New Orleans

It may have been Tennessee Williams who quipped “America has only three cities: New York, San Francisco and New Orleans. Everywhere else is Cleveland.” I surmise that diversity was at least one of his criteria. Anyway, by this measure, and having just returned from New Orleans, I have only one more American city to sample – apart from Cleveland.

Regardless of my misgivings about tacitly condoning Trump’s regime by visiting his manor, we had arranged, some time ago, to meet up in “Nawlins” with our American friends, who were as traumatised by the outcome of the presidential election as we were by the result of the Brexit referendum. The start of the trip was inauspicious: we stood in line at Atlanta airport for two hours, while three officials processed the passports of hundreds of travellers. I speculated that the dearth of staff was due to pressures further south, where millions of Mexican rapists are besieging the border.

New Orleans, notwithstanding its devastation by hurricane Katrina in 2005, remains a tourist town and it is not surprising, therefore, that the most popular attractions are often overwhelmed by visitors. This applies especially to restaurants so, having had enough of queuing, we sought out-of-the-way places – by which strategy we managed not to experience most of the famous joints. Nevertheless, there is a lot to be said for leaving the beaten track and mixing it with the locals. You have to navigate their ways and customs by means of direct engagement. Our accommodation, for example, was the converted basement apartment of a traditional Creole-style, wooden ‘shotgun’ house in a suburb a five-mile ride from Frenchtown on the historic St. Charles streetcar. When the must-see attractions of the city have been ticked off, the more subtle delights of the neighbourhood yield quieter enjoyment – shops, coffee bars and drinking holes, where the service for tourists is the same as that for locals.

We stayed in an area called Freret, where the population appears to be all white and there is an air of faded gentility spiced by the up-coming, youthful, hip generation of residents who breakfast with laptops at laid-back cafes serving fancy coffee, yoghurt-based confections and sourdough toast. One day, we travelled a few blocks to experience the Fête Francaise, a street junket staged annually to raise funds for the bi-lingual (French/Southern Drawl) school. By this time, I had got used to the friendly, open ways of the people, so was not surprised when a large, middle-aged man sidled up and commented that the fête got bigger each year. “Are you of French origin?” I asked. “No. German,” he said, with just a hint of resentment. But before he could elaborate, a friend of his appeared to drag him off to the bar.

Soon afterwards, a man commented on the cap I had borrowed as a sun-shade. It bore the logo of an American mountaineering outfit. However, we soon established my disinterest in mountaineering and he became curious about my nationality. The mention of Britain prompted him to express his political views. “I know I look like a liberal,” he said – and he did, with his long, untidy hair, scruffy but colourful clothes and floppy hat – “but I’m a conservative. This is just a disguise to fool them if they try anything tricky.” He went on to explain that he had to protect his Californian real-estate investments from tax-grabbing socialists. This was not a “How are you liking our country?” type of conversation – and it got worse. His next topic was “effing Muslims” and the way that they had made most of Europe a no-go zone.

I pulled my cap down and excused myself from the ‘debate’. In fact, I may wait until Trump is history before I bag my final American city – which is San Francisco, by the way.

Hi -Expectations

The joy of hi-fi seems a thing of the past. I, and most people in my circle, have adopted more convenient, modern technology for listening to recorded music though, according to aficionados, we are thereby missing out on the subtleties and rich, warm tonalities of the original recordings. Alas, I no longer possess any vinyl (LPs), nor do I have an analogue, valve-driven amplifier matched to a pair of big, studio-quality speakers, so the notion of listening to all my favourites played in high-fidelity remains a remote, if appealing prospect. But there is hope: I recently discovered a local lounge bar, equipped with a dream hi-fi setup that is available to those who wish to use it. Fantastic! All I needed was to get my hands on some vinyl.

A twenty-year-old nephew came to stay with us last week (well, he crashed for the night after travelling here to attend a gig). His presence reminded me that there was a time when we boomers did the same, travelling far and wide, regardless of inconvenience (to ourselves or others) to follow whichever act was favourite at the time. The only constraint might have been financial, though money was usually found for essential gigs. ‘Being there’ was important because each live performance is a unique experience and, notwithstanding the often-compromised acoustic qualities of some venues, the excitement of taking part in the action trumps passive listening, even to the most perfect recording.

