We went on to Moscow and stayed at the Metropol Hotel. Dr O reasserted his identity. Again, in the Russian Historical Museum, he saw objects he had never dreamed of. We went to a reception to meet seventy Soviet scholars and had to stand in line having our hands crushed. Our host, the top archaeologist of the Soviet Union and my friend from Sofia, was there to greet us. By the window, G.O. and I saw a pair of very cheerful figures looking at us with amusement. I said, ‘One is an Armenian, the other a Georgian.’ When our fingers stopped being crushed, we went over to these two gentlemen. I was right about the Armenian. The other, with a huge black moustache, was a Greek from Central Asia. I asked what they were laughing about. They said they had just been paid for their doctoral thesis and were deciding if they had enough money to go to the Moscow food market and buy a whole sheep for a barbecue.
G.O. passed the test of being a great Greek scholar. On our last evening in Moscow we were invited by the top archaeologist himself to an Uzbeg banquet. The only dish was a lamb stuffed with rice, apricots and spices. The whole party became extremely drunk on wine, on champagne and, worst of all, on brandy. I was very drunk myself, but threw every second glass on to the floor. The Soviet academicians went under the table one by one. G.O., the Marxist lady archaeologist and the professor went off to the lavatory and were sick. The top archaeologist, in a steel-grey suit, was drunk and the only survivor except for his sister, who did not drink. She asked me to recite speeches from Shakespeare. I stood up: ‘If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it.
That surfeiting, the appetite may
Sicken and so die.
That strain again.
It had a dying fall.
It came o’er mine ears like the sweet
Smell that breathes upon a bank of violets . . .
The quality of mercy is not changed . . .
I come to wive it wealthily in Padua,
If wealthily then happily in Padua . . .
Once more unto the breach,
Dear friends, once more, or close the
Wall up with our English dead. In
Peace there’s nothing so becomes
A man as modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our
Ears then summon up the action of a tiger.
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the flood.
Disguise fair nature with hard bitten rage . . . ’
The top archaeologist finally went under the table like a grey sea-lion who could stand the open air no longer. It was time to go. The Western party had revived. I was still very drunk.
In Moscow it was the time of white nights. A large Volga limousine taxi appeared to be waiting for us. We drove back to the hotel. I lay down on the bed which was furthest from the bathroom. ‘You were wonderful,’ said your father. ‘You showed them what Englishmen are made of.’
‘Look, I’m going to be sick. Get the woman to bring a basin.’
‘Now I know why England won the war.’
‘Get me a basin, quickly!’
‘Do you think I should send my son to Eton?’
‘Watch out,’ I cried – and a column of vomit fell diagonally across his bed.
‘Look what you’ve done to my Charvet dressing-gown!’
I think this was the end of the Soviet Union for your father. He survived a day in Kiev but his thoughts were on Catherine and your birth. I feel I should record this on paper and offer it to you as a twenty-first birthday present.
1988
KEVIN VOLANS
In the summer of 1986 I completed my book The Songlines under difficult conditions. I had in fact picked up a very rare fungus of the bone-marrow in China. Certain I was going to die, I decided to finish the text and put myself into the hands of doctors. My work would then be done.
The last third of the manuscript was a commonplace book of quotations and vignettes intended to back up the main line of argument. I put this into shape on sweltering summer days, wrapped in shawls, shivering with cold in front of the kitchen stove. It was a race for time.
The Songlines starts with an investigation into the labyrinth of invisible pathways which Australian Aboriginals call the ‘Footprints of the Ancestors’ or ‘The Way of the Law’. Europeans know them as ‘Songlines’ or ‘Dreaming Tracks’.
Aboriginals believe that the totemic ancestor of each species creates himself from the mud of his primordial waterhole. He takes a step forward and sings his name, which is the opening line of a song. He takes a second step which is a gloss on the first line and completes the linked couplet. He then sets off on a journey across the land, footfall after footfall, singing the world into existence: rocks, escarpments, sand-dunes, gum trees and so on.
I hoped to use this astonishing concept as a springboard from which to explore the innate restlessness of man.
I made a miraculous recovery. The book came out in June 1987. On the day of publication there was a French air controllers’ strike and we had to cross the Channel by hovercraft. We were four hours late. I promised myself not to buy the newspapers and read the reviews. I relented and bought the Independent: I think I am quoting the reviewer correctly by saying he found my work ‘unbearably pretentious’.
We took the slow train from Boulogne to Paris. On the seat behind, two musicians were working on a score. Their instruments were on the rack above their heads. They were Rostropovic and Anne-Sophie Mutter. It was a good omen.
The book did well. When it appeared on top of the bestseller list, I had a crisis of confidence. Had I at last joined the trash artists?
Early on I saw it was useless to lay down the law on a subject so tenuous and decided to write an imaginary dialogue in which both narrator and interlocutor had the liberty to be wrong. This was a difficult concept for English-speaking readers. I had a running battle as to whether the book should be classified as fiction or non-fiction. ‘Fiction,’ I insisted. ‘I made it up.’ A Spanish reviewer had no such difficulty. A libro de viaje was a travel book and a novela de viaje . . . there was Don Quixote.
