Inspirations | Matt Wingett

Henry Vaughan’s “World of Light” and Conan Doyle’s Ghosts

By Matt on Thursday, August 4, 2016

9780957241381 I was looking at some poetry a few days ago and I found this wonderful poem by Welsh 17th Century poet Henry Vaughan, about life after death.

I was struck by the phrase “the world of light” – which is how he describes the afterlife.

I found it an interesting coincidence that I had come up with the same phrase for my book, “Conan Doyle and the Mysterious World of Light“.

THEY ARE ALL GONE INTO THE WORLD OF LIGHT
by Henry Vaughan

They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit ling’ring here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
After the sun’s remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility,
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have show’d them me
To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,
Shining nowhere, but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust
Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest, may know
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes
And into glory peep.

If a star were confin’d into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lock’d her up, gives room,
She’ll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee!
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass,
Or else remove me hence unto that hill,
Where I shall need no glass.

Inspirations Opinion

Does Disney’s new Jungle Book do Pompey’s Rudyard Kipling justice?

By Matt on Saturday, May 21, 2016

Disney’s 1960s adaptation of The Jungle Book and The Second Jungle Book is a classic of silliness with great tunes. It also has, apart from the title and the names of the characters, nothing to do with the pair of children’s books written by Rudyard Kipling in the 1890s. The books are far darker, deeper, truer and better in every way. So, what of the new 2016 version?

I admit I was late to Kipling. I only read The Jungle Books as an adult, having been steered away from them by the light and frothy cartoon. But, one day, having read that they were true classics, and considering Kipling’s Portsmouth pedigree, I thought I would check out the work of this locally grown boy.

Kipling’s life in Portsmouth was tough. Left in the town by his parents, who returned to India where they worked as civil servants, he found himself in the clutches of a psychotic nanny, Mrs Holloway, to whom he later referred in his autobiography Something of Myself as “The Woman”. Six years of hell ensued, as she terrorised him, punishing him for the tiniest, ordinary things kids do – even punishing him for “showing off” when it was discovered he needed to wear glasses. Justice for such transgressions took the form of beatings, and of being locked in the house alone while the household went on holidays, or prevented from reading, which he averred, made him seek to read all the more earnestly. It was bad. In fact, his life in Southsea led to a nervous breakdown at the age of 11.

Little wonder that many of the short stories in The Jungle Book and The Second Jungle Book tell the tale of a child, Mowgli, abandoned in a hostile jungle where he must learn The Law to survive. This is a direct reflection of his own experiences. No surprise, either, that Mowgli grows up determined to kill his tormentor, in this case, the lame tiger Shere Khan. In another story written after The Jungle Books, Kipling produced a fictionalised account of life in Southsea, Baa Baa Black Sheep. In this, the boy threatens to burn down the house of Aunt Rosa (this story’s verson of The Woman), to kill her and her son and wreak awful revenge on the boys who bully him at school at Rosa’s instigation.

Despite all this darkness in Kipling’s childhood and in the childhood of Mowgli, The Jungle Books are filled with wonders. The behaviour of the animals to each other and to Mowgli, of the man-cub’s learning to become socialised into the group and the adventures he has along the way are rich in poetic truths. From the specifics of an imagined boy’s life, one learns the way real human society works and how a child must learn to fit into his environment and still be himself. Thus, the learning of secret words which will make the animals help him (interestingly, Kipling also wrote about Freemasonry – another society using secret codes, in The Man Who Would Be King; the motif of secret communication returned again in Kim); or his kidnap by the Bandar Log monkey tribe, during which he discovers their utter fecklessness; or the wise guiding paw of the old bear, Baloo.

Striking is the choice of antiquated modes of speaking, which emphasise the formal and informal. Throughout the book, the animals refer to each other as “thou”. This convention, and the semi-mythical register they speak in makes the stories read almost like religious texts at times. They feel powerful in a way that most children’s books don’t – and truer because of it.

