Marcel Berlins is bad-ass avantgarde. And such lovely hair! And exquisite features! I want to meet him and bow to him! Express my delight at his opinions!!

“Marcel Berlins is a lawyer turned journalist. Apart from his two weekly Guardian columns, he is a university law lecturer, reviews crime fiction for the Times and is a frequent broadcaster.”

He is also rather pompous with elitist views on the accessibility of art.  His latest comment in today’s Guardian bemoaned New York City’s Musem of Modern Art’s policy of allowing the public to take pictures of the exhibits. How dare they?

“I was being jostled and pushed not by people anxious to get a better view of the art on show in one of the world’s great museums, but by mobile phone owners rudely trying to ensure no one blocked their desired camera angle. They were there not to see and be inspired by artists of genius, but to take snaps to prove they were there.”

As it happens I was visiting the MOMA last week as well and I can’t remember any jostling going on. On the contrary, the members of the public taking pictures did this with a certain awe.  Just like Monsieur Berlins I wondered about the museum’s policy of allowing the public to take pictures, but in stark contrast to him I was actually delighted (so was the best girlfriend ever). I even asked one of the delightful attendants and she said the policy in place because the musum is ‘modern’. Good on her. Signore Berlins obviously isn’t. You see, I’m  just a middle -class bog standard academic with middle class income, so I can’t afford to have a Seurat hanging in my guest toilet.

I was quite happy to have the chance of taking some well-lit pictures with a proper camera of some outstanding art work. I don’t make it that often to New York and I will now relish the chance of being able to gaze lovingly at my favourite Klees and Feinigers. Marcel nevertheless doesn’t like this, because:

“Photography in museums ought to be banned, but I also have a less drastic solution. Anyone wanting to snap an exhibit ought to be forced to look at it first, for at least a minute. If they don’t, they should be fined for each second of non-inspection. The scheme will, of course, have considerable technological, financial, logistical and manpower implications. But it will be in the cause of art.”

In the cause of art I am actually delighted that MoMa uses photography to make art viral: the more these precious paintings, sculptures and installations can be cherished by an ever expanding pool of viewers (be it on  a computer or in a museum) the more art wins. Making musems and their content more accessible to a wider audience (so the plebs can show their pictures to their plebeian friends) will democratise art.

Even our pompous little art critic must cherish that thought. On the other hand, he probably prefers to have the galleries to himself, scratching his chin and possibly muttering into his beard.

Accent on Niles

Image by Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

Being currently in New York City (hello burglars!) and lodging wap bam boogie in the theatre district, the best girlfriend and I thought we do the local thing and go to the theatre. There were three shows that were really appealing: “Exit the King” by Ionesco and starring Susan Sarandon and Geoffrey Rush, “33 Variations” (suggested by my favourite director ever) and ‘Accent on Youth’ by Samson Raphaelson, starring David Hyde-Pierce. I won, meaning we went to see this 70 year old play that was almost (but not quite) as good as a good Lubitsch screwball comedy. Being the enormous Frasier fan that I am I obviously had to see David Hyde-Pierce live and fortunately the far more erudite best girlfriend ever agreed to forego the more intellectual pleasures of Ionesco and join me in watching this rather shakily reviewed piece.

It was certainly an interesting experience: the audience had an approximately average age of 75, which would explain the constant beep of badly tuned hearing aids and the constant ringing of mobile phones (even though there were three clear notifications by the management to turn the bloody things off).

The play itself was fine: a vapid little thing of a thirties comedy highlighting the difficulties of loving young women from the perspective of a man of a certain age, it induced some smiles from the girlfriend of me (although certain members of the audience guffawed at the slightest amusing aside) and Hyde-Pierce was certainly a delight to watch when he was allowed to indulge in his trademark physical comedy, all flapping extremities and raised eyebrows.

The 200 dollars the girlfriend and I payed for these two hours of folly would have financed a lot of West End plays in London, but it was nevertheless a delight to see Hyde-Pierce in full effect from the first row on a Broadway theatre, but the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre should do more to enforce their crowd’s adherence to the rules of annoyance-free enjoyment. For 200 bucks I would expect 2 hours without noisy hearing aids and annoying ring tones.

Nevertheless, as New York goes, you can spend this kind of money much quicker in a crap restaurant, so I would call the experience a success.

