Racetrack Wiseguy on the World Cup

 Horrific exploitation of readily-duped supporters who have been conditioned into a state of bad faith passionate engagement it clearly is but I'm torn between how much of a critic of the once-much-loved World Cup I'm prepared to be and how much a dissenter from the once-almost-unassailable orthodoxy of Marxist analysis. One wants to be both but the usual liberal dilemmas apply and it's a bit of each.

It's an absolute piece of cake, though, to re-invigorate the turf account. Not on the horse racing turf but on the football turf of the Americas in summer. I was on the lookout for an obvious group game win to pile into at odds on to generate some ammunition. I'm glad I did enough research into Brazil to find that Pele & Co have retired by now and it isn't proper Brazil anymore. While a few 'dead certs' went in, other good things did not and one wants to be risk averse when one false move puts one in the minus for the year and I'm not used to that.

But, working through the draw and how it all pans out after it began to look like some other old, much-vaunted old names weren't much good, it seemed that there wasn't a lot in Argentina's way to the final and only Spain were a danger to France. Patriotism, 'the last refuge of a scoundrel' according to Dr. Johnson, does one no favours and I'm glad I don't suffer from it. 

France to beat Argentina in the final paid 22/1 only a few days ago and the other way round it was 25/1. Nothing but the entirely expected has happened to either of them in the meantime but those prices have collapsed and I can already take a modest profit from having invested.

But you'd think there was more to be had, that we can wait until just before the semi-finals and then cash out one or both bets or maybe even field against Spain.

So far, it feels like taking candy from a baby but I haven't snatched it off them yet. I'm waiting for my moment. One mustn't leave it too late in case they suddenly swallow the lot but one doesn't want to go too soon because there could be odds of more than 20/1 to be landed.

It's not that that keeps me awake at night, it's other things and I don't mind being awake at night. I'm enjoying being in this advantageous position. I've just got to make sure I don't blow it.

Library Discovery

My reading of Henry James ground to a halt halfway through The Ambassadors. I felt I needed to borrow the rubber stamp Larkin had made that he used on unsolicited poems he was sent, 'Why should I care?'

Sitting in my upstairs room, the second half of the alphabet of prose fiction is on my right hand side. Closest to hand is Dylan Thomas, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog, very good to return to and maybe I approve of him more in prose fiction than in poems. But Treasure Island was worth picking up and I'm enjoying it very much. I knew how old it was but hadn't realized it was a Christmas present from 1967. It is inscribed to me from Aunty Joan and Uncle Andy, who do not appear on the family tree but were next door neighbours.

A 235 page novel is a big ask for an 8yo and I don't think I ever got further than its first two or three pages, which were a bit scary. I'd like to think Uncle Andy, and Joan who I don't remember now, would be glad to know I'm grateful, 59 years later. It's not my oldest possession but comes in not far behind my dog, Jock, who arrived at my first Christmas in 1959, and is roughly contemporaneous with my Astronomy books that tell me that Jupiter has 16 moons and Saturn 9. At least they were ahead of Galileo who thought Jupiter had 4.  

Jeffrey Turner - A House Called Paradise

 Jeffrey Turner, A House Called Paradise (Chestnut Press)

I am the privileged and grateful recipient of a copy of this limited edition produced 'for private distribution'. If it hadn't dawned on me years ago, when it should have, I'm beginning to grasp now that in the poetry world much depends on who you know. Now that I'm glad to benefit from sometimes knowing such people.

The Chestnut Press take special pleasure in producing these editions on fine paper, elegantly typeset and Jeff Turner is a poet they rightly regard as one whose poems are worthy of such presentation.

Flumen est Arar, Julius Caesar begins a passage in De Bello Gallico, before going on to explain that there is a river Arar that flows so incredibly slowly that it is impossible to tell with the naked eye in which direction it is flowing. Not all of that rote learning done to achieve 'O' level Latin fifty years ago was wasted. That line comes to mind now as almost appropriate to how Jeff's poetry works. It is luxuriantly slow-moving. It doesn't demand anything beyond patience but it certainly rewards close reading. It can't possibly have been poured out in a rush of inspiration. It must have been thought over, finessed and allowed to mature in a way that I'm sure those who enjoy fine wines or whisky would understand.

