Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Return
My academic jaunt lasting slightly more than a year ended a few afternoons ago with the unspectacular act of mailing in my dissertation. The lapse in blogging activity is directly correlated to the intensification of the dissertation work, which lasted up to several months after my return to Singapore.
On top of that, being on Facebook seems to have siphoned off some creative juice and reduced the impetus for writing beyond a single sentence. A somewhat addictive yet hollow form of self-expression, perhaps the fast-food equivalent of maintaining an online presence. It is definitely useful for pictures and its' real-time nature helped enhance online interaction to make up for the shortfall in physical interaction with folks back home, but now that most of the people on my friend list are a phone call away on the same tiny little island, I'm once again yearning for that little spot of cyberspace where I present myself as a distinct entity rather than in relation to a whole slew of comments, friend networks, groups and whatnot. Where people actually click on it to see what I have to say, implying intent and free-will rather than to have it shoved into their feed (chances are one can probably edit some settings to sort it out, but I'm one of those that find life more exciting in analog). It might be slightly narcissistic or I could be doing everyone else a favour, depending on how you look at it.
Anyway, here's one from memory:
My first adventure to The Jolly Angler was distinctly off the beaten track for any foreign student. A dimly-lit, maze-like grid of small back roads behind Manchester Piccadilly station had me wondering who on earth would open a pub in such an obscure location, flanked by warehouses and workshops on one side and relatively upmarket residences on the other, both of which were eerily quiet at 2100hrs. The fact that this was smack in the middle of town where everywhere else was bustling with people being or getting drunk was even more baffling.
It all started from a chance encounter with a brochure detailing the activities for St Paddy's Day, which included a list of pubs with traditional Irish music. Being a sucker for new musical quests and never one to pass up on a good pint of Guinness, I duly embarked on an expedition to seek out these venues, starting with this one near a central train station.
In the darkness of the street there stood a solitary lamp post, illuminating the perpendicularly-mounted pub signboard which has become synonymous with the presence of a watering hole, a welcome sight for thirsty travelers in dire need of refreshment. As I walked up to the entrance in anticipation of respite from the biting chill of evening wind, the muffled strain of fiddles from behind the curtains meant that the session (an informal gathering of musicians to play, what most other musicians would know as a jam) was already in full swing.
While it wasn't quite the proverbial pin-dropping silence as often dramatised when an out-of-towner steps into the local joint, a few curious glances above pints were cast my way as I stepped in, perhaps wondering how lost a wayward tourist could get. I walked up to the bar counter with steely resolve, trying my best to exude a sense of purpose that proclaimed my presence here to be no accident. Naturally, I ordered a pint of Guinness from the bespectacled elderly gentleman, presumably the landlord.
“That'll be 2.50 please.”, said he as his aged, trembling hands threatened to ruin at any moment the immaculately formed head of creamy off-white foam, the product of the perfect pour just slightly mushrooming over the edge of the pint glass and held in place by liquid surface tension. In this instance (and all future instances) the Guinness prevailed, with shamrock intact. I then sat down at a table next to the one around which the musicians had gathered, squeezed in with various other punters conversing with much lilt and flanked by a wall covered with black and white photos of Manchester United teams dating back to before they were anywhere close to the Premier League.
Thus began my introduction to traditional Irish music and the Irish community, enthralled by melodies and rhythms played on fiddles, tenor banjos, bodhrans, tin whistles, flutes, mandolins, guitars, Uilleann pipes, accordions and concertinas by musicians both much younger and older than myself. To the uninitiated, the entire session lasting several hours might have as well been just 2 different songs repeated ad nauseum but me being terminally curious about music of humble folk origins, attentive listening revealed a myriad of (I'm usually loathe to use this tired cliche – these days an excuse for excessive processing and over-production – but perhaps the most technically accurate in this case) musical textures and melodic inventiveness. Even when stripped down to a single instrument, the lively tunes being played never failed to evoke highly-spirited foot-tapping or energetic dancing when space permitted. It didn't even matter sometimes if space didn't permit.
What impressed me even more than the music was the genuine friendliness extended to me by the Irish community. Conversations were easily struck up and upon learning that I played guitar, the musicians insisted on some music from me. I obliged with some initial apprehension, not quite sure how the sounds of African-American blues being reproduced by an Asian chap from far away might come across. Suffice to say, though I never did join them at the table for sessions (not for a lack of asking, but more out of my own prudence), whenever I stayed on after it was over I was always asked to give a tune or two, a request I could never turn down.
It was also through these conversations that I gained insight into the early life of the first generation of Irish to come to England. Chris was approaching 70, a short, stout gentleman whose bespectacled face was ruddy from years in the sun, occasionally enhanced by the day's earlier festivities. He walked with a slight hobble, his knees worn out by long hours of manual labour in his teens. A bricklayer by trade, now retired and a proud father of several musicians as well as a passionate owner of 3 Alsatians, he was never short of narratives of the difficulties an Irish immigrant faced in England. However, there was nary a trace of bitterness as he related these events, something which I always bore in mind as I encountered some trying times of my own as a foreign student, even if they paled in comparison to those of Chris's.
