Corfu Blues and Global Views: September 2020

Tuesday, 29 September 2020

First Day at Cambridge University

My eldest grandson took up residence at his Cambridge college yesterday.

He's very happy with his room in college.

The college was founded in 1350, following the devastation of the Black Death plague of the 1340's.

"Trinity Hall was founded by Bishop Bateman of Norwich in 1350, making it the fifth oldest surviving College of the University of Cambridge. Bishop Bateman originally founded the College to promote the study of canon and civil law, probably due to the shortage of clergyman and lawyers following the Black Death of 1349. To this day, the College maintains a very strong tradition in the study of Law."

https://www.trinhall.cam.ac.uk/about/the-college/history/

I wonder what undergraduates throughout the country will make of their first terms

in the time of the modern plague.

His proud mother puts on a brave face before flying back to the USA today:

Trinity Hall - https://www.trinhall.cam.ac.uk/about/gardens/central-site/

Map - https://map.cam.ac.uk/Avery+Court+(Trinity+Hall)#52.205486,0.115718,17

Saturday, 26 September 2020

Jimmie Rodgers in Kenya. Chemirocha. Hugh Tracey Recording of Chemutoi Ketienya and Kipsigis Girls

Always a fascinating story. I first became interested when working in the mass media Kenya from 1976, and borrowed the Hugh Tracey LP from the Voice of Kenya record library.

The Singing Wells Project

"In the summer of 2014, the Singing Wells Project embarked on a mission to repatriate the music of the Kipsigi People, recorded fifty years ago by Hugh Tracey. Working in association with ILAM and Ketebul Music, we uncovered the fascinating story behind the song Chemirocha".

LOST SONGBOOKS - Returning Hugh Tracey's recordings to Kenya (Part 1 - CH... https://youtu.be/Gi8xeDrsQTs

I bought about ten Jimmie Rodgers Regal Zonophone 78s in upcountry Kenya (at the Bhogal Brothers shops in Kitale and Eldoret) in the mid '70s. Jim

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hugh_Tracey

https://www.forcedexposure.com/Artists/TRACEY.HUGH.html

https://www.forcedexposure.com/Catalog/tracey-hugh-listen-all-around-the-golden-age-of-central-and-east-afr-2cd-book/DTD.052CD.html

Listen All Around: The Golden Age of Central and East African Music, Hugh Tracey

2CD/BOOK

LABEL - DUST-TO-DIGITAL
DTD 052CD
RELEASE DATE 6/15/2018

https://music.amazon.co.uk/albums/B07D6GVV9W?do=play&ref=dm_ws_dp_ald_bb_phfa_xx_xx

Friday, 18 September 2020

On a mouth-organ, J. B. Priestley. Blues-harp. Mouth-harp. Harmonica.

On a mouth-organ

From Papers from Lilliput, J. B. Priestley, 1922.

I couldn't disagree more! J. B. Priestley had probably never heard the wailing tones of the blues-harp at the time of writing of this short piece. I wonder what he would have made of the sound of Noah Lewis and others in the blues tradition.

"FOR the past half hour, someone, probably a small boy, has been playing a mouth-organ underneath my window. I know of no person under this roof peculiarly susceptible to the sound of a mouth-organ, so that I cannot think that the unknown musician is serenading. He is probably a small boy who is simply hanging about, after the fashion of his mysterious tribe, and whiling away the time with a little music. Why he should choose a raw day like this on which to do nothing but slide his lips over the cold metal of a mouth-organ must remain a mystery to me; but I have long realised that unfathomable motives may be hidden away behind the puckered face and uncouth gestures of small boyhood.

I have not been able to recognise any of the tunes, or the snatches of tunes, which have come floating up to my window. Possibly they are all unknown to me. But I think it is more likely that they are old acquaintances, coming in such a questionable shape that my ear cannot find any familiar cadence; they have been transmuted by the mouth-organ into something rich and strange; for your mouth-organ is one of the great alchemists among musical instruments and leaves no tune as it finds it.

It has been pointed out that whatever material Dickens used, however rich and varied it might be, it was always mysteriously transformed into the Dickens substance, lengths of which he cut off and called Novels. It seems to me that the mouth-organ, though a mechanical agent, has something of this strange power of transformation; whatever is played upon it seems to come out all of a piece; whatever might be the original character of the tunes, gay, fantastical, meditative, stirring, as their sounds are filtered through the little square holes of the instrument, their character changes, and they all become more or less alike. ‘Rule, Britannia!’ ‘Annie Laurie,’ and the latest ditty of the music-halls somehow or other lose their individuality and flow into one endless lament, one lugubrious strain, that might very well go on for ever.

