Nigel Kennedy - Nottingham, Jan 16 2012

Nigel Kennedy; everyone’s heard of this idiosyncratic violinist. But it wasn’t until I saw him in concert  on TV last year that I thought it might be interesting to see what he’s like live: much of the TV concert was classical, but done with a pizzazz and visual content that I don’t normally associate with classical music.

The programme tonight was billed as “Four Elements”, a series of pieces by Nigel Kennedy himself, followed by Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” after the interval.

An eclectic group of musicians, ‘The Orchestra of Life’ took the stage. There was electric guitar and bass, vibes, drums, electric drums, trumpet, 10 or so assorted strings, and 4 vocalists. Kennedy himself then appeared and plugged in an electric violin – basically a violin-shaped frame with strings – and introduced the concert.

First we got “Air”, a sweet flowing orchestral piece which had me soaring, eyes closed, above mountains like an eagle. (Yes – I’ve been watching the BBC’s Earthflight!)

“Earth” followed , a solidly grounded HEAVY piece with the male vocalist taking the lead. Then “Water” which merged into “Underture”.  The tempo and rhythms vary continually with many individual contributions from guitar, trumpet, marimba and, of course, violin. There was plenty of jazz in there and more than a little out-and-out rock. At one point Kennedy took an extended solo the like of which I’ve never heard - the equivalent of a Hendrix guitar solo and certainly enough to blow Sugarcane Harris off the stage and into the next galaxy. (He rather spoilt it by coming forward for a bow when the spontaneous applause he expected didn’t materialise – I think the audience wasn’t used to solos this!)

The use of the vocalists was fascinating – sometimes singing, sometimes whispering poetry over the music, sometimes contributing as vocal instruments either together or in parts. At no point in the first half was the music anything less than interesting and mostly it was compelling.

After a short break the same musicians came back – Kennedy initially sporting a more traditional wood violin. However this was to be a Four Seasons with a difference, initiated by a ramped-up guitar solo (‘Do your thing in E’ commanded Kennedy!). The core tune in the first section was familiar to me, but nothing else, with the result that I think I counted 6 seasons, so clearly there was other stuff in there.

It was clearly a unique interpretation of Vivaldi, with additions, dramatic switches, solos, and at one point seemingly random shouts from the musicians.

In between seasons Kennedy took time out to play a duet with the lead cellist. These two short Bach pieces were mesmerising. Each instrument wove its own path but this meshed perfectly with the other. When I opened them my eyes was as if the two musicians and I were the only people in the hall. (The stage lighting may have helped!) I read later that these were compositions originally written for harpsichord, with violin taking the right hand and cello the left. Bach was pretty OK, wasn’t he?!

A great evening, my only little complaints being the length – I really was ready for it to finish some 20 minutes before the end. (Those Concert Hall seats are good for a max of 2 hours.) And the fact that although he introduced all of the Orchestra by name – the soloists more than once – Kennedy missed out several of the strings players. The meanie!

Marital Conversations (27)

M: I think I'm a considerate lover

C: Yes. You consider it all the time, don't you...

I blame America

Sometimes there’s a song or tune that evokes a deep memory every time you hear it. Maybe it was the background soundtrack to something that was happening in your life. Maybe it reminds you of a certain person or event.

In the winter of 1971/2 I was in my final year at Sheffield Uni and spending a lot of time studying. C was 80 miles away, back home in Norton doing her last year of A-levels. We'd met in the summer and things were getting serious (i.e. the progression from liking someone to realising that that's the person you want to be with). So the odd weekend back home tended to be pretty intense while the stretches in Sheffield were pretty anguished. (There were no mobile phones or email, obviously, so apart from the rare use of a payphone our only communication was via handwritten letters.)

There was always a particular tune playing in the Sheffield pub jukeboxes (yes – there was time for the odd pint with my mates). Its minor key and downbeat lyrics (which I doubt I ever listened right through) hooked into my feelings of seismic emotional changes and desperately wanting to be somewhere else.

All water under the bridge, but 40 years on we’re talking with friends after a nice meal, and the topic of “our song” comes up. I decide to mention the song and how I remember that longing to be with C whenever I hear it.

So why, with one exception, does the whole room erupt with mirth when I say the song is “A Horse With No Name” by the band 'America'?! And why didn’t C speak to me for the rest of the evening?!

