Dogging for the Disabled

Last week, I attended the Dogging Musikfest in Austria's charming Burgenland; although I suspect it would have a higher audience if it was relocated to Essex.  The weather was sweltering in a way that only Mitteleuropa can be but excellent portable air-con was provided.  I was also particularly struck by the care and attention given to disabled members of the audience.  Ramps had been constructed to the front of the stalls giving those in wheelchairs the best seats in the house. Helpers and carers were given the end seats on the front rows of the stalls for ease of access.

That being said, the recital on the evening in question hardly generated much competition for the best seats. 

Three settings of 'lost' Hungarian folk songs by an American who lives in Minnesota are hardly going to form a queue.  The notes helpfully advise that 'lost' and 'discarded' are the same word in Hungarian, apparently, so it's difficult to ascertain with any level of certainty why the composers considers these songs noteworthy.  The song cycle which took up the second half of the recital was in Rumelian dialect and (and I think you'll be as pleasantly surprised by this as I was) deals with a shepherd's love for his shepherdess girlfriend (well she'd hardly be an accountant, would she?) his sheep, his sheepdog and, judging from the endless number of sections which make up this piece, his love for anything else with a pulse in the surrounding area as well. Bizarrely, this offering was also the work of an American composer who lives in Minnesota but not the same one.  I wonder if they know each other?

I had never heard of the 'internationally renowned' Welsh baritone whose job it was to interpret these pieces nor his accompanist who, apparently, is 'much in demand' on the international circuit. Not for any musical reason I could discern.  As a decorative doorstop, perhaps, or specialist gigolo for women who become aroused in the presence of plodding, musical mediocrity.  Whatever, the 'back story' (as our American cousins have it), the opening bars and optional accuracy of the singer confirmed the two hours of exquisite torture to come. 

God knows, the 'discarded' folk songs gave me ample time to consider my forthcoming defence statement and reasons why eating Scottish people is wrong. But it was only during the opening section which avowed a love for 'all things in nature' (Keep your cats in doors!) that it was brought home to me how compliant I and other music writers have all become over the years.  We can't just shout down a performer or walk out when being subjected to substandard music or barrack the accompanist from the stalls. We'd never get free tickets again!  However, the two disabled members of the audience had no such qualms.

Throughout the Hungarian songs, it was obvious that the female wheelchair user was less than impressed with the musical fare and seemed determined, despite the ratchet straps which held her wheel chair in place, to escape the aural torture.  The song entitled 'To The Mountains' was punctuated with crashes and bangs from the front of the auditorium as she appeared engaged in a life-and-death struggle with her wheelchair entirely reminiscent of Dr Strangelove's attempts to control his politically-incorrect, rogue right arm during the closing stages of Stanley Kubrick's comic masterpiece.  During the section entitled 'Song of Departure', a helper stepped forward, noisily released the ratchet straps and pushed the wheelchair into the gloom of the abandoned zone of the stalls. Throughout the whole episode, the internationally renowned Welsh baritone (IRWB henceforth) had maintained a stony visage with his 'eyes to the far horizon' (about row S of the stalls). Although I could tell that his resolve had weakened as he manfully sang over the noise of of the wheelchair's squeaky guide wheel as it headed towards the exit.  The interval arrived only just in time.

A surfeit of enthusiasm for the Shepherd's song cycle in Rumelian dialect seemed to be the problem for the gentleman in the wheel chair who now took sole possession of the raised observation platform almost at eye-to-eye level with IRWB.  The organisers had done well to find not just a disabled person keen on modern settings of late nineteenth century pastoral song cycles but one who was also cogniscent of the impenetrable Rumelian dialect.  Not content with forty minutes or so (I wasn't timing it.) of passive enjoyment, he livened up the sections marked 'I Call My Flock' and 'The Dog's Bark' with some free-form vocalisation. This was more than IRWB could stand.  His face glowed russet.  Perspiration soaked his fashionably Nehru-collared shirt as he laid on the fortissimo with a trowel in a desperate effort to be heard above the wailing from the observation platform directly in front of him.  This had now grown in volume with a helper stepping forward advising his charge:

'Nicht singen sie, bitte.  Singen hier is verboten!'

And so it was to prove.  The final section of the song cycle telling entitled 'Our Laughter Fades' was galloped through at some pace as it was now obvious that IRWB and his 'much in demand' accompanist just wanted to 'get the hell out of' Burgenland and be on that plane to the next star-studded musikfest; preferably one beyond the reach of current EC legislation regarding access for the disabled.  Speaking personally, I think that Dogging might become something a summer fixture.  

