Your blog is about to be recorded into an audiobook. If you could choose anyone — from your grandma to Samuel L. Jackson — to narrate your posts, who would it be?
I wonder how many people would like to think they'd have their work narrated by Morgan Freeman? It's too, too easy...
It's not exactly been an inspiring day. Working the desk is taking a creative toll, and not least the toll on the old voce of having to answer the phone all day. Monday was a standout though, where I had to pick up in front of half of the 'Scholary Dwellers', to utter hilarity. Switching volte face from my usual, rich and characterful vernacular to the super smooth professional telephone voice to end all telephone voices was the joke of the day as far as the lads were concerned. Of course, I have to deal with my voice almost every second of my professional life, what with being a singer and all. As I'll tell anyone who'll listen, I think countertenors are completely ridiculous... But then again, the whole act of singing is totally beyond imagining. Look at Opera! The spectacle. The noise. The sheer volume of both sound and timbre of the voices that fill vast auditoria without amplification!
Anyway. I don't half feel that working all day isn't exactly the most conducive environment to finding a kernel, some exciting premise. Sometimes I feel like my vocabulary's shrinking, what with doing the same thing all day every day, seeing and speaking to the same people all day long... I'm just glad that Evensong's back on, that critical vent at the end of the day to ensure mental survival, so answering the phone and taking messages doesn't take over my entire mind, that all there's left for me to do is answer the phone... AHHHHHHH!
To the prompt though. Just who would narrate, who would go down on record reading the assembled ouvre of old Captain Pebblez? Obviously if such a thing were to happen, I'd have to have a lot of money to put behind the project. Maybe I could pull a few favours through some old friends (although who truly is your friend in a position of power?), and get what I want. Or what I think I want. I'm very conscious that most of my writing is composed primarily of moaning. My tears have been my meat, day and night, and there have been times in my writing life where I've been less than afraid of saying so as well. However, there's always a silver lining somewhere along the line, and as I write, I'm enjoying an episode of Richard E. Grant trolling round the Hotels of Tokyo, and thinking that perhaps he would be the man for the job.
This man is a hero. A personal hero. He smells not only everything he eats, but also absolutely everything. He wears two watches on his wrists. He is an incredible man. Mad beyond belief, genuinely engaging and entertaining in a way that is so seldom seen. Famously, he was the eponymous Withnail, even though he's tee-total. I love this guy. He's the ultimate eccentric English gent, especially in a programme like this, the last vestige of an old and idealised Empire.
I want him to read it, all the moaning and all the all the shady vignettes, the last vestiges of academia and everything inbetween. I'd imagine that we'd discuss the recording arrangement over a sumptuous dinner, licking the plate between every course. Surrounded by odours of edom, perhaps some myrrh from the forest? Anyway, his voice sounds far better than mine.
Showing posts with label Daily Prompt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Daily Prompt. Show all posts
Thursday, 11 September 2014
Thursday, 4 September 2014
Cast Change
You've just been named the casting director of your favorite television show (or movie franchise). The catch: you must replace the entire cast — with your friends and family. Who gets which role?
This is great, isn't it? A real gimme. Thing is, most of last year actually felt like I was living in an American sitcom, more specifically some bizarre mash up of The Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother. It's easy, really, looking at last year's roster, and allows for the necessary overlaps as and when. There are the obvious cues, of course - our very own Cardinal Sin is Barney, while Madame Mim could almost be an exact double for Robin, to an uncanny level of detail. Things begin to blur a little bit from here, but you can equate Lily and Marshall with The King of Canadia and his young lady, although instead of heading for Judiciary service on a State Supreme Court, he's more suited to oh I dunno, something a little more Prime Ministerial. Those two great fools are harder to pitch though. On balance, der Sohn is more like our Raj equivalent than not. The Prodigal son is possibly the best mirror we have of Howard, even if he isn't Jewish, and he's still waiting for his Bernadette. At a push, Mr. and the future Mrs. Murray are a mixture between Leonard and Penny and Marshall and Lily. And me? Isn't that obvious? Why, I'm the worst parts of Moseby and Cooper, in one unhappy package.
