David Bowie

Posted on January 14, 2016 by Liz

Like many other people I couldn’t believe the news, an email in my Inbox saying that David Bowie had died. It seemed simply impossible. He was so young, so creative, so there. I was shocked, and saddened.

In 1964 any avid watcher of the Tonight programme would have seen David Bowie interviewed by Cliff Michelmore about the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Long Haired Men.

But my relationship with him began in 1966 when he played at Chelmsford Corn Exchange. That is, my diary entry for that day is headed ‘David Bowie’, but whether I actually stayed in the hall to see him is not recorded. Often there were more interesting things happening outside on a Saturday night in the streets of Chelmsford.

But I sat through his whole set when I saw him in Leicester in the early 70s. He was still incorporating mime into his act at that time. I remember little of the gig itself except that it was all exotic colours and costumes and unexpected performance interspersed with great rock music. Someone wrote to me the other day, after the news of his death, saying he recalled that I had been a great fan of Bowie, but I’m not sure that’s true. Perhaps what he was remembering was our Saturday Party ritual. In 1973 I was living in a shared house near Victoria Park in Leicester, and often on a Saturday morning, my house mate Sue and I, both newly qualified teachers, would decide to have a party. We would roam the streets of Leicester, in our long flowing skirts, and cheese cloth blouses, inviting our friends to an evening of music and party food (jelly and blancmange) and then go home to prepare the house (usually just moving the furniture back against the wall, possibly buying a Party Seven tin of beer). Then, and this was the vital ingredient, just before the allotted time, we would put Suffragette City onto the record player, turn up the volume as loud as it would go, and dance round the living room to get into the party mood. Try it – it still works.

I really lost touch with Bowie after that, I would hear a track that I liked – Let’s Dance, China Girl, Heroes, and learn the words, hum the tune. Hesitantly I went to see the films he was in, but couldn’t forget it was David Bowie. I followed his fashion developments, particularly his long beige mac phase, and the changing hair styles. I liked that he played around with image, I liked that he was his own person. I was interested in him, he was interesting.

After his death was announced, Janice Perry posted this on Facebook. I love its joyfulness, its theatricality, his appearance at the back of the stage, and of course Tina Turner.

Strictly the best

Posted on January 3, 2016 by Liz

A highlight of 2015. Yes, the jive of Jay and Aliona was great, but this I think has a lot – passion, style, drama and beautiful dancing. Just watch Giovanni.

French elections

Posted on December 10, 2015 by Liz

Paris is awash with sunlight and rain.

And it’s Christmas. Christmas lights are everywhere.

There is an exciting Climate Change conference COP 21 in Le Bourget on the northern side of Paris, taking climate change seriously, looking for solutions.

And yet in the heart of Paris there is uneasiness. The results of last week’s first round of elections were devastating. The Front National has come top of polls in half of France’s regions. It is strongly anticipated that Marine le Pen will win next Sunday’s second round in the northern region of Nord-Pas-de-Calais-Picardie.

Seeing Marine Le Pen interviewed on prime time TV – France3 on 8 December – was chilling. She has tasted the blood of success and she wants more. Nor-Pas-de-Calais-Picardie is an extremely poor area where Le Pen appeals to those who feel they have been forgotten and Marine Le Pen has talked of the poor and the down-trodden. Interestingly, her niece Marion Marechal-Le Pen is appealing to a different group. She calls to business chiefs, talks of increasing grants to business and makes much more overtly anti-immigrant statements.

Deals are being done, Left and Right are agreeing not to stand to enable victory to the other against the Front National. Everyone is being urged to come out and vote on Sunday (Aux Urnes Citoyens!).

People are being confronted with the possibility of having to vote against their instincts to keep out the FN (memories of the presidential election of 2002 between Jaques Chirac and Jean-Marie Le Pen).

And still the memory of the dreadful events of 13 November are in everyone’s minds. The search continues for suspects, the focus shifts from town to town, philosphers ruminate on the aftermath.

The Mairie in the VIth is bathed in blue white and red light.

Sadness everywhere. But hope springs.

