The Slog Blog is MOVING. This site will exist but largely for reference until it's all moved over tooooo....
www.slicedbreadproductions.co.uk
Enjoy
www.slicedbreadproductions.co.uk
Enjoy
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
OK I'm bored of this now..
For a while now I've heard Paul Simon's so ng"You Can Call Me Al" as a sort of eulogy to the mid-life crisis. Maybe it's just me but I doubt it. Its jovial tune and cheerful delivery belies the slightly darker and more ponderous lines in a way that's worth looking at. The first verse establishes the opposition quite neatly in its opening few lines:
"A man walks down the street
He says why am I soft in the middle now
Why am I soft in the middle
The rest of my life is so hard"
Listening to it for the first time, it is the pun on soft and hard which catches our ear. The lyric is designed to contrast the singer's weak, flabby tissue with an otherwise unforgiving and relentless existence. However, it is the structure of these lines that also paints the picture Simon seeks to convey. By repeating 'soft in the middle', Simon lingers over the phrase, pausing in self-examination as if contemplating the spare tyre of middle age on both a physical and emotional level - only to then cut the reflection short with the jarring monosyllables of what the singer feels is his stark reality.
Now, if this just sounds like a prize-winning entry for Private Eye's 'Pseud's corner', please do let me know but, rest assured, I will ask you to tell me why I'm wrong. More importantly, if you've ever listened to 'The Sound of Silence', you'll know that this is a guy who isn't taking his lyrics lightly. But, why the critical analysis of song lyrics?
Apart from the fact that I highly enjoy doing it (and maybe I'll explain why in my next post), this song also contains two particular lines that caught and still do catch my ear. Using a similar structural composition, Simon sings:
"He says why am I short of attention
Got a short little span of attention"
Again, the repetition draws us to focus on a particular word, in this case 'attention'. Paradoxically however, what we are being asked to examine is the singer's own inability to reciprocate similar levels of concentration. Our 'attention' is taken for granted - we, the audience, want to hear what this voice in the wilderness is saying - but, the singer himself is seemingly indifferent to most, if not all of his surroundings. Moreover in fact, this is a wilderness that the singer has created for himself. Clearly surrounded by listeners (for what is a song without an audience), the singer laments an isolation that is constructed from an unwillingness to interact with his environment.
That's not to say that Simon is simply wallowing in self-indulgent narcissism. In fact, this is a song in which the centrality of the singer is prioritized because, to its originator, everything else holds little meaning. For example:
"I need a photo-opportunity,
I want a shot at redemption!
Don't want to end up a cartoon,
In a cartoon graveyard."
Here, the juxtaposition of a 'photo-opportunity' and 'redemption' appears to equate the spiritual with a blatent form of self-promotion and initially the singer genuinely seems to will the two into co-existence. But then Simon introduces the cartoon. By suggesting his fate might be, should he not attain his photo opportunity, that of a comic and, largely frivolous piece of artifice, we are led to believe cartoons are the opposite end of a spiritual scale - one on which the photo shoot is a pinnacle of achievement and the cartoon is the nadir. And yet this is patently false. The photo shoot and cartoon are both prime examples of the constructed image; material artifacts created with little purpose other than aestheticism and/or entertainment. Consequently, Simon implicitly acknowledges that his attempt to wrestle significance into his desires is an act of metaphysical wilfulness. Trying to give life some sort of significance by means of the social conventions you yourself have deemed inadequate is like borrowing more money to pay off a debt - a self-defeating task.
The outside world then, replete with its material trappings, is by and large incapable of delivering fulfilment. As the song progresses we find more objects added to the symbols of earlier disappointment: a family and home that are not or perhaps no longer present, the vanishing role model, and a beerbelly that anchors us once more in a soft middle of failed attempts to drown sorrow. Repeatedly seeking in vain that which by the very nature of his endeavour he cannot hope to attain, the singer flits from object to object, and like the Rolling Stones before him, finds neither satisfaction nor grounding in any of them. In short, Simon's "short little span of attention" is symptomatic of an awareness that has little to no stake in the surroundings conditioning his existence.
Now, if you have stuck with this essay disguised as a blog this far, well done. You may also be thinking why it took me so long to articulate the basic premise that the singer's lack of attention in the song is basically rooted in not giving a damn. The reason is that 'short attention spans' and 'not giving a shit' are often bandied about as illustrations of a (*cringe*) "broken society", where selfishness is valued over altruism and mass media alongside the omnipresent force of "the internets" have frazzled our brains to a crisp. Maybe that's true. But what this song - and many other works on the subject of apathy with it - seems to illustrate to me is that not caring comes from a fundamental dissatisfaction with the world around you. Short spans of attention do not reflect or propagate social breakdown, they are symptomatic illustrators of it. And I don't use the word fundamental lightly; I literally do mean 'in relation to the fundaments of existence'.
For example, anger and revolution are not born out of apathy. They come from a genuine hope that out of even the most corrupt society, something better can be established. Apathy (and its corresponding short span of attention therefore) is a lamentable admission that here, in this world, there is no redemption. The corruption is so total that, like Milton's Satan in hell, we reflect on any attempts to ameliorate our society with a grim and all-too cynical despair.
