As soon as Dave Gill has left the Vicarage, Douglas hurries back to the record player, drops an LP onto the turntable, lowers the needle, and sighs with relief as the first few bars of Tchaikovsky's Violin concerto emerge from the speakers. He knows he's been 'worked on' in some way and is pleased with the deep, rarified satisfaction that the music gives him, the way it blends with the time-softened furniture, the books from floor to ceiling either side of the chimney breast, the piano in the corner with some Bach spread out on the music rack. This is me, Douglas thinks, but as he drifts off on the waves of sound it is Dave's words that are still washing around in his mind. "Those were my 'dark years', Rev", the phrase comes back to him. This was a period of about 15 years in which Dave was drinking heavily and using heroine. It's a kind of lost period, Dave has explained. Memories a bit of a blur. Marriage breaking up. Selfishness. Not being there for Xag. Now he's 'clean'. Although Douglas has learned that this doesn't include, or rather, exclude, Pot, which after years of heroine abuse, is like a menthol cigarette, apparently.
Douglas picks up his note-book from the occasional table. He'd been writing down some ideas for his sacred play when Dave arrived full of energy, on his own trajectory, irresistable. Douglas scans over his own familiar handwriting, trying to pick up the threads, but the moment of absorption has passed. Dave clearly sees The Dark Years as an essential part of his Spritual Journey, Douglas reflects. Jesus was in the wilderness for 40 days and 40 nights, Dave was in a drug-addled stupor for nigh on fifteen years, which is why he's so obsessed with 'the voice of him that cryeth in the wilderness', "Because that's a bit like how I was, Vic, y'know?" Douglas smiles to himself. In a bizarre way he's almost jealous of Dave's dark vortex of self-annihilation. He had to reach rock bottom, absolutely rock bottom, he said, to come back out again, to choose to live. What Douglas has when he looks back is not so much dark years, as grey years. Suddenly whole decades start to fuse. From his early childhood up to and including his time at University the memories are like Chrystal, full of light and colour and magic, but after that it's just a succession of events. He tries to find some memories that have the same potency of those of his youth - there are a few high points: formal achievements, some nice holidays, the birth of his children, but where is he in all of it? He's as absent as Dave.
He feels an envious satisfaction that Dave's decades of pure unbounded hedonism did eventually lead to despair and confusion, to a splintering of his self, lost somewhere in countless random sexual encounters, in hard drugs and booze, in a strange parallel world of celebrity and excess. Douglas feels this validates his more circumspect approach to life, confirms that it has its own integrity, a core of self-preservation, at least. And it's not as though Douglas hasn't had a rich interior life, motivated by intellectual curiosity. Common sense is out of fashion, he knows that. He smiles and thinks to himself "It's society's crime, not ours." And yet in another way, there are curious parallels. It strikes Douglas that they are both performers. That they have both chosen professions in which one becomes a kind of public property, a 'persona'. Douglas' parishioners can no more fathom the real, complex, human being beneath the cassock, than Dave's fans can see the real man beneath the black leather. He has been fascinated to hear Dave talk about his fans, the care he takes not to disappoint them 'in real life'.
Douglas has also been surprised to learn that Dave is almost a decade older than him, a fact he finds some comfort in. He is not particularly relishing the thought of his fiftieth birthday. Life gets smaller as you get older. With the spaciousness of possibility gone, the boundaries of a single life become all too apparent. So this is the person he is. This is what he came to be when he grew up. He wishes he could go away for a week. Spend his birthday alone in the Scottish Highlands. Do some work on the play. Alison wants to have a family dinner, which will be fine, particularly since Christopher will be back. And then maybe he and Christopher can go for a long walk along the estuary. Father and Son. Listening to the night birds, sharing their reflections on music, and literature, and life. Comfortable with each other the way he and his own father never were.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Sunday, September 02, 2007
41 - Can You Feel It, Reverend?
Douglas thinks it sounds like a frenzied lunatic bashing randomly on a pile of pots and pans, but he smiles politely and furrows his brow in concentration. He glances at Dave who seems to be lost in some sort of rapture, his head wavering from side to side as though he's trying to work it free from his neck. Dave opens his eyes slightly and gazes at him from the other side of the fireplace. "Can you feel it yet, Vic?"
"It's very...free-form." Douglas says.
"Free, yeah, but right from the gut, y'know. Feel that energy, man!"
