Bob Marley, Natty Dread (1974)
I know little about Bob Marley or the Jamaica he describes, but this album appears to exist in the space between revolution and resignation. It speaks to a people weary of their troubles but finding an outlet in music: the mob in Them Belly Full (But We Hungry), urged to forget their sorrows and dance. Which is more important to Marley: salvation through community and music, or thirst for change? With a song titled Rebel Music that is playfully light, and the most powerful emotions reserved for the intimate setting of No Woman No Cry, there are no easy answers.
This will be my only post this week, as I'm off to Ireland for a conference. I'll have a pint of Guiness on you. Yes, and you.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Time Lord update
I did it; well, it couldn't be helped. There he was, coming into the toilet as I was coming out and I shook him by the hand (yes, they were clean) and said: "Excuse me, are you the new Doctor Who?" He agreed that he was and I suppressed a girly giggle.
By the way, in case you wondered, this is what the hall in the Temple of Peace looks like usually:
And this is the stage at the end (beneath the curtains), as realised in The End of the World:
By the way, in case you wondered, this is what the hall in the Temple of Peace looks like usually:
And this is the stage at the end (beneath the curtains), as realised in The End of the World:
Actually, that futuristic screen is always there, popping out of the walls and showing us glimpses of the end of time. We just don't tell most people.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Temple of Who
They’ve just finished filming Doctor Who where I work, at the grandly/creepily named Temple of Peace in Cardiff. It’s the fourth time they’ve descended on us, transforming the austere (some say semi-fascistic) architecture of our main hall into, variously, a spaceship for alien tourists (The End of the World), a grand hall (Gridlock) and a secret Greek temple (The Fires of Pompeii). They’ve even used the place for the kids’ spin-off series The Sarah Jane Adventures.
Each time, however detailed all the preparations and advance negotiations, they take over the place as if it were a wholly-owned subsidiary of the BBC. Huge lights go up everywhere, cables present a tripping hazard wherever we go, catering vans park in places we would never dare; latex-masked monsters queue for the loos alongside us mere humans. It’s intrusive, frustrating and incredibly exciting.
I’ve watched Doctor Who since the age of 4 or 5, my first memory being the regeneration of Tom Baker into the young upstart Peter Davison. These days, of course, the whole thing is properly funded, glitzy and seriously important to the BBC; and the young upstarts have got much younger, with the soon-to-be new Doctor, Matt Smith, actually born in the 1980s. Being older than your hero really does make you feel ancient, but then the Doctor has always been a different type of hero: sensitive, vulnerable, funny; in a permanent state of conflict between his wonder at the universe and his sadness at its aggressors. I’m sure that whatever Smith does with the role, at least those traits will remain.
When Christopher Eccleston came to the Temple of Peace, it was in the heady early days of the series’ revival. Heady but less well funded: it took them only a few days to film large chunks of the episode, whereas now they’d probably spent that much time and money on two minutes of broadcast material. I didn’t get to meet the man himself, as I was away, although a kind co-worker secured an autograph for me. When David Tennant appeared a couple of years later, I cleared the diary and staked out the territory, eventually accosting him as he left the toilet. It was a very brief meeting, as he propped his leg up on the wall to sign my slip of paper, but I do remember being surprised at his Scottish accent.
This time around, I had every opportunity to bump into the Eleventh Doctor. They were in the building for two days solid. Lizard-like aliens roamed the ground floor in search of coffee, sandwiches and decent mobile reception. A colleague came into the office excitedly brandishing a signed t-shirt. The set – a underground cavern scene, apparently, lit in eerie yellow – was fairly open, and on one of my many passings by I spotted him. Tall, thin, young and – as our room bookings person noted – a bit geeky looking. There was hardly anyone around, and I could easily have gone in for a chinwag and signature.
