Monday, 15 February 2010

Hypnoticks





I've been listening to this obsessively since James posted it on Facebook on New Year's Day. It's riveting: a bit Joy Division, a bit gloomy Sigur Rós, a bit Test Dept. I can't resist singing my own arcing, looped vocals over it, weaving in and out of the thrashing, industrial textures.

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In contrast, here's Chanticleer's sumptuous deconstruction of Perotin's Beata Viscera, refracting the music into rippling, echoing lines. Ignore the naff birdsong at the start, and the nauseatingly saccharine imagery on the video. Like 'The Sound', this is another track which starts off simply and then after about five minutes develops into a fierce, shimmering complexity.

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And, as it were halfway between the two, we have this gorgeous duet from Philip Glass's opera Akhnaten, in which the heretic pharaoh Akhnaten and his wife Nefertiti declare their love for one another. He is a countertenor and she and alto, so the sweetness and similarity of the voices is eerie: his more silvery, hers richer in tone. I listened to this constantly as a teenager, and to the following mesmerizing extract from Glass's Einstein on the Beach, which still moves me enormously:

A Lesson to Us All

Too many milieux injure an adaptible sensibility. There was once a chameleon whose owner, to keep it warm, put it on a gaudy Scottish plaid. The chameleon died of fatigue.

--Jean Cocteau, Le Potomak

Friday, 12 February 2010

Work in progress



I spent last evening starting an icon, which now has to dry a bit before I can finish it (the glue under the gold has to harden so that it can be varnished.) I'm off out to get new brushes and some more paint, and to hit Heffers. I have worked my arse off this week, including all last weekend, and I'm bloody taking the day off.

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UPDATE as of this afternoon---well, it's not a Photios Kontoglou, but it'll have to do. I can always pretend it's a Fayum mummy portrait rather than an ikon.

Tuesday, 9 February 2010

Mad



I went down to London the other night to see the ENO's production of Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor with Melanie. I think I can say without fear of contradiction from her that it was the very worst opera I've ever seen; it gave a new meaning to the phrase sourly uttered by whichever Victoria Wood character it was, 'We left at the overture.'

Now, I'd never seen any Donizetti, but I have seen a decent amount of opera and my tastes are catholic, from Monteverdi to Adams. But this was terrible. Apalling. It's a bad sign when you think after three minutes, 'God, this is dull', and an even worse one when the tragic drama of love and brooding madness has you in absolute stitches. The (to my ear) awful, trundling badness of the music was a shock as well: every aria, each of which seemed to go on for ever, was like a foursquare old-fashioned hymn tune, minimally decorated with trills. It also had that staple of bad opera directing everywhere, where people fling themselves against walls and wardrobes to indicate they are feeling really deep, like, emotions. An even worse stagecraft staple was the pointless, slow-motion milling about of the chorus in a kind of glassy, unseeing Brownian motion, grinding around the stage in search of something to do.

The first scene involves a tedious and long-winded description of the background to the plot, which is in fact very straightforward: girl loves mortal enemy of her wicked brother, and secretly swears to marry him; mortal enemy has to leave for a while, during which absence girl is deceived by wicked brother into thinking mortal enemy is unfaithful; brokenhearted, she is persuaded to marry wicked brother's nasty choice of husband. Mortal enemy comes back during wedding, curses poor gulled girl unfairly for faithlessness (instead of stupidity, which would be quite justified), girl goes mad and kills nasty husband. To my mind, this simple enough, sub-Lloyd-Webber scenario did not necessitate the immensely clunky dialogue of the first scene, which Melanie and I parodied in a text-message exchange later that night:

(Me, imitating Enrico, the wicked brother, who is tearing his hair out)
'O! Fie upon it! How shall I recover my faded patrimony and the wrack of all my ambitions, if my sister Lucia will not agree to marry Ruggiero, the brother of Seraphina, lady-in-waiting to the late Queen? But, alas! Has he not spent the last decade disguised as Dondolo, the simple-minded illegitimate son of Pedro, the wicked clergyman whose lands abutt our own?! O, me miserable! Shame, Death, Ruin!'

(Melanie, continuing)
'O woe, for sorrow! For having been dispossessed by the wicked wrong-doing of the fraudulent Belshazzaro, upon the vagaries of an ingrate sister depend all my weighty dignity and pride, bequeathed me at my father's tragic fall from the hunting mare the prophecy warned him never to mount! Praise God we have convinced her by lies of the death of her lover at the hands of pirates, secretly in our pay! Give me the lying letter!'

It would have been better in Italian, because in English it was absurd. Also, no one in the entire vaguely 19th century production seemed to like using the door: if they could possibly climb in through the window, they did. This reached its proposterous height when Edgardo, cursing poor Lucia for her faithlessness, wrapped the white tablecloth around his shoulders like a cape, in the manner of a small boy pretending to be a superhero. Draping it around himself, he then climbed out of the window. At this point, Mel and I were both convulsed with helpless laughter, and could face no more; the lure of the famously beautiful glass-harmonica-accompanied mad-scene was nothing to the prospect of a drink and a Giardiniera at Pizza Express over the road.

Monday, 1 February 2010

Mere Sontagisme



Here's an enormously amusing article about that old sacred monster Susan Sontag, similar in tenor and wry wit to Camille Paglia's uproarious dissection in Vamps & Tramps of the way that the great critic of Against Interpretation and Styles of Radical Will succumbed to narcissistic ego-bloat. (The title of Paglia's essay-cum-bitchslap, 'Sontag, Bloody Sontag', was worth the price of the book.)

I like Terry Castle from reading this. She has a fine sense of comic timing and self-mockery---on the way in which Sontag pressed her into service and driver and willing slave, she notes, 'I was rapt, like a hysterical spinster on her first visit to Bayreuth'. I'm going to get her big critical anthology The Literature of Lesbianism if it's anything like as fresh and witty as her journalism.

NB The above photo of Sontag is referred to in Castle's article.
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