The frenzied lunatic with a hammer is joined by a fellow with a saxophone, and Douglas is momentarily hopeful that some sort of melody will emerge from the chaos, but the second musician seems as deranged as the first, rasping fitfully like a fly trapped in double glazing.
"Oh dear, David, I'm sorry, but I'm really not sure I can take much more of this."
"But it's The Trane, man!" Dave says incredulously.
"The Train Man?"
"The Trane, John Coltrane."
"Ah."
"You really don't feel it?" Dave clenches his fist in front of his diaphram to indicate where Douglas should be feeling it, then shakes his head sadly from side to side. "One of the finest live performances ever. 1965. Antibes Jazz Festival. You just have to let yourself get carried away by it, man."
"I've never really been the carried-away type." Douglas says. "Too much of a rationalist, I suppose. I should have been born in the 18th century, not the 20th." This is an idea he's expressed before.
"Maybe if you listen to the whole thing" Dave suggests.
"How long is the whole thing?"
"Twenty one and a half minutes."
Douglas' face crumples with the pain. "What I wouldn't do for a bit of Satie right now," he sighs.
"Got the munchies have you, Vic?"
Douglas smiles vaguely. "Hmm?"
"I'm still stuffaroonied from the old roast dinner. Does a top roast, does my Pattie." Dave says, patting his belly.
"I like a good roast myself." Says Douglas, wondering how they got onto the subject.
"Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with fresh horse-radish sauce." Says Dave. "But oh man, listen to this bit," He shakes his head in disbelief, "Ah, my life, that's brutal blowing, like he's just gently ripping the throat out of that horn."
Douglas listens politely for a few more moments, but it's too much. "No, I'm sorry, David. I really need you to turn it off now."
Dave sighs and lifts the needle, then lovingly returns the album to it's white inner sleeve and cover. "Good sound, though." He says appreciatively, nodding at Reverend Carduggan's ancient record player.
"Yes, it's a good one." Douglas says. "Plays classical recordings, beautifully." He gets to his feet, hoping to put on some Brahms and sooth his addled brain fibres, but Dave has other ideas. He returns to his small leather sports bag and selects another disc.
"Just one more, Vic. For me."
"Oh, yes, go on then. But I'm going to have another sherry." Douglas reaches over for the decanter." Can I top you up?"
"We need whisky with this man, a bit of rye!"
"Oh, well, I do have some..."
"Only kidding, Revster!" Dave says, heartily, and claps a hand on Douglas' shoulder. "Now, sit back and listen to this. I guarantee, you'll love it.
"And who is this?"
"Mr John Lee Hooker." Dave says, suddenly acquiring a mid-Atlantic drawl. He lowers the vinyl onto the deck and pulls across the needle. "Untitled...Slow...Blues."
A pleasing hiss emerges from the speakers, followed by a spare, twanging guitar. The sound is raw and grainy but not jarring, and after his recent 'incident on the line' with 'The Trane' something of a blessed relief. A beat starts up, a foot tapping at a leisurely andante. Although Douglas, as he has explained to Dave, only listens to classical music, this is at least a sound he's familiar with. To him it's the sound of America; of cotton fields, and depressions and moon-shine. He doesn't find it objectionable. In fact, he finds the slow, insistent, tapping of Mr Lee-Hooker's foot quite mesmerising.
"Aaaahhh" says Dave, and this time he lets his head drop forward and loll from side to side.
Douglas watches Dave's sharply pointed, black leather shoe keeping time with the beat, and wonders how his parishioner gets his drainpipe trousers on over his feet. They are so incredibly narrow at the hem he must have to practically dislocate his ankles. Dave subconsciously mimes the guitar fingering, and watching him, Douglas can appreciate the intricacy of the music. The little accaciatura ripples, ex tempore, and yet perfectly within the overall tempo, as though the player is just letting his fingers flutter over the stings rather than plucking them. He takes a sip of fino and closes his eyes.
"That's right Vic." Dave says in a low husk. "Let yourself go, baby."
