Singing today, I realised what it is that gives evensong its melancholy edge. The dimly-lit chapel late on a Wednesday afternoon, the shadows drawing closer, the few hardy members of the austere Scottish congregation hugging their winter coats around them as the dark falls ever earlier and we slip into the gloomy tunnel that is November. The wind howls around the stone walls and sheets of rain dash against the windows.
Turn not thy servants empty away, for we have thee as our only hope
Defend us from all perils and dangers of this night
Save us, O Lord, while waking and guard us while sleeping
The night creeps closer and the candles flicker and sputter in the draft - an echo of the gale whipping up the waves outside.
Bare branches rattle against the panes, trees are stripped and contorted as though with grief.
At this time of year, we are alone - deep in the night we listen to breath coming in gasps and cannot reach out to comfort the sleeper. We are the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time and the dark is all around and winter is coming.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
Thursday, 23 September 2010
Evensong blues
Apart from the fact that it can be typo-d into 'evensnog', which is intrinsically, childishly amusing, autumn evensong (nearly did it again) is a melancholy time of day.
Late September to early October is a time for sitting in church organ lofts, watching specks of dust suspended in the fading rays of the autumn sun. It's a minor key time, slipping back into the vaguely-familiar cadences of liturgy and response, soft notes glowing faintly like the cooling embers of the dying year. Outside, the waves break unseen against the rocks in the dark and we huddle in the empty chapel, cold shivers mimicking a frisson of anticipation: for what? The cool touch of salt-soaked grey stone, the scent of old oak, distant woodsmoke and freezing mist. Darkness falls and the sea cradles the town in huge grey oblivion.
The cycle ride downhill in the blackness, no lights, no helmet, slicing through the searing air to burst into the house tingling in the sudden warmth.
It will be several weeks before Christmas music begins, and the perils of this night are still all too real. And yet - somehow - you wake with a feeling of boundless possibility: a hot shower, a walk to lectures in the fresh, early morning air. You are not yet set in stone, you stand poised to ride whatever wave may carry you: life is a vast ocean of limitless potential.
Late September to early October is a time for sitting in church organ lofts, watching specks of dust suspended in the fading rays of the autumn sun. It's a minor key time, slipping back into the vaguely-familiar cadences of liturgy and response, soft notes glowing faintly like the cooling embers of the dying year. Outside, the waves break unseen against the rocks in the dark and we huddle in the empty chapel, cold shivers mimicking a frisson of anticipation: for what? The cool touch of salt-soaked grey stone, the scent of old oak, distant woodsmoke and freezing mist. Darkness falls and the sea cradles the town in huge grey oblivion.
The cycle ride downhill in the blackness, no lights, no helmet, slicing through the searing air to burst into the house tingling in the sudden warmth.
It will be several weeks before Christmas music begins, and the perils of this night are still all too real. And yet - somehow - you wake with a feeling of boundless possibility: a hot shower, a walk to lectures in the fresh, early morning air. You are not yet set in stone, you stand poised to ride whatever wave may carry you: life is a vast ocean of limitless potential.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Music, underground, continued.
I've just realised I entirely missed the point of my last post.
What I meant to write was a systematic analysis of the economic interest behind accordion-playing on the metro, given that the accordion player in question is generally greeted only by dismayed faces and desperate, vain door-banging on the part of anguished commuters trying to escape the cacophony.
Surely the persistence of accordionists on the underground rails of Brussels points to an underlying demand for accordion music? If so, who are these lovers of squeezy, wheezy folk music? Just who is paying the piper? I have never in my whole entire six months (ahem, I mean two-and-a-half weeks Mr Belgian VAT Man) in Brussels seen anyone give them money. Not even to stop. Perhaps there is some fabulously wealthy Euro-millionaire who regularly buys peace and quiet on the way home with a fat euro-cheque, but I very much doubt it (surely these people would have drivers?).
