Another fine Mess.

Another fine Mess.

After being handed a reprieve last Saturday by Israel’s last minute win over Russia, all England had to do last night was keep cool and not give the game away. A draw was good enough. It would see them through to next summer’s European Championships to be held in Austria and Switzerland. At Wembley, before an estimated crowd of 90,000 surely that was not too much to ask. In fact, on Sky News last Saturday evening, Chris Scudamore seemed confident that England were through but for the formality of playing the game. And so it had to happen.

In pouring rain and on a Wembley pitch that looked less than best the stage was set. An under-strength team for sure. With Wayne Rooney, Michael Owen, Rio Ferdinand and John Terry all out because of injury, plus David Beckham and Paul Robinson surprisingly excluded from first team selection no-one seemed sure what to expect. Had England’s manager, Steve McClaren something up his sleeve? Were his controversial changes tactical nous? A cunning plan? Well we were soon to find out.

England started well enough bringing the play to Croatia. That is for 8 minutes. With a 4–3-3 formation, Peter Crouch up front with Shaun-Wright Philips and Gareth Barry getting in behind, it was plain what the tactics were. But on Croatia’s perhaps first foray into the England half, Nico Kranjcar, finding himself with space, chanced a dipping right foot strike that ‘international-debut’ keeper Scott Carson failed to collect, deflecting the ball up into the corner of his net. The players were stunned. The fans more so. Six minutes later, on counterattack, the Arsenal player, Eduardo da Silva, with some clever footwork, found Olic on the edge of the box, and the Hamburg player side-stepped the stranded Carson and it was 0-2.

As the rain continued down England suddenly seemed a forlorn and directionless side. With heads dipping they laboured and one could only stare, wondering what changes the manager might make, and if he did, would he act quickly or wait till half-time.

The second half started with Wright-Philips substituted for Beckham, and Barry for Defoe. Perhaps there was hope. The three-lions would fight. And amazingly in the 56th minute, the linesman on the far side of play, spotted a shirt-pull as Jermain Defoe attempted to get on the end of a punted cross from Joe Cole. A brief consultation resulted in a penalty-kick being awarded to England. Up stepped Frank Lampard, looking nervous certainly, but he fixed his gaze and slotted a low drive into the right side of the net, sending keeper Stipe Pletikosa the wrong way. England were back in it. Eleven minutes later Beckham, picking up Gerard’s hard-won ball, delivered a sweet cross to the centre and Peter Crouch running on, chested it down before hammering past the helpless keeper. England now could have the draw they needed. And there it should have been consolidated. England should have pressed for a third or at least played the possession game, but instead they began to fall back. And the Croatians having already brought two redemptive saves from Carson in the second half were not content to let the matter settle. Increasingly they looked dangerous, winning possession in the midfield and pushing forward. Then in the 77th minute, substitute Mladen Petric found himself unchallenged and fired an angled shot that Carson could only stretch to, then watch as it zipped past him goal-bound. England did try to rally and late on Darren Bent made the best of a half-chance, looping it just centimetres over the bar. But by then the writing was on the wall. A grim-faced bench sat, hunched forward as the last few minutes counted down. With the final whistle Steve McClaren stood and was escorted down the tunnel.

A bad night for England and for English football. A performance well below par. Listless and lacking self-belief, the players seemed overawed and unsure when faced with what was expected of them. Questions have already been asked about McClaren’s management skills and his team choices. Now surely they will rise to a crescendo.

The only consolation for England fans is that they hung on a little longer than Scotland. Four days to be precise. Though I suspect north of the border there will be some quiet satisfaction with this result. Austria/Switzerland next summer may well show the cream of European football but it will be without England.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Nov 2007

Berlusconi dons the helmet and lifts the sword.

That old friend of Tony Blair is at it again. The man who offered the ex PM of the UK the use of his holiday home and a shoulder to cry on now wants to merge all the centre-right groupings of Italy into one party under, presumably, his leadership.

Mr Berlusconi – one of Italy’s richest men, thinks it is time to for the Italian centre-right “to unite against the old fogeys of politics”.

Mr Berlusconi is no stranger to controversy. He has survived a number of scandals and has been the object of a number of enquiries into alleged shady business dealings. He is also the man behind some, shall we say, ‘colourful’ quotes. Comparing himself to Napoleon, then Jesus Christ. Understatement and restraint would not seem to be two qualities he is in possession of.

What is worth remarking on, regarding Mr Berlusconi’s new initiative, is his assertion that this new party, entitled, The Italian People's Party for Freedom, is to be a “protagonist of freedom and democracy for decades". Which to my ears sounds somewhat chilling. It is almost a threat.

The term ‘freedom and democracy’ is coming to sound like one of those political terms leaders love, such as, ‘joy through work’ or ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’. It is now bandied about as though it actually means something. It is also generally used in quite an aggressive and confrontational manner.

Democracy is not a political ideal. Neither is it a political ideology. Democracy is a political process. It is a method of government. It comes from Greek, meaning broadly ‘government by the people’. It is not a ready-made. A system that once put in place yields instant results and unites a populace. In fact whenever imposed or transplanted onto a society that has previously not been ‘democratic’ it often has the exact opposite effect to that desired. It disunites and cause a form of political free for all. A populace used to adhering to a centralised or dictatorial system suddenly finds itself with the freedom to indulge every form of political opinion and aspiration. And frequently does- resurrecting old grudges and agendas. Or breaking up along historical or ethnic lines. We forget our societies have developed our understanding of democracy over a long period and in response to differing social pressures and needs. And they are still far from exemplary.

Freedom too is a difficult concept. The reason why, certainly in Europe and North America it has taxed the minds of philosophers for centuries. One person’s freedom can be another’s prison. And freedom is also relative to the special values or principles one culture or people hold in particular importance. Therefore in cultures that hold family and extended family in very high regard, western freedom from family obligations and ties is often seen not as freedom but as chaos and a lack of responsibility. Cultures that hold community as central to identity find our need for ‘individual’ freedom as difficult to understand – certainly to condone.

And this is the problem with the new slogan, ‘freedom and democracy’. Because it is just that. A slogan. Interchangeable with ‘our way of life’. Mr Berlusconi wants his Italian People’s Party for Freedom to be a protagonist for ‘his way of life’. And given his track record it has to be said his instincts would appear to be anything but democratic. In fact based on the evidence one would have to say they are oligarchic. Or at the very least populist.

Mr Berlusconi may call this new party an appeal to the centre right, but in truth it is no more an appeal to centre right than it is an appeal to far right or hard left. Or perhaps all three.

Mr Berlusconi is branding his beliefs with the slogan of our time. "Come with us, against the old fogeys of politics to form a great new party of the people," he says.

We have heard this sort of thing before. Join with us and we will march on the future. The trend in western politics for messianic style crusading is at best unnerving.

Perhaps next time Tony visits he could have a word with Silvio about where this sort of thinking leads. That is when not licking his wounds over Iraq. Another initiative that started with cries of ‘freedom and democracy’.

Copyright (C) Peter Millington Nov 2007

At their Best: Paul Motian Trio with Marc Johnson.

Paul Motian has been a constant and essential feature of the American jazz scene for many years. From his early days as drummer with the Bill Evans Trio through to the mid period of his career, as one third of the Paul Motian Trio he has constantly shown touch and perception in his choice of material and playing partners.

The album, Bill Evans: Tribute to the Great Post-Bop Pianist, recorded in 1990 on Winter & Winter, when he was approaching his sixtieth birthday marks perhaps a highlight in a career that has many highlights. Drawing on the material of the legendary pianist and melodist, Bill Evans, he has, together with his trio partners, Bill Frisell and Joe Lovano plus bassist Marc Johnson created an album that is excellent and at times sublime.

Given the high standards of playing this group of musicians has been responsible for over the years and add to that the unforgettable and haunting melodies of Bill Evans it is hard to see where this recording could have gone wrong. But what is truly remarkable is that all four musicians have found ways of expanding their past powers of interpretation and unearthed in these nine Evans tunes harmonic possibilities, rhythmic interplay and originality of voice that with lesser musicians could have resulted in a more subdued tribute. Perhaps Motian’s personal experience of playing with Evans brought an element to the sessions that prevented it from simply treading water as the work of four fans.

The only real problem must have been deciding on which Evans songs not to include. There are no real highlights here, as each track is played with such excellence and sensitivity they all stand out. It would be better perhaps to name my favourites. An absolute contender has to be ‘Turn out the Stars’, Joe Lovano floating lovely feathery and melancholy tenor sax over Paul Motian’s ever thoughtful drum and brush work - Bill Frisell’s curious, at times bluesy guitar shapes and Marc Johnson’s bass working off the percussion with a bounce and lightness of touch. ‘Time Remembered’ also stands out. The minor figures, the melody’s downward pull being interpreted with emphasis on its spaces, its sense of loss. The drum and brush work adding a fluid, almost liquid quality, a splash of cymbal here, a rhythmic phrase rising like a wave only to subside. A military style tapping out of beat that falls back into reflection. Again Bill Frisell pulls shapes and lines from his fretboard that have a feel of the blues as well as conventional jazz, even at times a hint of country-western. (a field he was later to explore). Marc Johnson walks and steps though the melody, with a solo that finds hidden harmonics. And Lovano’s tenor sax is perfectly pitched, sweet without being saccharine, expressive without being intrusive. There are other wonderful tracks. ‘Re: Person I knew’, (a great title), played with an engaging and wistful nonchalance, ‘Very Early’ that simply swings. ‘Five’ the most experimental, distorted guitar and passages of free-jazz. ’34. Skidoo’, a playful and uplifting number.