It is contingent, feeling as if it might be somehow formal or metrical but not being, exploring what might be only to find that the exploration was all there was, like,

                a track that stumbles on, uncertain

whether to find or lose itself. 

That is both a theme and the way the theme is expressed and, as such, a paragon example of how poetry at its best can extend beyond the shackles of the language it needs to escape from. Before too long, this pathway and the house called Paradise that it leads to are both the poem and an extended metaphor for life itself and,

We must take them at their word

And take our chance that this is paradise:

 

One is even impressed with four judicious semi-colons in a 45-line poem. A couple more might have made Jeff look like a campaigner for the preservation of a threatened species of punctuation but they become necessary, if not quietly radiant, in such considered writing.

But, reading as closely as I have, I've gone back several times to find how the mice evoked in the final stanza can be called 'they' when such a pronoun must surely refer to some entity previously mentioned. I go back to those that 'we take at their word', who before that 'meant to stay' and before that were 'whoever built it' and either Jeff has performed some syntactical legerdemain, it's poetry taking a bit of a chance or the poem has been loosed from its moorings. But,

There is no more, they are saying.

No further on to find

Beyond the memory of what never was.

 

Which leaves us none the wiser, then, but with some sense of having been somewhere and seen something. I told you it was about 'life'.  

Sara Deborah Timossi & Valentina Seferinova: Songs of Summer

 Sara Deborah Timossi & Valentina Seferinova, St. Peter's, Petersfield, June 27

Once upon a time I went all the way to the Handel House in Mayfair to hear the few minutes of the Biber Passacaglia in real life so it's not too much to go to Petersfield to hear some choice Ysaÿe. Such opportunities are rare. It's like being an ornithologist going off in search of a not-often-seen species of bird.

The magnum opus was really Mozart's Sonata KV. 454, though, first up and an ideal piece in which to witness the fine balance and understanding achieved by these two friends. I understand on no lesser authority than that of Alfred Brendel that Mozart is difficult because there's 'no hiding place'. As it happens, Sara and Valentina don't need such a thing. My first encounters with Valentina involved her explosive Romantic repertoire, like Joachim Raff, and so it's been hard to shift those first impressions of her but that little local difficulty is surely resolved now after the delicate opening Largo and the frolic of the Allegro with Sara's courtly etiquette embroidered in. The Andante was poignant as perhaps only Mozart can be, the gorgeousness completed with the sweetness and light Allegretto. People sometimes discuss which composers they'd most like to have met. I'm sure Mozart would have been memorable but he might have been a pain in the neck at times. As is often the case, it's the work we treasure irrespective of who wrote it.

The Danse Rustique from Ysaÿe's Sonata for Solo Violin, op. 27, no. 5, was as spectacular as could have been hoped. Surely not to be undertaken lightly as an example of the supreme virtuoso's masterpiece. Quite how the pizzicato notes were fitted in during the tour de force of bowing remained on the outskirts of understanding. Like the Bach Partitas that this music is surely related to, one wonders that the violinist does it with only the standard issue two hands. But Sara is a calm presence, doing it without the extravagant gestures that some either feel the need of or put in for dramatic effect.

Following our latest heatwave, conditions were perfect with the church doors left open and ultimate levels of comfort made for the ambience we might remember as being right for Songs of Summer and Romance. It was quite recently that some 'small-scale' Tchaikovsky was available in Chichester, not that he is ever knowingly small in scope. Valentina opened the second half with more such in a luxurious June from The Seasons, op. 37a, all en plein air and verdant before melting way. Lushness continued in the Three Romances, op. 22, by Clara Schumann, culminating in the rolling lyricism of the Leidenschaftlich schnell, the translation of which belies my interpretation of it.