In the current phase of the boomer life-cycle, however, many of us would think twice before venturing from the comforts of home to risk the vagaries of unpredictable live performances and dodgy sound systems. We tend to play it safe by trusting to old favourites or known masters with solid reputations to deliver the goods. Fellow members of the Heatons Jazz Appreciation Society (formerly referred to as the Heaton Moor JAS – erroneously, as has been pointed out to me, since some of the members actually live in adjacent Heaton Chapel) are not immune to this tendency, which may explain their unenthusiastic response to my last suggestion – Laura Jurd with the Ligeti Quartet at Band On The Wall. The resulting turnout was two, me included.

This time, I took a different tack and achieved a better result: Jazz Classics on Vinyl – a bring-your-own selection of records session at the hi-fi lounge in town. Even the venue’s events manager was enthusiastic, waiving the hire fee in exchange for advertising the event as open to the public. HJAS members in possession of vinyl prepared a programme based on their collections and we invited friends to come along (some of whom declined on the grounds that it would be “too serious”, despite assurances to the contrary). On the night, we had a good turnout – though, disappointingly, only three only walk-ins. (Jazz, it seems, remains unpopular, even when it is classic and on vinyl.) But there was an unexpected blow to my expectations: on arrival the manager casually informed me that the hi-fi system was out of order. The amplifier had blown up, the replacement had not come in time for our event and we would have to make do with the house PA system. Announcing this to the members, I was met with mostly sympathetic responses, such as “I wouldn’t know the difference,” “I’m hard of hearing anyway,” and “That’s a bummer, man!” Nevertheless, I was disappointed.

However, as the evening proceeded, the drinks went down and the crowd became ever more convivial, I was able to regard the huge, silently looming, wooden speaker cabinets with diminishing bitterness. The main event was – as it should be – sharing the pleasures of music with an appreciative audience, hi-fi, lo-fi, any-fi.

Rappin' - Know What I Mean, Bruv?

In preparation for an up-coming trip to New Orleans (or Nola, as American friends call it) I have been listening to some of the musical genres spawned by the city – such as jazz, zydeco, cajun and bounce. Bounce? I took a look on YouTube to find out more and, to be honest, got a bit of a fright. Video evidence emerges of scary-looking, black gangster-styled young men rapping unintelligible lyrics to monotonous tunes and repetitive rhythms, while enthusiastic female followers shake booty with immodest and joyful abandon. Perhaps too many armchair sessions at the Heatons Jazz Appreciation Society have lulled me into equating black Nola music with Louis Armstrong. Things have moved on, obviously.

Of course, I know that ‘alien’ musical cultures such as bounce exist, but I don’t come into contact with them – through both circumstance and choice (which, on reflection, may boil down to the same thing). Inevitably, my cultural activities have become focussed and defined by the circumstances of my birth and upbringing, and much of my social time is spent in the company of people from my own ‘tribe’. I ponder this ruefully sometimes, as when I find myself out with a pal, trying not to be ‘those old blokes in the corner of the pub’. Casual observers are not to know that our reminiscences are balanced by talk of future plans – and I don’t mean healthcare and retirement homes. Our ambitions persist, however oblivious to the fact the online social media algorithms trained on us are – as evidenced by the advertising targeted at me. The slippers that have, for some time now, been deemed appropriate to my profile have been joined recently by comfortable but unstylish shoes. The algorithm has concluded, apparently, that I am in the ‘about to give up category’. Statistically, it may have a point, but it does not take into account the fact that some of us are not yet done with rock ’n’ roll.