Of the final vengeance Mowgli wreaks on Shere Khan, the tiger’s brutal death and how Mowgli skins the body and brings the hide to The Council Rock where the wolves meet to discuss The Law of the Jungle, that section is truly horrific.

So, how does the new Disney live action / CGI movie fare?

Neel Sethi in Disney's The Jungle Book

The movie is, actually, pretty good. It is in many ways truer to the spirit of the books than the 1960s aberration that does so little to recognise Kipling’s genius. Bagheera, the black panther, is sleek, noble and powerful. Baloo, annoyingly, is a charming buffoon – a hangover, I suspect, from the cartoon. Kaa, the giant snake is, inaccurately, interested only in eating Mowgli, whereas in the original stories their relationship is far more subtle – and indeed in the books it is Kaa who saves Mowgli from the Bandar Log when he arrives at the last minute after Baloo and Bagheera are overrun. Kaa’s hypnotic fascination of the monkeys is spine-chilling in the book.

In the movie, the collection of stories is streamlined. So, it is now Bagheera who finds Mowgli, whereas it is the boy himself who walks to Raksha, the she-wolf, in her cave, and is adopted by her. It is she who faces down Shere Khan who tracks him there. All this is removed from the story, understandably so, because the relationships would become too tangled.

What suffers because of this is the subtlety and nuance of the many-faceted stories and their meanings as they are pulled together into a single narrative, and, unfortunately the film takes on a far too familiar shape. Mowgli has an arch enemy, Shere Khan, and must acquire the skills to overcome him by finding his true self. It is the old story of the Hero’s Journey – pretty much the secret origin story of every single superhero movie that has been made in the last 20 years. It feels as if Hollywood has forgotten that there are other stories than those told by the DC and Marvel franchises.

There is one outstanding positive about this movie, however. Neel Sethi is the only real person we see in it, and he is utterly convincing. How he acted against green screens opposite non-existent co-actors is difficult to imagine. Sure, there would have been stand-ins for him to play against in the scenes, but the act of sustained imagination required of acting in such an environment is impressive. One moment sums it up for me. Mowgli is sitting on Baloo’s stomach floating down the river, when the bear unexpectedly splashes him. The look on Sethi’s face is one of genuine surprise. It feels utterly real – and this with a character made of digitalised pixels.

In other ways, the choice of Sethi as Mowgli is perplexing. He has long gangling legs in the film, and seems often to shuffle around, as if he is picking his way along a stony beach, barefoot – surely not the way a child born to jungle life would move. This, again, is perhaps a call back to the perennially annoying Disney cartoon in which Mowgli is comically gawky.

Towards its end, the movie descends into the Bond-villain-meets-his-doom denouement that this type of production can’t avoid.

So, what happens to Shere Khan being trampled to death and skinned in an act of concerted pack revenge?

All this is gone. Instead, Mowgli faces the tiger alone, and consigns him to the flames in a grandiose fall into a jungle fire. It is a very different feeling from the books, which emphasise co-operation. This is the story of a hero acting alone.

Nevertheless, this is a good effort. Unlike the 1960s cartoon, it does have something to do with the books it is named after. Not as much as I would like, but at least a little bit.

Perhaps it is a good thing that these films are so different from the books. After all, the books continue to stand in their own right as a separate – and far superior – entity to the Disney versions.

Inspirations

Punch and Judy at the Covent Garden May Fayre, 2016

By Matt on Wednesday, May 11, 2016

On Sunday 8th May Jackie and I went to the May Fayre at St Paul’s Churchyard, Convent Garden. It’s extraordinary for one thing in particular – it’s the place for Punch and Judy.

The view of St Paul's Churchyard from the church steps. — The view of St Paul’s Churchyard from the church steps.

