RosieBell

The Soapium of the People

From Spiked:-

"Casualty is a soap in essence because it is beset by the same internal contradiction that afflicts all soap operas. Casualty is confused as to whether it should be prescriptive or descriptive: whether it should describe how people in rainy Salford or sunny Melbourne actually live - or, conversely, set an example of how they should conduct themselves, and how the world should be. Like most soaps, Casualty seeks to go down both avenues simultaneously, and this is the reason why the soap has always been an inferior genre. "

Spiked writers are confident masters of the airy dismissive.  Being both descriptive and prescriptive – that pretty much describes a whole genre and period, the nineteenth century English novel up to about George Gissing.  "The good ended happily and the bad ended unhappily.  That is what fiction means," said Oscar Wilde's Miss Prism.  Indeed, and that is what a lot of Victorian fiction does – but an inferior genre?  No way.

Spike's take on "Casualty" is not casual, however. Over in the seventies politicos' time warp that is the commentary boxes of Shiraz Socialist they are getting exercised over whether President Chavez of Venzuela was within his rights to not renew a licence for a TV station that was critical of his government.  Note that the TV station in question was a great broadcaster of soaps. So imagine:-

In Britain ITV and BBC television and radio are critical of the government (British, not Venzuelan).  Remember:-

First they came for BBC television and got rid of East Enders but I did not protest because I did not watch East Enders.

Then they came for ITV and got rid of Coronation Street but I did not protest because I did not watch Coronation Street.

Then – in the garden centres among the clematis, on the school run where the 4x4's huddled together, at the gates for flights to Tuscany it was whispered – they are coming for Radio 4 and THE ARCHERS.  The leaves tossed in the suburbs.  The rocket stirred in the salad.

There was once a leftist game called "increase the contradictions" (the old Revolutionary Communist Party, who now staff Spiked were big on this.).  That is, piecemeal reform via trade unions and single issue protest movements like anti-apartheid groups only puts a plaster on wounds which in fact should be left unbound and fester, so that finally the body politic suffers so much that it has no recourse except for revolution and the dictatorship of the proletariat.  So – East Enders, Coronation Street, The Archers, are the soapium of the people.  Remove the soapium and the misery of late industrial capitalism becomes evident. 

Conspiracy theory.  Spiked disses soap operas.  On Shiraz Socialist Leninists under assumed names add their support to the removal of broadcasting companies that run soap operas.  First in Venzuela, next in Britain.  Increase the contradictions!  Remove the soapium of the people and replace it with the exfoliating gel of revolution. 

Mitchell & Webb the people's jesters

There's a new series of the sketch show That Mitchell and Webb Sound on Radio 4.  A sketch show is a bit like an album (remember those?) - there are stand-out tracks and some fillers and if one out of three is excellent, one good and one falls flat that's a reasonable average but Mitchell and Webb's sketches are almost uniformly brilliant, from the first, in which stone age chippers are retrained for the bronze age to the seventeenth, in which a world-destroying alien invasion is reported on a news programme with requests for opinions from listeners "maybe you live on earth or know someone who does."

Their show seems to be the necessary jester, the one who tells the monarch that he is but mortal at the court of King Democracy or King You, as it is now called.  We, the people, are surrounded by courtiers, whether they are politicians who laud us for our good sense and wisdom, phone in competitions who need, in fact are ready to die for, our costly vote and flattering advertisers who praise our superior taste and discernment.  We, the credulous, need to have the piss taken out of us.   So in a talk back show the comedians beg the listeners to email or call with any thoughts or opinions or even squeaky noises. "Ignorance should not be a bar.  You may not know anything about the issue but I bet you reckon something."  And the new woman's magazine called Buy Me!, for the woman who lives and loves and loves to live and lives to love, and has everything, the greedy cow and with sex tips to please your man passed off as feminine empowerment.

Oh, and football supporters get a good ribbing as well, for acting as if each goal on their side was kicked by their own feet.  I look forward to their take on bloggers.

Five Beatles Songs

The great Norm, may he blog for ever, has been pressing his fan base to produce him a list of their five favourite Beatles songs. That's a hard task he's set us. I was going to say it is like picking your five favourite kinds flower.  Yes, relatively easy - roses, pansies and so on.  But then I realised it's like picking your five favourite kinds of plant.  Where do you start? How can you choose from all that plenty?

Anyway, my method of deciding if I really love a song is the covers band test.  You are sitting in a pub, a covers band is playing away in the background and suddenly you catch an opening riff that makes you turn away from your companions to listen.

So the first sound that would make me swivel one hundred and eighty degrees would be Shhhhhhtttttttttt   Shhhhhhhttttttt which is the opening to Come Together on the Abbey Road album.  As is often the way with such things, Come Together is exactly the opposite of my kind of song.  I like strong melodies and the tune of Come Together is repetition on a couple of notes.  I like good rhyming and on Come Together it's hit and miss, miss, miss.  I like words that make sense, and the lyrics on this song are Lennon surreal nonsense.  But I love the spareness, the singing to the groove and the guitar coming in late and then winding in and out.

