Going Underground

The travelling circus is coming to town,
Plenty of freaks and I'm the clown,
Mind the gap please, mind the gap-
I'm going Underground.

*Alight here for New Zealand and the Royal Albert Hall*

*Ladies and gents, this train will not be stopping at the next station. This is due to planned engineering works that I was not aware of.*

(Girl on phone): Did you see his face when I glassed him?
(Assumed response): No, what was it like?
(Girl on phone): I dunno, I wasn't looking, was I?

*There is a good service on all lines on the London Underground today except where there is a bad service.*

(Same girl on phone): Wat u wearing 2nite luv?..I'm worried mine's ova-da-top... yeh, it's a dress, like, what u call da type of thing dat goes round your neck?
"A noose?" I offer, hopefully.

My mind wanders.
The girl in the next seat catches me reading her texts in the reflection in the window.
She shoots me a look.
Oh, for a book.

The travelling circus is coming to town,
Plenty of freaks and I'm the clown,
Mind the gap please, mind the gap-
I'm going Underground.

Christmas is coming...

...and for the first time ever, Bob Dylan is ringing it in. That's right, the greatest songwriter of our times is singing Little Drummer Boy on his latest album. 'Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum, on my drum (and guitar. and harmonica)'

I haven't heard Christmas in the Heart yet; I'm having too much fun just reading some of the reviews. Here's an excerpt from one of them:

"Whereas most vocalists might prepare to record by getting plenty of rest and sipping warm tea with honey and lemon, Dylan sounds as if he just closed down the bars in Bethlehem with the Three Wise Men and then smoked some frankincense and myrrh as a nightcap." Heh.

My favourite piece though, is this part-review, part-worship-at-the alter. Always somewhat comforting to come across a kindred spirit.

And of course I'm going to buy it. It's Dylan. I would probably pay just to hear him breathe heavily on an album. Besides, he's not making a dime from this one, all proceeds go to charity. So there you go. Greatness for a good cause.
pa rum pum pum pum.

Mistaken Identity

A friend of mine mailed me earlier today asking if the person giving the talk below was me. Given that he hasn't seen me in a while, I can only guess it was the name or the sparkling wit that caused the misunderstanding. Either way, I can confirm it isn't me.

Despite that, I would still recommend watching the video. It's pretty interesting stuff. But then again, most of the stuff on TED.com is.

On Writing

India Uncut, one of the blogs I follow, recently had a short but interesting post titled 'Education'. A Quinton Tarantino quote was used to make a larger point about whether or not writing, like films, can be taught in a classroom. The original post can be read here, and the response I sent to Amit Varma, the author of India Uncut, is below. If any of you have thoughts on the topic, do write in.

When people ask me if I went to film school I tell them, ‘no, I went to films.’
-- Quentin Tarantino

As someone who put down a small fortune on a (relatively) expensive writing degree here in the UK, I have come up against this line of argument on more than one occasion- before, during and after the course. My answer has always been the same: Writing, like any other art form, is both an art as well as a craft. The art is a largely metaphysical thing and can never be captured in a textbook (some say you are born with it, but I'm not convinced you are born with anything. That's another debate, though). The craft, on the other hand, can and should be learnt. The classroom is not a bad place to start.

While Mr Tarantino's quote makes good copy, I would begin by questioning the truth of it. The most obvious reason is because films, more than most other art forms, have a technical element that cannot be learnt from merely watching them. This might be reading too much into his quote, but I am certain that at some point he was just an unknown clever guy who wanted to make films but didn't have the foggiest idea how. He would then have hung around people who knew what they were doing and sucked up everything like a sponge. This process would most likely have involved sleeping on a few couches, recreational drugs, and some beautiful free-spirited ladies. Mr too-cool-for-school Tarantino might never call this an 'education', but for those of us who lead far less exciting lives, that's exactly what it is.

It's a similar argument that one sometimes comes across in sports as well. Mr Tarantino's quote, when used in a sporting context, would be akin to a gifted cricketer saying all he needed to do to become a world-class batsman was watch Sachin Tendulkar bat. This is meaningless because all he would be watching is the end-product of years of hard graft, the distillation of months of toil to perfect a certain shot or correct a flaw in technique. He is watching the final edited version, with no awareness of what has gone on behind the scenes.

Yes, writing is, at its core, a solitary activity. But there is a collaborative element, however subliminal, to all good writing. This is what I leant from the few months spent in workshops with other writers discussing each other’s work, all of us believing all the while that our individual pieces were nudging perfection but realising in the end that we merely did different things well.

You would no doubt have felt this too, over the course of your promotional tour for your first book. Those who came to the various venues to listen to you read and discuss your writing will inevitably try to incorporate certain things they liked into their own work, and some of their questions, reactions and comments would have set off sparks, however tiny, in your mind as well.

It is this constant process of moulding and shaping, modulating your own inner voice in relation to others, that creative writing classes seek to capture. Has all this made me a better writer? I'm not sure. What it has given me is a better understanding of what I do, and the ways and means of doing it better.

Still, I am by no means suggesting this is the only way to go about turning into a 'writer', whatever that creature is. At the end of the day, as they say, there are no answers. Only choices.

All the best.

The inevitable Dylan post

One of the great pleasures of shopping for books (or anything else, for that matter) is walking in to a shop and finding you have a 50 per cent discount on a title you would have gladly paid full price for. And so the Cambridge Companion to Bob Dylan is now on my shelf, along with the 9 other books under 'D'. All on Dylan. One more will make ten, just in case any of you have been staying up at night wondering what to get me for Christmas...

I've got about 25 pages in; the excerpt below is from the Introduction:

...Dylan from an early age boasted the voice of a seemingly old man – seemingly the very voice, to steal a phrase from Greil Marcus, of “old, weird America.” In an era when pop (and even folk) stars were, as today, meant to sing like the nightingale, Dylan instead sang as the crow. But that croak, it seemed, contained a depth of feeling and passion and anger and joy and wisdom and disillusionment not hinted at by the songbirds; it came as a revelation. And it sounded like the voice of Truth...

The rest of the first half consists of essays, each taking on a different perspective Of Dylan's life and career, while the second half takes a closer look at some of his landmark albums. I am hoping it will shed some light on at least a few of the 800-odd Dylan songs I currently have on my iPod. I was going to post the link to a review I wrote of his 2006 album (and one of my personal favourites), Modern Times, but the article is no longer on the Amazon website. I’ll try and post a review of the most recent album, Together Through Life, soon.

Yes, I'm obsessed. I have no friends. Well, except Dylan.