Letter to the Big Kid

Dear Sam,

Lots of the other kids asked me to write this 'cos we know you've been having a hard time and you've been throwing your weight around - "acting out" the student counsellor calls it. We all got really excited the other day when you stood up in front of the class and said you were going to try things differently. Everyone seemed really happy for you, and we had that party and organised a parade even though it was real cold

Johnny Bull and Ozzie, who've both changed a bit too recently, told me they liked the new you. And a lot of the little kids in the class, the ones you used to stomp on or not even think about at all, were looking kinda happy. Maybe they're hoping the stomping will stop now and you'll give them a hand when they need it.

Being the biggest kid in the playground can't be easy, Sam. You've got kids around you all the time either hanging off you so they'll look good (Ozzie's been really hard to take recently, I have to tell you, Sam, especially since you gave him that really nice medallion) or sneaking up on you, getting in a quick punch and running away (I still remember how much your nose bled when that kid came up and king hit you one September when you were trying to read a book upside down) or even just trying to replace you. They've been doing it for so long now, no wonder you finally got so crazy and started hurting everyone, including yourself.

But now you've got up in front of the class and said you're tired of being a putz and want to help everyone again, including yourself. I hope it's true Sam, 'cos you've got a lot of nice qualities and you can really work hard when you want to. Just don't forget the little kids, Sam. They're the ones the big kids like you should be looking after, 'cos if you don't the whole playground will get miserable. It's so hot in summer already after you took away so much of the shade and carted it back to your place. My mum says she's spending a fortune on sunscreen for me now! Maybe you could bring some of it back?

And PLEASE try and make up with Hussein. He's really felt like you've been wanting to hurt him for so long, and that you stop him doing a lot of fun stuff. He also thinks you like Izzie too much. He gets really angry and you can't blame him sometimes. We all deserve to have fun, Sam. You've said it yourself - how important it is for us all to find ways to be happy: you wrote some really nice stuff about that once. Lately it seems to apply only to you.

And the new Chinese kid? You don't have to give him such a hard time. He's had a tough life. He's just finding out what it's like to be big and strong so he's throwing his weight around for the first time. You remember what that's like I'm sure. There's room in the playground for both of you to be big and strong, like it used to be when it was you and Vladimir. Only please don't start setting up gangs again. Nobody was happy then.

The other day we got a glimpse of the happiness you keep talking about. You're big and strong Sam - the biggest and strongest there's ever been in the playground - and what you do affects everyone else, whether we like it or not. The playground is going to be a tough place to be soon what with the canteen closing, the trees all gone, some of the games not going to happen and everybody starting to squabble over what's left of the playground equipment. We need you to be strong and NICE. When you're nice, you're really easy to like. It'd be great to get back to that again.

See you at recess

h

3-Cheese Triumph!

Please forgive a father's pride here.

I was supposed to collaborate with Margaret on dinner tonight. Yet all I had to do was some cutting up of ham and cheese while she created an absolutely beautiful three-cheese sauce to go with pasta she prepared.

I'm a proud dad, with many good reasons. This was just one more. 

Thanks for a fabulous meal, Margaret!

2009

Is it possible that we wish each other Happy New Year at this time because, at this seemingly arbitrary time in our journey around the sun, which we mark as a new beginning, we are afraid of the future? That our future happiness it is so uncertain that we think if it we say it enough, it really will be a happy 2009? Or are so many of us just too drunk to know what we're saying?

Maybe we realise that, at this time, we need, like good waffles, to stick together and face the future shoulder to shoulder so we can be assured of happiness, and that anything might be better than Ben Johnson's rueful:

"What a deal of cold business doth a man misspend the better part of life in! In scattering compliments, tendering visits, gathering and venting news, following feast and plays, making a little winter-love in a dark corner."

I don't know about you, but I wish for so much more.

Music to Dance to

As A Public Service, here is some music for you New Year's Eve party - I recommend belly-dancing to it, whether you know how to do it or not.

Enjoy!

Saturday evening

It's taken me a while to get round to posting this. It's not my slowing middle age that is to blame here. It's simply because I needed time to digest the experience!