I’m not quite sure why I didn’t. It might have been the fact of his being so young, and some predicted embarrassment at the oddly-pitched scene of hero worship that might ensue. More likely, it comes down to the reason that I scrupulously avoid all mention of new Doctor Who episodes*, right down to running out of the room at the end of an instalment to avoid the “next week” spoilers (why do they do that?). I’m still excited about the programme, not for nostalgia or because it is ‘event’ programming, but for itself. I still love its conception and its spirit and its warm humanity. In the end, I am interested in Doctor Who, not the actors who play him, and a small part of me continues to believe that he is (or should be) real.
I’m still cursing myself for not doing it, though.
* Commenters please note: Any spoilers of the forthcoming episodes, or revelations about how or why David Tennant regenerates, will be met with sharp rebuke and possible lifetime exile from these virtual shores.
Each time, however detailed all the preparations and advance negotiations, they take over the place as if it were a wholly-owned subsidiary of the BBC. Huge lights go up everywhere, cables present a tripping hazard wherever we go, catering vans park in places we would never dare; latex-masked monsters queue for the loos alongside us mere humans. It’s intrusive, frustrating and incredibly exciting.
I’ve watched Doctor Who since the age of 4 or 5, my first memory being the regeneration of Tom Baker into the young upstart Peter Davison. These days, of course, the whole thing is properly funded, glitzy and seriously important to the BBC; and the young upstarts have got much younger, with the soon-to-be new Doctor, Matt Smith, actually born in the 1980s. Being older than your hero really does make you feel ancient, but then the Doctor has always been a different type of hero: sensitive, vulnerable, funny; in a permanent state of conflict between his wonder at the universe and his sadness at its aggressors. I’m sure that whatever Smith does with the role, at least those traits will remain.
When Christopher Eccleston came to the Temple of Peace, it was in the heady early days of the series’ revival. Heady but less well funded: it took them only a few days to film large chunks of the episode, whereas now they’d probably spent that much time and money on two minutes of broadcast material. I didn’t get to meet the man himself, as I was away, although a kind co-worker secured an autograph for me. When David Tennant appeared a couple of years later, I cleared the diary and staked out the territory, eventually accosting him as he left the toilet. It was a very brief meeting, as he propped his leg up on the wall to sign my slip of paper, but I do remember being surprised at his Scottish accent.
This time around, I had every opportunity to bump into the Eleventh Doctor. They were in the building for two days solid. Lizard-like aliens roamed the ground floor in search of coffee, sandwiches and decent mobile reception. A colleague came into the office excitedly brandishing a signed t-shirt. The set – a underground cavern scene, apparently, lit in eerie yellow – was fairly open, and on one of my many passings by I spotted him. Tall, thin, young and – as our room bookings person noted – a bit geeky looking. There was hardly anyone around, and I could easily have gone in for a chinwag and signature.
I’m not quite sure why I didn’t. It might have been the fact of his being so young, and some predicted embarrassment at the oddly-pitched scene of hero worship that might ensue. More likely, it comes down to the reason that I scrupulously avoid all mention of new Doctor Who episodes*, right down to running out of the room at the end of an instalment to avoid the “next week” spoilers (why do they do that?). I’m still excited about the programme, not for nostalgia or because it is ‘event’ programming, but for itself. I still love its conception and its spirit and its warm humanity. In the end, I am interested in Doctor Who, not the actors who play him, and a small part of me continues to believe that he is (or should be) real.
I’m still cursing myself for not doing it, though.
* Commenters please note: Any spoilers of the forthcoming episodes, or revelations about how or why David Tennant regenerates, will be met with sharp rebuke and possible lifetime exile from these virtual shores.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Songs of the decade (4)
'Date With The Night' by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
From: Fever To Tell (2003)
Watch the video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOL-lzVT5Jc
A crushing, driving riff, like the fast-paced wayward father to Wake Up. The voice of Karen O, maybe the greatest female voice of her generation with her over-sexed mix of New York punk attitude and honeyed breathiness. Suggestive lyrics about walking on water and squeezing thighs. All this in the first 30 seconds; can it get any better?
