15 f Ranting & Reeling “B
e still somewhere / each moment aware,” sings Nic Jones from the Ham stage at Sidmouth Folk Week. His song Now,
“so simple and so clear” in its supplica- tion that we appreciate the present.
A mobile phone goes off somewhere to the left of the tent. It’s the original Nokia ringtone, based on Francisco Tár- rega’s classical guitar piece Gran Vals, first publically emitted back in 1994 and now only used by those being ironic and those too lazy to change it. Or too stupid. I suspect the latter here because when music is interrupted charitable thoughts are hard to come by. It rings and rings, unanswered. En masse the audience glares in the direction of the noise, searching for a flicker of move- ment towards a pocket or bag to identify the ear-polluting sod. But nothing.
“The past is gone / the future will come / but the soul shows us how / we’re here in the now.” It rings again and is met with a chorus of suppressed tuts and sighs like a hundred miniature balloons have popped. Who is that? What’s wrong with them? Why doesn’t someone near- by tell them to switch it off? Can’t the stewards do something? We’re all think- ing these thoughts; some of us mouthing
curses whilst subtly checking our superior smartphones are muted.
Then guilt. Perhaps it’s an emergen- cy and the phone owner is hard of hear- ing. Wait, would a deaf person even bother with a ringtone? Perhaps they’ve fallen asleep, or died. I’m a terrible human being. It’s stopped now.
“Existent and silent / catching each moment.”
“Diddle-um-dum, diddle-um-dum, diddle-um dum-dee…” For the love of…
We’re not catching each moment.
It’s being denied us; stolen by someone and something beyond our control.
The musician and humourist Henry Rollins once described people who take too long at cash machines as “Murdering me, but just a little… with this really tiny knife.” Whoever owns that phone (and by now we’re all in unspoken agreement that they’re a complete bastard) is shoot- ing us in the ears with little bullets. Each electronic beep killing an instant of tran- quil beauty that we’ll never get again.
And then I hear the drum. It’s coming from the performance space at the end of The Esplanade. It sounds like the same drummer who thumped through several minutes of 2010’s In Search Of Nic Jones concert – the tribute that got the old fella back on stage in the first place. Do they
hate him that much? Do they hate me? Was it them ringing the phone? Then a baby howls, a dog barks, a man sneezes…
Moment-steal- ing shitbags, the lot of them.
Only
they’re not. Because their now is as important as my now. And I must learn to live in it, even when surrounded by seven billion other nows. Nic’s words make it seem simple, but it’s a lifetime’s work – to acquiesce to every distraction and focus only on what’s important. It requires for- giveness and acceptance and all the uni- versal beatitudes people-phobic gits like me struggle with.
I’ll try. I’ll try not to fantasise about seizing your bleating Nokia and hurling it into the River Sid. I’ll try only to hear the music I came to hear, and not the digitised work of a turn of the century Spanish composer. And… “Be still some- where / each moment aware.”
Also, please turn your phone off. Tim Chipping
The Elusive Ethnomusicologist S
tanding in the fading light of a warm Croatian evening as the sun eased its way behind the nearby mountain, bathing the ancient site of the EthnoAmbi- ent festival in its deep orange glow, my life changed forever. It wasn’t the music, though that was as marvellous and eclectic as ever, with electrifying perfor- mances from a diverse line-up. No. It was the impromptu demonstration of ‘Shaky Egg with Interpretive Dancing’ delivered with such paradoxically elegant and restrained gusto by Spiro’s manager Alan James.
It was odd, or maybe perfect syn-
chronicity, that I’d been thinking about Charlie Gillett moments before and how he might have liked the brilliant Croatian folk band Kololira that had just been playing. The ancient songs sounded so cool and modern with singer Dunja Knebl (reminding me of Nico at her best), doing what Shirley Collins did for English folk song. And I remembered that whilst Charlie liked having his prejudices chal- lenged, liked to be able to ‘get’ some- thing he thought he couldn’t stand, it has to be said he never quite got round to dancing the Morris or lifting a pint to English folk music.
Well I was always with him on the dance, when it comes to Modern Dance at any rate. However ‘Shaky Egg with Interpretive Dancing’ must count as mod- ern dance, in that it seemed to be other- wise un-identifiable. I’m obviously no expert and cannot say how much the uneven terrain forged the delicate foot- work: nor can I say how much the flam- boyant hand movements depended on the Shaky Egg actually being there and not left in a specially made inside pocket in a jacket back at the hotel.
I can say that the sinuous movements
and other-worldly facial expressions clearly integral to the medium have opened my heart to the joys of Interpre- tive Dancing – modern though it might be. It was particularly brilliant as there was no music playing at the time. The wonderful actor/director and story-teller Rene Medvesek had just taken to the stage. It was fascinating to discover that even though he was talking entirely in Croat, I could still follow the story. The modulation and resonance of his voice was captivating. The crowd sat enrap- tured. As no doubt they would have had they turned and witnessed the Interpre- tive Dancing display taking place on a rocky outcrop behind. I’ve quoted here
before the say- ing that “writ- ing about music is like dancing about architec- ture.” In that moment I realised that dancing is archi- tecture. Separa- tion is an illu- sion: we are all linked. Every- thing is one...
And whilst this unscheduled event for me sparked something new, the acts actually billed to appear inspired those of us watching and each other. Kries, top- ping Saturday night’s bill were explosively brilliant, lead singer Mojmir Novakovic a commanding almost mythical figure, his voice utterly compelling. Astonishing that such a mighty sound comes from such a whip-thin body. His singing was a revela- tion to Bristol instrumental four-piece Spiro who, keen to explore new ways to entrance, are now aiming to create some- thing new with him. Fresh beginnings in warm familiar surroundings. It was some enchanted evening.
Elizabeth Kinder
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