Author Topic: GEORGE AND JAMES (Project of the Week for 29th of May, 5th of June)  (Read 473 times)

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CheerfulHypocrite

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George Gershwin never really did appeal to me. Not because of anything other than other than the thin walls of the bedroom I was living in at the time. Next door there lived an elderly couple with a gramophone record player that must have had an earlier life as an air raid warning system. They played a lot of Classical Music. At volumes usually reserved for inflicting structural damage on buildings. It was summer.

The previous April I had watched Tommy Cooper die, literally, live on television. His assistant put on his red cloak. He collapse. The audience laughed. It was his style of comedic magic. Meanwhile, the Miners were on strike. Protesting at the politicised closure of Coal Mines. The closures were inevitable and expected. The speed of closure and the utterly bewildering dumping of people onto a social scrap heap was the core of the Miners' campaign. The government strategy was threefold: build coal stocks, to keep as many miners at work as possible, and to use police to break up pickets. The critical element was ensuring the National Union of Mineworkers failure to hold a strike ballot. Which kept other Trade Unionists from becoming involved.

It was all about transforming society. Destroying Trade Unions and making the world safe for capitalism. I would have rather had Tommy Cooper (1921-1984). Not that he was a favourite comedian or magician; but, because he was familiar. Part of a vanishing world.  As was my neigbour. He was a veteran of the Second World War, harboured resentment towards Americans for the very poor behaviour of certain airmen during the War. In the Second World War Americans were stationed all over Lancashire. In and around Liverpool there were black Airmen. There were also white Airmen. Both sets would go into Liverpool to Pubs, Clubs and Shebeens. Especially in Liverpool 8: Toxteth. There was always a tension between Locals and the American Military because these dashing folk were stealing local women. Apart from The Grafton Ballrooms there were a range of other places. Far away from the Burtonwood Military Police and White Boys with boots. On once occasion, there was a huge clash between American Black and White Airmen in The Grafton Ballrooms which my neigbour witnessed because he was a regular at The Grafton Ballrooms.

Which was where he would swap cough mixture for music. Which is where he became attached to American Music. Despite the profitable relationship, he could not stand Americans because they hit on his girl - later his wife. As time went on his hearing deteriorated and both of them took to listening to music - Generally Classical - at huge, expansive volumes. He reminded me of an African Tommy Cooper.

Which was how he came to hear The Residents Playing George and James. The James Side was less favoured than the George side. During a lull in his daily discipline of playing Petrushka and The Firebird Suite, I blasted out George at a volume more suited to Panamanian Dictators than good neigbourly relations. When the clattering at the door came I was completely unprepared for the conversation. I hyped myself up to confrontation and argument. Knowing the neighbour had a reputation. Yet, nothing came of it. Nothing.

He stood on the doorstep and simply asked, Were you playing Gershwin?. Which was utterly confusing. As I began to speak, he leant forwards and shouted, You really will need to speak up. I am stone deaf. Which really was the first I knew of it. Which was also where I began to learn that someone I had assumed to be merely a local petty gangster was possibly one of the most cultured people for miles. When I nodded, he simply walked in, plonked himself down and demanded the "gramophone record". After he had the sleeve handed to him and the record placed onto the platter to play, he played around with volume, bass and treble knobs for some time. Then he returned the needle to the start of the vinyl and started from Rhapsody In Blue.

He was rapt. Silent until the end of Summertime. Whereupon he announced that The Residents cannot play jazz. Gershwin he assured me, was a white boy riding the Harlem Renaissance and the Residents were white boys riding a white boy riding the Harlem Renaissance. Which made sense to him, if not to me. I offered the information that The Residents were anonymous and all that sort of thing. Which was treated with disdain. His theory was that they were not really anonymous: there would be signatures in their music - even if they interpreted others - that would give them away.

They were using machines - bloody machines - to hide themselves but they would leave fingerprints all over their work. Every musician does, apparently. The signature of the Residents is making you think. Apparently. Something he was largely adverse to in music. Music should stir passion and action. Sitting and thinking about it defeats the object. Which is a notion that threads through their music. Mister Wonderful manages to be deeply emotional and much of Wormwood is passionate. But, George and James, is lacking something. As though the music had been repeatedly bleached. As though there was some incredible technique of leeching out everything until a unique silence - the silence of George Gershwin - was all that was left.

Two years later, his wife had a stroke. He ceased playing music and faded. By that time we were friends and I got to call him Charlie. I witnessed his will. Unknown to me, he had six different versions of his will. In one, he left me a collection of books. Which, even if the Will had been enforceable, was gratifying but pointless. His son had sold them years ago. When Charlie died, his son came and put everything into a skip in less than a day. The house was sold within a week. Which is how people vanish. The last piece of music I ever heard him play was Trios Gymnopédies. His son got into a squabble with his daughter and his disowned sun about the property and that was the end of that.

To this day the only signature to the Residents music that I actually want there to be is that it makes you think. Not because that is true but because it suits me.
« Last Edit: June 06, 2017, 01:16:26 am by moleshow »
Not altogether reliable for facts.