This is an excellent and essential recording. It shows four musicians at their best. The level of interplay and communication is never short of exquisite. It is a worthy tribute to a great musician and a worthy example of four great musicians playing music that is unforgettable and inspiring. Highly recommended.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Nov 2007

Paul Motian: Bill Evans: Tribute to the Great Post-Bop Pianist. Buy here.

Nils Petter Molvaer: ER.

It has been called Scandi jazz, nu-jazz or simply not-jazz. How you wish to define it is your choice. Whatever description you settle on, one thing certain is, it is a music worth exploring. A music that challenges the boundaries between genres and has shown itself open to a younger generation’s experiments in Electronica and Dance.

Perhaps one of its most important figures is Nils Petter Molvaer. A trumpet player from Sula, Norway. Perhaps the hard core of the movement would accuse him of not pushing the boundaries further, but he has reached the wider audience. He came to prominence in 1997 with his much acclaimed album Khmer, followed in 2000 with Solid Ether, both released on ECM the famous German label. In 2002 he left ECM to record NP3, a continuation of themes. And in between were two albums of remixes by various DJs and luminaries of the Dance scene, plus a live album. In 2005 he released ER, his most accomplished work to date.

Scandinavia is not a part of the world one normally associates with fiery passion or expressiveness. Certainly not the burlesque and energy of early twentieth century black America; Jazz’s true roots. A generalization perhaps. Yet in the last 15 to 20 years many Scandinavian its musicians have contributed hugely to the field of contemporary jazz; Jan Gabarek, Esbjorn Svensson, Palle Danielsson, Terje Rypdal to name a few.

There has been criticism of course. Some have seen the emphasis on coolness of sound and experimentation with electronics as sterile. As not in the spirit of jazz. Yet despite a tendency not always to swing it is nevertheless a sound that belongs very much in contemporary music. Some of the great figures of jazz, Miles Davis or Ornette Coleman for example, have not been afraid to experiment. Mixing different genres of music, Middle-Eastern, Indian, north African; bringing in unconventional instruments, tablas, sitars, guitar synthesizers, wah-wah pedals, and of course utilizing the latest studio technologies. In fact Miles Davis is probably a good point of reference for the work of Nils Petter Molvaer. Particularly his recording Aura, a project instigated by the Dane Palle Mikkelborg; a project Davis himself held in high regard.

ER is maybe two albums in one. A first half of tracks drifting around melody, electro percussion and atmospheric sweeps. It’s culminates with ‘Only These Things Count’, a song, vocals courtesy of compatriot Sidsel Endressen; the remaining tracks are denser, exploring syncopation, rhythm and the texture of sound, electric and acoustic.

On each track Nils Petter Molvaer winds his trumpet, at times hinting at Miles Davis circa the mid-seventies or the treated sound of Jon Hassel. At other times he bends notes in an almost primitive or folkloric way. Breathing through the horn as though it were a voice. Making voice and instrument almost one. Reminding the listener perhaps of music’s link with speech and language. He does all this over an atmospheric yet never overbearing palette of sound. Climaxes of instruments suddenly give way to space and the lone horn. A minimalist melody, that is plaintive or haunting.

The track titles are simple and starkly suggestive. Hover, Softer, Water, Sober, Darker, Feeder and Dancer. Only the aforementioned ‘Only These Things Count’ deviates from this trend.

Stand out tracks have to be ‘Water’, a beautiful intro, standing bass, sparse horn and electro effects, woven through with Endressen’s wordless and stuttered voice. ‘Hover’ a subtly struck bass and rhythm syncopation, the horn drifting at times so far back into the mix, it stretches attention, as though drawing the listener into another room, only to return, breathy and warm. ‘Only These Things Count’, is a mixture of acoustic and treated sound framing a conventional song structure – the horn here mostly warm and intimate. And ‘Dancer’ a darkly rhythmic piece, with swirling guitar drones, sound loops, the trumpet here one minute, there the next, driving the music on, occasionally discordant and chaotic, but never less than compelling.

I was recently listening to this while driving out of London and up the M11 to Stanstead airport. A somewhat misty, November afternoon. Stretches of cloud and a deep autumn sun. It was the perfect soundtrack. Evoking the landscape, suggesting its history, its connections and yet so very urban and contemporary in its nature.

This is a special of music. It will bear repeated listening. It will draw you in from first listen Then reveal its thoughtfulness, its invention and depth with time. Worth your attention.



Copyright (C) Peter Millington Nov 2007

Nils Petter Molvaer. ER. Buy here:

Terrorism and Poetry.


It is amazing what you find just trawling other people's blogs. Recently I came across this posting concerning, mayor of London, Ken Livingstone’s desire to make sure the British media are not portraying Muslims in a way that is unfair or insensitive. It seems Mr Livingstone’s Greater London Authority has commissioned a report entitled ‘The Search for Common Ground: Muslims, Non-Muslims and the UK Media’ An admirable effort one might think. Yet one that raises some interesting questions. (a detailed article on the report and its methodology are included here). But what interested me most about the post was a couple of sentences about the BBC’s coverage of Samina Malik, the ‘Lyrical Terrorist’. It rang bells.

The BBC report reminded me of how the IRA in Northern Ireland played a similar game. As though being ‘literary’ somehow validated a campaign of violence. I seem to remember early photos of Gerry Adams, (before his Armani days) in an aran sweater, smoking a pipe and gazing poetically at 'his writings'. For all the world trying to pass himself off as Sean O'Casey or Seamus Heaney. (though O’Casey’s history is a salutary lesson on the limits of nationalist tolerance). The suggestion was, I suppose, that one so sensitive could only have the best interests of all at heart. It was, perhaps, a policy of the armalite in one hand and the pen in the other. Or more readily, the armalite out of camera, the pen well in. Of course the connection between Irish Nationalism and Irish literature is well documented. WB Yeats being one its most famous purveyors. Yet Mr Yeats, once living under an Irish nationalist government, was not quite so gung-ho. And questions of his political judgment are certainly valid in light of the fact he had a flirtation, albeit brief, with the Irish Free State’s Blueshirts of the 1930s. The same Blueshirts who metamorphosed into the National Corporate Party –an unashamedly fascist organization – that later went to fight for Franco in Spain.

The BBC report reminded me of this because it demonstrates what seems to me is a failing of the British left. Romanticising terrorism when it is linked to literature or the arts. As though artists, writers or poets were incapable of misjudgment. And this, ironically in the light of Irish Nationalism, is a very British phenomenon.

The question of Muslim identity in the UK is at present fraught with difficulty. Not least because of a plethora of initiatives such as the one above. Muslims are invariably discussed by the new-left as an homogenous group, (a community) to which everyone else must be sensitive. But the definition of 'Muslim' is very much a European one. And it confuses Muslim with Arab or middle-eastern.

Initiatives such as the one above are set up, I presume, in order to underline what is good in Islam and more importantly to separate Muslims from Muslim fanatics. Yet it ignores the fact that many Muslims have some sympathy for the fundamentalists’ political agendas. No, they do not wish death and destruction on anyone but many are in broad agreement with the politics regarding women, non-Muslims, secularists, and intellectuals. Views most non-Muslim Europeans would disagree with.

People who practice Islam in the UK are from a variety of different geographical backgrounds. Their right to practice their religion is guaranteed. That same freedom also guarantees them the right to comment on other religions. So it should follow that non-Muslims have the right to comment on Islam.

Trawling the media for examples of Islamophobia is fruitless and an example of the sort of lame thinking that dominates our politics. It smacks of censorship. It would also seem to suggest that people who practice Islam are so sensitive, so unstable, so volatile that if non-Muslims were even to breath the idea that Islam should not be given unquestioning respect, they 'the Muslims' might immediately run out and become dangerous terrorists. Something I'm sure most practicing Muslims with a modicum of intelligence would reject.

The analogy with Northern Ireland is not irrelevant. The issue there in the late 60s was civil rights for British citizens. Catholics in NI were being denied the full margin of their civil rights as citizens of the UK simple because they were Catholics. Unacceptable of course. However the politicization of the situation as a struggle between Irish Nationalism and Irish Unionism only fueled violent campaigns from both Catholics and Protestants. Each was convinced they were fighting for their identity. Each convinced there was no such thing as a middle ground. The media and government played a huge part in this by pursuing a policy of referring to Northern Irish Catholics as Nationalists and Protestants as Unionists; religious connotations no doubt being distasteful to London politicians and editors. The English left in particular muddied the waters by stating their support for a United Ireland. As good as saying they supported Irish Nationalism - Republicanism. If you were facing down the IRA each day, this was no joke. And a growing IRA campaign inevitably set in motion the Loyalist response. All of which only ensured that reasonable people in NI became increasingly isolated and consequently the issue of civil rights was buried for good. The net result of this was the deaths of many people and a substantial drain on the British exchequer.