And if nobody is paying them, then why continue? Is it a highly-sophisticated distraction technique, intended to leave the poor commuter hunched in pain while the accordionist's child accomplice pinches their wallet? Or is there some other profit of which I am unaware?
I would be very interested to know who or what creates a demand for such a product in such a location.
Is it you?
What I meant to write was a systematic analysis of the economic interest behind accordion-playing on the metro, given that the accordion player in question is generally greeted only by dismayed faces and desperate, vain door-banging on the part of anguished commuters trying to escape the cacophony.
Surely the persistence of accordionists on the underground rails of Brussels points to an underlying demand for accordion music? If so, who are these lovers of squeezy, wheezy folk music? Just who is paying the piper? I have never in my whole entire six months (ahem, I mean two-and-a-half weeks Mr Belgian VAT Man) in Brussels seen anyone give them money. Not even to stop. Perhaps there is some fabulously wealthy Euro-millionaire who regularly buys peace and quiet on the way home with a fat euro-cheque, but I very much doubt it (surely these people would have drivers?).
And if nobody is paying them, then why continue? Is it a highly-sophisticated distraction technique, intended to leave the poor commuter hunched in pain while the accordionist's child accomplice pinches their wallet? Or is there some other profit of which I am unaware?
I would be very interested to know who or what creates a demand for such a product in such a location.
Is it you?
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Music, underground.
I found Brussels metro surprisingly tranquil for the first few months after my arrival. However, it seems that the little accordion guys have found a way to sneak the bastards on board: you can tell an accordionist by the suspicious bundle, carried at chest height and sheathed in black plastic bags or a large black cloth. No sooner have the doors swooshed shut then, with a triumphant grin, they whip off the cover and start to force a wheezy caterwaul out of the poor battered instrument.
As soon as you see the smile spread across his little face, your heart sinks and you try to get as far away from the awful noise as possible. It is bad enough that your ears are already assaulted by canned music at each metro stop without also having to sacrifice the relative peace of the train carriage.
Now, I am not against accordion music per se: I rather admire the Ukrainian accordionists who play on the Kraków Rynek (although they have a repertoire of three - Mozart's Turkish Rondo, Bach's Toccata in Hammer Horror minor and I forget the other one. Maybe there isn't a third one). But what I appreciate most is the choice: stop and listen, or walk on by. I do not like being stuck in a tin box hurtling down a tunnel, crammed into a corner with a bloody accordionist for heavens' sake, and no 'mute' button.
The selection of platform muzak at Brussels' metro stations is eclectic to say the least. I have heard - regularly, uncensored, at Arts-Loi - a sweet little ditty from Lily Allen's latest album, entitled 'Bless you'. Well, something like that anyway. Put it this way, BBC Radio 1 can't play it: there would be no lyrics left in.
Are you kidding, Brussels? Does nobody at STIB/MIVB actually speak English?! And even if they don't, surely the One English Word that everybody knows (apart from 'ok' and 'coca cola') is precisely that one?!
In any case, at around six in the evening (at least at the weekend), the piped pop is replaced by soothing classical music: presumably to ward off the Belgian equivalent of hoodies. The classical selection is actually not too bad. Sometimes it's better than Klara Continuo (maybe it is Klara Continuo).
One of the best things about living in a pedantic country like Belgium is the sense of triumph you get when you finally find a way of undermining the system. Stand up for your rights! Refuse to submit to metro muzak! Fight fire with fire...
... by singing along. We wouldn't judge you.
(altogether now...
Va pensieeeero! sull'ali dora-a-a-te!
As soon as you see the smile spread across his little face, your heart sinks and you try to get as far away from the awful noise as possible. It is bad enough that your ears are already assaulted by canned music at each metro stop without also having to sacrifice the relative peace of the train carriage.
Now, I am not against accordion music per se: I rather admire the Ukrainian accordionists who play on the Kraków Rynek (although they have a repertoire of three - Mozart's Turkish Rondo, Bach's Toccata in Hammer Horror minor and I forget the other one. Maybe there isn't a third one). But what I appreciate most is the choice: stop and listen, or walk on by. I do not like being stuck in a tin box hurtling down a tunnel, crammed into a corner with a bloody accordionist for heavens' sake, and no 'mute' button.