AT NO POINT did I state, suggest, or hint that this song - or for that matter the concepts ‘horse’ or “nameless’ - actually make me think of C!!! 

In fact I can’t believe that I haven’t mentioned this to her over the past 40 years. Wonder what else I’ve forgotten to mention…

2011 New Year's Eve Classical Gala

Well I’ll try anything once. So the “New Year’s Eve Classic Gala” at the Nottingham Concert Hall totally seemed like a good idea.

New Year’s Eve in the Riv house is generally a pretty low key affair. When the kids were younger it was always a Chinese takeaway and film or TV and/or a game.  Since then we’ve most often spent the evening with our friend Julie, and just watched TV or played games and had a few drinks.

But this year I happened to see an ad for the gala in the local paper and C was up for it, and so was Julie, so on December 29^th we got three of the last few tickets.

After reassuring C that a classical concert did not require dark suits and long dresses we toddled along. After purchasing a programme we wended out way to our seats (early, so we didn’t have to disturb anyone) and, with a brief ‘hello’ to the elderly gentleman in the seat to my left, sat down.

It was warm in the theatre and I soon realised, as my palms began to sweat, that I had omitted to wash my hands after preparing tea so that my right hand reeked of union. The more I sweated the more onion it extruded, so the only solution was to keep my hand closed and underneath the other hand.

I was surprised to find that I recognised some of the composers and titles in the programme, which was obviously put together for fun rather than anything else. Though I take exception to John’s comment that he couldn’t see me and C “coping with the likes of Mahler and Shostakovich” (cheeky sod). E.g. Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, two Strausses, and, oddly, Cole Porter.

It was interesting to see 40 plus musicians on a stage, and the conductor was entertaining. The music was mostly familiar (Nutcracker, Peter and the Wolf, West Side Story...). But just because you’ve heard something a million times during TV adverts doesn’t make it any more interesting. I nodded off a couple of times before the interval. We then made the mistake of not getting up, with the result that a few pieces into the second half my bum started complaining and I was ready for it to finish.

I was reminded of the interminable West Bridgford School concerts we had to endure, just for the piece where Adam was playing his oboe. Before long I was counting off the items in the programme and deciding that I hadn’t been missing out on anything much by focusing on rock for the past 50 years.

Eventually the last chords of the last piece faded away and the conductor walked off ...only to return straight away and launch into what was obviously a planned  Radetzky March encore which truly got them going in then mosh pit. Well we all had to clap, anyway.

Finally that was over and off he went again ...but no! Back he came, and this time the orchestra ripped into that old standard ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Whereupon the audience started to link hands and sing along. For goodness sake! I don’t even know what ‘auld lang syne’ means! Gaelic for ‘let go, I want a drink’ I shouldn’t wonder. (The only words I know are from the Trotskyist version my friend Brian Martin used to sing: ‘Joe Stalin shot the bloody lot, for the sake of the party line...'.)

So it was that I was forced to inflict my sweaty, aromatic right hand on a total stranger. Hope he wasn’t allergic to onions.

Christmas Cheer

Friday December 23 2011

Admittedly there are exacerbating factors this Christmas. I have the tail-end of a 2-week old cold – now just an occasional sneeze, sniffle, and hacking cough accompanied by perpetual catarrh, the sort that makes you want to hawk every few minutes just to clear your vocal cords of the thick mucus adhering to them.

C has had a sore throat, nasal congestion, and headache for the past week (same bug, different symptoms?). So the no-kissing rule did not contain the spread of infection. This still seems to be in force - not that either of us feels remotely amorous anyway. We have not had a proper night’s sleep for nearly a week, mostly through C coming down to make a cup of tea and me having to come downstairs an hour later to prise her away from serial Christmas cooking programmes or property porn.

10:05 am. I am standing in the quick baskets-only check-out at the little local M&S. The queue is an unprecedented 17 deep. All I have in my basket is 2 packs of croissants; I prefer cereal for breakfast anyway. At this moment it would be impossible to put into words how much I hate Christmas.

2:30 pm. Doesn't there come a point every year when you just want the whole thing to be over? For me it starts around December 1^st, around the time we start having to use credit cards instead of debit cards, and ends Christmas Day. It has just plateaued. I am sitting on the bed after spending 90 minutes helping to wrap present after present. Any query is met with “That’s not a present, it’s just a stocking filler”.