In Simon's song however, we are eventually granted a reprieve. The song comes to a close on a note of ecstatic, if frugal, optimism as for the third time, we are told of a man who walks down the street. Whether it is the same man that appeared in verses one or two, we aren't to know; just as the constant interplay of the singer's first and third person narrative weaves the multiple perspectives of observation and emotion - i.e. Simon's audience both sees a man walking down a street AND shares the feeling that 'I don't find this stuff amusing anymore'. What is clear though, is that by our third encounter, we have a man who "holds no currency", no appropriate "language" even and is in fact experiencing this as "his first time around". This complete novelty bestows upon the new man a sense of wonder and spiritual gratitude that cause him to see 'angels in the architecture' and rejoice with an 'Amen! and Hallelujah!' A possible reading then, and one I entertained, is that here is a man dissatisfied with materialism and who, in a bid for salvation, rids his life of its former trappings in favour of 'the third world'. Simple, biblical and unfortunately, quite hackneyed. As a literal reading, in fact, I think it just about holds up. Yet the lyrics withstand (and indeed deserve) deeper analysis than what is so patently apparent.
The clearest way to a fuller understanding of this concluding verse is to examine what jars in it. Ending as it does with 'angels' and 'infinity', it is easy to dismiss or even forget the objects that go before, including:
"Cattle in the marketplace.
Scatterlings and orphanages."
If this is a relocation to a society in which materialism is absent, a symbol of trade that has existed for millenia seems an odd way to mark it. Equally, observing the homeless and dispossessed only accentuates the fact that our penniless protagonist is once again at the bottom of a portable property food chain - except this time he simply has more company. As such, there would be no real reason to have gained any great attachment other than a passion for novelty which would soon wear as thin and fleeting as before. For these reasons, it is more convincing to argue for a relocation or readjustment of perspective over simple location. Thus, it is the ambiguity of the lines, "Maybe it's the Third World. / Maybe it's his first time around" that implies a dynamic metaphoricity to the verse as a whole. By introducing a qualifying possibility, Simon suggests his protagonist's novelty of place is instead a new way of imagining and incorporating his surroundings. Refreshing his perspective, the singer is free to care about the things that previously excited little to no interest at all.
And the thing that triggers this renewed perspective? It's been staring the audience in the face all along. As the soundtrack for a film called The Bodyguard, the song's only really about one thing - caring for someone else:
If you'll be my bodyguard,
I can be your long lost pal!
With the chorus gently plodding in and out of the verses' narrative the two build to form a cohesive and hopeful redemption. The singer's mid-life crisis and crippled attention span are saved by one thing and one thing only: a genuine reason to care about anything. And its in this which I suppose I would (somewhat reluctantly) like to anchor my point about "society". We can't ask people to care, without them having something to care about.
Dodgson.
"A man walks down the street
He says why am I soft in the middle now
Why am I soft in the middle
The rest of my life is so hard"
Listening to it for the first time, it is the pun on soft and hard which catches our ear. The lyric is designed to contrast the singer's weak, flabby tissue with an otherwise unforgiving and relentless existence. However, it is the structure of these lines that also paints the picture Simon seeks to convey. By repeating 'soft in the middle', Simon lingers over the phrase, pausing in self-examination as if contemplating the spare tyre of middle age on both a physical and emotional level - only to then cut the reflection short with the jarring monosyllables of what the singer feels is his stark reality.
Now, if this just sounds like a prize-winning entry for Private Eye's 'Pseud's corner', please do let me know but, rest assured, I will ask you to tell me why I'm wrong. More importantly, if you've ever listened to 'The Sound of Silence', you'll know that this is a guy who isn't taking his lyrics lightly. But, why the critical analysis of song lyrics?
Apart from the fact that I highly enjoy doing it (and maybe I'll explain why in my next post), this song also contains two particular lines that caught and still do catch my ear. Using a similar structural composition, Simon sings:
"He says why am I short of attention
Got a short little span of attention"
Again, the repetition draws us to focus on a particular word, in this case 'attention'. Paradoxically however, what we are being asked to examine is the singer's own inability to reciprocate similar levels of concentration. Our 'attention' is taken for granted - we, the audience, want to hear what this voice in the wilderness is saying - but, the singer himself is seemingly indifferent to most, if not all of his surroundings. Moreover in fact, this is a wilderness that the singer has created for himself. Clearly surrounded by listeners (for what is a song without an audience), the singer laments an isolation that is constructed from an unwillingness to interact with his environment.
That's not to say that Simon is simply wallowing in self-indulgent narcissism. In fact, this is a song in which the centrality of the singer is prioritized because, to its originator, everything else holds little meaning. For example:
"I need a photo-opportunity,
I want a shot at redemption!
Don't want to end up a cartoon,
In a cartoon graveyard."
Here, the juxtaposition of a 'photo-opportunity' and 'redemption' appears to equate the spiritual with a blatent form of self-promotion and initially the singer genuinely seems to will the two into co-existence. But then Simon introduces the cartoon. By suggesting his fate might be, should he not attain his photo opportunity, that of a comic and, largely frivolous piece of artifice, we are led to believe cartoons are the opposite end of a spiritual scale - one on which the photo shoot is a pinnacle of achievement and the cartoon is the nadir. And yet this is patently false. The photo shoot and cartoon are both prime examples of the constructed image; material artifacts created with little purpose other than aestheticism and/or entertainment. Consequently, Simon implicitly acknowledges that his attempt to wrestle significance into his desires is an act of metaphysical wilfulness. Trying to give life some sort of significance by means of the social conventions you yourself have deemed inadequate is like borrowing more money to pay off a debt - a self-defeating task.
