I have a confession to make. I have low-brow taste in entertainment, particularly music. Yes, I may have almost 10 years of classical music training and performance under my belt, but in the past 24 hours, my musical listening has included the Pokémon theme, The Final Countdown, Ke$ha, Christian pop, and Night of Fire (look it up). And I enjoyed it all.
Now, I don't think I know anyone who won't have snorted derisively over at least one of those items, possibly all of them. “I thought she had better taste than that!”, people will say (unless they've had the misfortune of living with me, in which case they will probably have witnessed first-hand my Justin Bieber/Spice Girls/Bollywood listening sprees (you know who you are)). “I know she listens to Handel/Metallica/Arvo Pärt/Nightwish (tick appropriate), how can she like (insert whichever musical item you found most offensive)?”
My question is this. Why is listening to Ke$ha (to take an example) such a musical crime? So her vocals are so auto-tuned it's basically a robot, her melodies as original as a cheese sandwich, her lyrics so void of depth they could probably be called a hill. I still enjoy most of her music, I just don't enjoy it for its depth or originality. I have other music for that. Ke$ha's stuff is bouncy, fun, and mindless – you can just dance around to it without the melody's intricacies grabbing you, or the lyrics' depth blowing you away. It has base and rhythm and a melody you can learn and sing along with in 4.6 seconds max. Sometimes, that's just what you want – and Handel, with his musical intricacies and rich baroque listening experience, just doesn't have that. People get enjoyment out of listening to a Bach cantata, just the same as people (er, probably other people) get enjoyment out of slamming to Arch Enemy. And if you're looking for the qualities of enjoyment you'd expect from Arch Enemy, ol' J.S. is probably going to fail to deliver for you.
What it's really about is the very nature of music. I think a lot of people hold the view that music should be as intricate, as deep, as moving, as thought-provoking, as possible. The more of those qualities – the better. I'm going to just go there and say it: I disagree. Don't get me wrong, there's a place for “high-brow” music, the intricate stuff, be it classical or metal, that only the most talented musicians can perform – that you just have to sit still and drink in as you listen to it for the hundredth time, because every listening reveals some new complexity. But what I'm saying is that I don't think that kind of music is intrinsically “better” than the latest auto-tuned Justin Bieber hit. It's just different – very, very different. I don't think people who prefer Tinie Tempah to Vivaldi somehow have a “lesser” taste in music – they're just looking for very, very different experiences in music. There's also a time and place for music that you can scream along to, for music that you can dance to, for music that you can learn quickly and easily and anyone can sing.
Music, as an art form, can give so much more than just what one person happens to want from it; it can fill so many voids, be so many different things to so many different people. Saying “this kind of musical experience is the best kind, music that delivers this experience is better than music that does not” is attempting to place limits on the incredible potential of music.
I'm proud to listen to music that is called low-brow, music that is called repetitive, music that is called noise, because to allow myself to enjoy all those different sorts of music, without being afraid of people with “better” taste in music judging me, is to experience all the incredibly different aspects of music. Ke$ha, I don't think very many people say this – but listening to you makes my musical world a richer place.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Stuff the UK needs
If you're reading this, you're probably at least vaguely aware of my background and current situation. Born in the UK, moved to a land of Hottentots (being half Hottentot myself) at an early age, and recently yoyoed back to Blighty. Now, this yoyoing process – having two passports, speaking two languages natively, constant back and forth between two countries – leaves you slightly confused in some areas. Where's “home”? Why is the Nationality section, when filling out forms, multiple choice and not an essay question? Which team do you cheer on at international sporting events? Whose side do you take in the great Cod War? To name but a few of my dilemmas.
However, being a national marble cake does have its advantages. Lost one passport? No problem, just use the other one!* Christmas comes but once a year? Not if you belong to two nations that celebrate Christmas at different times, it doesn't! Want to skip English lessons at school? Wave that maroon passport!
*True story.
Over the past several months of my observations of the English, I have seen it as my duty as a dual nationalist to compile a list of things this country is missing and needs to fix, stat. Seriously, how can you have come this far as a nation without …
-A national directory?
Scenario: You need to contact someone but, disaster! - you don't have their contact details. They don't have a website for you to look it up on. You don't know anyone who'd know their number. If only you could have a book (well, it would have to be a very large book, I'll give you that. Fine, not a book, a website) you could simply look them up in and have their phone number and address in a matter of minutes. Oh, but what about about criminals and identity theft and whatnot?, I hear you ask. Well, get a better lock on your door. I want to be able to contact people when I need to contact them!
-Cheese slicers?
Now, correct me if I'm wrong here. Maybe I'm just hanging with the wrong crowd. But so far, my British friends' and family's reactions to my simple, everyday cheese slicer has been fear and awe. A device for quickly cutting thin slices off a block of cheese? Unheard of! What devilry is this, surely you'll chop a finger off! But Thor Bjørklund (the man who, according to my quick Wikipedia-search, er, I mean extensive research, was the brilliant inventor of this gadget) knew what he was doing. How can you eat cheese without this?
