Firstly, I apologise for the dodgy links in the Centre Pompidou post
. Apparently the French think it costs them bandwidth for you to keep looking at a page after it’s been downloaded into your cache, so the links to artworks in their online catalogue have all expired. You’ll have to go to the front page
and find them yourselves. I bet they didn’t have these problems with Minitel
Illness and travel are keeping updates sparse this week. In the meantime, here’s a recap of the past month’s reviews:
Tune in again next week to hear me complain about feeling my age.
Lordi knows I don’t go off about Dan Brown
nearly often enough, so what with The Da Vinci Code
movie being out now so that people who don’t read can now see The Book Read By People Who Don’t Read without having to read it god I’m drunk.
Wait, I didn’t finish that last sentence. If you’re wondering what the fuss is about, Cassette Boy
has thoughtfully abridged the audiobook of the novel
for your enlightenment (MP3, 1 minute, 1.25 MB download). I think someone lifted it from the album Dead Horse
, but that doesn’t explain why this track was on my hard drive.
Update: Most of the links below to artists in the Pompidou’s online catalogue no longer work, thanks to their website’s excessively paranoid cookies. You’ll have to go to the front page and find them yourselves.
The Centre Pompidou will kill you. There are two vast floors of exhibition space: one for the permanent collection and one for the visiting shows. Ten Euros gets you one admission to each floor, there are no passouts and the overpriced cafeteria is three floors below. The place will kill you.
Tate Modern has just completely reopened the rehanging of its permanent collection
but I don’t expect to see the top floor this weekend, what with it being a bank holiday and the place jammed with punters last time I visited. It’s almost too popular for its own good. When I visited the Pompidou on my Paris trip
the permanent collection was also about to be closed and re-hung. I hope the new layout is better than the one I saw.
Like the Tate Modern’s previous incarnation, the Pomp had its art arranged into themed rooms, only with an even more pedagogical and condescending atmosphere. The low points came early; right in the entrance rooms, in fact, with a mini-exhibition dealing with “the face and the human body”. Sticking someone in a room full of Francis Bacon
and Bruce Nauman
at the start of a long slog through a museum is just plain cruel.
To add insult, the rest of the rooms were filled with juxtapotions of breathtaking crassness, such as plonking a Giacometti
sculpture in front of a set of Warhol
silkscreens of Jackie Kennedy to show that – wow! – different artists depict people in different ways. (Beaubourg, you’re blowing my mind here!
) The entire installation seemed to have been geared towards a class excursion of dimwitted high school kids. I’ve never experienced a more dispiriting or unwelcoming entry to an art museum.
Things didn’t get any better in the next room, despite it containing some prime examples of Pollock (Number 26A, Black and White
) and Johns (Figure 5
). I love these paintings, but the Pomp did them a disservice by labelling the room they were in “Chaos and Collapse” or something. It suggested the room had been curated by a particularly regressive tabloid editor, until you remembered that entrance room stuffed with bodies in various degrees of distortion and decay and you realised this whole show has been put together by one of those po-faced Germanic intellectuals who write weighty monographs on the existential terror inherent in the cinematic oeuvre
of Fred Astaire.
After this unpromising start the subsequent rooms settled into dull and obvious arrangements by style and genre, which was an improvement. A room full of De Stijl – OK; a room full of white things – maybe; one room each for transparent and reflective artworks – what the hell? I can’t believe the Pompidou’s vaults didn’t contain artworks less deserving of exhibition than some of the clear or shiny gewgaws making up the numbers in their respective rooms.
One aspect of the hanging worked: without additional explanation, Picasso kept turning up in room after room throughout the gallery, fitting into whatever context was provided. A wordless demonstration of why Picasso is such a big deal.
There was a pitiless absence of benches throughout the museum. There was no gallery seating whatsoever in the permanent collection until about halfway through, when some stools and tables with catalogues attached appeared (oh boy, a study break!
) Several benches are scattered through the latter stages of the exhibition, so this initial absence may have been contrived to stop punters pegging out too early, little realising how much floor space they still had to traverse. At any rate, it was designed to move bodies through the museum rather than allow the (ahem) more seasoned afficionados seek out and fully appreicate the particular artworks they had come to see. If you wanted to properly contemplate a big or difficult painting, or even watch a 15-minute Gordon Matta-Clark
film, you had to do it standing up. Ouch.
