.... or how the hell have the managed to get themselves into this situation in the first place??
OK, so there are five games of this Premier League season to go. Newcastle are currently in 18th spot, on 31 points, three from safety. They really need a win, but there's no telling where it's coming from - they're playing Liverpool away today, Middlesbrough at home next week who are in the same position and will be fighting for all they're worth, then Fulham away after that who have the 3rd best home record in the league, and then Aston Villa away, who might still be having to scrap to get a European place. I can see them losing all of those matches - or at least losing most of them and getting a draw or two from the others, which won't be good enough. If they draw or lose against Middlesbrough next week they're sunk, I think. And if I were a betting man, that's exactly where I'd be putting my money. .... Which would then by consequence guarantee a 15-0 win for someone, which is why I'm not a betting man.
Anyway. The thing about Newcastle's plight that really strikes me is that they really do epitomise - or SHOULD epitomise - the expression "too good to go down". Have a look at their team. Michael Owen, Alan Smith, Damien Duff, Joey Barton, Mark Viduka, Kevin Nolan, Nicky Butt, Shola Ameobi and Njitab Geremi to name no fewer than nine players who are household names in any football supporter's house - and within that a good three or four in anyone else's house for that matter as well. Madness. You look at that team at the start of the year and you think "there's a lot of quality there, they should score a lot of goals, guaranteed top half of the table finish, probably pushing for Europe as well". And yet there they are, down in 19th.
What this does is really point out to me that all the money in the world won't get you anywhere if you don't have good management - and good management WILL get you anywhere with surprisingly little expenditure. Look at Fulham. 7th place, Europe looking entirely possible. Last year seemed down and out, but a change of coach, change of SOME of the personnel, and hey, presto, top-half finish. And conversely, look at Man City. A license to print money by their new oil-rich Arabian owners, and have struggled to be mid-table.
But I can't believe that the evidence of that would be so stark when it comes to Newcastle. Because there really are some great players in there. It makes you wonder what would happen to Arsenal or Manchester United if Wenger or Ferguson needed mid-season heart surgery like Newcastles's ex-boss, Kinnear did. Would their absence produce a similar fall from grace, and possible regulation? The mind boggles.
To explain the headline of this post, though - I would LOVE to see Newcastle go down. Not because I have any great dislike of them, but just to see what would happen to their squad. There would be a lot of players looking for new clubs at the end of the season, and a lot of them would be offering fantastic value for money in transfer fees by consequence. What chance me going to the Cottage next season to see Michael Owen up front for Fulham? Well - probably not. But there's every chance of seeing someone like Mark Viduka, or Shola Ameobi - or any one of the others, for that matter. What a fantastic prospect!
... to be honest, though - can't really see it happening. They'll probably bore everyone stupid and stay up on the last day. Care of an away victory against Fulham the week before....
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Cantata No. 42 in Heerhugowaard
Right, so lately this blog has been less about love, life, art and cricket, and more A Diary of an Australian Tenor in Holland, but there we are - I'm sure I'll address the others in due course.
Had a rehearsal today for a gig that I'm singing tomorrow. It's in the middle of bloody nowhere - Heerhugowaard, which is an hour and a half by train from The Hague and then another ten minutes by car, so over three hours' travel there and back. I didn't know that it would take that long when I took the gig, and neither did I realise that they wouldn't be re-imbursing my travel expenses, either. Makes the €75 that they're paying me look even more paltry - I'm going to end up about €40 in front, and given the morning rehearsal and morning service, I'm foregoing two badly-needed sleep-ins as well. Hmph. Oh well - such is the life of a newly-arrived-on-the-scene singer: I'm loathe at this stage to turn anything down, particularly if it's a solo gig (which this is), because you never know who you're going to meet, and what sort of fabulous work you'll get from doing it. Today's €75 gig less travel expenses could be tomorrow's large-scale tour, recording deal and snorting crack off super-models' backsides.
Still, I continue to be impressed by what I see in this country, and continue to find very good answers when people ask me, round-eyed, "why did you want to leave Australia to come HERE???" - which happens more than you'd think. Heerhugowaard is NOWHERE, and I'm not kidding. It's a back-of-beyond, uninteresting, sparsely-populated, nothing sort of a place - an agricultural town that was established on account of the local cabbage-growing industry, or so the elderly parisioner that ferried me to and from the church proudly proclaimed. Population: fuck-all. Certainly no more than a couple of thousand, if that. And yet, despite all of this, they're remarkably well-equipped to put on Bach cantatas. The church boasted a very nice little organ, a harpsichord, a perfectly competent parish choir, and a small orchestra, who were probably all being paid but were all still local. And were playing on period instruments, for crying out loud.
This is pretty incredible, really, and more so when you consider that there are probably hundreds of churches just like this throughout the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany. Can my Australian readers imagine this? No matter how healthy a parish is in a country town in Australia, you'd be lucky to find someone there who even knew what a harpsichord was, let alone for the place to actually have one. Things are better in the UK, but not much, really. This is the equivalent of someone turning up in the equivalent country town in Australia wondering if anyone plays AFL, and finding not only a club but a well-maintained ground, training facilities and a whole bunch of professional and semi-profesional players.
(.... Actually come to think of it, this probably isn't the greatest comparison. There are probably any number of places like that in Australia, and the same with football in the UK, that boast this sort of thing. But maybe it IS a useful comparison anyway, because you can see that the Dutch attachment to classical music is more or less the equal to the Anglo-Saxon attachment to sport.)
Classical music is just part of people's vocabulary here. Not EVERYONE's vocabulary, you understand - the Dutch do white trash just as well as anyone else - but it is very much part of the fabric of the community. That's why when I sang eighteen St Matthew Passions that almost all of them were sold-out, despite the fact that they're mass-produced and badly-directed. THIS IS WHY I CAME HERE. Not for the under-paid gigs that require lots of travelling nor for the bad direction of course, but for a world where classical music is part of everyone's vocabulary. A world where if I tell the man in the pub what I do for a living I don't reveal myself either as a "girl", "poofter", or at the very best, quaint oddity with the unusual taste in vocational activities, who then has to justify his career-choices to everyone. It's almost like presenting art and music actually holds relevance, somehow, as opposed being part of some sort of obscure niche.
I gotta tell you, it's awfully refreshing.
Had a rehearsal today for a gig that I'm singing tomorrow. It's in the middle of bloody nowhere - Heerhugowaard, which is an hour and a half by train from The Hague and then another ten minutes by car, so over three hours' travel there and back. I didn't know that it would take that long when I took the gig, and neither did I realise that they wouldn't be re-imbursing my travel expenses, either. Makes the €75 that they're paying me look even more paltry - I'm going to end up about €40 in front, and given the morning rehearsal and morning service, I'm foregoing two badly-needed sleep-ins as well. Hmph. Oh well - such is the life of a newly-arrived-on-the-scene singer: I'm loathe at this stage to turn anything down, particularly if it's a solo gig (which this is), because you never know who you're going to meet, and what sort of fabulous work you'll get from doing it. Today's €75 gig less travel expenses could be tomorrow's large-scale tour, recording deal and snorting crack off super-models' backsides.
Still, I continue to be impressed by what I see in this country, and continue to find very good answers when people ask me, round-eyed, "why did you want to leave Australia to come HERE???" - which happens more than you'd think. Heerhugowaard is NOWHERE, and I'm not kidding. It's a back-of-beyond, uninteresting, sparsely-populated, nothing sort of a place - an agricultural town that was established on account of the local cabbage-growing industry, or so the elderly parisioner that ferried me to and from the church proudly proclaimed. Population: fuck-all. Certainly no more than a couple of thousand, if that. And yet, despite all of this, they're remarkably well-equipped to put on Bach cantatas. The church boasted a very nice little organ, a harpsichord, a perfectly competent parish choir, and a small orchestra, who were probably all being paid but were all still local. And were playing on period instruments, for crying out loud.
