Tag Archives: Music

Pat Metheny plays Milan and, in spite of no vocals, I go and watch

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Even if I was good, in spite of what Gail might say, this cannot possibly describe how good it was.

But first, some background.  Music.  I like music but, with the exception of some songs/artists, I wouldn’t call myself a ‘music lover’.  I like what I like – some of it good and some of it, maybe, to you, bad.  I wasn’t brought up in a house full of music even if my paternal grandmother taught us to play the piano (well, “play” – I say play in the loosest sense).  Certainly it was not a household filled with classical music, my parents never really going in for record buying in a big way.

I found music at about the age of 13 when I was given a radio for Christmas and my maternal grandmother introduced me to Top of the Pops and, in particular, Mott the Hoople (because my mother used to sit on the same school bus as Mick Ralphs).  I listened to a crackly, distorted Radio Luxembourg, late at night, under the bedclothes.

My passion was voices and, especially, the more unusual, rougher, deep voices – ones that seemed to have something to say (or sing).

And then I started to go to concerts.  Many, many concerts.  I loved (still love) going to concerts.  There’s something about seeing someone ‘live’ that just cannot be captured by disc.

But, there was always a point in the concert (every concert) that I really disliked, almost hated.  This was the part where the musicians showed off their talent with whatever instrument they played.  I found (find) it boring.  Improvisation – just another word for making noise.  I mean I could tell they were talented but that didn’t make it enjoyable for me.  It’s noise without words and, for me, a song is all about the words and the singers voice.

We were going to see Pat Metheny.  F had played some tracks to me on several occasions.  But ours is a new relationship and I don’t want to say that I find it rubbish (which isn’t exactly true since I can tell he has great skill – it’s just boring).  He loves Pat Metheny and what he loves I love (but for entirely different reasons).  I bought the tickets.  €50 a pop!  And I wasn’t even going to enjoy it!

And so, it was last night.  At Teatro Smeraldo in Milan.  OK, so I would be bored but, at least, given he was away last week and we are both away this week, we would be together and maybe have a beer and pizza or something.

I wanted to go for a beer first but he was excited and wanted to go in and take our seats.  OK, I get it.  I would be the same for me with someone like Joan.  We go in and sit down.  I got the tickets late so we are near the back but, maybe, this will be better – at least for me.

The crowd is younger (not that young but younger than me) than I expected.  Full of nerdy-type people who listen to music without vocals.  Ah well, it will only be a couple of hours, I say to myself.

The lights dim and the crowd, whilst not exactly going wild, cheer and clap and are obviously keen to see ‘the man’.  I clap politely, as one does.  I am happy for F who is very excited about this.

The man comes on looking a little like a throw-back from the 60s.  He plays his guitar(s).  I try not to be bored.  I try to listen.  It’s OK, I suppose but I can’t help thinking that a bit of vocals never really hurt any song.  The songs he plays go on a little long for me.  About 3 minutes too long if I am honest.

And then…………

WARNING – if you intend to see him on his latest tour, I suggest you don’t read the rest of this as you will appreciate it so much more if it is a surprise.  If you’re one of those people not going to see him or who are but always find your Christmas presents before Christmas………..then carry on

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A Charming Life

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I was worried.

What if, when I saw him, I wouldn’t feel that ‘thing’?  It hadn’t seemed so difficult and, in a weird way, I had actually enjoyed it.  I went out with A a couple of times and had a few beers.  Sure, I missed him but, you know, it’s life and we both have work to contend with and he loves his and so, if it means a week away, then so be it.  I had time to watch some episodes of The Tudors, season 3, which I had bought ages ago and never even unwrapped.  I had a glass or two of wine in the evening.  Tried to groom Dino a bit.  It wasn’t so bad at all.

Perhaps, I began to think, it would be easier like this?  And, if I didn’t seem to miss him so much then perhaps I didn’t, after all?  Perhaps I was trying to ‘hold on to it all’ just because the alternative for me is unthinkable?

I got to the airport and sat waiting at the exit.  He had already come out and so, a few minutes later appeared behind me.  I was disappointed that I hadn’t made it in time to see him come out and the ‘thing’ didn’t really come then because I didn’t see him from a distance.

We kissed on each cheek.  We chatted as we walked to the car.  When we got in we kissed.  And there it was.  The ‘Karl spark’ still there.  As we drove back to the city we chatted more but I knew that I was really pleased to see him and not just to see anyone but him and him alone.