Douglas' eyes pop open. He really should draw the line at 'baby'. But looking at Dave wavering in the music he decides to put it down to his visitor's hyper-relaxed condition. Instead, he settles himself back in his armchair and gazes out through the french-doors at the garden gradually disappearing into the late afternoon shadows. There was a chap at Oxford used to play this sort of music. He'd hear it floating down the stairway at night. It was at University that Douglas had decided he only listened to classical music. His parents used to enjoy hearing how this made him deeply transgressive in the eyes of his rebellious, teenage contemporaries: that and believing in God, of course. And yet it is an odd thing, but listening now to this slow, spare music, it brings back those days more precisely, and completely, and painfully, than any of his classical records, even the ones he listened to most obsessively as a student. He can practically smell the polish on the banisters. Colin, that was his name. Had the most terrific ginger afro.
He and Jonathan used to call him Vesta. After Swan Vesta matches. Not very original, really. One night Vesta had caught them at an inopportune moment. Lots of scrabbling for trousers and trying to look casual. He wanted matches. It wasn't that funny, he supposes now, but at the time they'd practically had a stroke trying to hold in the laughter, then collapsing on the floor in hysterics as soon as they'd closed the door. Douglas smiles to himself. Douglas and Jonathan contra mundum. Ah, the follies of youth. He opens his eyes.
"What's this?" He realises that Dave has put on another record and he's been rather drifting away on it.
"Trane, again."
"Trane? The same Trane...?"
"Yep." Dave grins.
"But it's so much more..."
"Mellow?"
"Now this I really rather like."
"This track is called Invitation."
"Ah."
The room is almost dark now, with just the light from the fire. Douglas puts on the standard lamp behind his chair and sees it reflected in the French doors.
"It's so fluid, yeah." Dave says, and watches the Reverend carefully. "Smooth like honey", he persists, and taps his foot off the beat. "Oh yeah!"
"Yes, yes. I think I do quite like this. It's actually quite complex harmonically."
Douglas leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. Dave carries on tapping and watching. And then it happens. Douglas stops nodding his head up and down and starts to let it move slightly from side to side. Come on, baby, come on, Dave thinks to himself watching the Vicar's head movements intently, and yes, there it goes, just slightly off the beat! Dave is so excited he almost has to stuff his fist in his mouth to stop himself laughin out loud. He's done it, he's got the Vicar swinging. He reckons he's only five shags from Elvis, musically speaking, and after that, it's all down hill. He'll get the Reverend rocking in no time.
"It's very...free-form." Douglas says.
"Free, yeah, but right from the gut, y'know. Feel that energy, man!"
The frenzied lunatic with a hammer is joined by a fellow with a saxophone, and Douglas is momentarily hopeful that some sort of melody will emerge from the chaos, but the second musician seems as deranged as the first, rasping fitfully like a fly trapped in double glazing.
"Oh dear, David, I'm sorry, but I'm really not sure I can take much more of this."
"But it's The Trane, man!" Dave says incredulously.
"The Train Man?"
"The Trane, John Coltrane."
"Ah."
"You really don't feel it?" Dave clenches his fist in front of his diaphram to indicate where Douglas should be feeling it, then shakes his head sadly from side to side. "One of the finest live performances ever. 1965. Antibes Jazz Festival. You just have to let yourself get carried away by it, man."
"I've never really been the carried-away type." Douglas says. "Too much of a rationalist, I suppose. I should have been born in the 18th century, not the 20th." This is an idea he's expressed before.
"Maybe if you listen to the whole thing" Dave suggests.
"How long is the whole thing?"
"Twenty one and a half minutes."
Douglas' face crumples with the pain. "What I wouldn't do for a bit of Satie right now," he sighs.
"Got the munchies have you, Vic?"
Douglas smiles vaguely. "Hmm?"
"I'm still stuffaroonied from the old roast dinner. Does a top roast, does my Pattie." Dave says, patting his belly.
"I like a good roast myself." Says Douglas, wondering how they got onto the subject.
"Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with fresh horse-radish sauce." Says Dave. "But oh man, listen to this bit," He shakes his head in disbelief, "Ah, my life, that's brutal blowing, like he's just gently ripping the throat out of that horn."
Douglas listens politely for a few more moments, but it's too much. "No, I'm sorry, David. I really need you to turn it off now."
Dave sighs and lifts the needle, then lovingly returns the album to it's white inner sleeve and cover. "Good sound, though." He says appreciatively, nodding at Reverend Carduggan's ancient record player.
"Yes, it's a good one." Douglas says. "Plays classical recordings, beautifully." He gets to his feet, hoping to put on some Brahms and sooth his addled brain fibres, but Dave has other ideas. He returns to his small leather sports bag and selects another disc.