Every year at the May Fayre, Mr Punch and his fellow puppets descend on “The Actor’s Church” in Covent Garden to celebrate this very strange, violent and utterly joyous artform. Why? Because it was here in 1662 at the May Fayre that diarist Samuel Pepys wrote of seeing the “little play” of Punch and Judy performed – the first time it is mentioned in English writing.

It’s a venerable tradition, and myths have grown up around it. One Punch and Judy man told me that Charles II was so struck by the skill of the puppeteers that he announced that all Punch and Judy men (and, more recently, women) should be known as “Professors”, a sobriquet that has continued to the present day. Whether it’s actually true is a matter of debate, but plenty of Professors will tell you it is.

St Paul’s Churchyard is a lovely place. When you step away from the big open space of Covent Garden, where performers play to tourists using the rear wall of the church as their backdrop (watched from the balcony of the Punch and Judy public house), you find that the churchyard itself is by contrast an intimate space – a grassed and tree-grown courtyard which stretches out from the church entrance.

Jackie and I arrived early, and the striped booths shone bright in the gorgeous sunshine. The place felt like a little village fete, and it was difficult to believe we were in the heart of London.

At 12 noon there was a church service of an eccentric nature. People poured into St Paul’s, many with puppets on their arms – one child wearing a Harry Potter cape carried a Punch on his hand among all the others; brightly coloured clothes abounded. We had stepped into the land of magic and strangeness. A marching jazz band burst in at the head of a procession, playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” brashly down the aisle, and a giant, stilted beefeater with a crow on his shoulder and painted clown face danced next to the pulpit with violent movements. And so the service began.

There was a children’s choir, and the vicar of Millwall Football Club gave a talk and got his choir to sing: the kids a little sheepish, singing slightly shyly. Was this London, really? This could have been any village church in the country on a Fete day. It was lovely.

Then, Mr Punch appeared in the pulpit, being asked questions by the vicar. It was a joyous moment and the audience laughed along. And afterwards, the Punch and Judy shows began.

Quite how the Church squares the murderous psychopath that is Mr Punch with a message of good will to all the people of the world is a strange question. Mr Punch is one of the most subversive, sinister and truly funny characters to ever come out of the theatrical tradition in England.

For that strange, heady mixture, I love him. The afternoon saw about 30 booths come alive with Mr Punch and friends, with numerous variations on the play. The first performance I watched was by respected puppeteer Geoff Felix, whose opening scene, featuring a pair of brutally violent and inept boxers was followed by an enigmatic staring puppet whose neck stretched out to phallic and hilarious proportions. Then on to the main act, and out came Mr Punch and his long-suffering wife Judy. Geoff Felix’s act was particularly rough and tumble, with Mr Punch bashing his victims’ heads in with great gusto, to the raucous laughter of the children.

It was the start of a series of shows that stretched on for the afternoon, with each Professor bringing his own take on the story. At times Punch was behind bars, at others he was about to be executed. Sometimes he rode a horse and at others he banged his head with hilarious effect, while his baby disappeared around the booth on the most unpredictable wanderings. Even Darth Vader made an appearance in one booth, while a French puppeteer clearly in love with the British Punch and Judy tradition had the British couple introduce the French Guignol and the story of Little Red Riding Hood.

But for all of these variants, the story I love best is the old one: the crazy, anarchic tale of the psychopath, Mr Punch, and his shrew of a wife who live in deeply comic passion together before coming to blows over their baby.

Punch kills. There’s no getting round it. He murders. It’s a transgression that is dealt with by different puppeteers with varying effect. Sometimes deeply sinister, sometimes careless, sometimes calculated, sometimes desperate, always funny – the first murder takes place. Then, one by one, with mounting ludicrousness, Punch kills every authority figure who comes to punish him, until finally he kills the devil himself.

At the end, Mr Punch is triumphant, announcing each time he kills a victim – that’s the way to do it! – Sometimes, he loudly counts the bodies he has piled up, like a macabre version of Sesame Street, while Joey the Clown moves the bodies around so that he can’t keep track of whom he’s killed. Sometimes, too, he is haunted by those he has murdered – but when he gets the measure of the ghost who comes to torment him, he even kills the ghost.

