Rock over London...
Okay, so January's almost over and this is my first post. But as those of you who saw me over Christmas back in the States (or have seen me since returning to the U.K.) know, this term is utter insanity. Luckily, I may have come up with a dissertation topic... and decided to try for a Ph.D. Turns out this is just my kind of insanity, actually -- the nerdy kind.
But there are nerds everywhere, and there's only London in London. I've done a few noteworthy things besides joining the British Library (which is so cool -- and not just because they have the Magna Carta), so I figured before it's officially February, I should take a night off from reading Lacanian theory and share.
My first weekend back in town, I figured I should check out a new cinema -- the Cine Lumiere in South Kensington -- and a new doco, the well-received Mondovino, another one of these progressive documentaries a la The Corporation, about the corporatizing of the wine industry. Definitely worth its weight in gold in terms of entertainment value -- there is nothing like cranky old French men, whose families have been making wine for half a millenium, insulting those American upstarts taking all the terroir out of the biz. However, way, way too long -- nearly three hours, pretty haphazardly structured and full of that caffeinated camera-work that tends to make audience members nauseous or, at least, highly annoyed. I'd say unless you have a vested interest in the workings of the wine world -- or globalization -- you could wait for video.
That same weekend, I discovered a new bar, called Point 101, right near the Tottenham Court Road tube station. Now, I admit its main attraction is staying open past 11 p.m. -- although I hear that London is changing its liquor license laws, miracle of miracles -- but it also plays ridiculously cheesy tunes (think "Carwash," "Superfreak," "California Love" and "Let Me Clear My Throat") and has lots of large, comfy couches perfect for group outings. I've been there twice so far and both times have laughed so much, not just at the musical selection but (even better) at the poor drunk Brits dancing in between the tables! I think I have found my kitsch heaven. Did I mention they also have large plastic chandeliers? And that the large couches are also round?
*
A couple weeks back my flatmate M. and I headed out to the Bloomsbury Theatre at University College London (what's up uni?) to check out the T.S. Eliot Prize Shortlist Reading -- ten of the best in the UK, Ireland, and Canada in one evening! The poets generally read four or five poems, so I avoided the poetry overload I suffered at the end of Poetry International back in October. Highlights:
Michael Symmons Roberts, whose fourth collection Corpus is a truly unique, very compelling exploration of how science -- specifically, the science of genetics -- makes its presence felt in our everyday lives. I found him the most exciting poet of the evening, and not least because he knew how to read his work in a way that engaged both with the words on the page and the audience listening to them. Here's a bit from "To John Donne," which describes a couple making love in the context of the mapping of the human genome and the patenting of genes by pharmaceutical companies (yeah, like I said, involved and amazing): "Let your lips, and hers, in whispers claim back the coordinates of bodies." And this, from "Pelt": "Maybe the world shrugs off a hide each year to grow a fresh one."
Ruth Padel, who I was first introduced to -- no, not personally -- when she read Pablo Neruda's poems at Poetry International (check out that entry here, if you missed it). Her newest book, The Soho Leopard, explores the notion of wildness, the intersection between the "natural" world and the city. Her series of poems on urban foxes in London is wonderfully evocative for a newcomer to this big, lonely place.
Kathleen Jamie, whose poetry blooms with imagery but is lovely to listen to (at least for my American ears) for the music of her Scottish accent while reading. Her book The Tree House won the 2004 Forward Prize for Best Collection, and I think it's a great example of how plenty of contemporary poetry avoids the lifeless and pseudo-cerebral, rooting itself quite simply in language. Here's her sonnet "Before the Wind" -- check out some of these line breaks!:
And finally, George Szirtes, (who ultimately won the very nice 10,000 pound prize for 2004), and who I might call Britain's answer to Charles Simic. His poetry, at least what I've seen in Reel, has the same quiet, thoughtful reverence on people and places, even as that reverence carries with it a sadness, as once his adult narrator returns to the childhood memories, they are of course irrevocably changed. His list poem "Water" begins: "The hard, beautiful rules of water are these:" And no, I won't tell you what they are, because you should read his book!