The first proper bench appears about two thirds of the way into the collection, and it’s parked in front of an Ugly German Painting. At least they were gracious enough to allow benches for us to admire Matisse’s late, great decoupage La Tristesse du Roi. Even these curators couldn’t resist its charms.
* * *
First apparently perennial aspect of Pomp installations: side galleries stuffed with mounted books and magazines relevant to the artistic movements nearby. These exhibits trigger an initial rush of depression (the show comes with a reading list!), quickly followed by a certain perverse satisfaction, because two randomly-opened pages of Les Mots et Les Choses isn’t going to make any more sense to Francophones than to all the visitors who can’t read it.
Second apparently perennial aspect of Pomp installations:
the museum still has a pervasive interest in architecture and urban planning – the old French dream of organising everybody (else’s) lives. A lot of architects’ work was on display, from a Louis Kahn maquette, to Constant’s
wacky proto-situationist models, to a zillion or so megalomaniacal plans to Pave the Earth.
That Donald Judd stack
biffed about: did someone drop it, or did the Pomp get it cheap off the back of a truck?
Heh, a curator’s in-joke about an artist’s in-joke. The room of conceptual artists included works by Lawrence Weiner, Joseph Kosuth, Art and Language, and Martin Creed. Creed was represented by a recording of his rock band Owada playing softly in the corner. If you waited around long enough you’ll hear the song in which Weiner, Kosuth, and AaL accuse each other of ripping off their ideas. WFMU used to have the whole album available for download, but it’s gone! Here are the lyrics
for your limited edification.
Percussionists have a rough time of it: they get lumped with all the musical odd jobs nobody else wants, or is allowed, to do. This can include appearing before a small audience wearing nothing but a pair of briefs and banging your head against a table. You can’t fake it: each thump on the table, or slap or scratch to your thighs and stomach, has to be sufficiently loud to carry through the hall at the loudness specified by the composer. It can’t help matters if you can hear someone in the third row nervously stifling giggles.
This was the task for percussionist Chris Brannick playing Frederic Rzewski’s Lost and Found
at a concert in Rzewski’s honour at Blackheath Halls last Friday. Rzewski has often set spoken texts to music, but in Lost and Found
the music has been stripped away, the performer stripped down, sitting alone at a table, tentatively recounting a story from military service in Vietnam. (The text is from a letter by Lieutenant Marion Kempner: I couldn’t find the letter online, but this one
gives you a good idea of his scathing, cynical tone.)
The deliberate pacing, awkward pauses, his physical isolation at the far end the table, and his often violent movements created a sense of alienation matched by the bitter irony of the text. The music produced – voice, skin, table, chair – arose from the theatricality of the performance; and the theatre focused attention on the sounds produced by the performer.
This technique is analagous to Rzewski’s ability to unify the expression of his political beliefs with his musical talents, without one occluding the other. The term “political art” is usually applied as a derogatory term by all cultured people, and I avoided a performance of John Cage’s Song Books the following Monday precisely because the program promised the inclusion of “political compositions by students” (brrrrr!)
is often held up as the example of the composer led astray by politics: radicalised in the 1960s, became a Maoist in the 1970s, renounced his bourgeois “avant-garde” compositions and dedicated himself to writing ersatz folk settings of Marxist-Leninist diatribes until his tragic death in 1981.
Cardew’s Mountains for bass clarinet was played before Lost and Found, a late work from 1977. It does have a poem by Mao appended to the score, but thankfully it is not read out for our edification. What politics may be found is worked into the music itself, the aspirational difficulties in the leaps and bounds of the melody, and its basis in Bach.
At the time, Cardew was working on studies of classical music with the People’s Cultural Association, and believed the best way to reach the working classes was through the more familiar forms of classicism, rather than “decadent” innovation and experiment. (On the other hand, Rzewski has said he unrepentantly aims much of his music at the concert-going middle and upper classes, who are in more need of radicalisation.) Mountains is an enjoyable and technically satisfying piece but, politically and musically, it falls far short of Cardew’s most ambitious work, The Great Learning, which involved large numbers of non-musicians performing in self-organising groups.
