Free live music in Las Palmas, July 2020

Continuing with «Cultura en acción», by inscription only etc. etc. — man, it does take spontaneity out of the equation. No more “shall we check it out tonight, or maybe not” stuff.

• 3 July: Ron Voodoo @ Museo Castillo de Mata, Calle Domingo Guerra del Río, 147
  When the name of the band is better than anything else about the band, their performance is bound to be somewhat disappointing. A bunch of middle-aged men playing the 1980s-style pop-rock is not exactly our shot of rum but, as Tamara said, «пусть цветут все цветы». Which, as I just learned, is a Russian version of the Chinese phrase 百花齊放, “Let a hundred flowers bloom”. Another day, another bit of useless knowledge. At least, the setting was spectacular.
• 4 July: Yanet Sierra Muñoz «Ellas» @ Auditorio José Antonio Ramos, Parque Doramas
  The Cuban singer, accompanied by Fofi Lusson (guitar, bass), Totó Noriega (percussion) and Rayko León (piano), payed her very personal tribute to the composers Isolina Carrillo (Dos gardenias), María Grever, Conny Méndez, Herminia Naranjo, Violeta Parra (Gracias a la Vida), Marta Valdés, Consuelo Velázquez (Bésame mucho) and María Teresa Vera (Veinte años).

• 16 July: Trío Gabriel Rodó «Un verano de cine» @ Palacete Rodríguez Quegles, calle Benito Pérez Galdós, 4
  Liliana Mesa (violin), Pilar Bolaños (chello) and Ana Marrero (piano) took us on a cinematic journey, from Mozart, Haendel, Schubert and Boccherini to Ennio Morricone, Leonard Bernstein and John Williams. Fantastic.

I wish I were able to see more in July but no such luck. Let’s see what August brings.

Ese verano a oscuras

by Mariana Enríquez
illustrated by Helia Toledo

Two teenage girls, Virginia and “I”, spend the summer of 1989 in the unlit stairwells of their apartment block, smoking and reading a book about serial killers. That’s what you do when you are fifteen, infatuated with death and like the colour black. Of course, the gloom is mundanely explained by the frequent powercuts, but I think that even the uninterrupted electricity supply would change the protagonists’ tastes at the time. Then something horrible happens.

It’s a strange pleasure to read this deliciously dark longish short story, or a short novella. To hold the book in hands, even better. The dried blood hue dominate the suitably sombre, almost monochrome watercolours by Helia Toledo. The unnamed narrator could well be the author herself; at least Enríquez says that the story has quite a few autobiographical elements in it. The Neogothic cathedral mentioned in the beginning of the story must be the Cathedral of La Plata.

La ciudad era pequeña pero nos parecía enorme sobre todo por la Catedral, monumental y oscura, que gobernaba la plaza como un cuervo gigante. Siempre que pasábamos cerca, en el coche o caminando, mi padre explicaba que era estilo neogótico, única en América Latina, y que estaba sin terminar porque faltaban dos torres. La habían construido sobre un suelo débil y arcilloso que era incapaz de soportar su peso: tenía los ladrillos a la vista y un aspecto glorioso pero abandonado. Una hermosa ruina. El edificio más importante de nuestra ciudad estaba siempre en perpetuo peligro de derrumbe a pesar de sus vitrales italianos y los detalles de madera noruega. Nosotras nos sentábamos enfrente de la Catedral, en uno de los bancos de la plaza que la rodeaba, y esperábamos algún signo de colapso. No había mucho más que hacer ese verano. La marihuana que fumábamos, comprada a un dealer sospechoso que hablaba demasiado y se hacía llamar El Súper, apestaba a agroquímicos y nos hacía toser tanto que con frecuencia quedábamos mareadas cerca de las puertas custodiadas por gárgolas tímidas. Nunca fumábamos apoyadas contra las paredes de la Catedral, como hacían otros, más valientes. Le teníamos miedo al derrumbe.

