17 f Ranting & Reeling
friend of mine dislikes hyper- bole. He hates hyperbole more than anything else in the world. He’d also hate that sentence, because he really dislikes hyperbole. I don’t think it’s simply because he’d been erroneously pronouncing it “hyper- bowl” well into adult life. What causes the roof of his mouth to itch is the notion of best and worst being applied to something as subjective as art. And in his case music, because he loves music more than anything else in the wor… You get the idea with that.
A
And yet, hyperbole is my favourite language and I always use it to describe music. The absurdity of doing so is an integral component of overblown praise. I know it’s not the best but when I say it’s the best I truly believe it’s the best even though I know it’s not the best but... It’s a virtuous cycle that makes me so giddily happy that I frequently screech like a macaque. The neighbours don’t like it but it’s infinitely preferable to hearing me bellow vulgar epithets at my printer. Which I also do.
There have been three best bands in the world in the past decade, according to me. The first was Scottish/ Scottish/ not
Scottish tune-benders Lau. I bestowed the title upon them in the virtual pages of Channel 4’s dedicated music website, Slashmusic. This resulted in the band turn- ing up to play at a festival in Germany to find the stage adorned with an enormous banner proclaiming: “The best band in the world – Channel 4”, as if Jon Snow himself had decreed it.
Lau’s own Martin Green (not Scottish) personally handed the trophy (there’s not a trophy) to my next best band in the world, The Staves, at an informal ceremo- ny backstage at Cambridge Folk Festival in 2012. Watford-born ecstatic harmonisers The Staves had yet to release their debut album (with its sleeve inspired by Peter Bellamy’s Merlin's Isle of Gramarye, sleeve fact fans). But I like to get in early with my gushing declarations of fandom, as bands tend to go rubbish quite quickly. However, The Staves have rewarded my urgency by getting better and better at being the best band in the world with each record and every gig. Because of this I abandoned the established tradition of having only one best band in the world, an honour they now share with Irish trad dronesters Lankum. Lankum are the best band in the world as well.
There’s no
need to hold back on
superlatives as if you need to leave room for someone better to come along, like pudding. If you’ve ever told your partner that theirs is the most beautiful face in the
world, that wasn’t true (not unless you’re married to Shakira, the young Frank Sina- tra or an Irish Wolfhound.) But neither were you lying. It’s how they make you feel and saying it only makes you feel it more. I know things seem pretty terrible right now but that’s only because things are pretty terrible right now. So trust the words of an habitual hyperbolist when I say that enthusing ludicrously about your favourite band can convince you there’s still hope and happiness left on this scorched scrap of minerals.
That is unless you like the worst band in the world, then you should probably keep quiet about it. They’re awful.
Tim Chipping
lena at UPS Customer Services is on the line in Lithuania saying “Yes, yes, I understand. You mean they are all incompetent. That they all are liars. That they say they deliv- er and they do not. Also depot tells me they call you but they have not. I see. They are lying. Everyone at UPS depot is liar. Yes. I send new message. No. I cannot give you depot number. I do not have it.”
Elena is the fourth person to tell me
this today, because each time nothing happens, no call from the depot as promised, no delivery, I call again. There is no other recourse to action. Elena might be located 1,283.2 miles away from all the barefaced fantasists in the London depot, but in my powerlessness, that she is now on the phone gives me hope.
Needing to keep her there I ask, “Is there a call centre near to the depot?” The insane thought arises that closer proximity might make a difference. “No. Other centre is in Philippines. It is system. What can I do?”
Another call interrupts “Where are you?” “MY LIFE IS NO LONGER MY OWN. IT’S BEEN HIJACKED BY UPS. I’m a prisoner in my own home.” And I rail at my sudden
The Elusive Ethnomusicologist E
enforced impotence, at not being heard – or if I am, then at nothing changing.
I turn to my emails. There’s one from
Ian Brennan (fR401). A cheery “Hello” and “Here’s the new Tanzania Albanism Collec- tive EP, Our Skin May Be Different, But Our Blood Is The Same. It’s even more experi- mental and envelope-pushing than their critically acclaimed album last year.” I unzip the tracks. Some titles leap out. I Stay Home. Swimming In Sorrows. My Life (Abandoned).
Ha! That’s me! Listening to Swim- ming In Sorrows first, the warm, raw vocals in sweet melody over a drone and clapping, give rise to goose pimples on my skin. These stay as I listen on. It’s an extraordinary EP, sparse, even on the tracks with gorgeous harmonies. It darts into your heart and stays there. Then I see the sub-title to I Stay Home: it’s (The Killings). Another track, half spoken/half sung is called Why Are You Killing Us? And I am ashamed.
In this world of globalised communi- cation, these albino people are not just unheard, their voices are silenced. For them “it is system” means constant perse- cution, life lived in constant fear. For whilst considered to bring bad luck alive, their
body parts are prized for
bringing good fortune. Many fled to Ukurewe Island, four hours across Lake Victoria from the Tanza- nian coast. Oth- ers were aban- doned here by their families. Their lives are
truly hijacked, not by silly inconvenient untruths but by the profound lies borne of racism and fear of ‘the other.’
By revealing the songs of those in the Ukerewe albino community – some of whom are singing or making music for the first time – and documenting the process, Ian Brennan and Marilena Delli provide hope in the chance of those voices being heard. We have the opportunity to listen; to be on the end of the line. This beautiful music provides proximity and through it we can realise that there is no ‘other’. It’s just ‘us’. And in that simple act – to make a difference.
Elizabeth Kinder
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