Manuel de Falla's miniatures in Suite Populaire Espagnole expanded the variety of music further with some rich atmospherics. From the piano dance rhythms of El Pan Moruno, Sara's mute strings in Nana and into the dark heart of Polo, we were left to contemplate the possibilities of things not quite as civilized as Mozart but we also left contemplating consummate musicianship presented for the sheer pleasure of it.

Completing Bach and other stories

 It was July 8th last year when I found the Complete Works of Bach, 172 discs in a pristine, unopened box, in the Chichester Oxfam shop last year. £49.99, the bargain of the year.

I have seven discs left to play and so should finish the project in a year. Listening to them, or letting them play is one thing, writing it all is entirely another. I'm suspicious of the Hockney types from who art pours out and I like the frugality of Elizabeth Bishop but Bach had the recipe right. It's the cantatas that keep on coming and where there were pieces not knowingly heard before to be discovered. It was mainly the organ music that got left until last but even in among that, some of which sounded like doodling, there were memorable things to be had, like the inventive Passacaglia BWV 582 and the very taking setting of a Vivaldi Concerto, BWV 594.

The discs of Chorale Settings are not his fault, nor that the Well-Tempered Klavier was shared between organ and harpsichord. Bach was not in a position to write for the pianoforte but I think he would have if he had been. Thus, overall, it's not 172 discs of uninterrupted wonder but it's difficult to think of anybody else whose output contained quite so much or whose Top 6 needs to leave quite so much out, whose next six would be far ahead of anybody else's first. I hope I'm not overstating the case.

The piano Well-Tempered Klavier, Tatiana Nikoloyeva, must be in the Bach Top 6. Having had that, it might be hard to justify the partitas as well in the interests of variety. The solo Violin Partitas have to be in there. Possibly Rachel Podger. The Double Violin Concerto, Yehudi Menuhin and David Oistrakh. The Brandenburg Concertos with Harnoncourt. Which already only leaves us two remaining places for choral work. But, idiosyncratically and abandoning any attempt at a representative half dozen, I will have the keyboard Partitas, ahead of the Goldberg Variations, not by Glenn Gould, the Cello Suites where it could be Yo-Yo Ma.

--

Sliding down in my estimation after such a good start is Henry James now that I'm into the titles that got him his reputation. The recent heat hasn't helped when even reading seemed like an effort but especially an effort when one is less concerned about what happens to the people in The Ambassadors than one had been in the previous one. Henry James might have got unlucky by my overloading myself with his books too eagerly and too soon and then running into a heatwave but all I ever understood and his elaborate prose has become evident and if I can battle on stoically through the words of this book, I'll need to give him a rest before going back to him.

Keir Starmer

This is one way a worthwhile poem can get itself written. I'm sure there are others.

I have a lot of time for Keir Starmer. You shouldn't need to be charismatic to be Prime Minister. Attlee was the best ever and Boris the worst until they somehow found Liz Truss but that needs us to redefine 'charisma' as 'see-through vanity project with no concept of the truth'. Churchill said that an empty taxi drew up and Clement Attlee got out of it. A possible near miss of an insult although not as accurate as saying, 'a better Prime Minister than me got out'.

It was when R.E.M. The Great Beyond came up on Spotify that the first impulse to write something in tribute to Keir Starmer was joined by a way of doing it. It's useful for more than one thing to be going on in a poem. While it might be true to say 'the sky is blue', it doesn't make a poem. Once one's done something to explain how or why, there begins the possibility of a poem. It turned out that Keir was,

 pushing an elephant up the stairs,

  tossing up punch lines that were never there

Over my shoulder a piano falls

Crashing to the ground 

 

I liked Keir Starmer while always aware that he was a politician and thus, almost by definition, not entirely to be trusted. He had the right iconic hero among his reference points in Harold Wilson and, thanks to the disasters of the obviously outgoing Conservative administration, had the same sort of gimme landslide General Election win that Blair had, once he'd reformed the Labour Party from its inward, Corbynite paradoxes. 