Era tarde, pero la falta de electricidad enloquecía los horarios, resultaba imposible dormir con tanto calor y, a pesar de la oscuridad, la gente estaba en la calle más que nunca, abanicándose, silenciosa en sus sillas de plástico, esperando que la luna roja explotara en el cielo o las estrellas lanzaran haces de luz que nos devolvieran la electricidad o acabaran con nosotros. Los ventiladores, muertos, parecían reírse del sopor y de algún llanto mortecino que, a veces, rompía el silencio.

De noche, me rodeaba el cuello con mis propias manos, en la cama, la cabeza sobre la almohada, y pensaba que las manos eran las de Richard, y que él apretaba hasta sacarme todo el aire, hasta romperme las vértebras. Yo sabía que, además, había violado a las mujeres, pero eso nunca aparecía en mis fantasías nocturnas, que eran delicadas y virginales.

Nuestra rutina era sencilla. De día buscábamos la frescura en la sombra y, si resultaba imposible, nos bañábamos en la pileta; jamás tomábamos sol.

También fumábamos en la escalera de mi edificio, que siempre estaba fresca. Nadie nos prohibía fumar tabaco. No se veía nada en la escalera, pero al menos no hacía calor porque jamás daba el sol: tapaba la luz otro edificio y, además, las escaleras no tenían ventanas. En la oscuridad, las brasas se encendían con cada pitada, anaranjadas como luz de luciérnagas, y cuando alguien bajaba la escalera, a veces con una linterna, otras tanteando las paredes, no nos prestaba atención. Nadie nos prestaba atención.

Песня о друге

songs by Vladimir Vysotsky and Alexander Gradsky

Vladimir Vysotsky died on 25 July 1980. I heard about his death — I say heard, it was not in the official news — in Pyatigorsk, where I spent a few weeks of summer holidays that year. I remember being upset but not exactly shocked at the time. I am not sure if I was even aware that he was only 42, or maybe it seemed to me a respectable age to go.

The Song About a Friend is one of several songs written and performed by Vysotsky in the 1967 film Вертикаль (Vertical) which I, curiously, never watched. I had a flexi disc with these songs, one of a very few “official” releases during his lifetime.

Владимир Высоцкий Песня о друге

Если друг оказался вдруг И не друг, и не враг, а так, Если сразу не разберёшь Плох он или хорош — Парня в горы тяни, рискни, Не бросай одного его, Пусть он в связке в одной с тобой, Там поймёшь, кто такой. Если парень в горах не ах, Если сразу раскис и вниз, Шаг ступил на ледник и сник, Оступился и в крик — Значит, рядом с тобой чужой, Ты его не брани, гони, Вверх таких не берут, и тут Про таких не поют. Если ж он не скулил, не ныл, Пусть он хмур был и зол, но шёл, А когда ты упал со скал, Он стонал, но держал. Если шёл он с тобой, как в бой, На вершине стоял хмельной, Значит, как на себя самого, Положись на него.

Almost two years later, I and my friend Seryozha Valkov went to see Nikitins and Gradsky performing in Luzhniki. (This was the last of four two-part concerts they played that weekend. I remember the date, 11 July 1982, because the same night there was the World Cup Final, Italy vs West Germany, of which I saw maybe the last ten minutes on the TV.) It was a strange time: the last year of the Brezhnev era, as stagnant as it gets, yet there was a breeze of change in the air. For instance, bards and a rock singer playing in a sports arena would have been unthinkable just a few years before.

Gradsky did not — and did’t need to — mention who this song is dedicated to. The first lines said it all. It remains as goose-bumpingly awesome now as it was then.

Александр Градский Песня о друге

Я совсем не был с ним знаком, Но о друге мечтал таком, Что меня не продаст тайком, Хоть его жги огнём. У дороги цветком таким, Он назло многим рос-таки Вы, вокальных дел мастаки, Не споёте о нем. Совпадая с фамилией, Наказуя и милуя, Вверх стремился он с силою, Что не выразить мне, Но, как ведётся в святой Руси, Сколь поэта не возноси, Его высь иже в небеси, Ну а тело в земле. Пусть он связки пересмыкал, Пусть не всяк его стих смекал, Но зато он не пресмыкался, как многие тут. И когда в зале смех стихал, Начиналася мистика Его песенного стиха, То был каторжный труд. Совпадая с фамилией, Наказуя и милуя, Вверх стремился он с силою, Что не выразить мне, Но, как ведётся в святой Руси, Сколь поэта не возноси, Его высь иже в небеси, Ну а тело в земле. Он из самых последних жил Не для славы и пел, и жил, Среди общей словесной лжи Он себя сохранил. И на круче без удержи Всё накручивал виражи, Видно, мало нас учит жизнь — Тот убит, кто раним. Совпадая с фамилией, Наказуя и милуя, Вверх стремился он с силою, Что не выразить мне, Но, как ведётся в святой Руси, Сколь поэта не возноси, Его высь иже в небеси, Ну а тело в земле.