It's easy to find parallels with television in life, especially character based sitcoms like the above, especially if you look hard enough. While I no longer live communally, as soon as you get into that environment, people fall into roles that fit the particular dynamic. They fulfill certain archetypal roles in a group. Sometimes, everybody listens to the loudest person in the room, in a race to the top for sheer dominance. Sometimes that leads to the invasion of Poland, but now isn't the time for Historical commentary really. Living in a close knit group like the Scholars do here, not only living together but singing services and more often than not propping up bars together every day. Something like HIMYM's scenes set in MacLaren's, often featuring Barney spouting the phrase "challenge accepted" might as well be a mirror to being sat round the table at the local JD Wetherspoons establishment with Cardinal Sin detailing his latest Tinder success, or listening to the Swedish Chef talk about the hot barmaid he'll never speak to. The feeling was much more like the unrelated yet familial dynamic in most American sitcoms, the kind of thing you find airing in double bills on E4 of an afternoon.
The big question now, of course is what will this year turn out to be like? What must-see light comedy with tinges of sadness and the occasional profound statement will mirror this year? This year really is all to play for, and as we stand on the brink of it all starting again, it's worth letting it work itself out before defining it. Last year was pretty simple to compare, because two of the major players were Canadians. Now, two of our arrivals are from within a mile of each other in London, with the third hailing from God's own county.
Of course, I suppose the real challenge is taking this life and fitting it for screen? I mean, you couldn't make this stuff up if you tried...
This is great, isn't it? A real gimme. Thing is, most of last year actually felt like I was living in an American sitcom, more specifically some bizarre mash up of The Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother. It's easy, really, looking at last year's roster, and allows for the necessary overlaps as and when. There are the obvious cues, of course - our very own Cardinal Sin is Barney, while Madame Mim could almost be an exact double for Robin, to an uncanny level of detail. Things begin to blur a little bit from here, but you can equate Lily and Marshall with The King of Canadia and his young lady, although instead of heading for Judiciary service on a State Supreme Court, he's more suited to oh I dunno, something a little more Prime Ministerial. Those two great fools are harder to pitch though. On balance, der Sohn is more like our Raj equivalent than not. The Prodigal son is possibly the best mirror we have of Howard, even if he isn't Jewish, and he's still waiting for his Bernadette. At a push, Mr. and the future Mrs. Murray are a mixture between Leonard and Penny and Marshall and Lily. And me? Isn't that obvious? Why, I'm the worst parts of Moseby and Cooper, in one unhappy package.
It's easy to find parallels with television in life, especially character based sitcoms like the above, especially if you look hard enough. While I no longer live communally, as soon as you get into that environment, people fall into roles that fit the particular dynamic. They fulfill certain archetypal roles in a group. Sometimes, everybody listens to the loudest person in the room, in a race to the top for sheer dominance. Sometimes that leads to the invasion of Poland, but now isn't the time for Historical commentary really. Living in a close knit group like the Scholars do here, not only living together but singing services and more often than not propping up bars together every day. Something like HIMYM's scenes set in MacLaren's, often featuring Barney spouting the phrase "challenge accepted" might as well be a mirror to being sat round the table at the local JD Wetherspoons establishment with Cardinal Sin detailing his latest Tinder success, or listening to the Swedish Chef talk about the hot barmaid he'll never speak to. The feeling was much more like the unrelated yet familial dynamic in most American sitcoms, the kind of thing you find airing in double bills on E4 of an afternoon.
The big question now, of course is what will this year turn out to be like? What must-see light comedy with tinges of sadness and the occasional profound statement will mirror this year? This year really is all to play for, and as we stand on the brink of it all starting again, it's worth letting it work itself out before defining it. Last year was pretty simple to compare, because two of the major players were Canadians. Now, two of our arrivals are from within a mile of each other in London, with the third hailing from God's own county.
Of course, I suppose the real challenge is taking this life and fitting it for screen? I mean, you couldn't make this stuff up if you tried...