It is anarchy at work, and it upsets the moral order with a deeply subversive message. Though there are all those in power above him, Punch reigns supreme, the mischievous, murderous imp whom – bizarrely – children love.

And the fact is, the kids really do love him. Watching the seated children whom you might think would be a little too sophisticated for glove puppets, they were utterly transfixed. They got the humour, straight away, penetrating to the crazy core of the story, while, occasionally shocked parents looked on with apprehension at the scene.

David Wilde - Professor Extraordinaire

The amoral anti-hero at the heart of Punch and Judy makes it a unique experience, and deeply addictive. It is pure, unadulterated anarchy.

Perfect.

Punch is my hero!

Inspirations Writing

Real Writer’s Block – What it is, and what it is not.

By Matt on Friday, February 26, 2016

Despair Adele Parks gave a great talk last night at Portsmouth Central Library as part of Portsmouth Bookfest 2016, talking about her writing life, and how she became one of the top sellers of chick lit over the last 16 years. From an effervescent and ebullient childhood in which her grandfather persuaded her to write comics for 10 pence each, through globe-trotting as an advertising executive, to her decision “not to go to my grave wishing I had written that book”, it was quite a journey, and heartening, too.

With her joyous smile, lightning-fast brain and keen intellect, Adele is one of those people one can’t help liking. Blessed with good quality hardware, you can’t help thinking she would have made it, whatever she did. I’ve seen the same in other writers. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was similar – proud owner of a ferocious intellect coupled with a joyous imagination, he revelled in storytelling and much more besides. Like Doyle, Adele has energy. And lots of it.

Such traits make Adele supremely fitted to talk about the business of writing. But there is one thing she announced during that evening with which I disagreed profoundly, and it came when someone in the audience asked about writer’s block. This is one subject about which I have a brimful of firsthand experience. It is also something of which Adele clearly has none.

She started off this section by make a provocative point:

“There’s no such thing. You don’t get doctor’s block, or accountant’s block. So there’s no such thing as writer’s block.”

I’ve always wondered what people who dismiss writer’s block actually think it is. Today, at last, I heard it from someone at the top of her profession.

Adele equated writer’s block to lack of direction, or disorganisation. “If you sit down and you’re not able to write, it’s because you haven’t planned what you’re going to write,” she breezed. The solution was to plan your novel better, or perhaps have a change of scene. Go on holiday, go and write somewhere else. Meet new people. Go to an Elvis convention in Blackpool.

So there it was, writer’s block was a functional problem to do with not being properly directed. It was straightforward. It didn’t exist.

During a stay on the Isle of Arran in the 1990s, during Gulf War I, I spoke with the local female GP, an ex-military doctor, and mentioned PTSD to her. She furrowed her brow and said forcefully: “There is no such thing as PTSD”. She was adamant about it.

Everyone has a blindspot for something.

Here is what writer’s block is not. It is not sitting down to write one morning and finding that it takes 20 minutes to get in the mood. That is drinking a cup of tea. It is not worrying because your cat has taken ill and thus being put off for a day or two. That is anticipating a vet’s bill. It is not having a pile of papers that are out of order. That is bad filing.

How can I say this with such certainty? Because I lost the ability to write for thirteen years. Not being able to sit down and write during that period was not a matter of tea, cats or files. I had arranged my life so that I had all the time I needed. My despair, my utter, black despair came from something far deeper and far darker. If you’ve ever wondered what real writer’s block, is as opposed to feeling a bit uninspired or not quite knowing what to write about, let me tell you about my experience. Of course, others will have different experiences, but if you have no idea at all, perhaps this will shed a little bit of light – and explain to you why if you dismiss it out of hand you might get a furious response.

