Some Music for the Post-Brexit Blues

I hope you don't think this is terribly crass, but I made a playlist to help me think through the Brexit blues. Well, in truth I starting making this playlist just after the vote, but I added the last four songs this morning, while it's looking like the UK is going to eat itself for breakfast.

(And don't think I wasn't tempted to write Brexfast, because boy oh boy, I was.)

I'm a musician and a music therapist, so I guess it's not surprising that I so often turn to music when the going gets tough. Music can be a nifty way both to make sense of the world around me, and to

give shape to how I'm feeling. Picture and frame. When everything is feeling far too baggy and nebulous, I often like to listen to silver-tongued voices that seem more poten t than my own. They might not know more than me, but they certainly know how to say it in a way that makes me want to listen. And of course music is great when you just want to filter out the noise. 

I put together this playlist just for myself really - to perk myself up, during what feels like the end of the world to this baby of the EU. But then I thought I might as well share the love (that is the name of the game, after all) so I hope it might offer a little of what you need today - whatever that might be.  

So here it is:

This is the section for licking your wounds. Go on - wallow away, my friend. This truly sucks, and it's more than okay to admit it. 

If You Leave Me Now - Chicago

Let's Stay Together - Al Green

Stay With Me - Sam Smith 

Now we get into the baffled indignation department. What the hell is going on?! There just aren't enough curse words in the world. (Although #curseBorisJohnson on Twitter is a great place to go if you're looking to vent.) 

Can't Believe You Wanna Leave - Little Richard

European Son - The Velvet Underground 

Ok, now it's time to start really thinking about what the hell really is going on. The fact is, the UK wasn't any different the day after the vote from how it was the day before. We just didn't know what was up. (And by we, I mean those who voted to stay in the EU, or at least a big wodge of them.) We didn't how people felt. Or if we did, we didn't care, and that's even worse. 

So now we know how people feel, and we don't like it, but I guess that's tough tuchus. Time, then, to do something about it. But what?? We need to start thinking about how to honour the voices that wanted to be heard, at whatever cost it came. Where to begin? (This is not a rhetorical question - I really, really want to know.)

You're Gonna Change (Or I'm Gonna Leave) - Hank Williams

Yes, this is an unbelievably scary time. (Relatively speaking of course - I work in a hospital, primarily in paediatric oncology, and boy does that work works wonders for the old sense of perspective.) I chose this song to force myself just to sit with that scared feeling for a hot minute. 

Bad Moon Rising - Creedence Clearwater Revival 

I chose this beautiful Max Richter piece, not only for it's title, but because I find it equally haunting and hopeful, and that felt like just the ticket. It provides an excellent soundtrack for serious thinking (which is certainly what's needed), but also for just being. Despite my best intentions, I'm not really much of one for meditating, but sitting, breathing, existing.. We will continue to do all of these things, whatever the weather, so I do find it helpful to practice them once in a while.

Europe, After the Rain - Max Richter

Eyes on the Prize - The Emmaus Group Singers

I just love this song. I think it's been a firm member on every 'cheer up' playlist I've ever made. Since before the halcyon days of playlists, even. I first heard it as the closing music for the movie Green Card - the Gérard Depardieu & Andie MacDowell movie about the visa marriage of an unlikely pair... Brontë, a green-living New Yorker, and George, a carnivorous Parisian.. What are they like! (You can probably see where this is going.) I love this film. Maybe it's because I always used to watch it with my Granny, and I'm a big softie, but the message of love transcending borders and bureaucracy... well it just feels more fitting than ever. Plus, Andie MacDowell is a babe, so there's that too.   

Actually this song is almost too fitting: 

Sometimes it’s hard,
Sometimes it’s cold.
Sometimes I’m in,
Sometimes I’m out.

I mean, come ON!

So keep your eyes on the prize,
Don’t be dismayed,
Don’t be dismayed.

Deep in your heart,
You must believe:

Everything is gonna be alright,
Everything is gonna be alright,
Everything is gonna be alright someday!

You know what? Sold. I'm into it.

Come on into the blind optimism cocoon, even if just for the duration of this song. People have gotten through far worse than this. The embers of hope may be infinitesimally small, but they're glowing just enough to stay warm.