The selection of platform muzak at Brussels' metro stations is eclectic to say the least. I have heard - regularly, uncensored, at Arts-Loi - a sweet little ditty from Lily Allen's latest album, entitled 'Bless you'. Well, something like that anyway. Put it this way, BBC Radio 1 can't play it: there would be no lyrics left in.
Are you kidding, Brussels? Does nobody at STIB/MIVB actually speak English?! And even if they don't, surely the One English Word that everybody knows (apart from 'ok' and 'coca cola') is precisely that one?!
In any case, at around six in the evening (at least at the weekend), the piped pop is replaced by soothing classical music: presumably to ward off the Belgian equivalent of hoodies. The classical selection is actually not too bad. Sometimes it's better than Klara Continuo (maybe it is Klara Continuo).
One of the best things about living in a pedantic country like Belgium is the sense of triumph you get when you finally find a way of undermining the system. Stand up for your rights! Refuse to submit to metro muzak! Fight fire with fire...
... by singing along. We wouldn't judge you.
(altogether now...
Va pensieeeero! sull'ali dora-a-a-te!
Thursday, 17 December 2009
Bach
Bach's Mass in B Minor is a dark, brooding work of enormous depth and myriad layers. It is a work you sing maybe once in a lifetime, if you are a lucky amateur. It lasts a whopping two hours (topping even the highest of the high Anglicans for stamina in church) and builds from a quite literally spine-tingling opening Kyrie, trips joyfully over the Gloria, through a complex, emotional Credo and sweepingly majestic Sanctus to finish with a quiet, simple heavenward plea - Dona nobis pace.
Bach well understood the human condition: the despair of the Crucifixus is all too human and the closing Dona Nobis is a humble expression of hope.
The Mass soars and swoops from ecstatic to destitute to elated, as do we all.
I recommend finding somewhere to listen to it, maybe this weekend.
Bach well understood the human condition: the despair of the Crucifixus is all too human and the closing Dona Nobis is a humble expression of hope.
The Mass soars and swoops from ecstatic to destitute to elated, as do we all.
I recommend finding somewhere to listen to it, maybe this weekend.
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Belgian Weird, part deux
I totally forgot Speculoos!
Not something scary wielded by your gynaecologist but rather a type of caramelised, cinnamony biscuit served with coffee. You know, the free ones that people in other countries just ignore.
Belgians are obsessed by them! To be honest, I've never seen a Belgian person actually go out and actively buy speculoos to dunk in their tea, but this may be because I live in Brussels and have rarely seen a Belgian person do.. well... anything.
It is traditionally eaten on St Nicolas' day (i.e. NOW) and the supermarkets sell it in big festive slabs.
But that's not where the obsession ends: speculoos crops up in desserts, ice-cream flavours, even a sort of speculoos-nutella.
Speculoos on Wikipedia
Gosh, isn't it great to be a Belgian?
The Belgian Song
Not something scary wielded by your gynaecologist but rather a type of caramelised, cinnamony biscuit served with coffee. You know, the free ones that people in other countries just ignore.
Belgians are obsessed by them! To be honest, I've never seen a Belgian person actually go out and actively buy speculoos to dunk in their tea, but this may be because I live in Brussels and have rarely seen a Belgian person do.. well... anything.
It is traditionally eaten on St Nicolas' day (i.e. NOW) and the supermarkets sell it in big festive slabs.
But that's not where the obsession ends: speculoos crops up in desserts, ice-cream flavours, even a sort of speculoos-nutella.
Speculoos on Wikipedia
Gosh, isn't it great to be a Belgian?
The Belgian Song
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Friday, 9 October 2009
Friday night musical
Because life should be like an old musical.
Time to find myself a Belgian salsa class...
Friday, 17 July 2009
Music Room
Last week I did two things I haven't done for a little while.
