Dear followers
First of all, fear not, the Sage has not forsaken you! Due to a combination of gainful employment, academic endeavours and assorted other leisure pursuits, I have been entirely absent from the blogosphere for four long months, for which I apologise unreservedly. However, I have roused myself for a brief comeback to offer you my humble views on the year that was 2011.
It's certainly been an eventful year for The Sage personally, starting off with an extended trip around what must be the most fascinating, colourful country on earth in India, spending the middle months pottering around South London reviewing ever more obscure music and ending 2011 settled back in the world of internal communications at EDF Energy.
For Britain as a whole, it's been a year of contrasts too. The opulence and feel good factor of April's royal wedding saw the country smugly basking in the pageantry of its past, but for much of 2011 the challenges of the present were all too real, with continuing economic stagnation, high unemployment and rioting in our cities on a scale not witnessed in modern times. It's all too easy to point the finger at David Cameron and his increasingly shambolic cabal of out of touch aristocrats, jingoistic Europhobes and disaffacted, emasculated Liberals for the nations's current ills, or indeed at the broadly successful but latterly naive Labour administration that preceded it.
The stark reality is that the current global economic situation and its associated effects are beyond the power of one party or indeed one country to address, and it can only be hoped that 2012 brings a final resolution to the Euro crisis, however bloody, and that the shockwaves this will inevitably cause can be controlled. Only once all the boils on the sick body are firmly lanced will the sick patient truly be able to recover.
So on to more important matters - the X Factor! The Sage longstanding and baffling addiction to a show he should rightfully despise continued in 2011, despite the absence of Mr Cowell and a talent roster thinner than ever before. The new judging panel was rather mixed - Barlow surly but watchable, Tulisa spikey but over-earnest, Louis the usual catalogue of cliches, Kelly Rowland largely unintelligible. The Sage hoped that feisty little Janet's Cranberries tribute act would win, but in the end Little Mix's competent cabaret won the day against the underwhelming comepetition of a pink-haired hollerer who had already been shown the door once and a camp Scouser with a Mexican pimp's moustache.
In the world of proper music, it wasn't a vintage year either, with no truly great album to match 2010's masterpieces from Beach House, John Grant and I Am Kloot. However, the Sage did enjoy New York's The Antlers, both on record and live. Their bleak, anthemic miserabilism is strangely uplifting, and their second album Burst Apart was one of the year's best. Elsewhere, Fionn Regan's wonderfully lush and pretty if occasionally overwrought folk balladry on 100 Acres Of Sycamore will melt all but the hardest hearts, Fleet Foxes made a strong return with their eponymous second album and The Low Anthem's Smart Flesh was a fine example of mellow Americana. Finally, a mention for Oh Minnows, who didn't allow the year's worst name to prevent them from delivering the year's best pop album with the sumptuous 80s synth feast of For Shadows(the review of which, just incidentally of course, also got The Sage a quote in The Guardian). The fact that the wretched Rihanna sells thousands of times the number of records of Chris Steele-Nicolson's one man band tells you all you need to know about the parlous state of western civilisation today.
At risk of sounding irredeemably negative about everything, 2011's cinema was also something of a disappointment for The Sage. There were some entertaining moments in the surprisingly successful Inbetweeners movie - the group dancing scene was worth the price of entry alone - while both The Coen Brothers' confident, charismatic version of True Grit and the visually compelling if pyschologically somewhat disturbing Black Swan were both highly accomplished. But the film of the year for me was Terence Malick's The Tree Of Life. Derided by some as over-long, too slow, incomprehensible, pretentious and hamstrung by its own over-reaching ambition, to some extent it is guilty of all these things. Yet it's nevertheless a joy to behold a director who's not afraid to take on as daunting a concept as the meaning of existence itself, and the stunning beauty of the cinematography elevates Malick's work into the realms of high art.
Finally sport, and a mixed 2011 for The Sage. While Derby County continue to define mediocrity in their seemingly eternal position in the lower half of the Championship, my other great love - the Welsh rugby union team - surpassed the expectations of almost everyone and reached the World Cup semi-finals. Every now and then, something clicks with Cymru and they play rugby to rival the best, and but for one ludicrous sending off against France, decided by an Irishman with the quintessentially Celtic name of Alain Rolland, Sam Warburton's men would surely have reached a richly deserved first final. A word too about Shane Williams, who retired earlier this month after a decade in the red jersey that saw him conjure up some of the most scintillatingly brilliant tries in the history of the sport. In these days of 16 stone wingers built like the second row forwards of 30 years ago, it's been a joy to see little Shane prove that brain can still defeat brawn when it's blessed with genius. Will we ever see his like again?
Well followers, that's my review of 2011 over. The Sage could type on forever, but instead I've decided to add a few links to some of my musings over the course of the year, with one or two added extras for good measure. All that remains is for me to wish you all a happy and prosperous 2012, and hopefully the Sage will return again before too long!
Regards
TSOS
The Sage in India
The Sage on the Royal Wedding
The Sage on the London riots
The Sage reviews Oh Minnows, one of his albums of the year, with a second link to one of the band's videos
And finally, the incomparable Shane Williams in action:
Friday 30 December 2011
Thursday 11 August 2011
Panic on the streets of London: The Sage asks could we have predicted this riot?
It's Thursday evening, and while England's major cities seem quiet again for now, the shockwaves of this week's unprecedented social disorder are still reverberating around the country. The streets of Stockwell, although largely unaffected by more serious trouble, are located ominously close to Clapham Junction, one of the very worst flashpoints in London on Monday evening, and 24 hours later the tension in the air remained palpable as the Sage walked to the nearby tube station. Passing through Birmingham earlier on Tuesday morning, I sensed a similar feeling as people stopped to stare at the boarded up shops surrounded in crime scene tape.
Over the past few days, politicians and social commentators have tried to outdo one another to deliver the most insightful soundbites about what has caused these incidents, how they could have been dealt with better and how we prevent them reoccuring in future. As a Londoner who was thankfully outside the capital when huge swathes of it were looted, smashed and set ablaze, it's now time for the Sage to put my own two pennies worth in and give my thoughts on these issues, and a few others too:
Rioting and looting are nothing new. We have a naive belief that the veneer of modern civilisation, which has granted virtually all the British population a standard of living beyond the wildest dreams of earlier generations, somehow means that basic human nature has changed. Unfortunately, there will always be members of any society, however advanced, that seek to rail against accepted boundaries of behaviour in order to obtain what they want, as history will tell us. The mob mentality deflects the sense of individual responsibility and drags weak-minded followers in its wake, whether it's the French Revolution of 1789 or the British riots of 2011.
The culture of entitlement and instant gratification is all-powerful. Moving on from my previous point, the definition of poverty in Britain has changed beyond all recognition in recent years. A hundred years ago, for many people it meant not having shoes on your feet or food on the table. Today, almost everyone has these things, so the yardstick has moved. Those who don't have an iPhone, or the latest HD TV, or a steady stream of computer games, believe they are being denied what is normal in their society. This materialistic culture is in their faces every day and some will inevitably do whatever is necessary to obtain what they feel is their right - including looting.
The lack of respect issue. This week's events were simply a violent explosion of a cultural time bomb that has been ticking for a decade or more. We've all seen it - in schools, on the streets, in shopping centres and elsewhere. In a sense, the demonisation of 'chavs' has only served to polarise these people even more, actively encouraging them to subvert society's perceived code of conduct because they feel they have no hope of acceptance whatever they do. Gangs are a by-product of this attitude, as they give members a sense of belonging and standing. Yet that does not explain how the phenomenon began in the first place. A lack of discipline - both in the home and in society at large - is undeniably one of the root causes, but not the whole picture.
A lack of positive role models. We continue to live in a class-ridden country where the privately educated and historically wealthy wield a disproportionate influence, with social mobility less and less possible. Young people from underpriveleged areas can't imagine becoming a doctor, or a lawyer, because no-one they know has those kind of jobs. It can seem to youngsters that the only people who achieve wealth and success from some communities either have a special talent - for sport perhaps, or music - or turn to crime. If they can't be a Dizzee Rascal or a Wayne Rooney, a depressingly high number rather take their chances on the mean streets than face up to a life of fast food restaurant and shop assistant jobs. Money and status is everything.
We are a capitalist society with a socialist welfare state. The Sage believes every civilised society should have a welfare state, but unlike other northern European countries, it's not always a two way process in Britain which creates many problems. While most citizens in Sweden or Norway feel they have a responsibility to follow the laws of the state in exchange for good public services, some in the UK simply see it as a luxury to be indulged and abused for their own enrichment. Can we develop a social contract mentality or is it already too late?
Improving social mobility is the key to change. Don't cut vital resources like libraries, the Education Maintenance Allowance and Sure Start. Bring back the grammar schools and introduce quotas for university places for private schools that reflect the relatively small number of children who are educated there. Make tuition fees a percentage of family income. We have to create a more level playing field if society is to change and for young people from all backgrounds to feel they have a chance of achieving in the mainstream. Furthermore, we need to create a society where work conducted at all levels is respected, not just high income professions.
Cutting offender benefits won't work. Few would dispute that Britain's benefits system is subject to systematic abuse, but cutting people's money as a punishment will only drive them further into disenchantment and crime. We need change attitudes and encourage offenders to feel part of society - and that will happen by improving education, training and job prospects. The Sage supports the idea that the longer-term unemployed should undertake part-time community service as part the process of installing the 'social contract' mentality I referred to earlier.
We need more robust policing as an option. Noone wants an Arab-style police state, but when large numbers of British citizens have their property, business or personal safety threatened they have a right to be protected more forcefully. Yes to water cannons and baton rounds, but plastic bullets should be an absolute last resort.
The public are overwhelmingly behind the police. The boys in blue haven't had the best reputation over the past few years, and many people rightly criticised some of the more heavy-handed tactics during the G20 protests and other events. But there's a fundamental difference between a few idiots hijacking a politically motivated demonstration and widespread, wilful looting and destruction. Even those of us of a more left wing persuasion have to concede that fact and more robust policing will receive almost unanimous support should similar incidents occur again.
Over the past few days, politicians and social commentators have tried to outdo one another to deliver the most insightful soundbites about what has caused these incidents, how they could have been dealt with better and how we prevent them reoccuring in future. As a Londoner who was thankfully outside the capital when huge swathes of it were looted, smashed and set ablaze, it's now time for the Sage to put my own two pennies worth in and give my thoughts on these issues, and a few others too:
Rioting and looting are nothing new. We have a naive belief that the veneer of modern civilisation, which has granted virtually all the British population a standard of living beyond the wildest dreams of earlier generations, somehow means that basic human nature has changed. Unfortunately, there will always be members of any society, however advanced, that seek to rail against accepted boundaries of behaviour in order to obtain what they want, as history will tell us. The mob mentality deflects the sense of individual responsibility and drags weak-minded followers in its wake, whether it's the French Revolution of 1789 or the British riots of 2011.
The culture of entitlement and instant gratification is all-powerful. Moving on from my previous point, the definition of poverty in Britain has changed beyond all recognition in recent years. A hundred years ago, for many people it meant not having shoes on your feet or food on the table. Today, almost everyone has these things, so the yardstick has moved. Those who don't have an iPhone, or the latest HD TV, or a steady stream of computer games, believe they are being denied what is normal in their society. This materialistic culture is in their faces every day and some will inevitably do whatever is necessary to obtain what they feel is their right - including looting.
The lack of respect issue. This week's events were simply a violent explosion of a cultural time bomb that has been ticking for a decade or more. We've all seen it - in schools, on the streets, in shopping centres and elsewhere. In a sense, the demonisation of 'chavs' has only served to polarise these people even more, actively encouraging them to subvert society's perceived code of conduct because they feel they have no hope of acceptance whatever they do. Gangs are a by-product of this attitude, as they give members a sense of belonging and standing. Yet that does not explain how the phenomenon began in the first place. A lack of discipline - both in the home and in society at large - is undeniably one of the root causes, but not the whole picture.
A lack of positive role models. We continue to live in a class-ridden country where the privately educated and historically wealthy wield a disproportionate influence, with social mobility less and less possible. Young people from underpriveleged areas can't imagine becoming a doctor, or a lawyer, because no-one they know has those kind of jobs. It can seem to youngsters that the only people who achieve wealth and success from some communities either have a special talent - for sport perhaps, or music - or turn to crime. If they can't be a Dizzee Rascal or a Wayne Rooney, a depressingly high number rather take their chances on the mean streets than face up to a life of fast food restaurant and shop assistant jobs. Money and status is everything.
We are a capitalist society with a socialist welfare state. The Sage believes every civilised society should have a welfare state, but unlike other northern European countries, it's not always a two way process in Britain which creates many problems. While most citizens in Sweden or Norway feel they have a responsibility to follow the laws of the state in exchange for good public services, some in the UK simply see it as a luxury to be indulged and abused for their own enrichment. Can we develop a social contract mentality or is it already too late?
Improving social mobility is the key to change. Don't cut vital resources like libraries, the Education Maintenance Allowance and Sure Start. Bring back the grammar schools and introduce quotas for university places for private schools that reflect the relatively small number of children who are educated there. Make tuition fees a percentage of family income. We have to create a more level playing field if society is to change and for young people from all backgrounds to feel they have a chance of achieving in the mainstream. Furthermore, we need to create a society where work conducted at all levels is respected, not just high income professions.
Cutting offender benefits won't work. Few would dispute that Britain's benefits system is subject to systematic abuse, but cutting people's money as a punishment will only drive them further into disenchantment and crime. We need change attitudes and encourage offenders to feel part of society - and that will happen by improving education, training and job prospects. The Sage supports the idea that the longer-term unemployed should undertake part-time community service as part the process of installing the 'social contract' mentality I referred to earlier.