On Saturday night I saw Margaret in a film. It was a good film. It was something the kids involved with could be proud of. It made me laugh, it moved me, it made me think that there were some talented kids at the drama school Margaret attends and it made me realise that Margaret can act the socks off anyone.

That was the bit I have had to digest in the last couple of days.

It is hard to be objective when talking about the level of talent of one's own child. Either the kid is a dead loss but you love her anyway, or she is the best thing to come along since the pneumatic tyre.

Simply put, Margaret has talent and intelligence. She not only scripted a couple of her own scenes, but wrote music for one as well. The scene where she was talking on her mobile to her "mother" and trying to convince her that she hadn't taken her stash of pot was very moving and gave a great insight into the character she played. 

The realisation that she is in fact talented enough to try to act for a living is a bit daunting. It's also a bit familiar. I remember how it all felt when I was that age, and how acting seemed to be the greatest drug in the world. Other things moved into my life to replace it, but I saw a spark on the screen on Saturday night that made me realise that Margaret will not be deflected so easily.

And she shouldn't be.

Back in Oz

I've been back a few days now and the jetlag is beginning to give up on me. So much so, that I'm almost able to think about what I'm noticing around me again!

Such as:

Things I missed (in no particular order):

*My horse (matched only, it seems from yesterday's session, by the amount he missed me!)

*The ability to ring close friends at any time of the day (and have them ring back)

*Cricket

*The sounds of whip birds, magpies, crows and kookaburras

*The view out of my window when I'm composing

*The smell of the bush

Then there are things you forget when you're away for a while:

*Which key goes in which lock?

*I drive on WHICH side of the road again?

*Look RIGHT first before you cross the road!!!!!

*That it's probably not a good idea to show up too often at your office when you're on Leave as it leads to a) jealous colleagues b) being asked to do stuff c) the realisation of why you applied for leave in the first place and d) leave will eventually end and you'll have to come back here more often.

*The morning after the first cricket practice session at the nets REALLY HURTS

The Latest Edition of Irony News....

I am currently sitting very close, both geographically and cosmically, to the centre of the IT industry in North America (and, if it wasn't for India, I'd say the world). 

I can't get my email.

My phonecard and, sometimes, my Skype calling are having problems finding a place to connect to.

Any more irony and I'll have to become a teenager.

Yet I can still get to my blog

Sigh...

America the enigma

I used to live here. I spent 7 years in this country, studying, working (legally lol) and seeing as much as possible. 

Yet I'll never truly understand it. I don't think anyone can, from the casual tourist to the politician who stands on the stump and says they know what's right for "these United States". 

The place is too big, too complex, too dynamic, too powerful for any one human brain to conceive. One is almost tempted to cope with the size of the place by thinking that as soon as you leave somewhere you need to forget that it exists, or there won't be any room in your head for the new place.

When you leave a place here, it certainly seems to forget about you. Time and again I notice how much things have changed since I lived here, or even since the last time I visited. To come back to a place and see how it has got on perfectly well without you is very humbling. It must be like what coming back from the dead must be like. Or being a ghost. "There are all those living people getting on with the things that define them as living people. How on Earth can they do that without me?"

It's one reason to reject the idea that we come back from the dead, or that there are ghosts walking the night in torment about the life we wasted - it would be too cruel to see what everyone's been up to while you've been gone. Maybe that's why so many ghosts in ghost stories are unhappy - they see that everyone else is having such a good time without them!

Yet progress this place does, and in so many different directions. It's hard to pick one you see, with 300 million individuals each encouraged to have their own say (even guaranteed the right to have it!) and with so many saying so much to so many more, there's a lot of noise to contend with.

And yet they still try to listen. 

