web analytics

Michel Polnareff – Tam-Tam

It’s been a while since I posted any translations from the most adorable Amiral, so I’m about to rectify this omission. I’ve only recently discovered this hit song from 1980s and, as it happens, fell head over heels for it – to the point that I was doing the Google AdWords Professional exam today with this song in my earphones. I already passed the GAP exam successfully before, but I had to do this once again. I can testify that l’Amiral’s songs are very, very effective!! Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Polnareff!

Tours Eiffel, échafaudages et dix heures par jour de trime
Ca n'est pas une plac' pour moi
Matins gris sur macadam et marteaux-piqueurs en prime
Vraiment pas une place pour moi
J'en ai marre, j'en ai marre de voir les animaux dans les zoos
J'en ai marre, j'en ai marre de voir des monuments, des drapeaux

J’veux partir
Redevenir un homm’ préhisto
Avec rien sur la peau
Jouer du tam tam tam tam tam

Aspirines et papiers bleus et cachets pour pas dormir
Ca n’est pas une vie pour moi
Vitamines et intraveines ou tablettes pour se nourrir
Vraiment pas une vie pour moi
J’en ai marre, j’en ai marre de lire des trucs moches dans les journaux
J’en ai marre, très très marre qu’on m’dise c’qui est laid ou ce qui est beau

J’veux partir
Redevenir l’homme préhisto
Avec rien sur sa peau
Jouer du tam tam tam tam tam

Au secours!
J’veux savoir où sont les filles bronzées en photo,
Au secours,
J’veux savoir où il fait beau, il fait toujours chaud

J’veux partir
Redevenir l’homme préhisto
Sans télé ni journaux
Jouer du tam tam tam tam tam

J’veux partir
Redevenir l’homme préhisto
Bye, bye moi vouloir
Jouer du tam tam tam tam

 

Eiffel Towers, scaffoldings and ten hours a day of slavery –
This is not a place for me.
Grey mornings on the pavement with jackhammers on top –
This is really not a place for me.
I’m tired, I’m tired of watching animals in zoos,
I’m tired, I’m tired of looking at the monuments and flags.

I want to leave,
To be a prehistoric man again,
With nothing on the skin,
And to play tam-tam-tam-tam-tam.

Aspirin, and blue paper napkins, and tablets against sleep –
This is not a life for me.
Vitamins, intravenous or the food supplements –
This is really not a life for me.
I’m tired, I’m tired of terrible things in the papers,
I’m tired, so-so tired of being told what is ugly and what is beautiful.

I want to leave,
To be a prehistoric man again,
With nothing on the skin,
And to play tam-tam-tam-tam-tam.

Help!
I want to know where the tanned girls from the photos are.
Help!
I want to know where that place is where it’s nice and always hot.

I want to leave,
To be a prehistoric man again,
Without a TV or papers,
And to play tam-tam-tam-tam-tam.

I want to leave,
To be a prehistoric man again,
Bye-bye, this is me, wanting
To play tam-tam-tam-tam-tam.

My Favourite Billy Connolly

When I first came to England five years ago, I was promptly told that many things would be forgiven to me as a foreigner as long as I didn’t fail to like Billy Connolly. Watching him the first few times was tough, I must admit, for before 2002 my knowledge of the Scottish accent was virtually nonexistent. However, the man I saw on the TV screen was so charismatic and adorable, I said to myself that I must learn to understand him.

Time went by, I’ve seen Billy’s many performances, I loved the world tours he made, read about him, laughed at his sketches, certainly found him handsome, and watched Mrs Brown. The only thing I never paid attention to, for some reason, was his birthday. Turns out, he was born on November 24th and is a Sag, like myself. Obviously, I send my belated birthday greetings to him, and my adoration for a fellow Centaur has now grown even bigger. I love the month of December even more now.

Billy Connolly for me is the Henry Miller of stand-up comedy. I’ve never heard so many swearing words being said on stage in my entire life, but I cannot imagine anyone doing it with such gusto and creativity, as Connolly. Having lived in Manchester for over four years now, I also know that what he brings out on stage is the living language. Because when we think of stage we link it to theatre, and when we think of theatre we link it to art, Billy’s escapades at first look outrageous. It’s like Tropic of Cancer or The Rosy Crucifixion is being read aloud. But as I wrote last year about Henry Miller, one of his greatest achievements was in tuning his narrative in with the time in which he was writing. It was impossible to write “lovely” texts on the eve of the devastating military conflict. As far as Connolly’s shows are concerned, the bad language he uses can be heard everywhere, even in the most refined places. The brilliance of Billy is that he takes the genre which sometimes is a collection of pre-written sketches, not necessarily witty or funny, and turns it into a real people’s comedy. Again, just as Miller was able to write “decent” prose – like Big Sur or The Colossus of Maroussi – so Connolly has dazzled the viewers with his thoughtful and even romantic reports from his world tours.