I do make some effort to diversify my social acquaintances (despite Twitter, Instagram and Facebook all insisting that I should link up with more of the same sorts of people I already know) but it’s neither easy nor necessary to admire or embrace someone else’s ways just because they are different.  After years of trial and error, one does end up with preferences – jazz rather than blues, real food rather than junk, Nordic-style democracy rather than neo-liberal capitalism, rational argument rather than uninformed ranting. Time is precious and the pursuit of diversity is an endless task. In the search to find better ways to think and act, it is necessary to avoid dead-ends – such as bounce music. Further, being childless, I am at a disadvantage when it comes to exposure to diversity: being one step removed from youthful activities means that I have to make more effort to bridge generational gaps in behaviours, attitudes and acquaintances. For example, I have no personal contact with anyone who is in their thirties, of mixed-race, wears a beanie on top of their dreadlocks and whose profession is “rapper”. I was, however, introduced to such a person recently – albeit remotely – via a news broadcast.

He is called Akala and his contribution was to a debate on what is to be done about juvenile knife-crime. He may belong to a different tribe but that is, partly, his strength: he has the advantage of being closer to the problem. His other strengths are considerable, however. He delivers a rational and evidence-based argument with calm, steadfast composure. If there are people like him in his tribe, then I believe we should make an alliance with them. I have begun to follow him on Twitter – even though I expect now to be cajoled into following lots of rappers I don’t have time for.

Innovation and Re-purposing

Modernism has always appealed to me. Perhaps it was a reaction to the grimy residue of the industrial past but, as a child of the RAF and an avid reader of the Dan Dare comic strip, it was the sleek new jet planes that excited me, not the creaky old propeller models left over from the WWII. Later, my attention shifted to the built environment and I developed a fascination for futuristic architecture and its hopeful, implied promise of a rational, equitable society housed in elegant, purpose-designed buildings. All of this, I considered to be progress. I remain a fan of modernism, though having seen that not all of it contributes to my imagined utopia, my enthusiasm is now tempered with scepticism.

I was sitting at a table on a sunlit pavement in London, drinking ‘artisan’ coffee. The location was Bermondsey, a one-time working-class area dependent on the wharves and warehouses on the south bank of the Thames. Now, with the old buildings having been adapted to commerce of a different kind, or converted into dwellings, the few new-builds look and feel like intruders shouldering uncomfortably into the small spaces and narrow streets. Nearby, the White Cube gallery is showing Tracey Emin’s latest work while, across the street, the Fashion and Textile Museum celebrates retro with Swinging London – a Lifestyle Revolution, an exhibition mainly of the work of Mary Quant and Terence Conran. In Bermondsey and elsewhere, elements of the past are co-opted for contemporary life. The future hasn’t worked out as I envisaged. I went to Swinging London to remind myself what all the fuss had been about and, as I had hoped, the excitement of that era of life-style-changing design felt as urgent to me as it had at the time although, disappointingly, it was not adopted universally.

Still, there is room in life for diversity and, even from the moderniser’s point of view, traditional ways and old designs have a certain charm – even some value (as long as they don’t stand stubbornly in the way of progress). Last week, I was treated to an excellent lunch at the Bricklayers’ Arms, somewhere in the depths of rural Buckinghamshire. The setting was ‘chocolate box’ perfect and, though I guess that it might have been forty years since an actual bricklayer was able to afford a drink in what is now a posh gastro-pub, the establishment has adapted to survive the onset of changes like the social ostracization of drunken drivers and the demise of ploughman’s lunches – and we are rewarded with the preservation of a picturesque chunk of old England.

Meanwhile, in east London, new pubs are being created that suit the requirements of a younger generation. My friend and I mingled with the millennials in Hackney Wick one evening, as we toured a couple of light-industrial estates where the leisure industry is colonising the sheds originally built for manufacturing and distribution. We sampled beers brewed on site in one shed, declined tickets to a stand-up comedy show in another and caught a live performance of rather good jazz at yet another, finishing off with supper from the pop-up noodle bar that had attached itself outside. Young people evidently prioritise socialising over comfortable seating and fancy facilities: any shed will do, as long as the beer is good and the place is buzzing. The beer was very good and, as for the buzz, we managed to find a corner in which to sit and observe it from a safe distance, the youngsters politely giving us a wide berth.

The re-purposing of buildings is not what I had in mind for my vision of the future but, all things considered, it does keep us connected to our history and, in the process, generates a more interwoven social fabric than would be possible if starting from the clean slate of a new environment. Maybe the grungy bars will soon make way for the developers but, meanwhile, cheers to them.