Watty blinks, and looks around:

Oh. OK, so I have to put stuff in here again, now? Hm. I've been pondering this - I don't honestly think that you've missed much over the past few weeks, but if I think of anything, I'll let you know.

So, I turned 40, I survived. I feel the same (but did I expect to feel differently?), and life goes on. Several people have been very kind about my Top 40, which makes it all a bit more worthwhile than it already was. Yes, of course I thought of some more - but then, that's kind of the point.... Part of the festivities involved a new digital camera for yours truly - coming soon: illustrated blog entries. Well, maybe. And another part of the festivities included a gliding lesson. I shall definitely be doing that again... Details to follow, assuming I get my act together.

1:

Mahler: Symphony no.2 'Resurrection'. I have, I feel, shown great forbearance through all of this. I have wanted to write this one since I started, but I knew it ought to be left until last. It is two of my most powerful musical memories - in fact, it's probably my two most powerful memories of all. Now, I know it's possible to get overly pretentious about music such as this ( see here for details), so I'll try to remain calm but convincing. And let's get the other bit out of the way, too - I love much of the rest of Mahler's work, too - but this isn't about the power and majesty of the 8th, or the strange resonances of the 7th, or - but I said I wouldn't do this...

One of the conditions for Zoë accompanying me to those early Proms was that there had to be one with singing in it. Lots of big, choral singing. So I searched the Proms list for something - no 'Carmina Burana' that year - and settled on a Mahler symphony, because if there's one thing we all know about Mahler, it's the singing. And it was Abbado and the Berlin Phil, so it would be impressively played, too. Now, at this point in my life I knew only the bit of Mahler that everyone knows - the 'Death in Venice' bit from the 5th. (and, I discovered later, the Castrol GTX music, but I didn't know that at the time). So I did worry a little that a 90 minute symphony by someone with a reputation for being loud and intense might be a bit much for either of us. But there was going to be singing. We were sitting in the gallery, which can be a little disconcerting; you feel a long way up, and falling out on to the heads of the promenaders seems a real possibility. The hall was packed, and there was a definite edge to the atmosphere wahich I hadn't noticed at previous Proms. The hush before it began seemed somehow deeper, and there was an audible intake of breath as the baton was raised. The instant I heard the opening phrases - the big first chord, the menacing pulses of the low strings, barely audible, building to that first colossal explosion of melody - I knew this was going to be alright - more than alright. I sat there, barely moving for the first four movements, drinking in this music; it seemed inconcievable that I could have lived this long without it. My only concern was that there seemed to be very little singing as yet, and I wondered how Zoë was coping. I daren't look round, because if she was bored, or worse, asleep, it would have destroyed the magic. And then, as the fifth movement surged and flowed on, it happened. If you don't know this work, as I didn't at the time, you can have no concept of the impression the entrance of the choir makes. Everything gradually dies away; the last post is sounded, offstage, and the tumult of the orchestra is finally silenced. Then, seemingly from everywhere and nowhere at once, this faint breath can be heard. Only after several moments does it become apparent that this is the whole, massed, choir - the control is magnificent, rising slowly but steadily in volume, until the hall is filled with 'Aufersteh'n!' Then the whole orchestra and the soloists join in, and it is as if the whole world is singing to you. The ovation at the end was ecstatic, although I was still too caught up in this sound world to even take it in properly. We left the hall, and had walked most of the way back to the car before I felt able to speak. I tentatively asked Zoë what she thought, fearing that I might have subjected her to an hour and a half of torture:

"Wasn't that magnificent?"

I know that few people will have the opportunity to be introduced to this aweinspiring music in that fashion, but I really do recommend it. Of course, I had to own a copy, and of course, I had to listen to it as often as possible until I felt I knew it - I can hum, or whistle, great chunks of it now, much to people's bemusement. And I knew I had to see it performed again. The opportunity presented itself in 1999 - Sir Simon Rattle, and the Vienna Phil - this is going to be even better, I thought, as I planned to spend the whole day queueing if necessary. That summer proved to be a traumatic one, as Zoë's mum died suddenly whilst visiting us, and I don't think I had even begun to recover from the shock by the time I took my day off work to sit on the pavement in Kensington Gore. I did have high expectations of the evening, but I wasn't really prepared for the emotional power of it all. The whole symphony is predicated upon the idea of resurrection; of life going on, even renewing in the face of tragedy, and that evening, the whole performance seemed to be directed only at me. There were several moments where the hairs on the back of my neck really did stand up, and several more when I felt close to tears. Which, of course were finally produced by that choral entrance; joyful, defiant and overpowering.

I have never experienced anything like it, and I don't suppose I ever will again. There really was only ever going to be one final entry in this list.