I’m leaving you with the great man’s official website – BillyConnolly.com – and an extract from one of his shows, in which he talks about opera. This is an amazingly talented performance, but make sure you’ve got a few spare minutes and can afford laughing out loud.

Exercises in Loneliness – VIII (Cafe and Music)


Taking Aim
Originally uploaded by Neil101

It shall be a good lesson to me, to take a picture of the place that featured in my work in one way or another. I quite liked Caffe Uno, located in the basement of Heron House in Manchester, opposite the Town Hall and the famous fountain with gargoyles. It never occurred to me that the day may come when this cafe would no longer be. Alas, as you will know if you live in Manchester, Caffe Uno has now been changed by Brasserie, and I was lucky enough to find this picture by Neil on Flickr.

The poem below was written on a small envelope. I don’t know why it was in my bag, but it was, otherwise I’d have to deploy a paper napkin. It was my first ever visit to CaffeUno, it was in January 2005, and the story of how I ended up there is quite trivial, I suppose. I was meant to meet up with the only Russian person I know in Manchester. We were actually going to meet at Mark Addy, then known as the Russian hub in this sunny city. Not only would this be our first meeting, it was also the Orthodox Christmas, January 7th. This lady and I decided to meet at about 9pm at Mark Addy, but I first needed to actually get to Manchester, so I took a bus and reached the city at 7pm.

The evening was incredibly cold and windy. I remember wearing a long coat and a trilby hat, and all the way I had to hold on to my headwear, otherwise it would fly away, surely. I somehow decided to kill time drinking coffee at Caffe Uno. I think one of the reasons may have been that I had wanted to go there for a while, and it now seemed like a perfect occasion to finally pay a visit. I sat in the bar, at the tall table near the window, and drank Irish coffee. The weather outside was getting worse. The Christmas decorations were already taken down, except perhaps for a few garlands left randomly on trees. The wind, however, was so strong, that the bollards at the cafe’s entrance were overturned a few times. The streetlamps were glowing in the ghostly fog which was becoming denser and denser as the evening advanced. And then there was this music: a strange collection of rockabilly, soul and Italian pop songs.

I have long noticed that when you write a love poem or a poem about love, the question that inevitably rises is – was there a protagonist? My answer is always “yes” and “no”. There may be a certain person involved, not necessarily on an intimate level. They may be a good friend of yours, but something they said or you said can suddenly acquire a totally different meaning. Or the person in question may be an amalgamation of several people, and therefore thoughts, experiences. What I enjoy the most about writing is the experiment, which is why I very rarely dedicate poems to anyone because, in the end of the day, the text will not be about them, even if it might allude to them.

This poem, however, is about me. The question that I now must ask myself is – since I am the protagonist of this poem, is this me? My answer is “yes”. However, I was alone in Caffe Uno. I wasn’t looking at anybody in particular, although I probably wanted to look at somebody. The text dwells on the experience of that creative loneliness which is enhanced by the rather Gothic weather. There is no rhyme in the Russian text, but the rhythm, which I tried to replicate in the English translation, is in tune with that musical vinaigrette I described above. Having said that, the mood of the poem is closer to soul than to pop.

The poem does read like a romantic poem. But since I was looking at someone imaginary, it is rather likely than not that I was ultimately looking at myself. And little did I know, being at Caffe Uno and scribbling the lines on a tiny white envelope, that at Marc Addy I would also be on my own, and that this Russian friend wouldn’t turn up, and that, sitting in MA and gazing at the black bitter waves of the river, I would finally decide that I somehow belonged to England and wanted to stay here. The poem thus becomes Romanticist, rather than romantic, and indeed it marked yet another stage in the series of changes that started during my visit to London in April 2004.

CAFÉ AND MUSIC

Imagine this: the lights of night-time city
Are drawing me beguilingly to you.
I drink cognac which taste is blent in coffee,
And soul chords caress my ear fondly.
The cars are flying with the blowing wind;
The leaves, umbrellas, hats are flying after.
I’m thinking; in the rhythm of rockabilly
My recollections move; and I feel good.
You’re thinking too, but nothing do you know.
And so I gaze with a mysterious smile:
Imaginary flame ignites the lantern,
And all streetlamps are like the burning bushes.
And we don’t speak; sometimes an odd talk
Intrudes upon us from the corner table;
It’s ghostly; nightly; beautiful; and empty;
I drink cognac; I’m being drawn to you.