Writer’s block was the moment I realised the one thing I knew I could do really well had deserted me. It left me the day I had the final argument with a lover in which she criticised my work mercilessly, then walked out on me. Her criticism combined with that deeper emotional shock so that grief became the flavour of writing.

After her departure I limped on, writing scripts for The Bill. Her stinging criticisms came back as I wrestled plot lines, rang in my ears over and over again as I tried, stomach churning with panic, to string together stories and character motives. I criticised what I wrote, using her voice to do it. Not good enough, poor quality writing. Ugly writing. And so on.

There came a point at which I found myself unable to put one word after the other because I questioned if those two words worked together on the page. I couldn’t put together a satisfactory sentence, let alone a story. I wasn’t “feeling a bit uninspired of a morning”. I didn’t need to sit down and have a cup of tea to make it right. I had a central crisis of confidence in which I felt myself whirling into a blacker and blacker swirl of helplessness. I loved that woman. I wanted to impress her with my writing. She was gone. My writing was shit.

That was the sort of equation that was going on in my head. It usurped my emotions and took over my body. I wept at nights. month after month. The grief took control of my creative life. A deep, cold sense of bleakness. The blank page became unbearable. The stories I started to write and never finished were all tales of pain and suicide, of loss of faith in people, in God, in life itself. Sitting at my desk staring at the page, in the wordless spaces between each and every second, I sat and ruminated on how best I could die.

And still I was contracted to write 4 episodes of The Bill. A job that should have lasted six months took four grinding years to complete, until finally I was free of the show. Being trapped in a contract had compounded matters further. I was going through an existential crisis, whilst simultaneously being forced to turn out episodes of a cop show. I look back now, and that is darkly funny. At the time it was hell.

I eked out a living working in bars while the 6 months money I had been paid in advance dwindled out over 4 years, failing to fund my meagre existence. I began to associate poverty with writing. I hated myself, I hated the page, I hated everyone else – and most of all I hated the act of writing.

Sitting down to write meant pain. It meant loss of dignity. It meant humiliation. It meant having daily to inhabit that dark, lost spirit in the Hades of my soul who so wanted to come out into the light again but who was trapped.

I considered suicide.

In the end, I gave up trying to write, completely. I set up a series of businesses. I got into computer repairs, teaching English and bookdealing – the last of which gave me a steady income and such a rigid regime of work that for years I had no time to think about myself or my writing.

I did, eventually start to write again, but only after I got professional psychiatric help. I had a full thirteen years of writer’s block. Being told last night that, actually, that could have been solved with a trip to the local coffee bar (as if I didn’t try so many things) – that, I have to say, did not sit well in my soul.

The good news is that I did get out of that pit, and I want to tell you – if any of this seems remotely familiar – if you are another writer suffering in this way, and you’re sick of people who tell you to “buck yourself up” and “pull yourself together”, it’s okay to be sick of it. That person may be wise, they may be actually be bloody fantastic, but if that’s what they’re saying, then of the subject of writer’s block they know nothing.

Do know, however, that you are not alone and that there are ways back to the surface, to the sunlight. There are means of escape. There will come a time when you are no longer groping around in the dark and you will no longer feel destroyed. You will see yourself in a new way. You will be made afresh.

If you’ve got real writer’s block, most likely it won’t be a walk or a holiday that does it for you. If it does, then good luck to you. What you are feeling may be, in many ways, akin to PTSD. And just like with PTSD, seek help. There are professionals who understand the workings of the inside of your head.

Writer’s block is so much more than not feeling inspired. Writer’s block is feeling that your life is reaching its end because it is devoid of meaning. Be assured, however, it will go on. Writing, that little bright bird, she will fly back to you.

If you recognise any of this description and it makes sense to you, then seek help – and do it now. Don’t – like I did – take thirteen years to act. That’s thirteen years you won’t get back.

Banana Republic Inspirations

Ben Ainslie Racing Headed For Old Portsmouth?