The outside world then, replete with its material trappings, is by and large incapable of delivering fulfilment. As the song progresses we find more objects added to the symbols of earlier disappointment: a family and home that are not or perhaps no longer present, the vanishing role model, and a beerbelly that anchors us once more in a soft middle of failed attempts to drown sorrow. Repeatedly seeking in vain that which by the very nature of his endeavour he cannot hope to attain, the singer flits from object to object, and like the Rolling Stones before him, finds neither satisfaction nor grounding in any of them. In short, Simon's "short little span of attention" is symptomatic of an awareness that has little to no stake in the surroundings conditioning his existence.
Now, if you have stuck with this essay disguised as a blog this far, well done. You may also be thinking why it took me so long to articulate the basic premise that the singer's lack of attention in the song is basically rooted in not giving a damn. The reason is that 'short attention spans' and 'not giving a shit' are often bandied about as illustrations of a (*cringe*) "broken society", where selfishness is valued over altruism and mass media alongside the omnipresent force of "the internets" have frazzled our brains to a crisp. Maybe that's true. But what this song - and many other works on the subject of apathy with it - seems to illustrate to me is that not caring comes from a fundamental dissatisfaction with the world around you. Short spans of attention do not reflect or propagate social breakdown, they are symptomatic illustrators of it. And I don't use the word fundamental lightly; I literally do mean 'in relation to the fundaments of existence'.
For example, anger and revolution are not born out of apathy. They come from a genuine hope that out of even the most corrupt society, something better can be established. Apathy (and its corresponding short span of attention therefore) is a lamentable admission that here, in this world, there is no redemption. The corruption is so total that, like Milton's Satan in hell, we reflect on any attempts to ameliorate our society with a grim and all-too cynical despair.
In Simon's song however, we are eventually granted a reprieve. The song comes to a close on a note of ecstatic, if frugal, optimism as for the third time, we are told of a man who walks down the street. Whether it is the same man that appeared in verses one or two, we aren't to know; just as the constant interplay of the singer's first and third person narrative weaves the multiple perspectives of observation and emotion - i.e. Simon's audience both sees a man walking down a street AND shares the feeling that 'I don't find this stuff amusing anymore'. What is clear though, is that by our third encounter, we have a man who "holds no currency", no appropriate "language" even and is in fact experiencing this as "his first time around". This complete novelty bestows upon the new man a sense of wonder and spiritual gratitude that cause him to see 'angels in the architecture' and rejoice with an 'Amen! and Hallelujah!' A possible reading then, and one I entertained, is that here is a man dissatisfied with materialism and who, in a bid for salvation, rids his life of its former trappings in favour of 'the third world'. Simple, biblical and unfortunately, quite hackneyed. As a literal reading, in fact, I think it just about holds up. Yet the lyrics withstand (and indeed deserve) deeper analysis than what is so patently apparent.
The clearest way to a fuller understanding of this concluding verse is to examine what jars in it. Ending as it does with 'angels' and 'infinity', it is easy to dismiss or even forget the objects that go before, including:
"Cattle in the marketplace.
Scatterlings and orphanages."
If this is a relocation to a society in which materialism is absent, a symbol of trade that has existed for millenia seems an odd way to mark it. Equally, observing the homeless and dispossessed only accentuates the fact that our penniless protagonist is once again at the bottom of a portable property food chain - except this time he simply has more company. As such, there would be no real reason to have gained any great attachment other than a passion for novelty which would soon wear as thin and fleeting as before. For these reasons, it is more convincing to argue for a relocation or readjustment of perspective over simple location. Thus, it is the ambiguity of the lines, "Maybe it's the Third World. / Maybe it's his first time around" that implies a dynamic metaphoricity to the verse as a whole. By introducing a qualifying possibility, Simon suggests his protagonist's novelty of place is instead a new way of imagining and incorporating his surroundings. Refreshing his perspective, the singer is free to care about the things that previously excited little to no interest at all.
And the thing that triggers this renewed perspective? It's been staring the audience in the face all along. As the soundtrack for a film called The Bodyguard, the song's only really about one thing - caring for someone else:
If you'll be my bodyguard,
I can be your long lost pal!
With the chorus gently plodding in and out of the verses' narrative the two build to form a cohesive and hopeful redemption. The singer's mid-life crisis and crippled attention span are saved by one thing and one thing only: a genuine reason to care about anything. And its in this which I suppose I would (somewhat reluctantly) like to anchor my point about "society". We can't ask people to care, without them having something to care about.
Dodgson.
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
Guilty Pleasures
And so the week began with Sak Noel storming in at number one in the UK charts. All day. All night. Etc. Now don't get me wrong, I know it's not a musically brilliant song, I know it's not even that original and I will happily recognise it as a piece of musical Eurotrash. But I, and apparently millions of others, seem happy to acknowledge that this song is fucking badass. Fact.