Wednesday, 13 August 2014
Matters of taste
When was the last time a movie, a book, or a television show left you cold despite all your friends (and/or all the critics) raving about it? What was it that made you go against the critical consensus?
Normally I'm for things that are raved against, so an answer doesn't immediately spring to mind. I always consider my options when it comes to books and television, and normally take recommendations under extreme consideration. I tend to research my potential cinema choices quite carefully so as to avoid disappointment - I may never have walked out of a film yet but it remains my ambition to do so, but not deliberately, if that makes sense? One stand out occasion was the film adaption of Michael Morpurgo's War Horse, where the only review I took any notice of was The Doctor's Facebook status about having to walk out. I reasoned if a man of such discerning taste was so disconnected from what was happening on screen, and that he had read it and seen it on stage (although perhaps that informed his decision to leave), and still wanted to leave, then I needn't even bother. I'm just looking forward to having a sense of outrage, the sheer indignation in paying good money for something I didn't want to see through. Anyway.
I guess really the last thing (or should I say things) that left me pretty cold were the Simon Bird comedy vehicles The Inbetweeners and Friday Night Dinner. I tried with the latter but found it boring in the end, and only found limited joy in the eternal rewatching of the Scholary (class of '13) of the former. I basically lost interest in Friday Night Dinner, finding that out of all the opportunity I had to watch it, I'd rather pass, so there isn't really anything left to say. I should have been at least interested in based on the concept but... Feh.
The Inbetweeners is somewhat of a special case though, I suppose. I wonder if there's just something wrong with me, that I found the majority of the show just so ponderous, except for Greg Davies' sadistic headmaster, whom I found vitally hilarious. There's something... Juvenile about Inbetweeners that just doesn't speak to me. The gags are too obvious, too crude or just plain crap. Lord knows this childishness speaks to plenty of others, and I really am a kind of odd man out for not liking it, it seems. I lived with a house full of them for God's sake! Mother always says she can see me and my circle of friends in the Inbetweeners cast, which none of us lads can see at all really. Maybe we were just too cool. Oh, who am I kidding? That's probably why I don't find it very funny though: I identify more with the bitterly cruel Mr. Gilbert than I do with any of the supposed 'heroes' of the piece, which probably says a lot about me
It must be a kind of comedy generational gap, rather than an actual difference in years, having grown up on years of BBC Radio 2 comedy that used to be on a Thursday night after Mark Lamarr's series on early Rock and Roll one year, and the original wave of Ska music the next. Eight Weeks of Steve Punt and Hugh Dennis, the lightning fast one-liners of The News Huddlines, or even that musical comedy show when I heard Flight of the Conchords for the first time ever years before they became cool or famous and it became unfashionable not to be a fan.
I really got into comedy when it was a little harder, illicitly watching the League of Gentlemen late at night on BBC2, or soaking up the acid put downs of Angus Deyton on Have I Got News For You, before he became the punchline, and the never-ending list of guest presenters - although my favourite still has to be when they got Bill Shatner in and everybody took the piss out of everything. I remember watching The Day Today, with Alan Partridge doing the sports reports, and not being sure whether I should laugh or if it was real (I was only a kid when I first saw it). Brass Eye, with its infamous Pedophile special (eternally available on 4OD), and Chris Morris's ultimate journey to madness and back, Jam. I also got into Spaced properly while I was at Uni, with dim recollection of maybe having seen the odd episode when it was actually on air. I bloody love Spaced, and will happily sit and howl with laughter at the whole run, which I periodically rewatch (normally while ironing to help it fly by).
Like I said to begin with though, I'm normally found loving things that get panned, and that almost universally. This is no more apparent than in my film tastes, actually. I used to go out with a girl who had an immense interest in foreign films, and we were lucky enough to have an Arthouse Cinema (just the one screen) nearby, that got a number of really good and often very touching films that we went to see. We also saw Quantum of Solace there, but that's neither here nor there. Yes, I was into foreign films, and still am. We saw La Vie en Rose, Bienvenue la Ch'ti (which I still need to track down), Mrs. Radcliffe's Revolution, Das Leben Der Anderen... I think that's it for The Ritz. Goodbye Lenin and Lola rennt got watched at School, and I now have Låt den Rätte Komma In at home. I hope this has established how much I like films that are actually good, because if there's one thing I enjoy more than watching some 2 hours of subtitles it's watching two hours of special effects kicking ten bells out of itself in the form of anything by destruction auteur Michael Bay. But that's another story.
