Talking RABBISH
I had to steel myself to go, but a night listening to heavy metal has made me determined to get out more
Great Dane Myrkur sang like a lintie
I HAVE resolved to do something. Note the framing of the language. I have not made a New Year’s resolution. I do not approve of New Year, believing the date to be arbitrary and the lack of presents deplorable.
Besides, I’ve made this resolution once before, at an entirely different time of year. I didn’t keep it then, not once, and am not hopeful of keeping it now. But here it is: I’m going to go oot more.
Let me be unclear about this: I go oot a lot but, generally speaking, it is into nature, either on my suburban hill and its associated wood, or a few weeks a year amidst the mountains and seascapes of Skye. I never, ever go to house parties. I don’t do nightclubs, even supposing they should let me in (“You can’t come in here with that nose”), and I can no longer afford the football.
However, I plan to attend other events or places, which I guess you could call cultural, ken? I witter thus after attending a concert in Glasgow. You may recall my dislike of attending cultural events or places in Edinburgh, where I live, because I find the clientele discomfiting. Glasgow remains miles better. I hate saying that because it makes me feel treacherous to Edinburgh. But I’m more Leith than Embra proper, and Leith is more like Glasgow and, though I wasn’t looking for it, I noticed that complete strangers did strike up conversations with each other in Glasgow, and also that the gallus folk didn’t give a damn what others thought.
What sort of people were these? Well, I’ll be quite candid with you here and say they were heavy metallists. That shocked you. They were the whole nine yards too: unfashionably long hair and denim vests covered in band names. They made peculiar hand signals involving, I think, the forefinger and pinkie, which I’d thought was from Star Trek Wars or whatever it is.
You say: “Surely a man of your standing in the community cannot be seen associating with heavy metallists?” Quite correct. Indeed, I disapprove of all metal music (heavy, dark, black etc; such a lot of nonsense), and have a theory that its growling vocals are caused by the inability of teutonic men, with whom it is most popular, to sing rock ’n’ roll.
But here’s the rub: this was a heavy metal lassie, Myrkur, who hails from Denmark and sings like a lintie. Her soaring, mellifluous voice haunts your dreams and, while she has a background in metal, latterly has incorporated more traditional folk into her act.
Indeed, the gig was split into folkie and metal halves and, while normally I skip the scariest metal on her CDs, I rather enjoyed it live, not least through the solidarity that the accompanying band created with the crowd (shout out too for support act Jo Quail – an amazing sonic experience with a cello!).
I have been passed an impertinent note, urging me to get to the point. It is this: my night out was transformative. My heid had been aurally assailed, my ears stroked, caressed and, occasionally, tweaked. Result: next day, I felt all creative, inspired and somewhat other-worldly, ken? Much of that was obviously down to Myrkur. But I also felt proud of myself. More Hobbit than man, I had been on an adventure – to a city centre on a Friday night. Loud beats issued from packed pubs and clubs. Inadequately dressed young persons lurched hither and, occasionally, yon. But I was not afraid.
I was probably the oldest person at the gig. I’d even planned it months ahead, something I never normally do. A child of the sixties, I live every day expecting nuclear conflagration, and rarely buy frozen food, let alone concert tickets in advance.
But, confident that President Derek (Dennis?) Trump will protect us all, I am going to go out again, at least once, in 2019.
Joke was on me for thinking it was new
HERE’S another cultural thing I did in what was arguably December: watched Mary Poppins. You are flabbergasted anew. Here is a man, or Hobbit, who can flit willy-nilly from Myrkur to Mary Poppins.
True, I didn’t have to go out to watch the Poppins. I watched it (the original) on DVD, with the lights out – and, once more, I was not afraid, even if Dick Van Dyke’s Cockney accent gives many people the willies.
It’s never sounded that bad to me. But accents never do. Actors doing Scottish accents get panned frequently, but I never hear much wrong with them. Perhaps people just create myths or false truisms and have what’s known on Twitter these days as a “pile-on”.
Besides, Van Dyke’s performance is otherwise tremendous, and
I look forward to seeing his cameo appearance in the new Mary Poppins Returns.
One thing I didn’t enjoy in Mary Poppins was hearing the joke about a chap getting a job in a watch factory and standing around all day making faces. I didn’t realise it was from the film and used it in the Herald Diary recently, thinking it frightfully original.
A bit like saying: “I’ve just thought of something: see sleep, it knits up the ravell’d sleave of care. Brilliant, eh?”
Why I will swerve barbers in Tesco
HERE’S a fact known only to people who examine my heid closely: I cut my own hair.
I trust my follicles to no fellow and, while my barnet frequently resembles a bird’s nest (not helped by my habit of going out with several small eggs balanced on my head), I am at least the captain of my own cranial ship.
Accordingly, I won’t be visiting the new barbers or hair economists that Tesco plans to make available at its stores. I’m grateful for the fact that, at today’s supermarkets, you can buy a pound of mince, a threepack of underpants and a complete set of equestrian equipment.
But a haircut is a skilled business, best practised by a man on his own bonce, while holding his beard trimmer upside down and keeping his eyes firmly shut.