SHERINGHAM DIARY No 117 - The Book Haul

I was watching a video early one morning. My headphones were not charged up, so I viewed it with the volume low, automated subtitles on. These subtitles are always a bit approximate, shall we say. In this particular video the guy announced he was about to play on the organ the hymn Now Thank We All Our God. The automated subtitles translated it as - Now Frank We All Are God.

I've had my second monthly check up at Norfolk & Norwich Hospital.  I'm consistently impressed with the staff, for their kindness, genuine helpfulness and good nature. I appear to be doing rather well, and definitely on the upward mend. I've been given a cautious go ahead to re-start swimming. Though I'll be on go slow initially. I need to find for myself how best to pitch the pace. I just hope I don't end up swimming perpetually halfway up the arse of the genteel person in front of me.

After the Hospital we dived into Norwich, had lunch at Wagamama, and shopped. Hubby for yarn for two projects he was planning. I went to a favourite bookshop, The Book Hive which is quite special. Its the sort of bookshop that excites you the moment you enter. And even if you had no idea what you wanted to buy, you'll instantly find interesting books, none of which you knew much about previous to crossing its threshold. My haul this time was four books, but boy it could have been more - A book by storyteller and mythologist Martin Shaw entitled Courting The Wild Twin, a collection of essays by Ursula K Le Guin called Space Crones, a compilation of short stories by Banana Yosimoto with the intriguing title of Deep End Memories, and a novel by Yoko Okawa - The Memory Police.

North Norfolk is, as you can imagine, not overly endowed with bookshops. Sheringham has WHSmith, The Works and a remainder shop that stocks mostly military history, stuff about The Nazi's and for light relief jigsaws. The only decent bookshop is the bookshop in Holt, run by the inestimable Pam and Keith. They are happy to order any book I want, and often do, their stock is generally mainstream. A lot of that doesn't float my boat. It's a good bookshop, the only one that could make such a claim on the entire North Norfolk coast, so I support it when I can. But The Book Hive, well, that's on another level entirely.

We have been watching a few Hitchcock movies recently. This began with Rear Window, a tightly conceived movie with James Stewart playing an invalided photographer who develops an interest in what's going on in his apartment complex, only to suspect one of them has commited a murder. Stewart, probably the most underrated actor of his generation, shows off his brilliance in this and all his Hitchcock movies.

Psycho, though more renowned , particularly for its shower scene and Hermman soundtrack, has worn less well. It's script gets increasingly clunky and melodramatic as the movie progresses. Concluding with a psychologist giving you a blow by blow explanation of Norman Bates's psychology that is pretty crass. This is the very opposite of 'show not tell'. Not my favourite Hitchcock, though hugely influential if you think about all the subsequent slasher movies that owe a debt to Psycho. Though that's perhaps not a legacy to brag about.

Interestingly Micheal Powell's film Peeping Tom, came out the same year as Psycho. But unlike the Hitchcock film, caused huge controversy. Despite sharing similar themes. I would say Peeping Tom is the better film of the two. Its a movie about sexualised voyeurism and how a film making is complicit in that. Its something, as cinema goers, we can vicariously get a kick out of viewing. Similar to Psycho the central murderer is messed up by the twisted relationship he had with a parent. But the background psychology is handled far better. 

So Peeping Tom provoked a massive backlash. The film was removed from distribution, and Powell's career came to an abrupt end. Until the 70's when Martin Scorcese's enthusiasm for it kick started a reappraisal. There is something in the way Powell has constructed the film that is disquieting and raw.  Hitchcock seems to merely indulge in the fetishism of murdering the feminine, and the psychology at the end is there to make it all appear understandable and hence safe to view. Powell doesn't shy away from making you feel complicit through watching how the murderer murders, which is why it's uncomfortable to watch, and people at the time felt somewhat repulsed.

On the way back from Norwich in the car, we passed a small row of local shops. One of the units was now empty, though it had once been a yarn and sewing shop. One can't help but think the shop doomed itself from the moment it chose its name... Hab - A - Go.

FAVE RAVE - Nina Conti - Therapy Sessions

There has always been a subversive edge to Nina Conti's ventriloquism. The sweary Monkey in particularly regularly punctures any notion he is independent and not being voiced by Conti. On the videos she takes this further and puts herself in a therapy situation, and her relationship with Monkey is the central concern. Its not afraid to play this straight. Its improvised so this can go anywhere, sometimes delving into philosophical depths, explaining how a 'knob joke' is a way for her to avoid self analysis. The therapy sessions quite cleverly go uncomfortably deep whilst at the same time can be incredibly purile. This is brilliant stuff.