*
Last Saturday, I went with my friends G. and C. (who are also travelling with me to Cardiff this weekend -- I promise I will post about that adventure more promptly!) to see the Kronos Quartet at the Barbican Centre. For those of you not familiar with the whirlwind scene of avant-garde classical composition, the Kronos Quartet are the superstars of that scene, and if a composer is lucky enough to have them collaborate with her on a piece or several pieces, it's a real achievement. This was clear enough by the fact that the composers of nearly every piece they played on Saturday were in attendance, and most of them, when they came out for their bow, ran over to Kronos and gave all four of them big hugs. Some of you may be familiar with their work on the soundtrack for Requiem for a Dream -- they are responsible for the ominous, oppressive strings which drift in and out of Clint Mansell's desolate electronic score. I bought that CD and their latest, Mugam Sayagi, featuring the music of Franghiz Ali-Zadeh. And I got them signed! As for the concert itself, they played pieces from both of those albums -- as well as, among other selections, a really hypnotic, dissonant song, "Potassium," by Michael Gordon, a composer I'm not familiar with, but who I will have to learn more about -- he completely deconstructs the idea of a chamber piece. The concert was billed for featuring a world premiere of the first piece written for a string quartet by landmark avant-garde composer Meredith Monk, called "Stringsongs." This work so completely absorbed me, and in a really unfamiliar way, that I am at a real loss to describe it for you, dear readers. (However, you can listen to this entire concert on BBC Radio 3 on March 27, if you'd like to find out for yourself.) I need to go to concerts like this more often, I think -- I always learn so much!
*
Well, I think that about settles the January wrap-up -- I tried to see a staging of Max Frisch's Bluebeard at a stage on the second floor of a pub called The Lion and the Unicorn (gotta love the Orwell reference) in Kentish Town, but the sound system blew and I couldn't be bothered to go back another night. The pub's not bad, though, and it has Grolsch on tap.
(PS: Even if you never click on a single one of the links I provide in my posts, please do for Max Frisch. The music on that webpage is absolutely priceless!)
But there are nerds everywhere, and there's only London in London. I've done a few noteworthy things besides joining the British Library (which is so cool -- and not just because they have the Magna Carta), so I figured before it's officially February, I should take a night off from reading Lacanian theory and share.
My first weekend back in town, I figured I should check out a new cinema -- the Cine Lumiere in South Kensington -- and a new doco, the well-received Mondovino, another one of these progressive documentaries a la The Corporation, about the corporatizing of the wine industry. Definitely worth its weight in gold in terms of entertainment value -- there is nothing like cranky old French men, whose families have been making wine for half a millenium, insulting those American upstarts taking all the terroir out of the biz. However, way, way too long -- nearly three hours, pretty haphazardly structured and full of that caffeinated camera-work that tends to make audience members nauseous or, at least, highly annoyed. I'd say unless you have a vested interest in the workings of the wine world -- or globalization -- you could wait for video.
That same weekend, I discovered a new bar, called Point 101, right near the Tottenham Court Road tube station. Now, I admit its main attraction is staying open past 11 p.m. -- although I hear that London is changing its liquor license laws, miracle of miracles -- but it also plays ridiculously cheesy tunes (think "Carwash," "Superfreak," "California Love" and "Let Me Clear My Throat") and has lots of large, comfy couches perfect for group outings. I've been there twice so far and both times have laughed so much, not just at the musical selection but (even better) at the poor drunk Brits dancing in between the tables! I think I have found my kitsch heaven. Did I mention they also have large plastic chandeliers? And that the large couches are also round?
*
A couple weeks back my flatmate M. and I headed out to the Bloomsbury Theatre at University College London (what's up uni?) to check out the T.S. Eliot Prize Shortlist Reading -- ten of the best in the UK, Ireland, and Canada in one evening! The poets generally read four or five poems, so I avoided the poetry overload I suffered at the end of Poetry International back in October. Highlights:
Michael Symmons Roberts, whose fourth collection Corpus is a truly unique, very compelling exploration of how science -- specifically, the science of genetics -- makes its presence felt in our everyday lives. I found him the most exciting poet of the evening, and not least because he knew how to read his work in a way that engaged both with the words on the page and the audience listening to them. Here's a bit from "To John Donne," which describes a couple making love in the context of the mapping of the human genome and the patenting of genes by pharmaceutical companies (yeah, like I said, involved and amazing): "Let your lips, and hers, in whispers claim back the coordinates of bodies." And this, from "Pelt": "Maybe the world shrugs off a hide each year to grow a fresh one."
