The curious incident of the coffee at lunchtime

Sometimes things happen in life that you just couldn't make up. Here is one of those situations...

Today I grabbed a coffee from the refectory and headed down to the electronic music studios where I do most of my work. I placed my coffee on the table next to the mixing desk (!) and started to get to work. (Actually, I was surfing the 'net, but that's academic) The next thig I know I have managed to knock over my coffee in the space between the mixing desk and the computer keyboard. These are two fairly anti-coffee pieces of equipment, so it was damn lucky that the coffee missed both of them. However, the mocha puddle started to spread towards both. Let me tell you all now that there are large signs all over the studio warning students that food and drink are most definitely NOT allowed. Eager to sort out the mess before the studio manager saw, I looked around for anything with which I could mop the offending liquid up. Nothing. Except. My Shirt.
This was not a particularly palatable option, but the spread was getting faster, so I really had no option. I whipped my shirt off and smothered the coffee. Phew! But what do I do now? At this precise moment, Ian, the studio manager comes in the door, slightly confused and by his expression, a bit scared too. "I spilt my coffee", I said, "and my shirt was the only thing to hand". So there I am, shirtless, explaining myself, feeling like a complete and utter moron.
Ian kindly offered me a spare shirt he had for 'emergencies' (?), which turned out to be the most vile, loud hawaiian monstrosity I have seen for quite some time and I walked back through New Cross with my head hung low. On my return (mainly to return the shirt), I received some quite odd looks from members of the music department. I would have liked to thought that Ian could have been a little more discreet about the situation, but instead, the gossiping git told everyone. I wouldn't be surprised if he sent an email to all the staff...

Attaining Perfection

Composing, like any art, can be the cause of much self-inflicted harm. What I mean is that, although there are various rules for composing music, they're not rules as such. They're more like optional guidelines for successful composition, tested only by time, but there is nothing to say that one cannot write exactly as they wish. This lack of objective necessities about music means that any qualitative bench mark is set only by the individual composer. The standards I set for myself are far too high, since I want near-enough perfection for my work. Here's where the self-inflicted harm comes in, because I cannot compose perfect music. Indeed, I think that nobody can compose perfect music, subjectively or objectively. That doesn't stop me from beating myself up about it though.
When I was at secondary school, I took art until the age of fifteen and pretty much every piece of work I handed in was at least a week late. Needless to say, I received a couple of detentions for this reason, but I maintain that this was slightly harsh. Perhaps you could put it down to artistic temperament, but I could not see the point of working hard for weeks on a piece of art, only to rush it at the last minute, purely to meet a deadline. I felt that this was a complete waste of time. I wanted my pieces of work to be right, to my mind at least, therefore it always took me a little longer. My standards were not perfection back then. Merely liking my work was good enough for me, but I never was satisfied with the results.
So here, at Goldsmiths, things haven't changed much, except that now I want to acheive the impossible. Perfection. I can't say it hasn't been a struggle. The amount of work that I have put in the bin would cause a look of derision from my tutors, I am sure. If I ever become pleased at a grade I've acheived here, it isn't because I think I've created a great piece of work, it's because I know I didn't deserve it, because it was the biggest piece of trite, banal horse faeces ever to grace the planet. Not that I want unfair grades, that isn't it. What makes me happy about getting half-decent grades for what I consider shit work, is that I must have higher standards than my tutors. This shouldn't come as too much of a surprise to me though, since what I want is perfection.
I think I am wrong to have this attitude, because it can't be healthy to feel dissapointed at all my own work, it must bring me down a little. It isn't arrogance, either. I don't feel I must be able to attain perfection, because "hey, I'm Iain Farnsworth, the genius composer, I can do anything better than anyone!", it's more about what I want to acheive and that must mean my priorities are out of whack somewhat.
I have to smile at the example of Carl Orff, who burnt all his works other than 'Carmina Burana' because he thought they were terrible. Why he didn't burn Carmina Burana as well defeats me.