No, not that. If only.
Hidden deep in the bowels of the conference centre are three music rooms. Not so far from the interpreting booths actually - the old disused ones that look out onto nowhere.
There's a lovely black Bechstein piano and a dog-eared copy of Bach's Woll-Temperierte Klavier as well as some Schubert impromptus on fragile leaves and as your fingers stumble over the keys all the chatter clears from your mind and you can really think finally.
You might think, for example, that you found and that you played from exactly the same ragged fragments of music last year and that this year it is somehow more difficult: the memory of the music moves your hands but in some way they are less agile, less accustomed to the exercise - they trip and falter under the sheer emotion of the melody and you cannot fill the notes with the expressive quality that you would like.
This week I bit the bullet and recorded myself in the booth. I won't go into details but - if I could forget just for one second that it was me speaking and pretend that it was some complete stranger - the comedy value would be immense.
As with the piano, I want to express the idea elegantly, I want it to sound smooth and pretty and legato but I am out of condition and it's more staccato, rubato and generally agitato with the odd note of vibrato where more than a hint of a doubt starts to creep in.
Why is it that choosing one way means missing out on something else?
I love living in Kraków, and I value the experiences of the past two years, but I wonder what I have missed by being here. Could I have lived for two years in Paris instead, spending Sundays at the market near Bastille or daydreaming around the Butte de Montmartre? If in two years I managed to learn enough Polish to stagger through a conversation in the back room of Kolory, imagine how much I could have improved and perfected my French instead! I could have travelled to Italy, lived in Florence, taught English and finally Learnt to Appreciate Art! Or moved into London and worked in a suit in the City.
Can't you hear the doors slamming shut all around you?
So you make choices and you travel and you run after one thing and neglect another. You forget that you are a musician, or a writer, or a lover, and you chase something else that you have never been.
Eventually you flit from place to place, trying to catch up with whatever essential intangible thing it is that you are missing. You avoid commitment to one home as you avoid attachment to one person. When you want to daydream, well, you take out old memories like photographs, blow the dust off them, and leaf through them, soothed by the fact that they are closed history and that you can just as easily slip them back into the album where they belong.
So what now?
No, not that. If only.
Hidden deep in the bowels of the conference centre are three music rooms. Not so far from the interpreting booths actually - the old disused ones that look out onto nowhere.
There's a lovely black Bechstein piano and a dog-eared copy of Bach's Woll-Temperierte Klavier as well as some Schubert impromptus on fragile leaves and as your fingers stumble over the keys all the chatter clears from your mind and you can really think finally.
You might think, for example, that you found and that you played from exactly the same ragged fragments of music last year and that this year it is somehow more difficult: the memory of the music moves your hands but in some way they are less agile, less accustomed to the exercise - they trip and falter under the sheer emotion of the melody and you cannot fill the notes with the expressive quality that you would like.
This week I bit the bullet and recorded myself in the booth. I won't go into details but - if I could forget just for one second that it was me speaking and pretend that it was some complete stranger - the comedy value would be immense.
As with the piano, I want to express the idea elegantly, I want it to sound smooth and pretty and legato but I am out of condition and it's more staccato, rubato and generally agitato with the odd note of vibrato where more than a hint of a doubt starts to creep in.
Why is it that choosing one way means missing out on something else?
I love living in Kraków, and I value the experiences of the past two years, but I wonder what I have missed by being here. Could I have lived for two years in Paris instead, spending Sundays at the market near Bastille or daydreaming around the Butte de Montmartre? If in two years I managed to learn enough Polish to stagger through a conversation in the back room of Kolory, imagine how much I could have improved and perfected my French instead! I could have travelled to Italy, lived in Florence, taught English and finally Learnt to Appreciate Art! Or moved into London and worked in a suit in the City.
Can't you hear the doors slamming shut all around you?
So you make choices and you travel and you run after one thing and neglect another. You forget that you are a musician, or a writer, or a lover, and you chase something else that you have never been.
