BRITISH SONGBIRDS

Popular music thrives in so many guises but I am struck by the high success rate of female singers. In the US they have had Ella Fitzgerald or Whitney Houston hitting the highest of high notes, Germany and later the US were wowed by the throaty tones of Marlene Dietrich and the French were blasted out of their seats by diminutive Edith Piaf. Since the 1940s Britain has had her share of songstresses and I here celebrate four very different artistes, Vera Lynn, Alma Cogan, Dusty Springfield and Cilla Black.

Vera during WW2 and Vera at 100

Dame Vera Lynn (1917- ) celebrated her 100^th birthday on 20 March and has long been an “icon” in the words of the popular press. A well-known vocalist with dance bands in the 1930s she became The Forces’ Sweetheart during the war. Toothy and smiling she entertained the troops most famously in Burma and India, in the jungle around Kohima. Her strong penetrating voice illuminated classics like A Nightingale sang in Berkeley Square, The White Cliffs of Dover and most of all nostalgic We’ll meet Again. My dear father adored Vera along with a million other fans.

Vera kept singing for decades after the War and had a notable hit with Auf Wiedersehn Sweetheart in the early 1950s. The daughter of an East End plumber, her image was wholly different from today’s pop divas. She spoke Home Counties English clearly, wore hats and adopted a middle-class lifestyle. A compilation album of her greatest songs topped the charts 5 years ago; she was revered by the military, hobnobbed with Mrs Thatcher and was showered with honours including the CH and being created a Dame. On 20 March her image was projected onto The White Cliffs in tribute. A National Treasure is an overworked expression but she has won that prize hands down.

Alma Cogan

Moving on to the 1950s and early 1960s, Alma Cogan (1932 – 66) was an ubiquitous presence in radio and TV shows and her records, principally covers of American artistes, sold very well. The pop-songs of her era were simple lyrical pieces which people hummed or whistled – Where will the Dimple Be?, Dreamboat or I’ve Got the Bell-bottom Blues are typical examples. Alma would give a lively rendition of these songs in her characteristic voice with a trade-mark giggly catch in it.

Alma was also renowned for her frocks. Huge hooped confections, unsparing of sequins and tightly busted showed off her ample charms and a high bee-hive hairdo completed the image. Alma was the daughter of observant Jewish-Romanians and her father was an itinerant haberdasher from Whitechapel. However Alma was educated at a Catholic convent school in Reading and was wholly secular. In her heyday, she shared a flat in Kensington High Street with her widowed mother and they threw showbiz parties patronised by the likes of Princess Margaret, Noel Coward, Bruce Forsyth, Michael Caine, Frankie Vaughan and other celebrities.

The advent of the Beatles and the transformation of the pop scene from 1963 made Alma look square and unfashionable and she lost her UK audience, although she remained popular in Sweden, Germany and Japan. Curiously she became very close to John Lennon, 8 years her junior. Visibly ailing in 1965, she died of ovarian cancer in London in 1966. She was only 34 and had given great pleasure in her short career.

Dusty Springfield

Dusty Springfield (1939-1999) was a more complex character. Born Mary O’Brien to a Scots-Irish tax accountant and a mother from Tralee, she was brought up in High Wycombe. The family were keen on music but was dysfunctional, a perfectionist father battling against a more easy-going mother. Dusty was a tomboy, suffering from severe mood swings. There were many instances of food and crockery being thrown around.

Entering showbiz in an all-girl quartet, The Lana Sisters, she joined up with her brother Tom and another to form The Springfields, who enjoyed some success in the folk circuit before Dusty went solo in 1963. Her husky soul-music voice became instantly popular and she produced a line of hits up to 1969 – I Only had to be with You, Wishin’ n’ Hopin’, You Don’t have to Say you love Me, Son of a Preacher Man. This was to be the apex of her career.

Dusty was a great admirer of US Motown black music and she went to Memphis to record an album which she hoped would break new ground. The album’s sales were disappointing although critically well-received.  Dusty’s personal demons asserted themselves. With her career treading water, she took to drink and suffered psychological illness, self-harm becoming a problem. She was very reticent about her sexuality but she had passionate lesbian relationships, some ending in sinister violence and physical injuries.