Yep. The whole things ramps up a notch as Karen screams “Choke!” – eight times, as the detuned guitars and rhythm section create a battering ram behind her. Twice is enough for all of that. Then it all breaks and we’re back to earth with another repeated phrase: “I’ll set it, I’ll set you off”, meaning God knows what but it hardly matters: her voice has become an ultra-sexual pant, with a couple of Pixies-style compressed guitar solo joining things in the middle. Then that riff again, one more verse, and we’re done.
Two and a half minutes of punk perfection, and one of the most exciting songs I know.
From: Fever To Tell (2003)
Watch the video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOL-lzVT5Jc
A crushing, driving riff, like the fast-paced wayward father to Wake Up. The voice of Karen O, maybe the greatest female voice of her generation with her over-sexed mix of New York punk attitude and honeyed breathiness. Suggestive lyrics about walking on water and squeezing thighs. All this in the first 30 seconds; can it get any better?
Yep. The whole things ramps up a notch as Karen screams “Choke!” – eight times, as the detuned guitars and rhythm section create a battering ram behind her. Twice is enough for all of that. Then it all breaks and we’re back to earth with another repeated phrase: “I’ll set it, I’ll set you off”, meaning God knows what but it hardly matters: her voice has become an ultra-sexual pant, with a couple of Pixies-style compressed guitar solo joining things in the middle. Then that riff again, one more verse, and we’re done.
Two and a half minutes of punk perfection, and one of the most exciting songs I know.
Monday, November 09, 2009
A trio of insults
Last week the BBC started its celebration of the noughties, which in a true reflection of its time (a) uses the format of a top 100 countdown, and (b) contains about a 1 in 4 hit rate of interesting points from interesting people versus vacuous nonsense from C-list celebs. It also reminds me to write about a couple more of my favourite songs.
In the meantime, I note that the programme fell into one particular trap that really is typical of the decade: the Nanny State Outrage (NSO). There is nothing wrong, of course, with a good, well-argued point about overweaning state interference in parenting or suchlike. That might well be a legitimate NSO argument. But as so often, the comments wheeled out here about NSO issues were almost all irrelevant to such genuine political debate.
First, there were the NSO situations that there are absolutely nothing to do with the state. The example of choice was a school that required kids to wear goggles in order to play conkers. This is ludicrous enough in itself for high jinks and ribald remarks, but no, the celebs decided that No-one Was Allowed To Play Conkers Any More, and it is Health and Safety Gone Mad. There's hardly any need to state that this is not the case, but even if it was, it would probably be more to do with schools avoiding stupid court cases than nannying people.
The second type of NSO mistake is sillier and potentially more damaging, and that is the conflation of Health and Safety Gone Mad with Political Correctness Gone Mad. People bandied around the PC emergency siren as if the Health and Safety Executive and the Equalities and Human Rights Commission were one and the same, something which would doubtless displease members of both. For political correctness is just as provocative a phrase, but one dreamt up to insult largely fictional examples of local governments being overzealous in their promotion of equality. Most situations plastered with the PC label are, therefore, borne of really rather important concerns for society, such as sexism, racism and homophobia.
The problem when people use these terms to mean one and the same thing (and I've heard people do the opposite too, pulling the health and safety card when talking about Muslim integration), alongside the nanny state hysteria, is that it becomes harder to point out legitimate concerns about shortcomings in society. As soon as the PC, HS or NS placard is raised by the Daily Mail or another influential source, it becomes pompous or interfering to talk about the issue at all.
Ban all three phrases, I say, and make people come up with new ways of making their point (if they have one). But then an interfering PC leftie would say that, wouldn't he?
In the meantime, I note that the programme fell into one particular trap that really is typical of the decade: the Nanny State Outrage (NSO). There is nothing wrong, of course, with a good, well-argued point about overweaning state interference in parenting or suchlike. That might well be a legitimate NSO argument. But as so often, the comments wheeled out here about NSO issues were almost all irrelevant to such genuine political debate.