We need more robust policing as an option. Noone wants an Arab-style police state, but when large numbers of British citizens have their property, business or personal safety threatened they have a right to be protected more forcefully. Yes to water cannons and baton rounds, but plastic bullets should be an absolute last resort.
The public are overwhelmingly behind the police. The boys in blue haven't had the best reputation over the past few years, and many people rightly criticised some of the more heavy-handed tactics during the G20 protests and other events. But there's a fundamental difference between a few idiots hijacking a politically motivated demonstration and widespread, wilful looting and destruction. Even those of us of a more left wing persuasion have to concede that fact and more robust policing will receive almost unanimous support should similar incidents occur again.
Tuesday 26 July 2011
Appraising Amy
Dear followers
After Amy Winehouse's funeral earlier today, The London Evening Standard quoted George Michael's view that "she should be remembered as one of the greatest singer-songwriters of all time." Of all time? Really?
Only those without an ounce of compassion could fail to be moved by the tragically early death of a highly talented young woman who should have had many more decades of music in her - although the cold blooded slaughter of dozens of innocent young Norwegians the day before should put Winehouse's sad but ultimately self-inflicted descent into a wretched abyss of addiction in perspective. But in the aftermath of any artist's death, especially a premature one, too many observers instinctively fall over themselves in search of gushing superlatives rather than offering a more objective, rational appraisal of the individual's true legacy. This is in some ways understandable, as noone wants to seem churlish or mean spirited in such circumstances, but nevertheless, The Sage intends to debunk the fast-emerging myth that Winehouse warrants a place in the pantheon of musical geniuses.
First, the evidence in favour of her greatness. She was certainly incredibly popular in the UK - Back To Black was the country's best selling album of 2007, and also got to number 2 in the notoriously hard to conquer American chart. At the precocious age of 19, her debut record Frank was nominated for the Mercury Music Prize. Her voice was an expressive, smoky delight, rich in the kind of world-weary emotion that one would expect from a veteran of the Deep South soul scene rather than a young Jewish girl from Finchley; her songwriting confident and effortlessly 'classic' from the start. Furthermore, she was the first of a new generation of distinctive, adventurous young British female singer-songwriters that has gradually broken through over the past decade, paving the way for the likes of Florence and the Machine and Adele, as they themselves acknowledge.
But when we talk about the greatest singer-songwriters there have ever been, the Sage thinks of names like Bob Dylan - or, if you prefer something a bit more upbeat, Michael Jackson. Winehouse released two albums - these artists have been consistently great for decades. Songs like Knockin' On Heaven's Door, Blowin' In The Wind, Thriller and Billie Jean are part of pop music's indelible history, known across the world and across generations. Will many people be able to name a Winehouse song in 30 years time?
Even the next tier down from the absolute greats, there's a strong argument that someone like Kate Bush, with her unique voice, enduring if fitful recording career and highly innovative stage presence, is a far more significant and influential British artist than Winehouse, who for all her flair and appeal wasn't ever actually doing anything that hasn't been done before.
Much has been written over the past few days about the '27 club', the unusually large number of iconic popular musicians who died at that age, often as the result of substance abuse or psychological torment. Once again, Winehouse's inclusion in that hallowed list strikes the Sage as glib convenience rather than a true reflection of her talent. Jimi Hendrix revolutionised the way rock music's most emblematic instrument was played, inspiring countless other guitarists that have followed in his wake. Kurt Cobain dragged alternative rock music kicking and screaming into the mainstream. Like Dylan and Jackson, they and other members of the '27 club' such as Jim Morrison created an impact and a body of work that continues to resonate today.
The key thing about Hendrix, Morrison and Cobain is that their early demise, while undeniably an important factor in their popularity, does not define them as artists. Unfortunately, one suspects that Amy Winehouse will probably be remembered more for going spectacularly off the rails than for what she achieved when she was on track, which to be brutally honest fell some way short of the accolades bestowed upon her since her untimely demise.
After Amy Winehouse's funeral earlier today, The London Evening Standard quoted George Michael's view that "she should be remembered as one of the greatest singer-songwriters of all time." Of all time? Really?
Only those without an ounce of compassion could fail to be moved by the tragically early death of a highly talented young woman who should have had many more decades of music in her - although the cold blooded slaughter of dozens of innocent young Norwegians the day before should put Winehouse's sad but ultimately self-inflicted descent into a wretched abyss of addiction in perspective. But in the aftermath of any artist's death, especially a premature one, too many observers instinctively fall over themselves in search of gushing superlatives rather than offering a more objective, rational appraisal of the individual's true legacy. This is in some ways understandable, as noone wants to seem churlish or mean spirited in such circumstances, but nevertheless, The Sage intends to debunk the fast-emerging myth that Winehouse warrants a place in the pantheon of musical geniuses.
First, the evidence in favour of her greatness. She was certainly incredibly popular in the UK - Back To Black was the country's best selling album of 2007, and also got to number 2 in the notoriously hard to conquer American chart. At the precocious age of 19, her debut record Frank was nominated for the Mercury Music Prize. Her voice was an expressive, smoky delight, rich in the kind of world-weary emotion that one would expect from a veteran of the Deep South soul scene rather than a young Jewish girl from Finchley; her songwriting confident and effortlessly 'classic' from the start. Furthermore, she was the first of a new generation of distinctive, adventurous young British female singer-songwriters that has gradually broken through over the past decade, paving the way for the likes of Florence and the Machine and Adele, as they themselves acknowledge.
But when we talk about the greatest singer-songwriters there have ever been, the Sage thinks of names like Bob Dylan - or, if you prefer something a bit more upbeat, Michael Jackson. Winehouse released two albums - these artists have been consistently great for decades. Songs like Knockin' On Heaven's Door, Blowin' In The Wind, Thriller and Billie Jean are part of pop music's indelible history, known across the world and across generations. Will many people be able to name a Winehouse song in 30 years time?
Even the next tier down from the absolute greats, there's a strong argument that someone like Kate Bush, with her unique voice, enduring if fitful recording career and highly innovative stage presence, is a far more significant and influential British artist than Winehouse, who for all her flair and appeal wasn't ever actually doing anything that hasn't been done before.
Much has been written over the past few days about the '27 club', the unusually large number of iconic popular musicians who died at that age, often as the result of substance abuse or psychological torment. Once again, Winehouse's inclusion in that hallowed list strikes the Sage as glib convenience rather than a true reflection of her talent. Jimi Hendrix revolutionised the way rock music's most emblematic instrument was played, inspiring countless other guitarists that have followed in his wake. Kurt Cobain dragged alternative rock music kicking and screaming into the mainstream. Like Dylan and Jackson, they and other members of the '27 club' such as Jim Morrison created an impact and a body of work that continues to resonate today.
The key thing about Hendrix, Morrison and Cobain is that their early demise, while undeniably an important factor in their popularity, does not define them as artists. Unfortunately, one suspects that Amy Winehouse will probably be remembered more for going spectacularly off the rails than for what she achieved when she was on track, which to be brutally honest fell some way short of the accolades bestowed upon her since her untimely demise.
Wednesday 13 July 2011
Who will win The Apprentice - The Sage's thoughts & prediction
Dear followers
Before this series, The Sage always remained resolutely aloof from the addictive appeal of The Apprentice, bar a fleeting week or two of interest when the blonde Brummie girl made the final a couple of years back. But a Wednesday night at home on the Stockwell sofa back in May coincided with the launch of Lord Sugar's 2011 search for his new business partner, and lo and behold, I haven't missed an episode since.
The Sage is unsure what makes the programme so gripping. Perhaps it's Lord Sugar himself, who ascends imperiously to the boardroom in his glass lift like a Cockney Ming the Merciless before ritually humiliating the contestants with his withering assessments of their performance. You also have the would-be entrepreneurs themselves, who habitually display a daunting level of self belief only matched by their sometimes staggering lack of intelligence. The tasks they undertake are well-thought out, varied and easy even for those of us with zero business knowledge to understand, which is useful as several of this year's participants seemed to fall under that category. But above all, this is a competition, and while we all enjoy the first 50 minutes, it's the final 10 when the three potential victims turn on each other like wild beasts before one is fired that we all look forward to.
Now we're at the final stage, and to be honest, with the possible exception of Melody (who was immensely pretentious but generally pretty sharp, she even spoke French!) it's difficult to argue with the make up of the last four. Natasha, who got commendably far considering she is essentially a brunette Vicky Pollard in a trouser suit, simply had to go. However, there was also a strong case to fire Tom for comprehensively destroying the myth that he is some kind of bumbling genius by claiming that Christopher Columbus was British, which The Sage would expect the average 10 year old to correct. Mind you, Natasha probably thinks he's a recently deceased American detective in a brown overcoat.
Despite his unforgivable display of historical ignorance, I will be supporting Tom on Sunday night. His detractors will rightly point out that he's lost a lot more tasks than he's won over the series as a whole, and he can come across as too mild-mannered and indecisive. But when it comes to delivering a well-structured, innovative business plan and coming across as both clever and likeable in an interview, you have to fancy his chances.
Of the other three contenders, The Sage believes Jim can almost certainly be discounted, despite his now legendary mind games and apparent boardroom invulnerability. Yes, he's more slippery than an eel-shaped bar of soap and could talk the hind legs, tail and testicles off the proverbial donkey, but when it comes down to it, he's a salesman rather than a businessman and I expect him to finally get found out at the death.
With her flawless make-up, genial diplomacy and perfect pitches, Helen sailed serenely through the first nine weeks looking like the winner in waiting, but was badly ruffled on the 'smell what sells task' and the Sage has a hunch that she may also wilt when put under pressure. There is something strangely robotic about her, and the suspicion is that she's a great organiser and facilitator of other people's ideas rather than an innovator in her own right. Plus she stated in her audition that she has 'no social life and no personal life, I live for my work' which is terribly unfair on the menfolk of her native Northumberland, who deserve more than just sheep for company at the weekend.
The real dark horse is Susan. Despite being almost as stupid as Natasha and possibly even more annoying, the fact that she started her first business at the age of three and yaps like a demented puppy at anyone who crosses her seems to have endeared her to Lord Sugar. To be fair, she's probably had to work harder than anyone to get to where she is in life, and is seeking to conquer the world of commerce at an age when most people are either preparing for their university finals, going out getting hideously drunk several times a week, or both. But does this mean she deserves to win? In The Sage's view, no it doesn't.
So it's prediction time, and The Sage will go for Tom to win, with Susan in second. The words 'bullshit' and 'Jim' will appear in a sentence together on more than one occasion, Nick Hewer will raise his eyebrows in despair at least seven times, and Lord Sugar will announce his final verdict surrounded by a phalanx of Daleks before obliterating the losers with a particle dispersing laser. Well perhaps The Sage is getting a bit carried away with the last bit, but it should all be jolly good fun to watch nevertheless.
Bring on Sunday!
Regards
The Sage
Before this series, The Sage always remained resolutely aloof from the addictive appeal of The Apprentice, bar a fleeting week or two of interest when the blonde Brummie girl made the final a couple of years back. But a Wednesday night at home on the Stockwell sofa back in May coincided with the launch of Lord Sugar's 2011 search for his new business partner, and lo and behold, I haven't missed an episode since.
The Sage is unsure what makes the programme so gripping. Perhaps it's Lord Sugar himself, who ascends imperiously to the boardroom in his glass lift like a Cockney Ming the Merciless before ritually humiliating the contestants with his withering assessments of their performance. You also have the would-be entrepreneurs themselves, who habitually display a daunting level of self belief only matched by their sometimes staggering lack of intelligence. The tasks they undertake are well-thought out, varied and easy even for those of us with zero business knowledge to understand, which is useful as several of this year's participants seemed to fall under that category. But above all, this is a competition, and while we all enjoy the first 50 minutes, it's the final 10 when the three potential victims turn on each other like wild beasts before one is fired that we all look forward to.
Now we're at the final stage, and to be honest, with the possible exception of Melody (who was immensely pretentious but generally pretty sharp, she even spoke French!) it's difficult to argue with the make up of the last four. Natasha, who got commendably far considering she is essentially a brunette Vicky Pollard in a trouser suit, simply had to go. However, there was also a strong case to fire Tom for comprehensively destroying the myth that he is some kind of bumbling genius by claiming that Christopher Columbus was British, which The Sage would expect the average 10 year old to correct. Mind you, Natasha probably thinks he's a recently deceased American detective in a brown overcoat.
Despite his unforgivable display of historical ignorance, I will be supporting Tom on Sunday night. His detractors will rightly point out that he's lost a lot more tasks than he's won over the series as a whole, and he can come across as too mild-mannered and indecisive. But when it comes to delivering a well-structured, innovative business plan and coming across as both clever and likeable in an interview, you have to fancy his chances.
Of the other three contenders, The Sage believes Jim can almost certainly be discounted, despite his now legendary mind games and apparent boardroom invulnerability. Yes, he's more slippery than an eel-shaped bar of soap and could talk the hind legs, tail and testicles off the proverbial donkey, but when it comes down to it, he's a salesman rather than a businessman and I expect him to finally get found out at the death.
With her flawless make-up, genial diplomacy and perfect pitches, Helen sailed serenely through the first nine weeks looking like the winner in waiting, but was badly ruffled on the 'smell what sells task' and the Sage has a hunch that she may also wilt when put under pressure. There is something strangely robotic about her, and the suspicion is that she's a great organiser and facilitator of other people's ideas rather than an innovator in her own right. Plus she stated in her audition that she has 'no social life and no personal life, I live for my work' which is terribly unfair on the menfolk of her native Northumberland, who deserve more than just sheep for company at the weekend.
The real dark horse is Susan. Despite being almost as stupid as Natasha and possibly even more annoying, the fact that she started her first business at the age of three and yaps like a demented puppy at anyone who crosses her seems to have endeared her to Lord Sugar. To be fair, she's probably had to work harder than anyone to get to where she is in life, and is seeking to conquer the world of commerce at an age when most people are either preparing for their university finals, going out getting hideously drunk several times a week, or both. But does this mean she deserves to win? In The Sage's view, no it doesn't.
