Greetings from Bury Park

Last month I saw a feature on the news for a British film. Set in 1980’s Luton to a Bruce Springsteen soundtrack, Blinded by the Light is to be produced by Gurinder Chadha and Paul Mayeda Berges, the team behind global smash, Bend It Like Beckham. Based on the memoir of Sarfraz Manzoor, it tells the story of a Muslim teenager's devotion to all things Springsteen and the subsequent cultural problems this brings.

Now as someone who has taught in Luton, lives in Dunstable, who loves The Boss, my interest was well and truly piqued. The next week I went down to the library and reserved my copy of Manzoor’s memoir, Greetings from Bury Park, a wry homage to Springsteen’s debut album, Greetings from Ashbury Park.

The Springsteen album.

Having secured the book, I’ve spent the last few days voraciously reading it. Manzoor’s life really resonated with my own. Unlike Manzoor, I’m not a Muslim; however, like him, I am a second-generation immigrant. My dad moved to Britain from Sri Lanka in the 70’s where he worked a number of menial jobs, before finding regular work as an engineer. As a Hindu he risked upsetting his family by marrying a white woman, my mum, a nurse from Dorset. Their marriage begot my brother and myself: Anglo-Asian kids at a time when there weren’t many. At our local primary children were either from Pakistan or England. More often than not, the two nationalities didn’t lock horns, but there wasn’t much mixing either. When a new Mosque was proposed white families (some from my school) put banners in their window, blazoned ‘No To Mosque.’

Despite our brown skin, my brother and I had few problems. The fact we had Western names probably helped. Also, we weren’t religious, which meant our lives weren’t so different to the majority English cohort. Our heritage didn’t inform our language – we didn’t speak Tamil, and it didn’t inform our clothing – we wore football strips. From the sound of our names and the sound of our tongues, we appeared English. It was only inside the home that we did anything that could be considered Sri Lankan. At Christmas we would have Sri Lankan relatives over, where my mum, brother and me would sit slack-jawed as Tamil talk went on around us. On Sundays we didn’t sit down for a roast, but gathered for rice and dhal, tempering the spice with natural yoghurt. My dad would eat with his hands, whilst the rest of us would opt for cutlery. In many ways being a Sri Lankan was a spectator sport for us: we would turn out at the weekend to support the team, then go home, take off the colours, and be English again for the working week.

Manzoor though is more embedded in both worlds than I was. His father moved over from Pakistan for a better life. Unable to afford his wife and families passage, he lived without them for many years. It wasn't until 1974, fourteen years after his marriage, that he made the call for them to come over. Living in Bury Park, a predominantly Asian area, Manzoor’s father made the decision for his children to be educated at a predominantly white school. This may have been the defining moment in his children's lives. Occupying a space alongside white Brits meant they were susceptible to influence. For Muslims ritual, religion and family is the thing. These principles aren’t shared by the English. For the English, religion is something to think about on a Sunday and forget about for the rest of the week. For the English, family is about the people who live within your walls, as for the rest of them, well we’ll see them at Christmas. For the English duty and obligation is earmarked with a resigned shrug; it isn’t a guiding philosophy to live by day by day.

I really love this front cover.

With this culture clash it’s unsurprising that Sarfraz’s identity is annexed by British rule. On a trip to Pakistan he unwinds from the exhausting family meet-and-greet merry-go-round by listening to his Steve Wright In The Afternoon tapes. More evidence of his assimilation is his predilection for Western women. Instead of bejewelled Asian girls, he favours ones without decoration, preferably with nothing on. Consequently, he scours the local library perusing Amateur Photographer magazine for nudes. (Writing that, I’ve just remembered my dad used to be a subscriber. Dirty old man!)

However it isn’t until he attends college that he experiences the thing that paradoxically gives and takes his identity. Tied in a turban, a Sikh lad has a pair of headphones on. His eyes are closed; he’s immersed in sound. Sarfraz asks him what he’s listening to. The lad tells him, The Boss. At this point, Sarfraz has only heard of ‘Born in the U.S.A,’ which he thinks is alright. Amolak isn’t satisfied with this ambivalence. You’re either with Springsteen or you’re against him. Agnosticism will not do. Springsteen is The Word; Amolak his Disciple; he will turn this heathen to heaven and him experience the wonder that is Mr New Jersey. Soon Sarfraz is sending off for bootleg copies of Springsteen albums and writing his favourite lyrics down. It’s the start of a fanaticism that would lead to a book, an Edinburgh show and now a movie.