We are in danger of doing the same with the Muslim issue. We are not so much turning a religious issue into politics, but turning a political issue into religion. Pandering in the case of fundamentalists, to fanatics and medievalists. The problem for British Muslims is not that they live in a state insensitive to their needs but they live in state that is predominantly secular. In a secular state their right to belief is guaranteed. As are the rights of other religions. That does not mean no-one has the right to comment. Because if we cannot comment on Islam, soon we will not be able to comment on Christianity, Judaism or any other religion. If the Anglican or Roman Catholic Church were to ask for this level of ‘sensitivity’ there would be outcry. The BBC would lead the charge.

What we need to do, is demonstrate the value of a secular society for practicing Muslims. The Government needs to show that secular western society protects their right to their personal beliefs but will not let those beliefs infringe on wider generally held principles. Such as freedom of speech, the right of individuals to make their own choices, the right to intellectual questioning. Giving up on those is giving up the search for common ground.

Peter Millington (C) Copyright Nov 2007

Samizdat in the Information Age.


It already seems an aeon ago. The days of the Soviet Union. When we in the ‘free’ west regularly read of the plight of writers and artists under what we were assured was an oppressive regime. Writing in secret, smuggling manuscripts, illicitly copying and passing on of work, all of which if you were caught in possession of, could result in some harsh penalties. Samizdat it was called, a play on Russian for self-publishing and the names official Soviet publishing houses had such as Politizdat or Detizdat.

I mention Samizdat because recently I read a blogpost that was about blogging and the internet. It would seem that moves are afoot in Italy to enact legislation regarding the freedom of speech in cyberspace. The Levi-Prodi law wants to ensure that ‘anyone with a blog or a website has to register it with the ROC, a register of the Communications Authority, produce certificates, pay a tax, even if they provide information without any intention to make money’. This according to Italian anti-government campaigner Beppe Grillo.

No doubt some see in this a sinister move to halt free speech and the free exchange of information. And you have to say they would probably be right. There must be many in the establishments of Europe and the Unites States who are deeply uneasy about the way in which opinions and information can move across the web without them or any of their client departments having much control. But I suspect, moves such as the Levi-Prodi law are about money as much as repression. We live in a part of the world where market values are, in effect, the prevailing ideology. (though I use the term ideology loosely because I don’t think many of the poltical brains of our time have probably ever done much serious thinking – plenty of justification - but little serious thinking). I suspect what irks some of these people is that in their view there is a huge ‘market’ there yet to be tapped. For in the case of the above legislative proposal it is not hard to imagine that registration will not be free, certification will need to be paid for and of course both these will be topped off with a tax.

The connection with Samizdat is of course ideology. The Soviet state sought control over its writers and artists because it feared they might ‘contaminate’ Communist ideology. Of course, often times, it was just simple brutality and spite. However the ideological aspect was the justification. In our society of market forces and market values many writers and artists already work using a form of Samizdat. The blogosphere, (I know it is and awful term), and the Internet in general, provide a means of sharing work and getting response. For in order to be viewed through the mainstream channels of communication one needs now, it seems, more and more to fulfill the requirements of the ideology. That is, your art – your product – must be marketable, must be merchandisable and its success must be able to be determined in units sold and revenue generated.

True, caught in possession of something outside that framework will not result in imprisonment or a stretch in the gulag. But a life in unsuitable or low paying work, without any means of self-expression or confirmation of your creativity can be a sentence of its own.


(If you want to know more about this legislation click here)


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Now 2007

It Takes Two: Kenny Wheeler's Understatement.


The album, It Takes Two, by Kenny Wheeler has been on general issue now for over a year. It was released in June 2006 by CamJazz, the Italian label launched in 2000.

Kenny Wheeler is such an understated and subtle artist that his music is not something the discerning listener jumps carelessly into. His playing has a way of sneaking up on you. Of winding its way into your consciousness so, only after some time, do you become aware of how good it is, how perfectly crafted and performed. Add this to the fact that on this outing he is accompanied by John Abercrombie, a supremely lyrical and perceptive guitarist and it becomes apparent that time has to pass before a judgement can be made.

Having said that this is the first of his albums to leave me a just little disappointed. That is not to say there is some beautiful music here, some fine playing and performances. A slightly unsatisfying recording would be perhaps be the best description. Outside of Kenny’s flugelhorn, there are the contributions of the above mentioned John Abercrombie, John Parricelli – a British guitarist and the Swedish bass player Anders Jormin.

Highlights of the album are My New Hat, a dreamy number that opens with Jormin’s bowed bass striking a distinctly Moorish motif before the two guitars, (electric and acoustic) enter, creating a space over which the flugelhorn floats in its melody. It Takes Two follows - a typical Wheeler piece of music - the horn uncovering hidden harmonic and melodic spaces, then bending into the upper or lower registers in those sudden turns of which he is so capable, while the guitars trade an almost pizzicato style of soloing and accompaniment. But it is on track three, Comba Nr 3, that the combined talents of all four musicians come best together. A beautiful, haunting melody, full of, again, Moorish hints, southern European folkloric motifs and the north American urban landscape. The spacing of the instruments, their timing, their presence and absence at critical points make the track the prefect vehicle for Wheeler’s unique musical sense.

Other high points are Love Theme from Spartacus, just the two guitars with fingers sliding and the occasional sigh or grunt delightfully adding to its immediacy. One of Many, a lovely flowing piece which John Abercrombie augments with his clear, singing guitar lines. And, Fanfare, an overdubbed horn piece that brings to mind the Gil Evans – Miles Davis collaboration of Sketches of Spain. The two improvised pieces, no 1 and no 2, are interesting but strictly just that, improvisations, that tempt but do not completely convince of their necessity.

Despite this the album leaves me a little wanting. It seems at times to float away, to become so understated in intent that you find your mind wandering and not wandering as it should into places the music brings it. Nevertheless, such has been Kenny Wheeler’s credibility over the years that it may be it just requires more listening time. That it needs to sink in a little more before the entirety of its musical ideas, its palette becomes apparent.

However in the overall scheme of things these are minor quibbles. This is still an excellent and commendable work. An essential for those who lean to chamber jazz. For those who prefer the subtly of a Cézanne over the boldness of a Picasso.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Nov 2007

It Takes Two: Kenny Wheeler: CamJazz 2006

Herbie Hancock keeps on Exploring.

Lovers of jazz will need no introduction to Herbie Hancock. Maverick pianist from the days of the Miles Davis quintet, preferred keyboardist of the Davis fusion years and central energy of the seminal funk-jazz crossover album Head Hunters. Herbie Hancock has never been afraid to experiment with forms and genres, to explore the possibilities inherent in different musics. However fans of Joni Mitchell may not be so well acquainted with his work. Though Joni has never been an artist to shy away from incorporating elements of jazz into her folk and rock idiom she has never quite made the step from those idioms to jazz.. All of which makes the new Herbie Hancock recording, River: The Joni Letters an intriguing listen.

For this album Herbie Hancock has assembled an eclectic mix of musicians. Saxophonist Wayne Shorter, his fellow traveller from the fusion years, bassist Dave Holland, drummer Vinnie Colaiuta, and west-African guitarist Lionel Loueke. There are also appearances by a number of leading luminaries, Tina Turner, Corinne Bailey Rae, Luciana Souza, Norah Jones and Leonard Cohen. Mitchell herself guests on a track.

Projects like this can go astray, fall between the contrasting drives of their respective genres. Yet it is to Hancock’s credit that this album delivers. It manages an adroit balance between accessibly and improvisation without sacrificing musical integrity. It plays with Hancock’s jazzier instincts and the limitations of the rock and folk idiom. It elaborates on the subtlety of Joni Mitchell’s melodies and provides a sophisticated setting for her often quite excellent lyrics. It manages to be neither a Joni Mitchell album nor a Herbie Hancock album. Instead it occupies a space somewhere between the two.

That is not to say it is without flaws. The title track, The River, comes over a little too sweet. Punching under its weight. Corrine Bailey Rae’s vocals sound to my ears somewhat girlish, smothering the ironical longing of the lyrics; Also, Norah Jones’s vocals on the opening track, Court and the Spark, appear at times to get lost, to sink below the music. And the final track, one of two bonus tracks, A Case of You, while infectious and cross referencing Afro-Pop, folk and R&B could be considered superfluous.

Stand-out tracks are Nefertiti, (a classic Wayne Shorter piece), Luciana Souza’s reading of Amelia, (melancholy, rich and warm all at once), All I Want, (performed as a true jazz-spiritual), Edith and the Kingpin, (Tina Turner on a song that lets her voice show its range and capabilities), and Joni Mitchell herself on The Tea-Leaf Prophecy. Special mention should be made of Leonard Cohen’s reading the of The Jungle Line. I approached this with trepidation having read that Cohen did not sing but recite the lyrics. However, despite his gravely, melancholy delivery, this track works very well. Just voice and piano, the piano returning again and again to the lower registers in an almost delta blues manner, and the voice, as would befit a man who is a published poet, ringing the nuances and levels of meaning from of the words.

