A dangerous mind: the brilliance of Randy Newman
In my mildly rebellious early teens this day, July 12, was special because the Orange Lodges would march along streets we needed to cross on the 15-minute walk from tram stop to the inner-city grammar school, giving us a slight excuse for being late. So we would watch the processions, listen to the bands, see the banners and miss assembly. It didn’t denote us as militant Protestants or haters of Catholics. All that had been more or less dissolved by the Second World War, when Liverpool was heavily bombed, bequeathing a sense of alliance against a bigger enemy than either the Pope or the Archbishop of Canterbury. In time, most of us would also stop hating Germany.
My point is this: while being human requires us to beware that which may harm us, reason and experience should teach us to be careful where that can lead. Hate is a profound emotion, as dangerously thrilling as love. Handle both with care. This is where laughter comes in. If something can make you see the funny side of your strongest feelings it’s a blessing.
Randy Newman’s America (Radio 2, Tuesday) is just such a series.
Here are two programmes from the Corporation for Independent Media, the first of which went out on July 4, America’s Independence Day, in which Newman talked to Judith Kampfner about his songs. These, in my opinion, are sublime. His lyrics explore love, hate, fear, race, class, religion and prejudice within America’s best musical genres, ragtime, blues and gospel. Newman doesn’t preach, he entertains. He’s dangerous because he employs irony and parody. His tunes seduce, his words shock. Is Short People really about height or something bigger? Does Sail Away attack the American dream or its exploitation? He’s a Swift among balladeers, in both material and performance. This series brings to light his influences, his diffidence, the strength of both his love for America and his loathing of delusion. If you missed it, catch it on the BBC iplayer.
Anita Anand is a brave woman. We’re used to her on Radio 4, discreetly taking up the slack of Any Questions? in Saturday’s Any Answers. On Monday she walked boldly into the eye of a storm in A Split in the
Sisterhood, exploring why feminism is in schism as women of colour rage against the dominance of white middle-class women. The film Suffragette became the focus for their anger, spotlighting Emmeline Pankhurst, ignoring co-campaigner Sophia Duleep Singh.
“I am a woman of colour, brought up in Britain,” said Anand and, as she is also Duleep Singh’s biographer, indicating her own entitlement to a voice in this debate. She is, however, for inclusivity and not, therefore, on the side of those who would exclude speakers because of skin colour or class. Seeking opinions from a dazzlingly wide range of feminist opinion (young, old, black, brown and white, online, on air and on paper), she listened, argued, engaged, pointing out lessons from history, making plain her right to remark the dangers of division. Made by Above the Title, this was another indication of how independent production is expanding BBC horizons.
All week Radio 3’s The Essay is contributing to the BBC’S Gay Britannia season with The Love That Wrote Its Name. On Monday, with wit, warmth and style, Simon Callow described The Boys, the long domestic and professional partnership of Micheál Mac Liammóir and Hilton Edwards. This dated from 1928 in Dublin, surviving social, professional and personal storms, giving birth to the Gate Theatre and, more than likely, helping change Ireland’s attitudes to sexuality that’s now resulted in its first openly gay Prime Minister, Leo Varadkar.
Last night, Stella Duffy’s There
Was No Them was more achingly personal, a contemplation of growing up not knowing where to find someone like her, a woman who loves women. “There was no Them, no There, just No.” Her family emigrated from Britain to New Zealand when she was five and she always felt “other” until much later. In the relationship of Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas, she found a pattern, a form, a recipe. Even then, said Duffy wryly, Gertrude was always in another room talking to famous writers and artists while Alice was in the kitchen but, by then, Duffy had also discovered wider horizons at university, although it was still men who made the speeches. Yet, by being out there, recognised as a couple, Stein and Toklas gave her a picture, a recipe to follow to become herself and know, as she said in Stein’s style, “Love is a love is a love.”