Cardew’s ideas about music in the 1960s grew to some extent out of Christian Wolff’s
. Wolff understood that musicians playing together constitutes a form of social activity, and began writing pieces that took the social and political implications of this situation into account, allowing musicians a great deal of autonomy in deciding what to play and when to play it. Wolff’s music still tends to be discussed more than it is played, so it was good to hear one of his early works, Serenade
for flute, clarinet and violin.
This is one of the pieces that first established Wolff’s reputation, before his more indeterminate works, being fully notated but restricting itself to just three notes*. The clever use of this restricted harmonic range showed how music can be beautiful and expressive by relying on the qualities of sounds for their own sakes, rather than in the context of grand melodies, dramatic key changes, etc. These days such ideas are taken for granted (except in music schools) and it sounds inoffensive enough, but it’s still a good effort considering he wrote it when he was 16. Smartarse.
On the up side for percussionists, they also get to do some of the most fun things in music, like hitting stuff (other than themselves). Black n’ Blues by Stephen Montague – who was in the audience along with Rzewski – was a shameless show-stealer, being that rarest of concert pieces, a “fun” piece that actually was fun. A pianist and Brannick alternated playing a fast, spasmodic blues riff with rhythmic assaults on several percussion instruments, various parts of the piano itself, and a large pillow filled with chalk dust.
When it was all over Rzewski leaned over to Montague and stage-whispered, “You should run for Congress, at least.”
Theatrical highlights: Chris Bannick braining himself, duh! Also, the members of the Continuum Ensemble playing Rzewski’s Pocket Symphony (a jolly nice piece of what Frank Zappa called “music music”) peering at each other through a thick cloud of dust created during the prior performance of Black ‘n Blues.
Overheard gossip in the foyer:
Apparently Rzewski had never encountered a bass recorder
before, and needed an explanation from the recorder player talking to him. Don’t get recorder players started on the lesser-known aspects of their noble but underappreciated profession!
Boring Like a Drill Cultural Beer Exchange: £2.80 for a plastic pint of Becks – yes, you could take it into the auditorium. Watch out for the bar staff, who sometimes had trouble keeping a grip on those cups when serving.
A writeup of the whole Rzewskifest is here.
* E, B, and F# if you’re curious.
The second half of Eurovision gets hazy, before petering out completely into drunken ranting. I tried taking notes from the observations of the assembled home audience but the next day all I could decipher from them was a poorly-spelled mash note to Clare Grogan.
Part one of this wrap is available
, along with superior analyses here
. The following has been edited for coherence and my diminished attention span.
Former Yugoslav Republic of Bosnia and Former Yugoslav Republic of Herzegovina
“They just told me to stay calm and to enjoy myself.”
At first their miming looked too serious to count as Wandering Minstrels, but then they dropped thier instruments while the music kept playing, so we all drank anyway. It was slow, they wore white. (3 – 3WM)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Lithuania“We’re not really into competing with other countries.”
They’re making a mockery of Eurovision! And we don’t care! Except the Greek audience, who turn out to be a bunch of bad sports all night. I’m sure these guys have a regular gig on the Lithuanian equivalent of The Footy Show. Unlike Bosnia, at least they give us genuinely phony violin playing, and yell at people through a gold-plated megaphone. Somewhere in Manchester Mark E. Smith
is trashing a pub. (3 – WC, WM, TT)
Former Yugoslav Republic of the United Kingdom
“The rehearsal was fabulous. It was better than sex.”
This is what happens when someone tries too hard to please everyone, when he’s already too pleased with himself. British rapping comes across as slightly less natural than Moldovan reggae. The slappers in schoogirl uniforms manage the impossible, and make themselves so sexually unappealing they may well be real schoolgirls. Our home audience thinks its a wholesale ripoff of some Black Eyed Peas hit. Serves them right. (1 – WM)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Greece
“It’s almost masochistic.”
The Great Greek Diva don’t need no steenking backup singers or dancers getting up in her grill when it’s her time to shine*, just a wind machine to help her through her long, dark, total eclipse of the heart. Our home audience judged the microphone more of a prop than a necessary sound amplifier and drank accordingly. (2 – DKC, WM)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Finland“The Finnish people liked us – or 42% of them did.”Fat Orcs in Party Hats!
I want to see these guys duetting with Alf Poier
. I love these guys, if only because I bet a round a drinks on them winning. (0)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Ukraine“I just want to make the world so, so happy… I’m a singer for the Ukrainian military orchestra.”