I dropped him off at home and drove the two minutes to park near mine.  I tidied up a bit since he said he might come over – he missed the ‘babies’ (as he calls them – no, as we both do now).  We agreed that I would take them for a walk and he would meet us outside.  He wanted to see Dino go crazy.

We got out of the door.  He wasn’t around.  I hung on a little and lit a cigarette.  The boys didn’t really understand why we weren’t going on with the walk.  I saw him come round the corner.  He motioned me to be quiet, not that he needed to do that.  The dogs and I started slowly on.  He caught us up and started walking with us.  Dino looked at him a couple of times.

Then he suddenly realised who it was and went crazy with excitement.  You have no idea how much it pleases me – both that Dino loves him but also that he loves Dino.

He had bought presents.  A couple of Shaun the Sheep videos, some Royal Tea Bags (which are really funny), some Shaun the Sheep fridge magnets and some other stuff and Joan Armatrading’s new album.

I write this because I just started playing it.  The title track being the first track and the one that reminds me of the older Joan stuff.  Fabulous.

And I love the way that she still seems to ‘speak’ for me and tell of my current life (more or less).  And the first one does.  For, as I’ve said before, I’m a lucky guy.  Many, many things just seems to work out.  It is, indeed, a charmed life.

You know you came
Into the room alone
But when you left
Then I found that you took my heart
It sounds so corny yes I know it does
But truth is the shade
I choose to wear
I live and love with you
This charming life.

I do, indeed, live and love with you a charming life.

Well, this hasn’t happened for…..ummm….well…..bloody years!

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Yesterday, about 1.30 p.m. I went home.

I felt ill.  I mean, really crappy, shitty and I couldn’t stay any more.

I slept quite a bit, had several Oxo drinks (my own secret solution to any illness) and, later when F came to see me, some Tachiflu (even if it’s not flu, I’m sure) and took my temperature (‘cos Italians like to take temperatures) because he had bought a thermometer, even though I told him it wasn’t necessary.  I did feel he was slightly disapproving of the fact that I didn’t actually have a temperature.  He also bought some orange juice, the Tachiflu, some milk and some beef burgers (he thought I would be off work today which, obviously, I am not!) – very sweet of him though, for sure.

My temperature was normal.  Of course!  I’m afraid I don’t get ‘fever’ which seems his answer to every slight change in how your body feels.  However, I still felt shitty.  The last time I took time off from work because of feeling ill was so long ago that I can’t even remember it.  Perhaps it’s an age thing.  Anyway, half a day off work in, say, 15 years, isn’t so bad, I think.

Oh yes and we had a FB chat thing about Susan Boyle, who appeared at the San Remo festival last night.  He said she looked really good, which surprised me.  He then replied that she had had her hair done and had a good dress on.  I replied that it wouldn’t make that much difference.  He replied that it made her look like Linda Evangelista – which made me laugh a lot.  I then replied saying that Linda may be very unhappy with that comparison but Susan probably wouldn’t be.

I’m dreaming of a White Christmas

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Not quite what you think.  This would be what I am talking about.  Italy, with it’s long history of emigration rather than immigration, can’t handle it in so many ways.  But to be doing house-to-house searches?  This country has many throw-backs from the Fascist era, including Identity Cards, etc. and this reminds me of the type of thing they (The Germans and Italians) did prior to and during WWII.

And this differs from the laws introduced by Hitler before ‘The Final Solution’ only in the fact that there are no gas chambers involved.

To my mind it is a despicable thing to do.  I understand that a country cannot just ‘open it’s doors’ to all that want to come, especially when they see the prospect of a much better and economically more viable life.  However, wasn’t this similar to the things depicted by Anne Frank (again, without the gas chambers, admittedly).

Even though the news is being made here, don’t think, for a moment, that this is the terrible work of a bunch of extremist politicians.  Worse than this is the thinking of ‘ordinary people’.  You know, people like you and me!  Comments made to me here, as I have mentioned at odd times before, distress me for the fact that, although they don’t actually lead to the deportation of people or the raiding of houses, they are the reason that these things are being done by the politicians.

I have heard, far too often how the immigrants are to blame for many of the country’s woes, both here and in the UK.  Of course, it is useful for the politicians as it deflects the blame from them to these unknown and, therefore, frightening ‘flood’ of foreigners.

