Everything is determined by the space
around it.

Its negative shadow marks it and indicates
where it has just been.

A person entering a room only enters by not
entering but letting the room come their way.

And cities are determined not by their audacity
but by the vacuum they leave, like collapsed
stars.

fire above wood, wind.

I press on. The thickness of the forest encloses me. I feel insulated. Now and then I stop to pluck a blackberry from a bramble. Burrs cling to my clothes. Branches spring across my body and face.
Here one is never far from the sea. Even in this forest, behind these mountains, on the shores of this lake, it can be sensed.
Weather changing over oceans. Storms that batter the land in winter. The rocky headlands and sandy dunes; the clumps of stiff sharp grass.

So much time has passed. When I was last in the city it had changed. It had grown. It had been rebuilt and repaired. The damage of the war was covered over in a veneer of modernity. In places it was unrecognisable.

My old life has passed away. My connections have changed. I have shed one skin for another. One life for another. Again I have taken refuge in the mountains. I have retreated into the heart of the forest. Now I live on the northern shore of the lake.

I walk alone. Yet she is with me. I have seen her. I have been with her.
I came to her in front of an old church. In a distant city. Rain fell around us. There was a clinging mist. We knew at once.
She was finely dressed. She stood on the cobblestones of an old quarter. Her life was of elegance, of luxury. 'Yet,' she said to me that evening, 'I am locked in grandeur.'
We walked to her avenue apartment. It overlooked long gardens. The trees all neatly trimmed and in a line. In front of a palace of past royalty. From her bedroom I heard the sound of traffic. It slunk by like an endless procession of mourners.
I took her hand. I caressed her face. Feeling it blindly as though my fingers were eyes. As though her bones, her skin were pages in which were written our past. Age had not come to claim us. We were as young as when we first met. We were as old as the panoply of lives between us.
Again I wanted to see her cotton dress over the back of the chair. I wanted to see her boots on the floor. Once again I wish to sit quietly by the river; to watch it flow over the stones as the silence enveloped us.
We had held each other. I felt the warmth of her breath on my neck. She listened as I whispered in her ear.

I stood by the window, looking to the street below. I watched the figures move over the pavement. I saw the taxis pulling up in front of doorways and hotels. There were buses, cars, youthful faces on motorbikes. The sky turned from rain-grey to orange and blue.

We ate in an old room. It had a high ceiling and long table. The chef brought the dish himself. A silver bowl full of a delicate stew. He set it at the centre of the table. It gleamed in the warm candle light. He asked us to appreciate it. A rich sauce with herbs and the meat of many fish. She opened a bottle of vintage wine. We drank a toast. To time. To its passing, its trajectory. A fire burned in a large hearth at the end of the room. The smell of wood and smoke mixed with the food, the warmth, the kiss of the wine in our throats. A clock ticked reassuringly in the background.

Then we walked on the boulevard. Alive with the night. It was a sea of bodies. Cafés were full and noisy. The hum of metros came from below ground. Light fell in shafts over all. Bright, untouchable, continually moving. At the river we crossed a wide stone bridge. A castle, a prison, rose on the far bank. The sky above us became lost in the glow from the streets. It obscured the blackness of the night. And we went down the steps to the rivers edge. We strolled under the lights of the walkways, strolled along the bank, our bodies reflected on the ripples of the water. The stone, old, smoothed by uncountable feet, felt firm beneath us. We stood under the bridge and watched the moon's glow break and reform.

And the feeling of many lives rose in me again. I felt our souls mix in the run of all our time together. But she put her finger over my mouth and stopped me. Her eyes met mine, held my gaze, and did not look away. The traffic crawled over the bridge above. The water from a passing boat broke and lapped against the stone sides of the river's edge.
I had to accept. I read it in her eyes. This was not the time.
The words that leaped to my lips were held there, unsaid. She looked at me and walked further up the pathway. We would meet later, tomorrow, some other time. Maybe we would wait for another life.

The cool look of her avenue apartment came back at me. Its rococo facade. The great iron gates were silent. I stood and stared as the city rested. I left in the silently spreading dawn.

I found her yet lost her. Parallel lives, time out of synchronisation. Somewhere we crossed over, somewhere we stood in the wrong place and made the wrong connection. Somewhere the time, the date, the arrangement was misunderstood. Two universes side by side, two nuclei spinning in different directions. Night and day. North and south; a breach in the confluence of worlds.

I retreat again to my forest. I have the cabin we once shared. I love the creak of the wooden floor beneath my feet. As before I have sought silence. I produce little work. I prefer to think and contemplate. It as if the inactivity has become a purification, a cleaning out of restlessness, of all the confusion of past lives. The brushes sit by the palette before the window. The canvas is stretched, the paper waiting to be marked.
I still think of her. She is never far from my mind. I still await word saying I should come. It does not. Occasionally there is a message in the small post-office of the village nearby. It always contains some oblique observation, a riddle. I take it greedily and tear it open. I puzzle over it for days. I turn it back and forth in my mind. I have never come to any firm conclusion.
Perhaps she works subtly, changing my perceptions, ideas, without me being acutely aware. Perhaps she is like the wave wearing stone into sand. Perhaps she washes over me as a sea, the ebb and flow of her tides gradually changing me.

They are good to me in the village. I eat there occasionally, work there if I need money. Sometimes when the moon is full and I long for company I drink with the poor, the sad and world weary.
Maybe I shall age here. Perhaps the rest of my life will be spent here. Waiting on her word. Waiting to return to her, to that city, to the wide boulevard, the high apartment.

In my mind I stand in front of the old church and the rain falls silently and continually down. The fish stew is not yet eaten, the vintage wine not yet drunk. The night is still alive, still waiting to be crossed.



Copyright (C) Peter Millington 2006

zaandvoort.

It is a blustery afternoon near the end of October. The beach is almost deserted.

Above the sea, wisps of clouds are scattered in the sky. They catch its colour, like intensities of space, concentrations of light. Over the sea the sun hangs, bright and golden. Its glare darkens the water, highlighting the foam of the waves. The breeze blows, pulling at my hair, my face, grabbing the ends of my raincoat.

She comes down the stairs of the apartment. The light in the entrance is refracted, splays out in lozenge like shapes along the wall. There is a quietness there and she is aware of it as of a long silence, a question waiting to be answered.

I am walking. I feel an unusual sense of motion, of time contracted. It is similar to the way in which a film jumps across experience. The way in it alters the real not to make it unreal but to heighten its reality, to render it hyperreal.
Small gestures take on a significance, amplify and expand. With each step I feel as though my feet sink into the sand only to be pulled out again, to be forced forward into other steps. Each call of a gull or flutter of a flag from the promenade, strikes my ears as if snatched from its source. I almost feel each grasped sound reverberating within me.

She steps out onto the street and pulls her coat around her, her hat down over her eyes. The sun fractures through the branches of a tree. It comes back off the black frames of the bicycles chained to the railing.

Along the edge of the sea is driftwood. It is twisted into arbitrary shapes and novel forms. Rough and smooth.
Waves pound slowly and heavily, foam rushing in long sheet-like movements up the strand.
The repetition wears down all resistance. It pulls the sand of the seabed up into eddies, into swirling patterns before depositing it again, changed. With every rush, the endless rhythm bears down on me, stretches my defences and moves in uncompromisingly.

Under the rail bridge the pavement is dark. It leads onto the square. The wind sweeps across the open space. Sometimes there are old Turkish or North African men playing chess under the trees. Wrapped in long coats, they sit patiently, talking at length between each move, their lined faces serious.
She likes to see them. There is something reassuring about them. Their feet in sandals and their hands fingering prayer beads.

Only one thing goes through my mind. Is everything I have built to this point, every centimetre of the pathway I have beaten here, disappearing?
Am I approaching a core? Is my life about to reach some watershed?
How many times before have I walked this stretch of strand, how many times passed the hours of an afternoon while the years were silently building up, sneaking their irretrievability past me? Moments never to be recovered from time, from the ceaseless flow of life.

She comes to a junction where the street cuts right along a canal. Above her head a clock shows it to be mid afternoon. The houseboats rock in their berths and windows are tightly shut. A man with a black and white dog rounds the corner and stares at her. She walks on.