She returned to the UK in 1983 and had a partial comeback singing with The Pet Shop Boys. Much praised as one of the finest female rock singers in the world, her diva persona frightened off record companies. In 1994 breast cancer was diagnosed and her last performance was in 1995. She lived her last years quietly in Henley on Thames, Oxfordshire and died there in 1999. She was 59, her early promise largely unfulfilled.

Cilla Black in the 1960s

Cilla Black (1943 – 2015) was born Priscilla White in the Scotland Road area of Liverpool. She worked as a waitress at The Cavern, the venue much frequented by The Beatles in the 1960s. Her own impromptu performances were noticed and encouraged by the Fab Four and she eventually signed up with high-flying Brian Epstein as her manager. In 1964 she recorded her most famous song, a Burt Bacharach number intended for Dionne Warwick, which became Cilla’s trademark, Anyone who had a Heart. It was an enormous success and the flipside of the disc You’re my World was also a chart-topper.

Cilla toured the pop circuit until 1971. Personally I did not think Cilla’s voice matched Dusty Springfield’s nor was she as energetic a performer as Lulu but she did have oodles of warm personality which was to serve her well. Her version of the Beatles’ classic The Long and Winding Road was also much admired and she had a hit with another Bacharach song Alfie.

She might then have sunk into obscurity. She hosted her own BBC pop programme Cilla from 1968-76 and there was a doomed attempt to make her a comedy actress. Then LWT found the ideal vehicle for her in Blind Date which ran for 20 years from 1983 to 2003. This show tried to match up aspiring males with compatible girls and was decidedly down-market but was largely kept afloat by Cilla’s irrepressible Scouse good humour, her empathy with the contestants and her bubbly personality. These qualities were also in evidence in the other hit show she hosted Surprise, Surprise.

Cilla died of a stroke and a fall at her villa in Estepona, Spain in 2015, aged 72. Her Liverpool and North West England audience referred to her as “Our Cilla” in much the way Northerners dubbed Gracie Fields “Our Gracie” in the 1930s. This was a great and affectionate compliment.

My four singers were above all entertainers and they daily lightened the steps of their followers. Who could ask for anything more?

www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHcunREYzNY          Vera Lynn

www.youtube.com/watch?v=WP5TsJAyFJc            Alma Cogan

www.youtube.com/watch?v=uonH7CcextM          Dusty Springfield

www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZUxn6JLwdDY          Cilla Black

SMD

29.03.17

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2017

A MAN WITH A GUN

I am struck by how unsuccessful and futile political murders are. They usually trigger a reaction which is entirely opposed to what the perpetrator desired and bring disaster on the community he may claim to represent. Thus John Wilkes Booth’s murder of Abraham Lincoln in 1865 solidified opposition to slavery and made the South a political pariah for generations. The assassination of Julius Caesar did nothing to save the Roman Republic, instead ushering in a long line of Emperors, exploiting the patrician and senatorial class .The luckless Archduke Franz Ferdinand fell to Gavrilo Princip in Sarajevo in 1914; the ensuing war convulsed all Europe but the cause of Serbian nationalism was doomed, with Serbia totally overrun by the Central Powers.

Deplorable Khalid Masood

Violent misfit and loser Klalid Masood, British born, killed 4 innocents on 22 March on Westminster Bridge and at the entrance to Parliament. His weapons were a car and two kitchen knives, hardly sophisticated items. He achieved nothing other than exacerbating the hatred and contempt felt by the British for ISIL and jihadist extremists generally. The British are a phlegmatic people and readily come to each others’ aid and like to return to normality very quickly. That same resilience is evident in sorely tested France, Germany and Belgium, bravely carrying on business as usual.