L'homme est trop sérieux

Yesterday my mother told me I was too serious. My MOTHER. Of course, I protested, but as I did so, I found myself slowly changing my mind from annoyance at such a ludicrous statement to a gentle, vexed agreement. This change of emotion kind of proves her point, I guess.
When did this happen? Why? I would love to think of myself as a cool, fun loving guy, but apparently I'm not. While others can laugh heartily at 'Hot Shots, Part Deux' despite the crass and glib slapstick therein, I find myself groaning audibly and wishing I was elsewhere. Of course, it is a terrible film, so I maintain the right to groan, but you catch my drift. I am now quite scared that I lack the ability to have fun, or even be a bit silly. This fear will obviously do nothing to help me have fun or be silly.
I've just been telling a friend of some of the events that happened while I was a student at Kingston, such as storming around the town centre with my trousers on my head (at night, I should add) singing 'Insane in the brain', trying to mimic the 'Hill, but ending up sounding rather like a constipated person and a cat. This wasn't the first time my trousers have ended up on my head on a night out, either. Of course, I was drunk, and I'm not advocating getting drunk. I think it's pretty nasty, not to mention thoroughly ungodly and you wake up wondering why somebody had crushed your head in a vice. But just where did the fun go?
Perhaps it is just my disposition, but I'm beginning to envy those who can shrug off misfortune and smile. Maybe I've always been impressed by sad figures. Albert Camus, Jackson Pollock, Elliott Smith, Richey Edwards, Nick Drake.... they all had something I liked. That 'outsider' thing. They have issues and problems and they're not quite cool enough not to care. Instead it eats them up and that kind of made them even cooler. Genuises (sp?) killed by society. Does that sound perverse? When I was younger, I definietly wanted to be like that, but without actually being a nutcase. I found them strangely enigmatic and maybe if you dig deeper (and I haven't properly analysed this, so I may be wrong!!) you may find that I figured that being sad and enigmatic attracted women. Of course, this didn't quite work out for me. I'm quite pleased at this now, because aside from it being a wickedly crass and cynical way to get a girlfriend, I would have had to keep up an effort to be enigmatic, which would have been hard. Largely because I am not enigmatic. I talk far too much for that.
Not that it was all a pretence. This was all before I became a Christian and I wanted to find out who I was. I don't think I ever did though, because I'm pretty sure I stumbled around the place looking gloomy without exactly knowing why. In my first year at university, I discovered to be enigmatic and a bit of a sad genius meant being locked up in your room for days, drinking bottles of vodka for breakfast, appearing at uni every few weeks to hand in your latest piece of prize deserving composition. I didn't like the sound of that, since I was pretty sure I'd get very lonely very quickly , I didn't want to work that hard and although I could take my booze, the idea of spending days with my head down the toilet or having to spend time in hospital due to alcohol poisoning didn't sound very 'cool' to me.
I couldn't really infiltrate the 'fucking angry at the world' clique, because I wasn't that angry, so I wound up just conceding to myself that I would have to just be 'me'. Only problem being that I didn't know who 'me' was, so maybe inevitably, I wound up trying to appear cool, and failing, so just being a bit sad instead. With a little time off to put my trousers on my head. Naturally, this combination also failed to attract the women, exept a girlfriend I had for ten days, called 'T'. It took me five days to get her real name out of her, (Victoria, for all those interested) and a further five days for her to realise that being drunk and using trousers as headwear wasn't that attractive, so she dumped me. Which made me a little more sad. Still, all's fair in love and war, and I guess I only got what was fair.
I guess since then, that this predisposition to be a bit sad and serious must have stuck, which isn't ideal. I don't have much reason to be like that, so maybe I should try to shake off this predisposition and smile a bit more. I'm sure it would do me some good. Maybe I'll feel better and work better. And maybe then girls would like me.... (I'm joking, for all those now worried at that last sentence!!)

How to be creative... (Part Two)

This is getting more interesting. Working hard is all good and well, but how do you know if the work put in is so disproportionate to the actual outcome of your labours? Well, I guess this comes only in retrospect, when after a few hours, you look back over your work and realise you've barely scratched the surface. This happened to me this week, with my composition-in-progress. So there I sat, wondering why it still wasn't working and came to a few conclusions.

