Fat Man Can’t Musical
Since Willow can't/won't sleep without some level of constant background noise, we've had to press the tinny bedroom wireless into 24/7 service. Inoffensive station of choice is currently Lyric FM – home to a reasonably eclectic mix of "World Music", some interesting avant-gardey twiddling, and (mainly) "Wasn't that simply lovely?!" classical standards. As musical wallpaper, it's hard to beat.
Every so often, however, the station's relentlessly cuddly signal gets interrupted by some nasty and unwanted noise. This can be rather upsetting. Like finding a lump of desiccated cat faeces in a lovely mug of steaming cocoa.
Chief architects of such unpleasatness are those boom-voiced tenors who rape, murder and disembowel popular songs. Big operatic fatsos who unfeelingly bulldoze their way through (say) "Some Enchanted Evening", or (say again) "Strangers in the Night" (etc).
The baleful nadir of this phenomenon was reached in 1994 – with the "Three Tenors (and a baby)" concert that marked the World Cup final in the US. As Pavarotti and his partners in crime shat all over songs made famous by the precise/perfectly-judged phrasings and deliveries of Tony Bennett, Sinatra, Dean Martin et al, the camera would cut to a teary-eyed Gene Kelly (or whoever) in the crowd.
"Uuuuhhhhrrrmmm Seeeennngginnn uuurrhhnn thuuuhhh rrrrrrrrraaaiinnnn"
No wonder he was fucking crying.
Not only did this larynx-wanking, operatic Blitzkrieg lay waste to every gem put before it, but it did so with a grotesquely patronising smirk on its face. Here were the tradtional guardians and practitioners of Old World culture giving their kingly blessings to the youthful populism of the New. High sanctioning Low. Princes smiling benevolently on paupers.
Another puke bucket for monsieur? Yes please. And one for everyone in the audience.
P.S: Yes, I know I'm supposed to be taking an extended break – but I've found myself getting good at (and fond of) these hit and run posts. For more of that type of thing, see here.
February 23, 2009
14 responses to Fat Man Can’t Musical
That World Cup concert was just dreadful, for exactly the reasons you point out. The enforced jollity is excruciating. “What fun to sing such amusing trifles”, it says, a smug chuckle given musical form.
Where this leaves the Il Divo phenom is anyone’s guess. Classically trained or not, they are decidedly down-market, all the tawdrier for the pretence of high-culture sophistication. Even the trashiest of pop looks good in their piss-elegant company.
Living in no-tv land means I’m only barely aware of who Il Divo actually are. Some Simon Cowell-ed classical boy band right? If so, file them next to mini-skirted, fiddling stunners and the Brat-packed Robbie Williams. Boil in the bag versions of the “real thing” for people who don’t really like music (and have the Corrs & Nickleback CDs to prove it).
Note: That’s not intended to sound like muso snobbism. I love “crass” stuff like Mario Lanza and Liberace (honestly). Each case on its merits and all that.
Absolutely correct on Il Divo. But unlike Mario Lanza, for whom I too have a fondness (yer on yer own on Liberace though)this is not classical for the masses so much as the worst elements of mass-produced mum-friendly pop given an operatic makeover. God help us, some people probably think its a bit posh.
While we’re (sort of) on the subject – I have tormented memories of seeing Leslie Garrett’s show on more than one occasion. Her twee (but “sexy”) pop-classical shtick threw up many horrors. Chief among them was her raunching it up to Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the Opera with (aarrgh) Michael Ball. Who was *sob* wearing tight PVC trousers. It was worthy of Abu Ghraib’s most devious torture-mongers.
As for Liberace, if you listen to the records (as opposed to looking at the bespangled video clips) it’s pretty enjoyable stuff. I have one or two on vinyl and they’re top drawer easy listening.
Oh and to return to Pavarotti – I always wanted to stuff his hanky down his gob when he’d do that wanky, showy, extended warble on the “Soh-0h-oh” bit of “O Sole Mio”. Mariah Carey-esque in its gratuitousness.
You could try just white noise, that works well too. They even sell white noise machines in America.
White noise machines? That’s just asking for the voices of the dead to wake you up with their growly whispering.
I wonder if James Last has been “rediscovered” by trendy musical ironists yet? He’s surely due a revival.
God help us, no (exclaimed in classically crap Pavarotti vocal style: “Nuuuuuuuuuu!!!”)
White noise machines? I want one!
I’ve never been in a charity shop that didn’t have a) at least one James Last LP, and, b) at least one Jeffrey Archer novel. Despite this I still love charity shops.
And charity shops always have things that will patently never sell, like piles of free Sunday Times CDs.
I once bought a copy of Battlefield Earth (God help me) in a charity shop (for a €1). I went in the following week and they had another copy! I was going to buy that too, but I was worried that I’d set a precedent, and I’d end up homeless, only with a shelter made of the hundreds of copies of Battlefield Earth that I’d been unable to stop buying…
Did it not occur to you that these Battlefield Earths might have been placed there by followers of Old Father Hubbard? As soon as a copy was sold (to demented types like yourself) a replacement would be sneaked in to await the next victim. Like Gideon Bible placing policy but cleverer. After all, you’re more likely to read something if you paid for it. Sucker.
My other favourite charity shop staples are those touristy knick-knacks brought back from the Algarve (or wherever). You’re not just buying a nasty piece of tat, you’re buying someone else’s memories and experiences too. Not bad for 50 cent.
Those Scientologists! Is nothing safe, not even the local charity shop? Come to think of it, they do have a lot of Tom Cruise films…
(Although if they’re trying to convert people with Battlefield Earth, they have an uphill struggle ahead of them. I recommended it to my father, a bad-movie fan; I think I’m out of the family now…)
Just in relation to your original topic: isn’t it such a statement on the soporific dreariness of Lyric FM that its slogan could be: “We’re so bland, we won’t even wake your baby.” (Every time I turn it on, they’re either playing the theme from Harry Potter or some piece of classical music whose criteria for inclusion is that it’s been used in an advert.)
Har! It surely is. But in terms of soporific dreariness Lyric is but an amateur when compared to Classic Fm. A station that pushes itself (through interminable “Relllaaax, with Classic Fm” self-promotion) as the musical equivalent of a lovely Radox bath. Ovaltine for the ears.