Lazing on a Summer Afternoon

Was it only in October I was here? It's January, it's cold. Let's daydream.

In Which My Manager Shows Faith In Me

There's a phrase I use: "I wound up learning more than I really wanted to know about ....". Recently I have had to write some code in VBA for Powerpoint. I regard all presentation programs as if not abominations then certainly not something a Real Man would use. Real Men speak clearly, from memory, without visual aids and for no more than three minutes. But here I was this week, searching the Internet for some code that would break links between a workbook and a presentation. My excuse is that I didn't have time to read about the Powerpoint object model and work it out for myself. I know I can record a macro, but macros have a habit of referring to "ActiveWhatever" and what you really need is the name of the object and it collection so you can loop through all the text boxes on all the slides - or whatever.

The real point isn't about Powerpoint, it's about the manager who told everyone I could automate a presentation with about fifty links to different graphs and tables in a workbook. So that someone else could just press a couple of buttons and what used to take two guys two weeks would now take one guy a couple of days (there's some unavoidable manual fiddling involved). I had a rough idea it could be done, but with Office you never know if you're going to be tripped up by some arcane detail in the object model, forcing you to a complete re-design. I didn't know it could be done. The manager believed that if it could be done, I could do it. When someone has that kind of faith in you, it's very motivating. And it's the first time that's happened at The Bank.

Movies about Music - Part 2

You can point out that Sex and Drugs and Rock 'N Roll isn't a movie about music, it's a movie about a pop star - after all, why else would we be watching it? But why would we watch a film about a pop star? Because they made love to more and better-looking women than we did, or that they took more and better drugs, or that they had rows in big houses with swimming pools? Because we didn't already know they were screw-ups? Uh-huh. Their lives are interesting because they wrote Reasons To Be Cheerful, or Like A Rolling Stone or Love Will Tear Us Apart or even, for that matter, Always On Time.

I understand how philosophers can philosophise, mathematicians can produce creative mathematics, how J S Bach wrote his music and John Coltrane improvised. I know what it's like to have stories appear in my head from a sudden burst of sunshine. I get how painters can paint, though I can't do it, and I get how photographers can see a photograph. I can "pick up my guitar and play" in a kind of baroque-y improvisational style.

But I have no idea, not the slightest glimpse of an insight, into how someone can sit down and write Please Please Me, or Summertime, or Big Yellow Taxi, or Stuck Inside of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again, let alone how Jam and Lewis wrote those songs for the SOS Band. I have never, ever had a tune and a lyric drift through my head. Not once. I don't even understand how it's possible. And neither, I'm guessing, do you. I bet there are respected composers who have never had a possible chart-topper pass through their heads. Don't you want to know how Stepping Out happened?



Songwriters often don't do anything else, as if it is such a different use of the mind and personality that it won't let them be programmers or advertising creatives or tax inspectors before or afterwards. With a handful of exceptions they don't write songs for long either: they are more like athletes than, say, physicists. Like Auden said about poets, they burn bright and not for long, unlike novelists or conventional composers.

In a similar vein, The Damned United wasn't only nothing like the real life of Brian Clough, it was also a bad film about football - at the end of it you had no idea why or how he could take two medium-level sides to the very top of the game. The best film about football I've seen was Zidane, eighty minutes during which the camera just follows Zidane and you barely see the rest of the match. It was utterly riveting and informative.

The best movie about music (that isn't a straightforward bio) is Godard's Sympathy For The Devil, which is about equal amounts of the Rolling Stones trying out the song in the studio and classic Godardian agit-prop. What's surprising the first time you see this movie is that the song started its life as a blues jam going nowhere: it's only half-way through that we return to the studio to find the congas going and Nicky Hopkins going full-bore on the piano, in the arrangement that made it a classic. The moment that happens is not on film, but there's the sense of work, of trial-and-error, that even the greatest rock 'n roll band sometimes goes for a stretch with no clue of what a song needs.

Movies About Music - Part 1

I saw Sex And Drugs And Rock 'N Roll yesterday: it's supposed to be about Ian Dury. You can look up the details of his life here. You'd better do, because you won't learn anything about it from the film. It opens with him rehearsing while Olivia Williams is giving birth upstairs - that's to let you know he's a self-obsessed screw-up and it pretty much carries on from there in the same vein. You will not find out that he studied at the Royal College of Art under Peter Blake (there's a scene where his bullied son asks if they are "posh", Dury says "we're Arts and Crafts". Not from the RCA he isn't - he's posh.) He was an art teacher married with a young daughter who decides to get into rock 'n roll. Way too late in life. There's no attempt to explain that, it's just a given, and the man remains therefore a total mystery or a bag of bad behaviour.

