Post 442. STILL FOLLOWING THE PROMS.

DESPITE THEIR MODERNITY.

I REMAIN FAITHFUL BUT LESS EAGER.
Pushed on by avant garde conductors, concert orchestras now seem compelled to undertake at least one composition by a 'promising new composer' with every appearance they make. This year at the Proms there has been ample evidence that the practice is spreading. So far I have watched the Ukrainian Freedom Orchestra conducted by Canadian-Ukrainian Keri-Lee Wilson give, with only a fortnight to prepare, a fine performance of Valentin Silvestrov's 7th Symphony (Mr. Silvestrov, Ukraine's leading living composer, left Kylv with his daughter and granddaughter, in March), of works by Beethoven and Brahms, and of  Chopin's Piano Concerto No.2 played by Anna Fedorova. I have always thought Chopin's piano concertos to be nothing more than fancy tinkering up and down the scales with an occasional nod in the direction of the orchestra, and Brahms Symphony No.4 is very, very long, so the programme was not to my taste. But the orchestra was fine and the proms audience loved it.
I also watched Marin Alsop conduct the Vienna Radio Symphony Orchestra on their Proms debut: the programme consisted of works by Bartol, Prokofiev, Hannah Eisendle and Dvořák. I like Marin Alsop, I liked the orchestra, and I greatly respect the keyboard skills of Benjamin Grosvenor. Those were my positives. Everything else: from the Bartok - where the tramps should have done away with the mandarin at least ten minutes earlier - to Dvořák's Symphony No.7 which came from nowhere and went right back where it came from, was a negative.
So, too, was the Proms broadcast on BBC Radio 3 of the Finnish Radio Symphony Orchestra conducted by Nicholas Collon and fronted by a favourite of every fun-at-the-Proms follower, violinist Pekka Kuusisto. Great orchestra, and always great to hear Pekka, but did he really have to let Vaughan Williams' lark out of its cage again? Never mind the number one choice of Classic FM listeners, I'd have shot that little bugger out of the sky long ago. To me, most twenty  and twenty first century classical music is a combination of the loudly discordant and the monotonously off-key. If I am alone in this, too bad. 
To quote the brilliant (recently retired) concert pianist Philip Fowke: "I'm not a student at all. I run on ignorance and prejudice...and instinct of course, that's very important."
He still is a brilliant pianist.
I still scribble this blog and follow the Proms: the latter less eagerly.

I don't like decimalisation and the metric system either.
But things will cheer up. They always do.
As Endeavour's Fred Thursday (Roger Allam) puts it: "Mind how you go."

Post 441. STRAIGHTFORWARDNESS.

 HOWEVER HONESTLY PRESENTED.

IS NO LONGER ACCEPTABLE.
No, you don't speak too openly, not in twenty first century England you don't. Now you tread warily. You choose your words with care. You avoid confrontation or giving offence. If you have two penn'orth of sense you keep clear of social media, too. ChitChat, TikTok, PatterNatter, FlipFlop - whatever trade moniker given it by some teenage billionaire.
And you ignore any comment by anybody who doesn't give their name, or by any 'former something-or-other' who does. Time was when a member of the NHS committee that purported to employ me (actually the government did) remarked that I was 'rather forthright' and I took it as a compliment, even if it did mean I would never progress beyond Deputy Clerk and Finance Officer. Most of the people who took exception to my bluntness were pompous small-town somebodies whose views concerned me not. I was my own man: never did learn.
Now it is different. Even my dear Leader warns me. You cannot - must not - be adversely outspoken about the way you see this country changing. It is no longer the England of your youth: the one you thought you knew. It is twenty first century England: the one you don't, and never really will, know. So keep your counsel. Do not rock the boat. Avoid words like 'tokenism.'
Though this may suggest otherwise, it really does not bother me all that much. Can't change it.
Early nineties, arthritis, diabetes, cancer: nobody lasts forever and my time has to be too limited for such trivia. But I worry for our descendants in the rat race they will perforce have to join.

Meanwhile it is BBC Proms time again so I am back watching 

TELEVISION.
Saw the vast and gifted National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain conducted by Andrew Gourley perform Danny Elfman's composition Wunderkammer (20 mins), Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue with Simone Dinnerstein superb at the piano, and Maurice Ravel's Daphnis et Chloe (50 mins). Loved the Gershwin, thought both the Elfman and the Ravel (in particular) were too long and went nowhere. But I am not a 'modern' music fan. The orchestra, though, was marvellous and the Proms audience (liberally sprinkled with NYOGB musicians' parents I guess) clearly enjoyed every moment wherever the music was or was not going. Wonderful.
Also saw Yuja Wang play Liszt's Piano Concerto No.1 with the Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Klaus Mäkelä. Brilliant.