Understandably, the academics were cautious. But I refused to budge from the basic tenets I aired in the book:
As a South African palaeontologist, Dr Elizabeth Vruba, said to me, ‘Man was born in adversity. Adversity, in this case, is aridity.’ Homo sapiens evolved once and once only, in Southern Africa sometime after the First Northern Glaciation (circa 2,600,000 years ago), when the North Pole formed, the sea level fell, the Mediterranean became a salt lake and the mixed South African forest gave way to open savannah scrub.
Homo sapiens was migratory. He made long seasonal journeys interrupted by a phase of settlement, a ‘lean season’ like Lent.
The males of Homo sapiens were hunters and the women were gatherers of vegetable food and small game. But the function of their journeys was to make friendly contact with neighbours near and far. Men talk their way through the problem of inbreeding. Animals fight to achieve this.
Man is ‘naturally good’ in Rousseau’s sense and the sense of the New Testament. There is no place for evil in evolution.
The fighting impulse in men and women was designed as a protection from wild beasts and other terrors of the primeval bush. In settlement these impulses tend to get thrown out of gear. Compare the story of Cain the settler and Abel the wanderer.
Man is a talking creature, a singing creature. He sings and his song echoes up and down the world. The first language was in song. Music is the highest of the arts.
There is no contradiction between the Theory of Evolution and belief in God and His Son on earth. If Christ were the perfect instinctual specimen – and we have every reason to believe He was – He must be the Son of God. By the same token, the First Man was also Christ.
I had many letters from readers of The Songlines. Occasionally the morning post would throw up some miraculous treasure. A lady from Connecticut sent me a photostat from Anne Cameron’s Daughters of the Copper Woman in which an old Nootka woman describes
how her forebears would navigate their ocean-going canoes.
The Nootka, the Bela Coola, the Haida and the Kwakiutl were technically in the hunting and gathering stage but the sea so teemed with salmon and the forests with game that they settled in large timber houses and had classes of nobles, workers and slaves.
This is the text of the steerswoman:
‘Everything’ we ever knew about the movement of the sea was preserved in the verses of a song. For thousands of years we went where we wanted and came home safe because of the song. On clear nights we had the stars to guide us and in the fog we had the streams and creeks that flow into and become Klin Otto . . . ’
Klin Otto was the salt water current that ran from California to the Aleutian Islands.
‘There was a song for goin’ to China and a song for goin’ to Japan, a song for the big island and a song for the smaller one. All she had to know was the song and she knew where she was. To get back, she just sang the song in reverse . . . ’
One morning last February, during a very bad bout of malaria, the post brought a most intriguing letter from a South African composer I had never heard of: Kevin Volans.
‘I have been meaning to write to you for some time, but the temptation of adding some presumptuous invitation . . . to come with me on a recording trip to Lesotho . . . held me back.’
His titles were wonderful: White Man Sleeps, She Who Sleeps with a Small Blanket, Cover him with Grass, Studies in Zulu History, Kneeling Dance, Leaping Dance, Hunting; Gathering.
I was too feverish to play Volans’s tape at once but finally summoned the strength to put it on the tape deck. It was a dazzling, frosty day and my bedroom, with its white walls and white Venetian blinds, was slatted with sunlight. I was boiling hot. I lay back and could not believe my ears. I was listening to ‘White Man Sleeps’ scored for two harpsichords, viola da gamba and percussion. It was a music I had never heard before or could have imagined. It derived from nothing and no one. It had arrived. It was free and alive. I heard the sounds of thorn-scrub Africa, the insects and the swish of wind through grass. But there was nothing that would have been foreign to Debussy or Ravel.
I called him up in Belfast where he was Composer-in-Residence at Queen’s University. Mine was the first call on his new answering-machine. Within a very few days he was at my bedside. I had a friend for life.
Kevin comes from Pietermaritzburg, the most English city in South Africa, and is thirty-eight years old. His parents owned a dry-cleaning business. When he was ten his mother bought a piano. By the time he was fourteen he was playing Lizst’s Piano Concertos and wanted to be a concert pianist. He was terrorised by the other boys on the school bus, and would walk home in temperatures of 105°, in a black flannel blazer, grey flannel trousers, spit-and-polished shoes and a boater hat. On the way he passed Africans sheltering under the trees, hearing the people’s song, guitar music and work of rhythms.
He went to Johannesburg to study Western music without yet being aware that he loved the sounds of Africa.
He came to Europe in 1973 and studied with Karlheinz Stockhausen, later becoming his teaching assistant. He studied piano with Aloys Kontarsky and music theatre with Mauricio Kagel. He began to realise that what distinguished African music from European (except perhaps for early music like that of Hildegard of Birgen) was its unawareness of proportion. African music is not deliberately asymmetric, it has no precise proportions: patterns are created by addition, not subdivision. In many cases repetition is not perceived. The music ends as abruptly as it begins, like birdsong. No rhythm is arrived at by calculation – Stockhausen calculates everything.