-A second-person singular personal pronoun?
Look, this whole “you” thing is just a little silly. I don't care if we have to start using thees and thous again, it should be my incontestable right to be able to differentiate between singular and plural when I'm speaking to someone. All the other languages get one, why not modern English? To be fair, I understand some of the Americans have been trying to do something about this. I'm not usually a big fan of the southern US way, but in this case, I really think they're onto something. How about we just all start using their method? How would y'all feel about that?
-The verb “nenna”?
Well, it's not so much a lack of a verb as a lack of a concept. -“Would you “nenna” to take out the rubbish for me?” -“No, I don't “nenna” to.” -“This book is boring, I don't “nenna” to read it.” -“Who will “nenna” to go out and get some milk?” How do I answer someone when they ask me to do something I simply can't be bothered to work up the energy to do?
-The adjective “dugleg”?
Moving on from our last little Icelandic lesson: The person who volunteers to go out and get some milk, who “nenna”s, will be praised, called “dugleg”. How many times have I not opened my mouth to tell someone, in one word, that they have worked hard, that they have achieved results, that they are admirable in their successful efforts – only to remember at the last minute that I'm speaking English, and that there's no such word. Sigh. You've finished all the tasks I set you? How I wish I could tell you how “dugleg” you are. We have a lot to do today? If only I could tell you that's okay, that we'll just be “dugleg”! My dog brings back the stick I threw? I guess that'll have to do. Dugleg, dog. Dugleg.
However, being a national marble cake does have its advantages. Lost one passport? No problem, just use the other one!* Christmas comes but once a year? Not if you belong to two nations that celebrate Christmas at different times, it doesn't! Want to skip English lessons at school? Wave that maroon passport!
*True story.
Over the past several months of my observations of the English, I have seen it as my duty as a dual nationalist to compile a list of things this country is missing and needs to fix, stat. Seriously, how can you have come this far as a nation without …
-A national directory?
Scenario: You need to contact someone but, disaster! - you don't have their contact details. They don't have a website for you to look it up on. You don't know anyone who'd know their number. If only you could have a book (well, it would have to be a very large book, I'll give you that. Fine, not a book, a website) you could simply look them up in and have their phone number and address in a matter of minutes. Oh, but what about about criminals and identity theft and whatnot?, I hear you ask. Well, get a better lock on your door. I want to be able to contact people when I need to contact them!
-Cheese slicers?
Now, correct me if I'm wrong here. Maybe I'm just hanging with the wrong crowd. But so far, my British friends' and family's reactions to my simple, everyday cheese slicer has been fear and awe. A device for quickly cutting thin slices off a block of cheese? Unheard of! What devilry is this, surely you'll chop a finger off! But Thor Bjørklund (the man who, according to my quick Wikipedia-search, er, I mean extensive research, was the brilliant inventor of this gadget) knew what he was doing. How can you eat cheese without this?
-A second-person singular personal pronoun?
Look, this whole “you” thing is just a little silly. I don't care if we have to start using thees and thous again, it should be my incontestable right to be able to differentiate between singular and plural when I'm speaking to someone. All the other languages get one, why not modern English? To be fair, I understand some of the Americans have been trying to do something about this. I'm not usually a big fan of the southern US way, but in this case, I really think they're onto something. How about we just all start using their method? How would y'all feel about that?
-The verb “nenna”?
Well, it's not so much a lack of a verb as a lack of a concept. -“Would you “nenna” to take out the rubbish for me?” -“No, I don't “nenna” to.” -“This book is boring, I don't “nenna” to read it.” -“Who will “nenna” to go out and get some milk?” How do I answer someone when they ask me to do something I simply can't be bothered to work up the energy to do?
-The adjective “dugleg”?
Moving on from our last little Icelandic lesson: The person who volunteers to go out and get some milk, who “nenna”s, will be praised, called “dugleg”. How many times have I not opened my mouth to tell someone, in one word, that they have worked hard, that they have achieved results, that they are admirable in their successful efforts – only to remember at the last minute that I'm speaking English, and that there's no such word. Sigh. You've finished all the tasks I set you? How I wish I could tell you how “dugleg” you are. We have a lot to do today? If only I could tell you that's okay, that we'll just be “dugleg”! My dog brings back the stick I threw? I guess that'll have to do. Dugleg, dog. Dugleg.
Business as usual ...
I used to write all the time. I don't any more, somehow. I really want to get back in that habit. Is blogging once a week setting the bar too high? Or too low? A man walks into a bar. Ouch. Let's see!
While you wait for our feature presentation, please enjoy this nugget from the vaults.
The Girl Who Lost Her Heart
He is ill. Very ill. And he has been for a long time now. The doctors have said it won’t be very long, not in his current state. They say there is nothing they can do. That they are sorry.
But she still sits by his bedside as she has done the whole time, stroking his pale, lifeless hand, dozing occasionally, but never for very long. They have tried to make her leave, to get some rest, but she refuses, quietly but firmly, and they have let her be, leaving her alone with him, not disturbing her in her silent watch. Let her have these last few days with him. It won’t be very long now. And she waits.