Eventually you flit from place to place, trying to catch up with whatever essential intangible thing it is that you are missing. You avoid commitment to one home as you avoid attachment to one person. When you want to daydream, well, you take out old memories like photographs, blow the dust off them, and leaf through them, soothed by the fact that they are closed history and that you can just as easily slip them back into the album where they belong.
So what now?
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Lesson in comparative adjectives
For some time now, I have suspected that our grammar teacher (Bad Cop) is hiding a heady youth filled with Polish rock music.
Every week or so, we revise (and occasionally just 'vise') a section of Polish grammar, and every other week, more or less, we receive the lyrics of a new rock song or two.
It began innocently enough, with the past (imperfect) and Marek Grechuta (and the Myslovitz cover) of Kraków...
... another taste of Marek Grechuta for a bit of locative case practice
'Zgubieni w krzyku megafonów
W ogromnym światów wielkim'...
(Znajdziemy sobie)
... then things got serious, with a little dopelniacz (genitive) my friend:
'Ile razem dróg przebytych?
Ile ścieżek przedeptanych?
Ile deszczów, ile śniegów
wiszżcych nad latarniami?'
(ps, still Marek Grechuta - lyrics by Konstanty Ildefons Gałczyński - if this seems a little too detailed it's cause I used to write essays a lot and I'm afraid of copyright law)
...
A little change brought us back to the future (tense) with Edward Stachura...
...but today's offering on comparative forms topped them all:
Altogether now:
Wierniejsza od marzenia
Weselsza niż wspomnienia
Cenniejsza od zaszczytów
Piękniejsza od zachwytów
Wierniejsza od marzenia
Otwarta na spojrzenia
Silniejsza niż nadzieja
Pogodna jak niedziela
It's helping with the PIT rage, really it is...
Every week or so, we revise (and occasionally just 'vise') a section of Polish grammar, and every other week, more or less, we receive the lyrics of a new rock song or two.
It began innocently enough, with the past (imperfect) and Marek Grechuta (and the Myslovitz cover) of Kraków...
... another taste of Marek Grechuta for a bit of locative case practice
'Zgubieni w krzyku megafonów
W ogromnym światów wielkim'...
(Znajdziemy sobie)
... then things got serious, with a little dopelniacz (genitive) my friend:
'Ile razem dróg przebytych?
Ile ścieżek przedeptanych?
Ile deszczów, ile śniegów
wiszżcych nad latarniami?'
(ps, still Marek Grechuta - lyrics by Konstanty Ildefons Gałczyński - if this seems a little too detailed it's cause I used to write essays a lot and I'm afraid of copyright law)
...
A little change brought us back to the future (tense) with Edward Stachura...
...but today's offering on comparative forms topped them all:
Altogether now:
Wierniejsza od marzenia
Weselsza niż wspomnienia
Cenniejsza od zaszczytów
Piękniejsza od zachwytów
Wierniejsza od marzenia
Otwarta na spojrzenia
Silniejsza niż nadzieja
Pogodna jak niedziela
It's helping with the PIT rage, really it is...
Monday, 27 April 2009
Urząd Skarbowy
I stepped off bus 194 into the heart of Kraków's northern badlands. All around were brightly coloured blocks like matchboxes. Squatting behind the bus stop was a low building incorporating KFC, Lewiathan and one of those new plastic internet banks, all slowly, dustily baking in the sunlight. It was classic osiedle territory, even down to the kids swinging on the carpet-beating frame. Not an Urząd in sight.
Next to Lewiathan was an old guy slowly turning a rotisserie on which chickens and various other bits of carcass were skewed. I strolled over to ask him for directions....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~##########@@@@@@@#######~~~~~~~~~~~~
The management would like to apologise for the interruption of this post due to excess rage. Normal service will be restored once the author has calmed down and filled in her PIT-37 online.