So it's prediction time, and The Sage will go for Tom to win, with Susan in second. The words 'bullshit' and 'Jim' will appear in a sentence together on more than one occasion, Nick Hewer will raise his eyebrows in despair at least seven times, and Lord Sugar will announce his final verdict surrounded by a phalanx of Daleks before obliterating the losers with a particle dispersing laser. Well perhaps The Sage is getting a bit carried away with the last bit, but it should all be jolly good fun to watch nevertheless.
Bring on Sunday!
Regards
The Sage
Friday 8 July 2011
What does the demise of The News Of The World mean to us?
This Sunday, millions of British people will face an unexpected and potentially challenging decision. After 168 years of relying on The News Of The World to keep them updated on all the crucial issues going on in the world, they may have to do the unthinkable and - gasp - buy a proper newspaper instead!
Of course, they'll probably just take the easy option and switch seamlessly to The Mail, which is a bit like discovering Katie Price has moved out of your flat and shacking up with Kerry Katona as a classier alternative. But the demise of TNOTW is nevertheless highly significant, and not only because even Observer-reading lefties like The Sage have to concede that it's Britain's - indeed, the English language's - best selling newspaper.
Many commentators are suggesting that pulling the plug on an irretrievably tainted brand is merely a cunning ruse by News International to sidestep the real issues of wider organisational culpability, cutting off a gangrenous limb in order to save the rest of the body. Most expect 'The Sun On Sunday' or something equally predictable to be launched in its stead sooner rather than later once the dust has settled a little, allowing Murdoch and his 'evil empire' to continue business as usual.
This may well all be true, but The Sage is cautiously optimistic that this appalling episode also represents a defining sea change in the way newspapers operate in this country. For the past few decades, our press has steadily become more and more sleazy and ammoral, willing to take any steps necessary to obtain stories that will sell. The rampant celebrity culture is part of this problem, but the man on the street's reaction to a private investigator hacking the phone of a footballer or actor who can't keep their trousers on generally ranges from mild disapproval on whether it's 'in the public interest' to bored indifference. Allegedly hacking the phones of ordinary people - including a teenage murder victim and the relatives of servicemen and women killed in action - takes things to a whole new level of callous, unethical insensitivity. Even the most rabidly bigoted, sensation-loving red top reader must surely abhor the depths to which the NOTW is accused of plunging.
Who knows how many newspapers have employed similarly base practices in the past, but one things for sure, they won't be doing it any more, as the risk of exposure and subsequent excoriation by the whole of British society is simply too great. Even if a sizeable chunk of their readers stick with them, this week has proved that the all-important corporate advertisers almost certainly won't, and David Cameron's promised judicial enquiry will inevitably result in closer regulatory scrutiny of press behaviour. Furthermore, in the wake of this scandal all party leaders will also presumably go out of their way to avoid being too closely linked with Murdoch and his ilk, which will hopefully reduce the media's all too pervasive influence on political matters.
Freedom of the press is an integral part of this country's guiding principles, and should never be compromised by governments or anyone else. But newspapers themselves also have a duty to maintain certain standards of decency and moral conduct as part of this process. By dragging their profession to the very bottom of the gutter, The Sage can only hope that TNOTW has shamed its peers into making sure that nothing like this ever happens again.
Of course, they'll probably just take the easy option and switch seamlessly to The Mail, which is a bit like discovering Katie Price has moved out of your flat and shacking up with Kerry Katona as a classier alternative. But the demise of TNOTW is nevertheless highly significant, and not only because even Observer-reading lefties like The Sage have to concede that it's Britain's - indeed, the English language's - best selling newspaper.
Many commentators are suggesting that pulling the plug on an irretrievably tainted brand is merely a cunning ruse by News International to sidestep the real issues of wider organisational culpability, cutting off a gangrenous limb in order to save the rest of the body. Most expect 'The Sun On Sunday' or something equally predictable to be launched in its stead sooner rather than later once the dust has settled a little, allowing Murdoch and his 'evil empire' to continue business as usual.
This may well all be true, but The Sage is cautiously optimistic that this appalling episode also represents a defining sea change in the way newspapers operate in this country. For the past few decades, our press has steadily become more and more sleazy and ammoral, willing to take any steps necessary to obtain stories that will sell. The rampant celebrity culture is part of this problem, but the man on the street's reaction to a private investigator hacking the phone of a footballer or actor who can't keep their trousers on generally ranges from mild disapproval on whether it's 'in the public interest' to bored indifference. Allegedly hacking the phones of ordinary people - including a teenage murder victim and the relatives of servicemen and women killed in action - takes things to a whole new level of callous, unethical insensitivity. Even the most rabidly bigoted, sensation-loving red top reader must surely abhor the depths to which the NOTW is accused of plunging.
Who knows how many newspapers have employed similarly base practices in the past, but one things for sure, they won't be doing it any more, as the risk of exposure and subsequent excoriation by the whole of British society is simply too great. Even if a sizeable chunk of their readers stick with them, this week has proved that the all-important corporate advertisers almost certainly won't, and David Cameron's promised judicial enquiry will inevitably result in closer regulatory scrutiny of press behaviour. Furthermore, in the wake of this scandal all party leaders will also presumably go out of their way to avoid being too closely linked with Murdoch and his ilk, which will hopefully reduce the media's all too pervasive influence on political matters.
Freedom of the press is an integral part of this country's guiding principles, and should never be compromised by governments or anyone else. But newspapers themselves also have a duty to maintain certain standards of decency and moral conduct as part of this process. By dragging their profession to the very bottom of the gutter, The Sage can only hope that TNOTW has shamed its peers into making sure that nothing like this ever happens again.
Tuesday 5 July 2011
The Sage Of Stockwell - recent musical meanderings
Dear followers
The Sage has been busy of late writing album and gig reviews for the BBC and in particular the excellent Music OMH site. Please see below some recent recommendations, with links to some clips of the artists' work:
For dance music/electronica fans:
Junior Boys review
Clip of Junior Boys - Banana Ripple
Blanck Mass review
Clip of Blanck Mass - Chernobyl
Basement Jaxx Vs. Metropole Orkest review
Clip of Basement Jaxx Vs. Metropole Orkest - Where's Your Head At
Planningtorock review
Clip of Planningtorock - Doorway
For rock/indie fans:
The Pierces review
Clip of The Pierces - You'll Be Mine
Timber Timbre review
Clip of Timber Timbre - Keep On Creepin' On
Pajaro Sunrise review
Clip of Pajaro Sunrise - Song For Evangeline
The Blue Aeroplanes review
Clip of The Blue Aeroplanes - 25 Kinds Of Love
For world/folk music fans:
Vieux Farka Toure review
Clip of Vieux Farka Toure featuring Dave Matthews - All The Same
and one to avoid...
Gyratory System review
Clip of Gyratory System - New Harmony
Enjoy!
The Sage
The Sage has been busy of late writing album and gig reviews for the BBC and in particular the excellent Music OMH site. Please see below some recent recommendations, with links to some clips of the artists' work:
For dance music/electronica fans:
Junior Boys review
Clip of Junior Boys - Banana Ripple
Blanck Mass review
Clip of Blanck Mass - Chernobyl
Basement Jaxx Vs. Metropole Orkest review
Clip of Basement Jaxx Vs. Metropole Orkest - Where's Your Head At
Planningtorock review
Clip of Planningtorock - Doorway
For rock/indie fans:
The Pierces review
Clip of The Pierces - You'll Be Mine
Timber Timbre review
Clip of Timber Timbre - Keep On Creepin' On
Pajaro Sunrise review
Clip of Pajaro Sunrise - Song For Evangeline
The Blue Aeroplanes review
Clip of The Blue Aeroplanes - 25 Kinds Of Love
For world/folk music fans:
Vieux Farka Toure review
Clip of Vieux Farka Toure featuring Dave Matthews - All The Same
and one to avoid...
Gyratory System review
Clip of Gyratory System - New Harmony
Enjoy!
The Sage
Sunday 15 May 2011
The Sage's Eurovision
Dear followers
Most of you probably don't require the wisdom of the Sage to point out the inherent absurdity of the Eurovision Song Contest. Unlike the rest of the continent, the British and Irish view this event for what it is, a ridiculous high camp pageant populated by over-excitable foreigners belting out dreadful slices of hi-energy pop pap or cringingly over the top power ballads, normally while wearing a silly costume and surrounded by dancers who look like they've been recruited in an Amsterdam S&M club. And of course, it's not really a competition at all, as everyone just votes for their neighbours regardless of whether their song is any good or not.
So it was with a heavy heart that the Sage settled down on his Stockwell sofa last night armed with a family pack of Hula Hoops to watch this year's event unfold in all its customary awfulness. Things got off to a bad start when it became apparent that Eurovision 2011 was being hosted by the Germans, which meant a presenting team consisting of two towering, impassive ice maidens and a bearded man who looked like he'd be much more comfortable sat in a Bavarian bierkeller in a lederhosen, yet is apparently 'Germany's answer to Simon Cowell'. At least us Brits had cheeky chappie Graham Norton's bitchy observations to entertain us, although it was disappointing that Norton occasionally seemed to be enjoying himself, while his predecessor Terry Wogan never failed to make clear he knew it was all utter tosh.
Anyway, before long we were into the acts themselves, kicking off with a very earnest blonde Finnish youth singing a drippy little song about saving the planet. Then it was on to the usual line up of caterwauling Lithuanians, Hungarian drag queens and Georgian death metal, with Blue and Jedward thrown in for good measure. The pre-event favourite was apparently France, which was somewhat bizarre as their singer had clearly entered the competition by mistake after taking the wrong exit off the autobahn on the way to the Berlin State Opera. Unsurprisingly he fared very badly, prompting his countrymen to stick two fingers up to the organisers by being the only nation to announce their votes in their own language rather than English, which should have resulted in instant disqualification.
In the end, Azerbaijan's dreadfully bland, inoffensive ditty saw off the challenge of the Italian jazz band and the Swedish rent boy to win the crown, following the usual voting farce which the decision to decide 50% of each country's verdict by an expert jury made absolutely no difference to whatsoever. So the Portuguese still voted for the Spanish, the Austrians voted for the Germans and the host of new post-communist nations voted randomly for each other. How tiresomely predictable.
In the Sage's view, Moldova should clearly have won. A hilarious combination of tuneless shouting, frantic trumpeting and preposterously large dunce hats, their song was comfortably the worst of the night and should have been rewarded accordingly. The British and Irish, as stated previously the only two nations who grasp the true purpose of Eurovision, recognised this fact and both placed the Moldovans in their top three.
A word or two about Blue, who avoided the humiliation of many recent British entries but still only finished in mid-table. Clearly the thinking was that an ageing but still game boy band who have a decent fanbase around Europe would stand a good chance of doing very well. Wrong. That Blue are bad enough to mount a strong bid for the Eurovision title is not in question. They are and always have been terrible. The problem is, they don't know it, and insist on maintaining they are serious artists instead of recognising they're shit, relaxing and camping it up for all they're worth. You don't win Eurovision by trying to be good, you win it by jumping around manically and gurning at the camera while wearing the sort of outfits that would have been rejected by the Village People as too extreme.
Britain has another overwhelming disadvantage when it comes to the Eurovision Song Contest. Unlike the rest of Europe, we actually produce good music. It's important to understand this point and also to remember that the artists we routinely dismiss as laughably bad on Eurovision are genuinely regarded as the cream of their nation's talent by our continental cousins and are what most of them actually enjoy listening to all the time. The need to cater for this market gives them a huge range of suitable representatives from which to choose, all of whom know instinctively how to appeal to the cross-border masses of Europeans with no taste.
In short, the nation that gave the world The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie and Led Zeppelin quite simply doesn't stand a chance.
Regards
The Sage
Most of you probably don't require the wisdom of the Sage to point out the inherent absurdity of the Eurovision Song Contest. Unlike the rest of the continent, the British and Irish view this event for what it is, a ridiculous high camp pageant populated by over-excitable foreigners belting out dreadful slices of hi-energy pop pap or cringingly over the top power ballads, normally while wearing a silly costume and surrounded by dancers who look like they've been recruited in an Amsterdam S&M club. And of course, it's not really a competition at all, as everyone just votes for their neighbours regardless of whether their song is any good or not.
So it was with a heavy heart that the Sage settled down on his Stockwell sofa last night armed with a family pack of Hula Hoops to watch this year's event unfold in all its customary awfulness. Things got off to a bad start when it became apparent that Eurovision 2011 was being hosted by the Germans, which meant a presenting team consisting of two towering, impassive ice maidens and a bearded man who looked like he'd be much more comfortable sat in a Bavarian bierkeller in a lederhosen, yet is apparently 'Germany's answer to Simon Cowell'. At least us Brits had cheeky chappie Graham Norton's bitchy observations to entertain us, although it was disappointing that Norton occasionally seemed to be enjoying himself, while his predecessor Terry Wogan never failed to make clear he knew it was all utter tosh.
Anyway, before long we were into the acts themselves, kicking off with a very earnest blonde Finnish youth singing a drippy little song about saving the planet. Then it was on to the usual line up of caterwauling Lithuanians, Hungarian drag queens and Georgian death metal, with Blue and Jedward thrown in for good measure. The pre-event favourite was apparently France, which was somewhat bizarre as their singer had clearly entered the competition by mistake after taking the wrong exit off the autobahn on the way to the Berlin State Opera. Unsurprisingly he fared very badly, prompting his countrymen to stick two fingers up to the organisers by being the only nation to announce their votes in their own language rather than English, which should have resulted in instant disqualification.