Okay, fine - one more cocoon song, but this time with a little extra kick of real talk, or at least some version of it:

Let's Face The Music and Dance - Nat King Cole

And now. Now it's time for the one and only. This is the song I always use when it's time to buck the hell up, and get cracking. No ifs, ands, or buts.

It's I'll Make a Man Out of You, from Mulan, sung by the one and only Donny Osmond. Yeah, you know the one.

Do feel free ignore the gender-agenda of the lyrics (or just remember it in the more appropriate context of the story, I guess) and don't mock me. Or mock away if you must, but know that I don't give two figs. This song is magnificent.

So now it's time to put Donny's wise, wise words into action. Let's get down to business. (Less of the stuff about the Huns. That's context specific.)

If you have something to say, say it to your MP. Do it now. Don't just talk to your friends on social media - they probably already agree with you, at least if my Facebook echo chamber is anything to go by.

That said, I hope we'll all keep talking to our friends about this as well. Maybe I just had bananas in my ears for far too long, but it feels like I'm seeing unprecedented amounts of insight and information being shared amongst my friends, and I love it.

Some sage advice I've seen being bandied about, especially relevant if you're not a member of any political party, or if you're looking to shift your allegiance:

You could join the Labour Party, and vote for the next leader. (Though I must warn you, the number of e-mails they send out is no joke.)

You could join the Liberal Democrats, who have said that they intend to fight in the General Election on a platform of keeping Britain in Europe.

You could join the Conservatives, if you were so inclined, and wanted to have a say in their next leader.

Or you could join the Green Party. They're standing up for the good stuff.

If you're keeping an eye on the horrifying rise in racist incidents and xenophobia, it might be worth checking out Hope not Hate and/or Stand Up to Racism, just as a starting point. I was also heartened by the safety pin idea - a simple way to show solidarity with immigrants and EU citizens.

If you're in the market for a reminder that there are still plenty of brilliant people in the world, specifically in Bristol, then I'd urge you to visit this page, and I dare you not to feel even a little bit more hopeful.

I'm right, right?

And finally, this:

I think this is a truly excellent message, but I'm not sure who to attribute it to, as the name was already nixed when I found it. I'd love to know who it was, because they were bang on.

Now I'm going to go and listen to my songs once more, and then it'll be time to stop licking my wounds and buck the hell up. And by this I mean - if anyone has any ideas on how to do this, please let me know. There's no idea too small.

I'm all ears, and I'm in.

No big deal

Naked Harp Lady knows best / the only way to practice in this weather.

Maestro

I came across this brilliant video on Twitter, when it was shared by the National Symphony Orchestra of Colombia, with the following caption: 

"El más grande director de orquesta de todos los tiempos … Porque no se necesita ser un profesional para dejarse dominar por la música."

"The greatest conductor of all time ... Because you don't need to be a professional to be dominated by the music."*

Isn't that just the truth. 

*Thank you, Duolingo, for teaching me enough Spanish to translate that, and to ask anyone I meet whether or not they like potatoes. 

A Visit From The Loon Squad

A little while ago, on a particularly grey Wednesday, I had a harp lesson at 4'o'clock and I was going to a show at 8 (interesting start so far) so I decided to while away the harpless between-hours at Trident bookstore - one of my favourite places in Boston.

After studying English Literature (with a big E and a big L) for my undergrad, I am still - years later - overwhelmed and overjoyed to be aboard the good ship ‘Choose What You Want to Read, and It Doesn’t Really Matter What You Make of It, Just Have a Jolly Time.’ (It's a ship with a comically oversized flag.)

I spent about half an hour pottering about the shelves, partly for aimless pleasure, and partly to put care into my selection, so as to maximise my jollity. My criteria for choosing a book were as follows: 

Classics that I’ve always been meaning to read but never got around to, were out, for today. Hasta la Vista Dostoyevsky, and Buh-bye Bröntes. And no guilt trips allowed, thank you VERY much, Mill on the Floss (if in fact that is your real name). A criterion of a similar ilk: no crummy attempts at self-improvement. One day, I may learn French, commit to memory the difference between Doric, Ionic and Corinthian columns AND discover how to make all varieties of smoothie for a happier, healthier me, but this was not the day. Titles like 'The Happiness Project: Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean my Closets, Fight right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun’ were DEFINITELY out. I wanted fiction. Preferably a novel. And a jammy one at that. 