Let’s be perfectly honest about this. There is no self-righteous rationale here. I have no conscientious objection to the reckless over-spending and profligate consumption that goes with the season. Nor the incongruous celebration of the birth of a religious leader most celebrants don’t actually follow. Nor the inequalities in our society highlighted by this season in particular. (Well maybe a bit.)

But no - my main objections are entirely personal and selfish.

I know it is going to take 5 minutes just to find the spread in the fridge – because every shelf is completely full of utterly alien items.

Dusting most surfaces in the living room and kitchen is hopeless – because they are covered in cards and random yuletide-related knick-knacks.  

The cupboards are currently stuffed with biscuits, chocolates, mince pies, cake, brandy snaps and all manner of snack foods – so normal healthy eating goes completely out of the window for 2 weeks. The only reason these items are not seen in the house any other time of the year is because they will get eaten - which is precisely what is going to happen.

A large and exceptionally ugly poinsettia has appeared in the kitchen. Once queried, it relocated to the living room where is it no less ugly but thankfully less prominent.

I am going to have to single-handedly try to keep a 7-foot felled spruce from turning into a few sticks by daily application of sustenance for up to 3 weeks.

Then there’s the dreaded ‘present opening’ ritual.

And the Christmas dinner! I have no objection to occasional feasting – but is it essential to serve 3 kinds of meat, 3 types of potato, and 16 other vegetables at the same meal?!

9:30 pm.  We are 2 hours into our annual pantomime trip. For some reason in August I agreed that it would be a good idea to have a family trip to the panto again. Just as I have every August for the past 20 years. It’s essentially the same show every year; only the title changes. It’s always a good show, don’t get me wrong, but you have to be in just the right mood (not my current crabby state) especially after building up a tolerance to the experience over many years.

The best moment doesn’t even happen except in my head. It’s when I turn and smash my fist into the face of the geezer who has been whistling a few centimetres from my ear on and off all evening. (Even the rest of the family, who enjoyed the show, said that the people behind us were arseholes!)

10:15 pm. Show over. After an evening of the Village People and soppy songs about being alone or being together, losing someone and finding someone, I have an overwhelming need to attend a Stranglers concert.

11:45 pm. Bedtime. In 24 hours the preparations will all be over and, a bit like the winter solstice, this means things will start to get better. There will be friends and family to share time and a few laughs with, and maybe some new people to get to know. And I’ll have a wonderful time.

The green dress

A Christmas story...

When we first got married C and I did not have any money. She was a full-time student and I had just started working. We lived in a furnished flat which was basically the ground floor of an Edwardian semi. We did a weekly Saturday trip on the bus to the supermarket in town and always argued about which brand of butter, bacon etc we could afford. Any money we could save went into the car fund.

In town we would often browse before doing the shopping. C liked to go into the clothes shops (then it was Chelsea Girl, Dorothy Perkins etc) knowing that we couldn’t afford more than the basic clothes needed for work or college. Christmas and birthdays were times for buying stuff we needed rather than stuff we wanted.

Our first proper Christmas together (1973) we would, as usual, visit parents. C’s folks lived just down the road from mine but did not have a spare bedroom, so it was obvious where we would be staying.

The weeks before Christmas were full of angst concerning what to get mums, dads, and siblings. We would go into town and wander around; there wasn’t any world wide web to help you choose presents! And buying presents is not easy on a tight budget.There were no credit cards to help spread the cost.

However on one shopping trip late autumn I clocked a more-than-average interest by C in a green crushed-velvet dress. I somehow got back to the shop the next day, bought it, and asked a work colleague to look after it (there being nowhere to hide it in the flat).

As Christmas approached we talked about both of us needing slippers, and perhaps there was a new album we both fancied. So expectations were low.

Meanwhile I procured a shoe box and wrapped it up with the dress inside.

By Christmas Day, with a little subtle management of expectations, C is 100% convinced that she is getting slippers for Chistmas. On Christmas Day we are sitting around in the living room with my mum and dad and two brothers, opening presents.  

There is some merriment when C unwraps the first present I pass her. It’s a fish slice (which our poorly-equipped kitchen does not possess). Then she opens the shoe box.

...and bursts into tears.

Cold caller colic

It’s ages since I had a good rant and moan in this column. But this week I have a stinking cold. And it is nearly Christmas, the only stressful period in a calendar that, these days, is basically stress-free the rest of the year. So here we go.