I have come here many times with my children, my son and daughter. I think of how they play, stepping in and out of the water, their eyes open and eager to learn. That trusting expression of children, no polish, no defence. Their backs to me and the sunlight flaring like copper across the sea's surface.
I have watched them grow and change, watched their steps become surer, their words and actions gain weight, confidence. And all the time the years have been moving past.
I still see my son bent intently over something, a shell, a strangely shaped stone, his blond hair falling in front of him. Then calling out in happiness, turning and running back to where we stand. Or my daughter sitting, her knees pulled up in front of her, her cheeks flushed red from running, the line of freckles across her nose. She is eating an ice-cream.

She takes the canal. The wind pulls at the trees, making them sway and creak, scattering leaves in bursts of yellow and brown.
The water moves and throws up its reflections in bronze or gold, shimmers off the inside of bridges. A shutter rattles or a tarpaulin from a terrace snaps. And eddies of dust swirl up and cause her to squint, to pull her scarf over her mouth.

For hours I have walked up and down. The wind has blown stronger and stronger along the seafront, pulled harder and harder. Earlier the sun was so bright, the late autumn light on the sand and sea so acute I needed sunglasses. My eyes hidden, I felt relieved, briefly, of my identity. As if the emotion to be read in my face was somehow deflected, diverted. And in the deflection there was escape.

The city is peculiarly empty. Trams pass as if in another world and the gables of houses stretch up into the sky, their stonework or spire the only thing that does not move as wisps of cloud race by.
She is on her way to the park to meet their son and daughter. They will be waiting for her in the café after skating. Perhaps they will all sit and drink some hot chocolate, eat some apple cake.

I have pushed my hands deeper into my pockets, changed the pace of my steps from slow to fast to slow again. At times I have stood simply by the water's edge and watched the waves break and break.
It seems in every quiver, every pulse of my body, every rise, fall of my breath, every thump of my heart in my chest, the sea is there.
Its sway is the very movement of my life itself, its incessant rhythm permeating all I do. As though I were really deep within it, were actually part of it, only imagined I had ever stepped out of it.

She wonders where he is. What he is doing. He has not been home for some days. The curtain in the living room has not been open. It is draped against the window, only a chink showing the street, the railings of the balcony.
It is only in the kitchen she looks out onto the world. The backs of other apartments, balconies, the dried flowers in a tall vase by the window.

The light intensifies and the sun burns its fire over the sea. The sky, earlier white, pale, deepens its blue. In the late afternoon light, the water moves with the sky, forms a line where they meet and then in a haze are gone.
Along the seafront the summer kiosks are closed and the promenade nearly deserted.
I stop before turning, before walking to the street that leads to the station. The air is colder, damper.
My footsteps, their curious crackling in the light layer of sand coating the pavement, sound in my ears.
There is a sense of a break, a moment when I feel as if I were being stretched, being pulled over a fissure.

Her son and daughter are standing in front of the café. They have their skates slung over their shoulders. The grass along the gravel looks vivid under the half-naked trees.
A cyclist goes by in a blur. And she bites her lip.

Searching in my pocket for change, my hand impatiently sorting through keys, crumpled papers, I look around. Its green paintwork shines.
Walking quickly, I pull the door closed after me. Inside is the burning fluorescent of all telephone cells, the metallic opaqueness of efficiency.
Then I am dialing the number, wanting, waiting to speak to her.
I leave a message saying I am coming home, asking her to be there for me.

~

Will we once again uncover each other, close down the spaces of their relationship by making every curve, every reflex, every pleasure of our bodies, an answer?

When she wakes in the night, looks at him lying in the light of the moon, she wonders what it is he is searching for. Wonders what they are both searching for. Why sometimes she feels the certainty they wish for evades them.
And for a moment their children cross her mind and she thinks she senses the sea. That the sea is whispering to her. As she sinks back into the arms of the night, puts her head to the pillow, it rolls and breaks, runs up the beach, leaving its mark in her like the foam in the sand with a long sigh.



Copyright (C) Peter Millington. London.

the adversary.

Far in the south, along the eastern shores of the Ireb, is a little known land. It lies in a narrow strip running east. Inotih it is named.
It is not mountainous as Coricia is, yet neither is it flat as the lands of the Hansa delta to the north are. It is a land of forest and wild woods. Of trees silver barked and dark leaved. Of valleys and plains and quick running rivers.
In the warm season the sun falls fierce over the hilltops and in the cold season the winds blow off the sea bringing soft rain and baring the branches of the forests and woods and keeping the small fishing boats tied to their harbour moorings.
It is a land, its people say, where one is born to learn of one's secret self, where dreamers wander and can dream their dreams how they will.

In Inotih the wooded hillsides fall gently to the sea. They are ochre-earthed and granite covered in places. There are the small villages one finds all along the Ireb. Harbours and inlets and beaten pathways that wind around the coast.
It was in one of those villages I passed a summer. To the north of the great city of that land. In a villa perched upon a rocky hillside.

The people of Inotih are great lovers of music and dance; a benefit for a wandering musician.
As evening approaches often they congregate about a village square to sing and dance. They abandon themselves freely to rhythm, to melody, as naturally as the breeze that moves the leaves of the trees or the tide that breaks the waves upon the sandy shore.
It is the fate of the wanderer to leave to chance much that those who are settled take for granted. The wanderer wonders often where a might will be passed. There is the open road, there are the homes of others. There is arriving and the question that hangs over every arrival. What will a city, a village, a land bring.
If the people of Inotih are lovers of music they are also a people that freely open their homes to those who pass through their country. Though little known this country is a reward to those who are persistent enough in their wanderings. It is spoken of with affection by any whose home is the open road.
It was there, in a village with a tree-shaded square, I met a man who offered me the hospitality of his home. For upon my arrival I had begun to play my lute for those who had gathered to listen. Its strings sang clear beneath the trees, its notes rose and fell as the first stars appeared over the hills.
He came to me. From his place among the onlookers. He was older than I in years. A man with close silvery hair and a handsome face. A face both serious and joyful.

I walked beneath the light of a new moon and came to his villa. It was set upon a hillside and hidden from the roadside by a grove of cypress. That night the sea was still. The moonlight reflected from its surface and threw long shadows on the silent earth.

Often we sat at evening, watching the sun set over the turquoise sea. It became pleasant to me so that I anticipated it with eagerness as the day drew to a close. For my host was eloquent and spoke freely of his life, his experiences. Being an official he had travelled widely. In the course of his service he had spent many years in the north. Finding in the colder climate, in the austerity of their beliefs an unease, a strange contracting of life.
I remember one evening in particular he spoke. And told me something of his beliefs. A subtlety of mind that has stayed with me since.
'Here, in Inotih,' he said, his eyes growing warm. 'we do not make of our gods one god. In Inotih the gods are in everything.'
I asked him to explain.
He told me of how the people of Inotih believe their gods are everywhere and in everything. There are gods of the forests and woods, gods of the sea, gods of music and dance, gods of the rocks and stones, of the running rivers. There are the gods of love, of death, of birth and of transition.
'We also make a distinction' he said, 'between the great gods and the lesser gods. And even the great greater gods are not one. If you travel through our country you will see their altars, their temples everywhere and in simplicity. You will see too the altars and temples of the lesser gods. For they are no less loved by the people of this land.
And he added.
'What are the gods then? But our dreams of ourselves. The gods are the dreams from which we spring and the dreams we become. If there is but one god there is but one dream. And perhaps there is but one dream and yet that dream is the dream of the many gods.'
He smiled and explained.
'I will give you an example.
'When I was in the north I had much opportunity to study the works of their thinkers. The thinkers of the north attribute great power to one they call the adversary. This adversary they claim has the legs of an animal and the torso of a man. And lurks everywhere. He is always ready to waylay the seeker of truth. This belief has gathered such weight with them that their lives are circumscribed by fear. To the adversary they attribute all the works of our lesser gods. So that in the abandon of music, or the joy of dance they see not the work of gods but a darkness that would keep them from truth. And they mediate upon this grave fact until their hearts are heavy and sorrowful. Until the world about them appears not to be a world of beauty and joy but a world that opposes them. One that opposes their search for truth. And then they come to fear it. They come to hate it. The world is not the playground of the gods but a place of darkness. It is the domain of the adversary.'
The corners of his eyes wrinkled and he laughed softly.
'I am not a philosopher. But I see that if there is an adversary in this world it is hate, it is fear. So the adversary these thinkers resist so greatly becomes a reality.
'And the people of Inotih,' I asked.
I looked to the setting sun. Long shadows fell upon the hillside from which we looked. The sea broke darkly below us.
'Ah,' he sighed dreamily. 'In Inotih we favour a more subtle understanding. We do not take a blunt instrument to make a thing of fineness. Beauty is everywhere, or so we believe.'
'You do not have this one those of the north name the adversary?'
He leaned back.
'No. But we do have one we represent as half animal, half man. Only we do not name him the adversary. We do not assign to him powers of obstruction and evil intent. To us he is one of the lesser gods. He is the god of nature in its wildness; nature in its joyful profusion. Nature in the purity of its untouched places. He is also the god of the sexual embrace; the god of our physical self. He is the god that takes pleasure in the body and in the joy of giving pleasure to another.
Here, in Inotih we do not distinguish between body and soul as the thinkers of the north do. For here we see the body as part of our dream of ourselves. It is the instrument through which we express our hidden self.'
He stood that evening. Then he turned to me. In the last warm fingers of the sun his face was soft.
'It is for this reason we dance,' he said. 'This is the reason we love music and the visions of poets. For like the animals we must seek shelter and warmth and that too is part of our dream. Like the animals we are possessed of our instincts and it is through them we bring the longing of our spirits to fruition. Yet unlike the animals we are guided by our spirit, by reason. It is only when the spirit, when reason is clouded with anger, with fear that our instincts drive us and not we them. For when the spirit is clouded so our instincts are burdens that dull our being. The world about us contains the darkness of the blind self. The blind self, the clouded spirit is the true adversary.
'In Inotih we dance, we embrace to forsake our fears. To discover the joy that softens all anger, all hatred. The joy that opens the eyes of the self.'

