across them; ladders reaching to the sky, comic cartoon faces, asterisks for stars – much of it thick with his revulsion for Franco’s fascist regime. Tate Modern is bustling with tourists and Londoners – it’s proof of the pull of art.

In the Member’s Room for lunch and a beer, I’m curtly rebuffed each time I ask ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ So, grumpy, I’m out on the roof terrace, looking at the rising phallic Shard topped by its high crane, and the tower of Southwark Cathedral and the roof of The Globe Theatre, until the rain starts to spatter my sketchbook. Inside the galleries: there’s one room with a sheer red mesh ceiling and, hanging from it, a red fabric staircase, a full-size staircase, rippling as people walk under it; they laugh, or stand open-mouthed in awe, or take pictures. It’s amazing, but some just walk through, bored…

Tiny Giacometti figures sprout from a heavy block on long legs, four women in a Paris brothel: ‘The distance seemed insurmountable in spite of my desire,’ he wrote. I draw a striking woman watching a video, then go into the dim Mark Rothko room – the big dark red abstracts vibrate, mysterious as Stonehenge, and still give me goose-pimples. There’s always a hush in there – it is, for me, the most powerful room in the building, a secular chapel.

I watch a long video of garbage blowing around in the street: “American Beauty – c’est la même chose’ says the man next to me. Maybe, but it’s totally mesmerising: a burger box chases paper round in a circle, snapping at it; a plastic spoon tries to heave itself over, a broken umbrella skitters nervously along the white line. You can’t help laughing at these silly dumb creatures in their street ballet… Is this a waste of public money? Not to me.

In the shop, I misread a book-title: ‘How To Paint Ike Turner’…

(Discuss).

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Last Time I Met the Blues…

October 24, 2011 //
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‘What do ya do when you meet the Devil?’ (no, the answer is no longer Give Him Your Guitar To Tune Up). The question is shouted from the stage of the Plumpton Beer and Blues Festival, organised by the Plough Inn, which is why Beer comes first in the title. And loads of beer – a long row of barrels, my favourite being the coffee beer. Really.

Sadly the big field dwarfs a smattering of blues fans, or beer fans, probably both. When we’d arrived, there’d been a skiffle-kind of act in the beer tent, banjo and percussion and toys, who were really quirky and tight, but the blues band on the big stage reminds me of the Bonzo Dogs’ immortal question: ‘Can The Blue Men Sing the Whites?’ to which the answer is, Not Generally. It’s leaden and lumpen and loud. I can’t help but trot out my history (again!): watching Sonny Boy Williamson on stage, mean and menacing in shiny black suit and bowler, rolling his harmonica around in his mouth; Jimmy Reed, bouncing into the Bromel Club in ruffled shirt and bolero jacket, chunking out Big Boss Man; and John Lee Hooker leaving his English backing backing band adrift with his idiosyncratic changes. And yes, young man, I really did buy him a Scotch.

The blues was, is, a form: 12 bars, three chords, simple – eh? But it’s about feeling, intensity, space and swing. In Chicago in the 50’s they had little amplifiers, a double bass, small kit, and a rough sound. Listen to Buddy Guy’s ‘First Time I Met the Blues’ with his anguished yelps and frenetic guitar, or Howlin’ Wolf growling out ‘Goin’ Down Slow’ – and you get the picture.

Anyway – we (Ska Toons, that is – what were WE doing there?) are in the beer tent: local band. We go on after The Contenders finish their set with a driving version of Talking Heads’ ‘Life During Wartime’, still wondering what this crowd are going to make of an eight-piece jazz-ska band. And, extraordinarily, the beer’n’blues audience tap their feet, nod their heads, drink their beer, a few dance. All smiles. We finish and the sound man signals ‘Off’. We get off stage. The crowd are still calling for an encore. The sound man signals ‘All Right – Encore If You Like’. We blast through a fast ‘Monkey Man’ and leave. And yes, we did play a blues:  ‘Night Train’.

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On yer bike!

October 24, 2011 //
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‘With Shimano EZFire controls shifting gear is quick and accurate’ says my brochure. And it is until I shift my new bike’s chain quickly and accurately off the cog. Rear Derailleur Shimano TX55 Chainset  Shimano FC-M171 48/38/28 Bottom Bracket Cartridge Chain UG51 – I don’t know what this signifies either. The reality, though, is changing down on St Pancras Road, determined to get up that steep bend. And – ka-chang – off.