Hopefully you've taken the proactive step of clicking on that handy link up there and are currently letting it flow over your aural membranes as we speak. If that's the case the following will simply greater inform your listening pleasure. Otherwise, (for example if you are in a public place sans headphones) this will give you a rough idea of what we're al talking about without having to bother. Anyway, the song begins with a simple enough beat bouncing its way along the time signature. Then, in comes a lovely lady with some sort of generic "foreign" accent talking about when she came to Spain. So far, so basic. Then she exclaims at the unaccountable vigour her fellow Iberian nightlife enthusiasts appear to display: "Vhat the fuck?!"So she calls her friend Johnny. AND LET THE DUCK SQUEAKING BEGIN!
Duck-squeaking (to give it its technical term) had probably been used before Stromae and as he illustrates wonderfully here, these songs are quite basic to make. But that's half the charm and shouldn't detract anything from the sheer enjoyment. If anything the fact that you can enjoy the simple pleasure of some randomly garbled noise is just one of the better things about existence. And this isn't some self-righteous attempt at justifying naff music, I'm just saying let's not get on our high horses every time some random mockery of a song gets to number one. Sure, there are some brilliant musicians out there who don't get the publicity and credit they deserve (and I'll post a few links below to make up for all this lark later) but the easiest way to combat that is just to put your money where your mouth is and make some acquisitions in their camp.
On top of that, I'm not sure that the whole concept of a guilty pleasure in reference to a song makes sense. It's not like listening to Sak Noel is bad for you or anyone else. Maybe if you inflict it upon others repeatedly then it might become an irritating nuisance but then that's true of almost anything. A while ago I interviewed the drummer and vocalist Steve Ansell from the band Blood Red Shoes; Wikipedia handily describes them as "an alternative rock duo from Brighton" which, if you take a listen to their music (in particular Don't Ask), means they play loud guitar music nice and fast. As a result, you'd expect their influences to consist of things like Metallica, Iron Maiden perhaps and a few other guitar acts thrown in for good measure. And sure enough, this was partly true.
However Steve, like myself was also dead-set against the idea of guilty pleasure music. So much so that he also listed Bruce Springsteen, Frank Sinatra and Stevie Wonder as some musical pleasures of his. Now they might not be Sak Noel but they sure as hell aren't the hardcore pulsating guitar and drum riffs that inspire furious indie bands. But the point was he enjoyed their music. The emotions these songs inspire come from the same place that make people want to write songs in the first place, whether they're Beethovens Fifth, Bohemian Rhapsody or Born Slippy. Music should be about what you enjoy, and if that happens to overlap with what's technically proficient or cool then so much the better, but don't sneer at the fun little efforts of others trying to make something of their own. Even the commercial churnings of Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh ultimately belong to the great big family of music. What's more there's always the chance that something that began as a money-making pop outfit outgrows its roots and becomes something a bit more ambitious. Personally I'd say that's what Take That did but hey, who am I to judge? And at worst you get a noxious one hit wonder that just fades away forever whilst solid hardworking artists plough a little furrow of their own. Have faith and let the music do the talking.
Anyway, spiel over here's a list of songs that I feel no guilt whatsoever for admiring and some that I'm downright proud of knowing. Feel free to guess/attribute emotions appropriately.
BOOM:
Lightning - The Wanted
Stereo Hearts - Gym Class Heroes
Earthquake - Labrinth feat Tinie Tempah
Gabriel - Joe Goddard
Down with the Trumpets - Rizzle Kicks
Tessellate - Alt J (Free download my fronds)
April Fool - Manchester Orchestra
The Chain - Fleetwood Mac
Sexy and I Know It - LMFAO
Forever - Wolfgang Gartner feat. will.i.am
Garden - T.E.E.D
Read and Write - Turbowolf (Best frickin' name EVER)
The Bay - Metronomy
Heart Skips A Beat - Olly Murs feat. Rizzle Kicks
Dodgson
Hopefully you've taken the proactive step of clicking on that handy link up there and are currently letting it flow over your aural membranes as we speak. If that's the case the following will simply greater inform your listening pleasure. Otherwise, (for example if you are in a public place sans headphones) this will give you a rough idea of what we're al talking about without having to bother. Anyway, the song begins with a simple enough beat bouncing its way along the time signature. Then, in comes a lovely lady with some sort of generic "foreign" accent talking about when she came to Spain. So far, so basic. Then she exclaims at the unaccountable vigour her fellow Iberian nightlife enthusiasts appear to display: "Vhat the fuck?!"So she calls her friend Johnny. AND LET THE DUCK SQUEAKING BEGIN!
Duck-squeaking (to give it its technical term) had probably been used before Stromae and as he illustrates wonderfully here, these songs are quite basic to make. But that's half the charm and shouldn't detract anything from the sheer enjoyment. If anything the fact that you can enjoy the simple pleasure of some randomly garbled noise is just one of the better things about existence. And this isn't some self-righteous attempt at justifying naff music, I'm just saying let's not get on our high horses every time some random mockery of a song gets to number one. Sure, there are some brilliant musicians out there who don't get the publicity and credit they deserve (and I'll post a few links below to make up for all this lark later) but the easiest way to combat that is just to put your money where your mouth is and make some acquisitions in their camp.