Organ Snatchers & The Great Debate

It's not been a great month.  I am summoned to the youthful, guitar-plucking presence of MIN's editor, Steven, to explain the unfortunate circumstances surrounding my after dinner speech (unpaid) to some ghastly music press knees-up and music awards ceremony in Dundee, of all places.  The event would have gone swimmingly but for three rogue factors:

1.  Jose Cuervo Tequila:  A tequila of note.

2.  My choice of topic

3.  Some fat, know-it-all, waste-of-skin, Glaswegian bagpipe-maker whose name the company lawyers have forbidden me to write or even refer to in any way even though it sounds very much like 'McFuckwit' (This is exactly what I mean! Ring me. Ed.)

It's true that I may have had one or two 'margueritas' too many before the dinner but, in my defence, they were free and excellent.  Nor was the improvised speech entirely my fault as somebody with a red beard (a woman, I think) spilled her vodka and Irn Bru over my notes rendering them all but unusable.  

It's strange what topics appeal to a mind half-submerged in tequila. I'd half-heard a story on the nocturnal BBC World Service about the Welsh self-assembly government (That's Ikea, isn't it? Ed.) helping itself to people's organs.  I thought this would be a good topic on which to start.  I told the assembled throng that I myself had once possessed a huge organ built, reputedly, by the famous nineteenth century drunk and bankrupt, John Avery.  Unbeknownst to the landIord, I had it reconstructed in the stairwell of our house in Abergavenny. It was ideal for keeping up my Bach and Buxtehude and also had enough punch about it for some Sorabji and Saint Saen when the occasion or alcohol-level demanded.

It was at this point that the chairman started to tap my elbow.  I decided to ignore this putting it down to some local custom.  I continued describing the qualities of the instrument and how it provided an interesting conversation piece for visiting dignitaries to the Abergavenny area.  The elbow tapping continued but I was not to be put off.  Our neighbours complained that the vibrations caused by the pedal stops were adding to the subsidence which already blighted our shared party wall.  Mrs Vapor appealed to the better side of my nature and we had the instrument removed and, after a brief psychotic episode during which I believed that the instrument was possessed by the spirit of its builder, John Avery,... burnt.

I began to notice that many in the audience seemed puzzled.  By now a considerable debate was going on.  This rose in volume as I castigated the Welsh Assembly Government for being nothing more than a Stalinist-inspired, district council on steroids incapable of organising fornication in a brothel. Bodies such as these are too powerful, I said.  They've got enough to keep them occupied with basic problems of modern life like dog-mess, pot-holes and spandex cycle-wear without marauding through the countryside, sequestering church and chapel organs without so much as a 'by your leave'! Heaven knows what problems this would cause numerous religious foundations in Wales!  I was not surprised, I reported rather topically, to hear that Dr Barry Morgan, The Archbishop of Wales, a man whose name is almost synonymous with 'organ', had waded into the debate saying that if the Welsh Assembly Government just helped itself to people's organs, then organ voluntary donations (Shouldn't that be 'voluntary organ donations'? Ed.) might even decline. But before I could bring the matter to a conclusion, my delivery was rudely interrupted by 'McFuckwit', or whatever his name is, from Table 16 in the far corner of the polished floor that comprises The Dundee & District Zumba Studio.

'He's nae talking aboot Church organs, ya daft twat!'

At first, I mistook this for an ungainly attempt to muscle in on the proceedings so gave as good as I got.

'It's organs today but what will be it tomorrow?'  I yelled back, rhetorically. 'People like you are never satisfied.  That's your problem! It starts with organs but where will it all end?  Dogs? Er... Cats?  State ownership of children?  The end of the Union itself!'

To my amazement, the audience seemed to be siding with 'McFuckwit'.  Amidst increasingly urgent requests for me to sit down and be quiet, the tapping at my elbow had now developed into full-blown tugging.

'What is it? What the hell do you want?'  I yelled at the chairman.  Calmly, he explained in under 140 characters, without the aid of glove puppets that the organs refered to in the BBC World Sevice report were the sort used in transplant surgery and not the large, wind-powered musical instruments often found in religious buildings. Seeing that the crowd were turning nasty, I decided to beat a hasty retreat to the bar whilst a fashionably short Scottish composer brought proceedings to a close.  

All would have been well, had 'McFuckwit' not decided to continue our frank exchange of views in the bar.  This resulted in a brief tussle during the course of which I bit off a tiny section of McFuckwit's ear; no bigger than a Waitrose sample; no more than any international footballer would have taken; an amount constituting less than 2% of the whole ear.  I am now bound over to appear in court in November.  I forget the charge but being under Scottish Law it's probably something like 'being foreign in a public place and attempting to eat a bagpipe maker at one sitting'.  Who knows, my next few columns might be sent in from some oubliette in the Scottish borders. (Steve, Please put your appeal for to help with legal costs here. Regards, QV) ...