I’m out at 6.30 on Wednesday morning for my first ride and, for a non-cyclist, this is the feeling I wanted: rush of cool breeze, spinning along wooded lanes, quiet fields, pink sky behind Firle Beacon. I’m singing at the rabbits scattering before my tyres – ‘RubyRubyRubybaby’ and imagining I’m in a Frank Patterson drawing – an Oxford-bagged fellow with pipe-stem jutting from manly jaw. One of his chaps, foot on a five-barred gate, surveying the peaceful 1920’s landscape under towering cumulo-nimbus, exquisitely-inked, his cycle propped against a densely-cross-hatched elm trunk.

A Gresham Flyer when I was five, a second-hand Hercules at 11, a used Raleigh Wayfarer at thirty, a mountain bike (the latest thing!) when I moved to Lewes twenty years ago (promptly nicked): bikes – I’ve had a few (but then again etc); now I’m going places. Just get this – ugh, greasy – chain back on, and then…

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The Weekend Starts Here

October 24, 2011 //
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Friday evening is so much more exciting than Saturday evening, because it’s the edge between work and play.

Gill calls: she and Carmen are getting off the train at Glynde – do I want to join them in the Trevor Arms? It’s a lovely evening, and I set off up Chapel Street (the hardest part of the walk for the computer-bowed). I gasp up to the Golf Club and onto the overgrown knoll to look over the town, back-lit by the sun, and then left along the path. It’s a golden evening, and I’m alone with the sheep, bleating piteously (the sheep, that is), and I descend down and across, past the dew pond towards Oxteddle Bottom.

Then through Caburn Bottom, and up the steep path onto the ridge that leads to the summit on the right. The paragliders hang like surprised eyes, and slide behind the edge of the hill fort. As I get to the ridge’s brow, the sun behind me makes me a hundred-foot shadow, and the fields to my right are salmon-pink. Then singing, shirt flapping, I’m clumping downhill towards Glynde, thinking of drinks in the Trevor Arms, and of this perfect Friday evening.

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PRIDE NOT PREJUDICE

October 20, 2011 //
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Opposite St Peter’s church, the occasional duo of silver angels or high-wigged drag queens squeeze between the tee-shirted spectators. There’s a real air of excitement: hawkers are pushing their trollies along the road before the procession comes, selling rainbow flags, lurid wigs, whistles, and big penis-balloons with stupid cartoon faces.

The parade seems to be led by a camera team walking backwards. They’re followed by isolated duos in big feathers and huge heels, and macho-looking men in vests and boots and shades. Then come the lorries, hung with banners, people leaning out, waving at us, blowing whistles, kissing, dancing. Disco anthems blare out as they pass, and the crowd shout, whoop and clap. A man runs into the road to be photographed with a near-naked bald man, red leather straps tight round his big belly, camouflage wings on his back. A tall black silver gladiator dances by; there’s a boy on stilts in little gold shorts, a halo over his head. An elderly man drives his parasoled disability buggy, with a sign: ‘I’m 88, I’m Gay, I’m in Love!’ Fifty years ago he risked blackmail and prosecution.

There’s a Tesco Pride Lorry, an American Express Pride lorry, a British Airways Pride lorry… the big names all want to be seen as supporters. Gay Tories march past, Labour Party supporters hand out stickers – ‘I never kissed a Tory’ – (actually I think I have), gay Christians, there’s Caroline Lucas on the Green Party lorry… Then there are fire engines and ambulances swagged in gay association banners, flanked by laughing, dancing workers.

Then the police walk by. The front ranks in uniform but without the stab-proofs: some look uncomfortable, some scan the windows above us, but many are smiling at the crowd. Behind them are more police, in a casual uniform, dancing and reaching out to the crowd: the Sussex Gay Police. I realise that there are tears on my cheeks. This is ‘one-ness’: this parade is not about sex – it’s about our common humanity.

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Gloom

October 20, 2011 //
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I’ve been glooming since 6.30 this morning. Probably a bit hungover. I came downstairs and put the radio on for the latest in riots – I mean looting. Not much in London last night, but outbreaks in Manchester and Salford. Interviews with rioterlooters: ‘We get free stuff innit’ (how many interviews for that edited highlight?) Disturbing presence on the streets of vigilantes dressed in white shirts, supposedly ‘guarding our Enfield’. Racist thugs on the streets in South London.