Each chapter of Greetings ... begins with a Springsteen lyric in the same way some books have religious epigraphs to give their work weight and direction. Throughout the course of his life, Springsteen is Sarfraz’s guiding light. Sons of immigrants, born into the working class, the two have something in common. The idea of commonality is what makes Springsteen endure. Where other pop stars find fame in elevated otherness, The Boss achieves popularity in staying true to his roots. He has the restless spirit of the small town: an urge to break out of the straightjacket of conservative values and find freedom on the great American freeway. In the book Sarfraz explains, ‘if religion was about answering the profound questions of how to live, Bruce Springsteen gave me more profound answers than Islam.’ An old text can feel just that: old; whereas pop lyrics often feel contemporary, urgent and relevant. Personally, I know I’ve learnt more about love and life through inlay lyrics than I did through my Catholic school upbringing. It’s this love of Springsteen that takes Sarfraz around the world, watching his hero, even meeting him on three occasions.

Never meet your heroes - unless they're The Boss. (Pic. courtesy of The Guardian)

The trouble Sarfraz has in his life is how to square the circle: How can someone 'born to run' walk with Allah? Is it possible to experience the love felt in pop music through a culture that arranges marriage? How can you be a getaway when social-cultural roadblocks block your way? The chapter ‘Better Days’ is particularly strong at documenting how difficult love is when it comes into contact with the shirt pull of history.

The thing I really loved about this memoir was that it was a profound page-turner. It made me reflect on my own life and how it may have been different. Undoubtedly, I have lost something in the sea-saw of my identity being tilted towards Blighty (there’s relatives I can’t converse with; I know little of my dad’s Hinduism; I don’t truly appreciate the struggle my family endured in conflict), but selfishly I feel less muddled. My devotion to education is Sri Lankan. I believe my work ethic is too. But I haven’t had to face the dilemmas Sarfraz has in balancing two worlds. The victory of the book is no one is truly to blame. It’s easy to stand in judgment and blame his parents for his inner-conflict, but that’s reductive and denies the complex social structures that inform their views.

Given the book was published in 2007 I was keen to find out how Manzoor’s life turned out. Typing his name into Google, I was relieved to read about him finding love and happiness. I really rooted for Manzoor in his memoir and I think you will too. I’m really excited about the forthcoming film because it will shine a spotlight on the immigrant experience and the challenges young people face in being dutiful to their parents and loyal to their hearts; but also in the hope it will turn people towards the original source material. Greetings from Bury Park shares themes with its inspiration - dreams, love and escape. It's a Springsteen album without the guitars. So here's what you should do: take out your headphones, put The Boss' album on, lie back and read these lyrics about a man Born in Pakistan but very much made in England.

Greetings from Bury Park is available now.

Blinded by the Light will be in cinemas next year.

   

Matilda: The Musical

In the state sector world of teaching there are few perks. Boardroom dealmakers don’t put on a Christmas do for you; a summer send-off involves ‘bringing a dish’ and break time milk is credited to staff bank accounts. Sure, you get a lot of holiday, but much of that is spent scrabbling under the sofa for your mortgage repayments. There is one perk though to being a teacher: school trips. Yes, it involves children, which is a disappointment. On the plus side though, you get to see productions for nothing. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. The parent 'respite tax' for a night off is a theatre ticket for this guy (pointing at myself). Seems like a fair deal. So while you parents have your fun while the kids are out, turning your homes into queasy speakeasy swingers clubs, I'm out watching great art.

This week I went to see Matilda: The Musical, which I’ve wanted to see for ages. The reason for this is two-fold: the first is Roald Dahl. As a child my mum would sit beside mine and my brother's bunk and read his stories to us. In my first year as a teacher I taught Dahl’s early years memoir, Boy, and seeing the joy it brought children made me nostalgic for the joy he brought me. The second is Tim Minchin. Minchin, a musical-comedian, is the lyricist behind the musical. A few years ago The Girl and I went to The Old Vic to see his take on Groundhog Day; the songs were stunning in both brains and accessibility. 

Roald Dahl dressed as Bobby Charlton.

In stand-up circles musical-comedians are often derided: often they choose well-known songs, barely re-working the lyrics, which culminate in some Pavlov’s dog noodling guaranteed to raise applause. Minchin is nothing like this. Ironically for a virtuosic pianist, he doesn’t think in black and white. His songs are imbued with a variety of hues: he can do melancholic, nostalgic, romantic, satirical and edgy. His piano isn’t a punch-line prop, but a background set-up for jokes to gestate. 