This is pretty incredible, really, and more so when you consider that there are probably hundreds of churches just like this throughout the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany. Can my Australian readers imagine this? No matter how healthy a parish is in a country town in Australia, you'd be lucky to find someone there who even knew what a harpsichord was, let alone for the place to actually have one. Things are better in the UK, but not much, really. This is the equivalent of someone turning up in the equivalent country town in Australia wondering if anyone plays AFL, and finding not only a club but a well-maintained ground, training facilities and a whole bunch of professional and semi-profesional players.
(.... Actually come to think of it, this probably isn't the greatest comparison. There are probably any number of places like that in Australia, and the same with football in the UK, that boast this sort of thing. But maybe it IS a useful comparison anyway, because you can see that the Dutch attachment to classical music is more or less the equal to the Anglo-Saxon attachment to sport.)
Classical music is just part of people's vocabulary here. Not EVERYONE's vocabulary, you understand - the Dutch do white trash just as well as anyone else - but it is very much part of the fabric of the community. That's why when I sang eighteen St Matthew Passions that almost all of them were sold-out, despite the fact that they're mass-produced and badly-directed. THIS IS WHY I CAME HERE. Not for the under-paid gigs that require lots of travelling nor for the bad direction of course, but for a world where classical music is part of everyone's vocabulary. A world where if I tell the man in the pub what I do for a living I don't reveal myself either as a "girl", "poofter", or at the very best, quaint oddity with the unusual taste in vocational activities, who then has to justify his career-choices to everyone. It's almost like presenting art and music actually holds relevance, somehow, as opposed being part of some sort of obscure niche.
I gotta tell you, it's awfully refreshing.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Over-heard in a rehearsal break
Swiss soprano: This conductor seems quite good. He's very efficient.
Me: Sure. A friend told me that he's a bit shifty, though. Not sure why she told me that, mind you - don't know why it should be relevant in this context.
SS: Shifty? What does that mean? You mean he moves the tempo around a lot or something?
Me: Well, no - "shifty" means not particularly trust-worthy. A bit dishonest.
At that precise moment, said conductor walked into the canteen, helped himself to a Coke from the fridge, and took off without paying for it.
True story.
Me: Sure. A friend told me that he's a bit shifty, though. Not sure why she told me that, mind you - don't know why it should be relevant in this context.
SS: Shifty? What does that mean? You mean he moves the tempo around a lot or something?
Me: Well, no - "shifty" means not particularly trust-worthy. A bit dishonest.
At that precise moment, said conductor walked into the canteen, helped himself to a Coke from the fridge, and took off without paying for it.
True story.
On Rehearsal Technique
This may not be that interesting to some. It's a real occupational hazard for me, though, so it's fairly close to my heart.
If I ever grow even more grizzled and cranky than I already am, and decide that music just isn't for me after all, it will probably be because of singers' bad rehearsal technique. To echo some of the remarks I made in in this post, you get the idea that when you reach a certain level that some things will become easier, better, and more professional, and you can tear your hair out when the opposite occurs. Below is a short list.
1. Talking in rehearsals.
This is my number one bugbear, and a genuine case where it seems to definitely get worse the more professional the context is. Being quiet, unfortunately, runs against the grain of many singers, who quite often have very short attention spans and are the worst kind of attention-seekers. Actors are very much the same, of course. Any lull in the action is an opportunity to draw attention to yourself, usually by the most inane means possible (I'm a bad, bad man for saying this, but I tend to find that gay men are particularly bad at this and a certain brand of particularly effeminite gay man will stretch "inane" to its absolute breaking point. Tell me I'm a homophobe, but I figure that if I'm prepared to admit that tenors are annoying, then I've won myself some license). This is, of course, completely counter-productive, and it ends up making everyone's job that much harder. Having to wait for everyone to shut up so you can hear what the conductor is trying to say make EVERY FUCKING TIME THE MUSIC STOPS can just do your head in. I have learnt lately that the best way to deal with the situation is to not talk to anyone at all, ever, unless it's about the music. I genuinely ignore half the things that are said to me. I'm sure people think I'm an absolute arse for doing it, but it makes them stop talking to me. And hey, if you're the sort of cretin that dribbles inane bullshit when you should be concentrating on the music, I don't want to be friends with you anyway.
2. Talking when the orchestra is tuning (you know what this is. It's the "whhhheeeeeeeeeeooooooooorrreeeeaaaaaaaaeeeee" noise they all make before concerts).
This is every bit as annoying as the first, but it doesn't happen as much, so it comes second. I never want to cringe more when I'm in a chorus and no-one can sit still for 30 seconds whilst the orchestra tune - something that the entire ensemble relies on for a successful rehearsal/performance. At some point I'm going to make a sign that says "IS NOT TALKING OR MAKING UNNECESSARY NOISE" and hold it up whilst the orchestra tune. How some instrumentalists don't become violent over this, I will never know. I would.
Here's an exercise that might help illustrate my point. Get a few mates together. Get one of you to hum a note. Something that's not too high or low. Get everyone to sing EXACTLY the same note - no approximations. Involve women and men, and women and men with high and low speaking voices so that people are singing at different registers. Now do it with 40 people. Still singing exactly the same note? Not when there are another forty people sitting behind you talking shit and making stupid extraneous noise, you're not!
3. One-upmanship.
"You're getting that bit wrong!!!" Oh! Oh really? Well, whilst we're making observations, isn't it also true that I just punched you in the face?
Anyone that has ever done this deserves.... well, you get the idea. I will never understand why complete strangers, or at least passing acquaintances, think that it's appropriate to point out their colleagues' mistakes. It seems that some people keep a running tally. To be honest, I will never understand how they even NOTICE, most of the time. When I'm rehearsing difficult music, particularly when I'm singing it for the first time, I'm often so wrapped up in what I'm doing that bothering to listen to what the guy beside me is doing is the last thing I do. Of course you HEAR the mistakes - but finding the energy to actually make the mental note of "Carrot got that wrong!"whilst the music is going on, so you can go back to it later and smarmily point it out to him is going the extra yard, don't you think? ... Or maybe it's just really, really stupid and petty.
Of course there's a line, and quietly talking to someone when they're obviously a little confused and would actually appreciate the help is fine, but - that's not what a lot of people are about. Today's rehearsal involved me sitting next to a guy who obviously had it in his head that he was going to be quality control for our section - the section of him and me. To cover up his insecurities, he had obviously taken the attitude that I was going to be the brawn (i.e. I could actually sing) and he was going to be the brain (because he can't), and point out my every mistake. This culminated in an amusing piece of by-play about pronunciation - after the first run through of a particular piece, when the word in question came up only twice -
We sang it again.
Didn't say the last part.
Should've.
To sum up, though, the thing that bothers me most about rehearsing is that everyone seems to miss the point. Isn't the whole idea to concentrate together and try and make the most progress? You're at WORK - you're not there to impress your mates, that's for the breaks (or the post-concert pint - which no-one seems to do in Holland, *sobs*!). And so annoying, asinine dickheads that refuse to concentrate, talk shit through the entire process, and/or try to set themselves up as the arbiter of all standards and mistake-filters really piss me off. I suppose, like in any number of things, I should just learn to chill out a bit more. But just like Richie in his lunch with David in "The Final Dig"-
If I ever grow even more grizzled and cranky than I already am, and decide that music just isn't for me after all, it will probably be because of singers' bad rehearsal technique. To echo some of the remarks I made in in this post, you get the idea that when you reach a certain level that some things will become easier, better, and more professional, and you can tear your hair out when the opposite occurs. Below is a short list.
