New Tory Anthem

Tags

If you're Irish, Tory anthem

If you’re Irish come into the parlor,
There’s a welcome there for you;
If your name is Timothy or Pat,
So long as you come from Ireland,
There’s a welcome on the mat,
If You come from the Mountains of Mourne,
Or Killarney’s lakes so blue,
We’ll sing you a song and we’ll make a fuss,
Whoever you are you are one of us,
If you’re Irish, this is the place for you!

The Sub-organist’s Inamorata is Unimpressed by his Instrument

Tags

inamorata, Infant Crotch, kist o' whistles, organ stops, organ-grinder, Oxford, St John's College Chapel, sub-organist, temperament, William Crotch, Wurlitzer

Master Crotch Playing the Organ, aged 3.

 

Not for the prudish…

I saw the magnificent organ in St John’s College Chapel

yesterday and it reminded me that this piece was languishing

in a file somewhere…

 

He invited her to see his action,

presuming that hers would be pneumatic.

He hoped that his extemporisation

would be salicional. He would show her

his tuba mirabilis and swell box.

In exchange she might reveal her feeders.

Tremulant, he tried to think positif.

She might well console him voluntary,

should she have the temperament, Hautboy!

She might indulge his need for flageolet.

“O, dolce Clarabella, in the loft

I will double-touch you in a plein jeu.

Your voix celeste is moving my couplers.”

He pulled out all his stops, the flute d’amour,

but she replied, “You are no Wurlitzer.

Put away that pallet and furniture.

You are less mature than the Infant Crotch.*

and ignorant of the Fundamentals.

I’m virginal but too clavier for you.

Pipe down and stick to your kist o’ whistles.

I never go for the organ-grinder;

I’m more interested in the monkey.”

 

 

 

*Child prodigy on the organ.

Crowd-surfing

Tags

crowdsurfing, Jagdschloss Grunewald, rock concerts

(Jagdschloss Grunewald- image from Medieval Karl@ WordPress)

 

Crowd-surfing

didn’t begin at

rock concerts.

Hokey-Cokey

Tags

Bodleian Library, Hokey-Cokey, Roman de la Rose

(Mirth and Gladness Lead a Dance:

Roman de la Rose; Bodleian Lib

MS Douce 364, Folio 83)

 

 

…and you turn

around.  That’s what it’s

all about.

Greensleeves

Tags

Greensleeves, Henry VIII, Psalter

 

 

(Psalter of Henry VIII- Wikivisually)

 

Hey!  You’ve just

inspired me! I’ll call

it ‘Greensleeves.’

‘I’m Out’

Tags

Dragons' Den, Rutland Pslater, Y-fronts

(Rutland Psalter.  MS 62925, fol 70v

British Library)

 

‘Dragons’ Den’

spurned his musical,

daft Y-fronts.

 

A Birthday Clerihew

Tags

clerihew, Dame Vera Lynn

(image: 29/9/19621962 Nationaal Archief Nederlands

Author: Eric Koch/ Arefo)

 

Dame Vera Lynn,

you helped us win

and there are thousands of brave men

who hope to meet you once again.

Ash Wednesday 1

Tags

Cranmer, ecumenicism, Lent, Palestrina, T S Eliot

Feria Quarta Cinerum

(Image- Jennifer Balaska 2/2/12; author Oxh973)

I won’t go into all the Lenten references to words spoken over

Adam and Eve, referring to the dust to which they shall return.

I won’t go into Cranmer’s dismissal of the procedure as

‘superstitious’ nor its ecumenical resurrection in the 1970s.

What I did- prior to preparing to sing Palestrina’s Reproaches– was

re-read and listen to T S Eliot’s acclaimed poem.  I found his voice

lugubrious and the tone exhausted.  Still, he seemed to have squeezed

through the eye of the needle, in spite of his cultural baggage.

Thanks be to God!

Here’s my version.  I tried to be more positive!  And if you don’t think

I succeed, then I abhor myself in the proverbial dust and cinders and

promise to roll around in a bit of sackcloth.  But fasting?  Well, that’s

more difficult!

See following post…..

 

 

Musical Bumps

Tags

Beethoven, Donizetti, Eisenstadt, Esterhazy, Florian Gassmann, Gall&Spurzheim, Gumpendorf, Hundsthurm, Joseph Haydn, Joshua Reynolds, Karl Rosenbaum, Mrs Billington, Napoleon, Nepomuk, phrenology, Princess and the Pea, Princess Maria Josepha Hermengild, Seven Last Words, St Cecilia, The Creation, The Seasons

A re-blog:

MUSICAL BUMPS

In the end, it was not The Seasons that gave him his finishing stroke,

but rather a sharp instrument which severed his skull from his spinal

column.  Eight days after his internment, he might have been as

surprised as his audiences, not by any symphonic eccentricity, but by

the admission of light, as his coffin lid was prised open.  Perhaps his

agitated outburst at his final attendance of The Creation implied some

premonition, for he exclaimed: It came from hence!  (Rather than a shaft

of divine inspiration, however, this interruption emanated from an

earthier and more material source and might have been deemed a

diabolical intrusion, instead of an ethereal epiphany.)  In fact, the whole

episode had been engineered by my thoroughly material amateur

phrenologist spouse and his associate.