Arriving fresh from a field trip in the mountains of Lesotho, Kevin made straight for a Cologne premiere by the German composer and was struck by the conviction that the language of serialism was dead. Western music was always architectural: he wanted a music in which the roof floated free.
Kevin had two colleagues, Walter Zimmerman, the son of a Nuremberg baker, and Clarence Barlow, who was born in Calcutta.
They decided to return home and investigate the relation of music to its geographical source. This was not shopping around the world of ethnomusicology. Zimmerman produced what he called Lokale Musik, with the implication that the local was the universal: he composed a series of works which would define aspects of his tradition. One of these was an orchestral work in which he mapped features of his native landscape onto the orchestration of some two hundred rustic waltzes (Ländlertopographien).
Clarence Barlow came back from Calcutta with a twentyfour-hour cycle of street-sounds, and an analysis of harmonic and rhythmic consonance and dissonance in Indian music.
Kevin made several recording trips to Southern Africa. He began with street-music and immediately realised it was far more interesting than any ideas about it. Zulu guitar music is not only used as an accompaniment to long walking journeys, but as a means of making friends and working out social tensions: in what appears to be ritualised aggression, Zulu guitar players engage in a musical substitute for stick fighting. The two players will meet and one of them will say, ‘You stab first.’ The songs always include elaborate introductory flourishes and praise-poetry is recited at high speed over the guitar ostinato.
‘Studies in Zulu History’ began as an attempt to record the great Afrikaner festival at the church where King Dingaan killed the Boer leader, Piet Retief, a founder of Pietermaritzburg. On a day known as the Day of the Covenant a Boer massacre of the Zulus is remembered annually.
Kevin saw the faces of the congregation and got cold feet. It was midday, he wandered off into the veld and recorded the prehistoric sounds of insects, the heat rising and an occasional bird. He took the tape back to Europe and spent three years on and off in the Cologne studios making an electronic replica.
‘Cover him with Grass’ is derived from Basotho worksounds in which old men split a log, children shout and women sing as they throw chips of stone while road-building.
‘KwaZulu Summer Landscape’ is an extended composition of natural sounds collected on a return trip.
These tape pieces serve as a curtain raiser to a long series of instrumental works which aim at reconciling African and European aesthetics. Islam tends to introduce new techniques to its converts, Christianity brings new objects. In the predominantly Christian South the musical techniques remain traditional, the instruments imported. Kevin chose to make an inverse assault on European music, bringing new techniques from the South and adapting existing instruments and forms: the harpsichord, the flute, the string quartet. He avoided exotica.
On returning from Africa he was bitterly disappointed to discover he was neither African nor European. Soon he realised that he was free, free to compose whatever he wanted. There is a Sufi saying, ‘Freedom is absence of choice.’ I believe this to be devotional music of the highest order. For me, Kevin is one of the more inventive composers since Stravinsky.
‘The Songlines’, his fourth string quartet, will be given its premiere by Kronos at the Lincoln Center in November.
1988
HOWARD HODGKIN
Howard Hodgkin is an English painter whose brilliantly coloured and basically autobiographical pictures, done both with bravura and with anxiety, fall into none of the accepted categories of modern art.
He decided to become a painter at the age of seven and, by seventeen, had painted the one particular picture that set the seal on his later development. Now approaching fifty, he is a short, greying, big-boned man, often very red in the face, who can look positively seraphic, yet says he is afraid of looking ugly. His mouth can be tight, or sensual. You are captivated by his smile, or frozen by it. When walking down a street, he lets his arms swing loose and gives the impression of butting into a whirlwind. A brush with death, some years ago, has left him calmer, but more likely to swerve off on unexpected tangents. He longs for acclaim, and for oblivion. He is planning to live in beautiful rooms, yet seems far happier to be surrounded by builder’s rubble. I have k
nown him – and quarrelled with him – for twenty years. He is one of my best friends.
He comes from an upper-middle-class family of wellordered minds and well-furnished houses. The Hodgkins are one of those puritanical, public-spirited dynasties that constitute, for Noel Annan, ‘the intellectual aristocracy of England’. Among his eighteenth-century ancestors is the ‘Father of Meteorology’, who coined new names for clouds. A nineteenth-century Hodgkin discovered Hodgkin’s disease (of the spleen and lymphatic glands); a twentieth-century cousin shared the Nobel Prize for Medicine. One Hodgkin was a famous grammarian; another wrote the standard history of the Anglo-Saxons. Among their relatives were the critic Roger Fry and the poet Robert Bridges. Howard’s grandfather, Stanley Hodgkin, owned an engineering works that manufactured a pump called ‘The Pulsometer’. His father was an obsessive collector of alpine plants who found, in his rock garden, a relief from the tedium of his job in Imperial Chemicals.
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