1. Talking in rehearsals.
This is my number one bugbear, and a genuine case where it seems to definitely get worse the more professional the context is. Being quiet, unfortunately, runs against the grain of many singers, who quite often have very short attention spans and are the worst kind of attention-seekers. Actors are very much the same, of course. Any lull in the action is an opportunity to draw attention to yourself, usually by the most inane means possible (I'm a bad, bad man for saying this, but I tend to find that gay men are particularly bad at this and a certain brand of particularly effeminite gay man will stretch "inane" to its absolute breaking point. Tell me I'm a homophobe, but I figure that if I'm prepared to admit that tenors are annoying, then I've won myself some license). This is, of course, completely counter-productive, and it ends up making everyone's job that much harder. Having to wait for everyone to shut up so you can hear what the conductor is trying to say make EVERY FUCKING TIME THE MUSIC STOPS can just do your head in. I have learnt lately that the best way to deal with the situation is to not talk to anyone at all, ever, unless it's about the music. I genuinely ignore half the things that are said to me. I'm sure people think I'm an absolute arse for doing it, but it makes them stop talking to me. And hey, if you're the sort of cretin that dribbles inane bullshit when you should be concentrating on the music, I don't want to be friends with you anyway.
2. Talking when the orchestra is tuning (you know what this is. It's the "whhhheeeeeeeeeeooooooooorrreeeeaaaaaaaaeeeee" noise they all make before concerts).
This is every bit as annoying as the first, but it doesn't happen as much, so it comes second. I never want to cringe more when I'm in a chorus and no-one can sit still for 30 seconds whilst the orchestra tune - something that the entire ensemble relies on for a successful rehearsal/performance. At some point I'm going to make a sign that says "IS NOT TALKING OR MAKING UNNECESSARY NOISE" and hold it up whilst the orchestra tune. How some instrumentalists don't become violent over this, I will never know. I would.
Here's an exercise that might help illustrate my point. Get a few mates together. Get one of you to hum a note. Something that's not too high or low. Get everyone to sing EXACTLY the same note - no approximations. Involve women and men, and women and men with high and low speaking voices so that people are singing at different registers. Now do it with 40 people. Still singing exactly the same note? Not when there are another forty people sitting behind you talking shit and making stupid extraneous noise, you're not!
3. One-upmanship.
"You're getting that bit wrong!!!" Oh! Oh really? Well, whilst we're making observations, isn't it also true that I just punched you in the face?
Anyone that has ever done this deserves.... well, you get the idea. I will never understand why complete strangers, or at least passing acquaintances, think that it's appropriate to point out their colleagues' mistakes. It seems that some people keep a running tally. To be honest, I will never understand how they even NOTICE, most of the time. When I'm rehearsing difficult music, particularly when I'm singing it for the first time, I'm often so wrapped up in what I'm doing that bothering to listen to what the guy beside me is doing is the last thing I do. Of course you HEAR the mistakes - but finding the energy to actually make the mental note of "Carrot got that wrong!"whilst the music is going on, so you can go back to it later and smarmily point it out to him is going the extra yard, don't you think? ... Or maybe it's just really, really stupid and petty.
Of course there's a line, and quietly talking to someone when they're obviously a little confused and would actually appreciate the help is fine, but - that's not what a lot of people are about. Today's rehearsal involved me sitting next to a guy who obviously had it in his head that he was going to be quality control for our section - the section of him and me. To cover up his insecurities, he had obviously taken the attitude that I was going to be the brawn (i.e. I could actually sing) and he was going to be the brain (because he can't), and point out my every mistake. This culminated in an amusing piece of by-play about pronunciation - after the first run through of a particular piece, when the word in question came up only twice -
Him: It's "feste"
Me: Yes, that's right.
Him: Well, you're not getting it right.
We sang it again.
Him: It's fesTE!
Me: That's what I'm singing!
Him: No, you're singing something different.
Me: Look mate, it's "feste al Nume santo" and the "te-al" is on a quaver. you're probably hearing me sing "te-al".
Him: .... Oh.
Me: And by the way, you can barely sing above an F, you've got a shitty technique, you're always late, and that beret makes you look ridiculous. Get a life.
Didn't say the last part.
Should've.
To sum up, though, the thing that bothers me most about rehearsing is that everyone seems to miss the point. Isn't the whole idea to concentrate together and try and make the most progress? You're at WORK - you're not there to impress your mates, that's for the breaks (or the post-concert pint - which no-one seems to do in Holland, *sobs*!). And so annoying, asinine dickheads that refuse to concentrate, talk shit through the entire process, and/or try to set themselves up as the arbiter of all standards and mistake-filters really piss me off. I suppose, like in any number of things, I should just learn to chill out a bit more. But just like Richie in his lunch with David in "The Final Dig"-
It just really shits me.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Injuries
I bought a book yesterday. It's called "Why Don't Penguins' Feet Freeze?" and it's a compilation of letters that have been sent to the New Scientist magazine as part of the "Last Word" column - a forum for readers to send in scientific questions that fellow readers then answer. It's great - it's full of all sorts of useless stuff, like "what time is it in the North Pole", "why does clingfilm stick to glass but not metal", "why does hot water freeze faster than cold (apparently it's true, and no-one's come up with a definitive answer yet)", "why is snot green (a personal favourite)", "what is the diameter of a bolt of lightning" and so on and so forth. It's great for train journeys to gigs - not sure it was worth €14.99 though.
It's good material for a blogger to read, because everything's bite-sized, and very little of it is straight-forward, so there's often lengthy discourse and hypothesising from the respondants. They're the sort of questions that children ask (and in fact some of them ARE asked by children, which is why I now know why sea-water is salty) to really wind their parents up at inopportune moments. Above all though, it invites people to crap on endlessly about their pet subjects with the view to convincing everyone how clever and interesting they are, as though anyone cares less (sound familiar?), and I kept getting the image of the people who asked the question writing back and saying "yeah ok, thanks, but did you have to be such a tosser about it?" Anyway, it's all very much like blogging, so it kinda puts you in the mood to write something.
It might sound a little sophomoric, but whilst I was reading all of this, and being invited to look at my world in a slightly more enquiring way, I began to consider the topic of human emotion, and emotional pain/loss in particular. I half expected someone to have written in asking for a psychological and/or physiological explanation for how broken hearts work (haven't come across it yet, but I'm only two-thirds of the way through). I came up with the following.
I've often considered that the word "injury" in its generic sense is used a little too sparingly. As a singer, I often think that it should be used to describe vocal problems more. We should be able to say "can't sing - injured", as opposed to "I have a cold/infection/nasty rash, pus-oozing nodules on my perineum, my budgie died, it's the worst thing in the world, how will I survive, waffle, waffle, waffle, why, why why?" and so forth. Not only does "injured" save everyone valuable time and patience, I think it sums up the situation quite well, too, I think. Much the same as when an athlete is injured, the injury at the very best inhibits the person from doing what they by definition are supposed to do - and often stops them from doing it completely. Consequently, an injured athlete to a point actually becomes an ex-athlete, or depending on the severity of the ailment, a temporary non-athlete. The same applies to a singer - if you can't sing, what are you, then? And this is why being injured is a rotten state to be in for either individual - it can seem like you're missing something hard to define but quintessentially YOU - and somehow you are less of yourself by consequence.