Manchester, Caffe Uno,
January 7, 2005

English translation © Julia Shuvalova 2007

(КАФЕ И МУЗЫКА

Вообрази: огни ночного города
Меня к тебе влекут неодолимо.
Я пью коньяк, чей вкус разбавлен кофе,
И блюза гаммы слух ласкают мне.
Летят автомобили ветру вслед,
Им вслед летят листва, зонты и шляпы,
Я думаю, и в ритме рокабилли
Воспоминанья движутся; мне хорошо.
Ты тоже думаешь, но ничего не знаешь.
С улыбкою загадочной смотрю:
Воображаемый огонь зажегся в лампе,
И кущами пылают фонари.
И мы молчим; случайный разговор
Доносится от столика в углу;
Все призрачно; ночно; красиво; пусто;
Я пью коньяк; меня к тебе влечет.

© Julia Shuvalova 2005)

Raphael, Degas, and the 16th c. music

2004 saw the first exhibition of Raphael in England. In November I happened to be in London, and my first visit to the National Gallery naturally included a voyage to the Sainsbury Wing. I had mere half an hour to enjoy some 40 works of one of the Titans of Renaissance. To see them, I had to gently if politely wriggle past some visitors, or queue up where it was impossible to squeeze through. Everyone who knows the Sainsbury Wing will recall its catacomb-like interior: low ceilings, dim light, rather small rooms with dark walls – hardly a backdrop for the rich Italian masterpieces.

At exactly the same time they were exhibiting Edgar Degas upstairs. The works of French artist resided in two or three well lit halls with tall ceilings and light pastel-colour walls, there were not many visitors (it was one of the first days of exhibition, I should note). Most paintings were of medium size, in front of every second or third of which there stood a Far-Eastern girl with a pad and some crayons, copying the works of one of the greatest Impressionists. To this day I cannot fathom why these two exhibitions could not be swapped places.

I wrote a lengthy text about it in Russian in the same 2004, contemplating on how these two exhibitions manifested our attitude to art. I was probably a bit harsh to suggest that it was easy to admire the classical art because then no-one would find a fault in your taste, but on second thoughts this is hardly far from the truth. Indeed, one would rather be ridiculed if they admitted liking pop music than if they admitted liking Mozart. Same with Raphael. As Henry James put it, Raphael was a happy genius, and by looking and admiring his Madonnas we seek to find happiness, too. Raphael is also easier to comprehend, unlike his contemporaries. Leonardo is very intellectual, to which La Gioconda is a good proof. Michelangelo’s devotion to the physique is sometimes baffling, as can be seen, for instance, in the figures on the Medici monument. Raphael, on the contrary, is always pleasant, always radiant, always rich in colour, and even if his end may not be as happy as his paintings, we probably shall still forget about it when we observe his work.

It is different with Degas. Degas was known for his perfectionism, and many times in his life he turned to rework his own paintings, as the examination of certain works, e.g. Portrait of Elena Carafa, shows. The name of the exhibition – “Art in the Making” – further highlights Degas’s critical, intellectual approach to his work. The British art historian Kenneth Clark in his book “The Nude: A Study in the Ideal Form” (N.Y., 1956) says, in particular, that Degas excelled at what the Florentine artists of the 16th c. would call “disegno” (i.e. a drawing, a sketch). He focused on a human figure as his main theme, but aimed to capture the ideal image of the movement of this figure, and especially the energy of this movement. Degas’s painting is more vigorous than Raphael’s, and his Madonnas are not only nude, they are also depicted in the poses or at such activity that many of us would still deem inappropriate. Still, again in the words of Clark, had the figures painted by Michelangelo come to life, they would have scared us to a far bigger extent than Degas’s naked women.

Thanks to his colour palette, techniques, and themes, Degas appears more disturbing, almost revolutionary, compared to Raphael. I noted in my text that in the three centuries, from Raphael to Degas, the very attitude to art had changed. As far as Madonnas are concerned, after the European revolutions of the 19th c. and on the eve of the First World War they became more emancipated, they drank absinthe and spent evenings in the Parisian cafes. Their blurred faces, loose hair and outrageous nudity were the symbols of their time, the sign of the fear of changes and of the vulnerability in the face of the outer world. Their movement and individuality were more prominently expressed in comparison to their Renaissance predecessors. Like many other Impressionists, Degas is much more “relevant” to our time, but as it happens we prefer to turn to what gives us hope and faith, and Raphael seemed to be a perfect saviour. Apparently, I concluded, when people turn to the classical art, they seek peace; and when they find peace, they’ll think of a revolution.