We had all been friends for years.  My husband, Karl Rosenbaum, had

been Secretary to the Esterhazy family and we even attended the burial

at Hundsthurm churchyard in Gumpendorf, the suburbs where Haydn had

lived.  Thank God that Napoleon had ordered his troops to be respectful

and the simple service passed without incident.  However, the memorial

plaque’s inscription could be seen to have been proleptic and ironic, I

suppose: I will not die completely.

Personally, I liked Josef.  He was generous enough to offer me solos in

his masses and in his Seven Last Words.  I wonder what his seven last

words to me would have been, if he had known that I would make an

exhibition of his skull in an ebony box with a golden lyre on the lid.

Musicians and those I considered important enough to be invited to

my soirees marvelled when I displayed the great relic, reposing on its

cushion of white silk.  They gawped through the glass side panels with

gratifying envy and voyeuristic intensity.

My father, Florian Gassmann, the Viennese chamber composer might

not have approved, I fear, nor would Haydn’s patroness and friend,

Princess Maria Josepha Hermengild.  However, Josef had no children

to object, nor a wife by then.  Why should we not have preserved some

remains for posterity?

(Princess Maria Josepha Hermengild: Wikipedia)

It was not as if it was a very pleasant task for Karl and his friend,

Johann, to have to boil and examine the skull.  However, it was for

research purposes, you understand, and for the advancement of

human knowledge.

Number 17 cranial organ was as expected, Karl told me. It showed great

musical aptitude, confirming Gall and Spurzheim’s theories on the links

between mental capacity and aspects of anatomical protuberances.

Musical bumps, I joked.

There had been no malice in the procedure whatsoever, I vow.

As I said, Haydn, though swarthy and pockmarked and generally

unattractive physically, was genial and complimentary to the

female sex- even to his insufferable wife,

whose cranial convexities must have been minimal.  She used to

line her pastry tins and curl her ringlets with paper from his

manuscripts.  She selected the house that he lived in latterly,

telling him that it was suitable for a widow. Yet he loved ladies

and was chivalrous and Platonic in his behaviour and demeanour.

He quipped that if four eyes could have been sealed, he could have

married his nineteen years old, already espoused enamorata.  He

also praised the vocalist, Mrs Billington, who was having her

portrait painted by the great Joshua Reynolds, as St Cecilia listening

to the angels.  Haydn stated that there must have been some mistake,

for the angels should have been depicted as attending to her.

We did not take possession of it immediately.  It was eleven years

later when Prince Nikolaus Esherhazy was suddenly reminded that

he had promised to remove Haydn’s remains to the family seat in

Eisenstadt.

Sturm und Drang! he expostulated.  He made some stronger

comments when he realised that the skeleton was incomplete.

Johann passed the skull to us and we hid it under my straw mattress.

I feigned indisposition when the search party raided- women’s

matters!- and so no trace of it was discovered.  Meanwhile I felt like

the Princess and the Pea and wager that Haydn himself would have

appreciated the  farce, in addition to enjoying the intimacies of my

bed.

However, the Prince grew imperious and we tried to distract him

with a substitute, but unfortunately, being amateur phrenologists,

we did not discern the differences between the skull of a seventy

year old and that of a twenty year old man.  In the end, though, he

accepted an alternative.

Everyone in Vienna knew where the skull was.  After all, we passed

it around with post-prandial spirits and it received due homage.

Karl had promised to return it to Johann on his own decease, in order

that it should finally be given to the Society of Friends of Music, but I

preferred to retain it and willed it to my doctor, so that it should receive

veneration at the Austrian Institute of Pathology and Anatomy, as well

as being of benefit to medical advancement.

How was I to know that it would be a century and a half and two

intervening World Wars before the dear old boy would be made

whole?

For a time he lay in two different zones: the Soviet and International,

but, let us be clear, he already belonged to a wider audience than

Austria alone.

And Johann kept the secret well.  His middle name was Nepomuk, so

I expect his patron saint assisted him, even when the heavens were telling.

At least he died with his tongue intact, unlike his namesake.  So, although

our associate knew the truth, others, such as Beethoven, knew nothing.

Well, he would not, would he?

Haydn often said that he made something out of nothing.  I feel that

the musical world did the same.  When all is said and done, he is at

peace and a man who exchanged his best quartet for a good razor would

surely not have minded us sharing his effulgence.  We cannot all get

what we want-like Jacob, he had to take the sister of the girl he really

loved.