Paris 13 November 2015

Posted on November 15, 2015 by Liz

We are in Paris. My sister came to the London house on Friday morning to look after Aged Mother.

We arrived on Friday afternoon, 13 November, and sat in the studio – exhausted from the last two months of 24 hour mother-care – with the window open, listening to the sound of a trumpeter in the street below, playing mournful jazz. It was wonderful to be back in Paris. At 6.30 C and I took the Metro to Strasbourg Saint Denis to meet American friends Anne, Olga and Vola, for dinner. On the Metro I realised I had come out without my phone, my brother-in-law rang C – the electricity in our house had gone. My mum has a hospital bed which is electric to keep the mattress perpetually moving, to prevent bed sores. The lighting problem was resolved with candles, lamps and the knowledge that others in the street had the same problem. An hour later they texted to say the power was back on.

At about 20 to 9 we had finished our meal – Texan bbq fare rounded off with pecan pie and a glass of Bourbon

– and someone suggested a stroll along Canal St Martin, to see the evening lights, but I was too tired. So we ambled back to the Metro, made sure Olga and Vola had a carnet of Metro tickets for their sightseeing the next day, and home we went.

We knew nothing – we were in bed fast asleep when the buzzing of my phone woke us up. It was 2am, and my aunt was ringing from Chelmsford. Immediate thoughts were – something’s happened to my mum, to my aunt, what? what? We missed the call. I had two texts saying ‘Are you OK?’ We didn’t know what it was.

We looked on Twitter, we switched on the TV. The stories were confused but the message was clear – something terrible had happened in the centre of Paris. People were being advised to stay indoors. Shakespeare & Co tweeted that they were sitting in the dark with Americans sending reassuring messages home

We also switched off the lights. There were no other lights on in the buildings in the street. I spoke to my aunt, I replied to my texts, watched the TV. The streets were quiet, no traffic, no revellers laughing and shouting in the street below, as usual on a Friday night.

Saturday morning – it wasn’t clear what the advice was. The museums were closed, we knew, and the Eiffel Tower. Demonstrations were prohibited. President Hollande had announced a state of emergency. The streets outside were still quiet, although buses were running and we could feel the rumble of the Metro under the building. We made it to Monoprix where there were not as many Saturday shoppers as usual. We walked down to a local cinema and found that it would remain closed all day. Local cafes were full, people eating, talking, carrying on. Back in our area we dropped into Chez Georges our local bar, for a glass of white wine. For a Saturday lunchtime it was very quiet, but there were conversations in low voices, small jokes, greetings to newcomers, and a plate of bread and saucisson.

It was good to be out, being with others, silently sharing horror at what had happened.

This morning, Sunday, we went for a walk to the Hotel de Ville. It was a wonderfully bright, sunny morning.

Hotel de Ville

There were smatterings of tourists, the bookstalls on the banks of the Seine were open, flying the French flag.

We crossed the river towards Notre Dame. The tourist shops were open but there were fewer people. Police cars were everywhere.

Journalists were interviewing people standing in the queue to go into the church,

armed police and soldiers mingled in the crowd. Occasionally police sirens wailed, at one point a big truck, looking like a prison-van went past followed by a large van labelled ‘police horses’.

Outside Shakespeare and Company disappointed tourists gathered to read the notices pasted on the window.

The issues of last week seemed, temporarily, irrelevant. But on consideration, vitally important.

And still cafes and bars were open, and, sur les terraces, waiters were waiting.

On the doors and windows of bars and shops were messages of supportand defiance.

It is a terrible thing. Heartbreaking.

Georgie Fame

Posted on September 29, 2015 by Liz

When jazz writer and photographer Val Wilmer invited me to go with her to a recording of the BBC Radio 4 programme Mastertapes I didn’t know what to expect. She had told me it was about Georgie Fame and that was enough for me to accept the invitation.
The premise of Mastertapes is that in each edition John Wilson talks to a different musician about a ‘career-defining album’. The musician plays tracks from the album but also other pieces, and there are questions and comments from the audience. On Monday the interviewee was to be Georgie Fame, talking about his 1964 album Rhythm and Blues at the Flamingo.