Nevertheless, I bought a wonderful CD at the Raphael’s exhibition, The Music of the Courtier, which contained several beautifully performed pieces by the late 15th – 16th cc. composers. One of this, Dilla da l’acqua, by Francesco Patavino (1497?-1556?), performed by I Fagiolini, has become an instant favourite, and I hope you enjoy it too.

http://media.imeem.com/m/xMPLqzqmmW/aus=false/

The paintings used (from top, left to right, clockwise):

Raphael, La Donna Velata (c. 1514-1516)
Edgar Degas, Portrait of Elena Carafa (c. 1875)
Raphael, Madonna of the Pinks (c. 1506-1507)
Michelangelo, The Tomb of Giuliano de’ Medici (1526-1531)
Leonardo da Vinci, La Gioconda (c. 1503-1506)
Raphael, Madonna Connestabile (c. 1502)
Edgar Degas, La Coiffure (Combing Her Hair) (c. 1896)
Edgar Degas, Russian Dancers (c. 1899)
Raphael, Ansidei Madonna (1505)
Raphael, Lady with a Unicorn (c. 1505-1506)
Edgar Degas, Miss La La at the Cirque Fernando (c. 1879)
Edgar Degas, Young Spartans Exercising (c. 1860)
Edgar Degas, After the Bath (c. 1890-1895)
Raphael, St Catherine (c. 1507)

http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=loscuadernos-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=B0006BAUKI&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=loscuadernos-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=0140435077&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=loscuadernos-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=0691017883&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr

Luciano Pavarotti

As I was going to work in the morning, there was a small article in Metro about the Italian tenor Luciano Pavarotti being in serious condition. A few hours later at work I read on MSN that one of the world’s greatest opera artists died.

There is very little to say, amidst the tributes and obituaries. U2’s Bono said Pavarotti epitomised opera. Undoubtedly, he also epitomised Italy, exuberant and passionate as he was. It is, I guess, because of his immensity – be it physique, talent or life – that millions of people around the world have taken his exit so close to heart. He entered the memory of many as an ever-smiling opera genius, and nothing can fill the void.

Many an opera aficionado will already have passed on their condolensces to the tenor’s family. It is strange to think that, like there would never be any Beatles “comeback” after George Harrison died, so now there are no longer Three Tenors, certainly not in the way we have come to think of them.

The MSN article renders precisely the significance of today’s date for the classical music scene:

In the annals of that rare and coddled breed, the operatic tenor, it may well be said the 20th century began with Caruso and ended with Pavarotti. Other tenors — Domingo included — may have drawn more praise from critics for their artistic range and insights. But none could equal the combination of natural talent and personal charm that so endeared Pavarotti to audiences.

Luciano Pavarotti has embraced his fame after performing Nessun Dorma in 1990 at the opening of the World Cup in Italy. He sang it again in 2006 at the opening of the Torino Olympic Games, which turned out to be his last major performance. This aria from Puccini’s Turandot has always been one of my favourite opera arias. Earlier this year somebody practically anonymous, my compatriot, has sent me in an email a recording of Nessun Dorma as a Christmas present, which I enjoyed a lot. In the video below Pavarotti performs Nessun Dorma in Torino in 2006 (many thanks to supinder for posting this). I cannot describe in words how much or why I love this part, every time I hear it my eyes fill with tears…

Barbra Streisand in Manchester (M.E.N. Arena, July 10, 2007)

 And so, Manchester has finally joined the cities on the route of Barbra Streisand’s first European tour. Some reports prior to Manchester concert expressed fears that the night might fall through because of high ticket prices. Admittedly, pleasure of seeing Streisand on stage wasn’t cheap: add a program’s price (£25) to your cheapest ticket (£75), and you’ll get quite a sum. Looking from my seat in the stalls down on those who sat in the first row in the box did bring certain thoughts to mind. But as the show went on, I realised that with my £75 ticket I bought myself much more than just a lifetime experience.

Like with quite a few other things, it started thanks to my mother. I said before that my mum has got this tremendous ability to discover things – and once Russia has opened her arms to the West after 1991, there was (and still is) a lot to discover. I believe that the discovery of Barbra in my family has started with the song Woman in Love, which was in an audio cassette collection. Around 1996-97 the articles about Streisand have really flooded our first Russian editions of Harper’s Bazaar and ELLE. They wrote about her youth, her romances, her music, but, being an adolescent, I was most interested in her portraits. As terrible as it sounds, before I saw those photos, I thought I would never look good in front of the camera. Studying them, thankfully, changed me in many ways. I still haven’t seen a lot of Streisand’s films, but Funny Girl, The Mirror Has Two Faces, and The Way We Were have entered my memory forever. I would watch The Way We Were anyway because of Robert Redford, but the first two we watched because of Barbra. So, it was only natural that when I saw an email about the release of her tickets I knew I had to go. I wanted to surprise my mother, but in the end we had this conversation on Sunday night:

I: Mum, do you want to be jealous?
Mum: Why?
I: Do you know where I’m going on 10th July?
Mum (anticipating pause)
I: I’m going to Barbra Streisand’s concert
Mum (after a long pause, and with a sigh): Yes, I’m very jealous.