In the meantime, please enjoy this soothing music video:
Next to Lewiathan was an old guy slowly turning a rotisserie on which chickens and various other bits of carcass were skewed. I strolled over to ask him for directions....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~##########@@@@@@@#######~~~~~~~~~~~~
The management would like to apologise for the interruption of this post due to excess rage. Normal service will be restored once the author has calmed down and filled in her PIT-37 online.
In the meantime, please enjoy this soothing music video:
Monday, 21 July 2008
And all that jazz
Nigel Kennedy, making his Prom comeback big-stylie, is described by the Radio Times as 'a part-time resident of Poland' and part of the 'funky Krakow jazz scene'.
Firstly - I saw only one NK gig advertised in Kraków the whole duration of my stay, and that was a rather sedate concert in the Tempel (or Nowy... I'm not sure - the one on Miodowa, opposite Estery) Synagogue during the Jewish Cultural Festival last year. If he were really deep-rooted in Kraków's jazz scene, he'd be a regular in the cellar at Alchemia. Or in the Jazz Rock Cafe, U Louisa, Piec Art, the karaoke on Grodzka - do add your own. Or giving the Ukrainian accordionists a run for their money outside Kosciół Mariacki. Or even Singing for Fun in Cracow...
But no. One concert in a synagogue... and all beyond the reaches of my measly weekly budget.
As for 'a part-time resident of Poland': part-time my elbow! He's just another Pole-married British bloke who can't work out how to fill in the tax declaration forms ...
Firstly - I saw only one NK gig advertised in Kraków the whole duration of my stay, and that was a rather sedate concert in the Tempel (or Nowy... I'm not sure - the one on Miodowa, opposite Estery) Synagogue during the Jewish Cultural Festival last year. If he were really deep-rooted in Kraków's jazz scene, he'd be a regular in the cellar at Alchemia. Or in the Jazz Rock Cafe, U Louisa, Piec Art, the karaoke on Grodzka - do add your own. Or giving the Ukrainian accordionists a run for their money outside Kosciół Mariacki. Or even Singing for Fun in Cracow...
But no. One concert in a synagogue... and all beyond the reaches of my measly weekly budget.
As for 'a part-time resident of Poland': part-time my elbow! He's just another Pole-married British bloke who can't work out how to fill in the tax declaration forms ...
Friday, 20 June 2008
Pinolona's guide to musical terms
One good thing about living in a house and not an apartment is that you can make as much noise as you like. Also, the social scene is a little calmer here than in Krakow, which means copious choral caterwauling and moody moments over the Moonlight Sonata at midnight.
I'm getting a bit rusty on my old musical terms though. So here's a quick guide.*
I'll count you in. First one to the double bar line wins: and one, and two, and three and four...
piano**: when you don't want to disturb the neighbours too much
forte: when the neighbours are on holiday
mezzo-forte you can't remember whether the neighbours are back yet
crescendo: testing the neighbours' patience
double forte! To hell with the neighbours!!
pianissimo: the neighbours are at the door...
tremolo: the feeling you get when you haven't practised
sforzando: when your heart's not really in it
Maestro: a retro car
Allegro: like eBay, somewhere you mustn't log on to when drunk
Adagio: strolling to the pub speed
Ritardando: when you're late for the pub
Ritenuto: when your boss keeps you from going to the pub after work
Con anima: the soul of a crook
Bel canto: beautiful song. Unless you're looking at the bass section, in which case it's 'can belto'
rubato: backache. Or a posh name for a turnip.
altissimo: a very tall Alto
allargando: middle-age spread
alzate sordini: you can take the ear muffs off now
totally pizzicato: the second violins, after a good session at The Rifleman.
coloratura: a soprano with hiccups
bellicoso: trying to play louder than the neighbours
capriccioso: spicy pizza
coda: generally served with chipsa
comodo: Grandma has one in the spare bedroom
con moto: coming to rehearsals on a scooter
decrescendo: just before you get to the bit you haven't practised (see also rallentando and diminuendo)
divisi: when you fall out with your desk-mate
dolce: to be eaten after the concert
encore: Never heard this one!
fugue: running away before you get to the bit you haven't practised.
glissando: walking back to the piano after the interval drinks
hemiola: painful affliction requiring minor surgery
improvisando: Practice is Cheating.
incalzando: rehearsal starts before you've put your socks on.
lacrimoso: when they find out you haven't been practising.
largo: cheaper than vino
lento: comes before Easto
'ma non troppo!' : don't push your luck
mezzo soprano: but don't let her stature fool you.
ostinato: stubborn refusal to practice
scherzo: you want me to play that?!