Cold callers. When the phone rings and, instead of a friendly recognisable voice, it’s “Can I speak to Mr M Rivett?”.  The calls that almost negate the advantages of having a land line; that make you wonder why you bother to be ex-directory. The calls that are about as welcome as an unexpected fart in the queue at the supermarket checkout.

I know some people enjoy the interaction – stringing along the unfortunate on the other end of the phone, who is probably just a couple of hours into an soulless 8-hour shift of ringing random people who don’t want to be rung. Letting them get well into their rehearsed script ...and then knocking them down with a killer quip or just some basic rudeness. And who knows, maybe the call operators enjoy the exchange for the variety.

But frankly I can’t be bothered, and most often they only get as far as “I’m calling about your recent accident...” or “The UK Office of Administrative Affairs believes you may have been mis-sold PPI...” before I’m citing the Telephone Preference Service and asking for contact details. Whereupon they generally hang up.

But recently 3 calls in as many days from British Gas really got my blood boiling. The first was about insurance. Just because we have Homecare cover for our boiler they seem to think they have the right to call every few weeks to tell us they can now, amazingly, offer to extend this to freezers, cookers, dishwashers, plumbing, home entertainment systems, electric toothbrushes, pet grooming equipment... If they offered to cover sex toys and drug paraphernalia next it would not surprise me in the faintest.

The second call I also got rid of quickly. Late spring 2011 seemed to be a good time to do a price comparison as everyone knew that gas and electricity prices were going up in the summer. So we switched from British Gas to a lower-cost tariff with someone else, fixed for 12 months and no penalty for leaving after the 12 months. Clearly I wasn’t going to change again this year.

But the British Gas call-centre guy on Day 3 was quick enough to get a conversation going. It went something like this:

CCO: I understand you have a new gas and electricity supplier

M: Yes

CCO: We would like you to come back to us

M: Thank you but I am satisfied with my current provider.

CCO: We would offer a discount of £200 if you come back to us

M: No thank you

CCO: What?! Even for £200?!

M: If your prices were that low I wouldn’t have switched in the first place

CCO: We didn’t know you were thinking of leaving.

M: Everyone knew prices were going to go up this summer. What did you expect?

(replaces handset, thinking IF YOU CAN PROVIDE THE ENERGY I NEED FOR £200 LESS, WHICH IS CLEARLY A FAIR PRICE FROM YOUR POINT OF VIEW, WHY THE F*%$ ARE YOU RIPPING PEOPLE LIKE ME OFF TO THE TUNE OF £200, YOU GRASPING BASTARDS!)

Now I have nothing against call centre operators, and as in all personal interactions I try to be polite and pleasant. Life is generally better that way. And I am encouraged by the recent trend for cold calls to begin with a recorded message – you can simply hang up without feeling guilty. But the fact I am in the situation of having to put up with this crap makes me want to smash something.

Today’s new householders have no idea that, prior to the 1980s these calls were unimaginable. Your water, electricity, train journeys, gas ...even your phone service came from the same supplier as everyone else’s! There was no having to shop around and barter. No telephone or doorstep harassment! No meaningless call centre jobs. (I never felt my work in profit-driven pharmaceutical research was particularly useful, but it had to be a million times more socially valuable than spending all day intruding into the lives of strangers from a call centre workhouse.) And, most telling of all, nobody was allowed to make profit out of essential public services that everybody needs.

And how did this state of affairs arise? All of these services were in public ownership but were sold to private businesses in the 1980s so they could make money out of our basic needs. (And now they are selling the schools as well!)

Was it Tory dogma: a free market is best? Or a refusal to tackle the problem of some services not working optimally? A way to diminish the unions? (...The solution of a 3-year-old knocking down his tower of bricks in a tantrum because the next brick doesn’t fit? ...Of selling off the family silver and rewiring the house instead of replacing a fuse? ...The spiteful dog-poo-in-PE-pumps of a playground bully?)

 All of these!  And Jeez – Cameron is spouting about ‘moral collapse’ after his own party perpetrated arguably the most immoral act of any UK government since 1956. The nerve of it.

This is the lasting legacy of Thatcher and her cronies. As issues go it hardly ranks with losing your home or family through earthquake, famine or flood.  But I will not forgive these vandals for the destruction they perpetrated. And the ongoing aggro week after week.

There! I feel much better now. Not remotely bitter or twisted. Bring on the old movies and the Christmas specials!