Although I’ve been living in Manchester since 2003, July 10th was the first time I went to a concert at the M.E.N. Arena. Contrary to all fears and misgivings, the hall was full: at 7pm people were coming in tides, and by 7.40 there was virtually no room to move in the foyer. The audience’s rapture was palpable; and how could it not be if the man with a black-and-grey scarf around his neck was one of the first to rise from his seat when Barbra appeared on stage for the first time? I cannot say I’ve been to many concerts, but I’m certain I won’t see such frequent standing ovations any time soon. Where I sat, people behind me were humming and singing along with the performer who – we all hope – celebrates the 50th anniversary of her stage career in three years’ time.

As you can guess, from photos on Flickr and from videos on YouTube, the organisers’ appeal against taking pictures wasn’t acknowledged, and we shouldn’t blame the fans for many of whom this was once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see and hear their favourite performer. In the audience there were Mancunians, Liverpudlians, Geordie, as well as Italian and Spanish fans whom Streisand greeted in their native language. When answering questions, she admitted that of all three – singing, acting, and directing – she enjoyed directing more because of what she called ‘inclusiveness’, and this show may very well be the proof of her directorial hold. Alas, we were not introduced to Samantha; instead we saw Streisand putting on glasses and demonstrating her – quite good – piano technique.

The importance of seeing an “old league” performer cannot be underestimated. A rather simply decorated stage was a perfect backdrop for the stunning costumes (designed by Streisand and Donna Karan), a warm smile, and the beautiful, powerful voice of the world’s first showbiz diva. I must admit, after reading several fans’ reviews, that I couldn’t put my feelings about the evening into words better than John Grundeken from the Netherlands did, which is why I hope a lot of you will follow through to Barbra’s Archives to read his heartfelt story of the night at Bercy in Paris. Moreover, John is travelling to London’s concert, as well. What I must absolutely agree with John about is the incredible power of Streisand’s voice: ‘”Starting here, starting now”, her voice sounded so warm and rich. I realised this was the first time ever I wasn’t listening to a recording of her voice, this was the real thing’. And one more fact about John: I am used to seeing people wearing T-shirts with John Lennon’s or Che Guevara’s face, and I made myself a T-shirt with the print of the Beatles’s Let It Be cover. But, upon my word, this was the first time I saw someone decorating a tie with their favourite artist’s portrait. I’ve got a feeling that the world of fashion has already been there, but this tie is special for its colour, design, and image. Above all, the whole work glows with admiration for Barbra Streisand, which makes it really impressive, and this is why I asked John for permission to use the image in my post. Thank you, John.

I have a confession to make. As I mentioned above, my mother is a huge fan of Barbra Streisand. I haven’t been back to Russia since I came to Manchester, which makes almost four years. So as a present for her I recorded several songs from the concert, which are strictly for private use and will not be put up anywhere. However, I noticed that there are many videos on the web, which probably warrants my action: I cut and put together two extracts from the concert. The first extract is a great proof of cordial atmosphere at the M.E.N. Arena, not without a few funny moments. The second is the song Unusual Way from the second half of the concert. Please note that the audio, like all the content of this site, is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution – Noncommercial – Non-Derivative Works 3.0. If you wish to cite it, please do so accordingly.

[To be reuploaded soon – JD]

The songs may very well be the ones that people older than me have already heard Streisand singing live before. Yet, as Paul Vallely from The Independent puts it, ‘she progressed from one song to the next in a way which was not autobiographical so much as the story of the lives of those who listened. She was singing the soundtrack to their joys and sorrows, triumphs and failures’. In spite of my age, Smile, Unusual Way, Papa Can You Hear Me resonate in me deeply, while People and Somewhere fully correspond to the views and ideas I behold dearly and often express in writing and here, in Los Cuadernos, for which you can certainly call me a Cockeyed Optimist.

The peak of the performance for me was when Streisand run and danced barefoot on stage. And it was most lovely to see the audience standing and greeting Barbra with several rounds of ovation. In Russia, it was a part of nearly every performance experience: to call actors or singers come back on stage several times. In four years here, attending theatre and cinema many times, I almost got used to people giving a few claps, standing up and leaving, so seeing this “Russian” reaction felt incredibly warm.