It is well past midnight, and the hospital is dark. She’s nodded off, but suddenly she wakes up with a start. She hears the quiet rustle of silk and wings, and she knows who has arrived. The one she’s been waiting for. The one they’ve both been waiting for. She sees the figure easily, even in the dark – it stands out, so black that the gloom of the hospital seems almost grey in comparison.
“You can’t take him,” she says, as it bends over him, caressing his hand, the way she has done so many times in the past few weeks.
It looks up, unsurprised to see her there. “You know I must,” it replies, softly.
“Please,” she says, softly, “don’t take him from me. Take something else from me instead.”
The figure straightens. “You wish for me to take you instead?” it asks, gloomily. “That is very foolish of you, and you know that.”
She shakes her head, and swallows. “No,” she replies, quietly but firmly. She has made up her mind. “Take my heart. My heart for his life. I don’t have anything else – I don’t have any gifts you could take from me, and I don’t know if I have a soul. But I know I have a heart, because I love him. So please, take my heart, and give him back his life.”
It stands there silently for a moment, looking her in the eyes. And it knows she means it. She knows, and it knows. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” it asks, eventually. It sighs when she nods silently. “Very well,” it replies. “Come here.”
She stands up, and hesitates for a moment, bending over him in his bed. She strokes his hair, and kisses him, softly. “I love you,” she murmurs. Then she straightens, moving over to it, without a glance at him. “I’m ready,” she whispers.
The morning sun shining in the hospital window wakes her up. She opens her eyes slowly, taking in the doctors and nurses clustered around the bed in front of her (all of them exclaiming excitedly, all of them trying to examine the patient in the bed), the slight empty feeling in her chest, and the pale figure, sitting up in his bed, smiling at her – weakly, but it’s him. And she knows him.
And she does not care. She does not return his smile. She is vaguely aware that she should be concerned, as his expression becomes hurt and worried when he sees her cold eyes, looking at him like a stranger would. But she doesn’t feel concern. She doesn’t feel anything. Well, she knew she wouldn’t. It doesn’t matter now.
She doesn’t hear him cry out her name, confused and hurt, as she stands up and walks away.
She doesn’t even care.
While you wait for our feature presentation, please enjoy this nugget from the vaults.
The Girl Who Lost Her Heart
He is ill. Very ill. And he has been for a long time now. The doctors have said it won’t be very long, not in his current state. They say there is nothing they can do. That they are sorry.
But she still sits by his bedside as she has done the whole time, stroking his pale, lifeless hand, dozing occasionally, but never for very long. They have tried to make her leave, to get some rest, but she refuses, quietly but firmly, and they have let her be, leaving her alone with him, not disturbing her in her silent watch. Let her have these last few days with him. It won’t be very long now. And she waits.
It is well past midnight, and the hospital is dark. She’s nodded off, but suddenly she wakes up with a start. She hears the quiet rustle of silk and wings, and she knows who has arrived. The one she’s been waiting for. The one they’ve both been waiting for. She sees the figure easily, even in the dark – it stands out, so black that the gloom of the hospital seems almost grey in comparison.
“You can’t take him,” she says, as it bends over him, caressing his hand, the way she has done so many times in the past few weeks.
It looks up, unsurprised to see her there. “You know I must,” it replies, softly.
“Please,” she says, softly, “don’t take him from me. Take something else from me instead.”
The figure straightens. “You wish for me to take you instead?” it asks, gloomily. “That is very foolish of you, and you know that.”
She shakes her head, and swallows. “No,” she replies, quietly but firmly. She has made up her mind. “Take my heart. My heart for his life. I don’t have anything else – I don’t have any gifts you could take from me, and I don’t know if I have a soul. But I know I have a heart, because I love him. So please, take my heart, and give him back his life.”
It stands there silently for a moment, looking her in the eyes. And it knows she means it. She knows, and it knows. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” it asks, eventually. It sighs when she nods silently. “Very well,” it replies. “Come here.”
She stands up, and hesitates for a moment, bending over him in his bed. She strokes his hair, and kisses him, softly. “I love you,” she murmurs. Then she straightens, moving over to it, without a glance at him. “I’m ready,” she whispers.
The morning sun shining in the hospital window wakes her up. She opens her eyes slowly, taking in the doctors and nurses clustered around the bed in front of her (all of them exclaiming excitedly, all of them trying to examine the patient in the bed), the slight empty feeling in her chest, and the pale figure, sitting up in his bed, smiling at her – weakly, but it’s him. And she knows him.
And she does not care. She does not return his smile. She is vaguely aware that she should be concerned, as his expression becomes hurt and worried when he sees her cold eyes, looking at him like a stranger would. But she doesn’t feel concern. She doesn’t feel anything. Well, she knew she wouldn’t. It doesn’t matter now.
She doesn’t hear him cry out her name, confused and hurt, as she stands up and walks away.
She doesn’t even care.
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