Greatest Hits - Track 3 'Jung Chang'

Still on holidays and this week song number three holds its long and slender neck quite elegantly above the water. I hope you enjoy this post, which first saw the light in March 2008.


My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards
False gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough
What else can you show me?

And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They'd probably put my head in a guillotine
But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only.

'It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)'
Bringing It All Back Home
Bob Dylan (1965)

I close the book and shut my eyes. I clench my fists and open my soul. The tears in my eyes well up. My pulse races. My breathing increases. Outside, my body is inert. Inside, my body is a volcano about to erupt. But it's alright, Ma, I am just bleeding. I do not want to cry here, though. I am at the hairdresser's. My long single twists have not been touched for a few months and the untangling process is claiming my scalp as a victim. But my pain is not of the follicle variety. It has to do with the death of roughly 30 million people. 'Is it hurting?' 'No, it's fine'. 'You shouldn't leave your hair unattended for so long'. 'Yes, I know, but you know, lack of time'. 30 million people. Or maybe it was 20 or 40. Who cares? One man, supported by mainly an idea contributed to the demise of millions of his compatriots. What prices paradise? What prices Heaven? How can you measure a panacea in human lives? And is there a measure unit to assess how many humans are needed in order to achieve someone's utopia? 'I hope those watery eyes are not the result of my comb'. 'Oh no, don't worry, you have to do what you have to do and I have been too careless with my hair'. No, my watery eyes were the result of reading someone's story about worshipping a leader whose actions brought suffering and devastation on her family. For the next three hours as the hairdresser continues to do my hair I carry on reading (a different book now) but my mind wanders back to the one I have just closed. As soon as she finishes ('Well, remember, don't leave your hair tangle up so much, come back in six or seven weeks', 'OK, I will') I go out into the London night. It is drizzling (or spitting, as they say here), perfect weather to let out my tears. I switch the taps on and allow my feelings for those victims of utopias everywhere to show.

Certain books have the capacity to ask us questions, others, aim at providing answers. And then there are books that just open themselves to us, untroubled but with problems, blithe, yet serious. They deliver the content in ways we are unaccustomed to.

Wild Swans is one of those books.

Written by a Chinese woman, Jung Chang, the book traces the history of that Asian nation in the twentieth century through the eyes of three generations of Chinese women, Jung's grandmother, her mother and herself. From the time when concubines were still a commodity down to Mao's last years, Wild Swans is not just a memoir, but also a literary documentary with even a photographic feel to it. Jung Chang's descriptions of the Chinese countryside provide the book with a sentiment of infinity and vastness. The sheer size of the land serves as a background for all the political and economic battles that roll out in the fifty-odd years the memoir covers.

As the empire is overthrown in 1911, there follows a succession of historical events culminating in Mao's Cultural Revolution upon which the Chinese people have very little say and direct influence, yet bear the brunt of the fallout.

Needless to say it is the section that covers Mao's years where my attention focused the most. The reasons stemmed from a desire to know more about an event whose significance was hardly ever discussed in Cuba when I was younger, but there was also an appeal that felt more personal, since Jung's life and mine mirror each other up to a certain extent.

Chang left China when she was 26 in 1978. I left Cuba when I was twenty-six years old in 1997. Jung majored in English language. So did I. The Chinese author found her 'knight without armour' in Britain. Although I found my 'lady under no distress' in Cuba, I can identify myself with her feelings for her other half. From an early age she showed a passion for books and it was this zeal that kept her sane throughout her hardship. In the early to mid-nineties as the Cuban economy nose-dived I was commonly found on buses, backs of lorries and any other means of transport reading placidly a novel by Jane Austen or George Orwell (the latter, in secret for reasons we all know) whilst all around me the world collapsed.

En brèf, Wild Swans was a reminder of a bigger truth. Whether it be a socialist, fascist or theocratic state, people's oppression and the means to carry it through changes very little. One of the most telling moments in the book is when Jung Chang, still a firm believer in Mao Zedong's policies, wonders how it is possible to whip up the frenzy that most of her compatriots seem to suffer from and that leads them to carry out violent acts. What is it that turns normal, law-abiding citizens into beasts whose thirst for blood overcomes even the minutest sense of respect for fellow human beings?

The only possible answer I have is a cynical one. We already have those traits and provided the puppeteer is capable enough, he/she will be abel to trigger off a series of emotions and feelings that will act as a catalyst for us to carry out these hideous deeds. That will irremediably lead to chaos and destruction. Recent events support my theory. Sierra Leone, Kosovo, Rwanda. The situation is probably all the more despondent if the main colluding element is the state, the one body in charge of protecting us.

According to Jung Chang, Mao Zedong did not have a secret police, Stasi-, G2-, or KBG-style. He did not need to. His own people acted as both aggressor and defender at the same time. This fact reminded me of a comment made by Milan Kundera in his outstanding novel 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being', already quoted on my blog a few times. On referring to the events of 1968 in Czechoslovakia, when Soviet troops invaded the country and comitted all kinds of atrocities, the author says:

'Anyone who thinks that the Communist regimes of Central Europe are exclusively the work of criminals is overlooking a basic truth: the criminal regimes were made not by criminals but by enthusiasts convinced they had discovered the only road to paradise. They defended that road so valiantly that they executed many people. Later it became clear that there was no paradise, that the enthusiasts were therefore murderers.'