It is evident that I, like many others, enjoyed every minute of two-and-a-half hours of Streisand’s concert, including the interval, when I took the photos of the Arena’s hall that are now scattered throughout this post. And I feel I should comment on a criticism that the show was scripted. Where I sat, on the side, was the perfect place to see both the stage and the screens with running scripts. First, the lines run fast, so unless everyone (Barbra and the Broadway guys) knows what they are to say, they won’t be on time with the script. Most importantly, though, is that they didn’t actually follow the script word for word. Yes, maybe it’s bad to direct your own show, but as a spectator I think it would be worse to listen to an artist, who sounds and looks like a sheep, not knowing what to say. From my own experience of writing scripts or watching written scripts going live I can only say that it’s essential to know where your carriage (be that a play, a radio or TV show, or a performance) is going at any given minute. To ensure that it runs naturally is up to a performer, and for Barbra Streisand it was a piece of cake.

“Barbra – was she worth the money?” – a sly question that has left many a reviewer’s pens. Someone cynical may say a performer like Streisand is used to the crowd’s adoration, but no matter how used you get to people praising you, there are always new people, and every performer needs them, not only because ‘people need people’, but because people need art, and a performer is the mediator between art and the world. This entire contemplation on worthiness reminds me of Maugham’s Theatre, one of my favourite novels. In one chapter, the heroine’s son reproaches her for being “false”. He fails to understand how one minute Julia Lambert can be all emotion on stage, then have a go at the technician during a short interval, and then immediately regain the altitude and power of her performance once again. She feels disturbed, but in the very final passages of the book she realises that the actors give substance and meaning to the lives of people in the audience: ‘… out of them we create beauty, and their significance in that they form the audience we must have to fulfill ourselves… We are the symbols of all this confused, aimless struggle that they call life, and it’s only the symbol which is real. They say acting is make-believe. That make-believe is the only reality’.

You may cue in Vallely’s review or Gogard’s musings on image and reality in Notre Musique. Or you can read the review of one of the concert’s attendees, who (though not without some inner struggle) has taken from this single night something precious and indelible. One thing is certain: art transforms life, and ever since coming out on stage 47 years ago Barbra Streisand has been doing just that.

Links:

Barbra Streisand official website

Manchester reviews: BBC and Manchester Evening News

Paul Valley, Broadway Diva Lives up to Her Billing, The Independent, 11 July 2007

Set list, photos, press and fan reviews at Barbra Archives.

Barbra Streisand group on Flickr

John Grundeken

The Cotton Mill Blog

Barbra Streisand in Manchester set on Flickr

About images:

All images used in this post are copyrighted. The details for the booklet illustrations can be found in the captions to the pictures here. ‘The Tie’ is designed and produced by John Grundeken.

Oh Early on Ivan’s Day (Pesnyary)

I have been exchanging a lot of videos recently with a friend of mine, who eventually said: ‘You send me English and French musical videos, but what about Russian ones?’

I was somewhat lost for words, to be honest, not because sending something in Russian has never crossed my mind, but rather because I felt I would need to explain too much, which could kill the joy of liking something just because it is likeable. Another point is that Russian (or Soviet) music scene has never been completely cut off the “Western music”. Indeed, it was difficult to get access to it, but surprisingly, those rare contacts seem to me to have been more beneficial for the musical progress, than Russia’s current openness to the Western musical trends. Then, of course, one can say that until recently the Western music was better, so no wonder its influence was benigne.

There’s a plenty of good Soviet pop and rock songs out there, which I could translate and put up here. But I opted to introduce you to one of my favourite musical groups, a Belarussian band called Pesnyary. Pesnyary (the final syllable is stressed) means bards, and the group’s speciality was modern arrangements of Belarussian folk songs, as well as original songs inspired by the Belarussian folklore. Since their formation in 1969 by the now late Vladimir Mulyavin, the band has seen many changes in its membership, but their creative vision has remained unrivalled. They covered several Beatles’s songs and put Shakespearean sonnets to music. They composed larger musical pieces, including an opera and a masterful interpretation of Robert Burns’s cantata, The Jolly Beggars.

The song posted here is called Oh Early on Ivan’s Day, and is an arrangement of a Belarussian folk song dedicated to the Midsummer Night holiday, which is celebrated on July 7 (St John the Baptist Day). It opens with a stupendous a capella, and the use of harmonies mesmerises you later on. It has got some medieval overtones, which yet again might remind us that medieval music has got a lot to offer to a musician. I intentionally left Belarussian/Russian equivalent to the name John, Ivan, in the title. The picture shows a performance of this song on Soviet TV in 1971.

Links:

Pesnyary

official website (in Russian)
Wikipedia entry (in Russian)
a site about the band (in Russian mainly)
– about the band at PNP Records (in English) – a very good overview of Pesnyary’s inventive musical outlook from a records collector from St Petersburg.

http://odeo.com/flash/audio_player_gray.swf
powered by ODEO

If you are experiencing problems with Odeo player, follow this link.

Feel free to post your comments and questions!