For this reason, the sound of a mouth-organ has always succeeded in depressing me. It must have been invented by an incorrigible pessimist, who sought to create a musical instrument that would give to every tune, no matter how lively, some touch of his own hopeless view of life; and probably the only time that he laughed was when he realised that he could leave this thing as a legacy to the world. I have never played a mouth-organ, because I know that my own native optimism would not be strong enough to resist the baneful influence of the music it makes. To hear it now and again is more than enough for me.

To one who is filled with the joy of life—a small boy, for example—such hopeless strains may prove only invigorating, may serve as a wholesome check upon his ebullient spirits, like the skeleton at the Egyptian feasts. But to most of us weaker brethren, frail in spirit, music that is unillumined by even a glimmer of hope is intolerable.

For the past half hour, I have been trying to concentrate all my attention upon some fairly cheerful matter, and I have failed. It has been impossible to keep out the sound of this mouth-organ. Its formless, unknown, unending tune, only fit for bewailing a ruined world, has gradually invaded my room, penetrated through the ear into my brain, and coloured or discoloured all the thoughts there. There is in it no trace of that noble sadness which great music, like great poetry, so often brings with it; the mouth-organ knows nothing of ‘divine despair.’ It seems to whimper before ‘the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world.’

‘Oh de-ar!’ I seem to hear it crying, ‘No hope for yo-ou and yo-ours; Me-eser-able world! Oh de-ear!’ It has brought with it a fog of depression; my spirits have been sinking lower and lower; and under the influence of this evil mangler of good, heartening tunes I have begun to think that life is not worth living.

Most music worthy of the name has such beauty that it will either raise us to a kind of ecstasy or give us a feeling of vague sadness, which some delicate persons prefer to wild joy. Sir Thomas Browne, you remember, has something to say on this point, in a passage that can never become hackneyed no matter how many times it is quoted: ‘Whosoever is harmonically composed delights in harmony; which makes me much distrust the symmetry of those heads which declaim against all church music. For myself, not only from my obedience, but my particular genius, I do embrace it; for even that vulgar and tavern-music, which makes one man merry, another mad, strikes in me a deep fit of devotion, and a profound contemplation of the first composer.’

But these mouth-organ strains will make a man neither mad nor merry, nor yet strike in him a deep fit of devotion; but if his ear is like mine, they will make him sink into depression and dye his world a ghastly blue.

It is curious that certain other popular musical instruments seem to have the same characteristics as the mouth-organ. The concertina and the accordion, good friends of the sailor, the lonely Colonist, and rough, kindly fellows the world over, seem to me to possess the same power of transforming all the tunes played upon them into one long wail. I have read about their ‘lively strains,’ but I have never heard them. The sound of a concertina a quarter of a mile away is enough to shake my optimism. An average accordion could turn the Sword Theme from ‘Siegfried’ into a plea for suicide. A flageolet or a tin-whistle has not such a shattering effect; nevertheless, both of them can only give a tune a certain subdued air, which is certainly preferable to the depressing alchemy of the other instruments, but which certainly does not make for liveliness.

The bagpipe, which has been so long the companion of the lonely folk of northern moors and glens, can produce at times a certain rousing martial strain, but, even then, a wailing air creeps into the music like a Scotch mist. Its very reels and strathspeys, which ought to be jolly enough, only sound to me like elaborate complaints against life; their transitory snatches of gaiety are obviously forced. At all other times, the bagpipe is frankly pessimistic, and laments its very existence.

There is probably some technical reason why these instruments produce such doleful tones. Perhaps our sophisticated ears rebel against their peculiar harmonies and discords. But it is certainly curious that mouth-organs, concertinas, tin-whistles, and the rest, so beloved of simple people, should be intolerable to so many of us. Is it that we have no miseries to express in sound? Or is it that our optimism is so brittle that we dare not submit it to the onslaught of this strange music? I do not know.

All that I do know is that at the present moment I am sitting in my armchair before a bright fire, depressed beyond belief by the sound that floats through my window; while outside, in the cold, there stands a small boy, holding a mouth-organ in his numbed hands and bravely sliding his lips over the cold metallic edges of the thing; and by this time he is probably as gay as I am miserable".

See: Who was the first blues harp player to record?

https://www.patmissin.com/ffaq/q5.html