"Just one more, Vic. For me."
"Oh, yes, go on then. But I'm going to have another sherry." Douglas reaches over for the decanter." Can I top you up?"
"We need whisky with this man, a bit of rye!"
"Oh, well, I do have some..."
"Only kidding, Revster!" Dave says, heartily, and claps a hand on Douglas' shoulder. "Now, sit back and listen to this. I guarantee, you'll love it.
"And who is this?"
"Mr John Lee Hooker." Dave says, suddenly acquiring a mid-Atlantic drawl. He lowers the vinyl onto the deck and pulls across the needle. "Untitled...Slow...Blues."
A pleasing hiss emerges from the speakers, followed by a spare, twanging guitar. The sound is raw and grainy but not jarring, and after his recent 'incident on the line' with 'The Trane' something of a blessed relief. A beat starts up, a foot tapping at a leisurely andante. Although Douglas, as he has explained to Dave, only listens to classical music, this is at least a sound he's familiar with. To him it's the sound of America; of cotton fields, and depressions and moon-shine. He doesn't find it objectionable. In fact, he finds the slow, insistent, tapping of Mr Lee-Hooker's foot quite mesmerising.
"Aaaahhh" says Dave, and this time he lets his head drop forward and loll from side to side.
Douglas watches Dave's sharply pointed, black leather shoe keeping time with the beat, and wonders how his parishioner gets his drainpipe trousers on over his feet. They are so incredibly narrow at the hem he must have to practically dislocate his ankles. Dave subconsciously mimes the guitar fingering, and watching him, Douglas can appreciate the intricacy of the music. The little accaciatura ripples, ex tempore, and yet perfectly within the overall tempo, as though the player is just letting his fingers flutter over the stings rather than plucking them. He takes a sip of fino and closes his eyes.
"That's right Vic." Dave says in a low husk. "Let yourself go, baby."
Douglas' eyes pop open. He really should draw the line at 'baby'. But looking at Dave wavering in the music he decides to put it down to his visitor's hyper-relaxed condition. Instead, he settles himself back in his armchair and gazes out through the french-doors at the garden gradually disappearing into the late afternoon shadows. There was a chap at Oxford used to play this sort of music. He'd hear it floating down the stairway at night. It was at University that Douglas had decided he only listened to classical music. His parents used to enjoy hearing how this made him deeply transgressive in the eyes of his rebellious, teenage contemporaries: that and believing in God, of course. And yet it is an odd thing, but listening now to this slow, spare music, it brings back those days more precisely, and completely, and painfully, than any of his classical records, even the ones he listened to most obsessively as a student. He can practically smell the polish on the banisters. Colin, that was his name. Had the most terrific ginger afro.
He and Jonathan used to call him Vesta. After Swan Vesta matches. Not very original, really. One night Vesta had caught them at an inopportune moment. Lots of scrabbling for trousers and trying to look casual. He wanted matches. It wasn't that funny, he supposes now, but at the time they'd practically had a stroke trying to hold in the laughter, then collapsing on the floor in hysterics as soon as they'd closed the door. Douglas smiles to himself. Douglas and Jonathan contra mundum. Ah, the follies of youth. He opens his eyes.
"What's this?" He realises that Dave has put on another record and he's been rather drifting away on it.
"Trane, again."
"Trane? The same Trane...?"
"Yep." Dave grins.
"But it's so much more..."
"Mellow?"
"Now this I really rather like."
"This track is called Invitation."
"Ah."
The room is almost dark now, with just the light from the fire. Douglas puts on the standard lamp behind his chair and sees it reflected in the French doors.
"It's so fluid, yeah." Dave says, and watches the Reverend carefully. "Smooth like honey", he persists, and taps his foot off the beat. "Oh yeah!"
"Yes, yes. I think I do quite like this. It's actually quite complex harmonically."
Douglas leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. Dave carries on tapping and watching. And then it happens. Douglas stops nodding his head up and down and starts to let it move slightly from side to side. Come on, baby, come on, Dave thinks to himself watching the Vicar's head movements intently, and yes, there it goes, just slightly off the beat! Dave is so excited he almost has to stuff his fist in his mouth to stop himself laughin out loud. He's done it, he's got the Vicar swinging. He reckons he's only five shags from Elvis, musically speaking, and after that, it's all down hill. He'll get the Reverend rocking in no time.
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