Senza: a ladies underwear store
sostenuto: got a secret stash of beer to keep you going til the interval
tenor: not even enough for a round these days
tutti: ice-cream flavour. Also comes in frutti
unison: when everyone agrees on where to get the interval drinks.
vibrato: wobbly effect famously solved by Triumph.
*Which owes a lot to those printed tea towels they sell at Britten's in Tunbridge Wells.
** "It's not a pi-arh-no you posh-talking weirdo, it's a bleedin' Clahr-in-ahrt!" (a loud clarinettist).
I'm getting a bit rusty on my old musical terms though. So here's a quick guide.*
I'll count you in. First one to the double bar line wins: and one, and two, and three and four...
piano**: when you don't want to disturb the neighbours too much
forte: when the neighbours are on holiday
mezzo-forte you can't remember whether the neighbours are back yet
crescendo: testing the neighbours' patience
double forte! To hell with the neighbours!!
pianissimo: the neighbours are at the door...
tremolo: the feeling you get when you haven't practised
sforzando: when your heart's not really in it
Maestro: a retro car
Allegro: like eBay, somewhere you mustn't log on to when drunk
Adagio: strolling to the pub speed
Ritardando: when you're late for the pub
Ritenuto: when your boss keeps you from going to the pub after work
Con anima: the soul of a crook
Bel canto: beautiful song. Unless you're looking at the bass section, in which case it's 'can belto'
rubato: backache. Or a posh name for a turnip.
altissimo: a very tall Alto
allargando: middle-age spread
alzate sordini: you can take the ear muffs off now
totally pizzicato: the second violins, after a good session at The Rifleman.
coloratura: a soprano with hiccups
bellicoso: trying to play louder than the neighbours
capriccioso: spicy pizza
coda: generally served with chipsa
comodo: Grandma has one in the spare bedroom
con moto: coming to rehearsals on a scooter
decrescendo: just before you get to the bit you haven't practised (see also rallentando and diminuendo)
divisi: when you fall out with your desk-mate
dolce: to be eaten after the concert
encore: Never heard this one!
fugue: running away before you get to the bit you haven't practised.
glissando: walking back to the piano after the interval drinks
hemiola: painful affliction requiring minor surgery
improvisando: Practice is Cheating.
incalzando: rehearsal starts before you've put your socks on.
lacrimoso: when they find out you haven't been practising.
largo: cheaper than vino
lento: comes before Easto
'ma non troppo!' : don't push your luck
mezzo soprano: but don't let her stature fool you.
ostinato: stubborn refusal to practice
scherzo: you want me to play that?!
Senza: a ladies underwear store
sostenuto: got a secret stash of beer to keep you going til the interval
tenor: not even enough for a round these days
tutti: ice-cream flavour. Also comes in frutti
unison: when everyone agrees on where to get the interval drinks.
vibrato: wobbly effect famously solved by Triumph.
*Which owes a lot to those printed tea towels they sell at Britten's in Tunbridge Wells.
** "It's not a pi-arh-no you posh-talking weirdo, it's a bleedin' Clahr-in-ahrt!" (a loud clarinettist).
Sunday, 25 May 2008
A Song for Europe
Congratulations Poland! You know you are one of the grown-ups in Europe when you come joint last in Eurovision! Welcome to the club! Come in, sit down, have a scotch.
Have you met our fellow loser, Germany...?