Trouble in Belsize Park

A dinner party gets out of hand in Belsize Park... not for the first time, I'm sure.  A flurry of accusations from two Scottish, original instrument-playing guests goes badly wrong when Mrs Vapor (for it is she) retorts that it should be a 'McFlurry of accusations' given that such infantile nonsense would be better coming from a clown in a fast food hamburger 'joint'.  The name of the hamburger joint in question escapes me.  Mrs V. seeks consolation in the arms of Jose Cuervo and is soon asleep on the living room couch (floor in yr, original ms.  Ed.) leaving the grown-ups to pick up the pieces of the evening.

Much alcohol has been consumed and the bitterness of the earlier evening persists.  Our hosts are excellent amateur viola da gamba and viola d'amore players but can take it all a bit seriously.  Mr Host claims that if anyone who takes their original instruments seriously should make their own strings from wire or gut as required. The Scottish contingent chip in that there would be little time left to actually play the virginals if they had to make all the strings as well. I should have been content with the remnants of the mescal bottle but no, I had to shove in my six pennyworth.

'How difficult can it be?'  I heard myself saying as I entered the minefield.  Forgetting the vegan repast to which we had been so recently subjected, I blundered on. 'I've got a terrier who kills several cats a year so there'll be no shortage of raw materials.'

At this, Mrs Hostess bursts into tears (more fuelled, I suspect, by gin than sentiment).

Mr Host glares at me.

'Really, Quentin. You can be such a bore at times.  She's only just got over the loss of Gassman.'

I should have just hung my head in shame and said nothing but the mention of the recently deceased cat's name (after Leopold Florian Gassman, the eighteenth century, Bohemian composer) suddenly struck me as very funny.  My ill-concealed sniggering only threw petrol on the flames.  I then remembered that the unfortunate creature's mortal remains had been peremptorily exhumed by the dog next door and had to be re-interred amidst more wailing and lamentation from the bereft owner.  

'You really are a shmug shon of a bitch, Quentin.' said the glossy-faced, red-haired virginal player from the north of the border. 'To teach you a leshon, I'm going to make you a bet.  If it'sh sho easy to make gut shtrings for original inshtruments, let'sh shet a date and shee who can actually make a useable string by that time.  I'll put £500.00 on the table now just to shee you eat a huge dollop of humble pie.' 

'In any case,' added his remarkably unattractive wife whose face glowed red like the buttocks of a sexually aroused capuchin monkey, 'any fool knows that gut strings are made of goat, sheep or cow intestine.  The 'cat' in 'catgut' is short for 'cattle' and has nothing to do with cats.' (more wimpering from our hostess).

There was nothing for it.  I'd been called out. My honour was at stake.  I had to take up the challenge.  Also, there was nothing else left to drink.  I duly bet the Scottish party that I could produce a more playable gut string than he could in seven days. 

Despite our disagreement, we all muck in and in carry the recumbent form of Mrs V. to a kerbside cab.  The cabbie stung me an extra £20 (You told me it was for a train fare! Ring me. Ed.) to take the starboard side of Mrs V to our doorway while I steered the port side.

I awoke early and set to my research.  By 0900hrs I was something of an expert on the theory of manufacting gut strings for divers instruments between 1450 to the present day.  Mrs V. announced that she had come down with a bad attack of neurasthenia overnight and would be staying in bed.  The day was mine to get on with the great project.

A couple of phone calls to the local abattoir and I returned with a tub of raw material that had recently been the innards of a lean, young, male sheep.  Lean beasts, the slaughter-man assured me, have the toughest guts. 

By 1400hrs I had divided the batch into two reserving one half for a plan B situation in our utility room fridge. I cleaned the intestines in cold water, removed any trace of fat and then washed them again thoroughly. The next morning I scraped off the external membrane and high-tailed it down to a local chemist friend to pick up a caustic agent to cure the prepared lengths of gut.  Twenty four hours later they ready for drawing out to a sufficient length for smoothing and equalizing.  

Day Three and it's off to the potting shed to fumigate the strings with sulfur dioxide. Do not try this at home.  A couple of test runs twisting the strings and my gut strings were ready and about the length that could be fitted to a small cello.

I returned to the house exhausted by my labours to find that Mrs V. had once again joined the world of the living... but not in a good way.  She was being sick in the downstairs loo.  I also noticed a vaguely unpleasant odour hanging in the air centred around a frying pan which showed signs of recent use.

'How long were have you left those sweetbreads in the utility room fridge?  They were revolting!' 

Mrs V. slumped down at the kitchen table. 

'What sweetbreads?' I reply.  To this day she doesn't know or even suspect.  

And what of the competition? It was all a waste of time!  Edinburgh's glossy-faced virginal fingerer claims that he had consumed too much drink and that he only had the dimmest of recollections regarding the evening in question.  He certainly doesn't remember making such an odd bet and attests that he has never bet £500.00 on anything in his life.  I thought about contacting the other party in Belsize Park to back me up but decided, in the end, to let sleeping dogs lie.