It had to be something new (to me, not necessarily new to the world). I idled a while around my favourite authors, cozying up to familiar titles. So comfortable, these old friends! But this is my problem with [not] being well-read. I often shy away from the term 'well-read’, not only because I consider it to be both tricksy and entirely relative term, and therefore relatively meaningless, but also because I am secretly certain that I am not well-read. I blame this largely on my love of re-reading, which means that the books I have read, have certainly been read well (does that count? 'Oh, she’s well read, that one!’ - if said in a Northern accent could pass for a glowing reference, in a pinch) but those that I haven’t read, well and truly, or even at all, are far greater in number. This is obviously the case for everybody - Coleridge, apparently, was the last person who claimed to have read everything, and even then it was a bold claim - but by far greater, I mean FAR greater. Again, I am lost in the mires of relativity. Oh well.

So there I was, hovering around Dave Eggers, wrestling with my impulse to delve, once more, into the brilliance of his short stories, when I spotted Jennifer Egan, tucked in beside him. I’d never heard of her before (shame on me. Or maybe not so much. No guilt trips allowed, remember?) which played no small part in her appeal. There was also the gold 'Winner of the Pulitzer Prize’ sticker, winking shinily at me from the front cover of 'A Visit From The Goon Squad’. The title tickled me, the cover was jangling with critical acclaim, and the book was of a good girth (an underrated quality in book choosing, I feel).

There was also something in the LA Times’ accolade 'The smartest book you can get your hands on’, that felt almost like a challenge. I guess the combination of 'can’, implying permission, with the suggestion of a prize. To get your hands on something connotes a struggle, right? Or an ability, an opportunity… I CAN get my hands on it! Look, look LA Times! Here I am - with my hands on it! Regard my grubby little paws, they could not be more on this book if they tried! (It’s ok, my paws were only a bit bicycle-chain-and-subway-grubby, AND I bought the book, so it’s really no biggie, LA Times.)

So without further ado, (well, there may have been a BIT more ado. A little ado. Dr. ado-little. Except rather than talking to animals, I was just minding my own business, and looking at books. That said, I’m sure if this particular jaunt were to be made into a film - and what a film! - Rex Harrison or Eddie Murphy would do a fine job of playing me) I bought the book.

After a bit of light back-and-forth with the lovely man at the till (my faithful, but garish backpack is always a talking point amongst the world’s more garrulous folk) I got myself a table and ordered the biggest sandwich I could imagine - it’s called the Cape Codder, and if you’re ever in the area, I heart(attack)ily recommend it. Can you go wrong with MASSIVE wedges of grilled Challah, turkey, cheese and bacon? (Not rhetorical. You can't go wrong.) & some sort of delicious fruit juice.

So, there I was, nibbling away merrily on my giant sandwich, in a fashion not entirely dissimilar from this tortoise trying eat a strawberry   

and getting stuck into my new book.

There’s nothing better than reading the first few pages of a new book and realising that you’re having a great time. This realisation is often a little, glimmering minnow of a feeling, because it is, in my experience, more of a non-thought, than a thought. That is, rather than thinking 'Am I enjoying this?’ 'How does this character make me feel?’ 'Do I like that person?’ 'Should I like this person?’ 'What’s THAT metaphor all about?’ and so on, the soothing absence of the running narrative (usually panting and sweaty) usually heralds a total and immersive sense of enjoyment and engagement. 

 

Or so I thought.

I had decided to spend the evening taking a break from my often-harp-shaped life. I wanted to spend a pocket of time eating a delicious sandwich (which came with a PICKLE! Sometimes the gods are generous) and reading a book about which I had no preconceptions, and in which I could submerge myself, allowing thoughts, of whatever flavour, to marinate in peace.