They still try to make sense of the guff that the leaders they have set before them. This guff differs only from that dished out by leaders in other countries in degree rather than kind - and the fact that the leaders of THIS country have control of the largest arsenal of nasty weapons in the history of the world. For the chance to wield that kind of power, there are many who would do just about anything. They come from all sides of the political spectrum, so there are no outright saints or sinners. But the know how to manipulate, or they learn it quickly. They know that the majority of the population of this country can indeed be whipped up into a frenzy to one side of the political divide or the other, and they work hard to do it. They work even harder to get the less volatile section of the population to at least care enough to get emotional as well. Anything will do. To be a liar is purely a means to the end of the greater cause - gaining power.

They are no different to other political types except, as I've said, for the extent of the power they will ultimately wield. No-one's hands are clean.

I didn't mean to end up there. I suppose the freshness of observing the latest US election from the ringside seat has brought a lot of this to mind. The emotion of victory and defeat are still vivid images in my mind - from the huge rallies to the frankly insane blog posts on the Fox News website. 

But this is an emotional, Apollonian country a lot of the time  - a wonderful combination that defies Nietzche. Hearts are not so much worn on sleeves but as accessories with matching purse or cuff links. So much is on the surface here, which serves as a rich counterpoint to the fact that so much of importance is probably hidden. But to speculate about that would be dangerous and presumptuous of me, not to mention tiresome.

For the visitor like myself, who is enjoying the hospitality and goodness of so many people, it is enough to say that this trip, like so many others I've made here, makes me realise the value of the friends I've made here over the last 20 years or so. And perhaps that is enough. After all, Alistair Cook spent a lifetime trying to unravel events in the USA and to understand its people and processes and look what happened to him! I'm not sure I'd want my spare body parts being ferried all around New Jersey without my knowledge.

No doubt the next time I come back, haunting this place like the spirit of an ancient family retainer, I'll notice the changes that have happened without me. I'll also notice the love and friendship of the people I know here and how that never seems to change. 

And yes, Virginia, that really IS enough. 

Belgium

As promised and after many heated requests, here is the marvellous Luk Vaes bravely posing for a photograph in his very own home town with a composer from a distant country.

Ghent is great to see, but Luk is even better! He spent much of his day sharing the beautiful city he lives in, and his favourite places for waffles, chocolate and beer.

What a marvellous introduction to Belgium. It was also a welcome way to spend the day before the concert in Cassel. This part of Belgium is also part of Flanders of course, but they speak Flemish. I was rather relieved after several days of labouring through my limited knowledge of written and spoken French, I was able to understand much of written Flemish and much of what was spoken. Margaret, who has begun studying German with a vengeance and will be picking up French nest year, also had a rather enjoyable time (in between mouthfuls of chocolate and waffles) reading the signs in Flemish.

Ghent was Friday 3rd October, and the next Belgian sojourn was Sunday 5th, firstly into the town of Ypres (Ieper if your Flemish) which looks old but has been almost entirely rebuilt since 1918, and then to the little town Dikkebus, where another concert in the ALbert Roussel Festival was taking place. The Ensemble Nohandove presented music by, Roussel, Ravel, George Crumb, Karel Goeyvaarts and renowned Belgian composer Jacqueline Fontyn, who was present at the concert and proved to be a warm and kind human being. It's great to meet someone like her whom you have respected for so long and find out that she's as lovely and character-filled as you'd hoped!

After the concert was a magnificent buffet dinner, which was quite unexpected, and maybe that goes some way to explaining why it tasted so superb! The company was great, the food impeccable, and I finally persuaded Festival Director Damien Top to poase with me for a picture so I could add it to my list of "Famous People I've Had My Photo Taken With" (Luk, if you're reading this you'll know how long THAT tradition has been going for!).

Alas, this trip to Europe was too short. The day after the Sunday concert there was a drive down to Paris, and three plane trips to finally end up in Washington DC.

More of that anon.

Paris and France 2

Lille was a beautiful surprise. Apart from being far older and prettier than I'd thought possible, the sheen of the people was no different to that of the Parisiens. Perhaps it's a product of being French? Or perhaps it's a product of being European?

Is there more shiny-ness out there for me to find?

