Declan Zapala at Morley College

In the spirit of journalistic integrity I should state from the start that I know the subject of the piece. The subject and myself met at the Catholic comprehensive school we attended in the mid 90’s. (It’s important that you note I didn’t attend Grammar or Private school as this makes my achievements as an unpublished blogger all the more remarkable.) So I used to sit in Maths and Science lessons with the subject, where invariably the subject would spend much of the lesson tapping on the table. (Today I’m a teacher and as a consequence view banging on the table a breach of the peace, worthy of a lengthy period in a detention centre: the reason for this is because most adolescent noisemakers wouldn’t spot rhythm if it moonwalked into a room and shouted Aoow! at them. Dec, on the other hand, was hit with the rhythm stick so frequently as a child it’s a wonder the social weren’t called in to monitor his family.) Being from Irish stock, music is in his blood. One salient memory I have of my youth is going around to Dec’s house for his birthday and being left open-mouthed at how quickly the standard hum of a house party could ascend into the melody of an Irish lock-in: people singing together- in tune- to an old folk number, plucked by a drunk uncle with sober hands. Music, like I say, is very much in his family.

Dec's Birthday.

Unsurprisingly, Dec went on to study Sound Engineering at The University of Surrey. From there, he studied classical guitar at The Royal College of Music. Whilst there Gary Ryan taught him- a master craftsman recognised internationally as one of the great guitar technicians. During a tutorial, Ryan asked Dec to show him what he was currently into. Dec replied by slapping his guitar like a secondary school workbench. Ryan smiled at this guitar renegade; aware an iconoclast was in his midst. Unconcerned that this ship was sailing off course, he encouraged Dec to follow his instincts; in time the musician would find a home in percussive guitar.

So here we are again. I’m at a Declan Zapala gig. I’ve been to see Dec play more times than any other artist. For all of that, it never gets boring. For one, he’s my friend and I get an enormous sense of satisfaction seeing him perform. Secondly, he’s a wonderful player who never fails to dazzle. Thirdly, and this can’t be stated enough, the boy is a loose cannon. Dec belies the stereotype of a classical musician. He’s not the kind of soulless savant who spends his life locked away in a practice room starved of social media, rationed from human contact. He’s a distractible jitterbug that loves to laugh, loves to talk. Because of this, his gigs are a surprise to people who go. It is the sound of high culture, delivered by someone subverting its customs. Where other guitarists let their music do the talking, Dec lets his mouth. Some of his introductions are longer than the songs: bearing in mind this is classical music those are long preambles. Tonight he challenges a man on a front row, accosting him for looking like his brother. In another episode, he self-deprecatingly recalls his first brush with an online troll. A moment later, he is explaining the formation of DNA. Next, he affects mock-arrogance over his Edinburgh reviews. Dec digresses so much he was once asked to compete for England in the World Digression Championship; his response: "Do you like pineapples?" It’s why I love going to Dec’s gigs because he speaks passionately with personality. For classical purists he’s probably a confusing entity.

Morley College gig.

As for the music? Well, this gig was like no other I’ve seen. Both of us are fans of Daniel Kitson: the reason? he’s the most progressive comedian of his age. Long ago, Kitson won comedy’s premier league so now operates in a league of his own. Because there is no one to compete with him, he competes against himself. His shows have become more and more daring, involving intricate stage management. One, Analog.Ue involved the comedian having to press 46 tape decks at precise times to tell a multi-layered story. Another Polyphony, a digital update on its predecessor, had Kitson sequencing a series of iPods to communicate his stand up. This house of cards approach to art is so exciting to watch because you know one wrong move could bring about its collapse. But shouldn’t great work necessitate derring-do?

The reason I talk about Kitson is because in this show Dec took himself out of his comfort zone, adding a multimedia element to his performance. The first half has Dec delivering his back catalogue. There’s the deliberately sparse Awakenings, a fill in the gaps activity where the listener can pause and reflect. We’re then floating down the river like Browning’s Lady of Shallot, pushed on by Crystal’s current of ethereal beauty. From there, it’s teacher’s Gary Ryan’s Benga Beat, a composition that culminates into carnival. After, there’s the Running of the Bulls Koyunbaba, which begins with a tense stare off, then degenerates into a frenzied assault where the boy barely gets out alive.