From Doing Radio to Loving Soul (‘Yester-Me, Yester-You, Yester-Day’ by Stevie Wonder)

I know this will probably sound totally surreal – but I wasn’t interested in soul music until I went on a placement at the BBC GMR back in February 2005. Yes, I heard names like Aretha Franklin, Al Green, Stevie Wonder etc, and I even heard their songs. Yet for whatever reason it was, I was never interested in this musical style.

Then I went on this placement, which was the first time I had anything to do with the radio. I was a broadcast assistant on The Phil Wood Show, and two of my regular duties prior to the on-air time included doing questions for ‘The Dice Is Right’ and doing a one-minute musical intro to the programme. The first routine I loathed because too many questions would be crossed out by my producer as “too hard”, and then I would be twisting my brain thinking of other, easier, questions.

The second routine I loved. In fact, it wasn’t the routine – it was a joy. Our SBJ would tick four songs from the playlist, from which I would need to pick four fragments up to 20-25 secs each, and mix them. Before then I’d never done sound editing, but this is one of the things I will forever enjoy about the time on this placement. Although I was a total novice in the radio, I wasn’t treated like one. The attitude at the BBC reminded me of the Dean of my faculty at the Moscow State University who’s been calling us ‘colleagues’ from day one, despite the fact that each of us would need to work like horse to live up to his address, for Prof Sergei P. Karpov is a world-known and outstanding scholar.

But it wasn’t just the feeling of responsibility that I enjoyed. It was music. Tracks varied from Neil Diamond (whose name told me nothing at that stage, to be honest) to 10 CC, a Manchester band, whose CD I bought ages ago in Moscow and loved it, loved it, loved it!

And I think I understand it well when people tell me that my enthusiasm for the things I like shines throughout this blog. I only hope it is as contagious to my readers, as Mike Shaft’s enthusiasm for Al Green was to me. I think on that day he’d just received Green’s new album, and he played the track All the Time. I was doing the back-up recording on the computer at home, and thankfully, I am still able to listen both to Green’s song and to Mike Shaft’s waxing lyrical about it.

When I went off the placement, I continued listening to soul music. There’s still a plenty to learn, and of course I’ll never know about it as much, as Mike does, but… thanks a lot for opening up my horizons, Mike!

So, one of the songs I’d taken away with me from that first month at the BBC Manchester and my first month on the radio was Stevie Wonder’s Yester-Me, Yester-You, Yester-Day. I’ve just found this live performance on YouTube, which is different from the studio version the BBC Radio Manchester has got on its playlist. But it is perhaps in this version that Stevie Wonder’s wonderful, genuine talent as a singer and performer shines in full splendour.

Enjoy! And thanks to a YouTubist!

Histoire de Melody Nelson (Serge Gainsbourg)

As you might have noticed from the Links section in my side bar, as well as from my profile, I’m a fan of Serge Gainsbourg. The first time I heard him, I was just as innocent as France Gall (who reportedly didn’t have a clue about the sexual innuendos in the song ‘Les Sucettes‘ (The Lollipops)). In fact, I was younger than Gall because my discovery of Gainsbourg’s music started with the notorious ‘Je T’Aime Moi Non Plus‘, with me having no idea about the meaning of some specific sounds on the record.

For years, Gainsbourg has been hovering over the French music scene. His versatility at both music and lyrics, as well as his lifestyle, not only turned him into a monumental figure of European music, but in later years also inspired many *interpretations*. As someone noted on YouTube, Kate Moss and Pete Doherty look strangely similar to Birkin-Gainsbourg duet, except that Doherty’s influence on modern music is not as decisive, as was Gainsbourg’s. Then again, as Philip Sweeney remarked a year ago in The Independent, “Gainsbourg was an enthralled recycler of English and American trends, themes and phrases“, which may signal to somebody that Gainsbourg was not necessarily original.

This, however, is not the case, as Sweeney notes himself, because Gainsbourg’s songs are extremely difficult to translate into English and, in fact, into any other language. Consider this passage from his song ‘Variations sur Marilou‘:

Dans son regard absent
Et son iris absinthe
Tandis que Marilou s’amuse à faire des vol
Utes de sèches au menthol
Entre deux bulles de comic-strip
Tout en jouant avec le zip
De ses Levi’s
Je lis le vice
Et je pense à Caroll Lewis

It makes sense in English, if translated, but, as often happens, the difference in pronunciation takes away this lingering quality of original French lyrics. Furthermore, because of this difference the last three lines don’t produce the same effect. The emphasis on ‘-iss’ in the French text reminds one of a gentle murmur, of mussitation; the English version would never capture this effect.