But to begin with, there is beautiful farmland to drive through before we get there. So be patient! It's the sort of gentle rolling landscape that soothes the soul - or at least mine. In the back of my head though is the thought that this is the land that millions of young men - men far younger than I, but whose age I remember being, bled and died in for the concept of European domination - and, by extension, world domination. Here millions of shells, bullets and untold pain and suffering reigned supreme from late 1914 until November 1918, when the final German assault was repulsed and the counterattack caused the Axis surrender: all this in spite of the fact that Russia, who had helped start the whole thing by declaring war on the Austro-Hungarian Empire because they had attacked Russia's tiny ally Serbia, was already out of the war.

Here too was where Hitler's Blitzkrieg tactics rolled violently towards Paris in a matter of weeks. Armour and aeroplanes screamed across this land and out of this sky in a violent orgy of death and destruction. This was real shock and awe. This is where put the less mechanised armies of France, Belgium and Brtain were pushed aside either to Dunkirk or to oblivion. The blood and metal shed onto this landscape still shapes the way Europeans interact. As one lady said to me in Paris, when I said I was only confident in German and not so in French, "Of course, German is not highly prized here."

Lille's cobbled streets and chocolatier shops must be magic on a snowy winter's night. They are lovely enough on a cold and wet autumnal day. I was late to the rehearsal of my piece at the Conservatorium, but the players were gracious to me in my unprofessionalism and played beautifully. They took glorious, musical risks with the work of a person they didn't know, and advocated in best traditions of professional music. I was excited and humbled by their commitment, as I always am by the work of great musicians. At a beautiful restaurant afterwards I got to know pianist Alain Raes who was very gracious and kind with his comments about my music. For that he will get his reward in Heaven :-)

(Friday 3rd October was spent in Belgium with another pianist and longtime friend, Luk Vaes, whom I haven't sene for 15 years - which is way too long a time to spend not seeing such a quality human being. But more of that in my next post, Margaret, I promise).

On Saturday, the premiere of my To the Ends of the Ocean in the lovely little village of Cassel was part of a concert full of great joy and beauty. Not only did clarinetist Claude Fracomprez perform the best version of Debussy' Premiere Rhapsody pour Clarinet et Piano I've ever heard (Claude must have this music in his blood: it was the musical equivalent to cream being being poured slowly and lovingly over the back of a spoon), but my there was also the first performance of my first teacher Peter Tahourdin's Five Short Pieces for solo piano. This was a great joy to hear.

My piece could not have had a better first outing. The players caught the form and character of the work perfectly and played it even better than they had at the rehearsal. Flutist Christel Delaval has a beautiful silver tone and she and Claude balanced and tuned to perfection. Alain's technique is formidable and all three had a clear concept of the need to play the thematic elements of the work clearly and with a very good understanding of the needs of thematic interplay. If you think I'm gushing, well, you should have been there!

This picture seems to prove they liked the piece, as they are clapping while my back is turned to them :-)

These people were timely reminders of the power of French culture and the beauty of the land they inhabit. While it is probably naive and certainly unoriginal, to compare the character of people with the shape of the land they inhabit. I could not help but draw parallels between the warmth of the musicians I met at the Albert Roussel Festival and the deep effect Flanders had on my psyche.

Next time, I'll talk about Belgium.

Paris and France 1

OK, so I spent two days in Paris. That hardly makes me an expert on the place. In fact, it made me realise how much of a wide-eyed innocent I am when it comes to places that I don't know. Still, you can't be in a place like Paris without it making some sort of an impression - no matter how short your stay.

I had to say my impressions were, on the whole, very favourable. For example, how could I dismiss a city that manages to make it possible for a music store AND a rugby store to exist side-by-side! I was transported by the delight of this; so much so that I asked Margaret to take a shot of me in front of the stores.

But Paris had many surprises for me - as well as a few confirmations of stereotpyes. The Metro is cheap and reliable and a real melting pot. The riders seem to be friendly to one another, which is a nice surprise, as well as a bit of a contrast to some of the people you run into on the street. 

However, whether they are on the Metro or in a cafe, there is a sheen about Parisiens that I've never seen on anyone else anywhere. Some may think this arrogance, but I tend to think of it as a self-confidence that comes from living in a city that has cache and romance in the very mortar of its buildings. They are able to wear just about anything with panache, and make the rest of us look like ungainly water buffalo.