On Monday afternoon I met Val at Maida Vale tube station – we’re old friends from the time I lived down the road from her in Stoke Newington – and we walked to the BBC studios on Delaware Road. There was already a queue of people waiting to go in. But I was with Val Wilmer and so we went in at the contributors’ entrance. As we arrived we met Johnny Gunnell one of the owners of the Flamingo, and an erstwhile manager of Georgie Fame. And behind him came Eddie ‘TanTan’ Thornton, a former trumpeter with the Blue Flames.

We made our way down to the studio and we were joined by Mick Eve, saxophonist with the Blueflames.

Extraordinarily for me, we were all sitting on the same row, and it was the front row. That was because Eddie and Mick were going to play, and Val and Johnny were going to be commenting on the Flamingo in the 60s, the club in Wardour Street in Soho. I draped my leather over the chair so no-one could take my seat.

The Hammond organ was in place, the technicians were adjusting mics and doing sound tests and the official photographer – with a rather good camera – was taking pictures.

The audience filed in – mainly men, mainly tucking their bus passes safely back into their back pocket, but a few women came, mod girls from the 60s. Richard Williams, journalist, was there, Tom McGuinness from Manfred Mann and McGuinness Flint, and even Martin Freeman.

And then Georgie Fame arrived with his sons Tristan Powell (who plays guitar) and James Powell (drums). At first I didn’t notice him, just a bloke in a blue windcheater and a flat cap, but when he sat at the organ, and began to play, the effect was electric. The old Blueflames stood up and did a quick run-through, playing Humpty Dumpty.

It was just like being back in the Corn Exchange in Chelmsford, except I wasn’t wearing my brown suede or the unfortunate mustard and black patent leather shoes. The sound of the brass and the sax and of course the organ, made even a bare 50s studio come alive. I wished my best friend Christine had been there – we were always together at the Corn Exchange. We were the ones dancing near the stage, doing our mod jive, then running for the bus home at 11 o’clock, while all the boys jumped on a train or hitched a ride along the A12 to London, going up West to the all-nighters at the Flamingo.
Then the recording started. Georgie talked about his influences and musical friends and colleagues. Colin Green, his guitarist had obviously been a huge influence,

but his was a name I didn’t know nor the people behind the making of the album (Ian Samwell, Glynn Johns). But then he talked about the music of Mose Allison, Ray Charles, Prince Buster – the names on the juke box in the Orpheus, the mods’ coffee bar in Chelmsford.
The Blueflames (at one time Billy Fury’s backing group) were re-forming for this event and played numbers from the LP and then they played Green Onions. It was wonderful.
Before the second part of the recording began, Georgie said he needed to say hello to someone he hadn’t spoken to yet, and he walked across the floor to Val. They are old friends and exchanged a few words about old jazz friends. It was a great moment (I was quietly pleased, sitting beside her, that I was wearing my new slouchy snow-cream jumper). Then he walked back to Hammond organ and the recording began. There were questions and answers from old mods and new mods.
At the end of the recording the audience filed out of the studio and those from the reserved seats mingled around among the wires and the mics – someone asked Val about photography, a man from a record company thanked her for the photos, someone else remembered a gig she’d been at and that she comes from Streatham. Georgie’s man came up and said Georgie would like to have a word with her. I said casually, ‘Shall I stay here?’ meaning ‘Let me come too! Let me come too!’ and he said, ‘No, you can come too.’
We went back stage and Val and Georgie continued their conversation about old jazzer friends.

So I have been up close to Georgie Fame. I even managed to casually mention that I had seen him at the Corn Exchange in Chelmsford. Did he remember the Corn Exchange? Of course he did – he remembered it was run by two wrestlers, something I had forgotten or never known.

I am trying to justify the fact that I have no pictures of this momentous event by saying that it would have been inappropriate, naff, not the done thing, to take a photo when we were having something akin to a normal conversation, but the truth is I had no more space on my phone.

The programmes will go out later in the year.

Momma Don’t Allow

Posted on September 7, 2015 by Liz

Avid followers of this blog (you know who you are, Maureen) will have been wondering why peace has fallen over the land and there has been a dearth of posting. The reason is this. My mother.