I didn't get to talk much to James, but he always had a ready grin and a thumbs-up for you if you weren't within hand-shaking distance at the pub. Gaunt with the slight hunch that comes with more than seventy years of age, his greying hair with streaks of black was neatly parted in a wavy fashion. He was always dressed in a simple white short-sleeved shirt and black trousers, the most flashy item on his person being the slightly tarnished watch on his hand. However, what struck me most about him was the energy with which he hit the dance floor, exceeding that of someone a quarter his age. His nifty footwork bore some resemblance to the traditional Irish style of dancing, though perhaps not as technical and more a reflection of his free-spirited, uninhibited approach to enjoying the music, always bringing on cheers and hoots of encouragement as he skipped and darted across the floor. I used to think that I would love to be like Mick Jagger at his age, but James has since taken this position in my aspirations.
Over the course of the year I imbibed many a pint of Guinness at the Jolly (a more affectionate abbreviation), all cheerfully served by the landlord Michael or his wife Sheila, who always keep some guitars in the pub for ad hoc musical sharing and appreciated my renditions of blues.
I've also been invited to a baby-christening ceremony for a daughter of Jean-Louise - a mean accordion player with some of the sharpest looking boots I've ever seen – held at a Catholic church, complete with some fabulous food, drink and tunes at the family home after.
I've also shared many a pint and tune with Grace, a fiery red-headed tin whistle player and fiddler whose wild-child tendencies belie an intense passion for both music and life and intense loyalty to her friends and family. I credit her with some of the most lurid jokes I've ever heard and committed to memory. Ask me.
I've also tried some of the strongest alcohol I will ever taste in my life, from an unlabelled bottle taken out of a personal stash that never sees the light of day. Poteen.
Fast forward to my very last evening in Manchester, fittingly at the Jolly after a hearty Italian meal with some of the afore-mentioned characters. After the session, I was roundly serenaded with Danny Boy, a song regarded as a tired old chestnut in some quarters and pigeonholed into Irish culture along with four-leaf clovers, leprechauns and Guinness, about as much as Asian culture gets stereotyped by kung-fu, slanty eyes and General Tso's chicken. It happens a lot more often and blatantly than you might imagine.
However, sung in this context with its original intent, the song bore much more meaning and significance than all the other times I'd heard it. Rounding it off with a healthy swig of Jamesons and heartfelt goodbyes, I stepped out of the Jolly and lingered for a few moments under the solitary lamp post.
With the Irish hospitality of being welcomed into homes and lives etched in my memories and fiddle tunes playing in my mind, I walked down the dark backstreets of Manchester from where I came, this time no longer a stranger. Or wayward tourist.
On top of that, being on Facebook seems to have siphoned off some creative juice and reduced the impetus for writing beyond a single sentence. A somewhat addictive yet hollow form of self-expression, perhaps the fast-food equivalent of maintaining an online presence. It is definitely useful for pictures and its' real-time nature helped enhance online interaction to make up for the shortfall in physical interaction with folks back home, but now that most of the people on my friend list are a phone call away on the same tiny little island, I'm once again yearning for that little spot of cyberspace where I present myself as a distinct entity rather than in relation to a whole slew of comments, friend networks, groups and whatnot. Where people actually click on it to see what I have to say, implying intent and free-will rather than to have it shoved into their feed (chances are one can probably edit some settings to sort it out, but I'm one of those that find life more exciting in analog). It might be slightly narcissistic or I could be doing everyone else a favour, depending on how you look at it.
Anyway, here's one from memory:
My first adventure to The Jolly Angler was distinctly off the beaten track for any foreign student. A dimly-lit, maze-like grid of small back roads behind Manchester Piccadilly station had me wondering who on earth would open a pub in such an obscure location, flanked by warehouses and workshops on one side and relatively upmarket residences on the other, both of which were eerily quiet at 2100hrs. The fact that this was smack in the middle of town where everywhere else was bustling with people being or getting drunk was even more baffling.
It all started from a chance encounter with a brochure detailing the activities for St Paddy's Day, which included a list of pubs with traditional Irish music. Being a sucker for new musical quests and never one to pass up on a good pint of Guinness, I duly embarked on an expedition to seek out these venues, starting with this one near a central train station.
In the darkness of the street there stood a solitary lamp post, illuminating the perpendicularly-mounted pub signboard which has become synonymous with the presence of a watering hole, a welcome sight for thirsty travelers in dire need of refreshment. As I walked up to the entrance in anticipation of respite from the biting chill of evening wind, the muffled strain of fiddles from behind the curtains meant that the session (an informal gathering of musicians to play, what most other musicians would know as a jam) was already in full swing.
While it wasn't quite the proverbial pin-dropping silence as often dramatised when an out-of-towner steps into the local joint, a few curious glances above pints were cast my way as I stepped in, perhaps wondering how lost a wayward tourist could get. I walked up to the bar counter with steely resolve, trying my best to exude a sense of purpose that proclaimed my presence here to be no accident. Naturally, I ordered a pint of Guinness from the bespectacled elderly gentleman, presumably the landlord.
