You Can’t Stop the Music
I am fond of amateur theatricals and, while there are many incidents in youth that determine the course of a life, I can chart my direction from the moment when, at the age of thirteen, I stepped onto a stage in a pair of white satin pantaloons and a powdered wig.
At a time in life when my peers were chasing a muddy ball around the Tuatapere domain I chased song lyrics and dance steps in the local Memorial Hall, under the measured baton of Mrs Phyllis McClymont, the chemist’s wife.
I was an accidental actor. I found my way into the Memorial Hall through neither audition nor an unquenchable desire to lift the coattails of fortune. No, I owed my lucky break to chicken manure.
I had been barrowing chicken manure on a bleak winter afternoon from our henhouse, across the back paddock, over the road and onto Mrs McClymont’s strawberry patch. Piano music tinkled as usual from the lounge. This was the most tastefully appointed room in Birch Street, perhaps in all Tuatapere. A warbling soprano voice rose above the notes of the piano.
As I slewed past the lounge, my face straining against the ammoniac reek of my barrow, the music stopped, a window opened and Mrs McClymont’s blue-rinse-haloed face appeared.
“I need you,” she commanded.
And that was that.
When I told my parents my father seemed completely unsurprised at my elevation to stardom. He had tremendous faith in chicken manure.
The show in rehearsal was The Gondoliers by Gilbert & Sullivan. I fell at once deeply, passionately and everlastingly in love with G&S.
The music that has profoundly influenced my life has always found me by accident: my sister’s boyfriend reaching blindly into a wardrobe stuffed with LPs and pulling out Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks; the father of a girl I was madly in love with at 21 playing a Mozart piano concerto on a blue harpsichord. Gilbert & Sullivan took me completely by surprise - courtesy of a barrowload of chicken manure.
A hundred and thirty years or so after their invention it is easy to deride Gilbert & Sullivan’s comic operas.
It’s not so much that they’re old-fashioned. The stories, littered with orphans, babies switched at birth and forced marriages are no different than most Hollywood romantic comedies. The language is stilted rather than archaic and the costumes wouldn’t look out of place at a high school lipsync.
It is the style that outs them as a throwback to an earlier age. They seem as ponderous and declamatory as a traction engine, their humour laboured and their pathos, well, pathetic.
That they are constantly reprised is due to just one thing – the music. The music is fabulous - sly as a courtesan, exhilarating as big surf. My family hates it, of course. To them it is all tiddly om pom and fa la la la. And, yes, it is those things, but allow yourself to sink beneath the frills and the music is deep and rich and full of surprises.
And it is fun to sing because, when stripped bare, it is simply a collection of great tunes. Gilbert & Sullivan were the Lennon & McCartney of their age, producing a catalogue of hits which wove themselves so deeply into our collective subconscious that even now their imprint remains. Few people would not raise at least a flicker of response to the Major-General’s patter or Three Little Maids From School.
Not that I understood all this when I set foot on the stage of the Tuatapere Memorial Hall. Back then it wasn’t the tunes that grabbed my attention.
It was the girls. Yes, there they were, real girls, tucked away among the dowagers, the pirates, the footmen and the minor nobility that populate the world of G&S.
My role in The Gondoliers was to be the Lord High Drummer Boy – this is why I had been summoned by Mrs McClymont. My hopes of impressing the girls soared as I dressed in satin bloomers and powdered wig, only to be dashed on the rocks of choreography.
The girls, you see, were the famous ballet troupe from Blackmount – a district so remote it barely figured on the map but nevertheless produced beautiful and talented ballerinas. My task was to dance a fiendishly complicated Spanish Cachuca with these maidens.
I worked strenuously but I couldn’t do it. The girls twirled effortlessely about me, clacking their castanets and flashing their eyes disdainfully while I plonked around with my half-roll of puppy fat and two left feet.
Mercifully the experience, although it put me off myself for a while, dampened my enthusiasm for neither girls nor G & S.