Ruslana must have been preoccupied with the Joint Committee on the Consolidation of Wireless Telegraphy
, so they sent another babe, who looks like Pia Zadora and is about as talented. I must be getting old because she’s doing it for me, although I can’t help thinking she’s about to be tackled by Leslie Nielsen at any moment. I bet they were surprised when that dress they ordered for her over the internet turned out to be a nightie! Inspired Eurovision choreography: cossacks skipping rope – couldn’t they get their sabres onto the plane? (1 – SR)
Former Yugoslav Republic of France
“What does that mean? That Europeans have no taste?”
Phew! The bathroom break song came a little late this year. It’s slow, it’s boring, it’s sung flat, it’s sung in French. And then it’s over. White frock. (0)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Croatia
“Why did I choose to sing about my shoes?”
Because you’re a slightly drug-fucked man who dared to live his dream of being surgically transformed into Fran Drescher, and almost made it. Every year we get one bunch of people running around and yelling like they’re having way too much fun on stage. We don’t want to vote for you, we just want to score your evil 160 proof rakija you’ve obviously been sucking on backstage. (2 – BF, SR)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Ireland“He wore this white suit like John Travolta but was Irish.”
An unctuous offcut of Chris de Burgh croons “Every Song is a Cry for Love”, which will please TISM
fans. Even the backing singers can’t stomach this and, suddenly remembering they forgot to go for a piss before coming onstage, wobble uncomfortably from side to side. Some drunk bastard in the home audience suggests the kneeling Westlife-y git looks like me, and is swiftly ejected from the premises. I was going to give this a World Cup
, but everyone’s saying Ireland really does want to win again. Pity they forgot how. (0)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Sweden
“I’ve become more straight.”
In the blue corner, Greece’s rival in the Battle of the Wind Machines. I was going to call her a MILF until her lower jaw started wobbling in an extremely offputting manner, and it just didn’t stop. (1 – BF)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Turkey“Do I feel like a superstar? A bit too much at the moment!”
A heroically proportioned blonde, more man than the four metrosexuals cavorting around her put together. Scary, but after this many drinks, strangely compelling. The Greeks, mindful of the pan-European attention, boo. I honestly didn’t think the TaTu rule
would get so much use in a single night. (2 – E?, TT)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Armenia
“I’ve been most influenced by my time at the Armenian State Music Theatre. It’s one of the best music schools, not just in Armenia, but internationally.”
Finally, someone blatantly rips off last year’s winner with all the straps/ropes nonsense. By this stage noone’s paying much attention and waiting for… (1 – CR)
More drinks! Three shots at once, as the male host has changed into a hideous gold lamé suit and his female companion has changed frocks so quickly she forgets her breast tape and spends the next five minutes standing as still as possible while glancing down anxiously as she almost falls out. Nana Mouskouri is called on to start the voting, a task it has previously taken a pair of Olympic athletes and the Klitschko brothers to accomplish, so unsurprisingly she makes a hash of it and trainwreck television reigns for a minute or so. What happens next is…
Bitter disappointment! They’ve shortened the voting process, so it’s merely agonising instead of excruciating. It all moves too fast for us to follow. Most importantly, you never get to savour just how pissweak are the votes coming in for the U.K. At least the hostess has changed into her fourth frock for the night (drink!) and looks much happier now that her boobs won’t pop out without warning. Dear Clare, I saw you on telly again the other night and 
Firstly may I say that, as an Australian, I am happy to longer feel the need to publicly repent over that “rubber kangaroos on bicycles” fiasco at the Atlanta Olympics. Thankyou Greece, for deciding that the best way to class up the Eurovision Song Contest is to stage an opening musical number with dancers dressed in rubber dolphin costumes doing somersaults around the stage. It almost drew my attention away from the women with model ships perched on their heads.
As with last year, quotes in italics are from the competitors at the pre-contest press conference. The figures in brackets refer to damage taken as part of the Eurovision Drinking Game
Former Yugoslav Republic of Switzerland
“Who was responsible for the costumes?”
A very Swiss, very nondescript performance by a bunch of celebrity impersonators: Cher, Justin Timberlake, Tina Arena, and three other people I’m not “hip” enough to recognise. (1 – DKC)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Moldova
“She was only 15 when I married her. She doesn’t even know about it yet.”