Of course security can be tightened ad nauseum but government must be accessible to citizens of all kinds. The police cannot be everywhere. The disaffected and the alienated may need early support within their own circle of friends and family. Schools and social services have a role to play - many “communities” fall down on this duty. The whole nation needs to keep a sharp eye out for the odd and the unfamiliar and not “pass by on the other side”. The Law probably needs to be strengthened; incitement to violence is criminal but not easily invoked; perhaps that old Home Office favourite, “Conspiracy”, can be widened and fashioned into an effective weapon against the grooming of embryo terrorists. As a last resort, Internment without trial may be a way of taking dangerous but judicially unproven malefactors out of circulation. Liberals will suck in their breath noisily. Yet a society which is ruthlessly attacked must ruthlessly defend itself.

After all, did the murder of John F.Kennedy stop the spread of liberal ideas in America or that of Martin Luther King halt the drive for civil rights? No, quite the opposite. More to the point, did the long IRA campaign of murder and bombings from 1968 to 1998 in Northern Ireland and mainland Britain advance the cause of a united Ireland? Again, quite the opposite. 3,600 died and the Unionist majority in Ulster reacted savagely and single-mindedly with its own sectarian campaign and British opinion mainly opposed the nationalists. This week has seen the death of Martin McGuiness, once the IRA Chief of Staff, a gunman in his youth and a director of gunmen for decades. His violent green fantasies fuelled the conflict and nothing can condone his early bloody career, as Theresa May noted. He finally realised the only way to make progress was to end terror and negotiate.

Reformed gunman McGuiness with his pal Gerry Adams

The Good Friday 1998 Agreement followed bringing power-sharing to Ulster but preserving Northern Ireland’s British status. In time the relieved people of Ulster were to see an unholy alliance of rabid Presbyterian demagogue Ian Paisley as First Minister and unrepentent IRA leader Martin McGuiness as his Deputy ruling together rather amicably. At least the killing ended and I grudgingly give McGuiness some credit. The obituaries of McGuiness politely accentuated the positives – the Leftist BBC characteristically more or less deified the ex-terrorist and of course ineffable Bill Clinton could not resist grandstanding at the funeral.  The only publically discordant note came from Thatcherite minister Norman Tebbitt who wished McGuiness a hot time in Hell – not surprisingly as the IRA bomb in Brighton in 1984 had cruelly disabled his beloved wife, Margaret.

Violence can destroy but it cannot build. There used to be a defeatist saying in the  1930s The Bomber will always get through. Well that was not true, as Britain demonstrated by building Hurricanes and Spitfires and inventing radar. That same courage and ingenuity is deployed now against terrorists. There is an Irving Berlin classic You can’t get a Man with a Gun but we can and we do.

SMD

25.03.17

Text Copyright ©Sidney Donald 2017

THERESA DIGS IN

  

Beset and besieged by a variety of jackals and vultures, Theresa May has staunchly hunkered down to address all the financial, constitutional and social problems facing the United Kingdom. The electorate expects firm, fair and coherent government and demands that the government quickly masters the complexities of Brexit – so far there have been mixed results and a headmaster’s report would use the time-honoured phrase “could do better”.

Theresa May at work

The great positive is that Parliament has finally approved the triggering of Article 50, now scheduled for 29 March, and the Royal Assent has been given. Negotiations will presumably begin soon. The passage through the Commons was easy enough as Jeremy Corbyn’s opposition from Labour was pathetically muted. The Lords made predictably Establishment noises fortified by last-ditch pleas from arch-Europhile, and erstwhile darling of the Tory faithful, Michael Heseltine:  but they realised their very existence would be jeopardised if they defied the Commons on this crucial issue and they finally concurred. No doubt there will be dozens of ministerial statements, parliamentary questions and second-line debates but there will only be one make-or-break vote on the final terms sometime in 2018-19. One hopes that by that time some kind of national consensus will have emerged.