Next month I will once again sing Gilbert & Sullivan on stage, in the Mid-Canterbury Choir’s winter concert at the Tinwald Hall on Saturday 15th September. We will sing a selection of music from four operas: Pinafore, The Pirates of Penzance, The Mikado and, happily, The Gondoliers.
I am delighted to rediscover this music after 30 years. It is like meeting an old friend.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Argyle Park Will Dominate Local Election
11th August 2007
There are times when the credibility of local government hangs by a thread, when an issue appears from nowhere and cuts deeply into the tangled knot of factions, interests and overlapping constituencies of small town politics.
The question of whether Ashburton golfers should be allowed to club their way around Argyle Park has reared up with the unpredictable ferocity of a twister. Close to an election it is an issue that has local politicians looking carefully at how the pancake is going to fall – and whether they’ll end up wearing the sticky side.
Argyle Park’s connection with golf (or ‘golf links’) dates back to the early years of last century when local golfers regularly used the area. Many of today’s petitioners believe the park is named from the brand of knitwear that was the preferred attire of early Mid-Canterbury club swingers.
In those days the word ‘golf’ was rarely used. The game was still known by its original title, ‘flog’, and was a much more robust affair than the modern version. Early reports describe frenzied games of flog involving teams of up to 20 players attacking each other with heavy wooden clubs in the muddy paddocks behind Allenton. Matches frequently ended in bloodshed and ‘a good flogging.’
Suburban encroachment eventually severed Argyle Park’s connection with the game until its recent revival as a practise venue for local golfers.
The question now confronting the Council is whether golf can safely co-exist with other uses of Argyle Park. Reports of misdirected golf balls colliding with houses, dogs, garden ornaments and sundry other suburban icons have raised the ire of local residents.
One householder, who declined to be named, described the terror of life in the firing line. “I was hanging out the washing just the other week and I got a golf ball right up my back passage. What made it worse was the golfer went straight in there after it. By the time I got inside the carpet was just a mess of divots.”
Brent Wallop, a spokesperson for GAPS (“Golfers in Argyle Park, Stupid”) says the problems are confined to a small group of freestyle golfers. “These idiots are the petrol heads of the golfing world. In their game the player scores points for taking the least direct route to the pin. They delight in squirting the ball off in all directions. I’ve seen one of these turkeys drive off a tee shot that comes back and lands behind him.”
In a bid to outflank the issue Council is experimenting with bungee golf. In this version of the game the ball is tied to a long bungee cord. When struck, the ball travels the length of the cord then returns at speed toward the golfer, enabling the game to be played in confined spaces.
Speaking from his hospital bed the inventor of bungee golf, Brian Flaws, admits there are a few wrinkles in his idea. “The issue of protective clothing obviously needs thinking through a bit.”
Overshadowing the immediate question of golf is the potentially more damaging issue of allowing access to other sporting and recreational groups that have until now been kept out of local parks.
One of these is the Ashburton Smallbore Rifle Association, ASMAR. Association president, Roger Blasted, takes up the story.
“Since we lost our bid to relocate to Hakatere we’ve been panicking about where we’ll go. If the golfers get Argyle Park that sets a precedent for groups like ourselves.”
Mr Blasted agrees that allowing both golfers and shooters into Argyle Park would be a stretch.
“Some of the trap shooting boys are keen to talk to the golfers about working together. They reckon they could set up at the other end of the driving range and shoot the golf balls while they’re in the air. That would probably save a few windows and dogs. But we’d rather talk to the Council about getting access to another park; perhaps the Domain or Baring Square.”
Other groups with bids in the pipeline include Mid-Canterbury Stockcars, the archery association and the Tinwald Ceilidh Club.
Parks director, Dave Askin, fears for the future of our public spaces if groups such as these become regular users. “I’m particularly worried about the Ceilidh Club. All those Irish dancers will play havoc with our turf.”