We watched the whole thing on a big screen in the student halls out past Galeria Krakowska. Incidentally, students in Poland have one bathroom per ten people and you have to keep a close eye on your own toilet paper...
The problem with watching Eurovision abroad is that you miss out on Terry Wogan's brilliantly sarcastic commentary. Worse still, you find yourself trying to substitute your own gags, which seem extremely funny at the time (halfway down 50cl of Lech and a bag of paprika crisps), but which are completely lost on your non-British fellow spectators.
Mind you, it's almost exciting if you watch it with people from countries which might actually win (Croatia, Turkey, Romania...).
Depressingly enough, if I were an alien landing in Europe on Eurovision night, I would think that humans all spoke a single tongue: English, with a heavy Slavic accent, darlink. You may have won the competition, but language is power: take that, Mother Russia!
And the quality of the music?
As one of the girls remarked dryly:
- You hear 'combination, imagination, excitation' ... and then you like the song...
Have you met our fellow loser, Germany...?
We watched the whole thing on a big screen in the student halls out past Galeria Krakowska. Incidentally, students in Poland have one bathroom per ten people and you have to keep a close eye on your own toilet paper...
The problem with watching Eurovision abroad is that you miss out on Terry Wogan's brilliantly sarcastic commentary. Worse still, you find yourself trying to substitute your own gags, which seem extremely funny at the time (halfway down 50cl of Lech and a bag of paprika crisps), but which are completely lost on your non-British fellow spectators.
Mind you, it's almost exciting if you watch it with people from countries which might actually win (Croatia, Turkey, Romania...).
Depressingly enough, if I were an alien landing in Europe on Eurovision night, I would think that humans all spoke a single tongue: English, with a heavy Slavic accent, darlink. You may have won the competition, but language is power: take that, Mother Russia!
And the quality of the music?
As one of the girls remarked dryly:
- You hear 'combination, imagination, excitation' ... and then you like the song...
Saturday, 19 April 2008
Radio Nostalgie
It's cool to live alone. It's very hard to do in Poland. There's a book written by American Poles which says you know you're Polish when... you try to entertain forty people in fifteen metres squared...
When I first went to France I lived alone. It was the first time. I went a little mad. Perhaps I wouldn't have gone quite so nuts if I'd not had the radio permanently tuned to Radio Nostalgie. There was dancing. Here are some of my favourites: (good luck)
Serge Gainsbourg: Elisa
Elisa - cute. Check out the British accent on Ms Birkin. Pire que le mien...
'Cherche-moi des poux!!'
Pierre Bachelet, Vingt Ans:
I'm the one with the sunglasses on the right.
'J'avais vingt ans eternellement' 'C'etait des vacances en des chevaux!'
Edith Piaf, Milord:
'Laissez-vous faire Milord... venez dans mon royaume...'
Uhh... the song about 'ogórki'...
I know that rabbit!!
and finally Mme Sarko
Slightly concerned by the guy with the candle in the background.
Thanks for listening. It's been a good nostalgie trip for me.
I wonder what Polish songs I will be looking up on YouTube in two or three years time...
When I first went to France I lived alone. It was the first time. I went a little mad. Perhaps I wouldn't have gone quite so nuts if I'd not had the radio permanently tuned to Radio Nostalgie. There was dancing. Here are some of my favourites: (good luck)
Serge Gainsbourg: Elisa
Elisa - cute. Check out the British accent on Ms Birkin. Pire que le mien...
'Cherche-moi des poux!!'
Pierre Bachelet, Vingt Ans:
I'm the one with the sunglasses on the right.
'J'avais vingt ans eternellement' 'C'etait des vacances en des chevaux!'
Edith Piaf, Milord:
'Laissez-vous faire Milord... venez dans mon royaume...'
Uhh... the song about 'ogórki'...
I know that rabbit!!
and finally Mme Sarko
Slightly concerned by the guy with the candle in the background.
Thanks for listening. It's been a good nostalgie trip for me.
I wonder what Polish songs I will be looking up on YouTube in two or three years time...
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