In the end, Azerbaijan's dreadfully bland, inoffensive ditty saw off the challenge of the Italian jazz band and the Swedish rent boy to win the crown, following the usual voting farce which the decision to decide 50% of each country's verdict by an expert jury made absolutely no difference to whatsoever. So the Portuguese still voted for the Spanish, the Austrians voted for the Germans and the host of new post-communist nations voted randomly for each other. How tiresomely predictable.
In the Sage's view, Moldova should clearly have won. A hilarious combination of tuneless shouting, frantic trumpeting and preposterously large dunce hats, their song was comfortably the worst of the night and should have been rewarded accordingly. The British and Irish, as stated previously the only two nations who grasp the true purpose of Eurovision, recognised this fact and both placed the Moldovans in their top three.
A word or two about Blue, who avoided the humiliation of many recent British entries but still only finished in mid-table. Clearly the thinking was that an ageing but still game boy band who have a decent fanbase around Europe would stand a good chance of doing very well. Wrong. That Blue are bad enough to mount a strong bid for the Eurovision title is not in question. They are and always have been terrible. The problem is, they don't know it, and insist on maintaining they are serious artists instead of recognising they're shit, relaxing and camping it up for all they're worth. You don't win Eurovision by trying to be good, you win it by jumping around manically and gurning at the camera while wearing the sort of outfits that would have been rejected by the Village People as too extreme.
Britain has another overwhelming disadvantage when it comes to the Eurovision Song Contest. Unlike the rest of Europe, we actually produce good music. It's important to understand this point and also to remember that the artists we routinely dismiss as laughably bad on Eurovision are genuinely regarded as the cream of their nation's talent by our continental cousins and are what most of them actually enjoy listening to all the time. The need to cater for this market gives them a huge range of suitable representatives from which to choose, all of whom know instinctively how to appeal to the cross-border masses of Europeans with no taste.
In short, the nation that gave the world The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie and Led Zeppelin quite simply doesn't stand a chance.
Regards
The Sage
Friday 29 April 2011
The Sage's Royal Wedding
Now before you ask, The Sage hasn't been suddenly snapped up by an ageing and desperate cougar countess from Scleswig Holstein. But in my view today's royal wedding was an extremely significant moment in British history as, rightly or wrongly, it secured the future of the monarchy for the forseeable future.
My views on the royal family are somewhat ambivalent. Looking at the subject logically, there's really no place in a modern democracy for such an outdated anachronism, an institution that promotes both sexual and religious discrimination by clinging on to the highly dubious practices of primogeniture and barring both Catholics and those married to a Catholic from the succession. The House of Windsor stands at the apex of an age-old, debilitating class system that is still the biggest barrier to a genuine meritocracy in the UK.
On the other hand, only the most fervent republicans would dispute that our royal family, by far the most famous in the world, is integral to the image of Britain across the globe, a unique selling point that makes us stand out from both our European neighbours and 'new money' nations like the US. The Civil List can be seen as grossly unjust, but at a cost of just under 70p per person per year many would argue that they're good value considering the amount of tourism revenue they bring into the country and the roles of some more worthy family members as national ambassadors.
Struggling with these two opposing viewpoints, The Sage sat down on his Stockwell sofa this morning with a Guatamalan coffee and tuned into the coverage, which was the usual mix of glittering pageantry, sycophantic gushing from fawning commentators and breathless interviews with often hysterical Union Jack clad spectators. William looked nervous and awkward as usual, Kate scrubbed up rather well in her lovely dress, the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh continue to look remarkably spry for octogenarians and Prince Andrew's ghastly ginger daughters were the runaway winners of the worst hats competition.
The throngs of well wishers lining the Mall and outside the Abbey, some from as far afield as the Americas and the Antipodes and prepared to camp out for hours or even days to catch a glimpse of the newly weds, are the main reason the monarchy won't be abolished any time soon.
The royal obsessives are simply so much more numerous, vocal and committed than the still thin voices of republican dissent. Such is the hope and love they feel for William, with his Diana connection and his pretty new English rose 'commoner' bride, they'll be able to grit their teeth through the reign of his far less popular father to wait for their true king to ascend triumphantly to the throne. Which with the longevity of the Windsor genes will probably take us to at least 2050. Only in that distant future will the next generation of royals be scrutinised more thoroughly.
In the meantime, those of us in the middle will continue to view the monarchy with largely benign detachment, taking a passing interest in the great occasions of state (apparently today wasn't 'a state wedding' ... yeah right, obviously the father of the bride paid for everything didn't he?) but lacking the will to rock the constitutional boat. The British people seem to feel most comfortable harking back to what we perceive as our glorious past, rather than looking forward to a more uncertain future in the world.
On that note, the Sage intends to make another coffee and turn the TV back on, probably to be confronted by Fern Britten interviewing a man who once sold a pint of milk to the new Duchess of Cambridge in a St Andrews Tesco Metro.
God Save The Queen!
Regards
The Sage
My views on the royal family are somewhat ambivalent. Looking at the subject logically, there's really no place in a modern democracy for such an outdated anachronism, an institution that promotes both sexual and religious discrimination by clinging on to the highly dubious practices of primogeniture and barring both Catholics and those married to a Catholic from the succession. The House of Windsor stands at the apex of an age-old, debilitating class system that is still the biggest barrier to a genuine meritocracy in the UK.
On the other hand, only the most fervent republicans would dispute that our royal family, by far the most famous in the world, is integral to the image of Britain across the globe, a unique selling point that makes us stand out from both our European neighbours and 'new money' nations like the US. The Civil List can be seen as grossly unjust, but at a cost of just under 70p per person per year many would argue that they're good value considering the amount of tourism revenue they bring into the country and the roles of some more worthy family members as national ambassadors.
Struggling with these two opposing viewpoints, The Sage sat down on his Stockwell sofa this morning with a Guatamalan coffee and tuned into the coverage, which was the usual mix of glittering pageantry, sycophantic gushing from fawning commentators and breathless interviews with often hysterical Union Jack clad spectators. William looked nervous and awkward as usual, Kate scrubbed up rather well in her lovely dress, the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh continue to look remarkably spry for octogenarians and Prince Andrew's ghastly ginger daughters were the runaway winners of the worst hats competition.
The throngs of well wishers lining the Mall and outside the Abbey, some from as far afield as the Americas and the Antipodes and prepared to camp out for hours or even days to catch a glimpse of the newly weds, are the main reason the monarchy won't be abolished any time soon.
The royal obsessives are simply so much more numerous, vocal and committed than the still thin voices of republican dissent. Such is the hope and love they feel for William, with his Diana connection and his pretty new English rose 'commoner' bride, they'll be able to grit their teeth through the reign of his far less popular father to wait for their true king to ascend triumphantly to the throne. Which with the longevity of the Windsor genes will probably take us to at least 2050. Only in that distant future will the next generation of royals be scrutinised more thoroughly.
In the meantime, those of us in the middle will continue to view the monarchy with largely benign detachment, taking a passing interest in the great occasions of state (apparently today wasn't 'a state wedding' ... yeah right, obviously the father of the bride paid for everything didn't he?) but lacking the will to rock the constitutional boat. The British people seem to feel most comfortable harking back to what we perceive as our glorious past, rather than looking forward to a more uncertain future in the world.
On that note, the Sage intends to make another coffee and turn the TV back on, probably to be confronted by Fern Britten interviewing a man who once sold a pint of milk to the new Duchess of Cambridge in a St Andrews Tesco Metro.
God Save The Queen!
Regards
The Sage
Thursday 28 April 2011
The Sage's Albums of 2011 to date
Dear followers
During his Indian travels the Sage had scant opportunity to stay in touch with the latest album releases - bar the occasional Bollywood soundtrack - so having had the chance to catch up back in my South London abode, here's my thoughts on the best new CDs so far in 2011.
In no particular order...
The Vaccines - Well What Did You Expect From The Vaccines?
Despite a ridiculous amount of hype for a band only formed last June, The Vaccines' debut album is impressively assured. There's nothing particularly original here, with most of the tracks falling somewhere between the terrace singalongs of the Fratellis and the widescreen bombastic miserabilism of Glasvegas, but those in search of an uncomplicated, tuneful indie-rock album to sing along to this spring should check this out without delay. However, they really do need to come up with a better title for their next record.
PJ Harvey - Let England Shake
It's almost 20 years since Ms Harvey's first album (1992's Dry) and it's a breath of fresh air to see an artist producing her best ever work at a stage of her career when many contemporaries have long since ran out of ideas. A sometimes challenging but never pretentious reflection on the impact of war, many of Let England Shake's songs focus on the brutal conflicts of World War I and Gallipoli in particular. The raw, jagged beats and riffs are appropriately stark yet naggingly infectious, with Harvey's supple, expressive voice providing a melodic foil throughout. A significant work that shows pop music can be both intelligent and accessible at the same time.
The Low Anthem - Smart Flesh
Fleet Foxes' stellar 2008 debut has made folk-rock hipper now than at any time since the early 70s heyday of Crosby Stills, Nash and Young, and perhaps the best of the American bands to break through in their wake is Rhode Island's The Low Anthem. Fourth album Smart Flesh was recorded in an abandoned pasta factory, and the end result is a sparse, atmospheric sound that soars and echoes around the vast open spaces where it was recorded. Often slow and stately, the tracks here take time to grow on the listener but you're unlikely to hear a better record of this type this year - well until Fleet Foxes themselves return next week at least...
The Unthanks - Last
From American folk to British, and Northumbria's Unthank sisters continue their evolution from their north-east traditional song roots to something of altogether broader appeal. The centuries old murder ballads are still there, as are the haunting vocal harmonies, but lusher orchestration, more expansive arrangements and some innovative covers of rock artists (for example King Crimson and Tom Waits) elevate Last far beyond the work of your stereotypical folk troubadours. Often bleak, but very, very beautiful.
Anna Calvi - Anna Calvi
Like the Vaccines, this diminutive Anglo-Italian was hotly tipped going into 2011, and her debut album shows that most of the fuss was justified. Blessed with both a powerful voice and fabulous guitar playing ability, Ms Calvi effectively uses both qualities in a darkly atmospheric collection of songs that drip with passion. Often abandoning conventional song structures and incorporating elements of classical and famenco as well as rock, this is a dense, sometimes confrontational record that signals the arrival of a major new talent.
For my full review of Anna Calvi on BBC Music, please click here.
Here's some links to performances/recordings of tracks from all the albums I've mentioned above:
The Vaccines
PJ Harvey
The Low Anthem
The Unthanks
Anna Calvi
And finally - one for you all to avoid. I hate emo...
Twin Atlantic - Free
Regards
The Sage
During his Indian travels the Sage had scant opportunity to stay in touch with the latest album releases - bar the occasional Bollywood soundtrack - so having had the chance to catch up back in my South London abode, here's my thoughts on the best new CDs so far in 2011.
In no particular order...
The Vaccines - Well What Did You Expect From The Vaccines?
Despite a ridiculous amount of hype for a band only formed last June, The Vaccines' debut album is impressively assured. There's nothing particularly original here, with most of the tracks falling somewhere between the terrace singalongs of the Fratellis and the widescreen bombastic miserabilism of Glasvegas, but those in search of an uncomplicated, tuneful indie-rock album to sing along to this spring should check this out without delay. However, they really do need to come up with a better title for their next record.
PJ Harvey - Let England Shake
It's almost 20 years since Ms Harvey's first album (1992's Dry) and it's a breath of fresh air to see an artist producing her best ever work at a stage of her career when many contemporaries have long since ran out of ideas. A sometimes challenging but never pretentious reflection on the impact of war, many of Let England Shake's songs focus on the brutal conflicts of World War I and Gallipoli in particular. The raw, jagged beats and riffs are appropriately stark yet naggingly infectious, with Harvey's supple, expressive voice providing a melodic foil throughout. A significant work that shows pop music can be both intelligent and accessible at the same time.
The Low Anthem - Smart Flesh
Fleet Foxes' stellar 2008 debut has made folk-rock hipper now than at any time since the early 70s heyday of Crosby Stills, Nash and Young, and perhaps the best of the American bands to break through in their wake is Rhode Island's The Low Anthem. Fourth album Smart Flesh was recorded in an abandoned pasta factory, and the end result is a sparse, atmospheric sound that soars and echoes around the vast open spaces where it was recorded. Often slow and stately, the tracks here take time to grow on the listener but you're unlikely to hear a better record of this type this year - well until Fleet Foxes themselves return next week at least...
The Unthanks - Last
From American folk to British, and Northumbria's Unthank sisters continue their evolution from their north-east traditional song roots to something of altogether broader appeal. The centuries old murder ballads are still there, as are the haunting vocal harmonies, but lusher orchestration, more expansive arrangements and some innovative covers of rock artists (for example King Crimson and Tom Waits) elevate Last far beyond the work of your stereotypical folk troubadours. Often bleak, but very, very beautiful.
Anna Calvi - Anna Calvi
Like the Vaccines, this diminutive Anglo-Italian was hotly tipped going into 2011, and her debut album shows that most of the fuss was justified. Blessed with both a powerful voice and fabulous guitar playing ability, Ms Calvi effectively uses both qualities in a darkly atmospheric collection of songs that drip with passion. Often abandoning conventional song structures and incorporating elements of classical and famenco as well as rock, this is a dense, sometimes confrontational record that signals the arrival of a major new talent.
For my full review of Anna Calvi on BBC Music, please click here.
Here's some links to performances/recordings of tracks from all the albums I've mentioned above:
The Vaccines
PJ Harvey
The Low Anthem
The Unthanks
Anna Calvi
And finally - one for you all to avoid. I hate emo...
Twin Atlantic - Free
Regards
The Sage
Thursday 21 April 2011
The Sage's India: Part 4 - In praise of pachyderms and a Keralan camera catastrophe
Dear Followers
Anyone who visits India expecting a Jungle Book-style tapestry of abundant wildlife is, the Sage can confirm, set for a major disappointment.