Normally I'm for things that are raved against, so an answer doesn't immediately spring to mind. I always consider my options when it comes to books and television, and normally take recommendations under extreme consideration. I tend to research my potential cinema choices quite carefully so as to avoid disappointment - I may never have walked out of a film yet but it remains my ambition to do so, but not deliberately, if that makes sense? One stand out occasion was the film adaption of Michael Morpurgo's War Horse, where the only review I took any notice of was The Doctor's Facebook status about having to walk out. I reasoned if a man of such discerning taste was so disconnected from what was happening on screen, and that he had read it and seen it on stage (although perhaps that informed his decision to leave), and still wanted to leave, then I needn't even bother. I'm just looking forward to having a sense of outrage, the sheer indignation in paying good money for something I didn't want to see through. Anyway.
I guess really the last thing (or should I say things) that left me pretty cold were the Simon Bird comedy vehicles The Inbetweeners and Friday Night Dinner. I tried with the latter but found it boring in the end, and only found limited joy in the eternal rewatching of the Scholary (class of '13) of the former. I basically lost interest in Friday Night Dinner, finding that out of all the opportunity I had to watch it, I'd rather pass, so there isn't really anything left to say. I should have been at least interested in based on the concept but... Feh.
 |
| Me in 10 years, obviously. |
It must be a kind of comedy generational gap, rather than an actual difference in years, having grown up on years of BBC Radio 2 comedy that used to be on a Thursday night after Mark Lamarr's series on early Rock and Roll one year, and the original wave of Ska music the next. Eight Weeks of Steve Punt and Hugh Dennis, the lightning fast one-liners of The News Huddlines, or even that musical comedy show when I heard Flight of the Conchords for the first time ever years before they became cool or famous and it became unfashionable not to be a fan.
 |
| I'll see you in your nightmares, Dave. |
Like I said to begin with though, I'm normally found loving things that get panned, and that almost universally. This is no more apparent than in my film tastes, actually. I used to go out with a girl who had an immense interest in foreign films, and we were lucky enough to have an Arthouse Cinema (just the one screen) nearby, that got a number of really good and often very touching films that we went to see. We also saw Quantum of Solace there, but that's neither here nor there. Yes, I was into foreign films, and still am. We saw La Vie en Rose, Bienvenue la Ch'ti (which I still need to track down), Mrs. Radcliffe's Revolution, Das Leben Der Anderen... I think that's it for The Ritz. Goodbye Lenin and Lola rennt got watched at School, and I now have Låt den Rätte Komma In at home. I hope this has established how much I like films that are actually good, because if there's one thing I enjoy more than watching some 2 hours of subtitles it's watching two hours of special effects kicking ten bells out of itself in the form of anything by destruction auteur Michael Bay. But that's another story.
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| Optimus, We hardly knew ye. |
Bookish Choice
A literary-minded witch gives you a choice: with a flick of the wand, you can become either an obscure novelist whose work will be admired and studied by a select few for decades, or a popular paperback author whose books give pleasure to millions. Which do you choose?
But then again, I don't really write novels, do I?
Today's prompt reminds me of that whole press the button thing that suddenly appeared on Tumblr not too long ago, giving us impossible choices at insane prices. I just declined to press the button on "becoming a powerful Jedi in the Star Wars universe BUT I would be followed by an unkillable Jar Jar Binks." Eurgh. To be fair I think that one's pretty much a no-brainer (Or is it? Discuss for forty marks, without mentioning "the sanctity of life"). I was quite clear on that one. But what about this? Both are a kind of literary fame, but there's kind of an intellectual angle on here as well. And maybe immortality.