Open A4 envelope from Abbey: pension currently expected at £2300 p.a. Can’t wait. Stare at window for 20 minutes.

To the Patisserie’s garden for coffee, and fiddle with logo ideas for a new client. The sun comes out. Loud male voice and two tiny voices: Ian and his children erupt into the back room. He reads them a story, with uninhibitedly dramatic expression: they squeal and ask questions and are full of life. Gloom gone.

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LORD OF THE FLIES

October 20, 2011 //
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In a fit of public spirits I stride to the footpath to cut back the brambles sticking out at eye height. I carry shears and a pair of seccateurs, both of which are almost completely blunt. I hack and slash and tear and pull and twist, and finally step back to survey my topiary skills (poor). It’s next day that I realise that the shoulder twinges I’m now suffering from are the result of my public spiritedness. The pains get worse throughout the day, and eventually I get an appointment with the osteopath; now I’m lying on my back in Alexander Technique mode, staring at the ceiling and trying to think ‘upward’. Three flies above me, at different heights. Flies making geometric shapes – they turn sharp corners. How do they know when to turn a corner? And what are they doing on the way?

I’m thinking of Rupert Murdoch, and the extraordinary news of the last few weeks. Each day has brought more revelations until one of the most powerful men on the planet faces the Commons committee, and plays the old dodderer card. Just a few weeks ago, I thought there was no stopping his determined undermining of democracy. Murdoch doesn’t tell us what to do – not at all. He just tells us what to think; if what we’re interested in is an easy read, easy opinions, celebrity, dirt on the powerful, then we’ve bought into his world-view. We gave him his power. How did we get like that?

Look at those flies up there…

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The Archers

October 20, 2011 //
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Kyudo means the Way of the Bow, and it is said to be ‘synonymous with the pursuit of truth, goodness and beauty.’ Our friend Claude has gained the title of Kyoshi or teacher of Kyudo in Japan, and although we know nothing about this martial art, we go to Port Royal to see the students competing. He’s the President of the Kyudo association here, and has organised this event. He thinks it will be boring for us.

In a big Parisian sports hall, yellow blinds drawn, the Tannoy announcements have a repeat echo that make them even more incomprehensible to us. The floor is patterned with coloured geometry (I don’t go to sports halls very often, you can tell), and the students walk out in white shirts and long black divided skirts. I say walk, but they slide really, in a sort of slow march, on their white divided socks.

Hands on hips, their arrows out at an angle, they walk to position, kneel, bow to the target, and put their arrows on the floor. Standing in a line they put two arrows up to the bow, in opposite directions, and notch the one they will shoot. Looking at the target, the archer raises the bow over his or her head, slowly brings it down, and the bow bends into a beautiful curve, and after a few seconds the arrow is released and the bow spins in the archer’s hand. And of course there’s the thwack of the arrow hitting the target (or clatter if not). It’s totally mesmerising.

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Booray for Bollywood!

October 20, 2011 //
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It’s Carmen’s surprise birthday treat, though it would help if we had some idea of the references in this show; most of the audience do, and respond with whoops. It’s a tale based on an Indian dance dynasty, from rural Rajasthan to Bollywood and back over several generations, of tradition and rejection, of the heroine’s ‘exile’ and reconciliation. But it’s really an excuse for skeins of shimmering silks and satins, spangles and sequins, pounding music – ‘ka-doong ka-doong-ka’ – ‘Shava Shava!’ And of course, great dancing and terrific choreography. There’s classical Indian temple dancing, Bollywood whirl, even a rock’n’roll sequence – and – ‘It’s The Time To Disco!’ (I love this).

Tthe action takes place rather overpowered by a digitised backdrop – huge glowing pixel blocks portraying fire, mountains, sky and so on; once again, the digital reduces the human element. But – the humans are great. At every opportunity, the male lead strips his top off, thrusting his rippling muscles at the audience, and I’m trying to read the Gothic-font tats on his bulging pecs – he has the most ridiculously muscular body! There’s a dancing jeep sequence and a troupe of glitter-encrusted bikers – it’s completely bonkers and fun: really kitsch, and great too. At the end, audience members are dancing in the aisles. We’ve brought Carmen to this, unknowing: we look at her for her verdict. “Interesting…” she says at length. (Was this a good birthday treat, then?)

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