Meanwhile the battle lines in the debate are being drawn. Local residents of Argyle Park plan an all-night vigil which will include burning effigies of local golfers.
Brent Wallop says golfers are undeterred. “We’re prepared to go all the way with this. I’ll put 20 guys with putters onto the Council table if necessary.”
With this issue set to dominate the election councillors are keeping their heads down - especially those close to Argyle Park.
11th August 2007
There are times when the credibility of local government hangs by a thread, when an issue appears from nowhere and cuts deeply into the tangled knot of factions, interests and overlapping constituencies of small town politics.
The question of whether Ashburton golfers should be allowed to club their way around Argyle Park has reared up with the unpredictable ferocity of a twister. Close to an election it is an issue that has local politicians looking carefully at how the pancake is going to fall – and whether they’ll end up wearing the sticky side.
Argyle Park’s connection with golf (or ‘golf links’) dates back to the early years of last century when local golfers regularly used the area. Many of today’s petitioners believe the park is named from the brand of knitwear that was the preferred attire of early Mid-Canterbury club swingers.
In those days the word ‘golf’ was rarely used. The game was still known by its original title, ‘flog’, and was a much more robust affair than the modern version. Early reports describe frenzied games of flog involving teams of up to 20 players attacking each other with heavy wooden clubs in the muddy paddocks behind Allenton. Matches frequently ended in bloodshed and ‘a good flogging.’
Suburban encroachment eventually severed Argyle Park’s connection with the game until its recent revival as a practise venue for local golfers.
The question now confronting the Council is whether golf can safely co-exist with other uses of Argyle Park. Reports of misdirected golf balls colliding with houses, dogs, garden ornaments and sundry other suburban icons have raised the ire of local residents.
One householder, who declined to be named, described the terror of life in the firing line. “I was hanging out the washing just the other week and I got a golf ball right up my back passage. What made it worse was the golfer went straight in there after it. By the time I got inside the carpet was just a mess of divots.”
Brent Wallop, a spokesperson for GAPS (“Golfers in Argyle Park, Stupid”) says the problems are confined to a small group of freestyle golfers. “These idiots are the petrol heads of the golfing world. In their game the player scores points for taking the least direct route to the pin. They delight in squirting the ball off in all directions. I’ve seen one of these turkeys drive off a tee shot that comes back and lands behind him.”
In a bid to outflank the issue Council is experimenting with bungee golf. In this version of the game the ball is tied to a long bungee cord. When struck, the ball travels the length of the cord then returns at speed toward the golfer, enabling the game to be played in confined spaces.
Speaking from his hospital bed the inventor of bungee golf, Brian Flaws, admits there are a few wrinkles in his idea. “The issue of protective clothing obviously needs thinking through a bit.”
Overshadowing the immediate question of golf is the potentially more damaging issue of allowing access to other sporting and recreational groups that have until now been kept out of local parks.
One of these is the Ashburton Smallbore Rifle Association, ASMAR. Association president, Roger Blasted, takes up the story.
“Since we lost our bid to relocate to Hakatere we’ve been panicking about where we’ll go. If the golfers get Argyle Park that sets a precedent for groups like ourselves.”
Mr Blasted agrees that allowing both golfers and shooters into Argyle Park would be a stretch.
“Some of the trap shooting boys are keen to talk to the golfers about working together. They reckon they could set up at the other end of the driving range and shoot the golf balls while they’re in the air. That would probably save a few windows and dogs. But we’d rather talk to the Council about getting access to another park; perhaps the Domain or Baring Square.”
Other groups with bids in the pipeline include Mid-Canterbury Stockcars, the archery association and the Tinwald Ceilidh Club.
Parks director, Dave Askin, fears for the future of our public spaces if groups such as these become regular users. “I’m particularly worried about the Ceilidh Club. All those Irish dancers will play havoc with our turf.”
Meanwhile the battle lines in the debate are being drawn. Local residents of Argyle Park plan an all-night vigil which will include burning effigies of local golfers.