I spent some time there, waiting for the heat of summer to give way to autumn. Waiting for the trees to begin to turn. Then I took a boat that sailed south, crossing from the Ireb and into the Cirpassian sea. Seeking the warmth of its islands. Hearing the whisper of the desert said to lie on the Cirpassian's distant shore. Remembering the words of the man of Inotih. Remembering the wisdom of those who acknowledge the lesser gods. And in that acknowledgment the wisdom of the world about us.
To step straight from darkness into light would be to obliterate the self. To destroy the self that carries our dreams.
The people of Inotih, lovers of music, of dance know this truth. And their affections are free and their hearts open. Their gods are everywhere and their dreams accompany them through life.

When I sailed south that autumn I too understood this wisdom.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington 2004

Another fine Mess.

After being handed a reprieve last Saturday by Israel’s last minute win over Russia, all England had to do last night was keep cool and not give the game away. A draw was good enough. It would see them through to next summer’s European Championships to be held in Austria and Switzerland. At Wembley, before an estimated crowd of 90,000 surely that was not too much to ask. In fact, on Sky News last Saturday evening, Chris Scudamore seemed confident that England were through but for the formality of playing the game. And so it had to happen.

In pouring rain and on a Wembley pitch that looked less than best the stage was set. An under-strength team for sure. With Wayne Rooney, Michael Owen, Rio Ferdinand and John Terry all out because of injury, plus David Beckham and Paul Robinson surprisingly excluded from first team selection no-one seemed sure what to expect. Had England’s manager, Steve McClaren something up his sleeve? Were his controversial changes tactical nous? A cunning plan? Well we were soon to find out.

England started well enough bringing the play to Croatia. That is for 8 minutes. With a 4–3-3 formation, Peter Crouch up front with Shaun-Wright Philips and Gareth Barry getting in behind, it was plain what the tactics were. But on Croatia’s perhaps first foray into the England half, Nico Kranjcar, finding himself with space, chanced a dipping right foot strike that ‘international-debut’ keeper Scott Carson failed to collect, deflecting the ball up into the corner of his net. The players were stunned. The fans more so. Six minutes later, on counterattack, the Arsenal player, Eduardo da Silva, with some clever footwork, found Olic on the edge of the box, and the Hamburg player side-stepped the stranded Carson and it was 0-2.

As the rain continued down England suddenly seemed a forlorn and directionless side. With heads dipping they laboured and one could only stare, wondering what changes the manager might make, and if he did, would he act quickly or wait till half-time.

The second half started with Wright-Philips substituted for Beckham, and Barry for Defoe. Perhaps there was hope. The three-lions would fight. And amazingly in the 56th minute, the linesman on the far side of play, spotted a shirt-pull as Jermain Defoe attempted to get on the end of a punted cross from Joe Cole. A brief consultation resulted in a penalty-kick being awarded to England. Up stepped Frank Lampard, looking nervous certainly, but he fixed his gaze and slotted a low drive into the right side of the net, sending keeper Stipe Pletikosa the wrong way. England were back in it. Eleven minutes later Beckham, picking up Gerard’s hard-won ball, delivered a sweet cross to the centre and Peter Crouch running on, chested it down before hammering past the helpless keeper. England now could have the draw they needed. And there it should have been consolidated. England should have pressed for a third or at least played the possession game, but instead they began to fall back. And the Croatians having already brought two redemptive saves from Carson in the second half were not content to let the matter settle. Increasingly they looked dangerous, winning possession in the midfield and pushing forward. Then in the 77th minute, substitute Mladen Petric found himself unchallenged and fired an angled shot that Carson could only stretch to, then watch as it zipped past him goal-bound. England did try to rally and late on Darren Bent made the best of a half-chance, looping it just centimetres over the bar. But by then the writing was on the wall. A grim-faced bench sat, hunched forward as the last few minutes counted down. With the final whistle Steve McClaren stood and was escorted down the tunnel.

A bad night for England and for English football. A performance well below par. Listless and lacking self-belief, the players seemed overawed and unsure when faced with what was expected of them. Questions have already been asked about McClaren’s management skills and his team choices. Now surely they will rise to a crescendo.

The only consolation for England fans is that they hung on a little longer than Scotland. Four days to be precise. Though I suspect north of the border there will be some quiet satisfaction with this result. Austria/Switzerland next summer may well show the cream of European football but it will be without England.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Nov 2007

Berlusconi dons the helmet and lifts the sword.

That old friend of Tony Blair is at it again. The man who offered the ex PM of the UK the use of his holiday home and a shoulder to cry on now wants to merge all the centre-right groupings of Italy into one party under, presumably, his leadership.

Mr Berlusconi – one of Italy’s richest men, thinks it is time to for the Italian centre-right “to unite against the old fogeys of politics”.

Mr Berlusconi is no stranger to controversy. He has survived a number of scandals and has been the object of a number of enquiries into alleged shady business dealings. He is also the man behind some, shall we say, ‘colourful’ quotes. Comparing himself to Napoleon, then Jesus Christ. Understatement and restraint would not seem to be two qualities he is in possession of.

What is worth remarking on, regarding Mr Berlusconi’s new initiative, is his assertion that this new party, entitled, The Italian People's Party for Freedom, is to be a “protagonist of freedom and democracy for decades". Which to my ears sounds somewhat chilling. It is almost a threat.

The term ‘freedom and democracy’ is coming to sound like one of those political terms leaders love, such as, ‘joy through work’ or ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’. It is now bandied about as though it actually means something. It is also generally used in quite an aggressive and confrontational manner.

Democracy is not a political ideal. Neither is it a political ideology. Democracy is a political process. It is a method of government. It comes from Greek, meaning broadly ‘government by the people’. It is not a ready-made. A system that once put in place yields instant results and unites a populace. In fact whenever imposed or transplanted onto a society that has previously not been ‘democratic’ it often has the exact opposite effect to that desired. It disunites and cause a form of political free for all. A populace used to adhering to a centralised or dictatorial system suddenly finds itself with the freedom to indulge every form of political opinion and aspiration. And frequently does- resurrecting old grudges and agendas. Or breaking up along historical or ethnic lines. We forget our societies have developed our understanding of democracy over a long period and in response to differing social pressures and needs. And they are still far from exemplary.

Freedom too is a difficult concept. The reason why, certainly in Europe and North America it has taxed the minds of philosophers for centuries. One person’s freedom can be another’s prison. And freedom is also relative to the special values or principles one culture or people hold in particular importance. Therefore in cultures that hold family and extended family in very high regard, western freedom from family obligations and ties is often seen not as freedom but as chaos and a lack of responsibility. Cultures that hold community as central to identity find our need for ‘individual’ freedom as difficult to understand – certainly to condone.