This is not a jazz album in the purist sense. Neither is it a rock or folk album. What it is, is an album of contemporary adult music. Performed skilfully, with elegance and in a spirit of exploration. Those who criticise Herbie Hancock’s flirtations with popular music should consider that in many ways he is being true to the roots of jazz. A music that, (before it entered the universities and museums) was a popular music and never denied its relationship with popular forms of self-expression.

This is an interesting and successful recording. It begs the question what further such projects could produce. A collaboration with Tina Turner, Luciana Souza or even Leonard Cohen?

River: The Joni Letters, is well worth having. A enjoyable addition to any collection for those who love music.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007


Herbie Hancock. River:The Joni Letters

Wags get Fifteen More Minutes of Fame.


According to the UK’s LSC, (The Learning and Skills Council), Wags, that is the ‘wives and girlfriends’ of famous sports stars, particularly soccer stars, are good roles models for teenage girls. The LSC claim that the Wag image of a vacuous cloth horse and party loving mini-celebrity is inaccurate. Apparently many of these ladies actually hold a number of GCSEs. Now GCSEs are the State examinations taken by most pupils around the ages of 15 and 16 in England, Wales and Northern Ireland. (Scotland has a separate system). The implication being that these bright young ladies having done their school-work are now, in adulthood, mature, responsible young women and would not be seen dead near a Prada dress, or, God-forbid posing before a bevy of rapacious photographers.

I do not want to get into a discussion about the merits or de-merits of wags and their footballing husbands. I, like many men, will happily set everything aside to watch a football match. I also dislike some of the class innuendo involved in criticism of sports stars and their entourages. But I have to say, I feel the LSC give the game away when they believe they have to resort to statements like this in order to try and motivate teenage girls to take study and consequently their lives seriously. Despite their GCSEs, the wags’ only validity as a motivator is that they focus some teenage girls escapist fantasies of glamour, fashion and easy wealth. If the wags were never seen in those D&G dresses, never appeared in the pages of glossy magazines showing off their dream homes, were never caught in the glare of flash leaving an exclusive nightclub with the famous boyfriend, it is unlikely we would know anything of them. They have little to do with Tracy from Billericay who has 4 GSCEs and is hoping to find a job in retail. About how her and her boyfriend are saving for a house. Or how hard it is.

Surely the LSC’s brief is to encourage and provide further education and training for young people. To convince them of the validity of learning and to take responsibility for their lives. It is not to reinforce our culture’s obsession with celebrity.

In their statement the LSC do caution, that Victoria Beckham, the ultimate wag, and possibly one of the most overrated celebrities of our era, left school with only a handful of GCSEs and was lucky to succeed. They add, and I quote, ‘the odds of following in her footsteps are incredibly thin’. (Yes they do say thin. Not, I would have thought, an adjective to use lightly in relation to the former Posh Spice). They then continue to list a number of other wags who have qualifications, including one with a degree in business and one studying law. Fair enough. Good luck to them.

But why should the LSC need to make such a statement? Are they not equating success and celebrity? Are they not holding up glamour and a nigh unattainable lifestyle for most as an enticement to study. Or is that the problem? That they themselves believe learning is seen by teenage girls as dull and pointless; something that involves unwanted application and perseverance. Teenage girls will only do it if there is the promise of a nice dress at the end. Or a celebrity catch boyfriend?. None of which is borne out by statistics that show in nearly all subject girls outperform boys in secondary education. And when given the opportunity for third level education, excel.

It is sad when a non-departmental public body, answerable to the Department for Innovation, Universities and Skills has to resort to such tactics. Note that title – Department for INNOVATION, Universities and Skills. If they have to hold up such a small and really superfluous section of our society as role models for teenage girls some might say it is time to revisit the merits of male chauvinism. Though others might answer, and answer wisely, surely this idea was a man’s


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007

The UK's Tabloid Press Play a Sly Game

Where to start in the case that has gripped the British public for near to the last six months? How do we wade through the mire of speculation, spin and sometimes pure nonsense being bandied about? Should we go out on a limb and mention insinuations of high level if not political interference in a criminal investigation? Could the parents be guilty of involvement in their daughter’s disappearance? Will the missing child ever be found? and if so, will she be alive?

The McCann case still dominates the headlines of the UK’s tabloid press. It makes appearances in the broadsheets, albeit the predominantly Tory publications; the Daily Telegraph and the Times. Sky News has a special web-page devoted to the story. And countless forum members and amateur web sleuths daily post their opinions on each and every development.

So lets state the facts we are sure of before we continue. On May 03 of this year a British child, Madeleine McCann, daughter of Gerry and Kate McCann was reported missing from the family’s hired holiday villa in Praia de Luz, the Algarve, Portugal. The British media reported it as an abduction. On May 15 Robert Murat, an ex-pat Anglo-Portuguese was declared a formal suspect (an aguido) by Polícia Judiciária officers investigating the case. On September 07 and 08 both parents were also declared formal suspects after hours, (in the case of Mrs McCann 20 plus hours) questioning. On September 09 the parents and their two other children, returned to their family home in Rothley, Leicestershire. As far as I can ascertain these are the bare bones of the affair. There are other secondary facts, such as the Find Madeleine Fund, Leaving No Stone Unturned (a fund/web-site set up to facilitate people who wished to contribute financially in helping search for the missing child). The parents high-profile visit to the Vatican where they met the Pope on his Sunday walk-about before St Peters. (This was not an audience as has been reported – audiences with the Pope are reserved only for Heads of State etc). The help of the UK’s FSS, (Forensic Science Service) in gathering and analysing forensic evidence. Liaison by Leicestershire police. A number of highly public sightings, all of which led to nothing. And the fact that the child is, of course, still missing. (though that perhaps should be the main primary fact in this case)

For the British public this story has been confounded by two particular aspects. One, the fact that the Polícia Judiciária are not permitted under Article 68 of Portuguese Penal Code to comment on an investigation while it is still taking place. Therefore there is in fact very little known, or very little that can or has been substantiated. This, added to general ignorance about the judicial processes and legal systems of other EU states has fuelled a sense for many that the investigation is haphazard and shrouded in secrecy, if not downright dissimulation. Secondly, in the initial stages of the story the media, particularly the tabloid press, were used and happy to be used in an effort to publicise the child’s face in the hope she could be found. All of which no doubt boosted sales and permitted at least some journalists to bask in the warm glow of ‘doing good’ in the dangerous and sensationalist world many of them seem to inhabit.

Now subsequent to the parents being made Formal Suspects you can speculate on whether they are involved in their child’s disappearance or not. If we are to believe what has been leaked to the press, (from both the police and the family), the investigation as of the moment is focused on the theory that Mrs McCann somehow was responsible for the accidental death of her daughter and that her and her husband conspired to cover this up with claims of an abduction. We have been assured that the Polícia Judiciária (PJ) have DNA evidence that places the body of the child in the boot of a Renault Scenic hired by the parents 25 days after their daughter’s disappearance. (whether dead or alive, we are not sure) We have been told that ‘cadaver dogs’ trained in tracking the scent of a corpse, detected just that on Mrs McCann’s clothing and a bible she was using. The same dogs reacted positively to the car’s door handle and followed a trail to a nearby church. All of which has been vehemently dismissed by the parents. Then, refuted, by various spokespeople from the McCann PR machine, now under the stewardship of ex government media-monitoring man, Clarence Mitchell. Despite, of course, the Polícia Judiciária having yet brought charges.

But perhaps the strangest element of this case is the sense of frustration. It is a little like trying to chew on cotton wool. In the absence of hard fact the British tabloids have taken to a daily roller coaster of innuendo and refutation of said innuendo. And they have, frankly, been having their cake and eating it. For instance they have managed to keep the possibility that the parents are involved in their daughter’s disappearance in the headlines without having to actually suggest that. Simply put, they cover themselves by picking up on what the Portuguese press have been reporting 24 hours previous, (the Portuguese press, it has to said are a lot less sympathetic to the parents) , then running it in the context of ‘outrageous slurs’ or ‘new smears’ on Gerry and Kate. This is then usually followed by a refutation from Clarence Mitchell who challenges these ‘smears’ and ‘slurs’, (they are often repeated again in full) with an explanation of ‘his’ own (sometimes ridiculously weak), and a further reiteration of the fact that the parents are 100 percent innocent. Now I have to say, if I was either of the McCanns I would be very unhappy with this. Surely the way to deal with ‘outrageous slurs’ or ‘savage smears’ is to sue for libel if there are grounds to, or failing that, to meet such ‘nonsense’ with dignified silence. Also the very presence of such a prominent PR spokesperson tends to set in motion a sort of professional jockeying for position between editors and the requisite spokesperson.

Editors have to deal with political pressure and PR all the time. They have to be careful who they offend, or who they do not offend, for in a highly commercial market they do not want to find themselves out in the ‘information’ cold. Yet editors also defend their right to control what goes in their publications often with a vehemence. They, most importantly of all, are aware of keeping their proprietors happy, that is making sure circulation figures do not drop.