“That'll be 2.50 please.”, said he as his aged, trembling hands threatened to ruin at any moment the immaculately formed head of creamy off-white foam, the product of the perfect pour just slightly mushrooming over the edge of the pint glass and held in place by liquid surface tension. In this instance (and all future instances) the Guinness prevailed, with shamrock intact. I then sat down at a table next to the one around which the musicians had gathered, squeezed in with various other punters conversing with much lilt and flanked by a wall covered with black and white photos of Manchester United teams dating back to before they were anywhere close to the Premier League.
Thus began my introduction to traditional Irish music and the Irish community, enthralled by melodies and rhythms played on fiddles, tenor banjos, bodhrans, tin whistles, flutes, mandolins, guitars, Uilleann pipes, accordions and concertinas by musicians both much younger and older than myself. To the uninitiated, the entire session lasting several hours might have as well been just 2 different songs repeated ad nauseum but me being terminally curious about music of humble folk origins, attentive listening revealed a myriad of (I'm usually loathe to use this tired cliche – these days an excuse for excessive processing and over-production – but perhaps the most technically accurate in this case) musical textures and melodic inventiveness. Even when stripped down to a single instrument, the lively tunes being played never failed to evoke highly-spirited foot-tapping or energetic dancing when space permitted. It didn't even matter sometimes if space didn't permit.
What impressed me even more than the music was the genuine friendliness extended to me by the Irish community. Conversations were easily struck up and upon learning that I played guitar, the musicians insisted on some music from me. I obliged with some initial apprehension, not quite sure how the sounds of African-American blues being reproduced by an Asian chap from far away might come across. Suffice to say, though I never did join them at the table for sessions (not for a lack of asking, but more out of my own prudence), whenever I stayed on after it was over I was always asked to give a tune or two, a request I could never turn down.
It was also through these conversations that I gained insight into the early life of the first generation of Irish to come to England. Chris was approaching 70, a short, stout gentleman whose bespectacled face was ruddy from years in the sun, occasionally enhanced by the day's earlier festivities. He walked with a slight hobble, his knees worn out by long hours of manual labour in his teens. A bricklayer by trade, now retired and a proud father of several musicians as well as a passionate owner of 3 Alsatians, he was never short of narratives of the difficulties an Irish immigrant faced in England. However, there was nary a trace of bitterness as he related these events, something which I always bore in mind as I encountered some trying times of my own as a foreign student, even if they paled in comparison to those of Chris's.
I didn't get to talk much to James, but he always had a ready grin and a thumbs-up for you if you weren't within hand-shaking distance at the pub. Gaunt with the slight hunch that comes with more than seventy years of age, his greying hair with streaks of black was neatly parted in a wavy fashion. He was always dressed in a simple white short-sleeved shirt and black trousers, the most flashy item on his person being the slightly tarnished watch on his hand. However, what struck me most about him was the energy with which he hit the dance floor, exceeding that of someone a quarter his age. His nifty footwork bore some resemblance to the traditional Irish style of dancing, though perhaps not as technical and more a reflection of his free-spirited, uninhibited approach to enjoying the music, always bringing on cheers and hoots of encouragement as he skipped and darted across the floor. I used to think that I would love to be like Mick Jagger at his age, but James has since taken this position in my aspirations.
Over the course of the year I imbibed many a pint of Guinness at the Jolly (a more affectionate abbreviation), all cheerfully served by the landlord Michael or his wife Sheila, who always keep some guitars in the pub for ad hoc musical sharing and appreciated my renditions of blues.
I've also been invited to a baby-christening ceremony for a daughter of Jean-Louise - a mean accordion player with some of the sharpest looking boots I've ever seen – held at a Catholic church, complete with some fabulous food, drink and tunes at the family home after.
I've also shared many a pint and tune with Grace, a fiery red-headed tin whistle player and fiddler whose wild-child tendencies belie an intense passion for both music and life and intense loyalty to her friends and family. I credit her with some of the most lurid jokes I've ever heard and committed to memory. Ask me.
I've also tried some of the strongest alcohol I will ever taste in my life, from an unlabelled bottle taken out of a personal stash that never sees the light of day. Poteen.
Fast forward to my very last evening in Manchester, fittingly at the Jolly after a hearty Italian meal with some of the afore-mentioned characters. After the session, I was roundly serenaded with Danny Boy, a song regarded as a tired old chestnut in some quarters and pigeonholed into Irish culture along with four-leaf clovers, leprechauns and Guinness, about as much as Asian culture gets stereotyped by kung-fu, slanty eyes and General Tso's chicken. It happens a lot more often and blatantly than you might imagine.
However, sung in this context with its original intent, the song bore much more meaning and significance than all the other times I'd heard it. Rounding it off with a healthy swig of Jamesons and heartfelt goodbyes, I stepped out of the Jolly and lingered for a few moments under the solitary lamp post.
With the Irish hospitality of being welcomed into homes and lives etched in my memories and fiddle tunes playing in my mind, I walked down the dark backstreets of Manchester from where I came, this time no longer a stranger. Or wayward tourist.