On top of that, I'm not sure that the whole concept of a guilty pleasure in reference to a song makes sense. It's not like listening to Sak Noel is bad for you or anyone else. Maybe if you inflict it upon others repeatedly then it might become an irritating nuisance but then that's true of almost anything. A while ago I interviewed the drummer and vocalist Steve Ansell from the band Blood Red Shoes; Wikipedia handily describes them as "an alternative rock duo from Brighton" which, if you take a listen to their music (in particular Don't Ask), means they play loud guitar music nice and fast. As a result, you'd expect their influences to consist of things like Metallica, Iron Maiden perhaps and a few other guitar acts thrown in for good measure. And sure enough, this was partly true.
However Steve, like myself was also dead-set against the idea of guilty pleasure music. So much so that he also listed Bruce Springsteen, Frank Sinatra and Stevie Wonder as some musical pleasures of his. Now they might not be Sak Noel but they sure as hell aren't the hardcore pulsating guitar and drum riffs that inspire furious indie bands. But the point was he enjoyed their music. The emotions these songs inspire come from the same place that make people want to write songs in the first place, whether they're Beethovens Fifth, Bohemian Rhapsody or Born Slippy. Music should be about what you enjoy, and if that happens to overlap with what's technically proficient or cool then so much the better, but don't sneer at the fun little efforts of others trying to make something of their own. Even the commercial churnings of Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh ultimately belong to the great big family of music. What's more there's always the chance that something that began as a money-making pop outfit outgrows its roots and becomes something a bit more ambitious. Personally I'd say that's what Take That did but hey, who am I to judge? And at worst you get a noxious one hit wonder that just fades away forever whilst solid hardworking artists plough a little furrow of their own. Have faith and let the music do the talking.
Anyway, spiel over here's a list of songs that I feel no guilt whatsoever for admiring and some that I'm downright proud of knowing. Feel free to guess/attribute emotions appropriately.
BOOM:
Lightning - The Wanted
Stereo Hearts - Gym Class Heroes
Earthquake - Labrinth feat Tinie Tempah
Gabriel - Joe Goddard
Down with the Trumpets - Rizzle Kicks
Tessellate - Alt J (Free download my fronds)
April Fool - Manchester Orchestra
The Chain - Fleetwood Mac
Sexy and I Know It - LMFAO
Forever - Wolfgang Gartner feat. will.i.am
Garden - T.E.E.D
Read and Write - Turbowolf (Best frickin' name EVER)
The Bay - Metronomy
Heart Skips A Beat - Olly Murs feat. Rizzle Kicks
Dodgson
Monday, 26 September 2011
My vaulting ambition which o'erleaps itself
Since the age of 16 all I've wanted to do is be a radio presenter. Specifically, I've wanted to end up presenting the BBC Radio 1 breakfast show but to be honest, I'll happily settle for drive time. Heck, I'd even have taken Greg James's slot in the afternoon.
No seriously, I'd have done anything to just be on some form of national radio. And don't get me wrong, I've always known that if I wanted to get there I'd have to work hard. I knew that you didn't just roll up and ask for a job; it takes years of 'networking' (*cringe*), slogging your way through crap shifts (hence the eponymous blog) and generally doing anything and everything you could.
But I'll level with you. I had belief. I still do. And what's more I knew that if I kept ploughing on like a b*stard, with the same goal in sight I should get there, or at least damn close enough.
The last week though, has been a bit rough on the system. The first five days of a broadcast journalism have, in factual essence not been too trying: Get there at 9.30, listen to some inspiring speakers (Sophie Raworth, Stewart Purviss, the creator of Who Do You Think You Are etc etc.), meet everyone and go to the pub. Lovely. Now, without exception, this has been great. Yet through almost each and every talk there was an undercurrent that said one thing: Guys, you're fucked.
Now, I get the point. Broadcasting is currently a very difficult profession to get into. In the current economic climate, constricting budgets mean personnel numbers are shrinking and salaries with them. What's more, the relentless growth of the internet has made more and more content available online for free, such that the services of a professional journalist or broadcaster appear to be slowly retreating into obsolescence.
But I know that. Even people who are not supposed to be following current affairs like some sort of media hound know that. My German grandmother of a very respectable eighty years old knows it.
Even so, were it simply the surplus information offending my inflated pride, I'd like to think I'd get over it. Genuinely. But here's what it does do: it cripples my sense of ambition.
I, and everyone else on this extremely competitive course, worked darn hard to be on it. What's more, the rest of the year we've now begun looks set to continue the trend. On top of that, I would genuinely like to think that having actually got in, I might have demonstrated something at least hinting of being broadcastworthy. Don't get me wrong, there's been more than enough reassurance that things might also be fine and 96% of graduates enter employment, etc. etc. but to throw these kinds of stats in amongst a general atmosphere of apocalyptic gloom just seems to crenate a mood of psychological schizophrenia.
I don't know, maybe I'm just sensitive. Yet I'd always considered a tenacious yearning for the potentially unrealistic as a particular feature of mine. And sure, it happened that these dreams got shot down but, by and large, after I'd striven for them.