What I’ve come to see this time though is what Dec does with that projector screen that’s behind him. Last year was the first time I’d missed his Edinburgh show. He told me about his plans to re-imagine Steve Reich’s Electric Counterpoint into classical guitar parts, accompanying it with digital projections designed by school friend Amar Chundavadra. Using a home recording set-up Dec recorded ten of the guitar parts on his classical guitar and two of the electric bass parts on his nylon-strung Alto Guitar (a super-sized classical guitar with eleven string). Live, he would then play over these recordings.  It sounded like quite an undertaking; one I was gutted to miss. Fortunately, this one off gig as part of London’s Vault Festival provided me with a second chance.

To say that the work is sublime is an understatement. Witnessing the marriage of impressionistic visuals with Reich’s minimalist phrasing was something truly special. The rich textures recalled Radiohead’s Weird Fishes and Kate Bush’s Aerial, magic carpets of blips and pulses that carry your subconscious to faraway lands. Beautiful.

The gig culminated in the swoon of Angel, a composition by the late great Eric Roche. It’s the sound of a bridal march, a refined elegant step to the altar, where you then hold your partner’s hand, look into their eyes and see love reflected back. It will make a romantic of you.

Dec's album can be bought here:

http://declanzapala.com/welcome-to-the-awakenings-cd-order-page/

Lion

On Tuesday the nominations for this year’s Oscars will be announced. A series of films and performances will be whittled down into a shortlist, precipitating a month of back-slapping electioneering before the die is cast. Despite recent criticism of the Oscars for being too white- and hosts for being too blue- I always enjoy the event. I never grew up loving movies; I always preferred books. It was until university I began to fall under their spell. 

Books provide an intimate experience; films a communal one. You can’t say to your flatmate in the evening, “Fancy reading Catcher in the Rye? I’ll do the narration and you do the dialogue.” (I say this, but one time at university a female flatmate, high on E, stood in the living room performing all nineteen parts of Twelfth Night. The laughter her performance generated felt pretty communal.) However, for the most part books remain a private pastime. Film, on the other hand, can be enjoyed with others, which meant those low budget university evenings were often spent in front of the box, trading favourite films like playground stickers. On leaving Uni I would augment this interest, meeting regularly with a mate at Soho’s Curzon Cinema to catch the Oscar contenders. From being indifferent to the allure of cinema, I now frequently visit its chambers, feasting on its beauty.

My education.

With so many good films coming out in such a short period the difficult decision at the moment is what to see. With last week’s rave reviews, The Girl and I knew we had to go with industry insiders and back La La Land. This week was more difficult: critics enjoyed both Jackie and Lion- which one should we go with? The First Lady of our household took the executive decision and put our money on Oscar outsider, Lion. The decision yielded a wonderful return.

Lion is based on the amazing story of Sheru Khan. Born in the Talai neighbourhood of Khandwa, there was nothing to suggest Sheru would live anything but a village life. Devoted to his mother, in awe of his older brother, he would do anything to please them. Struggling under the strangle of poverty, the brothers would go out to work, making money to keep their home in food and milk. Aged five, the two brothers rode the train looking for work; a tired Sheru -he was only five- couldn’t continue the journey; his doting brother told him to wait whilst he looked for employment. The seconds ticked on. The big hand shifted. More ominously, the little hand did too. Afraid and alone, Sheru took refuge in a train, believing his brother would soon join him. The discontinued train started and didn’t stop until it was 1500 km from home, in what is now Kolkata. To be five in a big city is scary enough, but to be five and alone in that big city doesn’t bear thinking about. To make matters worse, Sheru didn’t know the language, having swapped a Hindi speaking region for a Bengali one. In one train journey, a garrulous little boy is rendered voiceless and motherless – it takes him a long time to get back to both.

The film is based on the true story.

This outward-bound leg of the journey has had critics salivating. Newcomer Sunny Punwar is a revelation as Saroo (his name change will become apparent later on in the movie). Within his impish face, he turns in a performance adult actors could only dream of. In the beginning, his eyes dart and jump; he is the cheeky shadow of his older brother, wanting to emulate his every move. When lost his eyes change, carrying instead the burden of separation. The sadness of seeing his light blown out is heart-wrenching. 

The face to floor a thousand hearts.

One of the most distressing scenes involves Saroo looking for help at a busy train station. Instead of acknowledging the authenticity of the child’s cries, the commuters take it for manipulation, reasoning it akin to the boy who cried wolf; consequently he’s repelled by the adult world, slapped back into isolation, forced to find his own way home. Seeing the treatment of a little boy lost is not a world away from how we treat our homeless: with the media quick to paint people as villains, we’ve grown distrustful; therefore, it should be no surprise when people act callously to people in need. Saroo slipping between the cracks will leave a bad taste in your mouth, and so it should: this isn’t a story exclusive to India.

