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Memories

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Altamont at 50

December 5, 2019 in Life as we know it | Permalink

I remember just how startled I was when I first watched the Maysles brothers’ 1970 documentary on the Rolling Stones 1969 tour of the USA – ‘Gimme Shelter‘ – the which culminated on December 6th of that year with the hubristic free concert at the Altamont Speedway outside San Francisco. I don’t remember exactly when it was that I saw the movie for the first time, but I have watched it many times since.

Now – I never was a great fan of the Stones, though I do get a little of what the fuss is all about. I have only seen them live once – pre-millennium at the old Wembley Stadium in London. I recall being fascinated by Jagger’s ability to control an audience but otherwise being generally somewhat under-whelmed. The best thing they did that day was a cover of ‘Like a Rolling Stone‘.

I do think – however – that ‘Gimme Shelter‘ is a classic song and would be up there on my all-time best list.

I can’t deny that there is a fascination with that particular period in their – and our – history. I have read pretty much all that there is to read on Altamont – from Stanley Booth, Joel Selvin, Saul Austerlitz et al. There has for a long time now been much talk about the event being the antithesis of Woodstock – the end of the 60s – the death of the hippie dream and suchlike, but the main thing that I get from the inevitable golden-anniversary musings is that no-one is really at all clear as to the true meaning – should there be one – of this peripeteia.

I have a fascination for those turning points of history, regardless of the age from which they hail. They are frequently associated (probably understandably) with some form of a loss of innocence – though, given our long and ignominious history, how we as a species can yet manage to hang on to any shred of innocence is beyond me.

Fifty years – seems a good time to reflect on all such that has occurred.

Fifty years?! Where did that go?

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Synchronicity?

November 27, 2019 in Life as we know it | Permalink

Wednesday mornings (for another week at least) find me up at crack of dawn (literally!) getting ready to wend my way in to the College for an early lecture.

Even at the height of summer my thought processes do not run very rapidly such an antisocial time of day. In the winter – when it is still dark as I stumble into the shower and fumble with the controls to turn the hot water on full – I barely register as a life form.

It follows – ergo – that nothing much of any import passes through my mind at this point. Thus is was this morning that my usual befuddled musings on the state of the world were unexpectedly leavened somewhat by the sudden thought that – unlike other recent years – at least in this one we have not suffered a relentless tide of deaths amongst the great and the good (or celebrities at the very least).

On arrival at the college and having a few minutes before my lecture I checked the BBC news headlines. Amongst the top stories were announcements of the following deaths:

  • Gary Rhodes – one of the first of the TV celebrity chefs, who influenced many that followed. Gary was the cousin (I think) of a friend of a friend and I met him once at a party. He seemed pleasant enough and he was very tall…
  • Clive James – Australian who made the UK his home – writer, program maker and TV critic for The Observer newspaper in the UK. We loved Clive’s dry wit and brilliant way with words and he was a fixture in our younger days.
  • Jonathan Miller – satirist, writer, opera director, medical consultant and polymath. He was one of the four great names that came out of the Footlights review – ‘Beyond the Fringe’ – back in the 60s, along with Peter Cook, Dudley Moore and Alan Bennett (who is now the only survivor). Jonathan was alumnus of the final school at which I worked and the new theatre there is named for him. Back in the 80s at some point he came to the college of the University of London at which I then worked to give a talk on a book that he had recently published on re-interpreting Shakespeare. It was called ‘Subsequent Performances’ and I still have my copy. He spoke brilliantly without notes for forty five minutes and then did as long again answering questions – also without notes and also quite brilliantly!

These souls will all be sadly missed and yet more figures from our younger and formative days are now no more.

So – that thought of mine in the shower… Synchronicity or what? – (probably ‘or what’!).

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Lest we forget

November 11, 2019 in Life as we know it | Permalink

Remembrance day is with us again.

I have written on the subject of Remembrance Day itself more than once before in these musings and feel no need to add to those thoughts here.

I have been aware this year, however… or maybe actually for the past few years… of a seemingly increasing number of anniversaries that demand reflection and which give us pause for thought.

Now – to my way of thinking these febrile times mean that  ‘pause for thought’ is no bad thing and I have indeed myself been taking the opportunity to reflect on a variety of past events and occurrences which – for many reasons – merit our attention.

Last year brought to an end the four year cycle of commemorations of the centenaries of the many momentous events from the Great War on which we rightly reflect. 2018 also marked the fiftieth anniversary of the happenings of that most startling of post-war years – 1968.