RECORD REVIEW - Wild God by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Increasingly, Nick Cave albums, are not music you can just let drift around half listened to in the background. From Skeletal Tree onwards you've had to give them the whole of your attention, or you really would not grasp their quality or mood properly.

So it is with Wild God. On a half attentive run through of the songs they felt to be quite frail things, hung tentatively on a grumbled vocal line and choral verses. But then I thought on reflection, that Ghosteen was rarely about the well written song. The odd melodic line sprang out at you, lyrics caught you as they emotionally hit home. It was an album that had resonance. Similarly Wild God's melodic fragility can be deceptive, these are not insubstantial songs, far from it. There is gravitas, there is a spiritual purpose here.

The themes of grief and loss though no longer placed front and centre, linger in the back of the horizon in the odd lyric reference to a darling son. It's no longer just the deaths of his sons, but also of his friends and peers Shane McGowan and Anita Lane, that he's had to say goodbye to in recent years. Whilst Cave may have found a renewed enthusiasm for life, this has emerged phoenix like out of the embers of grief.

A number of songs begin with Cave intoning phrases expressively over meandering piano phrases that erupt into an uplifting lilting choral refrain over which he vocalises in impassioned and exalted style, reminiscent of evangelical pastors. There is an air of the charismatic preacher bequeathed to Cave, exuberantly uplifting his flock as the climax to a song is reached. Music's power to transcend boundaries clinches a new deal

On the track Conversion he bellows encouragingly over a cacophony of background vocals and rousing music - you're beautiful, you're beautiful, beautiful again stop, stop, stop, stop, your'e beautiful, you're beautiful, you're beautiful - I could imagine this track introducing a fever of healing into an audience. It could be a showstopper. Undoubtedly the finest track of many present here. 

The album opens and closes with tracks that utilise watery imagery - Song of the Lake - As the Waters Cover the Sea. The latter finally letting rip with the full-blooded gospel choir of cliche. As if this album could not reach any higher without them. And The Bad Seeds? Well undoubtedly they contribute, but this appears to be becoming more muted with every successive album. Or was the name all along referring to the ones once inhabiting Cave's imagination.

Nick Cave has never been shy of religious forms, references and imagery. On Wild God it is at its most explicit and undisguised as being faith driven, rather than the fond stylistic affectation of yore. In the past he's been adept at flirting with Bible Belt intonations and expressions and making them serve the narrative he's telling or seeming to be expressions of his love for the divinity of a girlfriend. I think here we are getting closer to what he actually feels and genuinely believes, unfiltered through artifice.

The cloak of the arche storyteller dropped away quite a while ago, and here the practiced poet of darkened souls and murderous shadows, has seemingly, through loss and grief, actually found a kind of transcendent joy. When you look back to that feral singer that was Nick Cave in the drug induced extremity of The Birthday Party, as a transformation, this is quite a startling one.

CARROT REVIEW - 7/8

MY OWN WALKING - Journal September 2024

At the time of writing, its seven weeks since my heart attack. After the initial shock, there has followed a period of recuperation and readjustment, which has meant it is only recently that a deeper emotional response has found space to be apparent.

Obviously this experience is hardwired to a heightened sense of one's own mortality. Initially at least, emerging strongly as a sense of grief for the loss of a type of naive optimism around dying. A purely operational viewpoint, that it is all quite a way ahead and over the horizon, so nothing to be too concerned about in the here and now. Now  it's not as easy to countenance being so blithely casual about life.

As my parents grew older my Mum would talk a lot about her concerns over which of them would die first. Who would cope better post bereavement? As it turned out it was my Dad who outlived her. He coped with her loss, by remaining emotionally as resolutely genial and unreadable as he had all his life. If anything, her death appeared to be a moment of release from being the carer for an increasingly dependent ( and ever so slightly unappreciative ) spouse. He lived his last years doing whatever the hell he liked. Embracing his newfound independence until even that was no longer tenable.

The age gap between Hubby and I, means our relationship has its own particular dynamic around death built into it. Barring illness, accident, plague or war, the more likely scenario is it will be him that will outlive me. That some day I will die and pass on to who knows what, feels a huge wrench, however I try to spiritually reframe it. The end of earthly existence is filled up to the brim with an immense sadness. This world is after all any of us has ever known. And the "unknown' beyond it, is just that 'unknown', which is hard to feel anything concrete about, apart from a subconscious fear of what it's secretiveness conceals from us.