I was dead excited about going.

Matilda begins with ‘Miracle,’ a ‘homage’ to the miracle of birth. The inverted commas because Matilda’s parents aren’t so happy with their arrival. For Mrs Wormwood it’s an inconvenience: she should be at a dance championship getting 10’s from judges, as opposed to judgement from doctors for maternal indifference. For Mr Wormwood it’s a swindle, a swizz, "where is its ‘thingy?" after all. I mean, he’s heard of this liability being taken with other parents before, but for him, a self-made man of used cars, shouldn’t he be leaving the forecourt with a man made of his own? As other children recall their parents tributes, (‘My daddy says I'm his special little guy. I am a princess, And I am a prince. Mum says I'm an angel sent down from the sky,’) a now grown Matilda laments,

My mummy says I'm a lousy little worm. My daddy says I'm a bore. My mummy says I'm a jumped-up little germ, That kids like me should be against the law, My daddy says I should learn to shut my pie hole. No one likes a smart-mouthed girl like me. Mum says I'm a good case for population control. Dad says I should watch more TV.

(Miracle, Matilda: The Musical)

The fact this is delivered with a straight bat makes it even more hilarious. I know it’s a cheap trick but are there many funnier things than putting adult ideas – in this case sterilisation – into a child’s mouth? It isn’t just the lyrics that are well juxtaposed, but the play script by Dennis Kelly too. When Mr Wormwood sees his daughter reading, he pronounces, “That’s not normal for a five-year-old. I think she might be an idiot.” Cut to Matilda: “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” Matilda isn’t just reading; she’s inhaling the great works of literature. She isn’t an idiot, but a genius. Her TV-loving family are the cartoon catchphrases to her layered elegance. Fortunately, she finds refuge in the library.

The library scenes are a Kelly conception rather than a Dahl one. Like Hamlet has a play within a play, Kelly’s Matilda has a story within a story. An argument between her mother and father gets Matilda thinking. Her dad defines himself as an 'escapologist' for getting his wife out of financial scrapes; her mum replies how she ‘must be an acrobat,’ given how she maintains the house. (“Dinners don’t microwave themselves, you know!”) Hearing two tremendously dull people use circus language is the inspiration needed to make Matilda's brain go light bulb. On entering the library, it’s clear she is pub regular at the prose joint. The librarian asks Matilda for a story. The one she tells is of an escapologist and an acrobat; a couple who live and work in trust, catching one another from falling, soaring together to new heights. This is the stuff of painful wish-fulfilment: Matilda wants her parents to act in poetry, not argue in graffiti. Throughout the musical we come back to Matilda in the library, adding chapters to her story, inspired by earlier events, prefiguring later ones. The handling of this magical realism is beautifully conceived with shadow puppetry utilised to create the carnival scene.

Matilda tells her story.

Those of you who are still reading this (who are you people?) will perhaps be wondering when I’m going to bring up Miss Trunchbull. Even more than Matilda, she is the take-away character of the story. Pam Ferris’ rendering of her is marvellous in the film version scaring children worldwide. In the musical she possesses the same dictatorial threat. The Wormwords see her as the Bookfinder General, one that will rip literature from their daughter’s brain, instilling instead the values of fact and discipline. She'll be the educative osteopath that'll straighten their daughter out. 

In going to school Matilda and the other early learners are greeted by the bigger boys and girls. They are told in no uncertain terms that what they’re entering is not the palace of wisdom, but a gothic prison. The ‘School Song’ they sing is a work of wonder – a wonder that I missed. Because I’m short-sighted, dim-witted and tin-eared, I didn’t pick up on the genius of the song. I noticed letters were being put in the school gates but I didn’t get they corresponded to the letter being referenced in the song. It wasn’t until I got home and The Girl said, “How good is that alphabet song?” that I realised what I had missed. She told me that each line references a letter in the alphabet, and played back the song to illustrate.