The UK’s financial performance has much exceeded the deep gloom forecast by the Remainers in their Project Fear campaign, growing second only to Germany in Europe. The weakness of sterling helps exports and attracts inward investment but will also boost inflation. But so far, so good. Philip Hammond’s Spring Budget however proved to be a shambles. A central measure was a modest increase in NIC of 2% for the self-employed. This broke a 2015 manifesto pledge not to increase NIC costs and the self-employed are dearly cherished by the Tories. Backbenchers protested vociferously and May forced Hammond to withdraw this measure, demonstrating weak pre-budget liaison between No10 and the Treasury and maybe wobbly political will from Theresa herself. This does not augur well for the looming abrasive negotiations with the EU – we need nerveless and committed representatives at that little party which has every chance of turning particularly nasty.

Talking of the particularly nasty, Nicola Sturgeon, leader of the SNP and First Minister of Scotland announced that she would ask the UK government to approve the holding of a second Independence referendum. She lost the first 55-45% in 2014, but the Brexit vote is judged, fairly enough, “a material change of circumstances” and 62% of Scots voted to remain in the EU in the Leave/Remain vote of 2016. Theresa May has not refused an eventual referendum but states it cannot take place until after Brexit. This position was applauded by veteran SNP/Labour man Jim Sillars as “sensible”.  Predictably the SNP is theatrically outraged, but remember the SNP is “a grievance machine” unwilling to agree anything that does not suit its fanatical independence cravings.

Scotland's least enjoyed export, Nicola Sturgeon

Sadly, as a Scots Unionist, at present the SNP is politically dominant in my native country. The polls say that support for independence is waning – we will see to what extent in the May 4 local elections – but Labour seems ineffective and the Tories, doughtily led by Ruth Davidson, enjoys minority (if well-informed) support. The intellectual case for independence has never looked weaker: the SNP presides over a country with a much worse growth rate than the UK, North Sea oil revenues have nose-dived from £1.8bn in 2015 to just £60m in 2016 and an independent Scotland would have at 9.7% the 2^nd highest Debt/GDP ratio in the developed world. Her admission to the EU would be long delayed, the necessary “hard border” between Scotland and England would undermine Scots business, a new Scots currency would be required and so on ad infinitum. Sensible Scots see that remaining within the Union, subsidised by the UK, is crucial.

The SNP could not care less about these facts. La Sturgeon struts about as if she were already the President of the Scots Republic and any price, even bankruptcy, is worth paying for achieving her Holy Grail of Independence. Her bubble deserves to be pricked but Theresa avoids direct confrontation, at least for now. The Scots Parliament will pass a motion asking for a 2^nd independence referendum, but Theresa should resist these unwelcome pressures, as legally she has every right to do. Only she can fix a date for a referendum.

Theresa May’s position is not ideal. She lacks the authority of an election winner, as her eminence is the result of an inter-party Tory cabal. Her parliamentary majority of about 12 is much too thin for comfort and all the signs are it would be materially increased were there to be an early election. But Brexit business must take priority and calling an election requires far more guile than previously, under the 2011 Fixed Parliament Act. Opposition led by ineffable Jeremy Corbyn, pipsqueak Tim Farron and unlovable Nicola Sturgeon should easily enough be overcome, yet Theresa declines to call a poll. She probably wants to have more to boast about in terms of Brexit and economic progress. Meanwhile she has to grin and bear the poison arrows from hostile opponents and media.

2017 is certain to be a sticky year. Trump appears to be totally lacking in presidential qualities and his erratic domestic and foreign policies can cause mayhem. Germany and France will be distracted by national elections, but we should not be too much swayed by talk of radical political change. Marine Le Pen will not become French President nor will Merkel’s Christian Democrats lose their grip on power in Germany. The muted showing by Geert Wilders in the Netherlands shows that stodgy Europeans are not much attracted to revolutions these days. The EU as an institution will have to curb its ambitions and a two-speed Europe may well emerge. A predatory Russia will sniff for territorial prey on her borders, in say Latvia and Ukraine, putting NATO’s resolve and solidarity to the test.

Theresa May is not a flamboyant type but she has the experience and single-mindedness to lead the UK to what it wants to be – a prosperous cosmopolitan nation in a new arrangement outside the restrictions of the EU but cooperating closely with Europe in many vital fields. I hope most of the nation can in time unify around such a programme.