I have been feeling the same way about emotional pain, grief, and loss, and that "injured" might just as easily sum up that situation as well. When you're down, and particularly when you're down about a specific thing or person, you don't feel yourself then, either. You wander through life lacking energy or drive, and the most mundane tasks seem that much more difficult. Nothing is much fun, everything's a bit wan and colourless and essentially you are less of yourself. It can seem to both you and others that until whatever/whoever it is that was taken away returns, you won't quite be the same. The connection is not completely seamless of course - a runner with a bad hamstring can't run, a singer with layrngitis can't sing, a person with a broken heart can't - what? Live? Not really, but I guess the answer is live successfully and happily, and that's what we're all here for, after all. So it still works. And as with all other injuries, the most important thing is to give yourself time and rest. Unfortunately it's pretty difficult to rest from being you - but that's probably why emotional pain is so difficult to deal with.
There would be other benefits to thinking about it in these terms, namely that it would save everyone a lot of awkwardness. I've found that as a man, despite what the post-feminist world tells me, talking about any sort of angst or pain, no matter how genuine, is a good recipe for people to start shuffling their feet and looking for the nearest exit. As a hot-blooded, Alpha-male ever alert to the call to action, you're supposed to be off slaying mammoth and doing stock-market deals, not fannying about talking about your FEELINGS, for crying out loud. It just makes people uncomfortable. I can't count the amount of times I've witnessed women do it, though - it's just one of life's little double-standards. So I think that if we could just describe ourselves as being "injured" it would make things a whole lot easier. The below (very hypothetical) conversation might help illustrate my point:
A: Hi mate. How are you doing?
B: Not so great. Broke up with my girl over the weekend.
A: Jeez.
B: Yeah. I'm not really coping that well, to be honest. Never realised it could feel this bad! I just.... don't know why it didn't work out, you know? And now I can't eat, or sleep, I've got no energy, everything's gone to shit, I can't concentrate on my work - I wish she'd just come back to me, but she won't, and..... well, things aren't so great. It's really tough. If you've got any advice, let me know.
A: Well, you could start by getting a grip on yourself, ya big poof!!
OR
A: Hi mate. How are you doing?
B: Not so great. Carrying a bit of an injury at the moment.
A: Ah. That's no good! Went throught the same thing myself last year. Do you want to go and get drunk?
B: Great! Is there any football on?
Now doesn't that just seem easier?
It's good material for a blogger to read, because everything's bite-sized, and very little of it is straight-forward, so there's often lengthy discourse and hypothesising from the respondants. They're the sort of questions that children ask (and in fact some of them ARE asked by children, which is why I now know why sea-water is salty) to really wind their parents up at inopportune moments. Above all though, it invites people to crap on endlessly about their pet subjects with the view to convincing everyone how clever and interesting they are, as though anyone cares less (sound familiar?), and I kept getting the image of the people who asked the question writing back and saying "yeah ok, thanks, but did you have to be such a tosser about it?" Anyway, it's all very much like blogging, so it kinda puts you in the mood to write something.
It might sound a little sophomoric, but whilst I was reading all of this, and being invited to look at my world in a slightly more enquiring way, I began to consider the topic of human emotion, and emotional pain/loss in particular. I half expected someone to have written in asking for a psychological and/or physiological explanation for how broken hearts work (haven't come across it yet, but I'm only two-thirds of the way through). I came up with the following.
I've often considered that the word "injury" in its generic sense is used a little too sparingly. As a singer, I often think that it should be used to describe vocal problems more. We should be able to say "can't sing - injured", as opposed to "I have a cold/infection/nasty rash, pus-oozing nodules on my perineum, my budgie died, it's the worst thing in the world, how will I survive, waffle, waffle, waffle, why, why why?" and so forth. Not only does "injured" save everyone valuable time and patience, I think it sums up the situation quite well, too, I think. Much the same as when an athlete is injured, the injury at the very best inhibits the person from doing what they by definition are supposed to do - and often stops them from doing it completely. Consequently, an injured athlete to a point actually becomes an ex-athlete, or depending on the severity of the ailment, a temporary non-athlete. The same applies to a singer - if you can't sing, what are you, then? And this is why being injured is a rotten state to be in for either individual - it can seem like you're missing something hard to define but quintessentially YOU - and somehow you are less of yourself by consequence.
I have been feeling the same way about emotional pain, grief, and loss, and that "injured" might just as easily sum up that situation as well. When you're down, and particularly when you're down about a specific thing or person, you don't feel yourself then, either. You wander through life lacking energy or drive, and the most mundane tasks seem that much more difficult. Nothing is much fun, everything's a bit wan and colourless and essentially you are less of yourself. It can seem to both you and others that until whatever/whoever it is that was taken away returns, you won't quite be the same. The connection is not completely seamless of course - a runner with a bad hamstring can't run, a singer with layrngitis can't sing, a person with a broken heart can't - what? Live? Not really, but I guess the answer is live successfully and happily, and that's what we're all here for, after all. So it still works. And as with all other injuries, the most important thing is to give yourself time and rest. Unfortunately it's pretty difficult to rest from being you - but that's probably why emotional pain is so difficult to deal with.
There would be other benefits to thinking about it in these terms, namely that it would save everyone a lot of awkwardness. I've found that as a man, despite what the post-feminist world tells me, talking about any sort of angst or pain, no matter how genuine, is a good recipe for people to start shuffling their feet and looking for the nearest exit. As a hot-blooded, Alpha-male ever alert to the call to action, you're supposed to be off slaying mammoth and doing stock-market deals, not fannying about talking about your FEELINGS, for crying out loud. It just makes people uncomfortable. I can't count the amount of times I've witnessed women do it, though - it's just one of life's little double-standards. So I think that if we could just describe ourselves as being "injured" it would make things a whole lot easier. The below (very hypothetical) conversation might help illustrate my point:
A: Hi mate. How are you doing?
B: Not so great. Broke up with my girl over the weekend.
A: Jeez.
B: Yeah. I'm not really coping that well, to be honest. Never realised it could feel this bad! I just.... don't know why it didn't work out, you know? And now I can't eat, or sleep, I've got no energy, everything's gone to shit, I can't concentrate on my work - I wish she'd just come back to me, but she won't, and..... well, things aren't so great. It's really tough. If you've got any advice, let me know.
A: Well, you could start by getting a grip on yourself, ya big poof!!
OR
A: Hi mate. How are you doing?
B: Not so great. Carrying a bit of an injury at the moment.
A: Ah. That's no good! Went throught the same thing myself last year. Do you want to go and get drunk?
B: Great! Is there any football on?
Now doesn't that just seem easier?
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Toothpaste Files, continued.
Remember this post? My wilful boasting that after months of practice I'd finally mastered the art of brushing my teeth, Dutch style? My tips on tube storage? Saving time in the mornings? The Dutch Toothpaste Principle? Well, just when you think you've checked all the boxes of one of life's little questionnaires, bugger me if there isn't an entirely seperate section over the page that you hadn't noticed.
I haven't been sleeping very well lately. This isn't unusual - when I'm really busy performing, switching off at night is pretty difficult. The same thing happened before Christmas with the hundreds of Messiahs that I sang in, and it's happened now with the several million Passions that I've already written about. When this happens I usually have to give up on school for a bit - which is actually kinda satisfying, really - makes me feel like being a real singer, as opposed to a music student. There is another reason why getting shut-eye has been difficult, though.
Went out the other day to do a shop, as you do. Had run out of toothpaste. The fact that my flat-mate seemed to have hidden his from view was probably a tip-off that he was sick of me helping myself to his and that I should get some of my own. Visited the toiletries section of my local Albert Heijn (the Dutch equivalent of Sainsbury's although not as good), cursed the fact that they had run out of disposable razors AGAIN, and picked out a tube. It was very attractively packaged - all primary colours, called "Parodontax", and it boasted "Natuurlijk actief voor tand en tandvlees!!" in big red letters along the side of the bottle. I had no idea what that meant, but still, I was impressed - "that looks like the toothpaste of any discerning gentleman!" I cried, and added it to my shopping basket. Couldn't wait to get it home and test it out.