2019 – however – boasts its own share of dramatic commemorations. It is fifty years since the moon landings – and who of my generation can forget that extraordinary accomplishment. It is the fiftieth anniversary of Woodstock and – yet to come – of Altamont, as well as of the start of the troubles in Northern Ireland. It is also the fortieth anniversary of the assassination of Lord Louis Mountbatten. I have written in these pages several times of the urgency of remembering these latter events and of how they came about… in the urgent interests of preventing them from so doing again.

The development at this juncture in the calendar that we perhaps remember as having the greatest emotional impact on those of my generation occurred thirty years ago. I still find it difficult to ruminate upon that extraordinary period in which the Berlin Wall came down and the communist empire that was the USSR dissolved before our disbelieving eyes without finding myself once again moved to tears and I know from the testimony of others that I am far from alone in this reaction.

When I was growing up – turning slowly and belatedly from a callow teenage youth to a young man – there were a number of situations around the world for which we just could not see any hope of resolution. There was the cold war – apartheid – the Arab/Israeli imbroglio – Northern Ireland. These situations we had grown up with and we were resigned to their perpetual continuation.

The fall of the wall thus came as an unexpected and joyful shock that moved grown and hard-bitten men to tears. That it should be followed in the subsequent decades by the ending of apartheid and the (hopefully) permanent resolution of the Troubles in Ireland were more than we could rightly hope for. The middle east? Some things are sadly just too intractable for such hope of success.

One of the many reasons that I could never agree with the frankly ignorant critics who would carelessly destroy the beleaguered BBC is the continuing and excellent quality and relevance of their many documentary strands, the which have enabled me and many others like me to come to understand more fully the essence of these events, as well as to remember and to commemorate them in our own ways in the light of that greatly needed and massively appreciated knowledge.

In memoriam…

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…but you can never leave!

June 19, 2019 in Flotsam and Jetsam, Photos | Permalink

Some photographs of the spookily sparsely occupied Oatlands Park Hotel and its environs (see previous post for context).

Looks like the clientele has not only checked out but also contrived to leave!

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

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You can check out…

June 18, 2019 in Flotsam and Jetsam | Permalink

Photo by Andy Dawson Reid“This is an elegant hotel! Room service has an unlisted number.”

Henny Youngman

It had been the intention – on our recent tour of the UK – that with the arrival of The Girl upon those shores we would reside for a week with my brother in the small town in Surrey in which he and I (and our sister) had grown up. As a result of the rule of ‘the best laid plans‘, however, things did not turn out quite as expected.

In preparation for our visit my brother had decided that his bathroom needed to be remodeled (he designs kitchens and suchlike for a living) and he had accordingly set things in motion. Unfortunately, as a result of the late delivery of some essential components and because of an unusual interpretation of the laws of time on the part of his builder, the project had not been completed at the point at which we knocked upon his front door (actually he met us outside but that is not quite such a satisfyingly dramatic scenario!).

No matter! Being the splendidly resourceful (not to mention massively generous) chap that he is he had taken the precaution of booking us (at his expense – thank you!) into a rather splendid hotel not a stone’s throw from his abode. As things turned out this was actually considerably to our advantage, as we were able to entertain in the hotel reception rooms a number of those who we wished to see during our stay but to whom for one reason or other we had not been able to arrange visits.

What my brother did not know when he booked the hotel was that this historic institution – built in the 1850s on the site of one of Henry VIII’s palaces – was itself undergoing renovations. This made for a rather lovely but somewhat unusual interlude – though one that undoubtedly enhanced this part of our extended trek.

I knew the hotel from my childhood. The grounds behind the building sweep down to a long lake called the Broadwater. When I were a nipper the hotel used to host there a firework display for Guy Fawkes night – November 5th. After the show we would repair to the somewhat tatty atrium at the front of the building to partake of (presumably non-alcoholic) beverages.

The hotel was extensively and beautifully restored during the 1980s (under new ownership) and the atrium became a go-to destination (papers clutched firmly in hand) for Sunday brunch. They did a jolly spiffing club sandwich as I recall. On one such Sunday at the start of November in 1991 we convened there for brunch the day after Australia had beaten England in the Rugby World Cup final at Twickenham. It rapidly became apparent that the hotel had been chosen as the Aussies London base for the final – and even more apparent (as they gathered gingerly in the lobby) that they had celebrated the event heartily and abundantly well into the night.

