ENNIO MORRICONE: MUSICAL GENIUS

The Dreaming Arm’s occasional contributor Philip “We like birds we’re ornithologists/Postman Plod he’s a miserable sod, the tattoo on Biffa Bacon’s Mum’s arm, it’ll be ye ootside and ye’ll hoof us in the knackaz” Larkin is back to pay homage to arguably the world’s greatest living composer (and without a shadow of doubt the world’s greatest ever composer of soundtracks to 1960s spaghetti westerns and films about 18th century Jesuit missionaries in South America) Ennio Morricone.

I  am sitting down to write this small tribute to one of the greatest modern composers for the blog before it is too late, and he has passed on.  CW and myself have prevaricated and “hummed and hawed” about this piece, but happily the legend that is Morricone still remains with us today.  Morricone will never read what I have written, but I feel it only fair that the blog should acknowledge him:  CW and I are both big fans.  I very much regret not going to a concert of his in London a number of years ago, but if such an event ever happens again (and I hope that it will), you may bet that I will be in the audience, whatever my circumstances may be.  I am writing this piece to the haunting strains of the “Ecstasy of Gold” which accompanied the frenzied searches of Tuco for buried gold in the vast cemetery during the final scenes in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Some people in this world have an instinctive genius for being able to stir deep emotions within us, accessing these by a profound knowledge of what fires our most primitive senses. Winston Churchill was able to do this through the medium of words: his speeches remain possibly his greatest legacy to the United Kingdom and its people. Laurie Lee, in his Cider with Rosie had a similar talent for choosing exactly the right combination of words to evoke pictures in our mind’s eye of a young boy growing up in the Cotswolds in the 1920s. I would say that Ennio Morricone, the Italian composer of whom I write, similarly possesses this wonderful talent, except that he expresses it through the medium of music. It is as if he visualises human emotion like the cords of a violin, and knows instinctively which ones to play in order to produce a wonderful reaction in each of us.

I do not know much about his background, except that he is obviously Italian and has been classically educated in music. For those who are unfamiliar with the name of Ennio Morricone, he wrote the music for many of Sergio Leone’s  Western Films, for example, A Fistful of Dollars, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, For a Few Dollars More, Once Upon a Time in the West, and Once Upon a Time in America, to name but a few. Practically everyone knows at least some of these tunes. In addition to the work he did for Leone, Morricone also composed the highly memorable soundtrack for the film The Mission, and so many other pieces that it would be tedious to try and catalogue them here.  I feel personally that his music works in particularly perfect harmony with Leone’s films, their look and feel, their mood, and their environment. This partnership may have worked so well because both were Italians and Latins, and had an instinctive understanding of what the other was looking for.

Morricone’s background music never fails to capture the right mood in a film scene, and almost draws the viewer deeper into the ambience of the picture. Who can fail to be moved by the strains of “Death of a Soldier”, when Clint Eastwood’s ministers to a mortally wounded young confederate, dying alone, in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?  In that same film, (and with a similar music score), during the scene when Tuco and the man with no name enter the monastery for help, we are filled with empathy and compassion at the sight of the monks in simple brown habits binding and washing the wounds of the helpless, starving, confederate refugees. Sticking with The Good…etc, remember that part when our two anti-heroes, Eastwood and Wallach, are marched into a dust caked, fly-blown prisoner of war camp by their Union captors?  By the use of the whistling and ever-so-slightly wistful marching tune, we almost can believe that we are being shepherded to the same camp.

Claudia Cardinale and Charles Bronson in Once Upon A Time in the West

Changing the film and the mood entirely, remember the wonderful score in Once Upon a Time in the West which accompanies Claudia Cardinale’s character as she alights from the train and we see the birth of a bustling new western town, and the music conveys both hope for future progress, but also wistful regret at the demise of the old “Wild West” and its (often warped) code of honour? In our deepest core we know, without realising it, that civilization as represented by the new town spells death to the Old West, yet the mere footage in this film of the stage town alone could not convey this knowledge to the viewer: Morricone’s musical score darkly hints at the notion in our sub-conscious. Sometimes the melancholy invoked by Ennio’s pieces can be almost overpowering: I would not recommend anyone in a dark mood to listen to “Deborah’s Theme” from Once Upon a Time in America.

