Wednesday, 31 October 2012

We Humbly Recommend... Orwell's Non-Fiction

George Orwell was one of the most significant writers of the 20th century. Partly it's the man, partly the era that he lived through. Of Orwell's novels, most are fair, one or two extraordinary, Animal Farm's re-enactment of the major stages of any revolutionary uprising being his best. For high grade Orwell though, you have to turn to his non-fiction.

A tramp at home, a plongeur abroad  

Actually, Down and Out in Paris and London, is both fact and fiction. Orwell claimed that every event in the book actually happened to him at one time or another, though not necessarily in the same order. The Paris sections generally took place after the London ones.

The book recounts Orwell's experiences of living on the poverty line in Paris and later as a tramp on the streets of London. He'd come from a lower-upper-middle class family, educated at Eton and recently returned from serving in the Burmese police force. In Burma he'd witnessed and recorded the indignities suffered under British rule (explored in depth in The Road to Wigan Pier). He dressed as a tramp upon his return to England and went out to get amongst the poorest and assess their situation. He slept in kips, he slept in missionary huts, he even tried to get himself arrested one night. Orwell wrote and published a plethora of articles on his experiences, as well as forming the latter part of Down and Out in Paris and London.

It's a book of two halves which could almost be called Down in Paris and Out in London. The first half finds Orwell reduced in circumstances after being robbed and spending every waking hour washing dishes at a high class Parsian hotel. When he can take no more, he returns to England and his troubles really begin. It's a fictional account of a number disjointed events in the writer's life, but Down and Out in Paris and London  has all of Orwell's character traits, his curiosity and his humanity; his searching mind and ability to frame the questions that society need address to itself. It has its flaws, but an important work of anthropology and serves as a bridge to the works that followed. 



Mining the north

The Road to Wigan Pier, like Down and Out in Paris and London, is a book of two halves. The first half depicts Orwell's experiences travelling around the industrial towns of Lancashire and Yorkshire in the 1930s, investigating the conditions of the poor. The second half is written in essay form. It examines class consciousness and is Orwell's passionate defence of socialism. It contains the famous words, 'The working classes smell'.

Which is what the middle class were taught, we are told, and Orwell takes his own strata of society to task for their snobbish attitudes to those lower down the food chain. However, as with all his writings, it as much what The Road to Wigan Pier tells us about an important epoch in history that matters. Thirties politics was dynamic, unlike today, with widely divergent opinions fighting for supremacy, occasionally even fighting side by side. The road to Wigan Pier led George Orwell all the way to Catalonia to sign up against the fascists. These days he'd be labelled an insurgent.

The Road to Wigan Pier isn't patronising or pompous, it merely sets out Orwell's observations and his opinions and asks that they be added to the aggregate of intellectual thought on the subject. That it is done with such forthrightness is all the better. And yet like so many books written against the backdrop of the great depression, The Road to Wigan Pier speaks to the modern world with new relevance. It reminds us how far Britain has come.



POUM!

For me George Orwell's most accomplished work is Homage to Catalonia. It was 1936. Even then many in Europe saw war between Germany and Great Britain as inevitable. Civil war erupted in Spain between the Nationalist fascists and the Republican co-operative of anarchists, socialists and communists. Men scurried from the continent to join the action, writers like Arthur Koestler, Laurie Lee and Hemingway arrived in Spain to lend their support. George Orwell headed for Barcelona and joined the POUM militia.
Homage to Catalonia  is Orwell's memoir of life on the Aragon Front, the lice, the cold, the boredom. It also records the street fighting that broke out in Barcelona in 1937. The Republican coalition was tearing itself apart and as Orwell took leave in the city, fighting broke out between the Communists and the other leftist factions that they were trying to ban and repress. Orwell returned to the front but was shot in the throat. It ended his war and with perfect timing. The POUM had been declared illegal and its members were being rounded up under orders from Moscow. He left Spain the day the warrant was issued for his arrest.

Homage to Catalonia is Orwell's most accomplished work because it shows political disintegration in action. The egalitarian feel upon arrival in Barcelona, the seeming parity between all trades and classes, all of that disperses in such a short space of time. There is a marked changed in atmosphere in the city when he returns and it all soon boils over. He concludes that Stalin would rather lose to Spain to the fascists than have to share it with the anarchist syndicates. Absolute rule or noting. It's a salutary lesson for our time. The biggest enemy is often the one that supposed to have your back.

 
 

Friday, 27 July 2012

Elsewhere*

*For your enhanced listening and reading pleasure, download a copy of The Kinks' 'Twentieth Century Man'. Thank you Ray Davies for so very, very much.