Well – the old place is due another renovation now and is in the process of receiving one. Parts of the building have already been finished (we naturally had a room in this part) but much of the rest of it is still in the hands of trades-persons of all manner of varieties. As a result it is still pretty lightly booked and thus rather spookily empty. A wander around the grounds – also in need of a fair bit of TLC – gave me the slightly odd feeling of having wandered into some post-war Stephen Poliakoff drama. I kept expecting to be approached by a mysterious contact and inducted into some strange mission.

Maybe I just expect all of my life to be like that!

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Thoroughly persuaded

May 27, 2019 in Life as we know it | Permalink

“No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other’s worth.”

Robert Southey

A little less than two weeks ago I wrote the following on the subject of how I felt about returning (for however brief a visit) to the land of my birth.

“A dear friend here in BC asked me the other day how I felt about going back to the country of my birth. I told him the truth: I am really not at all sure how I feel about it. I am certainly looking forward to seeing family, friends and acquaintances and it will be good to visit some of the old haunts again. Beyond that I currently feel somewhat ambivalent.”

Safe to say that I am now a whole bunch less ambivalent!

Since arriving in the UK just over a week ago I/we have been met with nothing but kindness, generosity, enthusiasm and love. It has been a real joy to revisit old friendships and acquaintances and to rekindle relationships that have been dormant for years or even decades. The whole trip has thus far been an incredibly positive experience.

That said it seems invidious to single out any particular one of these joyful (and I make no apology for the repeated use of that word) experiences – but I do have to make mention of the heart-warming gathering that took place on the first Sunday that I was back in the UK.

Shortly before leaving for Canada four years ago I passed a delightful afternoon in the company of some old musician friends of mine – none of whom I had seen for some considerable time – chewing the fat about the old days in which we had played in a band together and about the theatrical works with which we had been involved.

With this visit to the old country in the offing I once again contacted my guitarist friend and suggested that it would be good to repeat that experience. What he actually did – whilst keeping from me all but the broadest hints – was to arrange a full-scale re-union of all of the old band members and a good number of those who belonged to the youth theatre with which we then worked.

Any fears that I might have had about being able to recognise those whom I had not seen for forty years – some of whom were then only in their late teens – vanished just as soon as I walked in. I was far from alone in showing my delight at seeing again those with whom we had enjoyed such formative experiences all those years ago. The afternoon was quite, quite magical and none of us really wanted to leave at the end of it. The subsequent outpouring of gratitude on email by all concerned clearly illustrated just how much the re-union – and the adventures some four decades back that we were celebrating – had meant to us.

A lovely, lovely occasion – and one which I will never forget.

A heartfelt thank you to all concerned.

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Judy Blue Eyes

March 31, 2019 in Flotsam and Jetsam | Permalink

Image from Wikimedia CommonsWhen booking tickets a while back for last night’s Judy Collins concert at the McPherson Theatre in Victoria we were not without qualms. Nagging reminders of the hugely disappointing visit to the same venue by Gordon Lightfoot the year before last persisted. Treasured memories are sometimes best kept in the mind and not revisited in real life.

Such fears were little allayed when Collins took to the stage – accompanied only by her long-time pianist/musical director, Russell Walden – and during the first number her voice cracked several times. She seemed entirely un-phased by such teething problems, however, explaining that she was recovering from illness and implying that all would be well once she had warmed up.

That indeed turned out to be the case and apart from the occasional memory lapse on the lyrical front (the lady is seventy nine for goodness sake!) the remainder of the evening was the stuff of memories itself.

Much as I have always loved many of Judy’s multitude of classic recordings I have always found her a little cool and a touch distant. Two things rapidly became apparent last night – her voice is now warmer and richer than it was of yore (whilst just as affecting) and she has a keen and wicked sense of humour. The form of the evening was a trip through her sixty year music career, spinning hilarious anecdotes about a pantheon of greats – Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, Steven Stills, Leonard Cohen and Stephen Sondheim (amongst others) interspersed with memory-inducing renditions of their (and her) songs.

The ninety minute show passed in a flash and included such classics as ‘Both Sides Now‘, ‘Chelsea Morning‘, ‘Mr Tambourine Man‘, ‘Send in the Clowns‘, ‘My Father‘, ‘Suzanne‘, ‘The Moon’s a Harsh Mistress‘ and ‘Amazing Grace‘. I was particularly moved by her rendition of Dylan’s ‘Masters of War‘. This is the stuff on which we (and, quite clearly, the remainder of the packed audience of those also in their second childhoods) had grown up – and it meant something. It was impossible not to be touched.