And this is the problem with the new slogan, ‘freedom and democracy’. Because it is just that. A slogan. Interchangeable with ‘our way of life’. Mr Berlusconi wants his Italian People’s Party for Freedom to be a protagonist for ‘his way of life’. And given his track record it has to be said his instincts would appear to be anything but democratic. In fact based on the evidence one would have to say they are oligarchic. Or at the very least populist.

Mr Berlusconi may call this new party an appeal to the centre right, but in truth it is no more an appeal to centre right than it is an appeal to far right or hard left. Or perhaps all three.

Mr Berlusconi is branding his beliefs with the slogan of our time. "Come with us, against the old fogeys of politics to form a great new party of the people," he says.

We have heard this sort of thing before. Join with us and we will march on the future. The trend in western politics for messianic style crusading is at best unnerving.

Perhaps next time Tony visits he could have a word with Silvio about where this sort of thinking leads. That is when not licking his wounds over Iraq. Another initiative that started with cries of ‘freedom and democracy’.

Copyright (C) Peter Millington Nov 2007

At their Best: Paul Motian Trio with Marc Johnson.

Paul Motian has been a constant and essential feature of the American jazz scene for many years. From his early days as drummer with the Bill Evans Trio through to the mid period of his career, as one third of the Paul Motian Trio he has constantly shown touch and perception in his choice of material and playing partners.

The album, Bill Evans: Tribute to the Great Post-Bop Pianist, recorded in 1990 on Winter & Winter, when he was approaching his sixtieth birthday marks perhaps a highlight in a career that has many highlights. Drawing on the material of the legendary pianist and melodist, Bill Evans, he has, together with his trio partners, Bill Frisell and Joe Lovano plus bassist Marc Johnson created an album that is excellent and at times sublime.

Given the high standards of playing this group of musicians has been responsible for over the years and add to that the unforgettable and haunting melodies of Bill Evans it is hard to see where this recording could have gone wrong. But what is truly remarkable is that all four musicians have found ways of expanding their past powers of interpretation and unearthed in these nine Evans tunes harmonic possibilities, rhythmic interplay and originality of voice that with lesser musicians could have resulted in a more subdued tribute. Perhaps Motian’s personal experience of playing with Evans brought an element to the sessions that prevented it from simply treading water as the work of four fans.

The only real problem must have been deciding on which Evans songs not to include. There are no real highlights here, as each track is played with such excellence and sensitivity they all stand out. It would be better perhaps to name my favourites. An absolute contender has to be ‘Turn out the Stars’, Joe Lovano floating lovely feathery and melancholy tenor sax over Paul Motian’s ever thoughtful drum and brush work - Bill Frisell’s curious, at times bluesy guitar shapes and Marc Johnson’s bass working off the percussion with a bounce and lightness of touch. ‘Time Remembered’ also stands out. The minor figures, the melody’s downward pull being interpreted with emphasis on its spaces, its sense of loss. The drum and brush work adding a fluid, almost liquid quality, a splash of cymbal here, a rhythmic phrase rising like a wave only to subside. A military style tapping out of beat that falls back into reflection. Again Bill Frisell pulls shapes and lines from his fretboard that have a feel of the blues as well as conventional jazz, even at times a hint of country-western. (a field he was later to explore). Marc Johnson walks and steps though the melody, with a solo that finds hidden harmonics. And Lovano’s tenor sax is perfectly pitched, sweet without being saccharine, expressive without being intrusive. There are other wonderful tracks. ‘Re: Person I knew’, (a great title), played with an engaging and wistful nonchalance, ‘Very Early’ that simply swings. ‘Five’ the most experimental, distorted guitar and passages of free-jazz. ’34. Skidoo’, a playful and uplifting number.

This is an excellent and essential recording. It shows four musicians at their best. The level of interplay and communication is never short of exquisite. It is a worthy tribute to a great musician and a worthy example of four great musicians playing music that is unforgettable and inspiring. Highly recommended.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Nov 2007

Paul Motian: Bill Evans: Tribute to the Great Post-Bop Pianist. Buy here.

Nils Petter Molvaer: ER.

It has been called Scandi jazz, nu-jazz or simply not-jazz. How you wish to define it is your choice. Whatever description you settle on, one thing certain is, it is a music worth exploring. A music that challenges the boundaries between genres and has shown itself open to a younger generation’s experiments in Electronica and Dance.

Perhaps one of its most important figures is Nils Petter Molvaer. A trumpet player from Sula, Norway. Perhaps the hard core of the movement would accuse him of not pushing the boundaries further, but he has reached the wider audience. He came to prominence in 1997 with his much acclaimed album Khmer, followed in 2000 with Solid Ether, both released on ECM the famous German label. In 2002 he left ECM to record NP3, a continuation of themes. And in between were two albums of remixes by various DJs and luminaries of the Dance scene, plus a live album. In 2005 he released ER, his most accomplished work to date.

Scandinavia is not a part of the world one normally associates with fiery passion or expressiveness. Certainly not the burlesque and energy of early twentieth century black America; Jazz’s true roots. A generalization perhaps. Yet in the last 15 to 20 years many Scandinavian its musicians have contributed hugely to the field of contemporary jazz; Jan Gabarek, Esbjorn Svensson, Palle Danielsson, Terje Rypdal to name a few.

There has been criticism of course. Some have seen the emphasis on coolness of sound and experimentation with electronics as sterile. As not in the spirit of jazz. Yet despite a tendency not always to swing it is nevertheless a sound that belongs very much in contemporary music. Some of the great figures of jazz, Miles Davis or Ornette Coleman for example, have not been afraid to experiment. Mixing different genres of music, Middle-Eastern, Indian, north African; bringing in unconventional instruments, tablas, sitars, guitar synthesizers, wah-wah pedals, and of course utilizing the latest studio technologies. In fact Miles Davis is probably a good point of reference for the work of Nils Petter Molvaer. Particularly his recording Aura, a project instigated by the Dane Palle Mikkelborg; a project Davis himself held in high regard.

ER is maybe two albums in one. A first half of tracks drifting around melody, electro percussion and atmospheric sweeps. It’s culminates with ‘Only These Things Count’, a song, vocals courtesy of compatriot Sidsel Endressen; the remaining tracks are denser, exploring syncopation, rhythm and the texture of sound, electric and acoustic.

On each track Nils Petter Molvaer winds his trumpet, at times hinting at Miles Davis circa the mid-seventies or the treated sound of Jon Hassel. At other times he bends notes in an almost primitive or folkloric way. Breathing through the horn as though it were a voice. Making voice and instrument almost one. Reminding the listener perhaps of music’s link with speech and language. He does all this over an atmospheric yet never overbearing palette of sound. Climaxes of instruments suddenly give way to space and the lone horn. A minimalist melody, that is plaintive or haunting.

The track titles are simple and starkly suggestive. Hover, Softer, Water, Sober, Darker, Feeder and Dancer. Only the aforementioned ‘Only These Things Count’ deviates from this trend.

Stand out tracks have to be ‘Water’, a beautiful intro, standing bass, sparse horn and electro effects, woven through with Endressen’s wordless and stuttered voice. ‘Hover’ a subtly struck bass and rhythm syncopation, the horn drifting at times so far back into the mix, it stretches attention, as though drawing the listener into another room, only to return, breathy and warm. ‘Only These Things Count’, is a mixture of acoustic and treated sound framing a conventional song structure – the horn here mostly warm and intimate. And ‘Dancer’ a darkly rhythmic piece, with swirling guitar drones, sound loops, the trumpet here one minute, there the next, driving the music on, occasionally discordant and chaotic, but never less than compelling.

I was recently listening to this while driving out of London and up the M11 to Stanstead airport. A somewhat misty, November afternoon. Stretches of cloud and a deep autumn sun. It was the perfect soundtrack. Evoking the landscape, suggesting its history, its connections and yet so very urban and contemporary in its nature.

This is a special of music. It will bear repeated listening. It will draw you in from first listen Then reveal its thoughtfulness, its invention and depth with time. Worth your attention.



Copyright (C) Peter Millington Nov 2007

Nils Petter Molvaer. ER. Buy here:

Terrorism and Poetry.