The food is superb of course. As is the wine. It's a great introduction to Europe and the way Europeans eat - loudly and with gusto. It's a celebration of being alive and together, and I loved it.

It is expensive too, but not a great deal more than Sydney when you do the exchange rate. Bakeries and pasttiseries are everywhere and it's a beautiful thing to be able to get a fresh and delightful brioche or even a simple bap.

Bread...mmmm....

Lille is a lovely city to the north and the base for participation in the Festival Albert Rousell. This is the second time I've had a piece played on the Festival, but the first time I've attended as Artist-in-Residence. The people here are Flemish and different from the slim and graceful Parisiens. They are stockier and tougher - they look like it would take a stiff breeze to knock them off their feet. Of course, their near ancestors, and even some of them, have had to weather a couple of major storms in the last c100 years. Their appreciation of the finer things is no less than that of their counterparts in Paris, but things are altogether much slower and more relaxed.

One thing I've discovered that I liked is that just about everywhere, whether in Paris or in Flanders, closes down for lunch for at least an hour. The times are staggered of course so that the restaurants have their break later than everyone else. But the idea of being social or at least relaxed some time of the day AWAY from your place of work has to be one of the healthier ideas I've heard of in the last 45 years..

So my first impressions of France were food, friendship, relaxation, a certain rudeness on the part of Parisiens (one Frenchman has since told me that Paris is in reality a separate state from the rest of France!) and an appreciation of being alive.

Not a bad lesson for me to take away really.

Glimpses of a parallel life 2.

Whether it be in Ulster, or in Dublin, or in London, or in Cambridge, I keep seeing places that would have grown up in, worked in, played in, studied at or would somehow have ended up being part of the scene, had I not been taken to Australia by my parents in 1973.

I've never experienced this before - in fact, I'm going through a lot of things right now I've never experienced before on this trip - and have been brought up short by it many times in the last two weeks. In a way, this trip so far has been a voyage of self-discovery and self-realisation (or, at least, more so than my usual activities outside of writing music). 

Stick with me here and I'll try to make sense.

I've seen another me. I've seen someone who would have trod similar paths but would have felt a different topography through his shoes. If I had gone to Cambridge or Queens Universities (Trinity Dublin would probably have been out as the music side of things would have been less practical than I needed) I'd still have gravitated to the same kind of music that attracted me in Australia - I would have tried to do similar things and scaled similar heights. The buildings I inhabited may have been different, but the sounds in my head would have been the same and would have still uttered the same screams and demands to be released.

The drive I have would still have been there, despite the walls that the music was bouncing off being so much older.

I might not have had the same adventurous gastronomic spirit, but I would still have had the same hedonistic reaction to the salmon lasagne I had tonight in France for dinner.

So what have I learned?

That I'd still probably be the same person who yearned to break away, and still yearns to do that in every possible way. I would still be one who prefers to look over the horizon rather than what is under his feet.

Perhaps there are many who read this musing who could have told me this - and now I've told myself. I can still learn stuff it seems.

Glimpses of a parallel life 1.

The next few posts will deal with my reactions to being back in the land of my birth and amongst family and strangely familiar places and people.

My family is immense - not in physical girth, although none of us is anorexic by any means: I merely mean there's a lot of us. I have 11 first cousins just on my mum's side living in the UK. She came form a smaller family than my Dad and I have lost count of all of the cousins on his side. Most of those cousins now have children of their own - at least 2 each. you can see where it can become overwhelming.

What makes up for the initial daunting number of warm bodies (most are married as well of course, so that adds another 9 spouses to the mixture) is the fact that every one of them is complete gem. They are, both individually and collectively, the warmest and most hospitable people on the planet.

Yes, they are family and should be expected to be one thinks, but apart from the collective identity, there is also the natural warmth and friendliness that makes the length of the trip worthwhile. 

I spent a lot of time driving around familiar back roads and by-ways. I had clear memories of sitting in the back seat of the family car when I was in single digits and seeing the same roads and fields pass by. It was like being a 10-year-old with a driver's licence!