Being studied for decades, and even centuries confirms a certain immortality to people and things; Bach, Shakespeare, Donne, Galileo, Kant, Mendeleev, and Leonardo Da Vinci, to name but a few from major arts and sciences whose names are never far from even the everyday student's lips, never mind those engaged in serious study. Thanks to their achievements, they have secured a kind of human eternity, that as long as there are those who remember them, their lives and their works, they live on. Could Bright be added to this pantheon? My family name already has a few famous characters, with Sheffield goldsmiths, hymnodists, politicians, and one relative who was instrumental in the laying of Transatlantic Cables in the 1860s. Maybe I would prefer to step up in an occult fashion, and be known in hushed circles for my largely unknown but telling contributions to the literary canon, like some of my favourite composers who are hidden so firmly and darkly in the shadow of J.S Bach that it isn't even funny.
So anyway. Crunch time. There's definitely a life in peddling paperbacks to the masses, it's part of the industry that's vital to keeping up book sales, whether paper or pixels. I don't see myself as that kind of writer though, just looking back on this post rather than taking in the entire oeuvre (ha ha...), what with the programme notes and the crown and all posting every day and planning my travel to the other side of the pond and writing the travel diaries... I follow plenty of writers on both twitters who have paperbacks out on Amazon and make a keep from it, and I may even start following Stephen Fry on the ASW feed. You never know.
I don't really see myself as having the tools or training to become a popular enough writer to go through print runs, and I know that at least my last blog had a cult following, a following that's gradually coming back for this one. To my readers, I offer you thanks. Sometimes people telling me that they love my blog, or that they were moved profoundly (stop laughing at the back) is one of the highest compliments I can receive, so I'm happy. There is always plenty of praise for my programme notes after every concert, and in truth in makes me feel like I'm using my degree, because let's face it, singing in a Cathedral choir is not something that you train for specifically at University. I'd really like to get into writing programme notes and CD liners and whatnot professionally, because people always prefer to read things than hear countertenors on the whole, and as much as a life of singing services is likely to be my bread and butter for years and years, I'd like to have that as a sideline. Perhaps I should go back to university and do a history or English degree to get some credentials and contacts though? But that might entail leaving Truro, and that isn't something I want to do right now. It's on the cards, but... I told the Boss I'd be here for the next two years, so maybe I really ought to apply for something through clearing and have another life on the side. I mean, I might even get a real job... Ahahahahaaaa...
No, there's definitely place for popular stuff. I like how the prompt didn't say anything about quality, as there are many writers who sell millions because their books are excellent and they deserve success. Equally there's so much trash floating around, but the market for that is as strong as ever. I would want to stay here though, off the beaten track, and maybe one day I might just shell out and get my blogs printed, published and bound, bequeathed to the British Library or something as a snapshot of how a mind does, or more often doesn't work sometimes.
So anyway. Crunch time. There's definitely a life in peddling paperbacks to the masses, it's part of the industry that's vital to keeping up book sales, whether paper or pixels. I don't see myself as that kind of writer though, just looking back on this post rather than taking in the entire oeuvre (ha ha...), what with the programme notes and the crown and all posting every day and planning my travel to the other side of the pond and writing the travel diaries... I follow plenty of writers on both twitters who have paperbacks out on Amazon and make a keep from it, and I may even start following Stephen Fry on the ASW feed. You never know.
I don't really see myself as having the tools or training to become a popular enough writer to go through print runs, and I know that at least my last blog had a cult following, a following that's gradually coming back for this one. To my readers, I offer you thanks. Sometimes people telling me that they love my blog, or that they were moved profoundly (stop laughing at the back) is one of the highest compliments I can receive, so I'm happy. There is always plenty of praise for my programme notes after every concert, and in truth in makes me feel like I'm using my degree, because let's face it, singing in a Cathedral choir is not something that you train for specifically at University. I'd really like to get into writing programme notes and CD liners and whatnot professionally, because people always prefer to read things than hear countertenors on the whole, and as much as a life of singing services is likely to be my bread and butter for years and years, I'd like to have that as a sideline. Perhaps I should go back to university and do a history or English degree to get some credentials and contacts though? But that might entail leaving Truro, and that isn't something I want to do right now. It's on the cards, but... I told the Boss I'd be here for the next two years, so maybe I really ought to apply for something through clearing and have another life on the side. I mean, I might even get a real job... Ahahahahaaaa...