Nobody has heard of Moldova, but then Moldova has a mutually sketchy idea of what happens beyond Romania. Their attempt at reaching out to the world ends up as a reggae number sung in cod Italian, and Moldovan reggae is as wrong as you might imagine. But the Moldovans get everything wrong, even the hallowed concept of the Bucks Fizz: the girl removes her clothing behind a screen, and the guy gets things backwards and puts clothing on (does this mean we have to spit up a drink?) Moldova has much to learn about Eurovision. Plus they have a guy on stage riding one of those razor scooters around like it’s the new thing. (4 – 2BF, E?, SR)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Israel
“These are the costumes we’ll be wearing on Saturday. They’re white…”
One of our house guests watching the show has lived in London all his life and never seen Eurovision, so he was always a shoo-in to ask what Israel is doing in Eurovision. One of the reasons the choreography in Eurovision is so crap is that the backing singers actually have to sing, but this motley assemblage howled like wounded dogs. Whisper it low: Israel has supplanted Germany as the country most likely to sing about everybody being happy and together. White suits and frocks. (3 – FC, DKC, Israel?)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Latvia
“We’ve released four albums in Latvia but none outside of Latvia so far.”
Another of those weird 6-piece boybands (see Serbia and Montenegro last year) who sing falsetto and beatbox while walking around a puppet made from office supplies. You can’t make this up. Sadly, this is the most entertaining thing so far. Oh yes, they wear white suits. (0).
Former Yugoslav Republic of Norway
“The lyrics are quoting from Norwegian mythology, with mentions of elves etc.”
This evil song tries to get us all drunk, while five bored ice queens wander listlessly round the stage, pretending to play fiddles and not even remotely hinting that I might have a chance with any of them. Bah. White frocks. (6 – 5SR, WM)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Spain
“Is Eurovision what we expected?”
It’s Las Bloody Ketchup, which is Spain’s way of saying they don’t want to host Eurovision in 2007. Continuing Latvia’s use of office supplies as stage props, the singers faff around in ergonomic chairs while two dykes roll around on the floor to try to distract from the shiteness of the song and the fact the singers can barely make themselves heard over the music. (2 – DKC, WC)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Malta
“I really enjoyed it and I think we all felt amazing actually.”
A tiny, evil troll with three eyebrows (the third has slipped to below his lower lip) tries to revive 80s disco, albeit with live singing and no post-production pitch correction. The result is predictably disastrous. At least the absence of decent singing allows him to fill the stage with real dancers. (1 – DKC)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Germany
“We just want to say to all the Eurovision workers, keep up the good work – you’re doing an amazing job.”
We learn that German country and western makes more sense than Moldovan reggae, despite (or because of) an Australian singing the lead. We also learn that a German banjo player is much, much scarier than any of the characters in Deliverance. Also, the double bass has a sheriff’s badge on it, so we learn that German basses are empowered to conduct seizures of chattel property to satisfy a legal judgement. And they can carry a gun. (3 – FC, DKC, SR)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Denmark“We’re definitely getting closer to what we want.”
The Danes sing a “retro” song about twisting, which traces the roots of 50s rock’n'roll all the way back to, oh, Racey
. In the Nordic tradition of the Bomfunk MCs’ Freestyler
, no actual twisting occurs during the song. Someone does come out to breakdance and fanny about with an unplugged electric guitar. I hate them for all flashing their armpits. (6 – 5SR, WM)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Russia
“With so many beautiful people around me on stage, how could it not go well?”
A young man in a mullet and a Bonds singlet with his entry number ironed onto the front tries to ignore the two ballerinas waay up the back of the stage, and the mime stuck in a piano throwing rose petals around. This is classic Eurovision trainwreck staging, concocted by people who have never actually witnessed any form of entertainment, but had someone describe it to them once. Much debate over whether a mime in a piano constitutes a Wandering Minstrel. (1.5 – SR, 0.5WM)
“I don’t want to sound like a Miss World contestant, though!”
An armpit on display right from the start. She can’t sing, but her Daisy Dukes do all the singing for her as she torments the world’s whitest homeboys. She sits on one for good measure, in lieu of choreography. (1 – SR)
Former Yugoslav Republic of Romania“I should be a mathematics teacher actually.”
My friends think this could be a Eurodisco hit as big as that Eiffel 65
thing but all I can think of is: what the hell is wrong with that dancing librarian’s capri pants? She appears to have several stenographic pads stuffed down each leg. (2 – DKC, E?)