Here it is:

And so you think you're A-ble
To survive this mess by Being a prince or a princess.
You will soon (C) see there's no escaping trageDy. 
And Even if you put in heaps of eFfort, 
You're just wasting enerGy, 
'Cause your life as you know it is "aitcH"-ent history. 
I have suffered in this Jail, I've been trapped inside this (K) cage for ages, 
This living 'eLl. But if I try I can remeMber,
(School Song, Matilda: The Musical)

It makes you appreciate why Minchin was the one they turned to when looking for a lyricist. He has a preternatural talent for words, just as Matilda does. And just as Matilda is understood better by her own peers than adults, so it appears does Minchin. Whilst all the children clapped wildly in unison as each letter was put down, I thought, “Yeah, it’s good, but it’s hardly the best song.” On reflection I’ve learnt that sometimes children know best.

My favourite song though is the Act Two opener ‘When I Grow Up.’ A few months ago I saw Minchin perform it on Front Row, BBC2’s flagship culture show that has the ratings of the dodo population. I was spellbound by the performance. You would be hard-pressed to find a song that articulates better 'the child experience.' Frequently as a child you feel powerless. You’re forced to endure the fallout of adult conflict. Kept in the dark about the mysteries of death and divorce. Told to keep your why’s and wherefore’s to yourself. It’s no wonder that some children want to grow up. To take control of their own lives and destinies. Minchin’s song doesn’t quite deal in this dark material, but it’s a painful reminder that childhood isn’t all cartwheels and bottle rockets. For those like me who were blessed with a wonderful childhood, it’s melancholic, as it makes you wonder why a child would wish those years away. It’s a staggering work of beauty.

So in a story about the fecklessness of parents, I want to say ‘thank you parents.’ It’s because of you that I got to see Matilda: The Musical free of charge. Yes, the teachers lot may not always be the proverbial land of Miss Honey, but when you get to see wonderful productions it’s not all (Trunch)bull either.

Matilda: The Musical is on tour now.  

Atlanta

A celebratory incantation resounds: ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.’ A bare chested black man comes into view, his body a hoopla of contorted gyration, his face falsified to resemble an entertainer’s gurn. He doesn’t mean what he’s doing. He’s dancing for your silver, to make money and get paid. The camera pans. A man has a sack on his head. The black entertainer takes a bullet to it. The good vibes have been punctuated by a burst of violence. We have no time to dwell on this because the body has been removed quickly from shot. The gun though is taken in a towel, like a crown on a ceremonial pillow.

This is America: the land of opportunity - as long as you play by the rules. If you’re black and move well, you can have some screen time. If you’re a stiff, gunned down for being black, then we’re not interested. ‘This is America’ by Childish Gambino AKA Donald Glover is a work of art: media studies teachers could deliver a whole lesson on its allusions and parodies. Given Trump’s rhetoric of arming teachers, the video highlights the absurdity of America’s second amendment: this is a country that values the gun more than its citizens.

Donald Glover is a prodigious talent. Recently, he’s appeared in Solo: A Star Wars Story and is tipped to be the next Willy Wonka. As well as rapping and acting, Glover has created Atlanta, an American comedy-drama that cleaned up at last years Emmys. The second season has concluded in America, but its first has just premiered here. Fortunately, the BBC haven’t put in a graveyard slot like a lot of imports (see Seinfeld and The Wire), instead they’re airing two episodes a week.

                                                        Glover as Lando in Solo.


When I first heard the news Atlanta was appearing on terrestrial screens, I was relieved. (As an FX production I guessed it would be on subscription services.) Sitting down to watch the first one a few weeks ago, I admit I was initially disappointed. Because the only thing I knew about the show was it had two comedy Emmys, I therefore assumed it would be a laugh a minute. You see, Glover was once a writer for 30 Rock and an actor in Community, a college-based sitcom. Both of these shows are heavy on the comedy with just a light dressing of drama.

Atlanta shouldn’t be seen as a conventional comedy; if anything, it’s more drama than comedy. After a few episodes I began to appreciate this and enjoy it more. Now six episodes in I see it having more in common with The Wire than Seinfeld. Although Atlanta isn’t a police procedural like The Wire, the two have things in common: the city is a main character with multiple locations being used; the cast is mainly black; the language is urban dialect; the attention to detail – verisimilitude – is sometimes toppled by surrealism.

The story revolves around the character of Earnest Marks, known as Earn and played by Glover. The name is apt as this is what the character desires: to earn and find fulfilment. A Princeton dropout and young father, he is effectively homeless. The baby’s momma, Van, has enough hassle supporting one mouth without having to support another, so only on occasions does Earn earn a place in her bed. Quite simply, Earn has to make paper and make it fast, otherwise his access to Van and the baby is at threat. Working a commission only job, there seems little hope he’ll make a roof there, so he turns his attention elsewhere.