She has been in hospital for 4 weeks with a fractured hip. She’s 91 and has dementia so her stay required many long hours sitting by her bedside, by members of her loving family. And now she has come to live with us. And that also requires long hours of attendance.

This post was going to be a discussion of the issues that arise, caring for an ageing parent. I thought of the title – Momma Don’t Allow, because in spite of everything there is plenty that she don’t allow – and thought I’d illustrate the piece with a bit of music.

And then I found these Youtube clips. There is so much of interest I thought they should stand on their own. Here is Chris Barber’s band playing at the Wood Green Jazz Club in 1956 in the Fishmonger’s Arms. Just up the road from here! But look at the clothes, duffle coats, duster coats, cinched waists, suits and ties, a few Teds in their drape jackets. Marvel at Lonnie Donnegan playing with Chris Barber. Watch the posh nobs, slumming it in Wood Green, who arrive in their Rolls Royce and carefully remove the mascot (the Spirit of Ecstasy) from the bonnet of the car before they enter the club. Notice how many people are smoking and how many are wearing pearls. And the dancing – watch and learn – such excellent jiving, the moves, the twirls, the casual skill.

The films were funded by the BFI’s Experimental Film Production Fund, and were written and directed by Karel Reisz and Tony Richardson.

The actual song Momma Don’t Allow doesn’t start till halfway through the second clip. More about my own mother later.

Short break

Posted on July 27, 2015 by Liz

Recently there was an offer in the Guardian for a sewing machine. Also recently the Great British Sewing Bee has been on TV. What memories these events have stirred.

We did Needlework at school and I was not a good student. I was hopeless at Primary School – the apron with its many coloured cross stitch and the felt needle case with much lazy daisy stitch. My stitches were not regular, they were not even, they were not smooth.

I was even more inadequate when I got to the High School. We had to make slipper bags with French seams. Slipper bags? Who has slipper bags? Still my stitches were uneven, my lines wobbly. For safety’s sake and to avoid the wrath of Miss Weston, I spent my time in class unpicking everything which I had sewn as homework (nothing remains of those efforts).

Because away from school I quite liked sewing. I sent off for a kit for a duster coat and another kit for a panelled skirt. I began to make my own clothes, dresses, skirts, smocks, trousers, jackets. I even made covers for my second hand sofa in my flat in Leicester. Because in Leicester I had my own electric sewing machine. The school where I was teaching – Longslade Upper School in Birstall – was getting some new sewing machines and selling off its old ones. Quick as a flash I stepped in and bought one.

There is nothing quite like the pleasure of rolling out a length of cloth onto the carpet, and pinning on the tissue paper pattern, cutting out the pieces, putting them together, watching the garment take shape.

The Longslade machine has served me well, long skirts, short skirts, a ball dress (though I never got to the ball), coats, curtains. But I haven’t really sewed anything, apart from a hem or two, for about 30 years.

But some while ago I decided I needed a new pair of shorts, and I knew exactly the style I wanted – just above the knee, like a short version of those wonderful floating long wide trousers from 30s movies. OK. First stop, John Lewis. Well the world of dress-making has changed. Gone are the rows and rows of pattern books. Gone is the enormous selection of fabrics. Gone are the acres of haberdashery. But it was something to buy a pattern (albeit a pattern for trousers – but I can manage that), to dream the dream of what the end result will look like, to choose the material, the zip, the cotton. And it was good to lay it all out on the living room floor.

But, I wasn’t sure what size I was anymore. And these days, one pattern contains all size possibilities. It was hard to guage. To cut a long story short(s) the shorts were too small. And I won’t trouble you with the pieces sewn the wrong way round, inside out, back to front. And back again. And unfinished.

And then came the Great British Saving the Bee and the Guardian advert for a sewing machine. It was all pointing one way. I watched the programme and I bought the sewing machine.

I have followed a strict regime which means I have lost a couple of pounds. I am ready to return to the shorts.