By Matt on Monday, June 16, 2014

I’ve just got back from the local community consultation between around 350 Portsmouth residents, the city council and Ben Ainslie Racing. It was great.

Ben Ainslie is a genius at the helm when it comes to one of the world’s most exhilarating sports. Among many other trophies and prizes, he has won 11 world championship titles and 4 gold medals for Great Britain at the Olympics. His legendary win against New Zealand when he took the helm in the US team in the America’s Cup is one of the most extraordinary feats in recent sailing history.

Now Ben wants to bring his excellence to Portsmouth, building a brand new state-of-the-art boat shed on the car park at the Camber Quay, Old Portsmouth. If it goes ahead, the building is going to be 27 metres tall and it’s going to have a visitor centre and VIP lounge above the boatshed. In that boatshed innovative technologies will be used by highly skilled boatbuilders. Boatbuilding will be back in Pompey.

The Cathedral Old Portsmouth, filled with local residents — More than 350 rammed the nave of the cathedral, Old Portsmouth, to hear Ben Ainslie.

You can probably tell I’m very much in favour of this development. I’ll be frank, I was expecting at that meeting a good old-fashioned spat between developers on one side and nimbyistic residents on the other.

I was wrong. Watching Sir Ben’s presentation and the responses by the locals, the arguments against the building were much more varied and nuanced than I’d expected. Sir Ben himself was there, and prefaced his talk with an appeal to “get everyone on board” with the project, intending to show locals the benefits of the development.

From Sir Ben’s point of view, there will be numerous benefits. Besides the employment generated, there will be the regattas in the Solent. Then there will be the educational element for local schoolkids who will visit the site, as well as the putting of Portsmouth on the map.

Eventually, once the super-duper yacht is built and Britain wins the America’s Cup for the first time ever, Sir Ben hopes to hold the next America’s Cup here, in Pompey. It’s an aspiration, it’s a vision… one that was worth €1billion to Valencia when they did it.

I mean, how do you say no to all that?

Some people did say no. For one local resident, Ken Bailey, whose family has lived in Old Portsmouth for 200 years, it was the wanton archaeological damage to a “fragile and important” site that made him so angry. As he put it, Old Portsmouth is “the womb of the city”, and English Heritage have also expressed misgivings about the development. As someone with a deep love of the history of Portsmouth, I can see the merit in his argument.

However, Ken’s further argument that the site and its environs have always been historically low-rise seems a peculiar one. Only recently, Strong Island published a photograph showing Old Portsmouth as it was in the 1950s when the power station was situated just across the dock from the Camber, supplied by an unending stream of coal on a conveyancing system that stood 30 metres tall. The power station itself dominated the area and was far taller than the proposed BAR sheds.

The power station, coal silos and timber yards are long gone. What is left is a scrappy car park, some old boat sheds and the Bridge Tavern. The last will be preserved.

Malcolm Hill, another resident, expressed concerns that the whole process had been pushed through way too quickly without consultation of the locals. Others echoed this view, and Donna Jones, the new leader of the council acknowledged this as an issue and said it was something the council would learn from in the future.

The argument went to and fro in this way, and the recurring theme of the building’s height was the one around which objections centralised. It was one that Ben Ainslie was forced to answer: would he consider lowering the building? Perhaps not having the VIP centre?

At this point, after being pushed, finally the truth came out. The answer was no. The building needs to be that height in order to meet all of its functions.

I found that moment to be a relief. Sir Ben had clearly reached the point where he realised that those he couldn’t take on board would have to make their own ways to shore – and a very changed one at that. No more pussyfooting around.

This attitude was expressed by Sir Robin Knox-Johnston most eloquently when he talked about Britain’s excellence at yachting. “I’m one of those people who believes we are an aggressive maritime nation who can still kick the shit out of the rest of the world.”

I liked that.

On Wednesday, the council planning committee will make a decision. Do I expect it to be turned down? After, as Donna Jones announced, the council has already spent £1.4 million on preparatory work “in case the application is approved?” Not a hope in hell.