So, on to Histoire de Melody Nelson. It was Gainsbourg’s 1972 conceptual album, which cover you may see on the right. Containing 7 songs, “Melody Nelson is a weirdly jewel-like micro-opera featuring a vintage Rolls-Royce, a male obsession for the eponymous 14-year-old garçonne, and demise via New Guinean cargo-cult, rendered by Gainsbourg’s voluptuous drawl and Birkin’s Lolita whisper, and a richly idiosyncratic instrumentation by Gainsbourg’s close collaborator Jean-Claude Vannier, owing as much to Abbey Road, George Martin and the film soundtracks of John Barry as to anything from Paris“. (Philip Sweeney, The Independent, 16 April 2006).

You can obviously find the album on Amazon.com, where the featured cover comes from. You can browse the links below, to read more about the album and/or Serge Gainsbourg. But on YouTube you can also find the videos to the songs. The videos, like the songs, are psychedelic, and feature the paintings of Max Ernst, Paul Delvaux, Salvador Dali, Felix Labisse, René Magritte, Henri Rousseau, which makes Gainsbourg’s album even dearer to my heart because I’ve been a devouted student of French surrealism for years.

The video I’m putting up here is the 5th part of the album. It is called ‘L’hôtel particulier‘, and uses predominantly the works of Paul Delvaux, with a few glimpses of Felix Labisse’s images. If you want to read the lyrics to the song, follow the link to Alex Chabot’s translation.

Links:

Serge Gainsbourg’s site – in French. Very informative – be careful if you’re a serious Serge’s fan and didn’t know about this site: you may very well spend the entire night reading the story of a remarkable talent.

Alex Chabot’s translations of Gainsbourg’s texts.

Specifically L’hôtel particulier (from the above).

Philip Sweeney, Serge Gainsbourg: Filthy French (The Independent, 16 April 2006). Also: LookSmart’s FindArticles – Filthy French

Notes on Histoire de Melody Nelson – some interesting and somewhat sentimental facts about the making of this album from Movie Grooves.

Histoire de Melody Nelson on Amazon.com

From Blogger to Julia

As I told Richard when we chatted on Radio Manchester, I wasn’t keen on blogging initially. At first, I was totally against the idea, then in late July 2006 I began to contemplate on it (it must’ve been Futuresonic influence). Eventually I saw myself one August night signing up for an account. I’ve chosen Blogger because I had a Google email, so it made sense. And I’ve been generally happy with the service, bearing in mind that I’ve never blogged before. The only thing I find difficult to get my head round is the multiple changes, which may not be the changes after all, but which put a non-hack on alert.

When I was signing up people were advised to sign up for Blogger in Beta, which I did. Now I note that ‘Beta’ sign is crossed out, and I’m reading that we’ve got a fantastic ‘Blogger’ instead. To say that I’m confused is to say nothing, really. Add to this the whole Christmas fever and attempts to manage the list of presentees, and here you go. From what I’ve seen in the new Blogger tour, I’m signed up for the right version of software, and my only hope is that the guys at Blogger have some pity for poor journos, authors and non-hacks and don’t make us switch to something else. That’s our unanimous Christmas wish, and I’m sure all agree.

This Friday I’m hoping to get to this John Lennon Imagine charity gig at RNCM, on which Mancubist blogged some time ago. Which means I’m going to stay up at work until at least 6.30pm. But like I said previously, I’ve been once to Lennon’s commemorative gig in Moscow, so I’m keen to compare my impressions with what they’ll do in Machester. If you see a girl in round specs, it’s probably going to be me.

And – to answer the question someone has been asking to a search engine – Julia is not a Russian name. To be honest, whoever asks exactly what my Russian name is, usually says next that it’s a very nice name. I do agree, but when I was coming over to England in 2003 I reckoned I’d have just enough trouble helping people to spell my surname correctly. I thought I’d do a lot of good to everyone if I use the English equivalent to my Russian name. Besides, I’ve always been translating my name into English.

Believe it or not, most of the times when I say that my name is ‘Julia’, people hear either ‘Julie’ or ‘Julianne’. Whilst doing a radio programme, I have had a plenty of chances to listen to myself pronouncing my name, and as far as I’m concerned it sounds ‘Julia’. Nevertheless, my effort to solve possible problems didn’t bring the desired fruit, as in addition to helping to spell my surname I also have to explain, exactly what my name is.

But after all, I love my name for its versatility, for the fact that it’s spelt and pronounced differently in different European languages. I do like being a chameleon, I must admit. The name itself is of Latin origin, and I will never forget this dialogue with my Latin tutor in Moscow.

Tutor: I note your name is Julia.
Me: Yes.
Tutor: Your parents must’ve named you after Julius Ceasar.
Me: I don’ think they remembered him.

error: Sorry, no copying !!