I was thinking about this post as I was coming home this evening. I stopped in my local Spa.  Come Together was playing on the radio behind the counter. "Do you know what that song is?" I asked the shop assistant, who looked about nineteen.  "No, but it's The Beatles isn't it?" he said.

My second song would be While My Guitar Gently Weeps by George Harrison from the White Album.  It is a rich full sound, with beautiful guitar.  It's a wonderful song for jamming. I did it once on recorder while a friend did guitar and we improvised for hours.  "I look at the world and I know it is turning" goes over a sliding chord progression that hints at quarter tones. It's an ecstatic song.

Oh God, this is so hard.  Satirical and commonsense Beatles (Revolution)? ("But if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao/You ain't going to make it with anyone anyhow"). Tales of everyday sadness Beatles (Eleanor Rigby)? 

Back to the pub table and the covers band.  Dum da da da dum daaaah dum dum dum.  Start swinging on the chair.  Well, it's Day Tripper, released as a single, recorded during their Rubber Soul period. I approve of the woman in the song that he "Tried to please her/She only played one night stands."

(Get the sixties dancers in this video).

Next a beautiful love song, Something, also from Abbey Road.  Whenever our family would argue about who was our favourite Beatle my mother would say, "George Harrison as he wrote Something."  We would howl "but Lennon and McCartney wrote all the rest."  But she would obstinately stick to George Harrison Something and I think now that showed great judgement.  The Beatles put out a single with Come Together on one side, Something on the other.  What could be better than that? 

In this video Harrison's lady, Patti Boyd, is exquisitely pretty. "Somewhere in her smile she knows" - her smile is enchanting. 

Beatles exuberant.  Yes, Help! A song that lifts your heart and feet.  And could we ever do the happy silliness of the film again? 

Five Beatles songs.  Two by George Harrison.  Three by Lennon/McCartney.  Nothing from Sergeant Pepper, which I admire more in its music hall entirety than in its separate parts.  Nothing from Let it Be, though I have been listening to the Let it Be that was issued without the Phil Spector strings mushing and shmaltzing the sound and would put The Long and Winding Road high up in any list of love songs.

I have to get this down before other songs start banging on my inner ear demanding I choose them.  They were marvellous. What did we do to deserve them?

My atrocity is bigger than your atrocity

At Harry's Place they are bringing the various Palestinian solidarity groups to book or blog:-

Since the beginning of the year 150 Palestinians have been killed in "internal violence" in Gaza.

In the past week, more than 50 have died in "clashes" at the Nahr al-Bared Palestinian Refugee camp.

I am looking for information on rallies and other events protesting these deaths.

I think the Flying Rodent sums this up pretty well:-

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, or close up the breach with the bodies of foreigners! Give me petty-minded point scoring or give me death!

Yes, another round of Harry's Place's and SWP 's favourite game of atrocity bridge/poker.  3 suicide bombers equals 2 journalist kidnappings but is trumped by 1 air strike with civilian casualties which is trumped by 1 video'ed beheading.  Pick your teams, deal your atrocity pack and then go and play the game quietly among yourselves.

Atrocity!
There has to be some reciprocity
Mine will bomb yours
Yours will shoot mine
But now we're even
And isn't it fine.

Atrocity!
We shall measure the velocity
Of me mentioning yours
And you mentioning mine
But now we're even
And isn't it fine.

Atrocity!
See with what virtuosity
You'll excuse yours
And I'll excuse mine
Then we'll be even
And isn't that fine.

Our Jimi

I watched The Seven Ages of Rock, which instead of touching the usual milestones in rock's journey (blues, Little Richard, Elvis Presley), started off with Jimi Hendrix.  The sixties greats were interviewed to say that great as they were he was the greatest because he could play them off the stage.  Play yes - what an asset he would be in a band if he could play bass, rhythm and lead simultaneously.  You would be getting three for the price of one, though I suppose if you toured you would have to pay higher insurance premiums, what with his history of guitar burning.  But how can anyone bear to listen to that inexpressive, monotonous voice?  "He made "All Along the Watchtower" his own," someone said.  No, he sang it as if he had died a week ago.  He took all the passion out of songs. 

 

And why are rock documentaries so reverential?  They are worship, worship all the way.  There is never a dissenting voice, never any critical distance.  I saw a documentary once on Lou Reed, whom I love, but he was presented as a mixture of Shakespeare, W B Yeats and Mozart all in one.  Could it be that the only ones who know much about the documentary subjects are in fact people who have voluntarily listened to them over and over again? Those who don't like them don't listen.  The only reason I've heard Hendrix is from sharing a flat with someone who was a fan, and so used to fill the place with that sound of bored indifference. 