I’m glad of it. For someone who loves this city, and also sees it struggling with lack of belief in itself, with kids on a downer on their home town feeling they have limited aspirations, this will be a centre of excellence that will draw in other excellence. It will become part of the rich current of maritime history that has flowed past Point since the Romans housed their fleet, the Classis Britannica, at Portchester Castle long ago.

On a slightly less arty-farty level, as Donna Jones put it: “The leader of Southampton City Council has told Sir Ben that if we don’t want him, they’ll have him there. I’m telling the leader of Southampton City Council, we do want him!”

That got some cheers.

So, get ready to see some very posh boats in the Solent, some time soon.

In Full Swing album by The Three Belles Inspirations

You Didn’t Know – The Three Belles and Bevin Boys “In Full Swing” CD track review

By Matt on Sunday, May 12, 2013

You Didn’t Know, the sixth track on the Three Belles new album “In Full Swing” was written by the Bevin Boys’ Will Keel-Stocker.

The Three Belles present their new debut album "In Full Swing". — The Three Belles present their new debut album “In Full Swing”.

It begins as a torch song with the lines:

“I didn’t know that you were looking for me last night / I wasn’t home when you called round. / You didn’t know, I saw I saw you leave with her last night / My baby in the arms of another / So it’s true you’ve found a love in somebody new / Just when I was feeling that our own love was true…”

The tremolo in the vibraphone backs up the melancholy message, maintaining a wistfulness throughout.

But as is so true to the Belles, these girls shake off their blues and get on with life, turning the situation round once again, never wallowing, always doing.

In the merry fast world the Belles live in, by the end of the song the situation is fully reversed. Along the way, there’s an irresistibly catchy melody, backed with the Belles’ trademark harmonies and each of the girls get to show off their solo singing voices.

Sally / Gail’s voice has a wonderful crystal clarity to it. Anneka / Betty’s has a richness, while Isabelle / Dorothy’s has smooth deeper tones that remind me sometimes of Judy Garland’s, of warmth and valve radios.

In all a chilled out number that varies the pace beautifully between Say Si Si and the next track on the album, In Full Swing…

Order your copy of The Three Belles debut Album, In Full Swing.

In Full Swing album by The Three Belles Inspirations

Say Si Si – The Three Belles and The Bevin Boys “In Full Swing” album track review

By Matt on Saturday, May 11, 2013

Say Si Si, originally written in Spain in 1935 has had many incarnations… a Spanish language number performed by Gloria Jean and the Guadalajara Trio, a swinging toe-tapper with a whirl of woodwind overlaid by brash brass by Marion Hutton and the Glen Miller Orchestra, a crystal clear belter from the Andrews Sisters – and much more besides.

Covered by Judy Garland, Ellen Corner and a host of others it has often stayed rhythmically close to its Latin roots, or has gone down the swing/big band line – with the notable exceptions such as Chet Atkins’ smooth Nashville country version.

Here, The Bevin Boys give the classic number a completely different twist. Staying true to the song’s European roots, they transfer it to a small café somewhere in a French town during that golden period in the inter-war years.

Hearing The Bevin Boys as a gipsy café band is a refreshing surprise. The track bounces along beautifully. Backed by accordion, guitar, violin, bass and drums the song achieves a kind of delightful lightness with the voices of The Three Belles floating over the sun-filled track.

My partner, Jackie, told me that this one is an absolute cracker of a track for dancers. It’s more than that. It evokes a bit of sunshine and a bit of joy from the Mediterranean, and encourages you to relax, enjoy… and smile.

For that, I say a definite Si, Si!

Order your copy of The Three Belles debut Album, In Full Swing.

In Full Swing album by The Three Belles Inspirations

Gimme Some Skin – The Three Belles “In Full Swing” Album Track Review

By Matt on Thursday, May 9, 2013

If you want to shake my hand, like they do it in Harlem / stick your hand right out and shout: “Gimme some skin, my friend!”