Brent Wallop says golfers are undeterred. “We’re prepared to go all the way with this. I’ll put 20 guys with putters onto the Council table if necessary.”
With this issue set to dominate the election councillors are keeping their heads down - especially those close to Argyle Park.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Ashburton’s Black Heart
28th July 2007
The Waiau was a well-muscled river. Conceived in the diluvian depths of Fiordland, nurtured by the great reservoirs of TeAnau and Manapouri, sustained by a thousand streams and creeks, it was a wild beast, an express train and the All Blacks front row all rolled into one.
Even in a dry February it ran two hundred metres wide past my back fence in Tuatapere and deeper, much deeper, than the big kids’ end of the town pool.
In an August storm, when the mountains had vanished for a week behind a veil of nor’west rain, the river was terrifying. It boiled and raged. It conjured whirlpools and vast upwellings driven by forces so great they surged several inches higher than the level of the surrounding waters. Giant tree trunks spun helplessly in the river’s grip, crashed together, flailed at the banks and were swept on.
The Waiau bisected Tuatapere and was the town’s sole attraction; a source of wonder to the child and solace to the angler; a great gulp of water, air and light in the heart of our small lives. It was flanked by native bush, protected in reserves on each bank, the western side broadening to a genuine forest through which a narrow, winding road, umbrella’d by totara and rimu, led to the domain and sports ground.
The bridge across the Waiau bespoke the raw energy of the river. Massive timbers fastened with iron railway spikes tangled together in a fantastic superstructure that soared high above the stream. To us kids it seemed as ancient as the river itself, built by giants. It compressed the traffic into a single lane like a bear hug.
A narrow walkway had been appendixed to the bridge. As a young child I approached that walkway with the same trepidation I felt with my first escalator. The planks had been laid with gaps between so the rushing water was clearly visible. I was both repelled and mesmerised by the sight of the river rushing past a few metres beneath my feet.
The walkway was bounded on the outside by a chain link fence with a wooden rail on which I could rest my chin when I was eight. On the inside I don’t remember any sort of formal fence or rail, just the great pile of the bridge’s timbers. The bridge shook and trembled when log lorries, piled with trunks from the Rowallan forests, forced their way across.
The Waiau was too unruly to suffer a waterfront. Its banks were not lined with promenades and buildings. But although the town had withdrawn to the safety of higher ground the river and its bridge nevertheless formed the centre and fulcrum of the place. We were proud of the river - proud of its beauty and energy.
We called it ‘swift’ – ‘the swiftest river in New Zealand’ - and we honoured it by guarding the forest reserves and beautifying the approaches to the bridge.
The river shaped the town’s fortunes. While it flowed swift and strong the town prospered.
Later, when the waters were diverted through the Manapouri power station and the river dwindled so did Tuatapere. The old bridge was replaced with a functional concrete structure, sawmills closed, people moved away.
I often think of the Waiau and its place in my early life now that I find myself living once again in a town bisected by a river. The comparison isn’t flattering because, even allowing for romantic exaggerations, the Ashburton is a scungy little river compared to the Waiau, and our bridge and its surroundings are shameful.
It is unfortunate that the Ashburton river’s occasional ruptures sufficiently inconvenienced early travellers that Mr Turton was inspired to build his wayside hostelry on its bank. While the town grew around the river it has always defied our small attempts at beautification.
The character of a river can shape the character of a town: think of New York, London and Paris. Even in tiny Tuatapere the Waiau river’s sinuous energy lent us a bit of self-belief.
The Ashburton river has the opposite effect. It depresses, dulls and flattens the character of our town. Recognising this, we have turned our backs on it. Our denial is most evident in the bridge and its approaches which are the black heart of the town - dirty, ugly and bereft of civic pride.
And yet it remains the one part of our community that most of us see daily and which all who pass through Ashburton must endure.