So yes, perhaps they are simply using journalistic hyperbole and double-talk to bring me back down to a solid, earthly realism. Ultimately, it may even harden my resolve and doubtless this may even be their aim, separating people with real zeal from passing hopefuls with no more than a passing interest. But there's a danger there. I don't consider myself a passing hopeful and hopefully that's still the case. Equally, I was never too fussed about earning pot loads of cash but with every promise of penniless perpetuity, one does start to have misgivings. In essence, I appreciate the sentiment, but don't push it too hard. It's making me feel wobbly.
And so to other news! Doing rugby in my spare time looks set to be unachievable, my dictaphone has arrived and hopefully will see me interviewing everything with vocal chords, Peter Conrad was on Radio 4, and in music, Labrinth's new song Earthquake, is frickin' incredible. It dropped (YES DROPPED DAMMIT) 2 weeks ago but I've been busy. So go listen NOW.
ONWARDS!
Dodgson.
ps. wouldn't usually brag (too much) but I wrote this all on my new and first ever smart-phone. Take that gloomologists.
No seriously, I'd have done anything to just be on some form of national radio. And don't get me wrong, I've always known that if I wanted to get there I'd have to work hard. I knew that you didn't just roll up and ask for a job; it takes years of 'networking' (*cringe*), slogging your way through crap shifts (hence the eponymous blog) and generally doing anything and everything you could.
But I'll level with you. I had belief. I still do. And what's more I knew that if I kept ploughing on like a b*stard, with the same goal in sight I should get there, or at least damn close enough.
The last week though, has been a bit rough on the system. The first five days of a broadcast journalism have, in factual essence not been too trying: Get there at 9.30, listen to some inspiring speakers (Sophie Raworth, Stewart Purviss, the creator of Who Do You Think You Are etc etc.), meet everyone and go to the pub. Lovely. Now, without exception, this has been great. Yet through almost each and every talk there was an undercurrent that said one thing: Guys, you're fucked.
Now, I get the point. Broadcasting is currently a very difficult profession to get into. In the current economic climate, constricting budgets mean personnel numbers are shrinking and salaries with them. What's more, the relentless growth of the internet has made more and more content available online for free, such that the services of a professional journalist or broadcaster appear to be slowly retreating into obsolescence.
But I know that. Even people who are not supposed to be following current affairs like some sort of media hound know that. My German grandmother of a very respectable eighty years old knows it.
Even so, were it simply the surplus information offending my inflated pride, I'd like to think I'd get over it. Genuinely. But here's what it does do: it cripples my sense of ambition.
I, and everyone else on this extremely competitive course, worked darn hard to be on it. What's more, the rest of the year we've now begun looks set to continue the trend. On top of that, I would genuinely like to think that having actually got in, I might have demonstrated something at least hinting of being broadcastworthy. Don't get me wrong, there's been more than enough reassurance that things might also be fine and 96% of graduates enter employment, etc. etc. but to throw these kinds of stats in amongst a general atmosphere of apocalyptic gloom just seems to crenate a mood of psychological schizophrenia.
I don't know, maybe I'm just sensitive. Yet I'd always considered a tenacious yearning for the potentially unrealistic as a particular feature of mine. And sure, it happened that these dreams got shot down but, by and large, after I'd striven for them.
So yes, perhaps they are simply using journalistic hyperbole and double-talk to bring me back down to a solid, earthly realism. Ultimately, it may even harden my resolve and doubtless this may even be their aim, separating people with real zeal from passing hopefuls with no more than a passing interest. But there's a danger there. I don't consider myself a passing hopeful and hopefully that's still the case. Equally, I was never too fussed about earning pot loads of cash but with every promise of penniless perpetuity, one does start to have misgivings. In essence, I appreciate the sentiment, but don't push it too hard. It's making me feel wobbly.
And so to other news! Doing rugby in my spare time looks set to be unachievable, my dictaphone has arrived and hopefully will see me interviewing everything with vocal chords, Peter Conrad was on Radio 4, and in music, Labrinth's new song Earthquake, is frickin' incredible. It dropped (YES DROPPED DAMMIT) 2 weeks ago but I've been busy. So go listen NOW.
ONWARDS!
Dodgson.
ps. wouldn't usually brag (too much) but I wrote this all on my new and first ever smart-phone. Take that gloomologists.
Monday, 19 September 2011
First Day
So today was the big day. Postgraduate studies have now officially begun at City University London. Still not sure what to call it really - is it City University; London; just City - god knows, I'm just going with what's on the newly received student card...
Anyway, the day began with the typical sort of trepidation: "What will everyone be like, what if I don't know anything" that kind of thing. But then I realised, there's a reason it's not called fresher's week - no-one's fresh anymore. I'm well over 20, we're all postrgraduating and half the game is going to be making fun new friends so what the heck. That still didn't stop me arriving about half an hour early but never mind. That done, I took myself on a nice little tour of the triangular building that is destined to be my home for the next year.
Facilities duly inspected and admired, the line into the lecture hall had already formed. And so we waited. In early expectation. Mind you, this was probably by and large due to an email we'd all received to the following effect:
"Lateness is totally unacceptable in a broadcaster and no-one in the industry has time to listen to your excuses."
And so we chatted, discussed what we'd all been up to over summer, that kind of thing. And then 10am rolls around. And the lecturers rock up. Good-oh, the course begins now. Except the doors were locked. Ha! Lateness is unacceptable indeed...