It is amazing what you find just trawling other people's blogs. Recently I came across this posting concerning, mayor of London, Ken Livingstone’s desire to make sure the British media are not portraying Muslims in a way that is unfair or insensitive. It seems Mr Livingstone’s Greater London Authority has commissioned a report entitled ‘The Search for Common Ground: Muslims, Non-Muslims and the UK Media’ An admirable effort one might think. Yet one that raises some interesting questions. (a detailed article on the report and its methodology are included here). But what interested me most about the post was a couple of sentences about the BBC’s coverage of Samina Malik, the ‘Lyrical Terrorist’. It rang bells.

The BBC report reminded me of how the IRA in Northern Ireland played a similar game. As though being ‘literary’ somehow validated a campaign of violence. I seem to remember early photos of Gerry Adams, (before his Armani days) in an aran sweater, smoking a pipe and gazing poetically at 'his writings'. For all the world trying to pass himself off as Sean O'Casey or Seamus Heaney. (though O’Casey’s history is a salutary lesson on the limits of nationalist tolerance). The suggestion was, I suppose, that one so sensitive could only have the best interests of all at heart. It was, perhaps, a policy of the armalite in one hand and the pen in the other. Or more readily, the armalite out of camera, the pen well in. Of course the connection between Irish Nationalism and Irish literature is well documented. WB Yeats being one its most famous purveyors. Yet Mr Yeats, once living under an Irish nationalist government, was not quite so gung-ho. And questions of his political judgment are certainly valid in light of the fact he had a flirtation, albeit brief, with the Irish Free State’s Blueshirts of the 1930s. The same Blueshirts who metamorphosed into the National Corporate Party –an unashamedly fascist organization – that later went to fight for Franco in Spain.

The BBC report reminded me of this because it demonstrates what seems to me is a failing of the British left. Romanticising terrorism when it is linked to literature or the arts. As though artists, writers or poets were incapable of misjudgment. And this, ironically in the light of Irish Nationalism, is a very British phenomenon.

The question of Muslim identity in the UK is at present fraught with difficulty. Not least because of a plethora of initiatives such as the one above. Muslims are invariably discussed by the new-left as an homogeneous group, (a community) to which everyone else must be sensitive. But the definition of 'Muslim' is very much a European one. And it confuses Muslim with Arab or middle-eastern.

Initiatives such as the one above are set up, I presume, in order to underline what is good in Islam and more importantly to separate Muslims from Muslim fanatics. Yet it ignores the fact that many Muslims have some sympathy for the fundamentalists’ political agendas. No, they do not wish death and destruction on anyone but many are in broad agreement with the politics regarding women, non-Muslims, secularists, and intellectuals. Views most non-Muslim Europeans would disagree with.

People who practice Islam in the UK are from a variety of different geographical backgrounds. Their right to practice their religion is guaranteed. That same freedom also guarantees them the right to comment on other religions. So it should follow that non-Muslims have the right to comment on Islam.

Trawling the media for examples of Islamophobia is fruitless and an example of the sort of lame thinking that dominates our politics. It smacks of censorship. It would also seem to suggest that people who practice Islam are so sensitive, so unstable, so volatile that if non-Muslims were even to breath the idea that Islam should not be given unquestioning respect, they 'the Muslims' might immediately run out and become dangerous terrorists. Something I'm sure most practicing Muslims with a modicum of intelligence would reject.

The analogy with Northern Ireland is not irrelevant. The issue there in the late 60s was civil rights for British citizens. Catholics in NI were being denied the full margin of their civil rights as citizens of the UK simple because they were Catholics. Unacceptable of course. However the politicization of the situation as a struggle between Irish Nationalism and Irish Unionism only fueled violent campaigns from both Catholics and Protestants. Each was convinced they were fighting for their identity. Each convinced there was no such thing as a middle ground. The media and government played a huge part in this by pursuing a policy of referring to Northern Irish Catholics as Nationalists and Protestants as Unionists; religious connotations no doubt being distasteful to London politicians and editors. The English left in particular muddied the waters by stating their support for a United Ireland. As good as saying they supported Irish Nationalism - Republicanism. If you were facing down the IRA each day, this was no joke. And a growing IRA campaign inevitably set in motion the Loyalist response. All of which only ensured that reasonable people in NI became increasingly isolated and consequently the issue of civil rights was buried for good. The net result of this was the deaths of many people and a substantial drain on the British exchequer.

We are in danger of doing the same with the Muslim issue. We are not so much turning a religious issue into politics, but turning a political issue into religion. Pandering in the case of fundamentalists, to fanatics and medievalists. The problem for British Muslims is not that they live in a state insensitive to their needs but they live in state that is predominantly secular. In a secular state their right to belief is guaranteed. As are the rights of other religions. That does not mean no-one has the right to comment. Because if we cannot comment on Islam, soon we will not be able to comment on Christianity, Judaism or any other religion. If the Anglican or Roman Catholic Church were to ask for this level of ‘sensitivity’ there would be outcry. The BBC would lead the charge.

What we need to do, is demonstrate the value of a secular society for practicing Muslims. The Government needs to show that secular western society protects their right to their personal beliefs but will not let those beliefs infringe on wider generally held principles. Such as freedom of speech, the right of individuals to make their own choices, the right to intellectual questioning. Giving up on those is giving up the search for common ground.

Peter Millington (C) Copyright Nov 2007

Samizdat in the Information Age.


It already seems an aeon ago. The days of the Soviet Union. When we in the ‘free’ west regularly read of the plight of writers and artists under what we were assured was an oppressive regime. Writing in secret, smuggling manuscripts, illicitly copying and passing on of work, all of which if you were caught in possession of, could result in some harsh penalties. Samizdat it was called, a play on Russian for self-publishing and the names official Soviet publishing houses had such as Politizdat or Detizdat.

I mention Samizdat because recently I read a blogpost that was about blogging and the internet. It would seem that moves are afoot in Italy to enact legislation regarding the freedom of speech in cyberspace. The Levi-Prodi law wants to ensure that ‘anyone with a blog or a website has to register it with the ROC, a register of the Communications Authority, produce certificates, pay a tax, even if they provide information without any intention to make money’. This according to Italian anti-government campaigner Beppe Grillo.

No doubt some see in this a sinister move to halt free speech and the free exchange of information. And you have to say they would probably be right. There must be many in the establishments of Europe and the Unites States who are deeply uneasy about the way in which opinions and information can move across the web without them or any of their client departments having much control. But I suspect, moves such as the Levi-Prodi law are about money as much as repression. We live in a part of the world where market values are, in effect, the prevailing ideology. (though I use the term ideology loosely because I don’t think many of the poltical brains of our time have probably ever done much serious thinking – plenty of justification - but little serious thinking). I suspect what irks some of these people is that in their view there is a huge ‘market’ there yet to be tapped. For in the case of the above legislative proposal it is not hard to imagine that registration will not be free, certification will need to be paid for and of course both these will be topped off with a tax.

The connection with Samizdat is of course ideology. The Soviet state sought control over its writers and artists because it feared they might ‘contaminate’ Communist ideology. Of course, often times, it was just simple brutality and spite. However the ideological aspect was the justification. In our society of market forces and market values many writers and artists already work using a form of Samizdat. The blogosphere, (I know it is and awful term), and the Internet in general, provide a means of sharing work and getting response. For in order to be viewed through the mainstream channels of communication one needs now, it seems, more and more to fulfill the requirements of the ideology. That is, your art – your product – must be marketable, must be merchandisable and its success must be able to be determined in units sold and revenue generated.

True, caught in possession of something outside that framework will not result in imprisonment or a stretch in the gulag. But a life in unsuitable or low paying work, without any means of self-expression or confirmation of your creativity can be a sentence of its own.


(If you want to know more about this legislation click here)


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Now 2007

It Takes Two: Kenny Wheeler's Understatement.


The album, It Takes Two, by Kenny Wheeler has been on general issue now for over a year. It was released in June 2006 by CamJazz, the Italian label launched in 2000.

Kenny Wheeler is such an understated and subtle artist that his music is not something the discerning listener jumps carelessly into. His playing has a way of sneaking up on you. Of winding its way into your consciousness so, only after some time, do you become aware of how good it is, how perfectly crafted and performed. Add this to the fact that on this outing he is accompanied by John Abercrombie, a supremely lyrical and perceptive guitarist and it becomes apparent that time has to pass before a judgement can be made.