No, there's definitely place for popular stuff. I like how the prompt didn't say anything about quality, as there are many writers who sell millions because their books are excellent and they deserve success. Equally there's so much trash floating around, but the market for that is as strong as ever. I would want to stay here though, off the beaten track, and maybe one day I might just shell out and get my blogs printed, published and bound, bequeathed to the British Library or something as a snapshot of how a mind does, or more often doesn't work sometimes.
But then again, I don't really write novels, do I?
Epilogue
Of course, it is still impossible to move anywhere on the internet today without the tragic death of Robin Williams at every corner. Wherever you turn, there are tributes and photos and features on him, his career, and of course, depression. Everyone who suffers knows that there is no sorrow like unto their sorrow, and I'm sure there will be hundreds of analytical post-mortems on Mr. Williams' own struggles with financial problems or substance abuse as well as mental ill health, but as a man who has stared down that knife edge wondering just what is the point anymore, I can't help but wonder what his tipping point could have been. As much strength as it takes to decide to stay alive, it still takes a strength to go ahead with ending your own life. I may write about being depressed a lot of the time (because I am), but I tend to stay away from writing about suicidal tendencies, so you don't call out the men in white coats on me. The single thing that unites the articles I've read are to get out and get help and just talk to people. Sometimes I'm still too afraid to reach out.
Friday, 18 July 2014
Object lesson: What's your trademark?
Sherlock Holmes had his pipe. Dorothy had her red shoes. Batman has his Batmobile. If we asked your friends what object they would most immediately associate with you, what would they say?
I don't think it's so much an object that people would immediately associate with me, more part of my appearance: The Sideburns. Off an on for the last 5 years I've had...interesting facial hair. Originally, it comes from jumping at freedom, I suppose, but more and more it has become the defining characteristic of my look.
Now, I was seeing this girl for the whole of the two years of my VIth form. Among many other thousands of things that were said to me by her was a particular statement that denied me any sort of facial hair. Now, of course it's a sensible idea to shave if, like me, you could not have raised any respectable kind of facial decoration... And I'm actually going to weigh in and say it was a fine idea for the time as well! But it was the fact that I was told. I had to be clean shaven. It grated on me. So... after the first "I don't think we should see each other" salvo was fired (like Han, I shot first), I decided to leave my face alone. Razor blades and shaving foam left on the side. Over Christmas, hostilities came to a head and it really did end, and I still hadn't shaved. Returning to my second term of my first year at University, I had held out... Even with my long, long hair, that fell about my shoulders. For those who know what I looked like in those days, it truly was ridiculous.
Eventually I saw sense (or more accurately saw how dreadful my reflection was), and decided to take it off again, bit by bit. For whatever reason, I left my cheeks til last... And decided that actually, it looked good. Alright alright over there, I know you disagree. Some people have badgered me to remove them for my "own sake", or whatever, but as time has gone on I've been able to decide for myself more and more.
Off and on over the next four years, I removed them every few months and let them grow back from fresh. Now, I keep them and trim them with either a little electric razor or scissors, and always with a comb. When Choir went on their recent trip to Sweden, I had my head almost shaved but left the chops wildly long. They're a neat identifier as well, as picking me out in the line up on the BBC's broadcast about our staging of the 1880 Nine Lessons and Carols is as easy as it gets. Sideburns? Yep, there I am! Obviously, the goal is to one day graduate to an epic and well clipped beard like our Senior Lay Vicar, because yes of course he is my pattern. No nonsense singing, decorus but mucking about in the off minutes, and no bloody prancing about. There are some great pictures, actually, of him, me, and my chops in profile from Christmas 2013 that I really must get hold of.