The rest of the day was just sitting and being talked to really. Apart from the world's worst university card photo and a lecture from the very lovely Nicholas Owen, the day was pretty unexceptional. Don't get me wrong though, that's exactly what I want from first day. Nice, pleasant and meeting lots of lovely people. The fact we were all in the pub by 5.30pm didn't hurt either. Oh, and there was pizza for dinner. Hoorah.
In other slightly more humorous news, I reckon City could be a venue to try out stand-up comedy. I was thinking of possible topics, one being the 'Fictionality of real life'. That way I could wax lyrical about all the barmy crap we invent to make our everyday tedium slightly more bearable. The mythical joy of facebook statuses, the fantasy world of television, other things beginning with f like flamingos, fondue parties and fenugreek and, last of all, blog pseudonyms...
Dodgson.
Anyway, the day began with the typical sort of trepidation: "What will everyone be like, what if I don't know anything" that kind of thing. But then I realised, there's a reason it's not called fresher's week - no-one's fresh anymore. I'm well over 20, we're all postrgraduating and half the game is going to be making fun new friends so what the heck. That still didn't stop me arriving about half an hour early but never mind. That done, I took myself on a nice little tour of the triangular building that is destined to be my home for the next year.
Facilities duly inspected and admired, the line into the lecture hall had already formed. And so we waited. In early expectation. Mind you, this was probably by and large due to an email we'd all received to the following effect:
"Lateness is totally unacceptable in a broadcaster and no-one in the industry has time to listen to your excuses."
And so we chatted, discussed what we'd all been up to over summer, that kind of thing. And then 10am rolls around. And the lecturers rock up. Good-oh, the course begins now. Except the doors were locked. Ha! Lateness is unacceptable indeed...
The rest of the day was just sitting and being talked to really. Apart from the world's worst university card photo and a lecture from the very lovely Nicholas Owen, the day was pretty unexceptional. Don't get me wrong though, that's exactly what I want from first day. Nice, pleasant and meeting lots of lovely people. The fact we were all in the pub by 5.30pm didn't hurt either. Oh, and there was pizza for dinner. Hoorah.
In other slightly more humorous news, I reckon City could be a venue to try out stand-up comedy. I was thinking of possible topics, one being the 'Fictionality of real life'. That way I could wax lyrical about all the barmy crap we invent to make our everyday tedium slightly more bearable. The mythical joy of facebook statuses, the fantasy world of television, other things beginning with f like flamingos, fondue parties and fenugreek and, last of all, blog pseudonyms...
Dodgson.
Monday, 5 September 2011
Surprise Surprise
I who have stood dumb
when your betraying sisters,
cauled in tar,
wept by the railings,
when your betraying sisters,
cauled in tar,
wept by the railings,
who would connive
in civilized outrage
yet understand the exact
and tribal, intimate revenge.
in civilized outrage
yet understand the exact
and tribal, intimate revenge.
– from 'Punishment', Seamus Heaney, 1975
Last night the ten o’ clock news announced that the BBC could definitively reveal collaboration between British security forces and members of Gaddafi’s regime. MI6, along with the US’ CIA, appear to have worked intimately with Gaddafi’s former head of foreign affairs Moussa Koussa, in order to apprehend and even torture terror suspects. All these revelations have been met with shock and apprehension.
My only question is, why?
I watched Jeremy Bowen listen to his source. The source told of how it was widely known that the anti-Gaddafi rebel (now leader of the rebels in Tripoli), Abdul Hakim Belhaj had been tortured by Libyan police. Furthermore, after this torture, he had been interrogated by the CIA. Bowen’s face was one of wide-eyed amazement. “Surely not the Americans?” his face suggested.
Likewise as the chummy messages sent between an MI6 agent and Moussa Koussa about Christmas lunch were disclosed, Bowen’s demeanour was one of similarly bemused puzzlement. “How could we have been involved with such people?” And even more astonishing we were led to believe, was the fact that not only were the British and Americans involved, but we were involved right until the decisive turn of the Arab Spring uprisings.
For more info on exactly how this is unraveling click here:
But, the point I’m getting at (and the reason I’ve linked to the above article as opposed to anything else) is the level of surprise that Bowen and others have shown. Even the above article’s title implies its shocking MI6 knew about Belhaj’s torture. I just don’t get it.
Even Bowen begrudgingly pointed it out: Our astonishment should not come from the fact that we were ever involved with Gaddafi or that we knew what he was doing; it should come at our realization of just how soon we switched our allegiance.
Let me explain. As usual, blunt economics goes a long way to explaining a fair amount. Libya is a country rich in resources. The West needs oil, gas etc. and was willing to work with a country in order to gain them. If this meant turning a blind eye to past crimes like the Lockerbie bombing then fine. If it meant ignoring flagrant breaches of human rights then fine as well. Libya is an independent North-African nation, it could ostensibly do what it wants. As long as that included selling us what we needed.
In the case of Lockerbie however, the revelation that vague threats were made lest Abdelbaset al-Megrahi should not be released are genuinely disturbing. Nevertheless, even this level of British (and, one assumes, American) submission is relatively easy to explain.
