why milkmen whistle

In my world I find myself troubled by the lack of recreational whistling these days. I arrived at this, as always, through a circuitous route beginning with the song, The Milkman of Human Kindness, inexplicably coming to mind, and continuing around and around in my head for days. This song, performed on TOGWT, was the first time I’d noticed Billy Bragg and the lasting impression was how well the loneliness of the performance matched the pathos of the song. I think it was the use of electric guitar that helped in this: most one-man performers, I thought then, used an acoustic, the electric was for bands.

The very long serving milkman we had when I was a lad could have easily been nominated for the milkman of human kindness had such an honour existed. A youthful presence, though probably 30-ish, well-filled out yet short on being fat, with an open, round face, and hair my mum would have described as having been cut with a knife and fork. He carried a withered leather satchel on his front from which he often produced a flip-flap wallet which looked homemade of cardboard and criss-crossed elastic ribbon, and which, by magic and slight of hand, flip-flapped and entrapped your ten-bob or quid note beneath the elastic ribbons. And then he whistled. That’s the point, the whole point. You can get milk from the grocers around the corner, but you can’t get an early morning whistler come all weathers.

On his first day on the job, on our round, he came around our corner with an almighty crash. He asked my mum if she had a broom he could borrow. And a cardboard box for the broken glass. I miss the low sound of bottles hitting the doorstep and the high sound of bottles returning to the crate. He called you Sunshine, or Missus, or Squire, and he left an extra pint.

Billy Bragg had to appear a second time on TOGWT before I got him. The song, Levi Stubbs Tears. The circular working of the lyrics is wonderful, the story unfolds and eventually answers the intriguing question arising from the opening line. But most of all, he isn’t alone. The horn coming at the end simply sold it for me. I suppose he could have whistled it, like Lennon on Jealous Guy, or Redding on Dock of the Bay. I’m glad he didn’t. He went for the horn.

pop schmop

I vaguely remember a long time ago, George Harrison was asked in an interview whether he'd be going along to see Paul McCartney's new band, Wings. He replied something like, Why should I want to see someone pretending to be The Beatles when I've seen The Beatles.

I've just seen some snaps from Glastonbury 2010. Christ, I don't know if the music was worth it but if I'd had to take part in such a grotesque density of human bodies for just a weekend, I'd be shipping myself off immediately to somewhere like the Outer Hebrides for two months of detox. Actually, I've a fair idea the music wasn't worth it. Not for me. It's to do with those words of George Harrison. I did catch a few minutes on telly on several occasions and wondered what the point of pop was now. I was going through a phase of each new artist reminding me of one or several older artists. Now I can't see the wood for the trees. Everything pop suddenly coagulated and the fans bring to mind the Eloi. I felt quite sad for it all but the fans look happy enough, like they don't care. But they should care, shouldn't they? Wasn't that one of its tenets? I'm beginning not to remember...

So, I decided to watch a biopic on Stevie Winwood on BBC iPlayer. I enjoy the intimacy of watching telly on the lappy with headphones. Stevie was remarkably good in his day, I'd completely forgotten that. Apart from the mid-80s bit, I think; I remembered I'd forgotten that for a good reason. I saw Traffic once in London, the three originals - Winwood, Jim Capaldi, and Chris Wood - with a guest bassist. They played for three hours without a break, a fusion of rock, jazz, folk, funk, and much besides. They were exhausting but really, really good. In the documentary, I felt for Stevie musing over an old record sleeve, missing his two dear pals, now both sadly passed away...

4-1

On this day, England lost too convincingly to the youngest Germany of all time. You know, I have some German ancestry somewhere...about three generations back...

No, damn-it, I'm English! More so than football is, I think. They, naturally, should be made to practice their archery.

the naming of things

I see the Guardian is holding a competition to give names to endangered bugs and plants so rare they're only known by scientists who speak of them in Latin. It would be a nice idea but I haven't caught up with the names of all the non-endangered critters yet! Time's running out for us all...

snap vs. slap

I see the NPG is showing the BP Portrait Awards 2010. There's some here and a bit more here. I think I might go.