Incognito live in London

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…and so it came to pass that Scottish bloke and I arranged to meet in London to see Bluey. Staying in a moderately comfy hotel in Bloomsbury, it was only a ten minute stroll to Camden Centre where that little bundle of joy was going to play with his current choice of musicians. Camden Centre has the feeling of a high school gymnasium but was soon filled with a pleasant and peaceful crowd, complaining about some terrible pear cider that cost a cool 4 pounds per can. The alternative was that highlight of the lager world, the moderately intolerable Sagres. Only 3 pounds per can. Pfft. At 9pm the band arrived, and by now I could honestly say that I did not recognise any of the current members of Incognito (apart from Bluey of course). Fortunately Imani made a small guest appearance, so I knew two of the people on stage (and of course Alex van den Bosch, Matt Bianco’s perennial happy percussionist). The concert was excellent: great choice of songs, a happy crowd, musicians obviously in a good mood. Big letdown was the sound though. Distorted vocals, lacking bass (the poor bassplayer obviously worked very hard, but unfortunately nothing of his efforts came through the mix). Maybe next time they should try to use some other speakers then those two living room units. 

Nevertheless, two blissful, pulsating hours. Scottish bloke was seen tapping his foot, which is pretty much the highest accolade among his kin.

 

Update 26.4.09 18:36 : Bluey apologised for the crap sound on Incognito’s website. 

The Soundtracks accompanying our lives

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Mark R and Mark F of Matt Bianco inspecting a handsome ruin.

A long time ago, in my teen and twens, I used to look down on the sort of adult who would go to see sixties and seventees revival concerts. Why would you want to see artists whose prime was obviously over and their live appearances only motivated by the need to make a couple of quick bucks, I asked myself. Why would you go and see these codgers when contemporary music offers you so many thrills?

Ah, the arrogance of youth.

By the time I turned thirty I had already been to my first eighties revival concert (ABC/Human League/Culture Club {brr}). So much for contemporary music. The next month I will be buying my 12th Matt Bianco album (no wanker jokes, please!) and tonight I will be seeing Incognito for the, er, eighth (?) time live on stage. I have caught myself listening to Radio 2 and even cheerfully chuckle to Terry Wogan’s jokes (sometimes) and have been seen violently raging against the humourless, misogynistic shite that is modern R&B. My Ipod is full of Steely Dan, Miles Davis, Mezzoforte, The James Taylor Quartet, The Style Council, Jazzanova and other acts that are way past their prime (or have just vanished into the ether).  If I ever would have to pick a song that has accompanied as long as I can remember it would be MB’s ‘Summer Song’. Sad? I don’t know.

There must be an explanation the humans get more set in their ways musically and prefer the comforts of the music that shaped them when they whippersnappers. I try to keep us as mucyh as I can with contemporary music, but apart from Hot Chip and the Klaxons I haven’t really discovered anything that suits my elevator music taste.  Is there are neurobiological explanation, or is this purely behavioural. It’s not that we can’t enjoy new things once we have hit thirty: books, movies, theatre, people, all these can be interesting and new and be added to the list of things we like and follow, but somehow music seems to be except from that list.

If anybody is aware of any qualitative or quantitative work on this, the sclerotic attitude of men > 30 on contemporary music, please pass them on to me.

I might just find out what is wrong with me.

More Pub goodness

As the best girlfriend ever continues to be podiatrically challenged after her recent fracture, there were again no pub walks this weekend, so we chose to take Black Beauty (our beloved little runabout) into the maze of little B and C roads that is rural South East Essex. It’s interesting how quickly the character of Essex changes as soon as you get north of the A127 and east of the A130. The obvious signs of deprivation vanish and a lush countryside spreads out in front of you, interspersed with little hamlets. One of these, Little Totham, was the destination of the day, as the multi – award winning ‘The Swan’ was waiting for us there.

This is just splendid. When we came in, there was a lovely mix of locals celebrating at a function, bar punters and plenty of dogs. There were at leat 16 guest ales, perry and cider, mostly from local breweries. The reception was genuinely friendly, the dogs lovely, the owner a true gentleman and everybody looked well pleased.

Top Marks for another South East Essex Pub. Who would have thought?