How can someone who looks that good be that talented?
How many times have i asked that question?

That's it until the end of the month..     

post 440. MOSTLY THE TELEVISION SCREEN.

NOT IN THE CORNER.

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE LIVING ROOM.

Yep. A sad fact of life: television still reigns supreme in this house. The screen (it long ago ceased to be 'the box' didn't it?) stands slap bang in front of Mo and I and is watched, or at least switched on, for most of every day. God knows why. Much of it is garbage. But some of the repeated stuff can still be worth another look: so we  watch it, further praise the good, and re-lambast the bad.

Good or bad does of course depend on your perspective, and my likes or dislikes may not be yours or  those of a more kindly majority. When I look back, many of the television programmes I castigated from their very conception have since appeared in series after series, each attracting an adoring audience, and are still going strong. Ah well. To each his own.
Mo and I are currently attempting to intersperse the reality dross with Netflix. Mostly it works.

We saw Clint Easrwood's film  Cry Macho and it was slow but charming. The actor/director is four months older than me and looks it: but he can still ride a horse and deliver a quick punch. I pass.

We saw Ewan McGregor in The Ghost Writer and both enjoyed it even if,  halfway through, I did realize it was second time around for me. Yes...age again... you remember when it's too late.
For our sins we also watched James Weber Brown in Mark Greenstreet's Silent Hours. The film is set in Portsmouth, so we felt a compulsion to stay the course: we are, after all, Portmuthians who met and were married there. Mo eventually gave the film a kindly word on account of twists in the plot. I concluded, in a less kindly vein, that it took two and a half hours off my life and that was two and a half hours too long. Anyway, Pompey is not much of a lure to me. Never was.
To conclude, everybody seems to be complaining that it is too hot, so it was with some relief that I found my annual diabetes check-up being managed by a nurse of thirty years standing who said: "They're all moaning about the heat now. In a week or two's time, when it changes, they'll all be moaning about the rain. I tell 'em to enjoy this like it is. It won't last that long. And the grass will grow  again: it always does." 

God bless common sense. And I'm not in bad nick for an oldie. 

Post 439. HOORAY! THEY DID IT!

 ENGLAND 2 - GERMANY 1

AS IF YOU DIDN'T KNOW.
And, if you are English, how could you not? Last Sunday at Wembley the England women's football team beat the Germany women's team 2 - 1 in extra time to win the Euro 2022 Trophy. It was a landmark for the English against a country that had won the Trophy eight times and, if you were looking for a touch of gentle irony, the England manager, Sarina Wiegman, is Dutch.
So much for Brexit, eh?
A wonderful sporting achievement, though, and the utmost praise to all concerned. I just hope the resultant surge in interest won't lead women's football too close to that of the men. We can do without histrionics in the penalty area, attempted coercion of referees, off-field Facebook fights, or top teams so full of foreigners (see Chelsea 1999) that you can't pick a national side from the Premiership because there are barely enough English players there to form one. That apart, good luck to the girls in their quest for a better deal on the football front. They have had one helluva long wait.
HERE AT HOME.
If you are owned (or have ever been owned) by a cat you will know that, no matter how much you may kid yourself to the contrary, you never really know your feline owner: the most accurate one word description is unpredictable.
My Leader and I are currently owned by two cats: Spike and Angel. Spike, the little female, paying due homage to Mo, runs the show to suit herself; and that includes sleeping most nights by Mo's feet at the bottom of our bed.
Angel has adopted me on an increasingly permanent basis. I hold the door keys, as well as being keeper of the Felix goody bag packet, and nothing in the Angel world could be more influential than an elderly retainer who sidelines as doorman and caterer.
So on Sunday night he disappeared. He is a wanderer and has done it before, but not for too long since he moved here. We may not have worried, but by late Tuesday when calling and searching had brought no joy, we were increasingly concerned that he may have become trapped somewhere or have strayed into busy main road holiday traffic. Mo put a message on her social media outlets and got some nice responses from other cat people. But nobody had seen him.
At a quarter to eleven on Tuesday night I was standing at the loo having a last minute leak when he poked his head round the bathroom door to ask: "Got any cat treats?"
He never has fathomed privacy. Look at it: butter wouldn't melt.

And we still don't know where he was.