Went through my usual beddy-byes routine that evening- finished off my cup of hot cocoa, put my jimmy-jams on, made sure that Frederick the Bear was comfortable and in a good position to oversee my prayers on my return, and went to clean the ol' dentures. Opened the tube and squeezed a bit onto my brush. First impression was not that good to be honest - it was a sort of ugly reddish-brown colour. I don't know about you, but reddish-brown does not make my top five expected toothpaste colours - in fact maybe not even the top ten. I was willing to give it a go, though - using Dutch toothpaste had already proven to be such a growthful and rewarding experience that I wasn't going to dismiss my newest purchase on colour alone. Sadly though, worse was to come - it tasted HORRIBLE. It was SALTY.
Salty toothpaste? I mean, what the fuck???? What sort of evil mastermind thought that would be a good idea??? Just ...... THINK about that for a second.
Salty.
Toothpaste.
Those two words go together like "safari" and "suit", like "folk" and "dancing", like "parents" and "sex" like..... oh, I dunno..... "Kaspar" and "Bepke (hahahaha, in-joke)!!"
It's BAD, it's EVIL, it's all seven shades of wrong, with a few more thrown in for good measure.
And after I used it, I couldn't sleep! It was like I'd gone out and had a skinful, and helped myself to the word's biggest, saltiest kebab or Mcpolyunsaturated Fat Pizza on the way home, and then couldn't sleep because I was dehydrated, but without the fun part. And that's not the worst of it - I actually persevered with the stuff for four days, because I couldn't get to the shop! Throw in some St Matthew Passion-induced insomnia, and you have a recipe for a Kranky Karrot in the morning, I can tell you - no matter how much crappy Dutch coffee I injected intraveneously.
Thought I was getting the hang of this place. Think I've gone back to square one. They use salty toothpaste, I mean honestly. What sort of a country have a landed in???
I haven't been sleeping very well lately. This isn't unusual - when I'm really busy performing, switching off at night is pretty difficult. The same thing happened before Christmas with the hundreds of Messiahs that I sang in, and it's happened now with the several million Passions that I've already written about. When this happens I usually have to give up on school for a bit - which is actually kinda satisfying, really - makes me feel like being a real singer, as opposed to a music student. There is another reason why getting shut-eye has been difficult, though.
Went out the other day to do a shop, as you do. Had run out of toothpaste. The fact that my flat-mate seemed to have hidden his from view was probably a tip-off that he was sick of me helping myself to his and that I should get some of my own. Visited the toiletries section of my local Albert Heijn (the Dutch equivalent of Sainsbury's although not as good), cursed the fact that they had run out of disposable razors AGAIN, and picked out a tube. It was very attractively packaged - all primary colours, called "Parodontax", and it boasted "Natuurlijk actief voor tand en tandvlees!!" in big red letters along the side of the bottle. I had no idea what that meant, but still, I was impressed - "that looks like the toothpaste of any discerning gentleman!" I cried, and added it to my shopping basket. Couldn't wait to get it home and test it out.
Went through my usual beddy-byes routine that evening- finished off my cup of hot cocoa, put my jimmy-jams on, made sure that Frederick the Bear was comfortable and in a good position to oversee my prayers on my return, and went to clean the ol' dentures. Opened the tube and squeezed a bit onto my brush. First impression was not that good to be honest - it was a sort of ugly reddish-brown colour. I don't know about you, but reddish-brown does not make my top five expected toothpaste colours - in fact maybe not even the top ten. I was willing to give it a go, though - using Dutch toothpaste had already proven to be such a growthful and rewarding experience that I wasn't going to dismiss my newest purchase on colour alone. Sadly though, worse was to come - it tasted HORRIBLE. It was SALTY.
Salty toothpaste? I mean, what the fuck???? What sort of evil mastermind thought that would be a good idea??? Just ...... THINK about that for a second.
Salty.
Toothpaste.
Those two words go together like "safari" and "suit", like "folk" and "dancing", like "parents" and "sex" like..... oh, I dunno..... "Kaspar" and "Bepke (hahahaha, in-joke)!!"
It's BAD, it's EVIL, it's all seven shades of wrong, with a few more thrown in for good measure.
And after I used it, I couldn't sleep! It was like I'd gone out and had a skinful, and helped myself to the word's biggest, saltiest kebab or Mcpolyunsaturated Fat Pizza on the way home, and then couldn't sleep because I was dehydrated, but without the fun part. And that's not the worst of it - I actually persevered with the stuff for four days, because I couldn't get to the shop! Throw in some St Matthew Passion-induced insomnia, and you have a recipe for a Kranky Karrot in the morning, I can tell you - no matter how much crappy Dutch coffee I injected intraveneously.
Thought I was getting the hang of this place. Think I've gone back to square one. They use salty toothpaste, I mean honestly. What sort of a country have a landed in???
Friday, April 3, 2009
Passionate madness
It's Passiontide in Holland, hurrah! And don't the Dutch just love their Passions. I managed to get myself signed up for a "tour" of Holland - a tour that involves me clocking up enough miles to get to Australia and back, but invariably leaves me sleeping in my own bed every night. This can be a mixed blessing, Holland is a small place - not small enough that crossing the entire country doesn't take awhile, but small enough that a company can just about get away with not providing transport or accommodation during an eighteen-concert season. This can become pretty tiring, particularly when the eighteen concerts are thinly spread over twenty-two days. I'm thirteen concerts in, and at the moment I'm in that fabulous state of being too tired to sleep. Wonderful.
Not that I'm not having fun, though. It's a fabulous piece of music and it's no wonder that some people devote their entire careers to performing Bach. I've been keen to learn the Evangelist role for some time now as well, so listening to it eighteen times is a pretty good way to get a feel for it! The thing is that as tired as I am, and as tired as the people around me are, you do end up zoning out quite a bit, and short of something memorable happening, one concert can blend into another to an extent.
But that's where we come to the fun part. You see, in an eighteen-concert run, memorable things DO happen, and being tired and zoned-out as you are, fits of giggles amongst the choir and orchestra are not unusual. It's that particularly awful sort of giggling though - the "I know I shouldn't, but that was REALLY funny, oh my God keep a straight face, bite the cheek, lip, fist, anything, hahaha snnngggrrrrkkk" sort of laughter that ends up sounding like you're having an aneurism. Like that completely insane moment in the headmaster's office with your mates and he's going mental at you and then you notice that his flies are undone and you lose it.
There have been several moments like that lately - they seem to have happened more often as we get closer to the end. I'm not sure whether it's because we're tired and a bit mad and so small things seem funnier, but over the past week there's been loads of them. Some of them are pretty simple - someone comes in early, someone's chair collapses, an instrumentalist drops something noisy at an inopportune moment - but two in particular stick in my memory.
Utrecht, 27th of March. Concert number 7. Sight-gag. Depending on the church, our soloists sometimes sit in the front row of the audience. In our rather generously-proportioned soprano's first aria, she walked on stage and turned around and I noticed that something had happened to her jacket. There were two symmetrical white stripes across the back of it, almost like the reflecting strips that a cyclist would wear. "That's weird", I thought - and then one after the other, they fell off and fluttered to the ground for all the world to see. They were the "Reserved for the soloists" signs from her seat. Gold. Hahahaha- snnngrrrrggk.