I had spent that morning playing the harp, the night before, playing the harp. The day before that… and so it goes. That day I had ridden the subway listening to harp music in preparation for my lesson. Then, my harp lesson - needless to say it was very harp-related. It was a great lesson and I left feeling buoyant and full of resolve and plans for long-term improvement and, in the shorter-term, my next practice session. But all this could wait one evening.

So imagine my surprise when, near the top of page seven, I read this:

…a set of goals she’d scrawled on a big sheet of newsprint and taped to the walls of her early apartments:
Find a band to manage Understand the news Study Japanese Practice the harp

Wait, what?
WHAT?

I know it’s a cliché, but I think my heart really did skip a beat.

I looked again, just to check (at the book, not my heart). 

The story so far had been about a date and the therapy sessions of a lady who was also a kleptomaniac. I felt fairly secure that I was exploring unfamiliar territory, not knowing, waiting to be told…

Then THIS!
There was no lead up to this.

Perhaps if the cover had been this one (below), I might have divined some intimation of music-shaped things to come. The guitar even looks a bit like a lyre. There’s a bit near the end about Orpheus and Euridice, so maybe that was intentional. Maybe THAT’s the point! Hmm. But I digress, THIS is not my point, nor was it the cover I had seen.

The cover I saw was this:

Looks fun, exciting, bold, not harp-related in any way, good girth, and so on. 

And sure, it was an innocuous detail. A throwaway designed, presumably, to add texture to the character. (Or maybe not! see Orpheus revelation above)

But this tiny, deft touch of shading (ditto) really made me wonder if I had lost my mind.

I looked again at the page.

I took a mind-clearing bite of my sandwich, then allowed my eyes to drift casually back to the book. It was a bit like playing 'Grandmother’s Footsteps’. You know, that very slow turn and peer? Except instead of trying the thwart the approach of giggling children, I was turning, slowly, expecting to find full-blown insanity tapping me on the shoulder, giggling.

This is one of the rarer situations when it’s weird to be on your own. When reading a new book, and a tiny reference to playing the harp forces you to question your sanity. In these situations, it’s handy to have a second opinion (just so you know for next time). I considered seeking the counsel of the friendly looking man at the table near mine, but it’s actually quite difficult to phrase 'Hey, can you just tell me if these words on this page are, as I believe them to be, referencing someone’s need to practice the harp? Juuust checking is all.’ without sounding like someone may have spiked your sandwich.

These are the hazards no one tells you about when you take on a multi-month intensive harp apprenticeship. You know??

A few days later, when we were in the supermarket, I casually mentioned my fear of harp-madness to a friend. He asked to see the book and I dutifully fished it out of my bag. 

'See? It’s weird, right? Isn’t that weird?!’ 

'Um, Katya… I don’t know what to tell you, but it DOESN’T say anything about the harp.'

If you want to know whether this joke was well-received, I can assure you it was not.

Existential crises aside, A Visit From the Goon Squad was utterly wonderful. I can’t recommend it highly enough. After I'd finished it, I had to sit down for about an hour, just reflecting, pondering and luxuriating in the buzzing after-glow that comes with proximity to such ferocious intelligence.

Best served with a dose of mind-melting paranoia, and a pickle. Maybe now I’ll go for the book about smoothies.

Just in case you were wondering

If you ever wanted to know what it look like if a man balanced a harp on his nose, it would look like THIS!

Disclaimer: It may not look exactly like this - every nose is different.

A Battle of Wits

There are birds currently tweeting very loudly outside my window. (I would wager it's probably louder than you're imagining.*) To make matters worse, they are very much not in time with my metronome.

At this point it is unclear who will back down first. So now we play the waiting game….

(The metronome, relentless and bold, is giving this game a very ‘Countdown’ feel. I like it a lot.)

One Hour Later

Both parties still going strong.

I’ve just noticed there’s a 'Tweet’ button underneath my blog. Sure, I’d like it if you 'Tweeted’ this, but I’m worried it might look as if you’re ON THEIR SIDE.

Quite the conundrum, isn’t it?

A New Practice Plan (from your Friendly Neighbourhood Practice Plan Provider)

For those of you familiar with the (now mega famous) 10 Coin Practice Method, you will be thrilled to learn that I have a new method to add to my practice artillery.