We were ill-served by our founders, who should have built away from the river. They didn’t and we’re stuck with that. We can do little to change the character of the river but we must recognise that the bridge and its approaches are our centrepiece and shopfront. Are we happy to look like a dump?
28th July 2007
The Waiau was a well-muscled river. Conceived in the diluvian depths of Fiordland, nurtured by the great reservoirs of TeAnau and Manapouri, sustained by a thousand streams and creeks, it was a wild beast, an express train and the All Blacks front row all rolled into one.
Even in a dry February it ran two hundred metres wide past my back fence in Tuatapere and deeper, much deeper, than the big kids’ end of the town pool.
In an August storm, when the mountains had vanished for a week behind a veil of nor’west rain, the river was terrifying. It boiled and raged. It conjured whirlpools and vast upwellings driven by forces so great they surged several inches higher than the level of the surrounding waters. Giant tree trunks spun helplessly in the river’s grip, crashed together, flailed at the banks and were swept on.
The Waiau bisected Tuatapere and was the town’s sole attraction; a source of wonder to the child and solace to the angler; a great gulp of water, air and light in the heart of our small lives. It was flanked by native bush, protected in reserves on each bank, the western side broadening to a genuine forest through which a narrow, winding road, umbrella’d by totara and rimu, led to the domain and sports ground.
The bridge across the Waiau bespoke the raw energy of the river. Massive timbers fastened with iron railway spikes tangled together in a fantastic superstructure that soared high above the stream. To us kids it seemed as ancient as the river itself, built by giants. It compressed the traffic into a single lane like a bear hug.
A narrow walkway had been appendixed to the bridge. As a young child I approached that walkway with the same trepidation I felt with my first escalator. The planks had been laid with gaps between so the rushing water was clearly visible. I was both repelled and mesmerised by the sight of the river rushing past a few metres beneath my feet.
The walkway was bounded on the outside by a chain link fence with a wooden rail on which I could rest my chin when I was eight. On the inside I don’t remember any sort of formal fence or rail, just the great pile of the bridge’s timbers. The bridge shook and trembled when log lorries, piled with trunks from the Rowallan forests, forced their way across.
The Waiau was too unruly to suffer a waterfront. Its banks were not lined with promenades and buildings. But although the town had withdrawn to the safety of higher ground the river and its bridge nevertheless formed the centre and fulcrum of the place. We were proud of the river - proud of its beauty and energy.
We called it ‘swift’ – ‘the swiftest river in New Zealand’ - and we honoured it by guarding the forest reserves and beautifying the approaches to the bridge.
The river shaped the town’s fortunes. While it flowed swift and strong the town prospered.
Later, when the waters were diverted through the Manapouri power station and the river dwindled so did Tuatapere. The old bridge was replaced with a functional concrete structure, sawmills closed, people moved away.
I often think of the Waiau and its place in my early life now that I find myself living once again in a town bisected by a river. The comparison isn’t flattering because, even allowing for romantic exaggerations, the Ashburton is a scungy little river compared to the Waiau, and our bridge and its surroundings are shameful.
It is unfortunate that the Ashburton river’s occasional ruptures sufficiently inconvenienced early travellers that Mr Turton was inspired to build his wayside hostelry on its bank. While the town grew around the river it has always defied our small attempts at beautification.
The character of a river can shape the character of a town: think of New York, London and Paris. Even in tiny Tuatapere the Waiau river’s sinuous energy lent us a bit of self-belief.
The Ashburton river has the opposite effect. It depresses, dulls and flattens the character of our town. Recognising this, we have turned our backs on it. Our denial is most evident in the bridge and its approaches which are the black heart of the town - dirty, ugly and bereft of civic pride.
And yet it remains the one part of our community that most of us see daily and which all who pass through Ashburton must endure.
We were ill-served by our founders, who should have built away from the river. They didn’t and we’re stuck with that. We can do little to change the character of the river but we must recognise that the bridge and its approaches are our centrepiece and shopfront. Are we happy to look like a dump?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)