We learned things that we had not previously known, such as the fact that – had it not been for her cajoling – Leonard Cohen would have remained an obscure poet rather than morphing into the singer/songwriter that he became.

Also most impressive is that even at her age (did I mention that she is seventy nine!) Judy still averages a hundred and twenty live concerts a year!

Inspiring stuff and a fabulous evening!

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What the hell…

January 1, 2019 in Life as we know it | Permalink

…just happened?

2018 – that’s what!

The Girl and I spent a very low-key Hogmany last night, staying up barely long enough to greet the new year as it poked its head nervously around the door. Who can blame it? After 2018 was dragged from the room, kicking and complaining, punching the air with all of the self-possession of a drunk going down for the third time, 2019 was pushed and prodded into the limelight, most likely feeling anything but ready.

I am reminded of an occasion many years ago at the Edinburgh Festival. The Youth Theatre with which I was heavily involved had taken a show to the Fringe. Fighting – as ever – for any publicity we could get we had taken a late night slot at the Fringe Club to parade our wares. As we waited nervously in the wings – instruments at the ready – we could hear the previous act going down a storm. As soon as they finished there was a mass exodus from the hall, with hundreds of souls pouring out and heading for the bar. Nervously we tiptoed in. Magically the place was still packed to the rafters, with considerably drunk and extremely raucous revelers, all armed to the teeth with heckles! The less said about our performance the better, but as we left one of the young thespists turned to me and said:

“Don’t ever ask us to do that again!”

OK! So this is traditionally the point at which I look back at the outgoing year and summarise what has happened for us. Given that everything at the moment is overshadowed by the scary goings-on in the wider world it must be admitted that – though the year has thrown up more than a few surprises – we have done pretty well for ourselves.

2018 was always going to be the difficult year for us. When we did our retirement projections well before we left the UK we could see that there was going to be a financial dip, caused in part by the fact that my state pension does not kick in until part way through 2019. The collapse of the Sterling/CAD exchange rate that followed the Brexit vote made things worse, though being able to purchase ahead gave us something of a buffer up to this time last year.

It was clear that I was going to need to earn some extra monies to support our adopted lifestyle. By this time last year I had failed to find temporary or part-time work and it was not clear how I was going to do so. I was most fortunate to land the teaching contract that I did, and even more fortunate that I got another one for the autumn (Fall). With luck I may have another for the coming spring. Of course, none of this had been planned at our point of departure and I really had thought that my working days were over.

The Girl has had a difficult year at work as a result of changes to which I alluded in my equivalent report of this time last year. Change is never easy and as a species we tend to handle it poorly. She has persevered – something that is a most admirable strength of hers – and it does seem that the situation with her agency is now greatly improved. Fingers crossed.

She is not, however, one to sit back and to let things come to her. She has thus spent much of this last year planning her slow withdrawal from the world of work as she currently knows it. To this end she is undertaking a year’s course of study which will equip her to set up her own business, which will then gradually supercede her current role.

With regard to matters artistic it has also been a somewhat varied year. I got to teach a term’s worth of drama to a small but keen group of youngsters up here on the peninsula, but it rapidly became clear that there was no easy route to making this into something more permanent. My efforts in the realm of theatre have thus been primarily been devoted to wearing my Board of Directors’ hat for Intrepid Theatre. I have been able to spend a fair amount of time making music and I am hopeful that developments towards the year’s end might result in a further collaboration in the new year.

2018 afforded us little opportunity to travel aside from the excellent short trip that we made to Montreal during the spring. It is our intention that in this regard – as in many others – 2019 will be different.

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Fringe!

August 20, 2018 in Life as we know it | Permalink

Image from PixabayThis week sees the start of the 32nd Victoria Fringe Festival. Wearing my Intrepid BoD hat I (along with my fellow directors) will be in for a busy couple of weeks.

I naturally associate the month of August with fringe festivals, having been so many times to the Edinburgh Fringe over the years both as a performer and a spectator. Now, the Edinburgh Fringe is enormous and seems these days to be spilling over from four to five weeks. Here in Victoria everything is on a much smaller scale; a mere twelve days and forty seven shows in less than a dozen venues.

I was recently reading in the online edition of the Guardian an article by a journalist who had been sent to Edinburgh with the brief of visiting shows on the fringe that featured nudity – which trait has a long and chequered history. The Victoria Fringe is no stranger to such antics either – but that may be a post for a different day!