Crap Ghosts (2)

Gavin Inglis pointed out that when you become a ghost it must be like your first day at a new job – where's the stapler? where do I find the staples?  So perhaps manifestations are the equivalent of ghosts crashing the computers, putting entries into the wrong ledgers and forgetting the company's policy on answering the phone.  When they say "woo-oo" they are in fact trying and failing to speak.  When they write in blood on your window or mirror it's because they haven't found where the ink cartridges are.  Think of them as users of out-dated communications equipment.

It's rather like the theory of intelligent design.  The intelligent designer may be good but he's not that good.  Shading my eyes against the sun while I tried to spot a bus number the other day I thought that a good design feature to add to the human body would be a retractable visor on your forehead.  Why didn't the intelligent designer think of that?  It's obvious – if you shade your eyes with one hand you lose the use of that hand for hunting, gathering or protecting yourself against enemies.  How do I get in touch with the intelligent designer and suggest an upgrade?  I would even offer to test the beta version. 

Crap Ghosts

Last night I saw Gavin Inglis reading out from his latest book, Crap Ghosts: Second Apparition.  This is a set of stories based on the idea that ghosts are always presented as competent at haunting, going through walls etc, but why should people who are incompetent in life suddenly become efficient after death?  He told some great tales on this theme, my favourite being about a ghost seeking revenge on his childhood friend who always beat him at monopoly.  The ghostly game of monopoly the spectre forces on his living friend is a hoot.

Also, in slasher movies the slasher is astonishingly competent at hiding himself and taking split second opportunities to dispatch yet another expendable actor. In one of the Hallowe'en series of films the evil Michael Myers turned up at a big Gothic school where he wandered about knifing people, striking from various nooks and crannies.  You and I would have taken a week to find our way round that building but Michael Myers, who had been locked in a lunatic asylum for most of his life and must have been fairly well institutionalised, knew every corridor and every back stair.

Michael Myers - has he a sat nav device concealed in that knife?  His sense of direction is uncanny.

Orwell not well

In a post below I quoted examples of the "airy dismissive".  One airy dismisser thought I had been unfair and in our exchange of comments also said that he thought Orwell "just is not that good a writer".  So we agree to disagree.  Indeed.

To me Orwell's early death was a terrible blow to political and literary writing in English.  How I would have loved to have read him on McCarthyism, the Suez crisis, the Cuba missile crisis, Hungary 1956, Czechoslovakia 1968, Vietnam, the civil rights movement in the USA, the Beatles, the sexual revolution, and the destruction of town centres in the name of progressive architecture - though when it came to the women's movement he would have really got me riled.  What we have missed in not having his biography of Gissing and his critical account of Evelyn Waugh. 

George Orwell:- born 25 June 1903; died 21 January 1950.

A visit to Morningside

On the wet weekend I headed off to the library in Morningside.  My usual library is Fountainbridge, grim and dirty on the outside, and dull inside with a small collection.  Morningside is a handsome part of Edinburgh and its library has a fine big interior with a dome and marble pillars, also with a great many books that I want to read.  I handed some of them over to the librarian to be stamped.

"You were watching Newsnight Review last night," he said.

"Yes, how do you know?"

"A book by De Lillo and one by Germaine Greer." 

And indeed I had picked up the De Lillo as his latest book had been discussed on the programme and everyone seemed to reckon that he was a great writer, so I thought I would try him. Germaine Greer had been a reviewer and I had seen her book The Boy on the shelves.  She is a writer I fell in love with many years ago and however much she betrays me with her wrong-headed and perverse judgements I always come back to her and her forceful prose. 

The charity shops in Morningside are grander than the ones down my way.  The assistant was bustling about putting clothes back on hangers.  "Can I try that skirt on in the window?" I said.  "Well yes, but everyone would look at you."  The other shoppers laughed and I couldn't think of any riposte except a sarcastic, "Very witty."

On the way to visit a friend, I passed the corner where there used to be a small garden centre, and you were served by a man as old as time and eternity who gave you advice.  Now of course it has been replaced by a Starbucks and a Tesco Metro, which seems to be a grossly obvious satire.

The Airy Dismissive

The airy dismissive is a rhetorical device used by smart alecs about people whose works you have great respect for.  Three instances I've come across recently:-

James Heartfield in Spiked describing Orwell as a "Cold War propagandist".

Guy Rundle also in Spiked describing Clive James as a "former clip-show host".

Tony Judt in The New York Review of Books saying "no one who reads it will ever take E.P. Thompson seriously again".

The airy dismisser picks up someone's writings, weighty both in volume and in substance and with a knowing smirk chucks them aside like a CD of 1995 club anthems.  He reduces a world of wide variety into a Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy entry patronising the planet earth as "mostly harmless".  He is the intellectual sound biter.

The airy dismisser is a bright fellow pursuing a career in journalism or the academy.  You will recognise the airy dismisser as after reading one of his put-downs of authors you admire you will want to punch him. 

Lord dismiss him with our curses.