Sure, there's plenty of monkeys bounding around many of the major cities, but the most common variety are rather ugly, red-faced little runts, rife with an impressive range of unpleasant diseases and more likely to steal your packed lunch than pose cutely for a photo. Then there's the cockroaches and geckos, inevitable companions in many hotel rooms and train carriages, and on the domesticated front the omnipresent cows, dogs and cats.
But in a wildlife park, one would reasonably expect to see a rather more impressively exotic array of creatures. Regrettably for the Sage, two early morning jeep drives and jungle walks in south India yielded up the following meagre tally:
i) A giant squirrel, like the ones in the park opposite my flat on steroids
ii) One herd of deer, which looked suspiciously like the ones at the bottom of my mate's garden in Berkshire
iii) The legs and rear ends of some Indian bison, barely visible through the trees 100 yards away
iv) A variety of almost entirely uninteresting birds. Our jeep driver was clearly approaching desperation stakes when, having spotted absolutely nothing all morning, he stopped the vehicle to proudly point out a peacock.
Now to be fair to the Indian tourism industry, their flagship animal - the tiger - has sadly been hunted with such systematic cruelty over recent decades that the wild population in the country has fallen to below 1500. One guide told us that in over 10 years in one national park he had seen a tiger just once - hardly promising odds for our brief visit. But would it have been asking too much to see something that wouldn't be found ambling around the grounds of Chatsworth House or Richmond Park - a bear perhaps, or a leopard, or even a wild elephant??
Aaaah, the elephant! Is there any more noble beast? The African elephant, a larger and more aggressive character than his Indian cousin, generally roams the savannahs and jungles free from the yoke of man, but the Asian variety is often to be found employed in a variety of roles.
In days of yore, elephants formed a vital part of many a maharaja's war machine, as Alexander The Great would testify. But as they've been rather superceded militarily by modern innovations like tanks and aircraft, today's tusked talent generally engages in more peaceful pursuits, such as working in timber yards, or giving rides to giggling tourists.
The Sage experienced the latter in the beautiful state of Kerala,and thoroughly enjoyed his close encounter with Roopa, a female resident of Periyar National Park. Straddling her proved somewhat difficult with no seat or stirrups, but I soon got comfortable just above her legs and held on behind her ears to ensure I wasn't dismounted. All in all, it was a most pleasant ride, although Roopa had to stop half way through to take a slash of such awesome volume and power it could have extinguished the Great Fire of London. I declined the opportunity to feed and bathe her afterwards, as the Sage believes in the old adage of treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen.
The pinnacle of any pachyderm's career however is to become a temple elephant. These revered animals can be found in Hindu places of worship all over India, with colourful markings on their faces and often clad in resplendent robes and glittering golden head dresses. Other than looking splendid, the main task of the temple elephant is to bless the faithful with its trunk, and consume offerings of food made to them by their numerous admirers.
Every summer in Tamil Nadu, around 200 temple elephants are given a month off and are taken to the state's Mudulumai National Park, where they spend a well-earned break eating, wallowing and chilling. One can only applaud a country so enlightened that non-humans are given holiday entitlement like any other employee, and it is indicative of the prestigious status of the temple elephant profession. The Sage himself would quite like to be a temple elephant.
After four weeks on the subcontinent, my Indian adventure was nearing an end. All that remained was a relaxing few days on the beach in the idyllic Keralan town of Varkala. Or so I thought.
The Sage lay sprawled on the sand without a care in the world, ipod in one hand, John Keay's excellent History Of India in the other, sun beating down from a cloudless blue sky. The flag indicating the current tidal level was at least 20 yards down the beach...
Suddenly without warning the Sage was soaked up to the waist and most of his belongings were floating out towards the Maldives, the result of an unexpected tidal surge. After frantically scampering around the beach to reclaim my flip flops, sunhat and other items, further investigation revealed that my camera, ipod and Blackberry were all rendered inoperable. The Sage cut a sorry figure as he clambered back up the cliff in his salt water and sand sodden shorts, fearing a month of Indian photographic memories (not to mention an exhaustively esoteric collection of eccentric music) had been lost for ever. Thankfully viewers of my Facebook page will see that my memory card survived intact, and after extensive drying out my Blackberry spluttered slowly back into life. The insurance claim for the other items remains 'in progress'...
So a somewhat frustrating end to a five week odyssey that the Sage will never forget. From the captivating madness of Delhi to the peaceful calm of Kerala's lush jungle backwaters, from the magnificent architecture of the Taj Mahal to the simple charms of rural village life in Madya Pradesh, India is a place like no other. Trying to make a country of 1.1 billion people with numerous religions and languages work as one nation in the modern world is a daunting task indeed, but the Sage for one hopes and believes that India can continue to go from strength to strength. I hope you have enjoyed my musings, and if you haven't been to India yet, I hope you're able to do so one day and experience it for yourself.
Goodbye for now.
The Sage
Anyone who visits India expecting a Jungle Book-style tapestry of abundant wildlife is, the Sage can confirm, set for a major disappointment.
Sure, there's plenty of monkeys bounding around many of the major cities, but the most common variety are rather ugly, red-faced little runts, rife with an impressive range of unpleasant diseases and more likely to steal your packed lunch than pose cutely for a photo. Then there's the cockroaches and geckos, inevitable companions in many hotel rooms and train carriages, and on the domesticated front the omnipresent cows, dogs and cats.
But in a wildlife park, one would reasonably expect to see a rather more impressively exotic array of creatures. Regrettably for the Sage, two early morning jeep drives and jungle walks in south India yielded up the following meagre tally:
i) A giant squirrel, like the ones in the park opposite my flat on steroids
ii) One herd of deer, which looked suspiciously like the ones at the bottom of my mate's garden in Berkshire
iii) The legs and rear ends of some Indian bison, barely visible through the trees 100 yards away
iv) A variety of almost entirely uninteresting birds. Our jeep driver was clearly approaching desperation stakes when, having spotted absolutely nothing all morning, he stopped the vehicle to proudly point out a peacock.
Now to be fair to the Indian tourism industry, their flagship animal - the tiger - has sadly been hunted with such systematic cruelty over recent decades that the wild population in the country has fallen to below 1500. One guide told us that in over 10 years in one national park he had seen a tiger just once - hardly promising odds for our brief visit. But would it have been asking too much to see something that wouldn't be found ambling around the grounds of Chatsworth House or Richmond Park - a bear perhaps, or a leopard, or even a wild elephant??
Aaaah, the elephant! Is there any more noble beast? The African elephant, a larger and more aggressive character than his Indian cousin, generally roams the savannahs and jungles free from the yoke of man, but the Asian variety is often to be found employed in a variety of roles.
In days of yore, elephants formed a vital part of many a maharaja's war machine, as Alexander The Great would testify. But as they've been rather superceded militarily by modern innovations like tanks and aircraft, today's tusked talent generally engages in more peaceful pursuits, such as working in timber yards, or giving rides to giggling tourists.
The Sage experienced the latter in the beautiful state of Kerala,and thoroughly enjoyed his close encounter with Roopa, a female resident of Periyar National Park. Straddling her proved somewhat difficult with no seat or stirrups, but I soon got comfortable just above her legs and held on behind her ears to ensure I wasn't dismounted. All in all, it was a most pleasant ride, although Roopa had to stop half way through to take a slash of such awesome volume and power it could have extinguished the Great Fire of London. I declined the opportunity to feed and bathe her afterwards, as the Sage believes in the old adage of treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen.
The pinnacle of any pachyderm's career however is to become a temple elephant. These revered animals can be found in Hindu places of worship all over India, with colourful markings on their faces and often clad in resplendent robes and glittering golden head dresses. Other than looking splendid, the main task of the temple elephant is to bless the faithful with its trunk, and consume offerings of food made to them by their numerous admirers.
Every summer in Tamil Nadu, around 200 temple elephants are given a month off and are taken to the state's Mudulumai National Park, where they spend a well-earned break eating, wallowing and chilling. One can only applaud a country so enlightened that non-humans are given holiday entitlement like any other employee, and it is indicative of the prestigious status of the temple elephant profession. The Sage himself would quite like to be a temple elephant.
After four weeks on the subcontinent, my Indian adventure was nearing an end. All that remained was a relaxing few days on the beach in the idyllic Keralan town of Varkala. Or so I thought.
The Sage lay sprawled on the sand without a care in the world, ipod in one hand, John Keay's excellent History Of India in the other, sun beating down from a cloudless blue sky. The flag indicating the current tidal level was at least 20 yards down the beach...
Suddenly without warning the Sage was soaked up to the waist and most of his belongings were floating out towards the Maldives, the result of an unexpected tidal surge. After frantically scampering around the beach to reclaim my flip flops, sunhat and other items, further investigation revealed that my camera, ipod and Blackberry were all rendered inoperable. The Sage cut a sorry figure as he clambered back up the cliff in his salt water and sand sodden shorts, fearing a month of Indian photographic memories (not to mention an exhaustively esoteric collection of eccentric music) had been lost for ever. Thankfully viewers of my Facebook page will see that my memory card survived intact, and after extensive drying out my Blackberry spluttered slowly back into life. The insurance claim for the other items remains 'in progress'...
So a somewhat frustrating end to a five week odyssey that the Sage will never forget. From the captivating madness of Delhi to the peaceful calm of Kerala's lush jungle backwaters, from the magnificent architecture of the Taj Mahal to the simple charms of rural village life in Madya Pradesh, India is a place like no other. Trying to make a country of 1.1 billion people with numerous religions and languages work as one nation in the modern world is a daunting task indeed, but the Sage for one hopes and believes that India can continue to go from strength to strength. I hope you have enjoyed my musings, and if you haven't been to India yet, I hope you're able to do so one day and experience it for yourself.
Goodbye for now.
The Sage
Monday 11 April 2011
The Sage's India: Part 3 - From naked northerners to singing southerners
The Sage's stint in north India was nearly at a close, and as I drew into Varanasi station after a 12 hour overnight journey devoid of sleep thanks to the cement mixer snoring of the dishevelled T-shirt salesman opposite, my flight down south to the relaxing beaches of Kerala couldn't come quickly enough.
Varanasi is arguably India's second most famous sight after the Taj Mahal, in particular due to its ancient ghats (steps leading to down to a river) where Hindus still go in droves to bathe in the holy waters of the Ganges and in some cases cremate their dead. No visit to Varanasi is complete without dusk and dawn boat trips to witness these age-old but still vibrant traditions taking place, but while they are certainly uniquely atmospheric, the Sage found the whole experience a little uncomfortable.
A Hindu cremation is a simple affair, with little pomp and ceremony as the male relatives of the deceased assemble around a wood pyre, which is slowly engulfed in flames and burns for several hours until only the ashes of the corpse remain. These are then scattered into the Ganges river.
Somehow the presence just offshore of a dozen or more boats of tourists, however respectful their observance, seemed to me an unwelcome intrusion upon an event that in Western culture is a very private matter. Yet the differences between the fundamental beliefs of a Europe rooted in austere Christianity and the more open, elemental ethos of Hindu India are such that the latter almost certainly don't see it that way.
On the subject of religion, close to Varanasi is the small town of Sarnath, the location of the Buddha's first ever sermon in the 6th century BC. More intriguing to the Sage however was his visit to a Jain temple, which led me to conclude that of all the world's organised faiths, this is surely the most bizarre.
Jains, if you're not familiar with their ideas, are strict vegetarians who believe that no harm should be inflicted on any living creature. In fact, they go even further and shun the consumption of root vegetables too, as digging up an onion or potato from the ground is apparently the equivalent of cold blooded murder.
Many adherents of Jainism carry a a peacock feather to sweep the ground in front of them so they don't inadvertently tread on any innocent insects, and filter water to make sure other diminutive invertebrates that may be contained therein are not accidentally drowned. Their highest order of priests renounce all material items, so walk around completely nude, only eat once a day without using any utensils and sometimes fast for months at a time to prove their spiritual purity.
Only in India could such a baffling religion requiring such levels of devotion have over 10 million followers, and its perhaps unsurprising that it's by and large failed to catch on elsewhere. But imagine if you will a world where Jainism replaced Christianity or Islam as a major global religion. Pest control businesses would have a tough time and there'd be a few more naked men strolling round the streets, but wars, suicide bombings and book burnings would be few and far between.
It was time for the Sage to leave northern India and catch a flight to Cochin, the main city of Kerala, on the south-west tip of the subcontinent. Within a few minutes of arriving in the south, it became evident that it's effectively a different country to huge, impoverished mega cities of the north. Palm trees are generously sprinkled around cleaner, more orderly streets where traffic generally flows at a reasonable speed in the direction it's supposed to. You can walk along the street without being harassed by hordes of howling hawkers and the sheer volume of people is greatly reduced. Basically, if you want to chill out in the sun, south India's the place to be.
After a very pleasant 48 hours exploring Cochin's Portuguese churches, Dutch forts and Chinese fisihing nets, the Sage headed for the hills. Some of the best tea in the world is grown in plantations in the mountains on the Kerala/Tamil Nadu border, and my base was Coonor, a hill station popular with the British as a summer retreat during the days of the Raj and featured in the film A Passage To India. The views here were stunning, but the highlight was an hour long steam locomotive journey on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway, which turned into a combination of an Edwardian period drama and an episode of Glee.
On the same carriage were a class of Indian schoolchildren of around 10-11 years of age, all impeccably turned out in neatly pressed blue shirts and ties with matching ribbons in the girls' plaited hair. Unlike the foul-mouthed embryonic thugs that are sadly so common among youngsters of a similar age in Britain, these children were inquisitive yet unfailingly polite and respectful, many already demonstrating flawless English. To make the Westerners feel welcome, we were treated to a series of enthusiastically performed Tamil folk songs during the journey, conducted with great applomb by the class teacher.