1. Creation needs inspiration. I don't mean some mystical 'falling out of the sky' kind of inspiration, but the kind of inspiration that comes from experience. For example, being genuinely and emotionally roused to compose or write or whatever, from an experience. An experience of art or music or life or whatever. It doesn't have to be a spectacular experience, if it's enough to cause the desire to create, it's surely enough.

2. You've got to be in a place to be inspired. Physically and/or mentally.. I think. This is a hard one to pin down, so I shan't spend a long time on it, but I don't think New Cross is the perfect place to be inspired. I could be wrong. Then again, neither is Thatcham, so heaven only knows what I should do. I'll leave that one there, though.

3. You need to act on inspiration. Because it goes. Sure enough, I'll just be lazy and let the moment pass, then it's gone and I'm left in the same place I was before. That's my own fault though. I'm just too damn lazy to work on instinct like that.

and finally,
4. You can't supress inspiration with rules. This one always gets me. I get an idea and immediately I'm forced to limit it's possiblities by using notes and rests and all that crap. If it sounds like, I don't know, 'metal scraping against metal in the rain', then write that down, rather than limiting your own ideas with external rules and guidelines. That's a hard one to do, because rules and guidelines are comforting. It needs a bit of a breach into the unknown...

Now I'm not going to run away to rural Scotland with a manuscript book, getting up at 6 in the morning to roam the glens and return with a pocket full of dreams. So I guess I need to figure out where I am now in order to figure out what inspires me to write music. I might end up quite surprised...

I'm so confused...

I have returned back to my 'native' Thatcham for a few days to relax and also work on my aforementioned composition, largely because it's more relaxed and hence, easier to work here. But I have been thinking about Thatcham and London. If you've been reading my blogs, you'll see that I've already written on Thatcham and New Cross, so this is kind of an extension. Maybe I'm a little confused.
I was invited to see Idlewild play at the Reading Hexagon with some friends on Friday. Actually, my invitation came at about 8:20pm, forty minutes before Idlewild were due on stage, so I had a mad dash to get from Thatcham to Reading in time. On the way to the train station, a full snow storm brewed and I arrived at the station covered from head to toe in snow. A sole figure stood at the station and apparently amused by my snowy state, piped up a conversation with me about how ridiculous the weather was. Not conversational gold, I grant you, but it was pleasant and made me smile about how kindly some people can be in Thatcham.
Anyway, I arrive at the theatre a little later. Let me tell you now that the Hexagon theatre has the most stringent anti-fun policies this side of Strangeways. Large posters on the door warned, "Crowd surfers WILL be ejected". A little harsh, I think. Inside, I got my ticket from a very friendly box office worker and made my way to my seat. Very large NO SMOKING signs adorned the theatre. OK, I'm not too bothered by that, but every other gig venue I've been to so far hasn't minded. Next, impressed by a particular series of lighting effects, I decided to take a picture with my mobile phone, after which, a rather self important security guard went well out of her way to tell me off for doing so. Why, for heaven's sake? Do the Hexagon think I'm going to sell a poor quality phone picture that was taken as a small momento of the evening? I have to admit, that really hacked me off!! After the gig, a friend told me that he'd been told in the bar to finish his pint quickly, because taking drinks in the theatre was not allowed (I personally think that the Hexagon would have said PROHIBITED!!!) Anyway, the gig was excellent. Idlewild put in a great performance and I'm pleased I went. I am, however, mildly confused by the mixture of kind people and threatening politics.
And so what about London? On that score, I don't know either. I regularly see people give up their seats on tubes for other people and I've also seen mad dashes for the same seats. I've witnessed kind acts on the streets, but also experiences the lonliness and indifference of London. I guess this one is going to take a little longer to work out than I expected...