Part of the reason for Morricone’s success is that he is prepared to be highly innovative in his approach to musical scores. For instance, during one duel scene in For a Few Dollars More, the feverish, oven-like tension is accentuated by the sepulchral strains of organ music punctuating the classic Western stand-off. Similarly, no other composer could have made work as well as Ennio the frog croaking “wop, wop, wop” “March of the Peasants” in A Fistful of Dynamite. Neither, as with the “Ecstasy of Gold”, was he scared to use female soprano singing in the score. Somehow, the music seems entirely appropriate to the scene of the film.

Some people take a very snobbish view towards composers such as Ennio Morricone, accusing them of being “populist”, and selling their work for pure profit. I do not agree. Ennio’s work has touched the lives of millions of people, even without us being aware of it, and brought fine music within the remit of those of us who do not ordinarily know our Rachmaninov from our Tchaikovsky.

Good on you Ennio! 

 

Oil company forced to Shell out millions

Shell Oil has agreed to an out-of-court settlement of $15.5 million with the Ogoni people of the Niger Delta in Nigeria after a legal battle lasting almost 14 years.  In agreeing to this settlement Shell is effectively admitting guilt for  human rights abuses, including complicity in the murder of Ogoni activist the writer Ken Sara Wiwa.  This landmark victory sends out a powerful message to big multi-nationals with no regard for human rights or the environment who think they can run rough-shod over anyone who gets in the way of their blood-money making activities.

Visa Card Apartheid Flags to be banned in the Rainbow Nation?

The South African political commentator Khaya Dlanga has called for the old apartheid-era national flag to be banned, echoing the ban on swastikas in post-war Germany, after a rugby supporter was spotted waving the said item at a recent rugby match. This flag (when turned upside down) always used to remind me of the Visa card logo – which begs the question was the old SA government receiving secret donations from Visa to prop up its regime? Will Visa cards also be banned? There are obvious connotations for oppression and bigotry (not to mention unwelcome bank statements!) associated with this flag harking back to the days when 80% of the population had no say in the running of the country. And the presence of the union jack and Dutch flag in the middle tier serve as a reminder of the country’s colonial past, which many South Africans would no doubt like to forget. While we’re on the subject, it baffles me as to why independent progressive countries like Australia and New Zealand still insist on having the union jack in the top left corner of their flags as if to remind themselves of the legacy of their colonial past – particularly when you think about the animosity with “the poms” when it comes to cricket and rugby. Yet they insist on holding on to the apron strings of Mother England, a sentiment which means little to the average Maori or Aborigine. The Brazilians don’t have a Portuguese flag on their national flag, the Mexicans don’t have a Spanish flag on theirs. But that’s a whole new debate.

 Back in the day South Africa was not a popular country. I remember hearing on the news around about 1985 of an incident in Dublin when a supermarket check-out girl refused to sell a customer South African fruit. A number of well-known rock musicians got into trouble for playing at the infamous Sun City resort. During his incarceration Nelson Mandela became an iconic figure throughout the world and championed by some of the biggest names in entertainment from Peter Gabriel to Sting. Yet to the shame of western governments who refused to impose economic sanctions on SA, apartheid continued for much longer than it should have. Gold, diamonds and oranges were obviously more important to them than social justice. However western powers continue to back totalitarian governments from Saudi Arabia to Uzbekistan when it ties in with their selfish, strategic or economic interests.

Oppressive regimes were (and still are) present in several other African countries of course, but unlike many of these countries SA was no impoverished third world tin-pot dictatorship. This was a supposedly developed forward-looking civilised western society.
A few white South Africans still no doubt nostalgically yearn for a return to the “good old days” when “kaffirs” knew their place, but the rest of the world has moved on.
These were bizarre times indeed. These were the days when black South Africans supported anyone but their own country in rugby, though not long before Mandela in a Springboks shirt made the noble gesture of presenting the world cup to the victorious SA team.