Having said that this is the first of his albums to leave me a just little disappointed. That is not to say there is some beautiful music here, some fine playing and performances. A slightly unsatisfying recording would be perhaps be the best description. Outside of Kenny’s flugelhorn, there are the contributions of the above mentioned John Abercrombie, John Parricelli – a British guitarist and the Swedish bass player Anders Jormin.

Highlights of the album are My New Hat, a dreamy number that opens with Jormin’s bowed bass striking a distinctly Moorish motif before the two guitars, (electric and acoustic) enter, creating a space over which the flugelhorn floats in its melody. It Takes Two follows - a typical Wheeler piece of music - the horn uncovering hidden harmonic and melodic spaces, then bending into the upper or lower registers in those sudden turns of which he is so capable, while the guitars trade an almost pizzicato style of soloing and accompaniment. But it is on track three, Comba Nr 3, that the combined talents of all four musicians come best together. A beautiful, haunting melody, full of, again, Moorish hints, southern European folkloric motifs and the north American urban landscape. The spacing of the instruments, their timing, their presence and absence at critical points make the track the prefect vehicle for Wheeler’s unique musical sense.

Other high points are Love Theme from Spartacus, just the two guitars with fingers sliding and the occasional sigh or grunt delightfully adding to its immediacy. One of Many, a lovely flowing piece which John Abercrombie augments with his clear, singing guitar lines. And, Fanfare, an overdubbed horn piece that brings to mind the Gil Evans – Miles Davis collaboration of Sketches of Spain. The two improvised pieces, no 1 and no 2, are interesting but strictly just that, improvisations, that tempt but do not completely convince of their necessity.

Despite this the album leaves me a little wanting. It seems at times to float away, to become so understated in intent that you find your mind wandering and not wandering as it should into places the music brings it. Nevertheless, such has been Kenny Wheeler’s credibility over the years that it may be it just requires more listening time. That it needs to sink in a little more before the entirety of its musical ideas, its palette becomes apparent.

However in the overall scheme of things these are minor quibbles. This is still an excellent and commendable work. An essential for those who lean to chamber jazz. For those who prefer the subtly of a Cézanne over the boldness of a Picasso.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Nov 2007

It Takes Two: Kenny Wheeler: CamJazz 2006

Herbie Hancock keeps on Exploring.

Lovers of jazz will need no introduction to Herbie Hancock. Maverick pianist from the days of the Miles Davis quintet, preferred keyboardist of the Davis fusion years and central energy of the seminal funk-jazz crossover album Head Hunters. Herbie Hancock has never been afraid to experiment with forms and genres, to explore the possibilities inherent in different musics. However fans of Joni Mitchell may not be so well acquainted with his work. Though Joni has never been an artist to shy away from incorporating elements of jazz into her folk and rock idiom she has never quite made the step from those idioms to jazz.. All of which makes the new Herbie Hancock recording, River: The Joni Letters an intriguing listen.

For this album Herbie Hancock has assembled an eclectic mix of musicians. Saxophonist Wayne Shorter, his fellow traveller from the fusion years, bassist Dave Holland, drummer Vinnie Colaiuta, and west-African guitarist Lionel Loueke. There are also appearances by a number of leading luminaries, Tina Turner, Corinne Bailey Rae, Luciana Souza, Norah Jones and Leonard Cohen. Mitchell herself guests on a track.

Projects like this can go astray, fall between the contrasting drives of their respective genres. Yet it is to Hancock’s credit that this album delivers. It manages an adroit balance between accessibility and improvisation without sacrificing musical integrity. It plays with Hancock’s jazzier instincts and the limitations of the rock and folk idiom. It elaborates on the subtlety of Joni Mitchell’s melodies and provides a sophisticated setting for her often quite excellent lyrics. It manages to be neither a Joni Mitchell album nor a Herbie Hancock album. Instead it occupies a space somewhere between the two.

That is not to say it is without flaws. The title track, The River, comes over a little too sweet. Punching under its weight. Corrine Bailey Rae’s vocals sound to my ears somewhat girlish, smothering the ironical longing of the lyrics; Also, Norah Jones’s vocals on the opening track, Court and the Spark, appear at times to get lost, to sink below the music. And the final track, one of two bonus tracks, A Case of You, while infectious and cross referencing Afro-Pop, folk and R&B could be considered superfluous.

Stand-out tracks are Nefertiti, (a classic Wayne Shorter piece), Luciana Souza’s reading of Amelia, (melancholy, rich and warm all at once), All I Want, (performed as a true jazz-spiritual), Edith and the Kingpin, (Tina Turner on a song that lets her voice show its range and capabilities), and Joni Mitchell herself on The Tea-Leaf Prophecy. Special mention should be made of Leonard Cohen’s reading the of The Jungle Line. I approached this with trepidation having read that Cohen did not sing but recite the lyrics. However, despite his gravely, melancholy delivery, this track works very well. Just voice and piano, the piano returning again and again to the lower registers in an almost delta blues manner, and the voice, as would befit a man who is a published poet, ringing the nuances and levels of meaning from of the words.

This is not a jazz album in the purist sense. Neither is it a rock or folk album. What it is, is an album of contemporary adult music. Performed skilfully, with elegance and in a spirit of exploration. Those who criticise Herbie Hancock’s flirtations with popular music should consider that in many ways he is being true to the roots of jazz. A music that, (before it entered the universities and museums) was a popular music and never denied its relationship with popular forms of self-expression.

This is an interesting and successful recording. It begs the question what further such projects could produce. A collaboration with Tina Turner, Luciana Souza or even Leonard Cohen?

River: The Joni Letters, is well worth having. A enjoyable addition to any collection for those who love music.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007


Herbie Hancock. River:The Joni Letters

Wags get Fifteen More Minutes of Fame.


According to the UK’s LSC, (The Learning and Skills Council), Wags, that is the ‘wives and girlfriends’ of famous sports stars, particularly soccer stars, are good roles models for teenage girls. The LSC claim that the Wag image of a vacuous cloth horse and party loving mini-celebrity is inaccurate. Apparently many of these ladies actually hold a number of GCSEs. Now GCSEs are the State examinations taken by most pupils around the ages of 15 and 16 in England, Wales and Northern Ireland. (Scotland has a separate system). The implication being that these bright young ladies having done their school-work are now, in adulthood, mature, responsible young women and would not be seen dead near a Prada dress, or, God-forbid posing before a bevy of rapacious photographers.

I do not want to get into a discussion about the merits or de-merits of wags and their footballing husbands. I, like many men, will happily set everything aside to watch a football match. I also dislike some of the class innuendo involved in criticism of sports stars and their entourages. But I have to say, I feel the LSC give the game away when they believe they have to resort to statements like this in order to try and motivate teenage girls to take study and consequently their lives seriously. Despite their GCSEs, the wags’ only validity as a motivator is that they focus some teenage girls escapist fantasies of glamour, fashion and easy wealth. If the wags were never seen in those D&G dresses, never appeared in the pages of glossy magazines showing off their dream homes, were never caught in the glare of flash leaving an exclusive nightclub with the famous boyfriend, it is unlikely we would know anything of them. They have little to do with Tracy from Billericay who has 4 GSCEs and is hoping to find a job in retail. About how her and her boyfriend are saving for a house. Or how hard it is.

Surely the LSC’s brief is to encourage and provide further education and training for young people. To convince them of the validity of learning and to take responsibility for their lives. It is not to reinforce our culture’s obsession with celebrity.

In their statement the LSC do caution, that Victoria Beckham, the ultimate wag, and possibly one of the most overrated celebrities of our era, left school with only a handful of GCSEs and was lucky to succeed. They add, and I quote, ‘the odds of following in her footsteps are incredibly thin’. (Yes they do say thin. Not, I would have thought, an adjective to use lightly in relation to the former Posh Spice). They then continue to list a number of other wags who have qualifications, including one with a degree in business and one studying law. Fair enough. Good luck to them.

But why should the LSC need to make such a statement? Are they not equating success and celebrity? Are they not holding up glamour and a nigh unattainable lifestyle for most as an enticement to study. Or is that the problem? That they themselves believe learning is seen by teenage girls as dull and pointless; something that involves unwanted application and perseverance. Teenage girls will only do it if there is the promise of a nice dress at the end. Or a celebrity catch boyfriend?. None of which is borne out by statistics that show in nearly all subject girls outperform boys in secondary education. And when given the opportunity for third level education, excel.