How to be creative... (Part One)

This is tricky. It's really something that I've just begun to think about, largely because it's been forced upon me. I have a composition to finish by this Friday and it's getting more and more difficult to even put pen to paper. I've been putting back my own deadlines for this composition, because I haven't been feeling "very creative" recently. But if I'm rational about it, it's quite silly for one to claim they're unable to create simply because they're not "feeling very creative at the moment". What does that mean? I would concede that there are those who are more creative than others, but I reckon in any creative work there's 5% natural creativeness and 95% sweat, blood, toil and tears. However, I'm sure many people, including reknowned and celebrated artists, think that creativeness is some kind of mystical thing that comes as it pleases, causing one to simply wait around until they're made able to create again.
Let me be brutally honest here. I'm a naturally lazy man. I've learnt to force myself to work hard, but it can be a real effort sometimes. It's convenient for me to use the excuse of "not feeling very creative" to stop working and wait until I felt able to compose again, because what I'm trying to compose (my music, not this blog) right now is really taxing me. That is surely lunacy, though. Pieces of work do not come from a clear blue sky, so how I can expect one to fall? I think I need to concede that if a piece of work is hard, then it doesn't mean that I need to wait until what is desired 'falls from the sky', but that I need to work harder to complete that piece of work.
I reckon one of the main reasons that being creative can be so hard is because it requires a decisive mind. One needs to make desicions at every level of the work, from it's conception to it's completion. All of those decisions matter and that makes the decision making a heavy task to bear. OK, well at least it should if you care about your work. If you work alone as a creator, all your decisions reflect upon you and there is nobody to whom you can pass the buck.
It does make sense then, that so many people wait for the creativeness to come to them. They can avoid making the decisions themselves and simply do as they're told by their flashes of creative inspiration. I would guess that the more you work at creating, the decisions become easier to make and hence the impression of 'creativeness'. Hey, it wouldn't be an impression, it would be creativeness!! I would also guess that this would make for more effectiveness at acting on inspiration, wherever that occurs.
Whatever, I have to start creating now, so I have no choice but to work damn hard. I shall let you know whether my hypotheses turned out to be true or not...

It's not the taking part, it's the winning that counts

That might sound really unsporting, but it's true. Of course, it all depends on what game you're playing and that's where things aren't always as they seem. You might think that opponents are playing the same game, but to quote Gershwin, "it ain't necessarily so." I remember playing rugby for my school in my teens, where almost every game was a guaranteed defeat. Apart from a few motivated (but ultimately deluded) team members who believed we could win the match, our game was to make it back to the changing room with some dignity and all our teeth. We at least all kept our teeth.


"I'm Still Alive!!!"

Complete drubbings were regular and too many games ended with our heads dropping and hence, painful full-time scores. We were actually double losers, since we could neither win the game, nor our own game. I am grateful for those rugby years, because it helped me to take defeat on the chin (Something needed for being a Liverpool fan in the mid to late 90's). However, I can't deny that although I rarely got upset at losing a rugby match, I regularly got upset because I didn't play as well I should have. Losing my own battle really hurt, it counted.
Of course this goes further than rugby. I am what you might call a 'perfectionist' and that's tough, because it means I am always disappointed with myself. The standards set by myself for myself are unattainable. I always take part but never win. Let me give you an example. I recently went through a bit of a dilemma over musical material and it's composition (I'm a composer, don't you know?) which ended with the conclusion that I need to fully understand all my musical materials (that's EVERYTHING that comes together to form music) and how they relate to each other, in order to write at least half effectively. I will never attain that kind of knowledge and if that is my game-plan, it is already lost. I could spend my life trying to win that game, but I've decided that I'm not going to, because it's stupid and pointless and I don't want to lose a stupid and pointless game. Especially when I know that a comprehensive knowledge of musical material won't necessarily mean an objectively compelling musical composition. I may be young and naïve, but I know that in a world where the 1812 overture is considered a masterpiece and 'The Teletubbies' theme tune can make it to no.1 in the charts, valiant efforts may stand for nothing.
So what, then? Change the game-plan? Well, yes, I guess. But more specifically, I think I need to work out whether or not a 'game' is even worth starting. This calls for brutal honesty and careful introspection. Unfortunately, I'm not very good at either, so I have quite a bit of losing to go, no doubt. What is my 'game-plan' in terms of musical composition? I don't know just yet, but as soon as I know, I'll be sure to let you know. What I do know, however, that following Jesus is certainly worth it, because the most important battle has already been won by Him on the cross. Not all of my personal struggles have been won, but I know that following Jesus through all manner of struggles is worth it because of the assurance of eternal life with Him for those who trust and follow Him. I think I need reminding of that fact fairly frequently. It really IS worth it!
Oh, and if Liverpool lose against Juventus tonight, it will hurt!!