These thoughts about precedence, feel dwarfed by the idea of leaving Hubby behind to cope with my death and its aftermath, all on his own. There is a good deal of pit of the stomach anguish surrounding that. I've been gently approaching the idea lately. I can sit with it only for a short while, but strangely it appears to help me relax when I do. To not hold it too tightly contained anymore. My head and heart certainly require some sort of realignment to what is going to be the actuality.

After writing this, I unaccountably feel the desire to apologise. This may be very English of me I know. That my going on and on about my heart attack is seen as an unforgivable self indulgence. Though I'm not sure, as a focus, it is entirely a good thing. Its something I'm giving time and space to, for now. But at some point I will move on. There is a desire to allow this change in perspective to percolate and bring a different mojo into my post heart attack life.

In the last month or so, this one incident, has redefined the boundaries of what my world view can encompass. It confines it within a restricted diet, where what I chose to eat or not eat could be a threat to my continued existence. Not to mention the exercise regimes, daily walking distances, and not lifting things that are too heavy lest I casually bust a vital artery. 

Within the most pessimistic of mental parameters of this body of mine being unwell, I've assumed being careful all the time. The minds capacity and my lifestyle have been frozen inside this bubble of illness. Every choice, gesture and action having developed a propensity to be ultimately a life threatening concern. That I have to become this perfect representative and active proponent of a new faith, in order to be saved, to be set free. And that salvation will only be realised by my becoming the most ardent true believer, resulting in being well again. The definition of what 'well' is left entirely in someone else's ministering hands.

Once your state of existence has been analysed, medicalised and diagnosed, you have to work really hard not to feel you have been compelled to join a cult of asceticism. Centering around prescribed renunciations and prohibitions. What is and is not considered good, beneficial healthy behaviour. The whole direction of your life taken over by this supremely scientific religion that has no joy left within it.

I'm aware that the body feeling unwell whilst your mind is not can become a well meaning prison. I feel empathy for those whose lives are ring fenced by their bodily frailty or disability. In a constant fight to prove what you are still capable of. But then the mind too can become unreliable, beginning with not being able to instantly recollect things, places or people, and ending with a gradual slide into self forgetfulness. And what I presume will be the really painful bit in-between, when self awareness of one's decline is still present, but resolutely unable to prevent any of it from actually happening. Despite all my whimpering protestations, whether short or long term the future prognosis is clear. The prospect of death has shown me its calling card, with the date ever so carefully obscured.

Today, is just one day where I'm railing against the sense of restriction, and it has to be said, I'm both self pitying and a tad bored with the self pitying. This small moment of rebellious angst against a small but significant loss of control, is ring fenced by the fortune telling barbs of impermanence. 

FEATURE -Bob Fosse Sweet Charity Dance Routines

The inimitable choreography of Bob Fosse, both stylish, silly and satirical.  So of its period and yet timeless. Every modern choreographer for musicals can rarely get themselves free of  being dwindled by his shadow.  

ALBUM REVIEW - What Happened to the Heart?

This recording perfectly captures the eccentric acoustic and uniquely loveable character of Aurora in music. Here on this album all her many facets and qualities are fully evident. The propensity for beauty and thoughtful rumination on the status of the heart in our culture. At the same time it is coquetish, playful, mischievous, isn't afraid to go into darker, weirder, those more edgy sensuous areas of the psyche. She appears to be off beat by nature, kooky and ever so slightly mad in a distinct Scandinavian manner. So much so that the poignant beauty and unpredictability of her music constantly takes you ravishingly by surprise.

 

The opening six tracks of What Happened to the Heart as a sequence of perfectly crafted pop songs - is a tour de force. Each one delighting in enchanting the ear and heart. Then there is a distinct pause for quieter more sparely orchestrated songs, before she adopts a more abrasive, disquieting tone for much of the remainder of the album. 

If I have a criticism of the album, it's that sixteen tracks and just over an hours running time cannot fail to lose momentum, and so on occasion it does. It's what the term Less is More was invented to deter. A sleeker and perhaps more judiciously pruned version of this record would have been an absolute stonker, start to finish. As it is this is really really close, but falls short of a full eight carrot commendation.

On previous albums there have been momentary glimpses of What Happened to the Heart delivers fully resolved. Here the quality and consistent invention of her songwriting and production is what remains impressive. Why she's not better known and appreciated is harder to understand. This album is great and grand in its ambitions. It ought to be the mainstream breakthrough moment, for her brand of folk tinged pop. And if it isn't, then I'd really have to wonder what it is people want these days.

CARROT REVIEW  - 7/8