Half-time break. The hostess has changed her dress and our Eurovision virgin laments that we still have 12 more songs and voting to go (2 more drinks).
A large part of this week has been spent out working or out somewhere south of the river going to the Frederic Rzewski
gigs (trying to find the venues is half the fun!). The few hours at home have been spent reinstalling my computer’s operating system (hint: don’t upgrade Firefox!) Instead of going on about my own shortcomings I will actually finish writing up the Rzewski concerts tomorrow, in between posting stupid crap about Eurovision.
Speaking of which, a clarification of the Eurovision Drinking Game
is in order. The Key Change
, the Buck’s Fizz
and the TaTu
are to be honoured at each and every occurence. Is That English?
and Don’t Mention The War
may be honoured only once per song, at its first appearance (for those of you worried about this year’s Turkish transvestite who yells “Superstar!” 8 or 9 times during a song otherwise in Turkish).
The San Remo applies once per person per song; the Cultural Rainbow and the Wandering Minstrel only applies for each distinct phenomenon per song (e.g. repeated bouts of pretending to strum a stringless zither is only one Wandering Minstrel, whereas strumming a stringless zither in between waving a set of pan pipes around is two Wandering Minstrels).
It’s all a matter of common sense, if you think about it.
To the person who suggested that the World Cup
be renamed My Lovely Horse
: your submission is being given serious consideration.
As I type this Frederic Rzewski is giving a piano recital
at Trinity College of Music in Greenwich. He is a fine, distinctive pianist, particularly of his own compositions. Right now he is probably playing Four Pieces for piano
, which I like very much. Later in the concert he is performing De Profundis
for piano, with the pianist reciting passages from Wilde’s essay of the same name. I havetypically found his “piano with declaiming voice” works heavy going, but I haven’t heard this one so I can’t judge it.
I was meant to hear these pieces tonight, but I stupidly went out to Blackheath Halls, where another Rzewski concert had been given on Friday night, and by the time I realised my mistake it was too late to get back to Greenwich in time to do the concert justice. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I did hear Rzewski play piano on Friday, and I have double checked the details so that tomorrow night I won’t miss the concert where his extraordinarily powerful work Coming Together
will be played. A writeup of both events will follow shortly.
If you plan on going somewhere by mistake, Blackheath is a very nice little village in the southeast suburbs of London, complete with a village green and an expensive fish and chips shop.
Below is another foolish Eurovision post.
Reprinted from last year, with a couple of revisions and additions, it’s the Eurovision Song Contest
Phase One: The Performances
The Key Change. Whenever the singers dramatically change key during the final chorus. Additional drink for every successive key change in the same song.
The Buck’s Fizz. Whenever a performer sheds a piece of clothing. Finish your drink if the clothing loss is obviously unintentional.
Is That English? Whenever someone notices that the singers have switched from their native language into English in an attempt to win more votes. Two drinks if they try to dodge the language issue by intentionally singing gibberish.
The San Remo. Any occurence of visible armpits and/or pointing.
The Fine Cotton. Any appearance by mercenary singers flown in to represent a foreign country. Two drinks if they’re Irish.
The Cultural Rainbow. Every time an entrant blatantly rips off last year’s winning performance (i.e. in 2006 expect lots of half-arsed Busby Berkeley kaleidoscopic choreography and people pulling scarves out of each others’ clothing). Finish your drink if last year’s winning country rips itself off.
The Wandering Minstrel. Eurovision doesn’t allow backing tapes, so take a drink if one of the performers is pretending to play a musical instrument (or simulacrum thereof) as part of the choreography.
The TaTu. Finish your drink if the audience boos (on telly, not in the living room.)
The World Cup. Any obvious indication that a country is deliberately trying to lose, to avoid budgetary/logistical problems of hosting the event next year.
Don’t Mention The War. Each time the German entrant sings something about everyone being happy.
Phase Two: The Voting
The Wardrobe Change. If the female host is wearing a different frock after the songs have finished. Two drinks if the male host has changed his suit.
The Hurry-Up. Every time the hosts have to talk over the announcer from each voting country to ask “Can we have your votes please?” (i.e. shut the fuck up already). Finish your drink if the announcer tries to deliver a personal message to a relative watching at home in Murmansk.