The article was only of moderate interest but – as might be expected – attracted a fair bit of Below The Line comment subsequent to publication – as was doubtless the intention. The online correspondence included this offering which rather caught my eye – from a poster going by the sobriquet ‘TheLonelyDivorcee‘:

“I went to the first Isle of Wight festival in 1968 when the headline acts were Jefferson Airplane and Fairport Convention, both of whom were fronted by naked women. Nobody thought it significant or indeed some sort of massive step forward in equality.

That was partly because people were a lot more open minded then, and partly because we were all out of our minds on LSD/Magic Mushrooms. I say ‘minds’ but really we were just a single mind collectively experiencing ourselves and the universe as unified, ecstatic matter.

In fact most people also spent the entire event entirely naked and due to our youth and the drugs, in state of high sexual arousal. As a result many happy unions were formed between men and women.

This occurred despite the complete absence of ‘safe spaces’ and ‘gender neutral zones’.

When I arrived back home to my parents I was completely changed, much to the disgust of my father who, when he was the same age as I was then had become paralysed after being shot down over Bremen during a 1000 bomber raid on the Nazis – note these were real Nazis, not just people who didn’t recycle their rubbish.

I can’t help think my generation has had the best of it. When I look at my Grandson who’s around that age he doesn’t seem to have much fun. OK, he’s got a £150 pair of jeans, an IPhone and a useless degree in drama – with the debt that comes with it – but there’s no culture other than consumer culture and an increasingly authoritarian attitude towards sex and relationships.

I’m in good health, but I reckon I’ve got about 10-15 years before I will return to matter, and frankly I’ll be glad to be gone as I believe we are entering new puritanical age, and that is not for me.”

If I say that this struck a chord the gentle reader may well understand why!

Happy fringing!

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Smokey Joe’s

August 16, 2018 in Flotsam and Jetsam | Permalink

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidSpeaking of Scouts (as I was in my last post) brings to mind no end of memories from way back in the 60s and 70s. No surprise there really…

There was (and indeed still is, I see) a Scout campsite but a few miles from where we grew up in (reasonably) leafy Surrey in the UK. We used to go there quite a lot for weekends throughout the year and the site was heavily used even back then. It is now billed as a ‘multi-purpose site’ and is clearly open to all manner of youth and educational organisations, rather than just to scouting boys as it was then.

I have a strong recollection of hiking to the site with a reasonably large group, carrying all of our camping gear along what was even then a busy main road on a trek cart. I don’t know how many of these splendid contrivances yet survive but I would not be surprised if it were no longer legal to take one out on the public highway.

Winter visits to the campsite were particularly interesting. We considered that sleeping in the scout tents of the day was just too brutal when there was a thick frost on the ground, but were fortunate in that the site had a cabin (it now has three!) with a big wood stove in it. Many a happy weekend was spent figuring just how much of a fug could be engendered therein by firing up a big blaze and stoking the stove as furiously as we could. Of course, we then had to try to sleep through the ensuing miasma!

As I recall the place was affectionately and unsurprisingly known as ‘Smokey Joe’s‘.

At that age I naturally simply followed the example of my peers and it didn’t occur to me to wonder as to the origin of that soubriquet until I used it as the title for this post. The InterWebNet is slightly less helpful than usual – with most references being to contemporary food joints, cigar lounges and clothing companies – not to mention the Leiber and Stoller based songbook musical, “Smokey Joe’s Cafe‘.

These references are, however, all too recent.

The Urban Dictionary offers an alternative slang definition which refers to a somewhat ‘colourful’ sexual practice that I certain would have been far too young to have understood at the time.

Probably the closest I can get is the somewhat older phrase ‘Smoking Joe‘ which – long before being applied to the legendary Joe Frazier or being adopted as slang for cigarettes – was used to refer to the steam engines that were developed in the eighteenth century to power the nascent industrial revolution.

That at least seems appropriate.

These atmospheric remembrances are particularly brought to mind just now by the fact that – somewhat later than last year but just as unwelcome – the view from our windows has vanished in a haze of smoke from the various wildfires burning not just in BC but also down through the US as far as California. I gather that this year’s smoky cloud cover is unlikely to last as long as did last year’s, but we still cannot wait to see the back of it.

In a post that already features one great heavyweight, let’s end with another:

“Generally when there’s a lot of smoke… there’s just a whole lot more smoke.”

George Foreman

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