The clock on the sports hall wall read seven twenty three. Disco lights blinked in the darkness, expectant of a tune. It was a good turn out. Blair's New Labour may have just swept to power, capturing the country’s attention, but for a precious couple of hours Kev and his fellow musicians were to hold an audience of over a hundred people enrapt. More of their uni mates filed through the double doors. Kev leant forward and pressed a couple of buttons. He gently strummed on the acoustic slung about his neck. Was she here yet? No. Where is she?

Never mind, have to start without her. Right, here we go. I fuckin’ love this bit. Wait for it. Now.
  
Kev hammered out the opening chords, the strings reverberating into the ether out of a Mesa Boogie stack. John twisted the slide on his finger and grinned at his fellow guitarist. The crowd was hushed. Ste adjusted the bass strap upon his naked shoulders. Does that boy ever wear a top? The drummer twirled a single stick in anticipation...

A drumbeat and crash of symbol and the rhythm section came in. As if on cue, a diminutive figure sauntered in stage left. There you are Jo, you little minx. Kev caught her eye and winked at her. She waved back, embarrassed. He stepped up to the mike. He sang:

“This is the age of machinery, a mechanical nightmare. The wonderful world of technology, napalm, hydrogen bomb, biological warfare.” Seems to be enjoying herself. I may win that bet with Sam yet.

”This is the twentieth century, but too much aggravation, it's the age of insanity.” A month she said. ”What has become of the green pleasant fields of Jerusalem
?” I bet you a tenner you two are together within a month.

A flicker of a smile rippled across his lips. He licked it clean with the tip of his tongue. Burned onto his retina a shock of bronze shone bright against a sea of monochrome.

”Ain't got no ambition.” He stared hard at her. “I'm just disillusioned.” Almost mocking in his icy glare. ”I'm a twentieth century man but I don't want, I don’t wanna be here.” But he couldn’t fake cool for long, he was enjoying himself too much. Her eyes were glued to him. John’s slide caressed the strings of his sunburst Les Paul. He shouted something only Kev heard. They laughed, like wolves howling at the moon.

”My mama said she can't understand me, she can't see my motivation.” She's the sweetest lab partner a boy could ask for. "Just give me some security, I'm a paranoid schizoid product of the twentieth century.” Gives me something pretty to look at while doing something tedious.

”You keep all your smart modern writers.” Like determining
the wavelength of a laser ”Give me William Shakespeare.”

”You keep have all your smart modern painters.” I could have just read it off ”I'll takethe Rembrandtside, Titianof, Da Vincithe andbloody Gainsboroughthing.” and saved everyone from four hours of tedium.

”Girl we gotta get out of here, we gotta find a solution.” Stop winking at her idiot. ”I'm a twentieth century man but I don't want, I don't wanna to die here.”

You know she’s a moody git at the best of times. Doesn’t like being the center of attention. But when she smiles...

”And we gotta get out of her, we gotta find a solution." Remember the scarf she left in the pub. "I'm a twentieth century man but I don't want, I don't wanna to be here.” You took it home and gorged on its odour all weekend and had withdrawal when you had to give it up Monday.

Well I'm sure we’ll be together this evening. And if not, the field trip’s coming up. Three days away on the Pembrokeshire coast. After all, she was only telling me the other day that she hasn’t got off with anyone since she transferred from Hope. Think that was meant as an invitation. Coming up to the slow, picking bit.

”I was born in a welfare state
Ruled by bureaucracy
Controlled by civil servants
And people dressed in grey.”

Oh what a surprise, look who's here.

“Got no privacy.” I knew he'd be somewhere around.
“Got no liberty.” He's always hanging around her.
“Cos the twentieth century people.” Can’t remember his name.
“Took it all away from me.”

I can see two months from now. In comes Denny on the organ. I leave it so long she gets off with him after everyone else has gone to bed. We all tell jokes on the coach back, until there's only him and me left going. She's spending all her spare time with him on our return, but still hangs out with us during lectures. His clique sits at the back. And I get bored and stop attending lectures and eventually drop out to go work for a vampire firm of solicitors who strip me of ambition and drain me of my joire de vie 'til I am just a husk, balding, fat and lifeless. No! Not again! Not this time!

”Don't wanna get myself shot down,“ God I could lose myself “by some trigger happy policeman.” in those big green eyes. “Gotta keep a hold on my sanity.” Suck for an eternity on those full lips. “I'm a twentieth century man but I don't wanna die here.” Bury my face in her ample breasts.