And, I keep thinking that, in the end, I am one of them.  Sure, lucky enough to have a job; lucky enough to have white skin; lucky enough to have been born in the EU, where the borders now allow me to live where I want within the EU; lucky enough, now, to have a white boyfriend – because there were times (a few) when I have been very scared for both V and myself; lucky enough.

But life could be very different were it not for my place of birth and my parents nationality and so on.

And, just in case you think I joke about how the UK is the same – I remember a ‘friend’ blaming the eastern Europeans for ‘bringing problems to the area’ for the increase in crime, for not feeling safe in her own town, etc.  And that leads to the BNP gaining more power.  Now, imagine that the BNP held the balance of power in the Government – what do you think happens then?

But it’s Christmas, and so, just because it is (and because I love this song), I include this:

[Video now removed as it didn’t work and I don’t remember what it was. Sorry]

So I may not have Christmas carols everywhere but at least I shall have Doris and Bing!

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It’s funny, really.  I only thought about it today but I know what’s different.

Christmas Carols.  There aren’t any.  Sure, we have the same kind of piped music in the shops.  Maria Carey with her greatest Christmas Hits, blaring out, not so subtly, for example.  But what I don’t see (although maybe it’s just Milan, or, even Milan centre) is groups of people singing Christmas Carols.

What we do have at this time of year is street vendors selling chestnuts, which is nice; flashing lights round people’s balconies or windows (thank God that the fad for Santas climbing up ladders seems to have almost gone); decorated trees or some sort of modern version in most shops; beautiful Christmas lights down the main streets or the little ‘centres’ that are outside the centre of Milan but are their own little community, like on a section of Via Stoppani, for example.

We also have (or have had) the local priest coming round to bless the ‘house’ although, being at work, I always miss it, which is, probably, just as well.

And last night, as I walked into F’s flat, there were Christmas songs being played.  Now I should point out that, for the last 20 years, on the dot of the 1st December, out came the Christmas CDs.  Some of which I didn’t have a problem with.  However, after the hundredth hearing of Maria Carey’s (breathy) Ultra-Special Christmas Album, I’d had enough.  So by about the 10th December I didn’t want to hear any Christmas songs again!

The difference, which was refreshing, was that last night it was all the sort of stuff I like – Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como and, even, Doris Day!  All the kind of stuff that I really do like at Christmas. But what he doesn’t seem to have is an Italian singer’s Christmas album (I shall, of course, check now).

So I may not have Christmas carols everywhere but at least I shall have Doris and Bing!

I feel somewhat sorry for him as this is shit.

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It’s no good.  I’ve tried everything, short of half a bottle of wine or something.

I get up and get myself a glass of milk, my cigarettes and my book, the one I started months and months ago (before summer?) but, which, over the last few months has remained untouched, unopened, unread and unloved.

I know I shall regret this in the morning but, although tired and although it seems I am almost at the point of sleep, the final hurdle seems insurmountable.

I went to bed later than I had hoped, too.  I even had a wank which used to work wonders but now, not only was it difficult but it made no difference.  Bugger.

The last time I looked at the clock, which displays the time on the ceiling in laser red, it was about 12.45.  I know it’s not because of him but part of me blames him anyway.  After all, it was his decision.  And it is because of him.

But, I knew it was coming, even as I got home; even before we spoke or chatted or texted or anything.

Even if his new flat has no electricity and, so, he cannot go there.

It was (and still is) very cold.  Although not freezing in Milan proper, it is close.  The flat was OK but not so warm when I arrived home, the cleaner ironing and then pointing out the broken handle on the moka and blaming it on Dino.  Another broken thing.  So bloody clumsy.

He texted or phoned to say he was leaving work and going home.  I knew he would not be venturing out last night again.  Not in this cold.  I wanted to say ‘Come here’, as I am on his way home but I knew he would not so I said nothing.  We don’t want to feel needy, do we?

He got home and phoned me.  He said that he was so cold, the heating not having been on in the flat and me not having sorted out his timer thing over the weekend.  We chatted through Facebook for a while.  He called me again.  He said he wouldn’t come over, if I didn’t mind.

Of course I minded even if I knew it was coming or, rather, had the nagging doubt that he wouldn’t come.  I wanted to say ‘but it’s OK for me to suffer the cold before 6 in the morning when I come to your place!’ but, of course, I didn’t.  And, anyway, it is my choice.  He said I could come to him but I said that I had the dogs and I hadn’t spent enough time with them over the weekend and, so, I should stay.  He knew that I would stay and said he understood.