Once their repertoire was exhausted the British were invited to respond with our own ditties of choice, and the Sage and two fellow choristers treated the locals to a spirited medley of Swing Low Sweet Chariot and When The Saints Come Marching In. Sadly, our audience got off before I've Got A Brand New Combine Harvester and the Chicken Song, but by that stage the singing reputation of the former colonial power had been well and truly upheld. Unless of course it wasn't actually their stop.
NEXT TIME: The Sage mounts an elephant!
Varanasi is arguably India's second most famous sight after the Taj Mahal, in particular due to its ancient ghats (steps leading to down to a river) where Hindus still go in droves to bathe in the holy waters of the Ganges and in some cases cremate their dead. No visit to Varanasi is complete without dusk and dawn boat trips to witness these age-old but still vibrant traditions taking place, but while they are certainly uniquely atmospheric, the Sage found the whole experience a little uncomfortable.
A Hindu cremation is a simple affair, with little pomp and ceremony as the male relatives of the deceased assemble around a wood pyre, which is slowly engulfed in flames and burns for several hours until only the ashes of the corpse remain. These are then scattered into the Ganges river.
Somehow the presence just offshore of a dozen or more boats of tourists, however respectful their observance, seemed to me an unwelcome intrusion upon an event that in Western culture is a very private matter. Yet the differences between the fundamental beliefs of a Europe rooted in austere Christianity and the more open, elemental ethos of Hindu India are such that the latter almost certainly don't see it that way.
On the subject of religion, close to Varanasi is the small town of Sarnath, the location of the Buddha's first ever sermon in the 6th century BC. More intriguing to the Sage however was his visit to a Jain temple, which led me to conclude that of all the world's organised faiths, this is surely the most bizarre.
Jains, if you're not familiar with their ideas, are strict vegetarians who believe that no harm should be inflicted on any living creature. In fact, they go even further and shun the consumption of root vegetables too, as digging up an onion or potato from the ground is apparently the equivalent of cold blooded murder.
Many adherents of Jainism carry a a peacock feather to sweep the ground in front of them so they don't inadvertently tread on any innocent insects, and filter water to make sure other diminutive invertebrates that may be contained therein are not accidentally drowned. Their highest order of priests renounce all material items, so walk around completely nude, only eat once a day without using any utensils and sometimes fast for months at a time to prove their spiritual purity.
Only in India could such a baffling religion requiring such levels of devotion have over 10 million followers, and its perhaps unsurprising that it's by and large failed to catch on elsewhere. But imagine if you will a world where Jainism replaced Christianity or Islam as a major global religion. Pest control businesses would have a tough time and there'd be a few more naked men strolling round the streets, but wars, suicide bombings and book burnings would be few and far between.
It was time for the Sage to leave northern India and catch a flight to Cochin, the main city of Kerala, on the south-west tip of the subcontinent. Within a few minutes of arriving in the south, it became evident that it's effectively a different country to huge, impoverished mega cities of the north. Palm trees are generously sprinkled around cleaner, more orderly streets where traffic generally flows at a reasonable speed in the direction it's supposed to. You can walk along the street without being harassed by hordes of howling hawkers and the sheer volume of people is greatly reduced. Basically, if you want to chill out in the sun, south India's the place to be.
After a very pleasant 48 hours exploring Cochin's Portuguese churches, Dutch forts and Chinese fisihing nets, the Sage headed for the hills. Some of the best tea in the world is grown in plantations in the mountains on the Kerala/Tamil Nadu border, and my base was Coonor, a hill station popular with the British as a summer retreat during the days of the Raj and featured in the film A Passage To India. The views here were stunning, but the highlight was an hour long steam locomotive journey on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway, which turned into a combination of an Edwardian period drama and an episode of Glee.
On the same carriage were a class of Indian schoolchildren of around 10-11 years of age, all impeccably turned out in neatly pressed blue shirts and ties with matching ribbons in the girls' plaited hair. Unlike the foul-mouthed embryonic thugs that are sadly so common among youngsters of a similar age in Britain, these children were inquisitive yet unfailingly polite and respectful, many already demonstrating flawless English. To make the Westerners feel welcome, we were treated to a series of enthusiastically performed Tamil folk songs during the journey, conducted with great applomb by the class teacher.
Once their repertoire was exhausted the British were invited to respond with our own ditties of choice, and the Sage and two fellow choristers treated the locals to a spirited medley of Swing Low Sweet Chariot and When The Saints Come Marching In. Sadly, our audience got off before I've Got A Brand New Combine Harvester and the Chicken Song, but by that stage the singing reputation of the former colonial power had been well and truly upheld. Unless of course it wasn't actually their stop.
NEXT TIME: The Sage mounts an elephant!
Wednesday 6 April 2011
The Sage's India: Part 2 - A Taj tainted by tourism and meeting Maharajas
The Bengali poet and philosopher Tagore described the Taj Mahal as 'a tear on the face of eternity'. A splendidly evocative phrase, the Sage will concede, but this particular scribe experienced his own tears of frustration when visiting the building often considered to be the most beautiful in the world.
There's no doubt the Taj Mahal is stunning, luminous and fairy tale like with its gleaming white exterior, wonderfully subtle decoration and dimensions of perfect symmetry. It stands proudly above 300 metre square gardens lined with fountains, water pools, flowerbeds and tree lined avenues, equally meticulous in their construction. Yet it's difficult to truly absorb the sheer magnificence of the Taj when a) it's pouring with rain and b) you're sharing the moment with teeming hordes of multinational tour groups jostling their way around the site like rush hour commuters.
I'll start with the weather. It's common practice for visitors to the Taj to arrive at dawn (around 7am) to see it at its most atmospheric as the sun rises above its towering dome and minarets. Unfortunately, the day I picked was probably the only day this year when there was no sun at all. Bleary eyed after a 5.30am start, I found myself splashing through puddles with plastic bags on my feet, shivering as the wind and drizzle did its worst around me. It certainly felt like February - but in England, not India.
And then there's the tourists. OK, OK - I know I was one too, and travelling on an organised tour as well. But there's something depressingly mechanical about the vast, 50 strong Japanese groups that surge around the Taj like cultural locusts, coalescing into one collective entity of Oriental aggression that ruthlessly elbows aside all in its path in a relentless bid to break the world record for the highest number of photographs ever taken in one place. Oh, and they wear name badges too, just in case they still can't remember who's who after three months of barging their way around the world's great historical attractions together.
I do hope I don't sound insensitive singling out Japanese tourists for my irascible tirade just after their country has undergone such a terrible tragedy, and I know there's plenty of annoying people from other places too. But one of the joys of travel is having room to breathe and move and take in the sights and sounds of where you are at your own pace. At mega sites like the Taj, this just isn't possible because of the huge numbers of people there at the same time, many of whom sadly seem somewhat less inclined to pause for a moment of reflection.
Rather more to the Sage's liking was the unheralded, predominantly rural state of Madya Pradesh, in the centre of India. With the exception of Khajuraho, the home of the famously indiscreet Kama Sutra-inspired temple carvings (even horses get in on the fun...) there was barely a foreigner in sight during our four day stay in the region, and those in search of a 'real' India of traditional villages and oxen carts would be well advised to pay it a visit, before everyone else finds out about it.
Be warned though - in the otherwise serene riverside town of Orcha, I was the victim of an unexpected, completely unprovoked assault - at the hands (or rather the hooves) of an adolescent cow with clear anger management issues. I had innocently posed for a picture alongside the beast when the belligerent bovine suddenly and without warning charged at me head first, depositing a hefty dollop of saliva and snot on my leg. Thankfully no more serious injuries were sustained, but the laughter of the watching locals suggested to me that I would have certainly been left to my fate had my assailant opted to mount a more concerted attack upon my person.
As most of you will know, the cow is sacred in India, and this ancient status seems to have given them the freedom to do whatever they please. In almost every town, these holy herbivores randomly roam the streets, eating rubbish, wandering into shops and stepping in and out of the traffic with all the carefree nonchalance of a Victorian aristocrat out for an afternoon stroll. This is a much more serious matter for the motorists, who face the same penalties for hitting a cow as they do for running over a human. What's more, if the mooing masses ever tire of dining on rotting vegetables and withered grass, Hindu customs dictate that the first chapati cooked in each house should be offered to a cow before the family can eat, so there's never long to wait before a dutiful father emerges around the corner clutching a generous helping of piping hot homemade bread.
Also held in high regard in India are the Maharajas, the ancestral rulers of many of the country's historic kingdoms. These titles were technically phased out after independence in 1947, but their descendants often continue to live in the palaces of their forefathers and remain individuals of significant wealth and influence.
One such man is the Maharaja of Alipura, whom I met while staying in his palace, some of which has been converted into a hotel rich in period character. A devout man, he had returned home from Madya Pradesh's state capital, where he is a leading politician, to attend a Hindu festival in his village. We enjoyed a most stimulating conversation about the development of tourism and conservation in the region, and I went to bed hopeful that His Highness was impressed by the intellectual and moral fibre of the kind of people he had welcomed into in his princely abode.
Any such impression was rudely shattered the following lunchtime when the Maharaja decided to take a walk onto his roof terrace and was met by the unedifying sight of The Sage clad in nothing but a pair of shorts, swilling a bottle of lager with a bikini-clad young lady sat on either side. He took one look at us before walking downstairs without a word, and thus my brief encounter with the ennobled elite of India's society was over.
NEXT TIME: The Sage Goes South...
There's no doubt the Taj Mahal is stunning, luminous and fairy tale like with its gleaming white exterior, wonderfully subtle decoration and dimensions of perfect symmetry. It stands proudly above 300 metre square gardens lined with fountains, water pools, flowerbeds and tree lined avenues, equally meticulous in their construction. Yet it's difficult to truly absorb the sheer magnificence of the Taj when a) it's pouring with rain and b) you're sharing the moment with teeming hordes of multinational tour groups jostling their way around the site like rush hour commuters.
I'll start with the weather. It's common practice for visitors to the Taj to arrive at dawn (around 7am) to see it at its most atmospheric as the sun rises above its towering dome and minarets. Unfortunately, the day I picked was probably the only day this year when there was no sun at all. Bleary eyed after a 5.30am start, I found myself splashing through puddles with plastic bags on my feet, shivering as the wind and drizzle did its worst around me. It certainly felt like February - but in England, not India.
And then there's the tourists. OK, OK - I know I was one too, and travelling on an organised tour as well. But there's something depressingly mechanical about the vast, 50 strong Japanese groups that surge around the Taj like cultural locusts, coalescing into one collective entity of Oriental aggression that ruthlessly elbows aside all in its path in a relentless bid to break the world record for the highest number of photographs ever taken in one place. Oh, and they wear name badges too, just in case they still can't remember who's who after three months of barging their way around the world's great historical attractions together.
I do hope I don't sound insensitive singling out Japanese tourists for my irascible tirade just after their country has undergone such a terrible tragedy, and I know there's plenty of annoying people from other places too. But one of the joys of travel is having room to breathe and move and take in the sights and sounds of where you are at your own pace. At mega sites like the Taj, this just isn't possible because of the huge numbers of people there at the same time, many of whom sadly seem somewhat less inclined to pause for a moment of reflection.
Rather more to the Sage's liking was the unheralded, predominantly rural state of Madya Pradesh, in the centre of India. With the exception of Khajuraho, the home of the famously indiscreet Kama Sutra-inspired temple carvings (even horses get in on the fun...) there was barely a foreigner in sight during our four day stay in the region, and those in search of a 'real' India of traditional villages and oxen carts would be well advised to pay it a visit, before everyone else finds out about it.
Be warned though - in the otherwise serene riverside town of Orcha, I was the victim of an unexpected, completely unprovoked assault - at the hands (or rather the hooves) of an adolescent cow with clear anger management issues. I had innocently posed for a picture alongside the beast when the belligerent bovine suddenly and without warning charged at me head first, depositing a hefty dollop of saliva and snot on my leg. Thankfully no more serious injuries were sustained, but the laughter of the watching locals suggested to me that I would have certainly been left to my fate had my assailant opted to mount a more concerted attack upon my person.
As most of you will know, the cow is sacred in India, and this ancient status seems to have given them the freedom to do whatever they please. In almost every town, these holy herbivores randomly roam the streets, eating rubbish, wandering into shops and stepping in and out of the traffic with all the carefree nonchalance of a Victorian aristocrat out for an afternoon stroll. This is a much more serious matter for the motorists, who face the same penalties for hitting a cow as they do for running over a human. What's more, if the mooing masses ever tire of dining on rotting vegetables and withered grass, Hindu customs dictate that the first chapati cooked in each house should be offered to a cow before the family can eat, so there's never long to wait before a dutiful father emerges around the corner clutching a generous helping of piping hot homemade bread.
Also held in high regard in India are the Maharajas, the ancestral rulers of many of the country's historic kingdoms. These titles were technically phased out after independence in 1947, but their descendants often continue to live in the palaces of their forefathers and remain individuals of significant wealth and influence.
One such man is the Maharaja of Alipura, whom I met while staying in his palace, some of which has been converted into a hotel rich in period character. A devout man, he had returned home from Madya Pradesh's state capital, where he is a leading politician, to attend a Hindu festival in his village. We enjoyed a most stimulating conversation about the development of tourism and conservation in the region, and I went to bed hopeful that His Highness was impressed by the intellectual and moral fibre of the kind of people he had welcomed into in his princely abode.
Any such impression was rudely shattered the following lunchtime when the Maharaja decided to take a walk onto his roof terrace and was met by the unedifying sight of The Sage clad in nothing but a pair of shorts, swilling a bottle of lager with a bikini-clad young lady sat on either side. He took one look at us before walking downstairs without a word, and thus my brief encounter with the ennobled elite of India's society was over.
NEXT TIME: The Sage Goes South...