The chops are an important part of my aesthetic at the moment. Will I keep them? Who knows. Probably some woman will make them into a deal breaker and I'll fold because let's face it... I always fold first. They are part and parcel though, alongside the hair that Walken would be proud of, the suit that'll outlive me, the paisley and all that bloody jewelry I wear and have given away. Oh well! I will say one thing though, that having sideburns makes it a hell of a lot easier to draw me...
I don't think it's so much an object that people would immediately associate with me, more part of my appearance: The Sideburns. Off an on for the last 5 years I've had...interesting facial hair. Originally, it comes from jumping at freedom, I suppose, but more and more it has become the defining characteristic of my look.
Now, I was seeing this girl for the whole of the two years of my VIth form. Among many other thousands of things that were said to me by her was a particular statement that denied me any sort of facial hair. Now, of course it's a sensible idea to shave if, like me, you could not have raised any respectable kind of facial decoration... And I'm actually going to weigh in and say it was a fine idea for the time as well! But it was the fact that I was told. I had to be clean shaven. It grated on me. So... after the first "I don't think we should see each other" salvo was fired (like Han, I shot first), I decided to leave my face alone. Razor blades and shaving foam left on the side. Over Christmas, hostilities came to a head and it really did end, and I still hadn't shaved. Returning to my second term of my first year at University, I had held out... Even with my long, long hair, that fell about my shoulders. For those who know what I looked like in those days, it truly was ridiculous.
Eventually I saw sense (or more accurately saw how dreadful my reflection was), and decided to take it off again, bit by bit. For whatever reason, I left my cheeks til last... And decided that actually, it looked good. Alright alright over there, I know you disagree. Some people have badgered me to remove them for my "own sake", or whatever, but as time has gone on I've been able to decide for myself more and more.
Off and on over the next four years, I removed them every few months and let them grow back from fresh. Now, I keep them and trim them with either a little electric razor or scissors, and always with a comb. When Choir went on their recent trip to Sweden, I had my head almost shaved but left the chops wildly long. They're a neat identifier as well, as picking me out in the line up on the BBC's broadcast about our staging of the 1880 Nine Lessons and Carols is as easy as it gets. Sideburns? Yep, there I am! Obviously, the goal is to one day graduate to an epic and well clipped beard like our Senior Lay Vicar, because yes of course he is my pattern. No nonsense singing, decorus but mucking about in the off minutes, and no bloody prancing about. There are some great pictures, actually, of him, me, and my chops in profile from Christmas 2013 that I really must get hold of.
The chops are an important part of my aesthetic at the moment. Will I keep them? Who knows. Probably some woman will make them into a deal breaker and I'll fold because let's face it... I always fold first. They are part and parcel though, alongside the hair that Walken would be proud of, the suit that'll outlive me, the paisley and all that bloody jewelry I wear and have given away. Oh well! I will say one thing though, that having sideburns makes it a hell of a lot easier to draw me...
Thursday, 10 July 2014
Can't Stand Me
We take a break from our regular schedule of titles to bring you a daily post from WordPress' Daily Prompts. I almost changed to a WordPress when starting up ASW, but that's another life now, I suppose... Those of you who remember the Songman's Rest will undoubtedly recall the voyage into madness that was BEDM 2013, with its orgy of almost daily posts on all sorts of subjects that basically had nothing to do with how I ran my life, so I had a hard time doing most of them. One of my great inspirations is trying to write every day this month, although it has been silent for some time now... Check her blog out here nonetheless though.
Anyway, today's prompt is "What do you find more unbearable: watching a video of yourself, or listening to a recording of your voice? Why?"
I'm really tied up on this one, actually. I'm thinking both, but I feel that listening to my own voice is so utterly cringeworthy that on several occasions I have vowed publicly to never speak or sing again. The quickest way to do this is to replay WhatsApp voice messages back - an awful idea beyond measure. As much as it may be a damn sight faster than typing if I want to say a lot, it's still my voice that I'm subjecting the other conversational participant to, and for that I must apologise. Still, at least they can't see me as well? Thank heaven for small mercies. I get really self-conscious when I know I'm being filmed or just watched in general, although thankfully I'm just not very aware very often. The Cathedral here in Truro have a dedicated volunteer team of CCTV operators for concerts and high-profile services (think 9 L&C, for instance), with which I gather I am quite popular, most probably for my gung-ho singing tactics and intense expression whilst performing. I really don't mind or exactly care about that though, you know? I'm here to perform, and not much annoys me more than posers who deliberately try harder or tart themselves up because they know they're going to be on camera. Feh.