We just made sure that we took what we wanted.  At least the Nazis did

not appropriate the head and we preserved him from Donizetti’s fate:

apparently his skull was sold to a pork butcher who used it as a receptacle

for collecting money.  Some people have no respect!

Beethoven’s ear passages were excised and two of his teeth stolen,

so, all in all, Josef suffered no sacrilege and was surrounded by music,

rather than the silence of the grave.

Many a time a visiting tenor directed his dulcet tones to his casket:

His large and arched brow sublime

Of wisdom deep declares the seat..

At least when the Lord took the great man’s breath away, he did

not disappear into dust.  And now the heavens and earth his power

adore.

Achieved is his glorious work.  The Lord beholds it and is pleased.

And we were that happy pair, misled by false desire to covet that

we should not have, nor should have striven to know what was not

meet.  Nevertheless, I did enjoy possession for a while, but you have

his essence for eternity.

 

Are you sitting comfortably?

Tags

Blur, Bute House, Cath Kidston, Cotswolds, cupcake fascism, denouement, Kate Moss, King Arthur, King Mark, Maidenhead, micromanagement, neologism, Nicola Sturgeon, Roksanda, SamCam, Theresa May, Trump, Vivienne Westwood, Witney

(www.flickr.com/ photos/ home office)

I can’t believe that Candia is leaving Suttonford after defending it against

accusations of cupcake fascism, commented Chlamydia, as she sipped

an iced coffee.

I know, rejoindered Brassica.  She is deserting us and going off to The

Cotswolds, to investigate the charity shops of Witney, in case they receive

any SamCam cast-offs.

Yes, that was a nice Roksanda frock Samantha wore outside Downing Street,

on their last day- the orange and navy number.  That Nancy was a nice big

sister and the little one…

Flo?  Brassie supplied.

Yes, Flo.  She was an attractive little girl.  Very natural.

‘Frock!’  It’s a long time since I heard that descriptor.  It sounds a bit rude,

laughed Brassie.

Anyway, where does Mother Theresa live?  Not that I would thank you

for her Vivienne Westwood tartan trouser suit.

No, the PM doesn’t occupy the inglenooks of deepest Pre-Raphaelite territory,

nor does she seem to partake of pot suppers with the MP for Witney and his

set.  I believe she lives in Maidenhead…  The trouser suit is a bit of a favourite,

so I don’t think she’ll be disposing of it anytime soon to a charitable

establishment.

At least she had the sense not to wear it when visiting Bute House.   Wearing

tartan in front of the Scots is like proclaiming that you are an American golfer and/

or feature Trump on your family tree.  

I suppose it would be a bit of a red rag to a bull in the case of La Sturgeon. 

However, I must say that our Candia is going to have some interesting

neighbours, expatiated Brassie.  Kate Moss lives down the road and Alex from

‘Blur’ makes cheese on a farm somewhere in the vicinity.

I once heard Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe call him a ‘swoonbag,’ Clammie

remarked. Don’t you just love the neologisms these kids create, or pick up?

I walked in at that precise moment.

What’s a ‘swoonbag?’  I asked.

Oh, Alex from ‘Blur,’  Brassie explained.  Isn’t he going to be on your

doorstep?

Not if I can help it, I said firmly.  Who is he anyway?

He makes cheese, Clammie clarified.

Oh.  Well, I haven’t got time for farmers’ markets and all that,

I replied.  Not at the moment.  I have to create  denouement for all my

Suttonfordian Chronicles.  You know that I have left my characters

stranded in The Borders, on the brink of matrimony.  Brexit finished

me off. I didn’t know whether they would have the will to carry on

and whether they would settle in Scotland, or apply for emigration visas.

Diana and Murgatroyd will surely remain ( sorry, unintended pun) in

the pele tower?  Brassie queried.

If wee Nicola gives them a passport.  Dru and Nigel still have to work

down south and Nigel’s mother would refuse to leave Cornwall.  Her

allegiance is to King Arthur, or King Mark, or someone. 

What about Virginia and Snod?  Clammie enquired.

Yes, what about them?  I agreed.  Everyone is losing track of their

narrative.  I think I will start at the very beginning,  to orientate my

readers.  Neither character has their pensions yet, so I don’t know if

Snod will just go ahead and retire anyway.

But Virginia loves her micromanagement PA job,  Brassie submitted.

Don’t all wives?  She would have plenty of scope in re-shaping Gus,

I suggested.  Anyway, I am going to post a resume. It’s been so long

that I can’t remember myself how it all started.

Bonne idee!  smiled Brassie.  I can never remember how it all began.

Are you sitting comfortably?

They both collected a Cath Kidston seat pad, settled on the hard

bistro chairs and hung on my every word.