Radio Star

Video killed the radio star: maybe - but it certainly didn’t kill radio stations. In fact digital and internet technologies have ensured their multiplication. Mostly they comprise music-based programmes offering soundtracks to our busy lives, but there is at least one station which features not music but old-fashioned story-telling and drama. I like the idea of this but the reality is problematic: stories require some effort, some concentration on the part of the listener; for the thread of a story is easily lost if one is distracted by other activities such as checking e-mail, making tea, reading the papers or popping out for a breath of fresh air. Would-be fans like me face the challenge of fending off such distractions in order to benefit from careful, attentive listening to the story.

Long gone is radio’s 1930’s heyday when manufacturers advertised their appliances with pictures of contented families, gathered around cosy hearths, listening with rapt and undivided attention to loudspeakers in huge wooden boxes. Things have moved on: the contented families still look happy and the hearths cosy but the boxes are nowadays supplanted by big, shiny flat-screens - which have the advantage of being able to command not just one but two of our five senses, thereby pinning us to our seats for hours on end. This is serious competition for radio drama’s one-dimensional appeal – and it may be the reason why there are not too many stations offering such fare.

Acting on the use-it-or-lose-it principle, I decided to boost audience ratings while testing my own resolve. I scanned the schedules, found a radio play I would like to hear and made my preparations: I ticked the outstanding items on my to-do list, fixed an imaginary 1930’s wireless set in my mind, chose a comfortable chair and settled down to some dedicated listening.  I was soon rewarded by a plot that was engaging, acting that was convincing and sound-quality that was excellent. So far so good: there was indeed satisfaction and pleasure to be had from broadcast story-telling. Yet it proved not quite enough to keep my attention from wandering and before long my eyes began to cast around the room, falling on things that were in need of fixing or cleaning (and, in one case, throwing out). Then my thoughts began to stray into speculation about future events, such as my next meal, and I was finding it difficult to overcome the urge to fidget, write lists of things to do, reach for a book or magazine, get up to make a pot of tea or otherwise satisfy the cravings of the redundant senses. Resisting these temptations was difficult but I held my position, determined to persist with my experiment. Perhaps, I thought, I should close my eyes and concentrate hard.

When I woke up it was to the sound of an unfamiliar voice: “That’s Cross Incontinence, tonight at 8.30”. What was this - a programme about Irritable Bowel Syndrome? What happened to the play? It eventually dawned on me that I had missed most of the play and had woken, a little confused, to a trailer for a programme called Crossing Continents.

Later that day I opened an email from the City Library reminding me that they offer audio books which can be downloaded. I’m not falling for that again! I tried it once but was fast asleep before the end of the first chapter and could never work out how to find my place. At least with a printed book you can pick up where you left off when you dropped off. As for radio plays; if anyone has any practical listening suggestions please let me know.

Twice in One Day?

Every now and then performers try to involve their audience by, quite literally, employing their audience: for example, the singer who implores us all to clap along in time (?), the comedian who uses a punter as a butt for jokes or the theatre company which enlists unwilling “volunteers” from the front row. These may be useful techniques for performers but they are not universally appreciated by those who are caught up in them. Indeed I have found myself hauled up on stage (too timid or polite to refuse) and humiliated in front of the public for the benefit of a performance. Some people chosen thus clearly enjoy the experience; for others it can mark the onset of a life-long aversion to live performance.

Fortunately, I have been able to put the trauma of that early humiliation behind me and continue to attend all sorts of performances in search of inspiration. Recently, for example - and for the second time in short succession - I found myself at a concert of classical choral music. This is not a genre for which I claim any special fondness or expert knowledge but I was seduced by a cleverly written e-mail inviting me to attend a free lunch-time concert. The Hungarian choir, Ars Nova Sacra, was to sing at the Quaker Meeting House, in support of a collection for Amnesty International. At least, I thought, I won’t be required to clap along this time.

Although it is an amateur choir this is a very accomplished and respected ensemble with a repertoire of songs by renowned classical composers from the Renaissance through to the 20th century. To my untutored ear the singing was consistently sonorous, harmonious and effortless all the way through the programme. But, when it came to the last three songs, which were by Hungarian composers, there was a distinct enhancement of the performance - a sting in the tail, an unexpected ingredient. The introduction of the native material added a dimension of passion to the singers’ voices which brought the music alive beyond the pure technicalities of recitation. This noticeable injection of emotion caused tears to well in my eyes - as if some forgotten or neglected stop-cock had been loosened without warning.

Later that day I queued devotedly to obtain one of the scarce tickets for an unusual production of a play - a Dickensian story set in an authentically Dickensian building. The stage adaptation of Hard Times was performed not on a stage but in a disused, Victorian mill. The half-dozen sets were distributed over the spacious, emptied floor of the mill where the architecture and the smell of the oil-impregnated floorboards evoked the realities of Manchester’s 19th century manufacturing industry. We, the audience, were required to follow the actors as they progressed the action from one set to the next - thus presenting interesting challenges for all concerned. The actors had nowhere to hide between scenes and jostled with the audience to reach the next set. In this they had the advantage, in so far as they had rehearsed the moves, but people can adapt quickly and it wasn’t long before some of us began to recognise the clues and develop the techniques required to get ourselves into prime positions - pronto!

Preoccupied as I was by acquiring mastery of these cunning tactics, I was in danger of missing the point of the play, until I realised that the peculiar advantage of this type of production is that a choice of perspectives is available to the audience. Being able to observe the performance from some unusual angles I become more engrossed by the action than I might otherwise have been. It was Theatre’s answer to Cinema’s 3D.  I stood almost in-between the leading lady and her father while she passionately lamented her predicament. I could see the actors’ eyes glistening with tears and had to hold myself back from intervening.  From the back of the stalls, perhaps, I might have been more detached.

For the second time that day I searched my pockets for Kleenex and had cause to thank others for showing me the way.