Witness last Wednesday’s TV interview with Antena 3, a Spanish commercial TV network. Much was made in the following morning’s press of Kate McCann, who has been consistently accused of not showing enough emotion in public, breaking down and crying. Nearly all the tabloids carried images which purported to show Mrs McCann’s tears. Well, I must say, I looked and looked hard. All I saw was evidence of one tear. A small tear at that. No wailing and distraught display of grief there. So I watched the excerpts from the interview, only to be struck by one thing. Indeed I could have been watching a woman who is guilty and trying to cover up something, who was performing a scripted interview and seemed to be undemonstrative at the best. It also could have been a woman who simply is not comfortable before a camera, does not easily show her emotions in public and is under considerable pressure and strain. My point is, depending on where I was coming from it was possible to read what I wanted to see into what was there.
Friday’s press followed this story with reports that in a phone-in 70% of viewers in Spain still thought the couple were guilty. (and one hopes GMTV were not handling the call-lines). Again the see-saw. It was another example of having your cake and eating it. This was ostensibly reported under the guise of ‘parent’s shock’ and a savaging of Spanish TV psychologists who criticised the interview as a performance. However the story was printed. Those who are convinced of the couple’s guilt had their piece of information; their ammunition. (Spokesperson Clarence Mitchell’s response to criticism of Kate’s tears was the ‘public complained of not having tears and when they got them, they criticised them as unreal’. Which to me is as close as he will ever get to admitting he secretly considers himself ring-master in a circus).
Sunday’s papers then carried a story in which John Stalker (former Deputy Chief Constable of Greater Manchester Police) under the headline ‘McCanns are hiding a big secret’ again re-iterated his belief that neither parents could have murdered their child. To which one wants to shout, ‘with no disrespect Mr Stalker, no-one, I repeat no-one has yet accused them of murder. The allegation would appear to be one of ‘covering up accidental death’. But notice the innuendo of murder, secret, refutation, innocence, guilt. There is a little here for everyone.

The McCann case has shown the tabloid press at its cleverest – which to many will mean its most abject. They have juggled all the balls skillfully. No doubt this has kept their sales up. They are playing to all the galleries concerned; those who think the couple are guilty, those who think the couple are beyond reproach and those who are being paid to keep alive the public image of caring parents who are the victims of a dreadful abduction.

Perhaps here I should nail my colours to the flag pole; I would like very much to believe the parents are innocent of any involvement in their daughter’s disappearance but remain unconvinced. Reports of DNA evidence, though yet to be officially verified, do not, for me fall under the description ‘smear’ and ‘slur’. I am however prepared to let the police do their job and if they have a case no doubt they will bring a prosecution. And it would seem some criticism of their competency, certainly in the early stages of the investigation is warranted; though this does not justify the xenophobic and jingoistic tone of some reporting. It would also seem the McCanns have been offered plenty of support in the form of financial aid to meet what could be considerable legal expenses. With the services of one of the UK’s top law firms and president of the Portuguese Bar, Mr. Rogério Alves any fears of them being set-up would seem to be tenuous at the least.

There are no winners in this case. Save the media; particularly the tabloid press. They have kept this story simmering and bubbling for near to six months. All with only a paucity of real news. If this story has a conclusion and whatever happened on the night of May 03 is eventually disclosed or the version we are at present aware of vindicated, then it may just become evident that we have all been victims, the McCanns included, of the now increasingly self-evident fact that news and journalism are now no more than another form of entertainment. Another form of faux-celebrity. In a cut-throat commercial marketplace any form of responsibility, of need to know has been abandoned in favour of short-term monetary gain. We no longer have news but non-news.

While all the time, the whereabouts or fate of three year old child is still unkown.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007

New Age or More Old Age; underpinning Market Values

I do not like to be negative. To put people down who are trying to make sense of life. And in our present society anyone who advocates a balanced and integrated lifestyle has to be lauded. But that said I cannot help but hear that old cynical whisper when confronted with the New Age – Complementary movement. Now many New Agers would, no doubt, attribute this to my bad karma. Past lives of disbelief and scepticism. And fundamentalists of all persuasions would probably say the same voice was the devil whispering in my ear. But there is cynicism and there is healthy scepticism.

If any one figure of the New Age movement gets the cynical whispers going in me it is that of Deepak Chopra. Mr Chopra is a qualified medical doctor – a graduate from no less than the All India Institute of Medical Sciences; a prestigious institution by all accounts. However Mr Chopra does not actually practice medicine. No! he heads up the Chopra Institute for Well-Being. Their mission statement, to paraphrase, focuses on ‘enhancing health and the spirit’. It does this by ‘bringing together the talents of a number of professionals in the conventional, complementary, and alternative medicine fields’ It also offers, ‘health workshops, meditation instruction, hospital program development, and corporate training courses’.

I have nothing personal against Dr Chopra. In fact perhaps he gets the cynical whispers going because I cannot so quickly dismiss him. He does not, for example, wave tarot cards in your face, advocate the properties of certain crystals, or claim to go into a trance from which he drags up vague bits of mumbo-jumbo that could mean anything.

My first encounter with Deepak came through a friend. Might I say a good friend and genuinely well meaning person. ‘You must read this,’ she said. So I suspended my ‘oh yeah’ attitude and took the book she offered and promised to read. The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success: A Pocketbook Guide to Fulfilling Your Dreams (One Hour of Wisdom). It did not take me long. I think I hoped it would take longer. I managed to go through it in a lunch break. In between sandwiches and Moroccan-Spice soup. The result of which was, well, I waited for the wisdom.

It appeared to me, in his book, Deepak mixed a gentle dash of Indian mysticism into a generous soup of libertarianism and good business sense. As far as I could understand he claimed that health and wealth depend very much on our attitudes, our openness to the Universal life-force. If we thought positive thoughts positive things would come to us. If we were open to abundance then abundance would find us. Ill health and poverty were of our own making. Not to say influenced by karma.

Some of this is not new. The concept of a positive attitude and thinking still lingers in many of our cherished values. In fact elements of this belief can be traced through Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations to the Victorian concept of deserved wealth and self-help. It remains today embedded in the dialogue between left and right; at least in Europe. (except of course for the karma bit). But whereas most Victorian capitalists believed that the wretched and poor were wretched and poor because they did not work hard enough, drank too much, fornicated too much, none of them, as far as I can see, had the temerity to suggest that their condition was based on as intangible a concept as karma and past lives. Neither did they suggest anything to do with the Universal Life-Force. God was evoked, but generally as punishment for not trying. The belief in hard work did allow one an attempt at remedying one’s lot. Work harder man! With drink or fornication one could make an effort to desist. Self-discipline young fellow, self-discipline! (I mention males as females generally only officially begin to exist around the beginning of the 20th century). Established religion’s efforts were often aimed at supporting the above. However misguided.
No! I found Dr Chopra’s ideas rather flimsy. A bit too easy. All very well for these who apparently were making a tidy bundle from this ‘philosophy’. Comfortable justification for their success and material abundance?

Let us take the question of health for instance. The idea that good health has nothing to do with access to adequate and quality health care seems to fly in the face of post-enlightenment reason. It also contradicts sound science. Despite notions of karma and past lives antibiotics work on any body to which they are administered. Surgery removes tumours regardless of any alleged shenanigans in a patient’s previous life. Good sanitation and timely inoculation prevent the spread of disease whether karma determines people are deserving or not. Prompt admission to hospital in the case of sudden illness and access to quality care can make the difference between life and death; the difference between grieving loved ones and relived loved ones. Even if you were the biggest rogue in your last life those close to you love you in this one. My point being human intervention and effort make a difference.

What is really worrying is that elements of this type of ‘philosophy’ casually vindicate the driving market values that underpin so many 21st century approaches to social policy making. They tie in neatly with the downsizing of funding for health services, the increasing privatising of health care access and the belief (albeit unexamined) that only those with the wealth and power are deserving of what some consider to be at least one of a person’s inalienable rights; the right to health.
They also justify the increasing gap between those who have and those who have not. They suggest that if you are doing well it has been ordained by some un-interrogatable and unseen power. So you need not worry about how others live. Or what the long-term consequences of a dissatisfied and disenfranchised underclass would be. Or of the values being instilled into your children and grandchildren and what that might mean for the future.
Education is subject to the same pressures. Gone is the idea of a Universal system. Private academies and faith-based institutions are the shout of the day.

Where one can argue coherently that society should not be expected to provide the luxuries of life, the consumer perks etc without asking we make our contribution, that we show some initiative, that we work for them, health and in a wider sense well-being are all our right.

The New Age movement makes much of its belief in or a sense of a Universal Good. Yet it has proved itself skilled at positioning itself as arbiter of that good and then getting others to pay for it. It caters perfectly to those who already have all the basics. Now that you have the two cars, the luxury home, the twice yearly holidays why not add a little spirituality?
The Chopra Institute for Well-Being for example, currently offers ‘The Secret of Enlightenment’, a three day course for a throwaway $4575 – that is if you register early; otherwise it will cost a mere snippet at $4775. Or what about the five day ‘Perfect Health Program’ starting at $2875 and rising to $3475. Though rest assured an Ayurvedic spa treatment and two Ayurvedic lunches are thrown in.