The return leg of the journey hasn’t received as many favourable reviews in the press. Some estimable scribblers have labeled it ‘boring’ and ‘over-long.’ The second half of the story takes place in Australia, where Saroo struggles with the fruits of his Australian adoption. I believe reviewers are wrong on this half of the movie. Dev Patel, playing the adult Saroo, bewitches as a man torn between two homes. Like all good acting, it’s in the eyes. Any actor can raise or lower their voice to show anger or shyness; few can speak with their pupils. Etched across Patel’s face is the dilemma of every adoptee: should I search or not? Exacerbating the ordeal is his complete ignorance of where he’s even from: he can’t remember the home he wishes to seek. Volcanic frustration assumes squatters’ rights in Patel’s being, making for a masterclass in pained acting. Rightly, Patel has picked up plaudits for his nuanced showing; the critics are wrong though to say he carries the weaker half - it’s every bit as interesting as the first.

Dev Patel is on great form.

Lion will hit you in the head and in the heart. One place it won’t hit though is the wallet: to be moved by a beautiful story is a price worth paying.

Lion is out now.

La La Land

A sign of an evolved species is an ability to adapt to an environment. If this is the case, I must be highly unevolved. As a 31 year-old man, this week I’ve been struggling with the sub-zero conditions. Coming from Sri Lanka as I do (well, my Dad does), I’m more suited to hotter climes. Ever since I was a little boy, the harsh English winters were something I’d always struggled with. The cold as my kryptonite dates back to my football days: as a young lad I would stand on the touchline, come rain or snow, waiting to come on as substitute (over a 10 year career my managers referred to me as an ‘impact player’; when I discovered in Year 11 what a euphemism was, the truth of their lies was made manifest. Horrified, aged sixteen, I thought if adults are willing to lie to a child about their role in a Sunday league team, could they also be lying about Santa and The Tooth Fairy? Fortunately that Christmas my fears were allayed when Father Christmas delivered my Dizzee Rascal debut album, as requested. Sorry for doubting you, Santa). So shivering my timbers week after week is probably why I can’t cope with the cold today. Consequently, I usually spend the winter months in hibernation, only leaving the flat to earn money for central heating.

Out in the cold.

This week, however, I took it upon myself to brave the outside and venture to the multiplex. Donning more layers than a Joey Tribbiani prank, I was ready to stick two gloves up to winter. Despite sweating like a junkie gone cold, The Girl didn't reverse my decision to put the heating on full– she’s a good sort- which made the journey possible. Arriving at the cinema, The Girl promptly pushed me through the door (the architects behind Vue Cinema clearly didn't legislate for patrons wearing layers) and rushed us through the foyer before anyone - in her words - "could see us."

In case you didn't get the above reference.

Why did I make this expedition to Antarctica, I hear you ask? Well, like Scott, sometimes a risk is worth taking if you know a reward lies at the end of it. And my reward was La La Land.

I’ve wanted to see La La Land ever since I heard news of it. I was a fan of director’s Damian Chazelle’s previous work Whiplash and was excited by this one. Moreover, it seemed to fit into my favourite genre: the smart adult romcom. I love the classics: Casablanca, The Apartment, Some Like It Hot, Annie Hall, When Harry Met Sally - and even though some of my writing strays towards the satirical, I’m in fact a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. I love being in love. I love acts of love. I love love. Not enough to jump on Oprah’s sofa and declare it - (If it’s not your furniture, then you have no right to trampoline on it) – but I’m happy to say it in front of you, my dedicated readership. The trailer seemed to point back to that golden age of cinema, a time of sophistication and elegance, where the writing danced and the pictures sang. Then, the movies were all about escapism. The characters impossibly coiffured, costumed, choreographed, but so what? Effort went into them. Imagination went into them. In contemporary cinema everyone wants realism – and some can be great – but surely a bit of magic, some fantasy is needed too. I had high hopes that La La Land would be just the tonic for January, the cruellest of months.