It is sad when a non-departmental public body, answerable to the Department for Innovation, Universities and Skills has to resort to such tactics. Note that title – Department for INNOVATION, Universities and Skills. If they have to hold up such a small and really superfluous section of our society as role models for teenage girls some might say it is time to revisit the merits of male chauvinism. Though others might answer, and answer wisely, surely this idea was a man’s


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007

The UK's Tabloid Press Play a Sly Game

Where to start in the case that has gripped the British public for near to the last six months? How do we wade through the mire of speculation, spin and sometimes pure nonsense being bandied about? Should we go out on a limb and mention insinuations of high level if not political interference in a criminal investigation? Could the parents be guilty of involvement in their daughter’s disappearance? Will the missing child ever be found? and if so, will she be alive?

The McCann case still dominates the headlines of the UK’s tabloid press. It makes appearances in the broadsheets, albeit the predominantly Tory publications; the Daily Telegraph and the Times. Sky News has a special web-page devoted to the story. And countless forum members and amateur web sleuths daily post their opinions on each and every development.

So lets state the facts we are sure of before we continue. On May 03 of this year a British child, Madeleine McCann, daughter of Gerry and Kate McCann was reported missing from the family’s hired holiday villa in Praia de Luz, the Algarve, Portugal. The British media reported it as an abduction. On May 15 Robert Murat, an ex-pat Anglo-Portuguese was declared a formal suspect (an aguido) by Polícia Judiciária officers investigating the case. On September 07 and 08 both parents were also declared formal suspects after hours, (in the case of Mrs McCann 20 plus hours) questioning. On September 09 the parents and their two other children, returned to their family home in Rothley, Leicestershire. As far as I can ascertain these are the bare bones of the affair. There are other secondary facts, such as the Find Madeleine Fund, Leaving No Stone Unturned (a fund/web-site set up to facilitate people who wished to contribute financially in helping search for the missing child). The parents high-profile visit to the Vatican where they met the Pope on his Sunday walk-about before St Peters. (This was not an audience as has been reported – audiences with the Pope are reserved only for Heads of State etc). The help of the UK’s FSS, (Forensic Science Service) in gathering and analysing forensic evidence. Liaison by Leicestershire police. A number of highly public sightings, all of which led to nothing. And the fact that the child is, of course, still missing. (though that perhaps should be the main primary fact in this case)

For the British public this story has been confounded by two particular aspects. One, the fact that the Polícia Judiciária are not permitted under Article 68 of Portuguese Penal Code to comment on an investigation while it is still taking place. Therefore there is in fact very little known, or very little that can or has been substantiated. This, added to general ignorance about the judicial processes and legal systems of other EU states has fuelled a sense for many that the investigation is haphazard and shrouded in secrecy, if not downright dissimulation. Secondly, in the initial stages of the story the media, particularly the tabloid press, were used and happy to be used in an effort to publicise the child’s face in the hope she could be found. All of which no doubt boosted sales and permitted at least some journalists to bask in the warm glow of ‘doing good’ in the dangerous and sensationalist world many of them seem to inhabit.

Now subsequent to the parents being made Formal Suspects you can speculate on whether they are involved in their child’s disappearance or not. If we are to believe what has been leaked to the press, (from both the police and the family), the investigation as of the moment is focused on the theory that Mrs McCann somehow was responsible for the accidental death of her daughter and that her and her husband conspired to cover this up with claims of an abduction. We have been assured that the Polícia Judiciária (PJ) have DNA evidence that places the body of the child in the boot of a Renault Scenic hired by the parents 25 days after their daughter’s disappearance. (whether dead or alive, we are not sure) We have been told that ‘cadaver dogs’ trained in tracking the scent of a corpse, detected just that on Mrs McCann’s clothing and a bible she was using. The same dogs reacted positively to the car’s door handle and followed a trail to a nearby church. All of which has been vehemently dismissed by the parents. Then, refuted, by various spokespeople from the McCann PR machine, now under the stewardship of ex government media-monitoring man, Clarence Mitchell. Despite, of course, the Polícia Judiciária having yet brought charges.

But perhaps the strangest element of this case is the sense of frustration. It is a little like trying to chew on cotton wool. In the absence of hard fact the British tabloids have taken to a daily roller coaster of innuendo and refutation of said innuendo. And they have, frankly, been having their cake and eating it. For instance they have managed to keep the possibility that the parents are involved in their daughter’s disappearance in the headlines without having to actually suggest that. Simply put, they cover themselves by picking up on what the Portuguese press have been reporting 24 hours previous, (the Portuguese press, it has to said are a lot less sympathetic to the parents) , then running it in the context of ‘outrageous slurs’ or ‘new smears’ on Gerry and Kate. This is then usually followed by a refutation from Clarence Mitchell who challenges these ‘smears’ and ‘slurs’, (they are often repeated again in full) with an explanation of ‘his’ own (sometimes ridiculously weak), and a further reiteration of the fact that the parents are 100 percent innocent. Now I have to say, if I was either of the McCanns I would be very unhappy with this. Surely the way to deal with ‘outrageous slurs’ or ‘savage smears’ is to sue for libel if there are grounds to, or failing that, to meet such ‘nonsense’ with dignified silence. Also the very presence of such a prominent PR spokesperson tends to set in motion a sort of professional jockeying for position between editors and the requisite spokesperson.

Editors have to deal with political pressure and PR all the time. They have to be careful who they offend, or who they do not offend, for in a highly commercial market they do not want to find themselves out in the ‘information’ cold. Yet editors also defend their right to control what goes in their publications often with a vehemence. They, most importantly of all, are aware of keeping their proprietors happy, that is making sure circulation figures do not drop.

Witness last Wednesday’s TV interview with Antena 3, a Spanish commercial TV network. Much was made in the following morning’s press of Kate McCann, who has been consistently accused of not showing enough emotion in public, breaking down and crying. Nearly all the tabloids carried images which purported to show Mrs McCann’s tears. Well, I must say, I looked and looked hard. All I saw was evidence of one tear. A small tear at that. No wailing and distraught display of grief there. So I watched the excerpts from the interview, only to be struck by one thing. Indeed I could have been watching a woman who is guilty and trying to cover up something, who was performing a scripted interview and seemed to be undemonstrative at the best. It also could have been a woman who simply is not comfortable before a camera, does not easily show her emotions in public and is under considerable pressure and strain. My point is, depending on where I was coming from it was possible to read what I wanted to see into what was there.
Friday’s press followed this story with reports that in a phone-in 70% of viewers in Spain still thought the couple were guilty. (and one hopes GMTV were not handling the call-lines). Again the see-saw. It was another example of having your cake and eating it. This was ostensibly reported under the guise of ‘parent’s shock’ and a savaging of Spanish TV psychologists who criticised the interview as a performance. However the story was printed. Those who are convinced of the couple’s guilt had their piece of information; their ammunition. (Spokesperson Clarence Mitchell’s response to criticism of Kate’s tears was the ‘public complained of not having tears and when they got them, they criticised them as unreal’. Which to me is as close as he will ever get to admitting he secretly considers himself ring-master in a circus).
Sunday’s papers then carried a story in which John Stalker (former Deputy Chief Constable of Greater Manchester Police) under the headline ‘McCanns are hiding a big secret’ again re-iterated his belief that neither parents could have murdered their child. To which one wants to shout, ‘with no disrespect Mr Stalker, no-one, I repeat no-one has yet accused them of murder. The allegation would appear to be one of ‘covering up accidental death’. But notice the innuendo of murder, secret, refutation, innocence, guilt. There is a little here for everyone.

The McCann case has shown the tabloid press at its cleverest – which to many will mean its most abject. They have juggled all the balls skillfully. No doubt this has kept their sales up. They are playing to all the galleries concerned; those who think the couple are guilty, those who think the couple are beyond reproach and those who are being paid to keep alive the public image of caring parents who are the victims of a dreadful abduction.