The apartheid regime was a goldmine for satirical comedians. The 1970s comedy team The Goodies brilliantly sent up the concept in this classic episode (the best bits happen around 1 minute and 35 seconds into the clip) where they introduce a new law called “apart-height” which discriminates against short people.  There was also the Spitting Image song “I’ve never met a nice South African” – which although a little harsh and inaccurate, it is mildly amusing (unless you’re South African of course). I should say at this point, that having lived in London for the best part of a decade, I’ve met many nice South Africans. It’s also worth pointing out that even South African comedians like Peter Dirk-Uys were ridiculing their own government at the time.

We also had films like Richard Attenborough’s Cry Freedom, a portrait of the life and death of political activist Steve Biko and his friendship with the white journalist Donald Woods. After Hollywood had endured much criticism for its politically incorrect habit of portraying villains as black or Hispanic, one of the films in the Lethal Weapon series featured white South Africans as the main bad guys, a fashionable trend at the time.
How things have changed. But although that democracy now prevails in SA, things are far from sweet and rosy. It’s the all too familiar story of yesterday’s oppressed becoming today’s oppressors. The Catholic church in Ireland endured centuries of persecution under British rule, but when part of the country gained independence, the church abused its special position and became a brutally oppressive institution aided by the state for the best part of 50 years.

There are striking parallels here with the ANC. The current SA government’s incompetence in dealing with AIDS in the country, its inability to effectively deal with the violent crime epidemic, its refusal to take Mugabe to task over the catastrophe engulfing Zimbabwe and the widespread accusations of corruption and nepotism within the party as an elitist minority lives the high life, while the majority of citizens live in poverty all beg the question – has anything really changed?
We’re now back the flag question. In a country which supposedly prides itself on diversity and freedom of expression, banning the old flag, as some commentators have pointed out would be counterproductive. Practical reasons aside, it’s unlikely that a drunken Afrikaaner will stick his flag into a chip & pin machine by mistake instead of his credit card when paying for the Oranjeboom and biltong for the braai at the local supermarket. It could do irreparable damage to the machine – not to mention the flag.

I’m reminded of a well-documented incident in the 1960s when the then young firebrand preacher Ian Paisley protested at the presence of an Irish tricolour (which was at the time banned in Northern Ireland and few if any were openly displayed even in nationalist areas) at the Sinn Féin office on Belfast’s Falls Road. A mob encouraged by Paisley converged on the premises and smashed the window in an attempt to remove the offending flag. A few days later, in response to this incident hundreds of tricolours were put up all over West Belfast. I’m sure some of them are still there to this day.

Lessons to be learned indeed.

 

 

 

Eoghan Harris makes another “balls-up”

Talking out of his Harris

I’m not a regular reader of the sensationalist fascist rag known as the Sunday Independent (the Irish paper that is – not to be confused with the English Independent on Sunday which is almost at the opposite end of the spectrum even though they share a common owner).  However one of my local pubs has complimentary copies – useful if the toilets run out of paper.  Anyway I was in one particular establishment watching Tyrone beat Armagh in the Ulster Championship.   I will concede that its GAA coverage is good – rather ironic considering that certain columnists on other pages have an aversion to the association and view it in a similar way to which the Ku Klux Klan view people of dark skin pigmentation.

One particular columnist Eoghan Harris churns out the usual bullshit.  I don’t pay much attention to what he says as it’s mostly arrogant, self-opinionated bollocks anyway, but if it’s factually inaccurate it’s worth noting.   He’s been called many things over the years by other bloggers, such as Infactah, Cedar Lounge, Maman Poulet, Green Ink, Associate Notes, Tangents  and Adam Maguire - most of them fairly accurate. 