And I wonder, just for a moment, if he has the same thoughts as me?  Well, the same but different, if you see what I mean.

We chatted more on Facebook.  I took the dogs out.  God it was cold.  I hurried through the streets, knowing that, at least, the flat would feel warmer on my return.

It didn’t.  Or, rather, not warm enough.

I went back to Facebook to see some messages from him.  There was a turkey to take on Farmville and he had posted a video.  The video said ‘For You’.  I saw what it was.  I chatted back ‘For me?’.  He chatted ‘Did you like it?’.  I ignored that.  ‘From you?’, I chatted.  ‘Si, Mi (sic) and Diana’.  The video is below.

[April 2015: Unfortunately the video doesn’t work any more and, as I didn’t use to put the name of the song, I don’t remember what it was. Sorry. Video now removed as it doesn’t work.]

As I watched it, my feelings of slight anger dissolved.  But the emotions were mixed.  He wasn’t here and that was the point.  And I wasn’t sure it was really for me; I mean, not in the words although the song maybe.  I had asked before if something was for me, some weeks ago.  He said no but he would tell me if it was.  He had told me this was.  He doesn’t use words so much.  But the sentiments, if for me and if he understood the words well enough, were strong.  As I watched, I felt myself welling up inside.  I choked back a sob and wiped the few tears from my eyes.  I hoped it was true but, if it was true, where the fucking hell was he?  I loved him more and hated him all at the same time.  It’s not as if we were far apart but it felt like the other side of the world.  I briefly contemplated going over to his place.  I wanted him so badly, wanted to hold him and kiss him.  But I wasn’t going to go, I just wanted to.

I chatted.  ‘It made me cry’.

‘Why?’, he asked.  It made me think that, perhaps, it wasn’t the words he was trying to tell me.  You, surely, wouldn’t be asking why if they were?

‘Just cos’, I replied.

‘cos ?’, he queried.

‘It’s difficult…….I don’t know how to say……I don’t know’, I replied.  Afterwards, as I was in bed, I thought that it wasn’t the sentiment he was querying but the word ‘cos’.  Maybe he doesn’t know it’s slang for because.

‘I will phone you now’ he says.  I think he was worried.  I think he didn’t understand and was frightened it was something else (that I don’t understand).  We are open to this mis-communication.  We have a different mother tongue, different culture, etc.

I’m not crying by the time he phones.  I am a bloke.  Blokes don’t cry.  Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him.  We talk about An, the friend of his in London and the problems with her husband and with him (her husband) having had an affair and he told me how he had said to her that he had had the affair because of the problems and the problem was that they hadn’t talked about the problems and that she should make sure they talked about the problems and he said that talking about the problems was better, wasn’t it? …he asked me, finally.  And I agreed and then added that we didn’t talk and he replied that we didn’t have any problems and I thought that we do but that we didn’t talk about them anyway even if they were important and then he mentioned something that is and is not important and I said that I understood that and didn’t have a problem with it and I thought, additionally, since that was not the “problems” I was talking about although I didn’t then say what the problems were but they aren’t problems for him and, with the exception of him not coming down to see me and be with me, the other problems weren’t really problems, at least, not yet but would become problems, I was sure, but in the meantime how could I possibly tell him something about the problems that weren’t but would be.

And, anyway, I’ve already told him but perhaps he’s forgotten.  And I couldn’t mention the problem of tonight because I didn’t want to make him feel guilty and he would, I am sure (well, almost sure), have got re-dressed and come to me and you have no idea how guilty I would feel about that!  Having done that once to him, never again.  It made me feel so bad that he was doing something he really didn’t want to that the pleasure in him doing it was so lost that I thought at the time – Remember this, this moment and how bad you feel and make sure he doesn’t do something just for you when he really doesn’t want to do it, again! Ever!

And so I didn’t say anything, of course.  And then he said he was going to bed.  So he was tired too.  This is a big week for him and I must try and remember that it’s not all about me.  Even if this blog IS all about me.  This is the place and should be the only place that really is about me, with others being only bit players, even if some of them feature often.