Hoogland, 29th of March. Concert number 9. Comedic timing verging on genius. For those of you who aren't familiar with what the Passions are, they're basically the story of the death of Jesus Christ set to music. The whole piece runs from the betrayal, arrest, trial by Pilate, angry mobs, crucifixion, death and aftermath. As you can imagine, the moment of His death is pretty significant - in a piece that was written with gravitas in mind, this is grativas times a thousand. He cries out in a loud voice, and then as some translations have it "gives up the ghost". It's sung and/or narrated by the Evangelist, and our Evangelist as got that bit down pat - he draws everyone in, pauses for dramatic effect, decrescendos dramatically, sings so quietly that you can barely hear him, and then stops. The whole world holds its breath for a few moments - everyone communes with their innermost being, confesses their sins, tries to remember what they had for breakfast that day, that sort of thing - and then the piece goes on. So as an audience-member, you'd think that would be a bad time to blow your nose, huh? Well - you'd be wrong. "Und vershied [and died]".... PARP!!!! Right on cue. One of those farty, raspberry nose-blows too, the sort of violent emission that only dainty old ladies seem to be capable of, from someone's granny in the front row. Don't think I've ever seen anyone up-staged by nasal congestion before! Fits. Of. Giggles.
Some of these anxious moments aren't always caused by others, though - sometimes they're caused by me. The St Matthew Passion makes me fart. Don't know why, it just does. It's probably because I haven't been eating very well for the past few weeks, but for some unknown and very inconvenient reason it seems to manifest most when we're on stage. And trying to keep my own badly-timed violent emissions down to a dull roar can be pretty difficult!
If you've got any of your own onstage bloopers that you think worth sharing, feel free to put them in the comments.
Not that I'm not having fun, though. It's a fabulous piece of music and it's no wonder that some people devote their entire careers to performing Bach. I've been keen to learn the Evangelist role for some time now as well, so listening to it eighteen times is a pretty good way to get a feel for it! The thing is that as tired as I am, and as tired as the people around me are, you do end up zoning out quite a bit, and short of something memorable happening, one concert can blend into another to an extent.
But that's where we come to the fun part. You see, in an eighteen-concert run, memorable things DO happen, and being tired and zoned-out as you are, fits of giggles amongst the choir and orchestra are not unusual. It's that particularly awful sort of giggling though - the "I know I shouldn't, but that was REALLY funny, oh my God keep a straight face, bite the cheek, lip, fist, anything, hahaha snnngggrrrrkkk" sort of laughter that ends up sounding like you're having an aneurism. Like that completely insane moment in the headmaster's office with your mates and he's going mental at you and then you notice that his flies are undone and you lose it.
There have been several moments like that lately - they seem to have happened more often as we get closer to the end. I'm not sure whether it's because we're tired and a bit mad and so small things seem funnier, but over the past week there's been loads of them. Some of them are pretty simple - someone comes in early, someone's chair collapses, an instrumentalist drops something noisy at an inopportune moment - but two in particular stick in my memory.
Utrecht, 27th of March. Concert number 7. Sight-gag. Depending on the church, our soloists sometimes sit in the front row of the audience. In our rather generously-proportioned soprano's first aria, she walked on stage and turned around and I noticed that something had happened to her jacket. There were two symmetrical white stripes across the back of it, almost like the reflecting strips that a cyclist would wear. "That's weird", I thought - and then one after the other, they fell off and fluttered to the ground for all the world to see. They were the "Reserved for the soloists" signs from her seat. Gold. Hahahaha- snnngrrrrggk.
Hoogland, 29th of March. Concert number 9. Comedic timing verging on genius. For those of you who aren't familiar with what the Passions are, they're basically the story of the death of Jesus Christ set to music. The whole piece runs from the betrayal, arrest, trial by Pilate, angry mobs, crucifixion, death and aftermath. As you can imagine, the moment of His death is pretty significant - in a piece that was written with gravitas in mind, this is grativas times a thousand. He cries out in a loud voice, and then as some translations have it "gives up the ghost". It's sung and/or narrated by the Evangelist, and our Evangelist as got that bit down pat - he draws everyone in, pauses for dramatic effect, decrescendos dramatically, sings so quietly that you can barely hear him, and then stops. The whole world holds its breath for a few moments - everyone communes with their innermost being, confesses their sins, tries to remember what they had for breakfast that day, that sort of thing - and then the piece goes on. So as an audience-member, you'd think that would be a bad time to blow your nose, huh? Well - you'd be wrong. "Und vershied [and died]".... PARP!!!! Right on cue. One of those farty, raspberry nose-blows too, the sort of violent emission that only dainty old ladies seem to be capable of, from someone's granny in the front row. Don't think I've ever seen anyone up-staged by nasal congestion before! Fits. Of. Giggles.
Some of these anxious moments aren't always caused by others, though - sometimes they're caused by me. The St Matthew Passion makes me fart. Don't know why, it just does. It's probably because I haven't been eating very well for the past few weeks, but for some unknown and very inconvenient reason it seems to manifest most when we're on stage. And trying to keep my own badly-timed violent emissions down to a dull roar can be pretty difficult!
If you've got any of your own onstage bloopers that you think worth sharing, feel free to put them in the comments.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
AYALAC's take on the Stanford Debacle
This is great - and one of the reasons why the World of Blog can be so fantastic.
The Atheist is probably no more qualified to write about cricket than I am - it's probably statistically unlikely that he could be quite as bad at the game as me, but just like me he is cursed with an obsession of the game since whenever and likes to write about it in his free time. He writes well, it's funny, and always worth a look, which is why he's on my list of followed blogs. But that's pretty much it - I wouldn't have particularly thought that he could give me any insight into the game that I couldn't have figured out on my own - until today, on account of what he does for a living. The Atheist is a Financial/Banking Type Guy, and so he has a completely unique perspective on the Stanford Debacle that we haven't seen anywhere else - all the reporting so far has been from the usual sport journos, who almost without exception are ex-players. And not one of them have been able to tell me anything that I didn't already know, on account of being qualified to talk about one subject and one subject alone - sport. All the Angus Frasers and Peter Roebucks and Jonathan Agnews can speculate endlessly about what a prawn Giles Clarke is and how stupid the ECB were in having anything to do with Stanford from the start, but the opinion I really want to hear is from someone involved in the world of finance. And there aren't too many of them writing cricket stories for the Times or the Telegraph, now are there? Now I really know just how stupid and/or corrupt the whole thing was.
Only a blog could provide me with this sort of unique standpoint. And this is why blogs, despite not being edited or vetted, or written by experts in their fields, are definitely a legitimate voice and a worthwhile source of journalistic opinion. So there!
I know I'm preaching to the choir here - you're reading a blog after all! This might as well all be aimed at my mother, who is an academic and writer, and was appalled when I told her that I was writing one. Blogs are apparently the realm of the feeble-minded, are mostly compiled by people without a valid opinion that can't get a real gig in the writing world, and yet no matter how flawed and/or bigoted their thoughts are are able to broadcast them to an audience of millions and by consequence take money out of actual writers' pockets. The world would be a better place if we all went out and got some fresh air instead. All valid opinions, really - but having read this today I'm pleased to have an argument next time the topic comes up. And besides - NO-ONE goes out for fresh air in a Dutch February.
It almost makes me think that even I could be of use to the cricketing world at some point, beyond batting at number 11 and scoring for the Barnes Sunday XI. SURELY there must be a lucrative journalism contract out there for a lyric tenor with a cricket fetish??
I can dream.
The Atheist is probably no more qualified to write about cricket than I am - it's probably statistically unlikely that he could be quite as bad at the game as me, but just like me he is cursed with an obsession of the game since whenever and likes to write about it in his free time. He writes well, it's funny, and always worth a look, which is why he's on my list of followed blogs. But that's pretty much it - I wouldn't have particularly thought that he could give me any insight into the game that I couldn't have figured out on my own - until today, on account of what he does for a living. The Atheist is a Financial/Banking Type Guy, and so he has a completely unique perspective on the Stanford Debacle that we haven't seen anywhere else - all the reporting so far has been from the usual sport journos, who almost without exception are ex-players. And not one of them have been able to tell me anything that I didn't already know, on account of being qualified to talk about one subject and one subject alone - sport. All the Angus Frasers and Peter Roebucks and Jonathan Agnews can speculate endlessly about what a prawn Giles Clarke is and how stupid the ECB were in having anything to do with Stanford from the start, but the opinion I really want to hear is from someone involved in the world of finance. And there aren't too many of them writing cricket stories for the Times or the Telegraph, now are there? Now I really know just how stupid and/or corrupt the whole thing was.