The Gimme. When Greece gives twelve points to Cyprus.
The Old Europe. When the UK gets null points from France.
The New Europe. When the Baltic states all vote for each other.
The Sympathy Vote. When anything sung in French gets a point and/or the last country without any points finally gets off the mark. A special toast to any country left with zero points at the end.
The Sandra Sully. Each time an announcer fucks up the voting results. Finish your drink if they get so confused they have to start over.
The Sally Field. Each time they show contestants backstage during the voting looking genuinely surprised and pleased with themselves when they get the same politically-motivated votes they get every year.
The Master of Suspense. Any time an announcer realises that the pause for suspense only works if they announce the twelve points and then the country that has won them, not the other way around. (This may not happen.)
The “Viktor, You Very Unattractive Fellow.” Two drinks if the hosts speak in rhyme and/or pretend to flirt with each other. Finish your drink if the flirting is serious.
The first person who asks why Israel is in it, or why Italy isn’t, finishes their drink.
The first person who asks why Lebanon or Serbia and Montenegro aren’t in it must finish their drink. Everyone else must drink unless they know the answers.
A toast to the first person who expresses dismay when they realise how long the voting is going to take.
A toast to the person who gets so drunk you have to secretly call a cab and persuade them they ordered it when it arrives.
Although the website gives you full sound and video of each of the competing songs
, I prefer to take my Eurovision without warning or expectation, and advise virgin viewers to do the same. It is useful, however, to identify the country with the longest odds of winning: it serves as a focal point for the evening, and as a yardstick of consensus badness by which the other entrants may be appreciated. If you’re lucky, it may also set the scene for an Alf Poier-like boilover
in the voting to help get you through the long, dark, latter half of the event.
Every night I need my Loca
Every night I need her boca
Every night I need my Loco
Need him crazy just un poco
There are several countries with worse odds, but which may not qualify for the final. Absolute bottom (150-1) is Portugal, with a girl group singing a song composed by a Nigerian email scammer: they are GONNA MAKE YOU SMILE IN ALL CAPS
I’LL MAKE YOU STOP THINKING SAD THINGS FOR A WHILE
AND EVERYTHING WAITS WHEN YOU’RE DANCING IN STYLE
I’M GONNA MAKE YOU DANCE
MAKE IT WITH STYLE
Judging from the typography they’re going to yell the entire song, presumably concluding with a cry of “this are perfectly 100% legal”.
One of the satisfying things about going to Paris is seeing all these people acting the way the French are supposed to, just like you’ve seen in the movies. You can be confident that within an hour of stepping off the train at Gare du Nord that you will have seen several people walking around carrying baguettes and at least one truck driver yelling at a policeman.
My first French conversation, of sorts, was with a crone in the gutter. I was going to say she was begging, but I’m not sure that screaming abuse and obscenities at passersby, or even people across the street, technically constitutes proper begging. She had nevertheless accumulated a small pile of coins, so perhaps there is a distinctly French attitude to commerce that extends all the way from their winos to their international trade negotiations.
Despite the strike the Metropolitain was still running, although on a reduced schedule, apparently. Over a year of living with the, uh, eccentricites of the London Underground
, I have heard people on numerous occasions sniff that the Paris Métro is infinitely superior. Those people would not be pleased to hear that on my first Métro trip this visit the train broke down, stranding us about 10m out of the station for about half an hour, before they backed the thing up to the platform and kicked us out.
Also, for all their faults, London stations generally do not feature drunks passed out on the platform, let alone drunks passed out on the platform after employing the delivery chute on the vending machine as a urinal; nor do they put up enormous posters hawking le nouveau album de Tina Arena
It’s worth paying for the climb up the towers of Notre Dame, if only because it lets you see the world’s most overrated bookshop
without having to go in or near it. Unfortunately, I had to push my way past a mass of wine-quaffers loitering outside for a new sudoku book launch or something, to get to the Bang On A Can gig
Once up the tower you can also enjoy the weathered old plaques
prohibiting you from throwing stuff off the roof, writing on the walls and ringing the bells.
The trees around the Eiffel Tower are very dangerous and are fenced off for your protection in enclosures that replicate their natural habitat. Do not approach the trees!