First, there were the NSO situations that there are absolutely nothing to do with the state. The example of choice was a school that required kids to wear goggles in order to play conkers. This is ludicrous enough in itself for high jinks and ribald remarks, but no, the celebs decided that No-one Was Allowed To Play Conkers Any More, and it is Health and Safety Gone Mad. There's hardly any need to state that this is not the case, but even if it was, it would probably be more to do with schools avoiding stupid court cases than nannying people.
The second type of NSO mistake is sillier and potentially more damaging, and that is the conflation of Health and Safety Gone Mad with Political Correctness Gone Mad. People bandied around the PC emergency siren as if the Health and Safety Executive and the Equalities and Human Rights Commission were one and the same, something which would doubtless displease members of both. For political correctness is just as provocative a phrase, but one dreamt up to insult largely fictional examples of local governments being overzealous in their promotion of equality. Most situations plastered with the PC label are, therefore, borne of really rather important concerns for society, such as sexism, racism and homophobia.
The problem when people use these terms to mean one and the same thing (and I've heard people do the opposite too, pulling the health and safety card when talking about Muslim integration), alongside the nanny state hysteria, is that it becomes harder to point out legitimate concerns about shortcomings in society. As soon as the PC, HS or NS placard is raised by the Daily Mail or another influential source, it becomes pompous or interfering to talk about the issue at all.
Ban all three phrases, I say, and make people come up with new ways of making their point (if they have one). But then an interfering PC leftie would say that, wouldn't he?
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
It's high time
There are many hot topics – climate change, education, the financial crisis – in which political goodwill is prone to being eroded by practical realities. But there can be few areas in which good scientific evidence is allowed to be so roundly trounced by political expediency than the government’s policy on drugs.
As Professor David Nutt is sacked by his masters, and the Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs heads for meltdown, it would be good to think that there are two sides to this story. But there really aren’t. Nutt’s job was to give evidence-based advice to the government about the relative dangers of different drugs and about the restrictions that should apply to them. And that’s what he has done: most notably on the issues of ecstasy and cannabis, and by reviewing far more scientific papers than ever before.
The Home Secretary claims that Nutt was sacked on Friday because he was being too political in his approach to cannabis. This is one of those fantastic obfuscations that sounds important but means little. Does he mean party political? Hardly; there is no party building its policies on changing drug classifications, although the Lib Dems have toyed with the idea in the past. What he means is that Nutt overstepped his remit by trying to unduly influence government policy. This is, of course, outrageous behaviour from a government policy advisor.
Unfortunately, all roads in the drugs debate lead to one conclusion: prohibition, prohibition and prohibition with knobs on. If you fail to tow this line then you are irresponsible, nigh on doling out pills and powders to the kids yourself. Never mind that it is plainly ridiculous and unscientific to classify ecstasy and magic mushrooms as being as dangerous as heroin, and more so than ketamine (a horse tranquiliser, currently class C). They are drugs, pure and simple, and drugs are bad.
There are a number of more sensible approaches that could be adopted by a government that is actually interested in people’s health and wellbeing. The most obvious of these – banning alcohol and tobacco, the true, highly addictive mass killers – will not work for social reasons, although the policy is objectively far more sensible than banning other substances.
Another solution is to classify drugs according to their actual dangers, which seems so obvious that to otherwise is ridiculous. Scientists researched it over two years ago – looking at health as well as addiction potential and social harms – and sure enough, their findings suggest that the system is all over the place. Cannabis is mid-table, LSD lower, ecstasy right at the bottom. But everyone guessed that already. The stumbling block is how to justify a harms-based classification system when alcohol is at number 5 and tobacco at 9; but it would still be a good deal more sensible than the current situation.