2:

Penguin Café Orchestra. So, as I get closer to the end, I notice that there are common threads and themes coming together with these; I thought they were random, but maybe they're not, really. And here we start with libraries again - Inverness library this time. It didn't exactly have the widest selection of music, and I used to look through it, wondering if I would like some of the stuff I didn't know. After a while, it occurred to me that it wouldn't cost me anything to find out about some of this odd-sounding stuff, and I chose the one with the surrealist painting of penguins on the cover. And I'll be honest, I didn't really listen to it properly at first - I think I thought it was tedious and repetitive - but I didn't mind having it on in the background, and I made a tape of it for playing in the car, so I must have liked it a bit. Then, after we moved to Perth in 1988, we finally invested in a new-fangled CD player. One of the problems of the new technology was the lack of anything to listen to on it - for a long time we owned one Peter Gabriel CD, which was a bit limiting, really. I can't be prevented from buying music, though, and I scoured the record shops (Oh, OK; record shop) of Perth for bargains. So, one day there was this PCO CD at bargain price, and I snapped it up before I remembered that I didn't really know if I liked them or not. But I had made a wise choice; this was very accessible, and beautifully recorded, and I loved it. I loved it so much that I got out the old tapes and listened properly to them, too. And I discovered that I loved tham too. It wasn't tedious and repetitive, it was glorious and had much hidden depth - music from all over the world mixed together by someone who knew what he was doing, and played by people who were having a ball doing it.

So, in 1990, working mostly in Glasgow, I decided that we should try to go to a few Mayfest events (in researching this, I discover, to my horror, that Mayfest no longer exists. What is the world coming to?) - and joy of joys, here was a rare live PCO performance in the City Hall. I hoped it would be a bit of fun; I wasn't prepared for such a joyous evening. Live, this music took on a life of its own, entrancing all who heard it, even those who plainly had been dragged along by an enthusiastic partner. There was a university music class sat in the row behind me, complete with tutor, who were all raving about it at the interval, and never before had I been in an audience which quite so neatly encompassed all ages and types. What even the live recordings on 'When in Rome' hadn't captured was Simon Jeffes' effortless dry English humour - between numbers, he would deliver some laconic aside or other, which would invariably have the Glaswegian audience falling out of their seats. My clearest memory is of his opening remark; he swung the stand mike round to address us, and smacked himself squarely on the forehead with it:

"Oops."

I saw them once more in concert, at the Festival Hall in the mid - nineties; by then, I owned most of their recorded output, and would foist them on anyone passing - few people got it (but advertising agencies certainly did; PCO music is everywhere...) at first, but I like to think I planted a few seeds along the way. And then, one day in late 1997, I had one of those 'blood draining from the face' moments. I opened my newspaper to see an obituary for Simon Jeffes staring back at me. I had to sit down, and I don't remember before or since being so upset by the death of someone I didn't know. I hadn't even been aware he was ill, and he had so much music left to make, I know it. I was even sufficiently moved to write a tribute to him, and send it to his company. I have no idea if they ever got it, but it felt like something I had to do. Since then, I have filled most of the gaps in my collection, bought videotapes and visited websites; I have this idea that there really should be a proper musical tribute, with perhaps a concert version of the orchestrated pieces used in 'Still Life at the Penguin Café'; there's no point in hoping to hear them play again, since Jeffes was the PCO, but I have my memories, and they are as strong as any other two of the 40 here. Except, perhaps, for the last one...

3:

Tubeway Army. There are several of these memories which relate to what I have, half-jokingly, referred to as 'rites of passage' - this is the only one which actally felt like one at the time. I have written about this incident elsewhere, but there's a little more flesh to go on the bones here.

The period after the Higher exams in my 5th year was a very strange one indeed; there were next to no classes to go to, and the majority of my time was taken up with putting on a play. Well, two plays. That story has already been told, but the striking things I remember about it were slightly downplayed. It was a time of great upheaval in musical tastes - we all changed opinions as often as we changed our socks, and there seemed to be so much stuff around that it was hard to keep track. Then I heard this synthesiser-driven thing on the radio: 'Are 'Friends' Electric?' It appealed to me instantly, and I had the feeling that this was the next thing for us all to move on to. And I was completely wrong. Everyone I knew hated it, it seemed. But I was unafraid - for the first time consciously in my life, I stood up for what I liked, and didn't go with the flow. Now it's not much to be proud of, really, but it felt like I was becoming my own person; and, what's more, I recognised it at the time. On the day it was released, I did what I had only dreamed about until then - I skipped out of school at lunchtime, got on a bus and went into town. I bought my treasured single, and hurried back to school. I seem to remember making it with only a few minutes to spare; but that may be over-egging the pudding somewhat; no-one was really paying attention at the time. In any event, on it went to the record player in the Drama Theatre - the 'Buzzcocks' one - and I felt for the first time in my life like a proper grown-up. I'd like to tell you there was a certain satisfaction in having everyone come round to my way of thinking, but in truth part of me actually wanted this record to be my little secret passion. Of course, it turned out to be the biggest-selling record of the year; but that just proves how ahead of the game I was...