I used to stare at her from across the horseshoe of desks. Must have made her uncomfortable. But I was in awe. Out of a class of twenty odd girls and four guys, she seems to be permanently backlit, like a James T. Kirk love interest, a halo of gold shimmering. She’s so effervescent, the fizz is always  overflowing and everyone wants their audience with her. I still get tongue-tied just being near her. Fag breaks I stand silently in a corner, trying not to set off the automatic doors, while her lackeys hang on her every word. The one time we were alone every second seemed an eternity. Good job she always has plenty to say, I don’t think I could even have remembered my name at that point.

Be sure to let her see you flex your biceps. Nice little band we've got going here. How long have we been playing now? Years it seems.

He screamed: ”My mama says she can't understand me.” Love those long golden locks. “She can't see my motivation.” Want to run my fingers through them. “Ain't got no security.” Or rather grab on to them, if you know what I mean. “I'm a twentieth century man but I don't wanna die here.” Surprised she turned up actually, don’t remember inviting her.

I would’ve dropped out long ago if not for Louise. She’s the only decent thing about night school. Always wears such low cut tops. Like tonight. Have to concentrate so hard to maintain eye contact. Well she’ll have to lump it. Hard enough concentrating on two things at once. And it’s not like half the guys in this room aren’t doing the same.

“Don’t want twentieth century.” Is that Angelina Jolie?
“Don’t want twentieth century.” It is. What’s she doing here?
“Don’t want twentieth century.”  Can’t see her husband anywhere around, things are looking up.

“I don’t want twentieth century.” Wink at her. Hehe, she likes that. Who reminded me of her?
“Don’t want twentieth century.” Louise. She had bigger tits though.
“Don’t want twentieth century.” Haven’t seen her in years. Never did pluck up the courage to say more than half a dozen words to her.

”This is the twentieth century.“ I dropped out not long before exams. "But too much aggravation.” Why do I always do that? Drop out half way through. ”This is the edge of insanity.” Jesus, why didn’t I just ask her out? Was the same with Jo at uni. ”I'm a twentieth century man but I don't wanna be here.” I left it so long, she copped off with that guy on the field trip.

Oh well, tonight I'm sure me and Angelina will be one. And organ sustain. I really am getting too old to be doing this every week. Just me and Ste left playing, as always. I could actually learn to play the guitar for real. And fade out.

The clock on the bedside table read 21:59. Crushed cans of lager littered the floor. A Lara Croft poster hung by three corners. A fourth drooped down into the room. The man standing in the middle of the floor wore headphones. He used to have an extension lead but these days they were infrared. His receding hairline was coated with sweat. The television was up loud out to drown out the guttural sounds of his overenthusiastic mime. There was extensive coverage of Tony Bliar’s ten years in power on the portable. For the three hundred and twenty seventh consecutive time of listening he stepped forward and skipped to track eight. His left hand formed an imaginary chord. The pinched thumb and forefinger of his right strummed against his paunch.

Wednesday, 16 May 2012

Learn to Be Less Sentimental About Paragraphs

I have for a long time believed that what’s contemporary is whatever’s new to you in that instant. Recently, after several people in quick succession told me to give Half Man Half Biscuit (HMHB) a listen, I got a selection of their back catalogue and gave them a whirl.

To those few wise souls, I offer my thanks. And curse them. ‘Cause now I can’t stop listening.

The reasons why I can’t stop listening are mostly down to the lyrics. Like Dylan, singer/songwriter Nigel Blackwell has a unique phraseology, a unique way of singing or speaking a line. And while Dylan remains the lyrical master, Dylan doesn’t live where I live. Blackwell lives the other side of the Mersey and sings about Tesco and Tommy Walsh’s Eco House, The Ideal Home Show and HMV. This is the world I occupy and it’s great to hear someone sneer at it so precisely on my behalf. 

There’s an effortlessness to the songs, but then HMHB has only ever been a hobby for its constituent musicians. They once had a hit with a pseudo-comedy record and are still mislabelled a novelty act in some quarters. Even when I mention HMHB to people in Liverpool, ‘The Trumpton Riots’ is the first thing they mention. Yes, there’s humour all over their albums, the dark humour of revenging lovers and bickering couples and squabbling bands (even their song titles raise a smile; ‘Restless Legs’, ‘Joy Division Oven Gloves’, ‘Bad Losers on Yahoo! Chess’). Yet it’s more than that. There’s great poignancy and pathos in these tales, perfectly reflected by reference to Exhibit A:

The sunshine and Jennifer
Seem such a distance
The universe is ruled
By chance and indifference
And I’m shrouded
By inexorable darkness
And I’ll tell you this for nowt
La Belle Epoque sang “Black Is Black”
Yeah, well I sing black is black is black is blacker

Splendid. Although it hardly does justice to see it on the page. Lyrics taken from ‘Depressed Beyond Tablets’, a line itself taken from the 90s spoof TV series, ‘Brass Eye’. One of my favourites. Your optimism strikes me like junk mail addressed to the dead.