La La Land is set in LA, a la la land built on dreams. LA, the Fairytale Kingdom, attracting actors, actresses the world over, all hoping Hollywood’s slipper will fit. LA, the cruel mirage, promising oases in its howling desert. LA, a place that feeds, starves, promises, betrays. Those with temperaments least suited – vain, over-indulged, soft-skinned – will enter; only a few will survive. The two characters of our story are Mia, a budding actress, and Sebastian, a Jazz musician desperate to stay true to his art whilst paying the bills. In pursuing their dreams, the two are forced to compromise: Mia auditions for dumb roles whilst working as a barista on the studio lot; and Sebastian, enters into the spirit of Hollywood, putting himself forward for extras work, blending into the background by tinkling the ivories for restaurant diners. Both have bought into the dream; both are getting no return on their investment. Mia longs for her name to be in lights like the stars of yesteryear, people she idolised during those afternoon showings around her aunt’s. Sebastian, lamenting his favourite club’s closure, wants to bring Jazz back to LA. Both of these characters are looking back for their future. In a place looking for the stars of tomorrow, can they bring back yesterday?

Stone and Gosling as Mia and Sebastian

This musical story isn’t as light and frothy as the first five minutes would suggest. There, you have an exhilarating song and dance routine that the world and his wife is invited to. After this, the story centres on the two leads: how they meet and how their relationship grows. Typically, the songs are sung solo, the music pervaded in melancholia. There is talk of bringing La La Land to the stage, if this happens then it won’t have the shouty razzmatazz of most musicals, rather it will whistle with languorous confidence, saying “You don’t have to look at me, but I know you will.”

Originally, Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone weren’t going to be leads in the film, that honour was going to be filled by Miles Teller and Emma Watson. Fortunately, the director sought sense with Sense telling him to go with older leads. With characters hovering at thirty, the desperation is more palpable: at twenty you can afford artistic poverty; at thirty its stink gets into your clothes, under your skin, families start calling for an intervention. Gosling does a great job, oscillating between lugubrious and passionate. Stone though is a sensation as Mia: her doe-eyed window to the soul performance is truly special. Every step, song and word is delivered with such finesse, making her a worthy Oscar front-runner.

In these winter months La La Land is worth stepping outside for, if only to be wrapped in its beautiful nostalgic blanket. So escape Trump's inauguration. Escape Brexit negotiations. Escape the winter blues. Escape from reality by diving into this dreamland.

La La Land is out now.

Stranger Things

So this blog has reached its century: a miraculous achievement in the cut-throat industry of amateur writing I'm sure you'll agree. Even though I’m obviously humbled by my success, I think it’s important to take time to remember other unsuccessful blogs that, unlike mine, didn't last the distance. Blogs like Eczema: My Struggle, a wryly written account of life with dry skin; The Toothpaste Diaries, a photo gallery by an Alcatraz inmate documenting the effects of oral hygiene; and my favourite, Paw: a blog established by dog owner, Esmerelda Jimjam, to display the writing talents of her dog, Floppy – famed entries included ‘ajsjfkfnkndfkdfndfnkfnfkndfkdfnknkdfnkdfn’ and ‘kisdidsdndfnfkndfkndfkndskndsknds.’ 

So I appreciate how in a highly competitive market you’ve stood by me by liking, sharing and trolling this blog. Without your support, a readership, this blog would be a diary- something that is far less cool. So thank you.

 Voice of Reason: Well that above paragraph was sarcastic. If this is your 100^th blog, shouldn’t you take a more celebratory tone, possibly extend a hand out to new readers who might be drawn in by this new edition?

Voice of Sarcasm: Why would anyone new read this?

Voice of Reason: Because it’s now 100. People love that number. Cricketers. Telegram enthusiasts. Broadcasters who want to fill hours of their schedule by producing countdown lists of the best thing ever. No one cares about the 99^th one, but with the 100^th one you had a golden opportunity to hook some new readers; an opportunity you've squandered by doing an ironic paragraph at the top.

Voice of Sarcasm: If people are reading this, just because it’s the 100^th one, then I’m glad I’ve alienated them. This blog is for the 6 people who were there when I wrote about Grayson Perry’s art exhibition. It’s for the die-hards, the completists, the people who read when they know it makes more sense not to.

Voice of Reason: This is the very thing your girlfriend tells you not to do: ramble at the top. Just talk about the thing you said you were going to talk about.

Voice of Sarcasm: Fine.

Voice of Reason: So, you’ll start now?

Voice of Sarcasm: Yes.

Voice of Reason: Well, that was easier than I thought.

Voice of Sarcasm: Deep down I want approval, so I don’t want this bit to be so protracted that I lose people. I guess the sarcastic opener was just an insecure way of trying to prove that I wasn’t like other blogs who indulgently write about topics no one cares about.

Voice of Reason: And spending an hour of your three hour writing time doing a back and forth between the voices in your head isn’t self-indulgent?

Voice of Sarcasm: I thought I was meant to be the sarcastic one.