Only a blog could provide me with this sort of unique standpoint. And this is why blogs, despite not being edited or vetted, or written by experts in their fields, are definitely a legitimate voice and a worthwhile source of journalistic opinion. So there!
I know I'm preaching to the choir here - you're reading a blog after all! This might as well all be aimed at my mother, who is an academic and writer, and was appalled when I told her that I was writing one. Blogs are apparently the realm of the feeble-minded, are mostly compiled by people without a valid opinion that can't get a real gig in the writing world, and yet no matter how flawed and/or bigoted their thoughts are are able to broadcast them to an audience of millions and by consequence take money out of actual writers' pockets. The world would be a better place if we all went out and got some fresh air instead. All valid opinions, really - but having read this today I'm pleased to have an argument next time the topic comes up. And besides - NO-ONE goes out for fresh air in a Dutch February.
It almost makes me think that even I could be of use to the cricketing world at some point, beyond batting at number 11 and scoring for the Barnes Sunday XI. SURELY there must be a lucrative journalism contract out there for a lyric tenor with a cricket fetish??
I can dream.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Toothpaste!
Ladies and gentleman and far-flung followers, I have a proud announcement to make.
I understand Dutch toothpaste. That's right! It's taken me five and a half months, but I Get It Now. I'm practically a native!!
Y'see, Dutch toothpaste isn't like regular or garden-variety Australian or British toothpaste. It tends to be runnier for starters, but mostly significantly it comes in a different tube. It has a bigger, stubbier lid, and more closely resembles your average shampoo bottle.
Consider, if you will, your regular tube of toothpaste. Your everyday (well, preferably TWICE a day) tube of Colgate. It can be minty fresh, it can be gel, it can be for Extra Whitening! - that stuff doesn't matter. The important thing to consider is how it WORKS. British and Australian toothpaste works in a vacuum. When you squeeze, no air comes back in, and you make a mark in the tube that stays there. That's why, unless you're a complete arsehole, you squeeze it from the BOTTOM (those that don't will not be saved), so that next time it's all up close to the top of the tube ready to go.
Dutch toothpaste doesn't work like that. There's air in the tube, and air comes back in after you squeeze it. No matter how empty the tube, it always retains its shape. Which, if you don't understand the Dutch Toothpaste Principle, can be a right pain in the arse, because every morning you waste valuable seconds trying to get some out, particularly if it's on the empty side. It's like the almost-empty tomato sauce bottle. And we all know how annoying THAT is.
But that's just it - Dutch toothpaste IS like the almost-empty tomato sauce bottle in principle, for pretty much its entire lifespan. And what, boys and girls, do we do with almost-empty tomato sauce bottles? That's right, we store it upside down, ON ITS LID. That way, you don't have to swear and curse and shake it and wait five minutes for it all to come out in a rush and drown your bangers. If you store it upside down, it's all there, ready to go, all it takes is quick removal of the lid and there it is.
THAT'S why Dutch toothpaste has a bigger lid, and THAT'S how it works!! You store it vertically! All the time! And never EVER on its side. You read it here first.
I'm taking little steps here. Chips and mayonnaise (it's true). In fact, mayonnaise on everything. Toothpaste. In a little while I may even learn some of the language.
I understand Dutch toothpaste. That's right! It's taken me five and a half months, but I Get It Now. I'm practically a native!!
Y'see, Dutch toothpaste isn't like regular or garden-variety Australian or British toothpaste. It tends to be runnier for starters, but mostly significantly it comes in a different tube. It has a bigger, stubbier lid, and more closely resembles your average shampoo bottle.
Consider, if you will, your regular tube of toothpaste. Your everyday (well, preferably TWICE a day) tube of Colgate. It can be minty fresh, it can be gel, it can be for Extra Whitening! - that stuff doesn't matter. The important thing to consider is how it WORKS. British and Australian toothpaste works in a vacuum. When you squeeze, no air comes back in, and you make a mark in the tube that stays there. That's why, unless you're a complete arsehole, you squeeze it from the BOTTOM (those that don't will not be saved), so that next time it's all up close to the top of the tube ready to go.
Dutch toothpaste doesn't work like that. There's air in the tube, and air comes back in after you squeeze it. No matter how empty the tube, it always retains its shape. Which, if you don't understand the Dutch Toothpaste Principle, can be a right pain in the arse, because every morning you waste valuable seconds trying to get some out, particularly if it's on the empty side. It's like the almost-empty tomato sauce bottle. And we all know how annoying THAT is.
But that's just it - Dutch toothpaste IS like the almost-empty tomato sauce bottle in principle, for pretty much its entire lifespan. And what, boys and girls, do we do with almost-empty tomato sauce bottles? That's right, we store it upside down, ON ITS LID. That way, you don't have to swear and curse and shake it and wait five minutes for it all to come out in a rush and drown your bangers. If you store it upside down, it's all there, ready to go, all it takes is quick removal of the lid and there it is.
THAT'S why Dutch toothpaste has a bigger lid, and THAT'S how it works!! You store it vertically! All the time! And never EVER on its side. You read it here first.
I'm taking little steps here. Chips and mayonnaise (it's true). In fact, mayonnaise on everything. Toothpaste. In a little while I may even learn some of the language.
You know what the funny thing about Europe is? The little differences.
Vincent Vega, Pulp Fiction
Thursday, February 12, 2009
People in the arts give me the shits sometimes
..... Which is kind've an empty statement, really. I mean, who doesn't get the shits from people they work with from time to time? I must admit, though, that the METHOD in which I'm given the shits from arts-based people is more than a little strange, and worth remarking upon on that basis.
A little while ago before Christmas I was singing in a Messiah. Awhile before the concert started, I was stopped by the soprano soloist, a Reasonably Well-Known Figure (names have been concealed to protect the fucking annoying). We had a good chat. She knew that I was Australian, knew that I was studying, and was full of questions about why I'd chosen to move to Holland, and what my performing history was. I thought it was all just meaningless small-talk, until she let slip that she was the Artistic Director of Reasonably Well-Known Dutch Opera Company, and would I be interested in auditioning for her - she's always after tenors to do small roles. Fantastic, I thought - maybe signing up for all these crappy gigs has actually led me towards something useful. Of course I was interested, and after she'd sworn me to secrecy (it doesn't do to be seen poaching singers from one group to another, particularly tenors) I took her contact details and said that I'd send her an email with a CV as soon as I could get to it.
The next week or so was pretty busy - I was singing with this group just about every night, and there was school to think about as well, so I didn't manage to get to sending anything straightaway. But I spoke with her quite a bit during the course of that week - more about Australia, more about opera, and quite a bit about big-band jazz, which we shared an interest in. And every now and again she'd remind me to send her "that" email.
So, one evening when I had a spare couple of hours, I sat down and did a proper going-over of my CV, and sent it off to her with a fairly extensive covering email. Was quite pleased with what I came up with - still am. And heard precisely fuck-all back for a week and a half. Thought "oh well, maybe she's busy" and thought I'd wait until after Christmas to talk about it with her again - January 2nd, to be precise.
Me: "Hi, Reasonably Well-Known Soprano, Happy New Year!"
RSWKS: "And same to you. Did you have a good Christmas?"
Me: "Not bad. Think I might have found that Mel Tormé recording you were talking about".