There’s also hidden depth in a good HMHB lyric. Consider this from ‘We Built This Village On A Trad Arr. Tune’: 

Ma-ma-maroon was the colour of my true love’s hair
She’s got a cross-stitch exhibition over there
A spate of pan fires isn’t going to happen round here

Now what’s that all about? Does she sabotage her rivals? Does he? Is she telekinetic or the victim of a smear campaign? We never find out, the narrative has already moved on. Or this:

And in a cruel twist of fate which so often
Occurs in tales such as this
I found myself catering reception
And there were urges I had to resist
Not least ‘cos John Byrne is much fitter
And the straightener to him holds no fears

“And the straightener to him holds no fears.” What? That’s almost Joycean in its level of obscurant detail. Again, it’s all in how it’s sung, that unique phraseology that hints at irony and double meaning. Is this one curly haired man standing in jealous admiration of another curly haired man?

The best songwriters advance a narrative effortlessly, comic or tragic, surreal or grounded in reality and leave as much unsaid between the bars. The best songs leave room for interpretation. Like religion, only speculation within the gaps leaves room for the personal in  music. That in turn creates a feeling of universality amongst its aficionados.

HMHB know something about that feeling of universality, being obsessive football fans. They once turned down a live appearance on ‘The Tube’ because Tranmere Rovers were at home that night, even when Channel 4 offered to helicopter them back to the Wirral for the second half. There’s football metaphors all over their records, which even as a reformed football fan (we’re worse than reformed smokers) I still enjoy. They’re some of the best bits (to the tune of ‘If I Were a Rich Man’ - if I were a linesman, I would execute defenders who applauded my offsides.).

They also bring the chanting from the terraces. It wouldn’t be a HMHB album without a good chant, from Yngwie, Yngwie Malmsteen, Yngwie Malmsteen in our van to Busk when it’s Christmas, you only busk when it’s Christmas to Shit band, no fans, shit band no fans. Or even the inspired mantra:

Gouranga Gouranga
Yes I’ll be happy
When you’ve been arrested for defacing the bridge
Gouranga Gouranga
Yes I’ll be happy
When you’ve been arrested for defacing the bridge

Blackwell uses a mixture of voice, from straight once-upon-a-time narrative, to direct address from a whole of host of seedy characters; bogus officials, disabled parking abusers, that guy everyone only knows, the one that’s a mate of a mate (of the bloke who does the P.A.). They’re snapshots of life in Britain that read like transcripts from the Jeremy Kyle Show, court appearances and half heard conversations in National Trust gift shops.  

Then there’s the snippets of other of songs, remoulded (Whoh-oh Black Sabbath, bam-a-lam. Whoh-oh Black Sabbath, bam-a-lam) and the spoken word songs where Blackwell rattles off his latest list of irritating characters or tells tales of bizarre items on shelves in bric-a-brac backrooms. And then there’s moments of just sheer genius:

And a plague fell upon the Retail Park
And a storm broke over Henman Hill
And the christening party arsehole
Who hitherto had blurred
My conception of man as nature’s final word
Was fleeing from the lava
His SatNav pleading thus:
“I’m not from round here mate, you should have got the bus.”

All in all, it’s pitched perfectly at my level. It hits me right where I live. If I had any musical ability whatsoever these are the kind of lyrics I would write. Different subjects for scorn perhaps, but the idiom would be the same. I think most HMHB fans feel that way. But then I’m of a certain age and from a certain background and there’s a band for most anyone. It might seem to you that HMHB is exactly the sort of music I should be listening to. Indeed, for those few wise souls who recommended them it seems it was the sort of music I should have been actively engaging in. Well all I can say is, I hope they’re happy with themselves!

As for me, I’ll take the TGV to Zurich and jump off the roof of Dignitas
And leave a note saying:
“Here lies the bloke, the only bloke in Harpurhey
Who wasn’t at the Lesser Free Trade Hall”
Y’all, think on
While you’re capturing the zeitgeist
They’re widening the motorway