And, so, he went to bed.  And, within a few moments so did I.  But it was cold in the bed and I missed him putting his arm round me and I still had all those mixed up and screwed up emotions; loving him and aching for him and hating him (but not really) and understanding but thinking that he didn’t really understand me or my needs or just how much I love him.

And I thought of V.  But not in that way.  V used to say that he thought that he loved me too much.  I thought that it was a stupid thing to say.  I mean, how can someone say ‘I love you too much’ – how can love be too much?  But maybe there’s something in this?  Maybe he had a point?  Maybe it’s just ‘cos I didn’t understand?

And, I decided that, if he really did feel this way, I should have been more sympathetic and understanding.  But I didn’t know.  How could I?  But this, this thing, this feeling or feelings.  Was this what he meant?  And, if so, then I have sympathy or empathy or something like that.  And I wondered why I never felt this about V.  Or, at least, I don’t remember feeling like this about V.  Or is this because I’m not getting everything I want?  But I never had everything I wanted with V either.  But I think you can never get that.  Not everything.

And that’s why I couldn’t sleep as well.  In spite of everything I tried to do.  And the thoughts and the questions remain, this morning.  What is really meant by it all?  He’s fucking up my mind.  And, is this what I did to V?  For 20 years?  And, so, even if it’s not true, if it wasn’t true, I feel somewhat sorry for him as this is shit.

For V

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People ask how it feels to live the kind of life others dream about
I tell them everybody gotta face their highs and their lows
And in my life there’s a love I put aside
‘Cos I was busy loving something else
So for every little thing you hold on to
You’ve got to let something else go

How I wish I, wish I’d done a little bit more
Now shoulda woulda coulda means I’m out of time
‘Cos shoulda woulda coulda can’t change your mind
And I wonder, wonder, wonder what I’m gonna do
Shoulda woulda coulda are the last words of a fool

I hope he does the right thing, if he can and it’s not too late.

Anyway a great song by a great singer for everyone to enjoy.

Borrowing – a loose term here, in Italy

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OK, so, to be honest, even we, in the UK, will say something like – “Can I borrow some sugar?” or “Could I borrow some paper to write on, please?” – when we really will not be borrowing it at all but taking it, using it and, probably, not replacing it.

However, here, there is an element of “borrowing” that one could say was stealing.

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Love and Affection.

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I don’t know why. As you have seen from the last couple of posts, as I am writing, some song or other comes into my head and I have to have it in the post. To be honest, given the current situation with You Tube in the UK, I’m not sure that my UK readers can listen/watch them.

However, I realised that my very favourite song of all time had never been posted by me and I thought it was time to right that wrong.

It also was (is) for me, the perfect song for ‘us’.

So, here it is. Enjoy.

I understand a joke!

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Two men are in the desert.

One says to the other ‘I am very thirsty’

The other replies ‘eighty-eight’.

I am, of course, immensely excited. I cannot believe that I got it. It is, as you may have guessed, what they call ‘lost in translation’ since it’s down to a play on words.

My Italian improves but, oh, so slowly. Obviously it would help if I practised or studied it!

Every morning I listen to the radio on the way to work. I choose to listen to a music station, not unlike how I remember Radio One was before I switched to Radio Four. I would listen to the Italian version of Radio Four (if I even knew what it was) except that I don’t really understand Italian well enough.

So, here I am listening to Radio 105 (actually not on 105 but on 99.1 or something – don’t ask, we’re in Italy) and, every morning at about 10 to 8 they have a jokes section. People phone up and leave a recorded message telling their joke. They play about 5 jokes. I listen and try to understand. Sometimes I understand two or three sentences but never enough to get the punchline.

Mondays are when they play the kids jokes. I’ve been waiting for so long now to understand a Monday morning joke (on the basis that, if it’s kids, they will tell simpler jokes and speak in simpler Italian)

And, this morning I got this one.

OK. You may not think it is funny, however, you have to translate it into Italian to get it – which means it is even better that I understood!

‘I am very thirsty’ more or less translates into Italian as ‘Ho tanta sete’. Because the ‘h’ is not pronounced in Italian, it sounds similar (particularly to my ears) to ottantasette which is 87. Unsurprisingly, then, ottantotto was the response, meaning 88.

See, it just doesn’t work in English – but I got it! Finally!

It may not be the best joke in the world but it’s the first one I have fully understood and I didn’t even think about it in English!!!! I would like to thank the kid who allowed a stranger in a very strange land to have a first and start the week off so well.