It has been deeply gladdening to receive messages from musician friends (mainly but not exclusively, there have also been some musician STRANGERS) over the past couple of months, telling me that they have been using the 10 Coin Method, enjoying it, and recommending it to others.

This has tickled me pink for a couple of reasons:
When it comes to writing about practice, and the perpetual battles involved therein, I have a deep-seated fear that people will respond along the lines of ‘Why would I need suggestions for my practice? I have NO TROUBLE with efficiency, time-management or discipline whatsoever. If you do, you’re just a bad person.’

This hasn’t happened. Yet. 

It is always good to know that when you spend hours slaving over a hot laptop, people are having a little look, and thinking something along the lines of 'Om nom nom, that’s some tasty practice blog! I'ma try making that at home!’(Or, you know, whatever.)

This is my hope. And it seems to be happening! Except the bit about people saying 'Om nom nom, that’s some tasty practice blog! I'ma try making that at home!’ - that bit was pure fantasy on my part. For now. 

What has happened, however, is that people have written to me, saying that they like the idea, and some have offered their own additions and experiences!

My favourite suggestion so far is from Alex Feldman, a phenomenal performer, virtuoso recorder player, unicyclist and Jester, among other things:

“I find the coin technique fore rehearsing very effective. I usually use beanbags or rolled socks myself (I like to ceremonially toss them, or spike them to the ground).”

Ceremonially tossing rolled socks as a gesture of triumph definitely adds a bit of much-needed grandeur to proceedings.

Also, for those of you who read my blog on learning to ride a bicycle at the tender age of twenty-two, I have been thoroughly put in my place by Alex’s unicycling sons. This video nearly made me implode with joy.)

Unicycles aside, today’s blogulation (not sure how I feel about that word. I think I don't feel good about it) is about the next step. Read on, if you dare. Oooooh etc. 

Once upon a time, I decided to join a gym. This may seem unrelated to the trials and tribulations of daily practice management, but bear with me.

I have never been a particularly athletic creature (if you know me, you might be stifling a laugh at this point, or you might be laughing, long, loud, and clear) but there comes a point, when you’re shlepping a harp around all the time, up and down stairs, and over hills and dales (in America, a harp trolley is called a 'dolly’, and 'carrying a dolly o'er a dale’ makes it sound much more romantic than the muddy, sweaty reality) that your back and shoulders start to revolt. Mutiny in the ranks.

So when the going gets tough, the tough get a sports bra.

(I saw this picture and thought 'wow, don't they look vibrant and lovely! Exercising in heels seems rogue, but apart from that, I am fully on board with this picture.' Turns out the original caption is 'At the fat farm.' The mind boggles.)

I used to go to a gym in London, where everybody had special gym bunny workout wear, and bodies that looked like they’d never met Ben and/or Jerry - pumped, primped, and preened to a level that made me feel profoundly uncomfortable. Then when I moved to Arlington I went to this brilliant gym that had wonderful, friendly, overweight staff, inspirational murals on the walls, and a big dish of free candy on the reception desk for a post-workout treat. What I loved most about that gym, however, is the fact that if there were ANY members who are either female, or under the age of sixty, they have yet to show themselves. The gang I rolled with there made me feel like the henchest person this side of the Hudson River. Plus they all called me 'honey’ or 'dear’ (which I can only assume was an attempt to befriend me, and hide their fear/awe inspired by the majesty of my guns.)

However, the ego boost I got from working out with those more wizened than myself took a turn for the mortifying, when I came to a weight machine and had to take the weight level down, sometimes by SEVERAL pounds. Come on! Am I really that much weaker than someone in dentures?? At this point, I was forced to remember that I did, in fact, have a long way to go, fitness wise, and that I was still the athletic version of a yoghurt. 

But I shall not be disheartened! 

And my reason for this wilful optimism and perseverance in the face of press-ups (woe is me) is this:

That’s right, my friends, a Workout Chart, courtesy of the 'Mush to Muscle’ program (hey, who you callin’ M*U*S*H*??) at my dear old gym. The P stands for pounds (don’t laugh. That would not be kind) and the R stands for Repetitions. Just so’s you know.