In all that travelling, all those great meals and all of the warmth and love form my family, I couldn't help wondering what might have been if my parents hadn't gone to Australia in 1973. It's that which is going through my head now, after having the time to digest the sights and sounds of Ulster, and the memories of the smiles and laughter settle down and find comfortable places in my mind.

I saw the school I would have gone to, the places I would have played rugby and cricket, the places I would have shopped and the several alternatives to post-secondary school life. No matter what I think I've done in the last 35 years, there'll always be the question "What if?"

As I move through these musing over the next few days after a day of walking around London, maybe I'll find the answer. Or maybe it'll remain unanswered, which may be the right thing!

4 Icons for the price of 1

Yes, I'm giving you value for money today. You even get a guest blogger!

The last 30 hours or so has seen visits to Stonehenge, Wells Cathedral and Port Meirion in Wales. Each one has its associations for me. As a child I grew up desperately wanting to see Stonehenge. On this visit, the rain let up for just long enough to get the sense of ancient associations with this place. It's eerie to see the trenches that surround it and that pre-date it and know they are the remnants of a previous wooden Henge. It is humbling to think that people have been coming here since they were able to till the land because they felt that the location was special. And in a land of gently undulating hills the character of Salisbury Plain marks it as special. The British army thinks so too, as it's been using it as a training ground for their artillery and tanks for decades!

And now, the promised guest blogger! It's Margaret, who, on her own, decided to have one more lap of the site, after seeing that Tony Robinson, of Blackadder, Worst Jobs in History and Time Team fame, was filming nearby.

Then what happened, Margaret?

I ran into an Australian couple on the way around, and I excitedly whispered, "Do you now who that is?!" and they said, "Yeah it's that bloke off Time Team!"

SO!

Then he and his film crew started  walking closer to where we were, and the woman who I ran into started talking to one of the camera operators. I wasn't brave enough, so I pretended to sort of talk. :-)

THEN!!!!! TONY ROBINSON walked over. So we said hi. And then he talked to us about how he's coming to Australia, and we talked about stuff like where we lived (amazing depth, I know).

Then he goes, "Do you want a photo then?" and then they're like, "Sure, thanks!" and I was like,"Ah!" and I ran over to Dad, who had just walked up that moment, and he had his camera phone with him, and then we had a photo!

That is all. Goodbye! That is probably all you will hear from me until I get a blog in a couple of months. :-)

Thanks, Margaret, you cheque is in the mail :-)

So, those are the first two icons for today. the next is the city of Wells, famous for its cathedral and the powerful Bishopric attached (co-incidentally, the Baby-eating Bishop of Baths and Wells turns up as a character in Blackadder 3) and for the fact that copious amount of the film Hot Fuzz was filmed there as it was the director's home town.

What struck me the most, though, was the tombs of the bishops who were buried in the cathedral. Some dated from the 10th century, well before the cathedral was built. Some of those early bishops had truly Saxon names liked Elwin. One, though, was a Frenchman - a Norman. yet he had been Chaplain to Edward the Confessor and was appointed Bishop of Bath and Wells in 1061 - before William the Conqueror invaded and the Battle of Hastings changed the course of both English politics and the English language.

It seems the Normans and the Saxons were much closer than I'd thought, if a Frenchman could be an English bishop. So it was no real wonder that William believed that he had rights to the English throne, even without Harold's supposed promise to him. The Norman-Saxon struggle then was not two mutually opposed races going at each other's throats, but rather a squabble between neighbours who knew each other all too well.

But someone has probably already said all that somewhere else.

The fourth and final icon is the village of Portmeirion in Wales, where the 1967-68 Tv series The Prisoner was filmed. This mysterious show, with no real resolution and what seems like multiple layers of meaning and symbolism couldn't be filmed anywhere else. To me, one of the major themes running through the show is that of individuality, and a human being's right to self-determination and to be seen as important for him- or herself. So it is only fitting that it be shot in  a town like Portmeirion (and there is really only ONE town like Pertmeirion) where the eclectic architecture is a testament to the individuality of its creator and what seems like whimsy is in fact an expression of self and the self's connection to the entire wider world without the need for resolution. Juxtaposition is the watchword here, and on a large and noble scale.