RSWKS: "Oh that's good! It's great, isn't it?"
Me: "Yes - fantastic! By the way, did you get my email?"
RSWKS [looks uncomfortable]: "What email?"
Me: "You know - you asked me to send you a CV and other bits and pieces about my singing".
RSWKS: "Oh! Er - oh! Oh! Was it YOU that sent me that! I was wondering who sent me that! Oh, er - right! [backs away slowly, hands move unconsciously towards the purse, presumably looking for the rape alarm]".
So I'm left standing there, feeling like a prize dick, wondering how I could possibly have mis-read the situation. But then I realised that I HADN'T - not at all, in fact. It was HER that introduced herself to ME - and she already knew a little about me. It was HER that asked me to send her the CV - and then SHE reminded me! So what gives?
I'd been air-kissed. There are thousands of air-kissers in the music world, and loads in the arts in general. I've run afoul of a few in my time. I was once approached in much the same way to do do some gigs by another reasonably well-known figure - this time an Australian - only for all my phonecalls to go unanswered and for the gigs to never materialise, resulting in me spending a Christmas in Sydney alone when I could have gone home to Perth. I've come across casting and theatrical agents who've done the same thing. Even in my publishing career - ESPECIALLY in my publishing career. The theme is always the same - YOU get approached for something, you do everything right, and then YOU'RE the one left looking like a dickhead when nothing happens. I've even had people having a go at me in these situations, like it was my fault that they got in contact in the first place.
Basically, as Bill Watterson remarked and I echoed in an earlier post, art is great, but it sure does attract its fair-share of pretentious blow-hards. People that like to get off on their own sense of power. People that like to play stupid pecking-order games. People that are basically complete morons. "This young kid in the tenor section has barely looked in my direction! He needs to think that I'm important. I know - I'll make up some bogus story about an audition so that he feels the need to impress me".
What a load of bullshit, eh? And completely counter-productive - all that I've taken from it is that I think she's a complete idiot! One thing's for sure - when I get to being Important, I'll be saving my best back-handers for any of my colleagues who act like that. It's just bloody stupid!! I'm sure I'll get my fair-few more bum steers before I get to that stage, though.....
This post is dedicated to Anonymous.
A little while ago before Christmas I was singing in a Messiah. Awhile before the concert started, I was stopped by the soprano soloist, a Reasonably Well-Known Figure (names have been concealed to protect the fucking annoying). We had a good chat. She knew that I was Australian, knew that I was studying, and was full of questions about why I'd chosen to move to Holland, and what my performing history was. I thought it was all just meaningless small-talk, until she let slip that she was the Artistic Director of Reasonably Well-Known Dutch Opera Company, and would I be interested in auditioning for her - she's always after tenors to do small roles. Fantastic, I thought - maybe signing up for all these crappy gigs has actually led me towards something useful. Of course I was interested, and after she'd sworn me to secrecy (it doesn't do to be seen poaching singers from one group to another, particularly tenors) I took her contact details and said that I'd send her an email with a CV as soon as I could get to it.
The next week or so was pretty busy - I was singing with this group just about every night, and there was school to think about as well, so I didn't manage to get to sending anything straightaway. But I spoke with her quite a bit during the course of that week - more about Australia, more about opera, and quite a bit about big-band jazz, which we shared an interest in. And every now and again she'd remind me to send her "that" email.
So, one evening when I had a spare couple of hours, I sat down and did a proper going-over of my CV, and sent it off to her with a fairly extensive covering email. Was quite pleased with what I came up with - still am. And heard precisely fuck-all back for a week and a half. Thought "oh well, maybe she's busy" and thought I'd wait until after Christmas to talk about it with her again - January 2nd, to be precise.
Me: "Hi, Reasonably Well-Known Soprano, Happy New Year!"
RSWKS: "And same to you. Did you have a good Christmas?"
Me: "Not bad. Think I might have found that Mel Tormé recording you were talking about".
RSWKS: "Oh that's good! It's great, isn't it?"
Me: "Yes - fantastic! By the way, did you get my email?"
RSWKS [looks uncomfortable]: "What email?"
Me: "You know - you asked me to send you a CV and other bits and pieces about my singing".
RSWKS: "Oh! Er - oh! Oh! Was it YOU that sent me that! I was wondering who sent me that! Oh, er - right! [backs away slowly, hands move unconsciously towards the purse, presumably looking for the rape alarm]".
So I'm left standing there, feeling like a prize dick, wondering how I could possibly have mis-read the situation. But then I realised that I HADN'T - not at all, in fact. It was HER that introduced herself to ME - and she already knew a little about me. It was HER that asked me to send her the CV - and then SHE reminded me! So what gives?
I'd been air-kissed. There are thousands of air-kissers in the music world, and loads in the arts in general. I've run afoul of a few in my time. I was once approached in much the same way to do do some gigs by another reasonably well-known figure - this time an Australian - only for all my phonecalls to go unanswered and for the gigs to never materialise, resulting in me spending a Christmas in Sydney alone when I could have gone home to Perth. I've come across casting and theatrical agents who've done the same thing. Even in my publishing career - ESPECIALLY in my publishing career. The theme is always the same - YOU get approached for something, you do everything right, and then YOU'RE the one left looking like a dickhead when nothing happens. I've even had people having a go at me in these situations, like it was my fault that they got in contact in the first place.
Basically, as Bill Watterson remarked and I echoed in an earlier post, art is great, but it sure does attract its fair-share of pretentious blow-hards. People that like to get off on their own sense of power. People that like to play stupid pecking-order games. People that are basically complete morons. "This young kid in the tenor section has barely looked in my direction! He needs to think that I'm important. I know - I'll make up some bogus story about an audition so that he feels the need to impress me".
What a load of bullshit, eh? And completely counter-productive - all that I've taken from it is that I think she's a complete idiot! One thing's for sure - when I get to being Important, I'll be saving my best back-handers for any of my colleagues who act like that. It's just bloody stupid!! I'm sure I'll get my fair-few more bum steers before I get to that stage, though.....
This post is dedicated to Anonymous.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
This is not an ex-blog
Hello, hello, Seasons Greetings, Happy New Year, Happy Birthday, Hunnakah, Hallowe'en and Passover - GERDAY.
Sorry to not have posted for so long. I'm not sure who I'm apologising to mind you - the last time I wrote anything meaningful (and I use that term loosely) was November 24th, so you've probably all long since gone elsewhere. I am resolving to turn over a new leaf from now on, though. And no, that isn't a New Year's Resolution - "must blog more in 2009" is just lame - but whenever possible, and when my schedule permits, I will do my best to post more often. It was the music that was definitely a large contributor to my absence - I finished my 23rd concert in the space of a month this afternoon, but I also classes, a somewhat turbulent social life and a brief visit to London since I last posted, so it's been a pretty eventful time. Eventful, but fun, and interesting, and .... oh well, y'know, stuff. You'll probably read about it later on.
So anyway - Happy 2009, hope you enjoy what's to come!
Sorry to not have posted for so long. I'm not sure who I'm apologising to mind you - the last time I wrote anything meaningful (and I use that term loosely) was November 24th, so you've probably all long since gone elsewhere. I am resolving to turn over a new leaf from now on, though. And no, that isn't a New Year's Resolution - "must blog more in 2009" is just lame - but whenever possible, and when my schedule permits, I will do my best to post more often. It was the music that was definitely a large contributor to my absence - I finished my 23rd concert in the space of a month this afternoon, but I also classes, a somewhat turbulent social life and a brief visit to London since I last posted, so it's been a pretty eventful time. Eventful, but fun, and interesting, and .... oh well, y'know, stuff. You'll probably read about it later on.
So anyway - Happy 2009, hope you enjoy what's to come!
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Never a truer word spoken
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