Voice of Reason: Just get started.

Voice of Sarcasm: Ok.

This week my interests seem to have converged on the topic of monsters and alternate universes. Earlier in the week I read Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean At The End Of The Lane, a story about a young boy accidentally releasing powers from another dimension. As fantasy is rarely my bag, I was hesitant about venturing into this parallel universe, but because of the book's plaudits I felt it was a foray worth taking. Ultimately I found the book to be a good read, if a little loosely plotted. (Gaiman originally conceived the idea as a short story, however it morphed into something bigger.) Despite my reservations, it was good to get out of my comfort zone (‘coming of age’ novels) and read something fantastical and unbelievable.

After finishing the book I turned to The Girl and said, ‘Do you fancy watching Stranger Things?’ You might remember me in an earlier blog describing The Girl’s fear whilst watching Charlier Brooker’s Black Mirror- how she conspicuously went to brush her teeth during the scary bits- so I didn’t hold much hope of her saying ‘yes.’ Fearing her rejection, I lined up a series of arguments to win her round: "it has Winona Ryder in; it is up for Golden Globes; it was in The Guardian’s Top 10 shows of 2016; it’s one of Netlix’s most watched shows; my friends from work are talking about it and if I don’t watch I’ll feel left out …" Knowing me too well, she probably guessed that I had a case file of reasons prepared, and therefore thought it easier to throw out the case by immediately saying, "yes, go on then." By the end of the first episode, she was the one suggesting we extend our bed time to allow for another one.

Stranger Things is set in 1980’s Hawkins, Indiana. The timing is significant. Remember Back to The Future fans the scene where Marty’s dad confuses Marty for an alien from outer space? Well, this incident served as a metaphor for a sci-fi obsessed decade: a time when Spielberg and Carpenter films occupied the multiplex; Dungeons and Dragons littered table tops and Stephen Kings piled bedsides. The world was enraptured – fearful – of these imaginative lands, so when something out of the ordinary happened holding supernatural forces responsible wasn’t so far-fetched. Teenagers- like Marty’s dad- in particular were impressionable to the fantasy they were consuming, making them advocates of sci-fi in a way more cynical adults weren’t.

Marty crash lands into the past.

Stranger Things begins with a group of children playing their fantasy role play game, desperate to role a 13 (In Dungeon and Dragons I’m guessing you play with more than one dice. As a general rule, the more dice involved in a game, the more geeky it is). Rolling a 13 will ensure the evil Demogorgon is defeated; unfortunately, Mike’s mother brings the real world down on their fun, closing fantasia's portal door by reminding them they have homes to go to. Together Dustin and Will ride off, letting testosterone turn the pedals en-route as they launch into a race to see who can get home first. Throwing his feet into action, Will soon has Dustin eating his dust. Now separate, Will ventures through the misty streets alone. Suddenly, something jumps out ahead of him. He is startled. Afraid. Terrified. Abandoning his bike, he runs for home. Inside the house, he calls for his mother; his brother. No answer. He bolts the door. The door shivers, shakes. Someone is trying to get in. Will flees the inside for the out. Ensconcing himself in the garage, he loads a rifle that will take the taker. Unfortunately, the tables turn and Will is taken. His mother's life is about to be turned upside down as she learns her son is missing. This is the premise of Stranger Things: a mother’s search for her son. A search that isn’t as simple as officer Hopper's assertion: "In 99% of cases children are taken by someone they know." A science lab features in episode 1. For some unknown reason home lights flick on and off. A shaven headed girl turns up in a restaurant starved of language and food. How do these dots connect?

Winona Ryder's star turn as Joyce.

I really loved Stranger Things and I’m no sci-fi buff. I haven’t seen Halloween, Poltergeist or The Thing ­– all films that the child characters love. Even though I know the writers are in thrall to King (one episode is named The Body, a nod to Stephen King’s Stand By Me story) and Spielberg, I admit that I wouldn’t have picked up on all the references. Despite all of this ignorance, I totally bought the programme. The relationships between characters reminded me of Freaks and Geeks where the dislocation between parents and children is at odds with the camaraderie the children feel towards one another. Alongside the realistic depiction of social structures, there is a believably unbelievable yarn about mad scientists and government cover-ups. For someone who said last week that they didn’t do mystical puzzles, Stranger Things is that strangest thing: a riddle that I was happy to be confused by

Thank you again to everyone who has read, liked and commented on the blog. I really enjoy writing it each week; it is a lovely bonus that people look at it too.

Stranger Things is on Netflix.