Thus the refrain of this classic Andrews Sisters number that The Three Belles do ample justice to. This track absolutely bounces along with real verve, driven by the fast chopping jazz guitar chords and an extremely tight big band.

Naïve and hopeful in its celebration of black culture, the song was written at a time when the relationship between the white and Afro-American half of the US population were to say the very least strained. The original Andrews Sisters film clip on youtube is telling. No black faces appear (Hollywood presumably found that too difficult to swallow). But in the modern day in which styles are stolen from every culture around the world, the song feels amazingly ahead of its time. Using a Gospel interlude in which the Belles sing a capella while they clap along, this vibrant number absolutely revels in the joy it creates.

What more to be said of this one, except that it has a great uplifting ending, and will get your toes tapping all the way!

Order your copy of The Three Belles debut Album, In Full Swing.

In Full Swing album by The Three Belles Inspirations

“One of these days” by The Three Belles “In Full Swing” Album Track Review

By Matt on Tuesday, May 7, 2013

From the big catchy horn intro, settling into the harmonised melody, “One Of These Days” feels like a traditional 1930s number, maybe in the style of “Why Don’t You Do Right?”

The singers seem to be following the traditional role of the woman singer hard done by with her useless man. “One of these days you’re gonna do something right / you’ll work all day and you’ll come home at night…”

But this number is one of those wolves in sheep’s clothing that definitely has a bite. It’s a modern number with modern sensibilities – and rather than the helpless victimhood of songs like “All Of Me” in which the woman is paralysed by the grief she receives from her man, The Three Belles have something far more punchy to tell you. By the end of the song, they are giving their fellah an ultimatum – and eventually the big kiss-off.

Just as Amy Winehouse did with Motown that had a distinctly modern feel, it’s a wonderful example of the way that modern sentiment can be expressed in the voice of the past.

Once again the arrangements here are cracking – like a big number from a Hollywood movie.

Sally Taylor, AKA Gail Winters solos in this one, with her clear voice cutting the man down to size with every syllable she utters. This is a great number, that signs off with a cruel “bye bye”.

Vintage stuff!

Order your copy of The Three Belles debut Album, In Full Swing.

Inspirations

And the band played on… The Bevin Boys at The Royal Albert Hall, featuring The Three Belles, 25th April 2013

By Matt on Friday, April 26, 2013

The Bevin Boys have been working out. That’s why they’ve got bigger.

Transformed from the hot three-piece they started out as just over a year ago, they appeared at The Royal Albert Hall Elgar Room last night in a more expansive 6-piece line-up, with grand piano, bass, sax, horn, guitar and of course, William Keel-Stocker on drums.

With the change in venue comes a step-change in the music the BBs are producing, with the addition of the horns allowing the subtlety and richness of Will’s arrangements to shine through and giving the band a kind of Vintage feel that takes you right the way back the dance hall days of the 30s and 40s.

And the show works. The Elgar Room sold out, and the audience were richly appreciative.

And rightly so. Will’s exuberance as he takes control from the drum kit and turns out some great classic tunes – including his amazing rendition of “That Old Black Magic” is always accompanied by a smile and witty quip. Since he dances, is a designer and acts, too, one has to ask: is there anything this guy can’t do?

The night also featured that sparkling harmony trio The Three Belles, who got up and did their stuff – and when they kicked off their first number the table behind me who had no idea what was in store for them spontaneously exclaimed “Oh! Wow!”

This was a great night. Even when the fire alarm warning went off and full lights came up, just as The Belles were about to go on stage, the audience stayed firmly put and the band played on. With its Vintage vibe and classic tunes, there was a moment of Titanic to the whole event – but only in the fact that it was classy indeed. Because I don’t see the remotest prospect of any of these guys sinking without trace. No sir. Quite the opposite!