In the wake of the Ryan Report detailing cases of abuse of children in the care of various institutions of the Irish Catholic church, Harris touches on Fianna Fáil’s (at worst) alleged complicity with the church or at best its failure to come down on the church harshly enough.  He cites a story from the 1950s which would seem to contradict this notion.  A certain bishop had urged football supporters to boycott a match between the Republic of Ireland and Yugoslavia because of a cardinal imprisoned by Tito for alledgedlt being a wartime collaborator.  It seems however that the cute hoors of the Soldiers of Destiny went against the bishop’s wishes:

“far from bowing to the archbishop, the prominent Fianna Fail shadow minister Oscar Traynor threw in the ball to start the match at Dalymount Park on October 19, 1955”

Although Eoghan obviously likes his detail right down to the exact date of the match, this couldn’t possibly have happened, as he makes a glaringly obvious error.  It looks like he’s getting his ball games mixed up.  As any schoolboy knows soccer matches start with a kick-off, not a throw-in.  At the start of Gaelic football matches the ball is of course “thrown in” by the referee. However I’m pretty sure there were no GAA teams in Tito’s Yugoslavia. 

So not for the first time Harris is (quite literally!) talking balls. I’ve written a letter to the editor pointing this out (albeit in a more subtle and diplomatic manner), but won’t be holding my breath regarding publication next Sunday.

Big Brother State wants your data

In response to the encroachment of an increasingly surveillance-empowered state, the Open Rights Group has set up the spoof website Statebook.  A clever form of protest against a government which has much to hide (except when it gets caught watching porn films paid for by the taxpayer or sending out slanderous e-mails to discredit its detractors), yet wants carte blanche access to its’ citizens’ personal data.

Experimental Short Term Vegetarianism Part 2

 

Return of the giant hogweed -"Botanical creature stirs seeking revenge..."

 My short-lived experiment with vegetarianism came to an end quite some time ago.

I nevertheless made the effort to try and understand the mind-set of a vegetarian.

I can see for instance why one might treat the idea of eating red meat with revulsion.  One can develop an attachment to a mammal, particularly if its raised from an early age. Cattle and pigs especially can be friendly creatures. In fields, they will often come up to the gate to greet you. Sheep on the other hand stare at you passively and zombie-like, then continue to graze as if oblivious to their own existence.  And leaving aside the welfare the animal in question, there is also the welfare of one’s arteries and heart at stake here.  No pun intended.

Fish, however is a different story.  To my knowledge it’s impossible for a human to have any emotional bond with a fish. OK, there are ethical reasons, such as principled opposition to overfishing, but if one boycotts certain threatened species this problem is solved in one fell swoop.  The health reason argument here is a no-brainer. OK, then lead and mercury contaminants in polluted seas enterig the food chain is a valid point, but think of the essential omega 3 oils and various vitamins, etc you get from oily fish like mackerel and herring.

Despite all this, I certainly eat less meat than I used to. Ironically though I am making a conscious effort to eat more fish.  I’ve even started to use vegetarian mincemeat substitute for spaghetti bolognese. It’s nowhere near as good as the real thing of course, and lacks in taste, but at least it’s filling. I’ve also got into salads more.

So while I would admit that vegetarianism can be quite a noble pursuit in the interests of health and ethical concerns my problem is that roast lamb or beef, good quality ham or bacon just tastes too damn delicious to give up.

In order to be a committed vegetarian it probably helps immensely if you don’t like meat in the first place.

So while I could never envisage becoming a full time vegetarian (unless for health reasons I was forced to), I still feel it does no harm to reduce one’s meat consumption to a minimum.

The “Nice video, shame about the song” effect

Nice video - shame about the song

In the early 1980s the popular BBC comedy show Not the Nine O’Clock News mocked the pretensions of the contemporary pop video phenomenon in the famous sketch “Nice Video Shame About the Song” (avaialble on Youtube if you’re interested).  It was a magnificent piece of satire, highlighting the fact that pop videos had become over-elaborate and relied heavily on the state of the art special effects of the time like Quantel and Paintbox, as if in an attempt to make up for the crapness of the song.  Bands like the Human League, Duran Duran and Visage were particularly guilty of this.