Now it would be very cynical to suggest that in the case of Deepak Chopra, had he practised what he trained for, he would probably be just another doctor wrestling daily with people’s illnesses and misfortunes; that the lure of minor celebrity was just too much to resist. He would certainly have missed out on the poetry recordings with Madonna, Demi Moore, Sinead O’Connor, Angelica Huston plus the chance to author countless ‘mystical style’ books. He would also have passed up the opportunity to make many TV appearances, go into business with Richard Branson and co-write the script of a yet to be seen film entitled Buddha. But that perhaps is his karma.

I do not want to suggest that Dr Chopra is a charlatan, let alone accuse. (though I cannot be so sure about others who fall under the New Age – Complementary banner). But in our age of fascination with celebrity, with wealth, with luxury, in our consumer society of countless facile choices I do not think it is wild to say that the self-delusional, like the poor, are still with us. Dr Chopra and some of his fellow travellers have fallen headlong into a ready-made market. Justifying wealth without responsibility, health without conscience and a spirituality that condones our excesses and assures us we are basically fine as we are. What they prescribe is a little meditation, a workshop or two and some ‘complementary’ products from the shop. All with the patronage of those who can afford to indulge such illusions. And some who have a vested interest in keeping such illusions alive.

Hence the cynical whispers. Hence the past life scepticism. Hence the devil whispering in my ear.

I, for one, still believe, fairness and equality in society are things we must work and strive for. In my way I do believe in karma – that is, cause and effect. The society we get is the society we are prepared to believe in, the society we are prepared to take responsibility for.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007

A Disappointing but Satisfactory End to the Formula One Season.



So it was not to be for Lewis Hamilton. His first Formula One season and a possible championship win disappeared on Sunday with a brief 40 seconds of gear box trouble and perhaps a hint of over zealousness on the first corner. Coming after England’s rugby defeat on the Saturday evening there was a strange sense of familiarity. Just not quite good enough? Falling at the last hurdle? Or not?

No-one can deny Lewis Hamilton has had a fantastic season. His six pole positions and his four race wins have marked him out as a very serious contender for the future. And for anyone who has watched his meteoric rise and exhilarating driving skill surely the question has to be, (to quote a politician), not if but when.

All last weekend, the sports news in the UK simmered with expectation. Perhaps some of us suspected England might come up short against the solid and organised Springboks. Yet we consoled ourselves with the thought that even if Jonny Wilkinson’s kicking could not deliver the Webb-Ellis trophy there would always be Sunday and Interlagos. Lewis was sure to come good. But such is the intensity and smallness of the margin for error in Formula One that the GO and sudden rush for the first corner sent hearts into mouths. Tucked in behind Felipe Massa, Hamilton appeared to have the line. Then came Kimi Raikkonen on the outside with a smart pass only for Lewis to have, seconds later, Rafael Alonso pull a similar move on his inside. Fifth place was all that was needed; he was still in fourth. Yet Lewis decided to fight back. Challenging Alonso’s move he temporarily lost control, was forced wide and back into eighth place. Perhaps a more experienced driver would have sat tight. Calculated the odds. But then that is what we have come to love and expect of Lewis Hamilton. He does not shy from the challenge, from the daring move and he wants to win not just on the averages but with daring and glory. And watching, you could not help but feel that Lewis wanted desperately to satisfy all those countless fans. He wanted to pull the move and finish if not at the top of the field then as far up it as he humanly could. He wanted to vindicate their belief in him.

So we sat tight. He would make the ground up. His drive was far from finished. He still only needed the three places. There was his considerable skill, his willingness to push and the knife edge calculations of stop strategy, fuel loads and tyre changes. It was then disaster struck. Having climbed back to sixth, seven laps after his mistake, hearts jumped again into mouths. The McClaren number two’s MP4-22, so reliable all season, appeared to slow almost to a standstill. For a dreadful 40 or so seconds, it seemed he was going to be out there and then. Stranded on the circuit as competitor after competitor flew past him. You could not help but to think his race was over. You could almost hear the groans from in front of countless TV screens. And yet he kept the car going. Possible gear box problems the race commentators shouted and then reminded us of his recovery from a similar setback last season when driving GP2. He was not yet out. He pushed. He drove hard. Coming from P 18. Cutting through the pack. Pit-stopping on lap 23 for softer tyres, taking Barrichello spectacularly on lap 28, setting a fastest laptime on 58. Yet it was not to be. By lap 64 Hamilton was in seventh place, 17 seconds off Heidfeld in sixth and a full lap off the race leaders.

So it was, that 13 laps later Kimi Raikkonen crossed the line, the race leader and new world champion. Rafael Alonso finished third and Lewis Hamilton seventh. Felipe Massa was second. The Championship positions were Raikkonen, Hamilton and Alonso as one, two and three.

In a season that has seen Formula One marred by the Ferrari – McClaren ‘spying’ scandal it would perhaps have been the dream finish for Lewis Hamilton to have lifted the world championship with a winning drive. On a weekend when England’s rugby 15 was denied by a disciplined and well organised Springboks it would have assuaged many people’s expectations. But then that is perhaps what we are dealing with here; the high expectations. The England rugby team reached the World Cup final by a late and spirited surge in a tournament of which the opening stages had seen them very much placed outside the favourites. That they did so says much of their determination and courage. Lewis Hamilton started the season as a rookie. I think many last March would have thought one grand prix win and a demonstrable ability to hold his own at the top would have been considered a more than satisfactory ending to the season. That he came so close to winning the World Championship says much of his abilities. It says bucketfuls about his potential.

It would be unfair to say he fell at the last hurdle. It would also be unfair to say he ‘bottled it’ when the pressure was on. He is competing at the highest level and against the best of drivers. Winning a world championship is about maturity and experience as well as skill and daring. It requires the cream of engineering skill. It also requires that small but invaluable element of luck. It was not to be for Lewis Hamilton on Sunday. It surely ‘will be’ in seasons to come.

Lewis Hamilton has whetted our appetite. He lost a race yesterday but in no way dented his standing as serious contender. Congratulations are in order for Kimi Raikonen and Ferrari. No-one should take from Kimi’s achievement, especially after stepping into the difficult position vacated by Michael Schumacher. He drove a canny and near perfect race on Sunday.

For fans of British motor sport the season may not have ended perfectly but it has ended well. We should not so much console ourselves on what might have been but remind ourselves on what is surely to come.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007

Lazy Journalism or Poltical Opportunism?

Last Monday’s London Evening Standard (Oct 15) carried a small article on the death of Carmelita Tulloch in Kennington, South London in September 2006 written by Anna Davis. For those of you not acquainted with the case, Mrs Tulloch a 51 year old mother of two was brutally attacked and stabbed to death as she walked to work on September 04 2006. On September 06 a teenager, Ezekiel Maxwell walked into a police station and handed himself over. He was subsequently charged and convicted with the manslaughter of Mrs Tulloch.

The article in the Standard is headlined, ‘Teenage killer’s mental illness caused by drug’.
If you read the article you will find that Ezekiel Maxwell, now 18 years old, had, prior to the killing been diagnosed Paranoid Schizophrenic. Also that before he committed the crime he had stopped taking his medication and smoked large amounts of skunk cannabis. Mr Maxwell’s psychiatrist is on record as saying he believed Maxwell suffered a rapid deterioration in his condition brought on by his use of skunk cannabis. All well and good. Except these facts appear to contradict the headline.

Re-read the headline. Where are we shown any evidence that demonstrates Ezekiel Maxwell was not suffering from Paranoid Schizophrenia prior to his use of skunk cannabis? Or that it was only after using skunk cannabis that Mr Maxwell began to show symptoms of Paranoid Schizophrenia. No! Ezekiel Maxwell was already a sufferer of a serious mental condition, that then, in the opinion of his psychiatrist was exacerbated by his use of an illegal drug. Therefore how can Anna Davis honestly say the use of a drug caused the teenager’s mental illness. I would suggest that Paranoid Schizophrenia, when added to the disorientation of suddenly ceasing to use his prescribed medication and then the effects of skunk cannabis were the lethal mix that caused the tragic death of Mrs Tulloch. The jury in the court case seemed to think so. They returned a verdict of manslaughter of the grounds of diminished responsibility. In other words Ezekiel Maxwell’s mental condition was a prime factor in his defence. Had he bought the skunk cannabis, smoked it, and then carried out his frenzied attack on Mrs Tulloch claiming afterwards he was Paranoid Schizophrenic it is likely any Prosecuting Council would have driven a horse and cart through his defence.

Perhaps it is churlish to argue over words when a woman, (and by all accounts a highly regarded woman in her community) has her life taken from her and a young man faces possibly the rest of his life in a Secure Unit living with the stigma of an horrific crime and prolonged mental illness. But the above article appears of page 10 of the Standard together with two other articles on the effects of skunk cannabis and one at least making passing mention to the government’s review of the drug’s status. I wonder is this not the point.