Jeeves and Wooster

starring Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie
screenplay by Clive Exton

This year, Jeeves and Wooster turned 30. I remember seeing couple of the episodes on Russian TV in 1990s. I didn’t get most of the humour back then though. I bought the 21^st anniversary edition box when we lived in Finland. In the beginning, the kids were enthusiastic but somehow we never got to the end. Now we did.

Laurie’s Wooster, albeit lovable, seems to be no more than a 20^th-century incarnation of that “mad, blundering, incredibly handsome nincompoop”, the Prince Regent, and does not evolve much. On the other hand, Jeeves’s cunning plans and schemes become even more cunning and sophisticated as the series grows progressively sillier. Also, he greatly improves as a musician.

Anyway. We all know that Fry and Laurie are great. But J & W wouldn’t be what it is without the script by Clive Exton — the Poirot Clive Exton, — without the music by that Anne Dudley, and without its supporting cast. John Turner is outstanding as Roderick Spode, 7^th Earl of Sidcup, a hilariously Mussoliniesque leader of the Black Shorts. Mary Wimbush makes a truly awesome Aunt Agatha (series 1 through 3), while Elizabeth Morton (series 3 and 4) is the best Madeline (of all three).

You know, the more I see of women, the more I think that there ought to be a law. Something has got to be done about this sex, or the whole fabric of Society will collapse, and then, what silly asses we shall all look.

This is the opinion of Bertie Wooster, of course; there’s no reason to think that P. G. Wodehouse shared it any more than other Wooster’s opinions. As one Honoria Plum (I don’t believe it’s her real name) noted in her blog, the charge against Wodehouse that “women are excluded as complex characters” is

partially correct, but misleading because Wodehouse was simply not in the business of creating complex characters at all.

Just look at the men, other than Jeeves I mean, in the series. And the children. Don’t get me started on children.

As we finished re-watching all of it a week or so ago, we need to find another reasonably well-forgotten comedy series.

От Руси к России

by Lev Gumilyov

From Rus to Russia, the last book Lev Nikolayevich Gumilyov prepared for publication before his death in 1992, is no less fascinating — and even better flowing — than his first monograph. I enjoyed reading it now more than I did a quarter of century ago. I am also less willing to agree with the author now than then.

For instance, he insists that adoption of Eastern Orthodox Christianity was not just a good thing for Russia: it was the best possible thing. Moreover, thanks to this religion Russians became incredibly welcoming and tolerant. (Except for the times when they were not tolerant at all and kept beheading their enemies and each other.) Consequently, according to Gumilyov, the Russian empire-building was really benign compared to predatory Spanish/Dutch/French/British colonialism. And isn’t it strange that he singles out the mediaeval Jews as a parasitic super-ethnos, as if all Jewish people were merchants and moneylenders, while for the other nations robbing their neighbours is a kind of normal — apparently, non-parasitic — activity?

At least here, in contrast to Хунну, Gumilyov takes care to elucidate his passionarity theory of ethnogenesis. The problem with this theory though is that we can neither prove nor disprove it. We cannot measure the passionarity (or “drive”, as this term is translated in the English-language version of Ethnogenesis and the Biosphere of Earth) quantitatively. We only can try to link it with density of events — wars, revolutions, coups, etc.: most events in the historical record are violent.