I was reminded of this recently when on a Ryanair flight which arrived at its destination ahead of schedule.  To celebrate this momentous event a trumpet fanfare was played and an American voice announced over the tannoy how great Ryanair was. I’ve been a regular flyer with Ryanair for the best part of a decade now. To be fair, I’ve only had two bad experiences with them, one of which was mostly my own fault for being late. So, in principle I’ve got no problem in flying with Ryanair, but I can’t say I care much for the airline’s chief executive, the publicity-seeking, money-grabbing Michael O’Leary as I’ve made clear in a previous post.

Essentially what I’m getting at here is the fact that it is quite possible to admire great works of art, literature and music without liking their creator.

U2 are without doubt a fine bunch of musicians, but their lead singer is equally without doubt a egomaniacal, sanctimonious, self-righteous irritating little tosser – as I’ve made clear in a previous piece.  Another loud-mouthed Dubliner, not quite as nauseating, but almost as sanctimonious was a fine musician and songwriter in his day. I don’t like Mondays, Rat Trap and Banana Republic are among the greatest songs of the 1970s, but the man who wrote them is an arrogant tosser.

Also, take Andrew Lloyd-Webber for instance.  Cats, Evita and Phantom of the Opera are all outstanding works of musical theatre, even though their creator is an obnoxious trout-faced, medieval-haired twat.

An obnoxious trout-faced medieval-haired twat

Blackadder is in my view one of the greatest comedy shows ever – but I don’t care much for its co-writers Ben Elton and Richard Curtis and their smug, self-righteous “oh look how great we are” demeanours.

So when you bring Ben Elton and Andrew Lloyd-Webber together (a match made in Hell if ever there was one) as was the case for The Beautiful Game, a musical about a Belfast youth soccer club amidst the backdrop of the violence which enguled the city in the early days of the troubles, the result is an abomination.  Two rich middle class prats from the English Home Counties lecturing people on how bad it all was in Belfast back then.  It’s almost as bad as mega-rich rock musicians from Dublin lecturing the world on how bad things are in Africa.  If they really feel that strongly about it they should go and live in Africa.

At this point I will grudgingly admit that I was a teenage U2 fan during my younger and more foolish days.  Then I gradually saw the error of my ways.

Nice songs,  shame about the singer, etc.

 

 

 

 

61 years on – Ireland grandly slam door on Welsh hopes

As a Tyrone supporter I know all too well what it’s like to savour the joy of winning a long eluded prize after years of heartbreak and frustatration. And from an Irish rugby perspective 61 years is a long time to wait for a grand slam.

It was a closely fought contest with a few heart-stopping moments, especially when Wales went ahead with 5 minutes to go. But I knew that Welsh penalty in the last minute wasn’t going to go over. The Tommy Bowe try and the Ronan O’Gara drop goal will linger long in the memory.

A highly partisan crowd, (although not all were there for the rugby – a few were watching the Newcastle v Arsenal match on the other screen) in Toolans in North Finchley, scarcely recovered from the St Patrick’s Day celebrations of a few days previously went wild as the final whistle blew. It wasn’t easy, but grand slams never are.

On Extinct Tropical-themed confectionery products

It was while driving to work one morning last week when it occurred to me for some bizarre inexplicable reason that the canned fizzy drink Lilt was no longer on the market.   Or at least not in cans anyway.  If I remember correctly it was a mixture of pineapple, grapefruit and various other tropical fruit flavours, topped up wiht citirc acid, tartrazine and assorted crap that would now probably be banned by the EU. The TV ad featured shots of an idyllic tropical island with thejingle sung in a strong Caribbean accent “Lilt – with a totally tropical tee-yast”.

Around about the same time (ie early ‘80s) I recall there was a coconut and cherry flavoured chocolate bar called Cabana, which disappeared without a trace soon afterwards. Then not so long after this came out a disgusting bright red drink purporting to be a mixture of various tropical fruit juices called Um Bongo. The song featured in the TV ad (sung – I believe, but can’t be 100% sure – by the comedian Lenny Henry) was along the lines of an African tribal chant accompanied by a jungle drum beat with the chorus line “Um Bongo, Um Bongo, they drink it in the Congo”. It’s unlikely that this sort of thing would be broadcast nowadays in the age of rampant political correctness. But it’s probably purely coincidental that roughly around the same time the Tory MP Alan Clarke called for black immigrants to be sent back to BongoBongoland.