Thatcham vs. New Cross

After yesterday's musings on where I belong, I took some time to think about my current living arrangements and found some interesting parallels.
They are two fairly contemptable places, but for quite different reasons. Thatcham is kind of an add-on to Newbury (Hoity-toity racecourse town) and hence likes to deceive itself into the impression that it's a nice, civilized part of England, where everybody leaves their front doors unlocked and kids play hula-hoop in the middle of the road. But no. Let me show you a picture of something that happened in my home town of Thatcham... (Picture from BBC.co.uk)


The incorrect way to remove a contact lens

Yes, that is a picture of a harpoon in someone's face. Nice, huh? OK, so it isn't representative of what normally happens in Thatcham, but it doesn nicely highlight my point that Thatcham is a town in contradiction.
New Cross is also a bit of a contradition. It masquerades as a bit of a dive, where you consistently risk your life out on the street. First impressions do tell you that, such as the car wrapped around a lamp post outside my residence, the perpetual garden fires and offers of drugs. But it really isn't as bad as all that. If you look hard, you can find friendly corners of New Cross, where people are kindly and you don't feel threatened. Indeed, some people even profess to quite like New Cross and a CD of local bands has been released, aptly titled "I love New Cross". I'd wager that nobody ever made a CD called "I love Thatcham". OK, well maybe I am talking New Cross up a little. Bad things do happen, I'm sure, but it does seem like a place for which people feel something. I think these feelings are hidden somewhat by the facade of danger and dereliction.


Because somebody stole the plug...

Now if only the positive traits of both places merged, you might find a place where it looks like a nice place and actually, it is. A place for which people profess their love, a place where people don't get harpoons stuck in their face and a place where you don't fear for your wallet. A place where you can leave your front door unlocked and play hula-hoop in the road. Sounds great...

A sense of identity?

It must be nice to be someone who has a real sense of identity. I mean in terms of belonging. The Welsh, Scottish, Irish, American, Australian, etc. all have a sense of identity, of belonging to somewhere. Somewhere they can call home. Even some English folk have this, such as Geordies, Scousers, real Cockneys, even Brummies. I'm sure they're quite proud of they're regional heritage. They know they belong somewhere and so does everyone else, because their accents are undeniable proof of their membership.
I'm really a Southern lad. I come from Thatcham in Berkshire, which is basically nowhere. Hoity-toity Newbury is very nearby, where everyone has a delusion of grandeur, mainly because of the racecourse (I'm sure all racecourse towns must be like this). Reading is the nearest major town and it isn't really a place you'd visit in a hurry. But the worst thing for me has been the lack of a unified identity. Nobody wants to belong to Thatcham and I don't blame them. My parents are two born and bred Liverpudlians and I couldn't be more jealous. I try to cling on to this and claim for myself some of this belonging, but I think I'm going to stop, because it really is hopeless. I even applied to the University of Liverpool so that I could resettle there and feel that belonging. It's time I stopped pretending or even wishing. I'm not from Liverpool, I am from Thatcham. Screw it, why should I be ashamed of that?
I guess this is now where I condemn myself for being so self-centred and insecure. As a Christian, I should have discarded this desperation to belong to somewhere else other than Thatcham, because it really isn't important. The only important fact is that I belong to Jesus and my citizenship is in Heaven. That is where I am destined to belong and my identity is in belonging to Jesus. Even writing those words make me feel excited and want to throw away any shame or pride of where my home is. Indeed, even in terms of being British and English, which I have held on to with some pride in the past, I wish that pride to go, because I guess it doesn't matter that much. I happen to like England and I don't wish to pretend to be something I am not, so I shall continue to be an Englishman, but whose identity is not in being an Englishman, but belonging to Jesus.