The Parisian romance with cigarettes
continues. The Left Bank couple at the cafe table next to me flaunted their French sense of style with a packet of Winstons
and a disposable plastic Che Guevara lighter. The price of booze makes drinking in Paris less fun than it should be, although the bars are still better for people-watching than English pubs. This is my favourite place, somewhere in Montmartre that reminds me of my preferred haunts in Melbourne because (a) it’s frowsy and (b) I can never remember the name of it, so I call it the Brown Bar.
Old news, thanks to my being offline for most of last month. Today: the Bang On A Can All-Stars from New York, who were playing in Paris when I visited. Later this week: LA artists at the Centre Pompidou. My next visit to Paris: to see the Rauschenberg retrospective. Is there anything French worth seeing in Paris?
Like Parson Yorick
, I spent several days wandering around Paris in a state of blithe obliviousness, with the consequences just as negligible. Every service I needed just happened to be one not affected by the general strike; and whichever part of the city I visited, the protesters had either moved on or not yet arrived.
I did see some very cheerful students with banners and facepaint walk into a bar in Montmartre for a well-earned drink after a busy day rioting, and was almost approached by a heavily armoured policeman when I was photographing the nice big wall they’d put up around the Sorbonne. That’s pretty much it. If you spend all your time in the centre of the city you’ll mostly meet Americans and other tourists like you, anyway.
By a fluke, I managed to get into the Chatelet to see the Bang On A Can All-Stars
, who restored my faith in a couple of things. Firstly, they played Philip Glass’ Music in Fifths
, one of his most relentlessly single-minded scores. After suffering Icebreaker’s travesty of Music With Changing Parts
I began to wonder if Glass’ earlier music, which rarely specified instruments, could ever be as effective in arrangements other than the composer’s own ensemble of amplified winds and electric keyboards. The All-Stars’ performance was on non-traditional grand piano, clarinet, cello, marimba and electric guitar. It was fast, it was tight, it’s meagre musical material needed no further embellishment to make it compelling listening from start to finish.
(It was only during a talk by one of the musicians to the audience between pieces that I learned there was a strike on. Either my French had really sharpened up after a couple of days in town or he was speaking in English, I forget. If it was the latter then Parisians certainly understand English very well when the speaker is saying nice things about their city. Either that or the audience was full of Americans.)
After the interval, they made me take back a lot of what I’ve said about crossover
*. The second half of the gig featured the Czech singer and violinist Iva Bittová
, who at first came on stage alone, playing with apparent urgency, impatiently slipping and sliding from Slavic folk music to louche cabaret to cod avant-garde
histrionics, violin melody turning to noise, turning to ecstatic vocal gibberish. She’s an exhilarating musician, but the cynical part of my brain kept worrying at what would happen when she was joined by the All-Stars, for a suite of peices she had written for them and herself.
Great, I thought sarcastically, the soloist is either going to have to tone down her natural exuberance, or else look out of place amongst the other musicians. Her music will become stuffy and mannered as she tries to write something with gravitas appropriate to the occasion. The musos will miss the shifts in musical styles and not understand their playing attitude needs to change with them. Stand by for 45 minutes or so of dreary cabaret defanged by the concert-hall atmosphere.
Amazingly, none of this happened. The set of songs and instrumental passages held together: they were fun, and they were moving. Bittová’s performance, part chameleon-like chanteuse, part concertmaster and part ringleader, had the whole audience entranced (although you could tell by their reaction there were a number of converts and diva-worshippers in the hall); her adopted band could both follow and lead her abrupt changes in mood. The sense of the music kept taking unexpected turns, whipping up tumultuous noise before just as suddenly burning out into sullen melancholy; the performers knowing how to shade the slow, unravelling melody to make it bite and not meander in muzak.
It was one of the best gigs I’ve been to for a long time, something I haven’t experienced for a long time, partly because I’ve been jaded and reluctant to expose myself to it: a happy and completely unexpected surprise.
* Not on this blog, just incoherent ranting after one vodka too many after disappointing genre-crossover gigs.
The official site has full previews of the competing songs, the singers, and the multitalented hosts, but I prefer to take my Eurovision as a surprise. Even so, over the next week or so in the lead-up to the final, there’ll be a small preview of some of the least-promising entrants, a review of last year’s big night in the Ukraine, and most importantly, a revised version of the Eurovision Drinking Game
. This last is essential to enduring an entire evening of the finest entertainment Europe has to offer.