Molten Lead

This morning I listened to a CD that my friend has lent to me. It is a beautiful recording of an organ recital, but I cannot 'hear' the music any more - I am deaf to its charms. My mistake was to read the sleeve-notes, and from them to find from them that the recording was made on the organ of the Frauenkirche, Dresden; in the December of 1944. Within a couple of months that sacred building and its organ would, to all intents and purposes, cease to exist. I have many recordings made by some of the finest artists which were recorded shortly before they died. Yet none of these cause me the same trouble with my conscience. I cannot 'hear' the music because I am ashamed; ashamed that I that I mourn a musical instrument and a building more than I do the tens-of-thousands of people that perished in the dreadful firestorm that was unleashed upon Dresden.

It's as if I'm blinded by the fact that people's lives are predestined to have a beginning, a middle and an end, though tragically some only get to experience their beginning and their end; they do not have the joy of the 'middle'. We describe so many treasures in this world as being 'irreplacable' - it is true that these inanimate objects are worthy of the finest care and preservation that can be afforded to them and that they be protected from the ravages of war, but shouldn't we really class their creators as irreplacable rather than their creations? In life we have to accept that a person's existence is transient, a mere flyspeck on a sand-grain which is itself part of a beach extending only as far as our imagination will allow. The Dresden building and its organ have now been recreated ('rebuilt' is an adjective which is neither strong enough nor accurate). Most people who died in Germany over those three days in February '45 will have had little to do with the Frauenkirche or its pipe organ, but if my inability now to 'hear' beauty in this music is a worthy memorial to them, then I am content.

That's my mate, that is!

I'm delighted to say that have been compelled to post this out of pride and admiration for my friend and co-peasant, Rhys Taylor. Rhys, who is a quite astoundingly talented clarinettist, has just been awarded the 2006 Bryn Terfel scholarship, which is about as good as it gets for a young artist in Wales. I can also vouch for the fact that Rhys is a phenomenally nice bloke. I know this because you can't sit with someone for the duration of forty-two shows on the back of an improvised hay-cart without learning a little of their character! It was also nice to see quite a prominent article featuring Rhys on the mid-Wales section of the BBC news website. I'm afraid that it must be admitted that the mid-Wales section of that website is more usually filled with stories about lost dogs and secret cake recipies (or was it secret dogs and lost cake recipies? I forget.) and that it has a speed of journalistic throughput that would make a glacier look like a white-knuckle ride but hey, publicity is publicity! I'll wind up this congratulatory post before I run the risk of becoming even more sycophantic. Well done Rhys! I hope that we find ourselves working together again soon.

Music is my love, but we all know how much trouble love can be!

Ah! The time to write, blissful!

In life, I've just seen off another theatre job and so have enjoyed a month of sawing, plonking and various other musical subtleties. The show was Fiddler on the Roof to be exact, with the band on stage, so I have finally graduated from merely being a lowly bass player to the dizzy heights of being a fully fledged member of the Russian peasantry! Many people have said that I "do peasant" very well but this was said most frequently before I had regailed myself with costume. Friends huh!

So it’s back to just having the day-job, which feels like a complete holiday after the exertions of fitting a nine-show theatrical week around my normal grind. Still, it does give me the luxury of not having to think about my mortgage for a couple of months.

The day-job in question is at a small but very well respected (if I may be so bold!) music shop which can be found happily nestled between the wild fastnesses of mid-Wales and the sea, where the best sunsets inhabit! (see fig. 1 [I've always wanted to write that!])
If truth be told, the site of the shop is not quite nestled right up against the sea as that would be utterly impractical for reasons of humidity. Oh, and in case I forgot to mention, there is a small university town surrounding this particular music shop which shares in its very happy nestledness.

As most people who have ever worked in a service industry will attest, the vast majority of people you come into contact with during your working day are polite, knowledgeable, lovably honest or a combination of the aforementioned. The most unfortunate thing is that these good people are the most eminently forgettable – it’s the others who stick in the mind!

I have, on two occasions in the last couple of days, dealt with doting grandmothers who have both asked the seemingly innocuous question of “Can I have some ‘nice’ piano music for my grand-daughter?” My initial reaction was to say, “That seems like a fair swap!” Thankfully I was able to rein in that initial urge – probably for the best, in the long run!

The problem with the question that was asked is, what does the word ‘nice’ mean in terms of music? If ‘nice’ is subjective to the grandmother then it throws up some problems for me:-

a) I don’t know her.

b) I don’t know her taste in music.

c) I am not of the same sex.

d) I am at least forty years her junior.


However, if the word ‘nice’ is subjective to the grand-daughter then that also throws up some problems for me:-

a) I don’t know her.

b) I don’t know her taste in music.

c) I am not of the same sex.

d) I am at least fifteen years her senior.

e) I have never so much as laid eyes on her to allow me the opportunity to try to judge what ‘nice’ might be to her.

At least there is some solace to be gained from the fact that there seems to be a level of continuity in life when it comes to people speaking purely from their own point of view and then expecting others to completely ‘get it’.

I was speaking to a confidante this week after a little ‘wobble’ in my personal life, and from that it became clear to me that people are only able to use analogies that are derived from their own personal fixations. Unfortunately, golf seemed to be the overriding influence on this particular conversation. After I had confided in him that I was not particularly happy with ‘where’ my life was as the moment he commented that “You can only play the ball from where it lies!” This, I think, was trying to tell me that there is no point in worrying about ‘where’ you are 'now' as it’s the only ‘place’ from which you can move forward. I hope that I have taken his point with its full and intended meaning but, given the fact that I probably know more about the commendable stewardship of yaks by Mongolian herdsmen than I do about golf, it can remain as nothing more than a hope. Still, I suppose that’s a lot better than it could have been!