I think I actually get it a little.

I don't often buy souvenirs, but I bought a watch which had no number on it except the number 6, and a t-shirt which says "I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered! My life is my Own"

How wonderful if that could be true.

What I've learned so far....

I'm in a new place, a new hemisphere and possibly in a new mindset. What better time for me to learn things? Here's a few of the them.

Bangkok airport has the fastest travelators I've ever seen - either that or I walk r-e-a-l-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y. They grab your ankles like angry pixies, propel you along at about Warp 4 and then fling you  off the end so hard that you can be grabbed by another set of angry pixies who take you onto the next travelator. Who needs roller coasters for thrills?

Thai people are sweet, friendly, a little reserved (until they get behind a steering wheel or on the back of a motorcycle; then they become semi-crazed), hard working (they pester you so desperately in the markets because they are desperate to make a living) and always more interested in you than you are in them. So much so that I feel a little ashamed at times.

Kindness to strangers happens when you least expect it. At the end of a Bangkok "side street", which was really a ramp out over the river full of tiny houses, cramped families and dozens of cats, lives a wonderful man who can tell you about all of the interesting things to see along the river and in town. He offered to take us in his tuk tuk. We politely declined. I offered to pay him for his information. He politely declined. 

Again I felt a little ashamed and humbled. Thoughtfulness, kindness, love of one's children, pure welcome, genuine concern: all of these know no international boundaries, and all live in the heart of a man who lives by a river in Bangkok.

While Europe was relishing its Age of Enlightenment, Thailand was building its Grand Palace. I am reminded yet again how it feels to be overwhelmed by the weight of such ideas and talent. Just how far back should I stand? I can't take it all in. As Margaret so wisely said, "You just can't photograph this!"

She's right. You can't. you can only take a photo of yourself in front of it to prove you've been there. Like this one:

Then you walk around open-mouthed and flummoxed for the rest of the day.

Thai Buddhist chant is supremely fascinating both metrically (in that there is no real meter, only phrases) and rhythmically (it's most likely going to turn up somewhere in a piece, I can just tell.

The King and Queen of Thailand are extraordinary people, and seem to give the poor a voice.

One full day in Bangkok is woefully inadequate, as are my concepts of what a human being can live on.

Markets are great if you want to escape people like me.

Time to cheer up

After the last post, it's time to cheer up. While I recognised the genius of a great man past in Don Erb, it's time to recognise the talent of someone who is very much alive. David Armand (aka Johann Lippowitz "Vienna's foremost mime artist) shot to fame miming to Natalie Imburglio's "Torn". But he's got a number of great "mime interpretations" of popular songs on "Youtube". This includes his version of "Torn" from the 2006 "Secret Policeman's Ball" where he is joined a special guest :-) The video below is a mime version of Paul Young's 
"That's My Home".

So it's time to celebrate a fine comic talent. Why not check out all of his available videos? You'll only enjoy yourself if you do!

Vale Uncle Don

(This post should have been posted last week but, due to my being on the road and unable to find a computer that would cooperate, it has had to wait until i got home).

This morning my dear friend Nic texted me to inform me of the passing of Donald Erb. It's also mentioned by Karl Henning in the comments sections of the previous post and he provides a link to Don's Obituary which is taken from the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

This has hit me hard. Don was more than a teacher. He was a mentor and an example of what a composer should be - technically proficient across the spectrum of his work, deeply passionate about the worth and quality of his output, a champion of the work of quality composers and new music and a man who knew that without technique AND passion (i.e. something worthwhile to say) then it was, in his own words, "not quite good enough".

I met him when he came to Melbourne (where, by a strange co-incidence, I'm typing this) in August 1984 - almost 24 years to the day from this date - and he taught me for abour 6 weeks. One lesson with him was enough to convince me that I needed to study long term with this man, to help me tap into whatever I felt I had to say.