Libya is a North-African nation that, until recently, was led by a dictator in charge of ruthless police and military forces. Such forces, in the fight against terror, could no doubt have been considered valuable to Western nations.
This was a nation unafraid to use its regime’s ability to torture. Post 9/11 western nations, locked in an endless war on terror but bound to respect human rights by law, could freely hand over intelligence leading to the arrest of suspects, safe in the knowledge that any potential Al-Qaeda suspects would receive ‘appropriate’ treatment. Whatever the impact of Gaddafi’s control was on the Libyan people, it was deemed permissible in the light of its long-term gains.
Understand that the case I’m making however, is not one for a lack of repentance. Without question, our collaboration with Gaddafi’s regime led to its increased strength over the years and certainly helped in prolonging its life. This is a fact one might idealistically say we have sought to redress in the past year through the UN and must continue to redress in the coming years.
What I am saying though, is that we need not be surprised. In books, TV and films for years now the subject of doing deals with the devil has been trodden over, dug up and trampled on for so long that is has now become so hackneyed it’s second nature. Surely now we are almost instinctively familiar with the plot line where in order to get on with our comfortable lives, people high up in the authorities made pacts and agreements with people we might not necessarily like who do things ways we definitely wouldn’t do ourselves. Why then are we surprised when we encounter it in real life?
Added to that, the fact MI6 knew about Belhaj’s torture is at least evidence that our security services know about something. Yes, they let it happen and torture is wrong, but spare me the hyperbolous outrage. OF COURSE WE KNEW. They’re our secret service. They are in charge of information. We should be angry we let it happen, we should be angry the public of Libya had to suffer because of our inaction but for God’s sake what did we really think was happening in a country under a forty-year dictatorship?
This is a century that has seen Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib and will doubtless go on to see much, much more. I suppose all I’m asking is if we are really surprised that this kind of double-standard policy still takes place? The most I could manage was a cynical shrug of unsurprised condemnation.
In the films, it’s always one of two things. The cynical chief of staff or politician who made “the hard decisions no one else could make” and the young, idealistic recruit who sticks to the rules because “the rules are there so we don’t become like them”. The message of the story unfolds: good and bad aren’t necessarily so clearly set apart. But in films we can try and sort them out and hopefully end it with a nice explosion and a kiss. Nowadays that’s called romantic.
All I can say is that I know that’s not how it works. I can desperately hope for a world in which everything is clear cut but I’m simply not naïve enough to believe that’s either the case or ultimately, likely. In short, if I go looking to expose corruption and injustice, I shouldn’t be surprised if and when I find it. Even if it's from our own side.
We should be angry we weren’t angrier before.
Monday, 22 August 2011
Textiquette
Although I have been aware of it for some time, something has come to my attention in the last couple of months that merits discussion: the sms. Or, more appropriately, sms civility – textual education, if you will.
The reason this thorny little problem comes to mind arises from a friend of mine whose last-minute escapades with university freshers saw him firing off these 150 character bomb-shells like they were going out of fashion. Desperate for replies, the occasional flicker of hope drifted in like a rudderless ship but with no conviction. However, on occasion, a promising “we should do something” would appear and the balance was seemingly restored.
Unfortunately, said friend’s over-eager joy led to an immediate reply that was not so immediately returned. In short, he was given the textual cold shoulder.
The dilemma he then faced however, was not “How do I get over this crushing blow?”, but rather, “She hasn’t texted back – maybe she’s just forgotten. Should I text her to remind her of my existence?”
Clearly, as outside observer we can all see what’s going on here. So as to not let down the hero of our amorous narrative, female textee has let him down gently, potentially promising a reply only to feign amnesiac foolishness. This kind-spirited gesture, well-intentioned as it was, has nevertheless gone amiss, such that our protagonist is both disillusioned and tortured by the own Sisyphean lack of either crushing rejection or joyous satisfaction.
A familiar tale.
Now, even more unfortunately, I now sit facing the same potential problem. “What?” I hear you cry, “it’s obvious – she’s just not texting you, she doesn’t care!” “Silence!” I retaliate, “She texted me first and said she’d get in touch to organise something lovely! How dare you?!”
The saga continues.
And here’s the thing, delusion is a powerful bastard. Who wouldn’t rather believe that their beloved has potentially forgotten to reply, mislaid their phone, casually sworn to forsake facebook for a month or even died rather than not get in touch? And in fairness, it’s easier. They’re not present via the digital medium, therefore they’re probably just not around in real life either. A far more pleasant reality than the one in which they have simply decided not to include you in theirs.
The point being therefore, that communication media makes this delusion a lot easier to swallow. And it’s not just texting, facebook and all the other things us kids get up to. Think about it: the unanswered letters, the complaining sonnet of the unrequited lover, portraits of imaginary lovers. There’s probably an entire section of the Lascaux Caves somewhere filled with troglodyte scribbles all of which represent Neanderthal longings and rejection.
The truth is then, we’ve always turned to some sort of expressive vehicle to get our message across in a way that could hopefully soften the whole experience. Far easier to post an anonymously written love letter to your darling than walk up to her and say, “Hey, I quite like you” – even if the latter is probably more effective and, ultimately less embarrassing. In short, media do just that. They mediate. The bastards…
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