As I saw The Guardian pictures first, and which didn't carry much information, I wasn't sure whether the BP Awards had allowed photography. (I know the NPG includes photographs in its collection.) However, I see it's just for contemporary portrait painters which makes me marvel at the talent and amount of work that must go into some of these paintings. The Guardian's image of David Eichenberg's Tim II had me puzzling for a mimute until I saw on the NPG site it's an ''oil on panel''. I had wondered if he'd used one of those funny photoshop effects on the background. Of course, now I know, what was I thinking?! It's the NPG!

I do marvel at the work but I'm also ambivalent about this style of painting: a part of me wonders why not just make a photograph? But then a different part thinks photography isn't art. Not in itself. Photography is more a craft, one using much science and technology, and mainly it's use is non-expressive. But I'm not suggesting that no photograph is art or that photography can't be used as an artistic medium. I mean, photography doesn't equal art. Like a brush and paint isn't art - otherwise anyone simply painting a garden fence would be considered artistic.

So, which is better, a photograph or a photo-realistic painting? I don't know but if Tim II had turned out to be a photo I wouldn't have marveled as much.

decent exposure

Libraries are automated now which makes it easier for the borrower and, I assume, allows librarians to get on with better things. The best use of this system is when returning: no more waiting in queues to hand over armfuls of books; it's a five second job. I don't even mind when you have to put each returned book on the appropriate trolley. I mean, there's only the two trolleys and the machine assists with a bright green, flashing arrow. The bonus is, rather than recent returns disappearing behind the librarian's back, they can now be seen on the trolley. It's curious what some people borrow, rather like eyeing up the contents of supermarket trolleys. You can't tell a thing about a person that way but it doesn't stop you trying.

Anyway, to cut an unnecessarily long story short, I found a good book on photography amongst the returns last week; Understanding Exposure, by Bryan Peterson. Now I've gone through loads of these bibles and handbooks and for the intermediate photographer, which I am and I imagine most people are, they're mostly if not all hopeless. Either they're too basic or over technical and too dull to interest anyone but the technical fanatic.

Peterson's book is better because it cuts to the chase. It's the exposure, stupid. He makes it all so obvious, which it probably is but you couldn't be arsed to find it in the dry and lofty ''Advanced Photographer's Bible''. Instead, this one takes you directly to the nitty-gritty, enlightening you with such useful concepts as the holy triangle (shutter speed, aperture, and ISO); the 18% grey illusion; and the handy tricksters, Brother Sky and Mr. Green Jeans. If only they'd have printed a notebook sized edition, it would be a must. Nevertheless, get a copy from your automated librarian today!

the coin-operated horse

I've put this image up for Steve. It's me, probably around four years old, riding on a coin-operated horse. I don't know where it was taken: the coin-operated horse I had in mind, when I commented on a photo of Steve's wife as a little girl riding a rocking horse, was out front of a beach shop in Newquay, Cornwall. This wasn't it; it's an entirely different one. I really must have had a thing about mechanical horses.

Riding the horse, and wanting to ride them when I saw them, is one of the few memories I have from pre-school years. It may be the only one. I have to be careful not to dwell on this memory too long in case it gets corrupted. Memories are delicate things, and I don't really know how pristine this one actually is. I'll put it away now.

brian sewell, national jewel

I've been catching up on Brian Sewell in the London Evening Standard.

In many a twilight hour, I would be sent forth, ''round the corner'', on my little bicycle by Dad to collect an Evening Standard from the news vendor. Then he switched preference to the Evening News; I don't know why...

on photos: wall, web, or book?

Tomorrow I'll go to The Photographers' Gallery. On their forum, which now they appear to have taken down in favour of a new Facebook page (!), they had asked which was best for showing photographs; wall, web, or book? I'm undecided but it does show that photography is the odd medium; no one could dispute that art is best seen in the flesh.

Here's David Wilson's work. He's a Pembrokeshire landscape photographer. We've just come back from a weekend B&B there and found his book of black & white landscapes in the sitting room. It's a great book: not only are the images fantastic but it's instructive too, the accompanying words and the technical bit at the back teach more than most photo handbooks I've read.

I looked out for his work thinking I might have one on the wall at home. His work was everywhere you looked but I never found the one image that I liked enough separated from the rest. His work worked better in a book, as a collection.

What about the web, then? Well, you can make your own mind up but I was interested to read the opening lines from this press review. It's a book, then.