That was Don's greatest strength as a teacher: he helped you hear yourself. With him you had the courage to find the depths of expression and vulnerability you need to be an artist. And to him, being an artist was what it was all about. Once, when asked why he should be supported by public or private funding or be heard in public at all when his music was not commercially broadly appealing, I heard him simply say, "Because I'm an artist." There was no other reason. Yet Don's definiton of an artist was complex and deep.To him, an artist was one who cared in the same way he did about the work he made, the reputation he had and the unflagging certainty he had about the importance of what he had to say.

I cannot state this too strongly. Donald Erb gave me my life as a composer. When I went to study with him in the USA I left everything I had, both personally and materially. It was like starting fresh and new. I was at my most vulnerable and impressionable by my own choice, and his impact on me is still reverberating in my life and my work.

The love and affection his ex-students have for him is reflected by the deep and abiding interest he had in our careers. I hope I've helped make him proud. I'm sure we all do. I'm in Melbourne this week doing what he taught me to do - being a composer. I can think of no better way to thank him than to keep being one, no matter what changes around me and despite the current unfashionability of the term in academia.

The body of Donald Erb is gone, but the essence of him lives in his own immediate family and in the extended family of distinguished musicians around the world. His teaching and love are something I will cherish my entire life, as I owe so much of it to him.

I think it's time to listen to the end of "Ritual Observances" one more time.

Visitors galore

The house is full of people - lovely people who play piano, or who are babies of someone who plays piano or who are helping look after the baby of the person who plays piano. Our School of Music and Drama is playing host to two magnificent musicians: Amy Williams and Amy Dissanyake. They are playing both here and in Melbourne, and have kindly offered to premiere my "Music for Tomorrow Morning". The first performance is Friday 8th August here in Wollogong at the Faculty of Creative Arts beginning at 6:30 pm, the second at Melbourne University the following Monday lunchtime.

As I type this, Amy Williams is practising on the piano here at home. I *think* it's one of the pieces one of our students has written for them to workshop, but I don't want to disturb her to ask.

This visit coincides with the first week of my Study Leave. What a great way to start it!! :-).

If you happen to be in Wollongong on Friday 8th August, please drop by the concert at 6:30 pm - or Melbourne at 1:00 pm on Monday 11th.

We'll keep the light on for you!

New look blog

Well, like the post says, this is a new look, as well as being a bit leaner and meaner. About the only composer-related stuff I'm going to put in this blog will be upcoming performances and gigs (where I'm playing or having pieces played). This blog really needs to become a place to discuss ideas between friends - particularly friends I don't see often enough. My professional life doesn't really need discussion here - there are better places for that.

So the onus is on me to find something interesting to talk about!

Come join me.

Looking for a good way to get back to blogging

Well, for my first blog post in over a month, I thought I'd acknowledge that this year is the 40th anniversary of the "Prague Spring" of 1968. The best way to do this is to have a look at this photo which you can get on Youtube when you want to hear the last movment of Karl's Husa's "Music For Prague 1968". For those of us brought up on the concert band stage this is one of the greatest band works every written. There's a great orchestral version too, the best recording is by the Slovak Symphony Orchestra. The drum roll goes on forever!!!!!

The expression on this woman's face moves me deeply. Look at the youth of the people in the photo standing up to the soldiers on the tanks. Come to think of it, they don't look that old either.



Then there's Josef Koudelka's photo taken on the morning the Soviet quashing of the Prague Spring. it shows the emptiness of the square and the watch symbolising the time of day as freedom ticks away and the isolation of one human being.

Powerful images and powerful music.

During the restoration of democracy what used to be Czecheslovakia, Husa wrote a second Music For Prague. Check it out!

Vale George Carlin

George Carlin, the man who perhaps more than any other did so much to for freedom of speech in comedy and TV generally in the USA, passed away from heart failure in Los Angeles. For details, click on the title of this blog post.

For a man whose work became such a symbol for anti-censorship, had words in his routine that were broadcast on the US "Newshour" bleeped.

Irony rules it seems.