All the above links cannabis, serious mental illness and ultimately a tragic loss of life into one suggestive weave. Anyone who knows anything about cannabis will tell you the normal stuff put in the average person’s spliff differs greatly from skunk, - a hybrid version of the drug that can vary in its intensity but is generally considered much stronger and certainly contains higher levels of THC (the psychoactive ingredient) than normal cannabis. Linking skunk to commonly used cannabis is perhaps similar to linking illegal high alcohol moonshine to the nice pint or two of lager enjoyed down the local pub. And surely this is the argument for some form of legalising. Instead of reclassifying the drug (presumably back to a B) and so increasing the number of minor arrests for possession and taking up court time would it not be wiser to control what is allowed for use and increase the penalty for anything found to be outside those controls; in other words make cannabis available under controlled circumstances and with the necessary health provisos. This is after all what we do with another drug also in widespread use in our society; namely alcohol.

This is not a new argument. But then again Anna Davis’ headline with its innuendo of drugs, madness, criminality and death does drag us back almost to the 1950s. And before you ask, it is not high up on my list of important liberties as to whether people are allowed use cannabis legally or not. (Though I suspect whether legal or not its widespread use will continue regardless). But I do hope Anna Davis was just having a bad day when she came up with her headline. Because it would be quite disturbing to think that those in power could use journalists to muddy the waters of debate in order to sneak politically convenient legislation onto the statute books.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007

Is this Al Gore's New Campaign Strategy?

Am I the only person to find Al Gore’s winning of a Nobel Prize a little irksome? Sure he has brought the problem of global warming to a wider audience. Sure he has helped raise consciousness of environmental problems and pushed ‘green’ issues onto the agenda of mainstream America. But I cannot help but find it all a little too cosy. A snub to Bush? A feather in his cap for a 2008 presidential campaign?

In last Saturday’s London Independent, (Oct 13) Rupert Cornwell details Al Gore’s political history and comments on the likelihood of him running for the presidency at any time in the future. Mr Cornwell points out that were Gore and Hillary Clinton to compete for the Democrat nomination for 2008 it would possibly have the effect of splitting the party. He also comments that the Clinton psychodrama when added to the Gore ‘mantle of saviour of the planet’ might be just a little too much psychodrama for the American electorate. All of which would be good news for the Republicans.

But my problem with Al Gore is not just with this political past but with what is suggested in Rupert Cornwell’s title, ‘An Oscar. The Nobel Peace Prize. Now, can Al Gore win the presidency?’

Firstly, Mr Cornwell overlooks some ‘awkward facts’ about Al. It was Al who claimed to have invented the Internet. It was Al’s documentary, that last week was found by a British High Court judge to contain ‘nine crucial scientific errors and was a political film rather than an impartial analysis of climate change. It was Al who with a leaden campaign in an election considered his to win, threw it away and let Bush junior at the reins.

Whenever thinking of Al Gore I am reminded of his distant cousin’s description, ‘a genial chump’. Gore Vidal, (the distant cousin), in his book Perpetual War for Perpetual Peace informs us that Al is said to be a fan of the WWJD mantra, (What Would Jesus Do?). Al, when contemplating serious political matters claims to ask himself this simple question – WWJD. Distant cousin Gore comments Al surely would be better asking, ‘what would the founding fathers do?’; a sentiment someone genuinely concerned about their country’s future should concur with.

There is something irksome about the whole ‘save the planet’ movement. It ties in with the WWJD mentality. It comes over with an apocalyptic, self-righteous tone. I do not question the fact that many scientists have grave concerns. But there are others who are not convinced. And the purpose of scientific inquiry is to find the facts. To uncover truth. Historically scientific inquiry has tended to support conclusions based on a variety of factors determining a situation. And no doubt, some time in the future, we will learn that global warming is not a single reason problem. That it is more complex than we thought.

The ‘green’ issue has become a kind of exercise in collective flag waving. It especially suits the burgeoning middle class as it allows them to overlook questions of distribution of wealth, the relationship between poverty and health, poverty and education, poverty and opportunity. The planet is at risk. There is urgency. What we need to do is cut back on this, cut back on that. Our sense of social well-being is counted in the number of energy-saving bulbs we have in our homes.(not cheap). How much organic food we eat. (not that the disadvantaged can afford it). And how often we drive to recycle all those boxes in which our plastic computers, kitchen utensils, labour saving devices come in. (we don’t want to stop being consumers we just want to become greener consumers).

The question we have to ask is, has Mr Gore grasped this salient point and does he, despite his protestations otherwise, still harbour presidential ambitions?

I cannot help but fear that the relevance in Al Gore winning the Nobel Prize may not be the effect it will have on the climate change debate but in the discovery of a new political strategy. First drop out of mainstream politics. Discover a somewhat ‘outside’ concern - preferably with ‘high’ moral tone. Get the media involved for example make a movie, documentary, television special. Win an Oscar or some such award, then a ‘high’ profile but meaningless political prize. Go back to the electorate cleaned of the taint of back-room deals, horse trading, compromise and the need to balance competing interests.

Al Gore, really, has done little to deserve this award. He has helped publicise one argument in an ongoing and complex debate. He has championed a viewpoint without really having to accredit the difficulties of it. If he were to run for the 2008 Democrat nomination and win it and then to win the Presidency on the back of this prize we would be witnessing a form of ‘ambush’ politics. He would have come at the political fray from outside the political fray. He would have renounced politics in order to further his political ambitions. He would be saying the way to be a politician is to pretend not to be a politician at all.



Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007

looking for Answers

Chris Blackhurst, writing in the London Evening Standard, Oct 09, comments on ‘a grotesque farce that will tell us nothing’. Referring to a recent conversation he had with a law lord regarding the Diana and Dodi inquests currently taking place at the Royal Courts of Justice, Mr Blackhurst, the Standard's City Editor, reports that the said law lord complained of the way in which, 'a wealthy man was able to tie a public service up in knots over the deaths of his son and girlfriend’.  He continued, ' the hearing will cost an estimated £10 million of taxpayers money and absorb some of the country's finest legal brains'.

I have to say I am in agreement with the senior judge. If there was a 'conspiracy' to murder the princess. (and it is an if), it is unlikely the perpetrators of such an act left a trail of clues that could easily be uncovered by an official inquest let alone a public inquest brought at the behest of a private individual, whom, it would seem has difficulty dealing with the tragic death of his son and is known for having 'issues' with the British Establishment. Indeed, Mr Fayed, on the opening day of the inquest told the media he hoped the 11 jury members would come to conclude, as he has, that the British Establishment, more especially the Royal Family, (in Mr Fayed's words - a bunch of gangsters) were involved in a conspiracy to murder both his son and the Princess of Wales. (It has to be said the term 'a bunch of gangsters' lends the Royals a glamour or at least edge normally lacking. It conjures up images of the Sopranos. Al Pacino or even Bonny and Clyde. Not your usual take on her Majesty and the extended clan).

This leads me to wonder what world Mr Fayed and his co-conspiracy theorists live in.

I too believe there was a conspiracy to kill the princess. It was a conspiracy of small things. Human errors. A driver whose responses were slowed by an excess of alcohol in his bloodstream, a car traveling at high speed in an enclosed area, chasing paparazzi desperate for photographs and the fact that neither Diana and Dodi were wearing seat belts.

The trouble with conspiracy theories such as Mr Fayed’s is that for their resolution they depend on the most improbable of events. Namely that some sinister group will suddenly step forward, put their hands in the air and say ‘ok it was us - we’re guilty- we did it.’ And if indeed there was a conspiracy to murder the Princess of Wales it is highly unlikely the Royals would be involved. For example who would trust Prince Philip to keep his mouth shut? This is a man who has the unfortunate habit of blurting out the very thing that should not be said in the very place where it should never be heard. Conspiracy theories depend on their not being able to be ‘proved’. That way they run and run and generate income for down-at-luck authors.

The law lord is correct. This inquest is a waste of taxpayer's money. It is very unlikely to find anything new that is relevant. It will certainly not vindicate Mr Fayed's beliefs or those of others who want to see in a tragic car accident evidence of sinister Intelligence Service plots or conspiracies involving the Royal Family. It will only muddy the waters and tie up the media in countless wasted hours of speculation and the public in voyeurism. Hours that could be better spent examining the continuing decline in standards of our once model health service, the state of our education or the increasing gap between 'those who have' and 'those who have not' in New Labour's new United Kingdom.

Copyright (C) Peter Millington October 11

compacted.

It was the time we lived in a small 3rd floor apartment about a kilometre from the rail station. We were close to the centre of the city though out along the waterfront near where the harbours were. Sometimes in the night I would wake and hear a train hissing and rattling over the bridge that crossed the canal and in a curious way it reminded me of running water, sounded more like running water than the water that ran under the criss-cross of steel girders, under the bridge that took the tracks southward out of the city. There were times I would think that sound was like water emptying from a sink, the way it swirls and murmurs and runs down into the nothingness of the drain. A drain that looks only like a black hole but about which there is something sad because in lots of other apartments there are the same drains and people not even noticing them. Just pulling the plug and letting the water empty away and maybe shouting at each other as they do.

In the darkness of the morning and because I was sleepy everything was soft and there was only this sound and then the sound of my wife sleeping beside me, her breathing and sometimes the sound of our son turning in the cot from his bedroom.