For example, I’d like to think that English spent most of their passionarity a few centuries ago. That can explain why we have the most useless government in modern history headed by a proven liar and there is still no revolution in sight. But what about the Russian super-ethnos that is, according to Gumilyov, about 500 years younger than the Western European super-ethnos? The very word “passionarity” is hijacked by Russian mainstream, by establishment, even by Putin. And where is Russian passionarity? With current demographic situation, do the remaining Russians actually need or want expansion? For Pete the Great’s sake, the country just voted to allow our eagle Don Reba to stay in power for life. Yes, yes, I know, they know, the referendum was rigged, so what. A few hundred people protested. So?

Lev Nikolayevich lived in interesting times. He saw the birth and the death of the Soviet Union. What would he make of Dobby’s backward-looking, xenophobic and corrupt as ever Russia? Would he admit that his calculations were wrong and the country is not in the inertial, or “golden autumn” phase, but rather in the phase of obscuration?

There Once Was An Island: Te Henua e Nnoho

a film by Briar March

Shall we stay or shall we go? To leave for a better life or to stay and preserve the unique culture? The question is eternal, the problem is universal. In the case of Takuu Atoll, to stay may not be an option: rising sea level threatens its very existence.

The 2010 documentary was shot during two visits to the atoll, in 2006 and 2008. Back then the population of 400 lived on Nukutoa, the only inhabited island of the atoll. According to Wikipedia, “in 2019 the estimated resident population was 150”.

The scenes of the flood are perhaps the most poignant in the whole film. The houses and the village school are destroyed. At the same time, you see the children happily swimming and even jumping to the ocean from the coconut palms. Takuu ain’t no paradise, but probably the next best thing to it, and about being lost too. Scott Smithers, one of the scientists who visited the atoll in 2008, said that he has no problem living there. For how long though?

Chico y Rita

by Javier Mariscal and Fernando Trueba

Since we know that the egg came before the chicken, let me ask another question. Which came first: the film (that is still on my to-watch list!) or the book?

I read in Spanish Wikipedia that Mariscal was making the graphic novel in parallel to the work on the animation, while the Mariscal’s own website says that the book is an adaptation of the film.

Does it really matter? According to Mariscal himself, “the two works are completely different”. I loved the book. But I need the soundtrack!

Couleur de peau: miel

a film by Laurent Boileau and Jung

Another Documental del Mes offered by Filmoteca Canaria: a touching animated memoir of Korean-Belgian comic strip artist Jung, shown in French, with Spanish subtitles, under its international English title Approved for Adoption. I love this!

The animation, somewhat reminiscent of Only Yesterday, blends organically with the Super 8 archive footage; much less so with the scenes of Jung’s “present day” (the film was released in 2012) trip to South Korea.

The phrases “Skin color: honey” and “Approved for Adoption” appear in the real dossier of Jung Sik-jun.

Casualidad

by Pepe Monteserín and Pablo Amargo

Now this is what I call a tall book. Not a long book. In terms of pages — 32 to be exact — it’s short. But my, it’s tall. 42.5 by 13.5 cm is tall. It won’t fit any of my bookshelves. It looks like it won’t fit any in our library — that’s where I borrowed it; it was standing on top of a bookshelf. Just look at it.

But, apart from being tall, it is a great book. The story is strange and beautiful, the black and white illustrations are striking. And Ventoso could be anywhere in the world where you can find windmills, weathervanes and kites. In Fuerteventura maybe?

I also learned that the Asturian artist Pablo Amargo designed many posters for our own Biblioteca Insular de Gran Canaria.

Cachada: The Opportunity

a film by Marlén Viñayo

The first feature film of the Spanish director Marlén Viñayo tells the story, or stories, of five Salvadoran women — street vendors, domestic workers, all single mums. They never went to the theatre in their lives. After joining the workshop of the professional actress Egly Larreynaga, they decide form a small theatre company called “La Cachada Theatro”.

In El Salvador, the word cachada (from cachar, itself derived from English “catch”) means a bargain, a gift, an opportunity that one should not miss. For Chileno, Magaly, Magda, Ruth and Wendy the theatre became an opportunity not “only” — and it’s a big “only” — to raise their self-esteem but to start breaking many vicious circles for themselves and their children.

This film will make you laugh and cry and admire the courage, sincerity, solidarity, talent and beauty of these amazing women.