Perhaps here I should nail my colours to the flag pole; I would like very much to believe the parents are innocent of any involvement in their daughter’s disappearance but remain unconvinced. Reports of DNA evidence, though yet to be officially verified, do not, for me fall under the description ‘smear’ and ‘slur’. I am however prepared to let the police do their job and if they have a case no doubt they will bring a prosecution. And it would seem some criticism of their competency, certainly in the early stages of the investigation is warranted; though this does not justify the xenophobic and jingoistic tone of some reporting. It would also seem the McCanns have been offered plenty of support in the form of financial aid to meet what could be considerable legal expenses. With the services of one of the UK’s top law firms and president of the Portuguese Bar, Mr. Rogério Alves any fears of them being set-up would seem to be tenuous at the least.

There are no winners in this case. Save the media; particularly the tabloid press. They have kept this story simmering and bubbling for near to six months. All with only a paucity of real news. If this story has a conclusion and whatever happened on the night of May 03 is eventually disclosed or the version we are at present aware of vindicated, then it may just become evident that we have all been victims, the McCanns included, of the now increasingly self-evident fact that news and journalism are now no more than another form of entertainment. Another form of faux-celebrity. In a cut-throat commercial marketplace any form of responsibility, of need to know has been abandoned in favour of short-term monetary gain. We no longer have news but non-news.

While all the time, the whereabouts or fate of three year old child is still unkown.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007

New Age or More Old Age; underpinning Market Values

I do not like to be negative. To put people down who are trying to make sense of life. And in our present society anyone who advocates a balanced and integrated lifestyle has to be lauded. But that said I cannot help but hear that old cynical whisper when confronted with the New Age – Complementary movement. Now many New Agers would, no doubt, attribute this to my bad karma. Past lives of disbelief and scepticism. And fundamentalists of all persuasions would probably say the same voice was the devil whispering in my ear. But there is cynicism and there is healthy scepticism.

If any one figure of the New Age movement gets the cynical whispers going in me it is that of Deepak Chopra. Mr Chopra is a qualified medical doctor – a graduate from no less than the All India Institute of Medical Sciences; a prestigious institution by all accounts. However Mr Chopra does not actually practice medicine. No! he heads up the Chopra Institute for Well-Being. Their mission statement, to paraphrase, focuses on ‘enhancing health and the spirit’. It does this by ‘bringing together the talents of a number of professionals in the conventional, complementary, and alternative medicine fields’ It also offers, ‘health workshops, meditation instruction, hospital program development, and corporate training courses’.

I have nothing personal against Dr Chopra. In fact perhaps he gets the cynical whispers going because I cannot so quickly dismiss him. He does not, for example, wave tarot cards in your face, advocate the properties of certain crystals, or claim to go into a trance from which he drags up vague bits of mumbo-jumbo that could mean anything.

My first encounter with Deepak came through a friend. Might I say a good friend and genuinely well meaning person. ‘You must read this,’ she said. So I suspended my ‘oh yeah’ attitude and took the book she offered and promised to read. The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success: A Pocketbook Guide to Fulfilling Your Dreams (One Hour of Wisdom). It did not take me long. I think I hoped it would take longer. I managed to go through it in a lunch break. In between sandwiches and Moroccan-Spice soup. The result of which was, well, I waited for the wisdom.

It appeared to me, in his book, Deepak mixed a gentle dash of Indian mysticism into a generous soup of libertarianism and good business sense. As far as I could understand he claimed that health and wealth depend very much on our attitudes, our openness to the Universal life-force. If we thought positive thoughts positive things would come to us. If we were open to abundance then abundance would find us. Ill health and poverty were of our own making. Not to say influenced by karma.

Some of this is not new. The concept of a positive attitude and thinking still lingers in many of our cherished values. In fact elements of this belief can be traced through Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations to the Victorian concept of deserved wealth and self-help. It remains today embedded in the dialogue between left and right; at least in Europe. (except of course for the karma bit). But whereas most Victorian capitalists believed that the wretched and poor were wretched and poor because they did not work hard enough, drank too much, fornicated too much, none of them, as far as I can see, had the temerity to suggest that their condition was based on as intangible a concept as karma and past lives. Neither did they suggest anything to do with the Universal Life-Force. God was evoked, but generally as punishment for not trying. The belief in hard work did allow one an attempt at remedying one’s lot. Work harder man! With drink or fornication one could make an effort to desist. Self-discipline young fellow, self-discipline! (I mention males as females generally only officially begin to exist around the beginning of the 20th century). Established religion’s efforts were often aimed at supporting the above. However misguided.
No! I found Dr Chopra’s ideas rather flimsy. A bit too easy. All very well for these who apparently were making a tidy bundle from this ‘philosophy’. Comfortable justification for their success and material abundance?

Let us take the question of health for instance. The idea that good health has nothing to do with access to adequate and quality health care seems to fly in the face of post-enlightenment reason. It also contradicts sound science. Despite notions of karma and past lives antibiotics work on any body to which they are administered. Surgery removes tumours regardless of any alleged shenanigans in a patient’s previous life. Good sanitation and timely inoculation prevent the spread of disease whether karma determines people are deserving or not. Prompt admission to hospital in the case of sudden illness and access to quality care can make the difference between life and death; the difference between grieving loved ones and relived loved ones. Even if you were the biggest rogue in your last life those close to you love you in this one. My point being human intervention and effort make a difference.

What is really worrying is that elements of this type of ‘philosophy’ casually vindicate the driving market values that underpin so many 21st century approaches to social policy making. They tie in neatly with the downsizing of funding for health services, the increasing privatising of health care access and the belief (albeit unexamined) that only those with the wealth and power are deserving of what some consider to be at least one of a person’s inalienable rights; the right to health.
They also justify the increasing gap between those who have and those who have not. They suggest that if you are doing well it has been ordained by some un-interrogatable and unseen power. So you need not worry about how others live. Or what the long-term consequences of a dissatisfied and disenfranchised underclass would be. Or of the values being instilled into your children and grandchildren and what that might mean for the future.
Education is subject to the same pressures. Gone is the idea of a Universal system. Private academies and faith-based institutions are the shout of the day.

Where one can argue coherently that society should not be expected to provide the luxuries of life, the consumer perks etc without asking we make our contribution, that we show some initiative, that we work for them, health and in a wider sense well-being are all our right.

The New Age movement makes much of its belief in or a sense of a Universal Good. Yet it has proved itself skilled at positioning itself as arbiter of that good and then getting others to pay for it. It caters perfectly to those who already have all the basics. Now that you have the two cars, the luxury home, the twice yearly holidays why not add a little spirituality?
The Chopra Institute for Well-Being for example, currently offers ‘The Secret of Enlightenment’, a three day course for a throwaway $4575 – that is if you register early; otherwise it will cost a mere snippet at $4775. Or what about the five day ‘Perfect Health Program’ starting at $2875 and rising to $3475. Though rest assured an Ayurvedic spa treatment and two Ayurvedic lunches are thrown in.

Now it would be very cynical to suggest that in the case of Deepak Chopra, had he practised what he trained for, he would probably be just another doctor wrestling daily with people’s illnesses and misfortunes; that the lure of minor celebrity was just too much to resist. He would certainly have missed out on the poetry recordings with Madonna, Demi Moore, Sinead O’Connor, Angelica Huston plus the chance to author countless ‘mystical style’ books. He would also have passed up the opportunity to make many TV appearances, go into business with Richard Branson and co-write the script of a yet to be seen film entitled Buddha. But that perhaps is his karma.

I do not want to suggest that Dr Chopra is a charlatan, let alone accuse. (though I cannot be so sure about others who fall under the New Age – Complementary banner). But in our age of fascination with celebrity, with wealth, with luxury, in our consumer society of countless facile choices I do not think it is wild to say that the self-delusional, like the poor, are still with us. Dr Chopra and some of his fellow travellers have fallen headlong into a ready-made market. Justifying wealth without responsibility, health without conscience and a spirituality that condones our excesses and assures us we are basically fine as we are. What they prescribe is a little meditation, a workshop or two and some ‘complementary’ products from the shop. All with the patronage of those who can afford to indulge such illusions. And some who have a vested interest in keeping such illusions alive.

Hence the cynical whispers. Hence the past life scepticism. Hence the devil whispering in my ear.

I, for one, still believe, fairness and equality in society are things we must work and strive for. In my way I do believe in karma – that is, cause and effect. The society we get is the society we are prepared to believe in, the society we are prepared to take responsibility for.


Copyright (C) Peter Millington Oct 2007