I remember Tony Benn, decades ago, claiming that Labour only won General Elections on 'left-wing' manifestos. But, no, the presumed natural Labour constituency in the lower-paid and under-privileged aren't interested in political correctness, gender identity and Palestine. They haven't read Karl Marx and are more interested in a better world for themselves than one for everyone and so express their rebellion by voting for Farage and his ramshackle band of under-vetted, makeshift chancers.

 

Our electoral system provided Starmer with the most unlikely majority in the House of Commons, so overwhelming in seats but so unjustified by the popular vote and, more crucially, so unsupported by the rank and file of those seats once he had shifted from the 'leftist' attitudes he had espoused in order to get there to the Blue Labour attempts that he and Rachel Reeves undertook to actually balance the books.

Anybody in any sort of business is aware that one can't sustain a loss for long. A country is no different once it's so overly borrowed that its interest payments are taking all the money it would prefer to spend on- defence, NHS, Police, potholes and every other crisis one hears about to which the answer the expert advises is 'more government spending'.

Despite inheriting the 'years of Tory misrule', Keir ran into the 'headwinds' of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, the unreliability of a gimcrack President of the USA who had so enthusiastically endorsed Boris but subsequently failed to end the war in Ukraine in 24 hours as promised. But as much as anything he ran into his own backbenchers who hadn't thought they'd been elected to cut benefits and maybe the fatal flaw in the Starmer tragedy was that he got there under false pretences and so wasn't in a position to balance the books once it was his job to.

He might well feel aggrieved, though, having achieved a certain amount on NHS waiting lists, migration and a steady if not expansive economy. He was a vast improvement on his predecessors and got little credit for it.  

 

Tianyang Han in Chichester

 Tianyang Han, Chichester Cathedral, June 23

In the bleak midsummer, the heat might make some moan. Reluctant to though I am, I am not alone. Thus an hour in the relative cool of the Chichester nave is as welcome as those precious moments standing under a Tesco air-conditioning unit, even more so given a soundtrack much preferable to what they usually play. 

A significant part of the greatness of Brahms is tucked away in the late chamber music like the op. 118 Klavierstücke. It's not often that a programme begins with its highlight but the second of the six immediately provided the best tune, judiciously played, in all its teneramente consolation. 

The third and fourth are an excursion into quicker tempi before a return to contemplation in a possibly night-time Romanze and the luminous light-touch in the final Andante. 

More deliberately 'poetic' and descriptive, as explained in its title, one of the 24 Debussy Preludes evoked how The sounds and fragrances swirl through the evening air where it might have benefitted from leaving interpretation to the listener and I'd have found in it an unsettled but not restless subconscious. Then another of them, Minstrels, was rhythmically more various, more modern and short.

Three of the Six Rachmaninov Moments Musicaux then made me wonder if the Brahms was such a shoo-in for top billing. Not for the first time, Rachmaninov excels in live performance in the right hands, some way above where I'd rate him as a composer.

The No. 2 Allegretto burst into a swelling downpour of notes and suddenly revealed an entirely other side of Tianyang's virtuosity after the earlier subtleties. No. 3 was a solemn Andante cantabile before the Presto No. 4 was driven by a powerful left hand with torrents and drama in the right. Two people sitting next to me- who possibly knew her- lured me into a standing ovation almost by osmosis but I was easily persuaded after the programme had grown so impressively in its 45 minutes or so.

What I do on a regular basis at these events is report on them. It's journalism. Some generous types call it reviewing but I do it to celebrate rather than judge and I'd draw the line well before being raised to the level of critic. There have been one or two occasions when I'd prefer not to say anything and so haven't but I'm regularly made uncharacteristically Panglossian in the manner of Candide by the majority of music events. Almost optimistic enough to want to read Leibniz. But, as far as these frail critical faculties allow, I'm prepared to estimate that Tianyang was above the customary high standard of technique and musicianship and is one to follow.

And that makes for a good place to rest from jabbing at my own keyboard for a while. If the concerts aren't quite over before the dog days of summer, the reviewing probably is. We can but look forward to September when Autumn is ycumen in.