I remember this time and that it was very cold. The cold starting about the middle of December and going on well into March. Even before it got cold I knew it was going to be cold. One Sunday we were walking along a street and over the dark grey pavement the lights from a cinema shone and glowed against a needle-sharp sky. In that sky, blue like the blue of oceans from space, the clouds were thin and drawn out. I was wearing a purple sweatshirt, a black denim jacket and my wife had on an olive suede jacket. On my shoulders, I carried my son. He was wrapped in a down-coat with the hood pulled down over his face and a yellow scarf around his neck. As we came around the corner onto an open square the darkness was building in the east, the blue turned to indigo. Then it was sharp and cut through us. The wind kicked up dust and bits of paper, kicked up the leaves of autumn, too dry and withered to lie heavy in piles. My wife said she wished she was home with something hot to drink and the light turned down low in the room so that everything would be close and warm. We hurried across the square and along the street under the first part of the bridge that crossed the canal and then onto the canal itself before we were home and climbing the stairs to our apartment. After that it got colder and soon the canal was freezing every night and in the morning there would just be the silence and the ice.

At that time I got up early. I had a morning shift. In fact I did not like getting up so early but neither did my manager so he took advantage of the fact I was a father and sometimes had to pick my son up from school in the afternoons.

I would walk as quietly as I could around the apartment, trying not to make too much noise, only switching on the lights I needed. Generally I spent a couple of minutes in the kitchen, blinking my eyes open, looking down onto the street. The bridge that took the road over the canal would be quiet apart from a solitary motorcyclist or early morning taxi. In the office where the harbour-service worked there would be light escaping from under the blinds and the railings on the steps up to the door would shine and the red and white of the barrier they raised to stop traffic when the bridge was open would also shine and be standing tall and stretched into a sky broken with stars. Sometimes I would think about the men and women sitting there watching out for boats or barges coming in from the harbours. They would be sleepy after working all night and on the table in front of them would be half drunk cups of black coffee and newspapers and they would lean back, their feet on the desk, their shirt sleeves rolled up because the heating was on full. The water in the canal would be white and a little less white through the centre where the patrol boats broke it open every morning so that when it froze again at night it was thinner and did not have that opacity that the thicker ice at the edges had. It would freeze in strange vein-like patterns.

Before I stepped under the shower, I often looked in the mirror over the wash basin into my face and examined it, wondering if it really was my face and realising in fact it was though it was not how people saw it. It was only how I saw it because it was reversed in the mirror. I wondered if it really looked all that different to other people but concluded it must because where one ear always stuck out for me it stuck out the opposite for everyone else. Then I got under the shower, letting the hot water wake me, feeling it run down over my eyes and my face and glad it was hot because it was so early and I knew that outside, that below on the street the temperature was well below zero. I dressed quickly and drank a glass of orange juice. Then I put on a ski jacket I had, fleeced-lined and with a high collar. It was old but I liked it anyhow. My fingers pulled the zip up sharp and I wrapped a scarf around my neck making sure it covered as much of my ears as possible. Then I put on a woolen hat, doubling it over my forehead so that most of my head was covered.

The light in the hallway flicked out quietly and often I stood in the doorway and sensed the quite in the apartment, felt the warmth and thought of my wife and my son sleeping there and wished I could go back. Always I closed the door quietly but firmly and went down the stairs, out onto the street holding my gloves in one hand so I could get the lock on my bicycle open. If it looked really icy I would have to think about walking. That added time and meant I would be late and have to work a little faster and maybe not have time for coffee. Only if I thought it was really dangerous did I do this. Mostly I took the bicycle and cycled down the canal and then around the corner before crossing the square and heading for work. As I cycled I would only be thinking of the coffee machine and setting some coffee on when I got in. If I was early I liked to roll the shutters up and look out onto the street, smoking a cigarette and watching the city come alive.
Around was the darkness of the street and sometimes the smell of bread baking from a bakery. If I was late, I would hear the first trams, hear the rattle and the screech of their metal wheels against the rails. The trees on the squares and along the water were black and shadowed. Occasionally I saw an airplane coming in over the city, heading for the airport, its lights all on, its movement seeming slow, looking in a way like a ship about to reach port. Sometimes I thought of it full of people, people who had no idea I was on my way to work, of all the individual days about to begin below them, their thoughts just fixed on their comfort as the cabin crew readied them for landing. All journeys are like sea voyages even if through air and not over water. It is as if the air is in fact an invisible sea. We make our journeys in some part with deference to those who made the first voyages of discovery. Only in reverse and with one part of us fixed on the simple idea of mobility. We make a journey without a goal. We do it because it is what other people do and motion makes the circle of our lives a little less tight.

As my gloves gripped the handle bars and the bicycle rose over a bridge, the cold would whip against me and my body would tense and with some irony I would wish to be at work.

It was the time we were living in that 3rd floor apartment. I can still see it, the odd way it stood on the corner, the area in front of it where there were bushes and where all the bicycles were parked in a bicycle lock. And the café beside it with its plastic tables. Its overweight owner, his hard face relieved with a large nicotine-stained moustache. A man, it was rumoured who had spent time in prison for running girls on a boat somewhere in the north part of the city.
There are times when I still smell it all. The entrance to the building when in autumn the dry scent of linden leaves blown in at the foot of the stairs whispered of change and death. Or in summer when heat brought the smell of yeast up from the containers of beer in the cellar, making me think of short nights and music and the canals silky at dawn. Then spring with the wind a certain way and rain just passed, the sea drifting over with the oily smell of the ships from the harbours, reminding me of the return of life.
It was that winter I came out of work one day and it was snowing. It was snowing so heavy that the city seemed buried and though the trams were moving, they moved silently. I walked all the way to my son’s kindergarten wheeling my bicycle beside me, my feet and ankles crunching into the soft layers of snow and getting wet. When I got there the door to the playroom was open and most of the other children gone. The room was bright as if there was a light shining somewhere within it and I heard the muffled laugh of a teacher from somewhere and could smell freshly made coffee and opened oranges.
Out on the street, my son walked alongside me, looking with wonder around him. When we got to the apartment, it was nearly dark though it was only about three in the afternoon. I did not turn on the light but instead the TV. There were cartoons and then reports about how it was with the railways, or the city, or about the state of the traffic out on the motorways. The sky was steely-grey and the snow just kept coming down. Outside the world seemed to be coming to a standstill. The world was getting smaller and now was just a speck, a flake drifting through a distant universe. I sat on the couch and did not take my coat off, just opened it and unwrapped my scarf then got a glass of water and drank it slowly. In the living room it was quiet with only the sound of the TV and my son running around. He went to the window and looked out, his small body standing against the low sill, his face pale in the white light coming through the glass. And I wondered where my wife was and thought she was probably in a department store buying some clothes, some new woolen stockings or a hat or maybe drinking coffee with a friend. With the snow falling, the quiteness, the long weeks of coldness, the voice of the TV and then the thought of all those cars on the motorways, their lights yellow and in long lines, I suddenly felt lonely. The way I sometimes felt when I was a child and lying in my bed on a winter’s night with the moon coming through the space where the curtains had not been fully pulled. I felt a loneliness it is difficult to describe. As if it had always been like that and snowing and there had always been the station and the apartment and the ski jacket I was wearing. There had always been this snow and those winter nights. Here was a world enveloped in quietness and I could hear my heart beating, hear my breathing, in it. A dreaminess that was tender and like falling into a bed of deep cotton. Before my eyes there were frozen lakes and white plains and coniferous trees and also a spring day when I was running though a forest. Then, between each fall, each flake coming down was my wife and us sleeping in our bed, the duvet pulled around us, the paleness of her skin and her brown eyes. An early morning and our son coming in, waking us up, his blond hair shining in the first light, his face curious. And the snow fell and fell and I wondered why I did it. Why anyone did it. Continued. Why there were these moments when it seemed I touched some deep sense of aloneness. When the only thing was a naked fire, a spark somewhere way within that kept me going. Out there on the motorways were all those people in their cars now slowed down, their normal speed and mobility suddenly compacted into visible lines. Perhaps the radio was on, or they were sleepy and they were alone behind their wheels. Maybe they were thinking of partners, loved ones or the straight edges of their buildings, the parking lot or grassway in front of those buildings and how it looked each morning. Going through their minds was something small and maybe not obviously significant. A picture that needed fixing, a new hairstyle or the fact that a footstep, a voice calling out ‘I’m home’ was all that was needed. In front of them was only the length of motorway, the motorway signs and the cities on the horizon. And here I was in this room thinking of plains and forests, of bedrooms and the moon. Here I was thinking of my wife and of the warmth of those secret places only a couple know, of the look in a child’s face when it woke in the morning. I was here with this loneliness I could not explain.

The room was quiet. It was white, bleached out and the images from the TV flickered and moved over the wall. Outside the snow fell. It fell on the ice on the canal, on the pavement, on the bridge, on the handlebars of my bicycle. It fell all over the city. I stood and walked to where my son was standing. He looked out, his eyes following the flakes, his face intent and concentrated.

Then I put my hand gently on his head.



Copyright © Peter Millington.