That said though, I have a bizarre relationship with my own reflection. A lot of my mental behaviour ends up being very dissociative, to the point of struggling to recognise my own voice and appearance. As loath as I am to bring this up in case people dismiss me as a total nutcase and have me sectioned (under the Mental Health act of 1984, no less), but you know, you have to think about these things. Now isn't really the time or place to discuss my personality as gestalt, either. I often check in to every reflective surface just so I make sure I look like what I think I look like, to make sure I haven't forgotten or something. I'm not a great fan of my appearance generally though, as I basically recognise that essentially I'm not very handsome, and so always react with shock whenever anybody compliments me. That said, I always dress in an inimitable fashion... Although most of the time that's because nobody would want to imitate me. I seem to have been subconsciously dressing in Superman colours of late as well, mostly to be found wearing a delightful fair of tomato red shorts held up by yellow belt, with some kind of blue shirt or jumper on top, which is interesting considering how my personal life is going at the moment.
Back to the question though. Audiovisual recording is one of those things I won't be able to avoid in my line of work. This coming year, we will be filmed for a DVD production detailing the first service of Nine Lessons and Carols, alongside the usual live broadcast on BBC Radio 3, annual CD recording and international tour. That said, I couldn't imagine hosting a podcast or vlog for my own personal expression... It'd just be too embarrassing.
Anyway, today's prompt is "What do you find more unbearable: watching a video of yourself, or listening to a recording of your voice? Why?"
I'm really tied up on this one, actually. I'm thinking both, but I feel that listening to my own voice is so utterly cringeworthy that on several occasions I have vowed publicly to never speak or sing again. The quickest way to do this is to replay WhatsApp voice messages back - an awful idea beyond measure. As much as it may be a damn sight faster than typing if I want to say a lot, it's still my voice that I'm subjecting the other conversational participant to, and for that I must apologise. Still, at least they can't see me as well? Thank heaven for small mercies. I get really self-conscious when I know I'm being filmed or just watched in general, although thankfully I'm just not very aware very often. The Cathedral here in Truro have a dedicated volunteer team of CCTV operators for concerts and high-profile services (think 9 L&C, for instance), with which I gather I am quite popular, most probably for my gung-ho singing tactics and intense expression whilst performing. I really don't mind or exactly care about that though, you know? I'm here to perform, and not much annoys me more than posers who deliberately try harder or tart themselves up because they know they're going to be on camera. Feh.
That said though, I have a bizarre relationship with my own reflection. A lot of my mental behaviour ends up being very dissociative, to the point of struggling to recognise my own voice and appearance. As loath as I am to bring this up in case people dismiss me as a total nutcase and have me sectioned (under the Mental Health act of 1984, no less), but you know, you have to think about these things. Now isn't really the time or place to discuss my personality as gestalt, either. I often check in to every reflective surface just so I make sure I look like what I think I look like, to make sure I haven't forgotten or something. I'm not a great fan of my appearance generally though, as I basically recognise that essentially I'm not very handsome, and so always react with shock whenever anybody compliments me. That said, I always dress in an inimitable fashion... Although most of the time that's because nobody would want to imitate me. I seem to have been subconsciously dressing in Superman colours of late as well, mostly to be found wearing a delightful fair of tomato red shorts held up by yellow belt, with some kind of blue shirt or jumper on top, which is interesting considering how my personal life is going at the moment.
Back to the question though. Audiovisual recording is one of those things I won't be able to avoid in my line of work. This coming year, we will be filmed for a DVD production detailing the first service of Nine Lessons and Carols, alongside the usual live broadcast on BBC Radio 3, annual CD recording and international tour. That said, I couldn't imagine hosting a podcast or vlog for my own personal expression... It'd just be too embarrassing.
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