Finally, there is the system favoured by a growing number of experts and rehabilitation charities worldwide, and it’s a simple one: decriminalise, or actually legalise, all drugs. Control production and supply, tax them, then use the revenue to treat addicts and other problem users. Most of the policing problem disappears overnight, and suddenly it is OK to seek treatment for something that is a legitimate personal choice. Most importantly, harm is reduced, and the government can actually prove it is doing its job: protecting and promoting the lives of citizens, rather than causing them gratuitous damage through ignorance, tainted supplies and the need to consort with criminals.
Now that’s something I would be astonished – and pleased – to see in someone’s manifesto next year.
As Professor David Nutt is sacked by his masters, and the Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs heads for meltdown, it would be good to think that there are two sides to this story. But there really aren’t. Nutt’s job was to give evidence-based advice to the government about the relative dangers of different drugs and about the restrictions that should apply to them. And that’s what he has done: most notably on the issues of ecstasy and cannabis, and by reviewing far more scientific papers than ever before.
The Home Secretary claims that Nutt was sacked on Friday because he was being too political in his approach to cannabis. This is one of those fantastic obfuscations that sounds important but means little. Does he mean party political? Hardly; there is no party building its policies on changing drug classifications, although the Lib Dems have toyed with the idea in the past. What he means is that Nutt overstepped his remit by trying to unduly influence government policy. This is, of course, outrageous behaviour from a government policy advisor.
Unfortunately, all roads in the drugs debate lead to one conclusion: prohibition, prohibition and prohibition with knobs on. If you fail to tow this line then you are irresponsible, nigh on doling out pills and powders to the kids yourself. Never mind that it is plainly ridiculous and unscientific to classify ecstasy and magic mushrooms as being as dangerous as heroin, and more so than ketamine (a horse tranquiliser, currently class C). They are drugs, pure and simple, and drugs are bad.
There are a number of more sensible approaches that could be adopted by a government that is actually interested in people’s health and wellbeing. The most obvious of these – banning alcohol and tobacco, the true, highly addictive mass killers – will not work for social reasons, although the policy is objectively far more sensible than banning other substances.
Another solution is to classify drugs according to their actual dangers, which seems so obvious that to otherwise is ridiculous. Scientists researched it over two years ago – looking at health as well as addiction potential and social harms – and sure enough, their findings suggest that the system is all over the place. Cannabis is mid-table, LSD lower, ecstasy right at the bottom. But everyone guessed that already. The stumbling block is how to justify a harms-based classification system when alcohol is at number 5 and tobacco at 9; but it would still be a good deal more sensible than the current situation.
Finally, there is the system favoured by a growing number of experts and rehabilitation charities worldwide, and it’s a simple one: decriminalise, or actually legalise, all drugs. Control production and supply, tax them, then use the revenue to treat addicts and other problem users. Most of the policing problem disappears overnight, and suddenly it is OK to seek treatment for something that is a legitimate personal choice. Most importantly, harm is reduced, and the government can actually prove it is doing its job: protecting and promoting the lives of citizens, rather than causing them gratuitous damage through ignorance, tainted supplies and the need to consort with criminals.
Now that’s something I would be astonished – and pleased – to see in someone’s manifesto next year.
Monday, November 02, 2009
From the bowels of the Spamosphere
The following landed in my inbox today, with the subject line, "What, what a". I've removed the dodgy web address.
Thus the difficulty with which the more advanced republics are confronted is no longer one connected with rapid and disorderly changes of government and presidents.
Hello, i am Winona Estrada.
Try it for the well-being.
Why are you not eating anything, gentlemen. And running out from the porch he went round the corner of the house and along the path that led to the back porch.
Thus the difficulty with which the more advanced republics are confronted is no longer one connected with rapid and disorderly changes of government and presidents.
Hello, i am Winona Estrada.
Try it for the well-being.
Why are you not eating anything, gentlemen. And running out from the porch he went round the corner of the house and along the path that led to the back porch.
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