The Blockheads are appallingly treated by the film - depicted as a bunch of no-hopers when they were in fact one of the tightest British bands that ever performed (right up there with the Average White Band) and they performed music that was closer to jazz-funk than rock 'n roll. Check this out.



Where did these guys come from and how did they stay in such good musical shape? Chas Jankel, who is a songwriter good enough to have Quincy Jones cover one of his songs and get an international hit with it (Ai No Corrida), appears from nowhere, gets hired and disappears into a back room to churn out hit after hit to Dury's lyrics. Like they didn't already know who he was before they hired him. To see the movie, you'd think no-one ever rehearsed or discussed arrangements - and yet they must have done. A song as good as Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick does nto appear like Venus from the head of Jupiter.

The movie addresses none of this. Instead we get a decent forty minutes or so of Andy Serkis with a band performing Dury's songs - and doing a damn good job of it - and the usual tales of, well, sex and drugs and rock 'n roll. It's a good a way of passing Sunday afternoon at the movies, but it ain't about the life of a musician.

I Can't Live Without... Lunch

Some people in the office bring in sandwiches and fruit, some fly the nest of the office for just long enough to scavenge a baked potato or a Subway, some aim a little higher with a baguette from Paul or a hand-made sandwich from a local cafe. Over the week, I do: sushi from Yoshino or Itsu, baguette from Paul or sandwich from Eat, chicken salad from La Torre.... Friday is generally a decent steak from one of the brasseries. But every now and then, there is no substitute for sitting up at the bar at Ed's on Old Compton Street and munching through the burger, a bowl of fries and a vanilla shakes...

... unless, that is, it's sitting at the counter at Fernandez and Wells on Lexington Street with one of their wonderful meat stews and some bread. James the chef there says it's all down to the ingredients, and fine ingredients they are too, but he's being modest about his own considerable skills.

It's been too damn cold and depressing to go out recently, but it looks like the weather has turned back from snow to mere rain and it may just be possible to consider going home at 21:00 hours after an early evening movie again.

How Commuting Leads To Insignificance

Looking at people around my Tuesday meeting, I was caused to wonder about significance. What significance did the glances, smiles and meetings of eye have? Back in the day, a smile from a pretty girl was the second most significant thing in the world, exceeded only by a steady, measured, eye-to-eye gaze that could mean only one thing. By contrast I knew that the little contacts in the Room had no significance at all. Why not? Because I was going to get on my train home and they were going to get on theirs. We were not going to share so much as a cup of coffee, let alone a bed and a night. It's the same as interviewing with an potential employer: the moment they say the don't want to take it further, that's it. They forget you, you forget them. They become something less than strangers, because now you know they hold no possibilities for you. Significance is about consequences and consequentials: if nothing follows from it, nothing about it matters. This is why our interactions with culture can be as meaningful than our interactions with people: reading a book can change the way I act, think and feel, as can talking to someone. This doesn't mean those polite, short exchanges with strangers to whom we give directions, or from whom we buy our lunch, aren't pleasant and neither are they meaningless, on the contrary, they mean that we are pleasant, well-mannered members of society. It means that they lead nowhere. They are a contact between us in our roles, not between us as people. It does not matter what they think of me, what they might hope of me, nor me of them. It isn't going to happen. The trains are leaving to take us back to our dormitory suburbs. This is why life at a residential university is more intense: because you are always within walking distance. There is nothing pulling you apart. Separation is not built into the very reason you are there, whereas it is when I sit in a Room in central London. We meet by train and we will be separated by train, on the same day. We have no choice: the train with the flat or house at the other end awaits.

What Were You Doing at 03:45 on Sunday?

I was making an application for a £15,000, 60 month loan via my Internet banking facility. I was offered a rate of 8.5% - as befits my stellar credit rating - and told the guys on the other end of the phone that I'd got an acceptable rate. They thanked me and we all went back to bed, happy in the knowledge that the deployment of the latest price change was okay. One of the largest financial institutions in the world needs to have a member of staff make a test over the Internet to see if the pricing engine for one of its product lines works properly. As in, doesn't fall over because it couldn't find a file, not as in, gave the right price. We already knew it did that. You would expect that the IT department of one the largest financial institutions in the world would have the ability to make tests on the live system, but no. In fact, nobody can make tests on the live system and they don't have a demonstrator in the office either. I asked about this and was given all the usual evasive answers: fraud, cost, fraud, security and fraud. In other words, there wasn't a good reason, someone in IT just didn't want to do it.

But then I one worked for the biggest name in telecoms and they had no systematic way of testing routes either. At least they could make test calls from their switch, but only one or two. I had to source a fax directory for them so they had test numbers for Kazakhstan and places like that. You can't always get what you want on the Internet.

And yet they will send mystery shoppers into their branches. Go figure.