So every other day, I popped in, do me a bit of cardio, and complete one or two circuits of weights. After each machine, I noted my progress (or lack thereof). The thing I love about this system is that, even when it felt like I was getting nowhere, and wheezing through every set, I could record what I’d done, in black and white (or grey and yellow, but come on now) and lo and behold! the glimmer of progress was there. Kinda. I just had to keep going. And stretch afterwards. These are my golden rules of gymming. That and, if you have an iPod, a cracking playlist won’t hurt any.

As a general rule, decision making and self-doubt make me falter. Pre-planning, little targets and determination make me feel like a champ.

So why is it so difficult to apply this to my practice routine?

The Ten Coin Method was the first step in the direction of 'Just Getting On With It'. The second step is a touch more radical, but so far, it’s working for me. It is this.

• Decide how long you want to practice for that day. 
• Scrap it. Make it realistic. If you make a five hour practice plan, and end up only doing two hours, you’ll feel disappointed, and that is the worst. Finding an amount of time that’s on the right side of realistic and the happy side of ambitious, is tricky. So I normally go for two hours. That way, I can feel like I’ve achieved a respectable amount of time, and then if things go well, I can use the page a couple of times and feel UNSTOPPABLE. 
• Divide your time into mini sections. I like six minutes. I have finally reached the point where I am willing to admit that I have a terrible attention span. Six minutes is a short enough time that I won’t lose focus, AND it will leave me wanting more. Which feels good. I experimented with ten and twenty minute time slots, but they felt too long, five felt pathetically short, and neither 7 nor 8 fit neatly in a 60 minute hour (another kind of hour, maybe). But SIX minutes, for me, is perfect. That’s ten mini sessions in an hour. Which somehow manages to feel simultaneously like something substantial, but effort-wise, like NOTHING. 
• Take a piece of paper… (I feel like the weird talking statue on Art Attack. In so many ways.) 
• Mark out your mini sections. For two hours, I draw out twenty little rectangles, happily waiting to be filled with practice GOLD. I set aside the first two or three slots for warming up (12-18 minutes, depending on the weather. Warm hands make light work. Cold hands make Katya a dull boy.) 
• Then fill in each remaining rectangle with a thing you want to practice.  For example:

That’s just what it looked like. If you want to know, the piece of paper is just a bit smaller than my hand. Small pieces of paper make things seem VERY manageable (I also use an A3 size drawing pad, for making BIG practice plans on days where things need a bit more oomph.)

Things I like about this system:

• A 'No Ifs Not Buts’ approach works well for someone like me, with a crippling procrastination habit. 
• It helps to keep things manageable, and the 6-minute timer I use makes everything feel like I’m on Ready Steady Cook. In six minutes, what CAN’T I make with a courgette, two Kinder Eggs and some coriander? 
• It makes me REALLY AWARE of how much I can actually achieve in a set amount of time. 
• I can schedule in snack breaks without feeling like I’m wasting time, because it’s out of the practice time-zone. (What happens Out of The Practice Time-Zone, stays in the Out of The Practice Time-Zone. Or something to that effect.) And there’s nothing better than a snack break - my PracticeSnack (or Übungsimbiss - it sounds like a real thing if you say it in German, right?) of choice at the moment is a cup of tea (PG tips, with a generous splosh of milk), some chocolate covered ginger (amount undisclosed) and a couple of Triskets (I had never met these until I came to the US - they’re like savoury shredded wheat, and super tasty). 
• It forces me to confront the things I would otherwise avoid tackling. For example, improvisation is something I always dread working on - it feels like a tunnel of never-ending doom and inadequacy. If I set myself an hour just to work on improvisation, within four minutes, you can find me in the foetal position in my harp cover. However, I usually find that, at the end of six minutes, when my timer beepedy-beeps (you don’t know, but that was a GREAT impression of my timer) I’ve eased myself in, and I’m looking forward to when it comes around again on my schedule. And for me, that feeling of anticipation, and the exciting little glow of achievement, no matter how infinitesimal, is the aim of the game. 

Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back to my harp. I’ve only done one hour today so far, and that will not look good on my time-card. Beepedy-Beep.