It’s not so much the politically incorrect nature of the ad, nor its stereotyping, but more the gross factual inaccuracy that bothers me. I’m sure if you were to ask Fergal Keane or Orla Guerin fresh from a reporting assignment in the corrupt, war-ravaged, mineral-rich central African state (that’s assuming the song refers to the Democratic Republic of Congo rather than Congo-Brazzaville, although the former was at the time still known as Zaire (but before that the Belgian Congo at the time when waffle-eating Sprouts had an empire), so it’s debatable) if they saw anyone sipping Um Bongo out of a straw from a garishly-coloured cardboard carton, I’m sure the answer would be an emphatic “no”.

A cursory glance at Wikipedia proves my point:

It is particularly famous for its long running (sung) slogan of “They Drink It In The Congo“, used with the accompanying animated television advert since the 1980s. However, Um Bongo is not marketed in either the Republic of the Congo or the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

And just to be clear I don’t miss Lilt, Um Bongo, Cabana or any other e-number, artificial-flavouring-infested tropical-themed confectionery product of the 1980s (nor for that matter do I miss that particular decade), but I do toss and turn in bed at night wondering whatever became of them. I assume they went the way of the yuppy, the spangly flecked suit, black slip-ons and white socks, the bubble perm and matching moustache as sported by stock stage Liverpudlians in period comedy sketches, the wafer thin leather tie, the skintight pair of bleached jeans and the mullet haircut. And good riddance to them all.

Nostalgia’s just not what it used to be.

I’m Sorry I haven’t a C***

I was delighted to hear that the long-running BBC radio comedy panel game I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue , the staple of Saturday lunchtime listening is to return in the near future. The show’s future was hanging in the balance after the death last year of its octogenarian host, ex-jazz trumpeter Humphrey Lyttleton. The show is now to be hosted on a rotational basis by comedians Stephen Fry, Jack Dee and Rob Brydon.  Chairman Humph will be a hard act to follow, but it’s very much in the show’s interests to go on.   For over 30 years veteran comics like Barry Cryer, former “Goodies” Tim Brooke-Taylor and Bill Oddie, Jeremy Hardy, Paul Merton and the late Willie Rushton have sung the words of songs to the wrong tune, played “Mornington Crescent” and indulged in general silliness over the airwaves, all in the (alleged) presence of omnipresent scorekeeper, often mentioned, but never heard, “the lovely Samantha”

One of Clue’s notable segments was where the contestants had to invent new definitions of existing words – for example:

Binge – what Sean Connery puts his rubbish in

Twinge – Sean Connery’s identical brother

Miniscule – a nursery for young scousers;

and Rob Brydon’s classic contribution “control” (placing an emphasis on the second syllable) – Simon Cowell, Piers Morgan , AA Gill, Jonathan Ross, etc – you get the picture…

Similarly, Stephen Fry redefined “Countryside” as the killing of Piers Morgan.

Subtle but deadly. The F-word, for so long an unmentionable taboo has now almost become an aceptable part of everyday use. Now that other 4-letter Anglo-Saxon word which refers to the female genitalia, but is widely used a nasty term of abuse directed at unpleasant people has become the ultimate taboo. And as demonstrated above the taboo nature of the word can be subtly manipilated for biting comic effect.

So in the true spirit of I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue, here’s my own contribution – based on the muesli-based breakfast cereal Country Store. If Piers Morgan was suffering from a serious illness, then gradually began to recover, his process of recovery would be known as “Country Store”.

And as a not very funny comedian from Cookstown would say – and there’s more:

Contagious – the process of Simon Cowell getting older.

May the players of Morning Crescent et al remain clueless for many years to come.