Tuesday 29 March 2011
The Sage's India: Part 1 - Discovering Delhi and Retching in Rajasthan
Dear followers
First of all, apologies to those of you who were expecting a frequent flow of finger on the pulse live travelogues from the Sage during my five weeks in India. Despite my best intentions, intermittent half hours of internet browsing seemed to evaporate into a flurry of Facebook updates and football score checking, leaving no time for more detailed (some would say bloated and verbose) musings.
Now I'm back on home soil and with plenty of time on my hands as I dip my toe unenthusiastically back into the employment market, I will do my best to update you on my travels through a series of unapologetically self-indulgent ramblings.
Rewind nearly six weeks, and I stepped off an overnight flight to Delhi and ambled straight into my first experience of the Indians' impressive persistence in trying to sell you things you couldn't possibly want. After introductory pleasantries (where are you from, what is your job, are you married, what are the names of all your family and their life stories etc) I was asked by my taxi driver if I wanted to go and buy a carpet as he could get a very good price. Now let me think about this. I've just got off a 9 hour flight, I've been up for nearly 24 hours and I probably smell. So, with the greatest of respect, I think I'd rather just go to my hotel and get some sleep, thanks all the same.
"How about a scarf. I have very nice scarves, very good price." Errr... still no I'm afraid. "Perhaps a shirt for you sir, very good price." That's very kind, but I have everything I need thanks, please can you take me to my hotel now. "Yes sir, no problem sir. But first, do you want to buy a carpet?"
I was begrudgingly dropped off at my destination and the first person I met as I stepped out of the cab was a beggar with no legs. "Welcome to India sir," he said in flawless English. Delhi is certainly no place for those in search of a sanitised, perfectly manicured city break. The roads are a chaotic maelstrom of honking tuk tuks, fume-spluttering cars and kamikaze cyclists, with no traffic system whatsoever to control it. I swiftly learnt that the only way to get anywhere was to simply stride out confidently into the sea of vehicles and hope they decided to drive around me rather than through me. Surprisingly, this system works rather well for both pedestrian and motorist, and I found that in India in general the kind of hair raising incidents that would provoke severe road rage in the UK are simply shrugged off as part and parcel of trying to get from A to B.
Delhi is also widely considered to be the most polluted place on earth, and after a few hours there, my throat felt like I'd gone back to my 20 Marlboro Reds a day habit of my student years. The city's pavements also need to be negotiated with care, not just because of the yawning potholes and cracks big enough for an elephant to fall down, but also the streams of urine sprayed onto the street by the local population, who seem willing to unzip with a cock-flapping abandon that rivals the most weak-bladdered Saturday night drunk. And then there's the grinding poverty, not just individual beggars, some with horrific deformities, but whole families living together in makeshift shacks of cloth, wood and scrap iron, mothers cooking and children playing as the rest of the world walks past seemingly oblivious to their desperate yet strangely orderly lives.
Despite all of these things, I loved Delhi. There's no better place to immerse yourself in the whole spectrum of Indian society, which lest we forget has more dollar billionaires than the UK and one of the fastest growing economies in the world as well as an estimated 250 million people living below the poverty line. New Delhi's grand government buildings and wide, leafy boulevards would not look out of place in Paris, while the old city's labyrinthine bazaar, ancient mosques and temples are typical of India's rich cultural heritage. Historical sites of interest are everywhere, from the serenely peaceful Gandhi Smrti (where the great man was assassinated) to the awe-inspiring Qutb Minar mosque complex, which boasts the world's tallest minaret.
I could quite happily have spent another few days exploring India's capital, but the tour I'd joined was now underway and my next stop was Jaipur, the famous Pink City of Rajasthan. This really is the quintessential India many of us will have seen in the history books - impossibly grand and colourful palaces and forts, occupied by fierce native princes perched imperiously on their war elephants. India's a republic these days, but many of the old royal families still reside in their ancestral homes, making sure the memories of their illustrious past are kept alive.
While there was much to see and enjoy in Jaipur - I made a characteristically uncoordinated attempt at Rajastanhi folk dancing, and even tried on a sari - the city will for me forever be associated with my first (and thankfully last) bout of Delhi Belly.
I was sticking to my pre-trip pledge to go veggie, and had sailed through my first few days in India without the slightest hint of a rogue bowel movement. But as I sat down to my aloo gobi after a most enjoyable evening at a Bollywood cinema (watching, somewhat bizarrely, a Hindi film about a British Asian cricketer in London) I knew that something was wrong as I felt a surging sickness moving up from my stomach. I barely left the bathroom for the next 9 hours, which developed into a ghastly combination of an industrial mudchute on overdrive and an audition for the part of the possessed girl in The Exorcist. The next morning I was so drained I could barely pack my suitcase, and it took all my remaining energy to drag my Immodium-riddled body onto the bus where I lay pitifully hoping that my pants would survive the forthcoming three hour journey.
I later concluded that the culprit was not some devilishly spiced Indian concoction, but rather a humble vegetarian pizza , consumed in a supposedly reputable Jaipur restaurant which also claimed several other victims in our group over the next 24 hours. The Sage spent the next 24 hours on a frugal diet of water and rehydration tablets, weary but determined to mount a full recovery as his visit to the Taj Mahal drew ever closer.
TO BE CONTINUED...
First of all, apologies to those of you who were expecting a frequent flow of finger on the pulse live travelogues from the Sage during my five weeks in India. Despite my best intentions, intermittent half hours of internet browsing seemed to evaporate into a flurry of Facebook updates and football score checking, leaving no time for more detailed (some would say bloated and verbose) musings.
Now I'm back on home soil and with plenty of time on my hands as I dip my toe unenthusiastically back into the employment market, I will do my best to update you on my travels through a series of unapologetically self-indulgent ramblings.
Rewind nearly six weeks, and I stepped off an overnight flight to Delhi and ambled straight into my first experience of the Indians' impressive persistence in trying to sell you things you couldn't possibly want. After introductory pleasantries (where are you from, what is your job, are you married, what are the names of all your family and their life stories etc) I was asked by my taxi driver if I wanted to go and buy a carpet as he could get a very good price. Now let me think about this. I've just got off a 9 hour flight, I've been up for nearly 24 hours and I probably smell. So, with the greatest of respect, I think I'd rather just go to my hotel and get some sleep, thanks all the same.
"How about a scarf. I have very nice scarves, very good price." Errr... still no I'm afraid. "Perhaps a shirt for you sir, very good price." That's very kind, but I have everything I need thanks, please can you take me to my hotel now. "Yes sir, no problem sir. But first, do you want to buy a carpet?"
I was begrudgingly dropped off at my destination and the first person I met as I stepped out of the cab was a beggar with no legs. "Welcome to India sir," he said in flawless English. Delhi is certainly no place for those in search of a sanitised, perfectly manicured city break. The roads are a chaotic maelstrom of honking tuk tuks, fume-spluttering cars and kamikaze cyclists, with no traffic system whatsoever to control it. I swiftly learnt that the only way to get anywhere was to simply stride out confidently into the sea of vehicles and hope they decided to drive around me rather than through me. Surprisingly, this system works rather well for both pedestrian and motorist, and I found that in India in general the kind of hair raising incidents that would provoke severe road rage in the UK are simply shrugged off as part and parcel of trying to get from A to B.
Delhi is also widely considered to be the most polluted place on earth, and after a few hours there, my throat felt like I'd gone back to my 20 Marlboro Reds a day habit of my student years. The city's pavements also need to be negotiated with care, not just because of the yawning potholes and cracks big enough for an elephant to fall down, but also the streams of urine sprayed onto the street by the local population, who seem willing to unzip with a cock-flapping abandon that rivals the most weak-bladdered Saturday night drunk. And then there's the grinding poverty, not just individual beggars, some with horrific deformities, but whole families living together in makeshift shacks of cloth, wood and scrap iron, mothers cooking and children playing as the rest of the world walks past seemingly oblivious to their desperate yet strangely orderly lives.
Despite all of these things, I loved Delhi. There's no better place to immerse yourself in the whole spectrum of Indian society, which lest we forget has more dollar billionaires than the UK and one of the fastest growing economies in the world as well as an estimated 250 million people living below the poverty line. New Delhi's grand government buildings and wide, leafy boulevards would not look out of place in Paris, while the old city's labyrinthine bazaar, ancient mosques and temples are typical of India's rich cultural heritage. Historical sites of interest are everywhere, from the serenely peaceful Gandhi Smrti (where the great man was assassinated) to the awe-inspiring Qutb Minar mosque complex, which boasts the world's tallest minaret.
I could quite happily have spent another few days exploring India's capital, but the tour I'd joined was now underway and my next stop was Jaipur, the famous Pink City of Rajasthan. This really is the quintessential India many of us will have seen in the history books - impossibly grand and colourful palaces and forts, occupied by fierce native princes perched imperiously on their war elephants. India's a republic these days, but many of the old royal families still reside in their ancestral homes, making sure the memories of their illustrious past are kept alive.
While there was much to see and enjoy in Jaipur - I made a characteristically uncoordinated attempt at Rajastanhi folk dancing, and even tried on a sari - the city will for me forever be associated with my first (and thankfully last) bout of Delhi Belly.
I was sticking to my pre-trip pledge to go veggie, and had sailed through my first few days in India without the slightest hint of a rogue bowel movement. But as I sat down to my aloo gobi after a most enjoyable evening at a Bollywood cinema (watching, somewhat bizarrely, a Hindi film about a British Asian cricketer in London) I knew that something was wrong as I felt a surging sickness moving up from my stomach. I barely left the bathroom for the next 9 hours, which developed into a ghastly combination of an industrial mudchute on overdrive and an audition for the part of the possessed girl in The Exorcist. The next morning I was so drained I could barely pack my suitcase, and it took all my remaining energy to drag my Immodium-riddled body onto the bus where I lay pitifully hoping that my pants would survive the forthcoming three hour journey.
I later concluded that the culprit was not some devilishly spiced Indian concoction, but rather a humble vegetarian pizza , consumed in a supposedly reputable Jaipur restaurant which also claimed several other victims in our group over the next 24 hours. The Sage spent the next 24 hours on a frugal diet of water and rehydration tablets, weary but determined to mount a full recovery as his visit to the Taj Mahal drew ever closer.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Friday 11 February 2011
Film Review: Another Year
Every once in a while, a film comes along that reminds you that the British cinema industry is still capable of delivering more than saccharine period dramas and Cockney gangster capers. Mike Leigh's Another Year, released late in 2010 but currently enjoying a short run at Bermondsey's splendid Shortwave Cinema, is just such a work.
Since the late 1970s, Mancunian Leigh has directed a steady stream of plays, TV dramas and full length features skilfully analysing the quietly dysfunctional relationships that go on within communities all across Britain. Unlike say Ken Loach, Leigh generally avoids wallowing in cliches about the downtrodden but spirited working classes and instead presents a more even handed portrayal of people from all across society.
Another Year focuses on 12 months in the life of Tom and Geri (yes really) an affable, contented professional couple enjoying late middle age in London suburbia. As with many Leigh films, there is no plot as such. What we get instead is a quartet of extended set pieces, themed around the four seasons, providing a platform for some wonderfully observed interaction between a group of fantastic actors, often asked by Leigh to improvise dialogue (he starts all his projects without a script) for heightened authenticity.
The central couple (played with great warmth and humour by Jim Broadbent and Ruth Sheen) are essentially an advertisement for the benefits of long-term, stable companionship, acting as a social hub and rock of support for the more troubled lives of their friends and family, who by and large do not seem to have such a fulfilled existence.
Whether it's son Joe (30 something and single), Tom's brother Ronnie (recently bereaved) or most prominently Geri's work colleague Mary (bitterly divorced), the other people in Tom and Geri's world are all portrayed as victims of loneliness. While Joe appears to receive redemption later in the film by meeting a new partner, mutton dressed as lamb Mary (Lesley Manville, superb), approaching 50 and clearly desperate for love, sinks further into depression, drink and an unhealthy dependence on Tom and Geri, who are torn between their good natured compassion for a troubled soul and an increasing irritation at her behaviour.
During the year, we witness dinner parties, barbecues, after work drinks, rounds of golf - in other words, all the day to day events that many of us experience every week. Most affecting of all is Tom's return to his native Derby to oversee the funeral of brother Ronnie's wife, which perfectly captures the tense awkwardness of an estranged family forced to engage with one another again by a shared loss.
Whether it's Mary chattering inanely about the new car she picked up for £600, Tom and his old school friend Ken wistfully recalling the glory years of Derby County football club or Joe's new girlfriend Katie nervously giggling at every joke during a first meeting with his parents, Another Year is that rare thing - a film depicting ordinary, fundamentally decent people with good points and bad points going about their lives in a normal way, sometimes having to face up to challenges and deal with them as best they can. Those seeking fast paced action and show stopping drama may struggle with the more understated charms on offer here, but viewers prepared to show patience will be amply rewarded.
Leigh has directed some great films in his time - the nightmarish Naked and the poignant Vera Drake to name but two. But this life affirming combination of real, human characters in real, human situations may be his best work yet.
Since the late 1970s, Mancunian Leigh has directed a steady stream of plays, TV dramas and full length features skilfully analysing the quietly dysfunctional relationships that go on within communities all across Britain. Unlike say Ken Loach, Leigh generally avoids wallowing in cliches about the downtrodden but spirited working classes and instead presents a more even handed portrayal of people from all across society.
Another Year focuses on 12 months in the life of Tom and Geri (yes really) an affable, contented professional couple enjoying late middle age in London suburbia. As with many Leigh films, there is no plot as such. What we get instead is a quartet of extended set pieces, themed around the four seasons, providing a platform for some wonderfully observed interaction between a group of fantastic actors, often asked by Leigh to improvise dialogue (he starts all his projects without a script) for heightened authenticity.
The central couple (played with great warmth and humour by Jim Broadbent and Ruth Sheen) are essentially an advertisement for the benefits of long-term, stable companionship, acting as a social hub and rock of support for the more troubled lives of their friends and family, who by and large do not seem to have such a fulfilled existence.