Ruth Padel, who I was first introduced to -- no, not personally -- when she read Pablo Neruda's poems at Poetry International (check out that entry here, if you missed it). Her newest book, The Soho Leopard, explores the notion of wildness, the intersection between the "natural" world and the city. Her series of poems on urban foxes in London is wonderfully evocative for a newcomer to this big, lonely place.
Kathleen Jamie, whose poetry blooms with imagery but is lovely to listen to (at least for my American ears) for the music of her Scottish accent while reading. Her book The Tree House won the 2004 Forward Prize for Best Collection, and I think it's a great example of how plenty of contemporary poetry avoids the lifeless and pseudo-cerebral, rooting itself quite simply in language. Here's her sonnet "Before the Wind" -- check out some of these line breaks!:
If I'm to happen upon the hill
where cherries grow wild
it better be soon, or the yellow-
eye birds will come squabbling
claiming the fruit for their own.
Wild means stones barely
clothed in flesh, but that's rich
coming from me. A mouth
contains a cherry, a cherry
a stone, a stone
the flowering branch
I must find before the wind
scatters all trace of its blossom
and the fruit comes, and yellow-eyed birds.
And finally, George Szirtes, (who ultimately won the very nice 10,000 pound prize for 2004), and who I might call Britain's answer to Charles Simic. His poetry, at least what I've seen in Reel, has the same quiet, thoughtful reverence on people and places, even as that reverence carries with it a sadness, as once his adult narrator returns to the childhood memories, they are of course irrevocably changed. His list poem "Water" begins: "The hard, beautiful rules of water are these:" And no, I won't tell you what they are, because you should read his book!
*
Last Saturday, I went with my friends G. and C. (who are also travelling with me to Cardiff this weekend -- I promise I will post about that adventure more promptly!) to see the Kronos Quartet at the Barbican Centre. For those of you not familiar with the whirlwind scene of avant-garde classical composition, the Kronos Quartet are the superstars of that scene, and if a composer is lucky enough to have them collaborate with her on a piece or several pieces, it's a real achievement. This was clear enough by the fact that the composers of nearly every piece they played on Saturday were in attendance, and most of them, when they came out for their bow, ran over to Kronos and gave all four of them big hugs. Some of you may be familiar with their work on the soundtrack for Requiem for a Dream -- they are responsible for the ominous, oppressive strings which drift in and out of Clint Mansell's desolate electronic score. I bought that CD and their latest, Mugam Sayagi, featuring the music of Franghiz Ali-Zadeh. And I got them signed! As for the concert itself, they played pieces from both of those albums -- as well as, among other selections, a really hypnotic, dissonant song, "Potassium," by Michael Gordon, a composer I'm not familiar with, but who I will have to learn more about -- he completely deconstructs the idea of a chamber piece. The concert was billed for featuring a world premiere of the first piece written for a string quartet by landmark avant-garde composer Meredith Monk, called "Stringsongs." This work so completely absorbed me, and in a really unfamiliar way, that I am at a real loss to describe it for you, dear readers. (However, you can listen to this entire concert on BBC Radio 3 on March 27, if you'd like to find out for yourself.) I need to go to concerts like this more often, I think -- I always learn so much!
*
Well, I think that about settles the January wrap-up -- I tried to see a staging of Max Frisch's Bluebeard at a stage on the second floor of a pub called The Lion and the Unicorn (gotta love the Orwell reference) in Kentish Town, but the sound system blew and I couldn't be bothered to go back another night. The pub's not bad, though, and it has Grolsch on tap.
(PS: Even if you never click on a single one of the links I provide in my posts, please do for Max Frisch. The music on that webpage is absolutely priceless!)
posted by HB @ 8:52 PM
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