So yesterday I set up the sewing machine. I depressed the foot pedal, I tested the tension, I tried out the myriad stitching options. Lovely – that comforting electrical hum of the needle magically joining two pieces of cloth. I was ready. I opened the bag with the shorts. And then I realised.

This was not the bag with the shorts. This was the bag with the shorts pattern and the remains of the shorts material. I have no idea where the shorts are.

To be continued.

Hungarian art in Paris

Posted on June 14, 2015 by Liz

I am very conscious that I haven’t written much – anything – for some time and concerns have been raised. Are you still alive? being the main one.

And the short answer is yes. But there has been much to-ing and fro-ing as aged mother comes to live with my sister. So today’s post is going to be very short.

Hungarian art at the Hungarian Institute.

Martyn was a Hungarian artist who came to Paris, and was part of the surrealist movement, and who was a colleague of Robert Delaunay (the notes are silent on whether he knew Sonia, currently exhibiting at the Tate Modern).

This is a small exhibition but rather nicely curated in a very interesting environment. While we were there someone was tuning a lute and behind the closed doors of the concert hall someone was tuning a piano.

Also on show were the photos of Imre Kinszki – wonderful black and white pictures from the middle of the last century.

I wanted to write more, but the exhibition had ended before I had a chance to get back.

Indie Author Fair

Posted on April 29, 2015 by Liz

While the Indie Author Book Fair was going on last week, on the 6th floor of the swanky new Foyle’s building in Charing Cross Road, and while the wine and the canapes made buying books an even greater pleasure than normal, I slid into a small side room and talked to Ingram Spark about A Sense of Occasion.

Ingram Spark is an online publishing tool that provides access to a large distribution network for books and ebooks. They were carrying out a series of interviews with independent writers, talking about their work, their books and what they had learned about the writing process.

You can see my video here (it lasts about two minutes)

Ah Vienna

Posted on April 27, 2015 by Liz

Think of Vienna – and you think music, the Opera, art, the Third Man, chocolate cake. I was going to write a full, evocative description of our few days in Vienna. But the 2015 election butted in – so here are a few glimpses.

First The Opera.

A screen had been set up outside the Opera, and we stood and watched. So we are now able to say carelessly, ‘Oh yes, we have been to the Viennese Opera.’

And there was more music in a local music shop.

The shop sells discs and sheet music – I am unable to explain what coffee house favourites Viennese style might be.

But then, tucked into a window was this.

The Third Man

Orson Welles with a knowing smile, as Harry Lime. The Third Man is a theme that recurs throughout Vienna. As the strains of the zither filtered through our brains, we considered taking a tram back to the Prater to go round the giant old Ferris Wheel one more time. But we got the wrong tram, so we bought the tea towel.

But the next morning found us at the Cafe Mozart, where Graham Greene (staying at the Hotel Sacher) while writing the screenplay, enjoyed his morning coffee. Cafe Mozart appears briefly in the film. And we enjoyed the Third Man Breakfast.

And then, a surprising connection. We leaped onto a tram – the 71, not knowing where we were going, German O level has its limits. I even tweeted ‘who knows where the Tram goes?’

And by complete coincidence, where it went was to the Zentralfriedhof – one of the largest cemeteries in the world – and the site of the funerals of Harry Lime at the beginning and end of the film, The Third Man.

And also …

We were only there a few days but we ate goulash, kaiserschmarrn (sweet and sour bread and butter pudding), eggs in a glass (exactly), tafelspitz (beef, horseradish and applesauce), gugelhupf (sponge cake), drank delicious coffee (melange). It wasn’t all gourmandise – we also visited the MAK museum where there was an exhibition of the work of architects Josef Hoffmann and Adolf Loos, entitled Ways to Modernism. It was very interesting, the conflicting ideas about what our living spaces should be and why, what role decoration and art should play in our homes and our environment. I liked Loos’ style, it was quite austere, stark, straight lines. The reconstruction of his bedroom – all white, fluffy and curtains hiding the shelving, was fascinating. It was purely – purely – by coincidence we had visited Loos American Bar. Of course.

Elizabeth Woodcraft

writing about the law, books and other matters of obvious importance

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