Whether it's son Joe (30 something and single), Tom's brother Ronnie (recently bereaved) or most prominently Geri's work colleague Mary (bitterly divorced), the other people in Tom and Geri's world are all portrayed as victims of loneliness. While Joe appears to receive redemption later in the film by meeting a new partner, mutton dressed as lamb Mary (Lesley Manville, superb), approaching 50 and clearly desperate for love, sinks further into depression, drink and an unhealthy dependence on Tom and Geri, who are torn between their good natured compassion for a troubled soul and an increasing irritation at her behaviour.
During the year, we witness dinner parties, barbecues, after work drinks, rounds of golf - in other words, all the day to day events that many of us experience every week. Most affecting of all is Tom's return to his native Derby to oversee the funeral of brother Ronnie's wife, which perfectly captures the tense awkwardness of an estranged family forced to engage with one another again by a shared loss.
Whether it's Mary chattering inanely about the new car she picked up for £600, Tom and his old school friend Ken wistfully recalling the glory years of Derby County football club or Joe's new girlfriend Katie nervously giggling at every joke during a first meeting with his parents, Another Year is that rare thing - a film depicting ordinary, fundamentally decent people with good points and bad points going about their lives in a normal way, sometimes having to face up to challenges and deal with them as best they can. Those seeking fast paced action and show stopping drama may struggle with the more understated charms on offer here, but viewers prepared to show patience will be amply rewarded.
Leigh has directed some great films in his time - the nightmarish Naked and the poignant Vera Drake to name but two. But this life affirming combination of real, human characters in real, human situations may be his best work yet.
Friday 14 January 2011
Thoughts on bonuses and banker bashing
It's over two years since the collapse of Lehman Brothers, the bail-out of some of the UK's biggest banks as part of the Gordon Brown(remember him?)inspired global financial stimulus and the disintegration of Iceland's spectacularly overstretched economy. While still undoubtedly sickly, with basement interest rates, high employment and draconian lending conditions, the UK seems to have moved off life support and has entered a period of cautious convalescence.
Yet what apparently hasn't changed at all is the attitude of 95% of the UK population towards 'the bankers', who have become a detested breed synonomous with all the ills of post-credit crunch society. What makes this even more galling for many other folk is the apparent lack of contrition from senior figures in the financial services sector about how close the arcane instruments of their trade came to plunging the UK into economic meltdown. Big bonuses are back, just in time to coincide with the increase in tuition fees and VAT and the coalition's decimation of public services spending.
The Sage worked in the City for many years, and like the vast majority of people in the Square Mile, was adequately but not lavishly renumerated, with a bonus that might stretch to a holiday in the sun rather than my own villa there. A century ago, the great manufacturing industries of Britain's golden age were still the main engines of the nation's employment, but those days are long gone with the emerging markets of Asia now offering a far cheaper workshop of the world. Like it or not, financial services is now the UK's leading industry - which was why the government had no option but to bail it out - and the legions of PAs, administrators, call centre agents and middle managers who commute into to the City every day to make a living do not deserve to be tarred with the same brush as the small number of bankers being paid astronomical sums. Yet in my experience others do not always see the distinction.
The other point I would raise is the element of culpability society as a whole has for the financial crisis. Since the 1980s, we have spiralled into a credit vortex, victims of the 'must have' material culture of entitlement in my view attributable to the every man for himself, 'greed is good' ethos espoused by Margaret Thatcher and her administration. The stigma of debt, whether it be through ever-increasing credit card limits or the availability 100% mortgages, gradually decreased, and our weakness in the face of temptation created the raw ingredients that allowed the bankers to concoct their ever more intricate and toxic potions. In short, it's not just the financial services sector's fault that we're in this mess. Lots of people in the UK and elsewhere in the developed world used credit to live beyond their means - a time bomb waiting to go off.
Having said all of that, banks certainly should feel a moral responsibility in the current climate to show more restraint in the payment of bonuses and at least acknowledge public opprobrium. But assuming that many of them don't, then the buck stops with the government as the representatives of the British people to do something about it. Higher taxation is a start, but that won't stop sky high bonuses. It also has to be accepted that Cameron and his colleagues are not in a position to dictate the behaviour of the many overseas banks operating in the UK, or even those British companies that didn't need to take taxpayers' money. But I find it hard to accept that the government can't flex its muscles more with those institutions where the taxpayer is the majority owner. Surely someone who has an 82% stake in any business should have the final say on how much its workforce are paid?? There's a persuasive argument that reducing renumeration at bailed out banks will lead to a talent exodus, which in turn will make the banks less competitive to the further detriment of the taxpayer. Yet in an industry the size of the City there's always hungry new talent coming through and that new talent can be given its head.
A cliche it may be, but it's also important to remember that the banking sector and its problems are truly global. So unless there is unanimous accord across the financial services sector worldwide to change their ways and scale down bonuses across the board, then there's only so much governments or anyone else can do. The Sage for one is not holding his breath on that one.
Yet what apparently hasn't changed at all is the attitude of 95% of the UK population towards 'the bankers', who have become a detested breed synonomous with all the ills of post-credit crunch society. What makes this even more galling for many other folk is the apparent lack of contrition from senior figures in the financial services sector about how close the arcane instruments of their trade came to plunging the UK into economic meltdown. Big bonuses are back, just in time to coincide with the increase in tuition fees and VAT and the coalition's decimation of public services spending.
The Sage worked in the City for many years, and like the vast majority of people in the Square Mile, was adequately but not lavishly renumerated, with a bonus that might stretch to a holiday in the sun rather than my own villa there. A century ago, the great manufacturing industries of Britain's golden age were still the main engines of the nation's employment, but those days are long gone with the emerging markets of Asia now offering a far cheaper workshop of the world. Like it or not, financial services is now the UK's leading industry - which was why the government had no option but to bail it out - and the legions of PAs, administrators, call centre agents and middle managers who commute into to the City every day to make a living do not deserve to be tarred with the same brush as the small number of bankers being paid astronomical sums. Yet in my experience others do not always see the distinction.
The other point I would raise is the element of culpability society as a whole has for the financial crisis. Since the 1980s, we have spiralled into a credit vortex, victims of the 'must have' material culture of entitlement in my view attributable to the every man for himself, 'greed is good' ethos espoused by Margaret Thatcher and her administration. The stigma of debt, whether it be through ever-increasing credit card limits or the availability 100% mortgages, gradually decreased, and our weakness in the face of temptation created the raw ingredients that allowed the bankers to concoct their ever more intricate and toxic potions. In short, it's not just the financial services sector's fault that we're in this mess. Lots of people in the UK and elsewhere in the developed world used credit to live beyond their means - a time bomb waiting to go off.
Having said all of that, banks certainly should feel a moral responsibility in the current climate to show more restraint in the payment of bonuses and at least acknowledge public opprobrium. But assuming that many of them don't, then the buck stops with the government as the representatives of the British people to do something about it. Higher taxation is a start, but that won't stop sky high bonuses. It also has to be accepted that Cameron and his colleagues are not in a position to dictate the behaviour of the many overseas banks operating in the UK, or even those British companies that didn't need to take taxpayers' money. But I find it hard to accept that the government can't flex its muscles more with those institutions where the taxpayer is the majority owner. Surely someone who has an 82% stake in any business should have the final say on how much its workforce are paid?? There's a persuasive argument that reducing renumeration at bailed out banks will lead to a talent exodus, which in turn will make the banks less competitive to the further detriment of the taxpayer. Yet in an industry the size of the City there's always hungry new talent coming through and that new talent can be given its head.
A cliche it may be, but it's also important to remember that the banking sector and its problems are truly global. So unless there is unanimous accord across the financial services sector worldwide to change their ways and scale down bonuses across the board, then there's only so much governments or anyone else can do. The Sage for one is not holding his breath on that one.
Wednesday 5 January 2011
The Sage's Desert Island Discs
Dear followers
Happy New Year all. The Sage has returned from a spell wintering in Burton upon Trent, and decided to while away a couple of hours selecting my Desert Island Discs in anticipation of an imminent invitation from Kirsty Young. Whittling down a lifetime of music to just eight songs proved to be no mean feat, and I feel I've betrayed some great artists like Neil Young, Van Morrison and Black Lace by not including them.
But I've finally made my choices, so in no particular order, here are the songs the Sage has selected should I ever find myself abandoned on a remote South Pacific archipelago. You can view YouTube clips of each of my choices by clicking on the song titles. Enjoy!
Bridge Over Troubled Water - Simon and Garfunkel
Covered and played to death, the greatness of this song still remains undimmed for me. The piano led melody is almost hymnal, the strings gradually build to an epic, swirling conclusion, and above it all is Art Garfunkel singing like an angel. A towering work of perfection.
God Only Knows - The Beach Boys
Another golden oldie, but has there ever been a more skilled arranger in popular music than Brian Wilson? The harmonies in this song are quite simply spine-tingling, backed by some sublime orchestration and another wonderful lead vocal from Brian's brother Carl.
Blue Monday - New Order
I'd need something to tap my toes to on that desert island, and this immensely influential record was arguably the first to successfully blend dance music with indie. Menacing, funky, catchy and cool all at the same time, so much of what's followed over the past 25 years owes its existence to Blue Monday.
This Charming Man - The Smiths
Staying with Manchester in the 80s, and The Smiths are in the view of the Sage up there with the Beatles as the best British band of all time. I nearly didn't choose this particular song after hearing that David Cameron included it in his Desert Island discs recently, but it's such a perfect distillation of everything that made The Smiths great that I swallowed my pride in the end.
The Swan from Carnival Of The Animals - Camille Saint Saens
The Sage quite likes a bit of classical music on the sly, and in the interests of a balanced octet I've included this heartbreakingly beautiful recording from The Carnival Of The Animals to soothe me in my seclusion. The cello playing is so expressive it almost weeps.
Just Like A Woman - Bob Dylan
I could have picked any one of a dozen Dylan songs from his formidable back catalogue, but this one has always been my favourite. It's Bob at his most accessible, with a lilting, yearning melody, floating organ, bar room piano, harmonica and a lovely Spanish-style guitar. Plus the lyrics make more sense than usual.
Saturday - The Clientele
My one left field choice - a marvellously melancholy song by the most criminally underrated band of modern times. Virtually noone's ever heard of London's The Clientele, but if you want an atmospheric soundtrack to a late night alone, you'll struggle to find better than this.
God - John Lennon
Like Dylan, I could have chosen any one of a large number of Beatles songs, but this track from Lennon's solo debut is to me more powerful than anything he recorded as part of the Fab Four. Unlike the rather sickly proselytising of the much more famous but vastly inferior Imagine, this shows John at his most angry but also his most poetic.
So there we have it - my Desert Island Discs! It will probably change next week, but in the meantime, feel free to share your views on my choices.
Kind regards
The Sage
Happy New Year all. The Sage has returned from a spell wintering in Burton upon Trent, and decided to while away a couple of hours selecting my Desert Island Discs in anticipation of an imminent invitation from Kirsty Young. Whittling down a lifetime of music to just eight songs proved to be no mean feat, and I feel I've betrayed some great artists like Neil Young, Van Morrison and Black Lace by not including them.
But I've finally made my choices, so in no particular order, here are the songs the Sage has selected should I ever find myself abandoned on a remote South Pacific archipelago. You can view YouTube clips of each of my choices by clicking on the song titles. Enjoy!
Bridge Over Troubled Water - Simon and Garfunkel
Covered and played to death, the greatness of this song still remains undimmed for me. The piano led melody is almost hymnal, the strings gradually build to an epic, swirling conclusion, and above it all is Art Garfunkel singing like an angel. A towering work of perfection.
God Only Knows - The Beach Boys
Another golden oldie, but has there ever been a more skilled arranger in popular music than Brian Wilson? The harmonies in this song are quite simply spine-tingling, backed by some sublime orchestration and another wonderful lead vocal from Brian's brother Carl.
Blue Monday - New Order
I'd need something to tap my toes to on that desert island, and this immensely influential record was arguably the first to successfully blend dance music with indie. Menacing, funky, catchy and cool all at the same time, so much of what's followed over the past 25 years owes its existence to Blue Monday.
This Charming Man - The Smiths
Staying with Manchester in the 80s, and The Smiths are in the view of the Sage up there with the Beatles as the best British band of all time. I nearly didn't choose this particular song after hearing that David Cameron included it in his Desert Island discs recently, but it's such a perfect distillation of everything that made The Smiths great that I swallowed my pride in the end.
The Swan from Carnival Of The Animals - Camille Saint Saens
The Sage quite likes a bit of classical music on the sly, and in the interests of a balanced octet I've included this heartbreakingly beautiful recording from The Carnival Of The Animals to soothe me in my seclusion. The cello playing is so expressive it almost weeps.
Just Like A Woman - Bob Dylan
I could have picked any one of a dozen Dylan songs from his formidable back catalogue, but this one has always been my favourite. It's Bob at his most accessible, with a lilting, yearning melody, floating organ, bar room piano, harmonica and a lovely Spanish-style guitar. Plus the lyrics make more sense than usual.
Saturday - The Clientele
My one left field choice - a marvellously melancholy song by the most criminally underrated band of modern times. Virtually noone's ever heard of London's The Clientele, but if you want an atmospheric soundtrack to a late night alone, you'll struggle to find better than this.
God - John Lennon
Like Dylan, I could have chosen any one of a large number of Beatles songs, but this track from Lennon's solo debut is to me more powerful than anything he recorded as part of the Fab Four. Unlike the rather sickly proselytising of the much more famous but vastly inferior Imagine, this shows John at his most angry but also his most poetic.
So there we have it - my Desert Island Discs! It will probably change next week, but in the meantime, feel free to share your views on my choices.
Kind regards
The Sage
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