                                                        The three lead characters.

Earn’s cousin Alfred is the up and coming rapper Paper Boi. He’s doing well on the underground rap scene, showing enough promise to make him a local celebrity. But he hasn’t got the book smarts to go with the street ones. Earn goes over to his cousin's house with a business proposal where he's soon greeted with a gun. (There’s more beef in rap than the slaughterhouse, a man has to protect his kingdom.) When Earn is eventually let in he meets Alfred’s mate, Darius, who’s hiding behind the door with a knife and plate of cookies, serving as symbolism for a character that has violent hands and gentle eyes.


Earn makes his proposal to manage his cousin, and this is the conversation that ensues:

Alfred: Manage? You know where the word “manage” come from?

Earn: Manus. Latin for “hand.”

Alfred: Probl’y, but I’m a say no for the purpose of my argument. “Manage” came from the word “man.” And, um, that ain’t really your lane.
Earn: My lane?
Alfred: Yeah, man. I need Malcolm. You too Martin. You know what they did to him? They killed him.
Earn: Didn’t they kill Malcolm, too?
Darius: No, no, they say that. But ain’t nobody seen the body since the funeral.
Earn: (Beat) That’s how funerals work.

The excerpt here is a litmus test as to whether you’re going to enjoy the show or not. There’s the highbrow Latin definition juxtaposed against the humorous misunderstanding. Along with that you have references to Martin Luther King and Malcolm X (black cultural references abound in Atlanta, some of sporting figures I just don’t get). Then, you’ve got that understated joke at the end. This is not the comedy of Kevin Hart where the joke is aggravated assault to the throat, rather it’s a blindside attack on the brain. Before you know it, you’ve been mugged of laughter with the assailant making off to the next scene.

What marks Atlanta out as unique as a twenty-minute comedy is its filmic quality. Under director Hiro Murai the show has a scope that is rarely found on television, never in comedy. The opening of episode 1 has an overhead shot that establishes all the faces of Atlanta: rich suburbs, poor corners, manicured lawns, gutted houses, the dull horizontals of the freeway; the bustling poetry of ‘the court.’ When in session, there’s a wooziness to the pacing, a trust that the viewer will ride with them, take in the scenery, and not dial-up a new driver.

                                                             Director Hiro Murai

Also, the social criticism of the show is worth commenting on. Episode two is centred in a police station, which is mainly populated by black people. In fact, it’s only when writing this did I reflect that no white characters are present. The whole thing feels like hell where Earn is denied sleep and food until his bail money comes forward. Whilst held in judgment, Earn surveys the chaos around him. First, a man talks at him with an accent so thick that his own momma would ask for an interpreter. Then, a man in hospital gown, clearly mentally unwell, takes his cup down to lavatory, fishing a drink from its river; Earn smiles at the crazy, but grimaces moments later when the man is beaten down for spitting it at an officer. Next, a conversation ensures between a man and a transgender man. Soon, there are transphobic slurs and recriminations. The police station is the fishbowl of inequality where the marginalised float and die in.

Like Master of None, the show isn’t afraid to sideline its central characters. In Master there was an episode where Denise came out to her mum; there wasn’t one shot of the lead character Dev. A recent episode of Atlanta has Van meet up with her friend: the first ten minutes is just a conversation between the two women. This shouldn’t be unusual, but in comedy it is. It’s even more surprising to have a tete a tete where the complexity of female friendship is unpeeled. Van’s friend is a glamorous success, whereas she is struggling to meet the rent. The writing is sublime, conveying gritted teeth tension with a documentarian’s eye.

Coming to my conclusion, I realise I haven’t even mentioned the trippy elements to the show. There’s a black character called Justin Bieber who to all extents and purposes is Justin Bieber, yet isn’t the real-life Justin Bieber. There’s talk about how no black person knows who Steve McQueen is. There’s a man on a contemporary bus dressed like a member of The Nation of Islam eating a Nutella sandwich. When Glover pitched the show, he said ‘if David Lynch or the Coen brothers made a show about Hip Hop culture’: the influence of these auteurs is evident in these inexplicable moments.

                                                                  Black Justin Bieber

Atlanta then is not a traditional sitcom that you can watch whilst on your phone; it is a tragicomic portrait of black life: the richness of its dreams and music coupled with the poverty of a discriminated existence. Trump would do well to watch it. This, after all, is America.


Atlanta is on BBC Two, Sunday at 10pm. The series so far is available on iPlayer.