SMD

21.03.17

Text Copyright ©Sidney Donald 2017

AM I GETTING OLD?

I was appalled to read a report that 60% of all marmalade sold in the UK went to people aged over 65 and only 1% to those under 28. I am very partial to marmalade (tawny orange from Wilkin & Sons of Tiptree, please) and I resent the implication of my senility in the report, but most of all I grieve for all those young people going to work without even a spoonful of this glorious preserve to sustain them through their long working day.

I do not feel ancient but perhaps my lifestyle betrays my crusty old age. I am retired, comfortably billeted in sunny Folkestone, so I do not need to jump out of bed at the beckoning of an alarm clock. I will get out of my restful bed at 9 o’clock, shuffle on my slippers and join my early-rising wife for a cup of coffee with hot croissants or slices of toast, liberally embellished with delicious marmalade, of course. We often complete The Guardian quick crossword – the only good thing to come out of that treasonable organ against whose entire ethic I regularly fulminate.

The Perfect start to a Day

                                            

A leisurely warm bath (so much more relaxing than a shower), a few puffs of aromatic luxury and an electric shave (I have never had a wet shave in my life). I don my casual clothes, a warm cotton shirt, a cashmere pullover and (goodness, I am modern!) a pair of blue jeans. I will switch on my laptop and catch up with the news on the internet, absorbing the distilled wisdom of the Daily Telegraph with its talented writers Charles Moore, Ambrose Evans-Pritchard, Con Coughlin et al expounding solid Tory views on the great issues of the day. Admirable Norman Tebbit still weighs in, aged 85.

 I will scan my Inbox for communications from my small but select circle of friends but I often retire disappointed when the cupboard is bare, though gratifying messages surprise and greatly refresh me. I do my bit by sending out my frank observations on past and present events or personalities, but my gems do occasionally fall on stony ground and languish unread. I think my views are sensibly libertarian but others rank me somewhere between Mussolini and Ivan the Terrible, when both were suffering toothache.

We may need to do some supermarket shopping and we usually patronise our local Sainsbury. The store is well-stocked but shopping has become a soulless occupation. Aisle after weary aisle with bewildering choices – do I need 100 bread possibilities or 40 types of cracker?- nobody much to talk to and the cash-till staff seem disobliging to me as you now have to find your own plastic bags (and of course pay for them). Customers are till-fodder, “service” a quaint anachronism. On our way home we stop at our local, Keppel’s – so-named in honour of Edward VII’s comely mistress -under The Grand at Folkestone where I drink a pint of English ale – Fullers’ London Pride my tipple – and a glass of Côte du Rhone for Betty. I deplore gassy old lager as drunk by our European cousins, inflating their waistlines and probably monstrous egos too.

A much-needed regular tonic

                                            

Our cultural life is somewhat muted in Folkestone; while there is a theatre/concert venue taking secondary touring companies, the nearest dedicated theatre is really in Canterbury. A local retro-cinema screens the latest and classic movies. We find it fatally easy to stay at home watching mindless TV (though I was gripped by Tom Hardy’s violent Taboo serial with its villainous East India Company) thus avoiding the rigours of dark winter excursions – we must blow away the cobwebs in the Springtime and not just confine ourselves to gentle strolls down the Prom at The Leas.

The problem with living in any English town is as ever “other people”. The dulcet tones of “Estuary English” echo through Folkestone as many residents are London overspill. Heavy tattoos and obese tummies abound, and that is just the womenfolk. The men often have a maritime, not to say piratical air and the children career around on supermarket trollies, almost as brat-like as their American equivalents.

The great redeeming feature is that Folkestone voted solidly in favour of Brexit. These people are the salt of the earth, impervious to outside interference and patriots to their roots, our Hearts of Oak, as British as steak and kidney pie, proud victors of Trafalgar and Waterloo, brave fighters at Jutland, Dunkirk and The Falklands………….Oh, do shut up, Sidney, you are quite clearly going ga-ga!

SMD

08.03.17

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2017