4:

Aaron Copland. Well, everyone knows 'Fanfare for the Common Man', and the Hoedown from 'Rodeo', and so on - and I came at him via ELP, as already mentioned. But in addition to all that, I have a specifc memory of Copland music, and of the Albert Hall and the Proms, so this might be a good place to wax a little lyrical on the whole Henry Wood thing...

Like many people, I suspect, for years I equated the BBC Proms with the Last Night; all that flag waving and rabble-rousing. I don't know when it finally got through to me that there was a lot more to it than that; but I know that for a long time I harboured a desire to go and Prom. And I can't explain why it took so long for me to get round to it - even after we moved to the southeast, I somehow never quite managed it. But eventually - in about 1996, I got my act together sufficiently to buy some tickets, and go and sit down at some. And that in itself is a wonderful experience; the hall, while not the most acoustically perfect venue, is incredibly atmospheric, and the presence of the promenaders seems to both change the normal audience dynamic greatly for the better, and to inspire the performers. But sitting in the stalls, I wasn't getting even half the picture. The next year, I thought I'd go and queue up - do it properly, and see what all the fuss is about. And it's everything they say it is, and more. I can't really adequately explain the joy of the Promenading experience; the cameraderie of the queue, the anticipation of the trek down all those stairs; the emergence into that vast arena from below; the mad desire to leap up on the stage and declaim something; the shuffling for position; the ritual audience declarations; the sheer sense of fun. And then on top of all that, you get world-class music for pennies - the grumbling at this year's price hike to £4 was mostly good-humoured; we're seeing some of the best performances in the world for £4...

And every time I've Prommed, I've discovered something new and wonderful. Sometimes it might be a performance which makes me hear a favourite piece of music in a new way; it might be a piece I'd previously thought impenetrable; it might be a soloist about to become a superstar. And sometimes it's a combinaton of things which shifts the whole experience onto a higher plane. Prom 33 in the 2000 season is the best example. A late night Prom - in itself, a wonderful experience, like a sort of musical midnight feast - featuring the music of Aaron Copland; but not a single piece I was already familiar with. The London Sinfonietta, under Oliver Knussen; a wonderful atmosphere, and the centrepiece was the Clarinet Concerto, played by the award-winning youg clarinettist Michael Collins. I enjoyed the other pieces that evening, but I was transported by the concerto. In that one evening, it went from being something I had never heard before to one of my favourite pieces of all time. I naturally went and bought a copy of it - the Benny Goodman performance, with Copland conducting - but whenever I hear it, I am transported to the Albert Hall on a warm summers evening, and I once again hear my musical horizons being flung open.

5:

Blow Monkeys. Never underestimate the power of music. For instance, the very name 'Blow Monkeys' is able to make me feel slightly queasy, and the song 'Doesn't Have to be This Way' can actually induce a full-blown hangover. Not because I object to the music particularly; in fact, it's quite a lot of fun in a mid-eighties, politically-influenced Scottish pop music kind of way, but because it reminds me of Falkirk.

One of the side-effects of thrashing round the byways of northern Scotland flogging books was that I worked for a company which made an effort at having proper Christmas parties; everyone was encouraged to bring partners to some high-class venue like the Park Hotel in Falkirk, and party the night away. Now, I am not by anyone's standards a party-the-night-away kind of guy, but in the right circumstances, and the right company, I may dip my toe in the water... So, we had this Christmas party, and most of us 'field based' people were staying overnight, so there was very little thought given to being careful or not enjoying ourselves too much. Indeed, I'm pretty sure that there was a level of debauchery beyond the normal end-of-year blowout. There was some interpretive dance - probably unintentional; there was goings-on in the lifts; there was about 15 people in our room at one point; I have a feeling that we actually drank the bar dry. And there was a song. The song which everyone had to join in with. The song which got replayed a dozen times, just in case anyone had missed it. The song which had the good fortune to have a loud 'Hey!' in the chorus. You're ahead of me here, I can tell.

When they wouldn't play it any more, a gigantic conga formed in the reception area, and we (oh, yes, me too...) staggered around for what felt like hours, yelling: "Hey! What did I hear you say?". We must have gone to bed at some point, because I remember waking up with an appalling hangover. No problem normally - just take it nice and easy the next day. Except we had to drive back to Inverness. It took all day; it was certainly the slowest I ever did that journey, and contained a ridiculous number of stops along the way. And every now and then, this song kept popping into my head, and with every 'Hey!', I had to pull over again...