There is no doubt that Mao was a murderer. Whether he knew what was happening in China or not (the excuse that some apologists and revisionists like to hang on to) under his mandate, the truth is that many innocent people died as a result of his narrow-minded and totalitarian attitude. But what about those who helped him? Let's go back to Kundera:

'Whether they knew or not is not the main issue; the main issue is whether a man is innocent because he didn't know. Is a fool on the throne relieved of all responsibility merely because he is a fool?'

And now let's read Jung Chang's comment on Mao's 'success' as a leader:

'He was, it seemed to me, a really restless fight promoter by nature, and good at it. He understood ugly human instincts such as envy and resentment, and knew how to mobilise them for his ends. He ruled by getting people to hate each other. In doing so, he got ordinary Chinese to carry out any of the tasks undertaken in other dictatorships by professional elites. Mao had managed to turn the people into the ultimate weapon of dictatorship.'

From which my conclusion is, in the making of a dictator we all collude. Some, more passively than others, but we are all in it together. And no, this is not a pleasant thought. Because when I was reading Wild Swans (which I had to put aside a few times as there were parts too painful to read) I was suddenly reminded of the time when I could have done something. And yet, I remained silent. Or rather, I sat on the fence.

In 1992, on my way to my twenty-first birthday and half-way through my English course, I came across the subject Scientific Socialism, already downgraded from Scientific Communism, in uni. The lecturer was affable and friendly and we did not think much of the content of his classes. He was a joker and that was enough. One day, my classmate Luis Gustavo, who had been at El Saúl Delgado College with me and whom I knew very well, stood up to answer one of the teacher's questions: Was there freedom of speech in Cuba? Luis had a brilliant mind and he gave him a really thorough reply as to why he did not think that people in Cuba enjoyed the benefit of discussing and debating their ideas freely. The lecturer's reaction was curt and abrupt. I was called next to comment on Luis' remarks. Since year 12 when I spoke against one of my classmates' expulsion from college I had garnered a reputation for being something of an articulate and rational person. Now it was my big moment of showing the same capacity for oratory to defend my friend. However, I failed. I chickened out. At the eleventh hour I looked into my future and forgot his. I babbled incoherently about a different matter, thus, diverting attention from the real important issue my friend had just called attention to. The lecturer understood, my class understood, I think that even Luis Gustavo understood. There are many tales like mine in Wild Swans and this was partly the reason why Maoism triumphed where other systems had failed. Because they had people like me who put their personal interests above the ideals they cherished: the rule of law, independence of mind, rationality, accountability and respect for human and civic rights. As a consequence of his remarks, Luis Gustavo was expelled from uni. The lecturer was never the same again. I was never the same again, either. A sense of guilt overwhelmed me for a long time thereafter. After a while, though, that feeling of culpability subsided. Wild Swans brought to mind what happens when we all become bricks of the same wall. Our solid surface provides the façade against which everyone crashes. And those who crash today will probably be bricks tomorrow.

The ending of Wild Swans serves as a reminder that sometimes happiness is found elsewhere, even if one is separated from one's country of birth. Even if one, Ma, is still bleeding.

Copyright 2008

Living in a Bilingual World (Allegro)

'Tomas came to this conclusion: making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to one woman)'

'The Unbearable Lightness of Being' by Milan Kundera

The first time I read this novel by the famous Czech writer it was a Spanish translation that did the rounds when I was still in Uni in Cuba. In those days the country was entering a recession that became an economic crisis and texts by writers such as Kundera were avidly devoured by literature lovers like me, desperate to find an alternative to the political dogma we were living at the time (and still live now). The queue to read the novel was long which meant that I had to rush through the book as quick as Usain Bolt ran the 100 metres at the Beijing Olympics last summer. However, I got the gist of it and liked it enough to give it another read as soon as I had a chance.

That opportunity arrived a few years later after I finished my intensive course at the French Alliance in Havana. The level I obtained was high enough to enable me to read in that language without resorting to a bilingual dictionary the whole time, although I still carried one with me, just in case. The novel was available at the resources centre in the building. This time around I had no need to disguise the book because it was very unlikely that I would get stopped on the street for reading 'L'Insoutenable Légèreté de l'Être' (Note: in both French and Spanish the translation of the novel's title does not correspond to that in English. In Spanish it is 'La Insoportable Levedad del Ser' which renders the book a different meaning, but that's another post for the near future). With more time in hands and not a single person queuing up to borrow the novel after me, I took longer to attempt to decipher Kundera's symbolisms and as a consequence I was able to enjoy the nuances in the narrative more.

Fast forward a couple of years later and when I relocated to the UK in 1997, two of the first books I purchased were 'The Joke', Milan's first novel and 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being'. Apart from noticing that the translation was very good, I also spotted a couple of details: one was the difference between the titles in Spanish/French and English already referred to above and the other one was the passage I quoted at the beginning of this post.

Both in the Spanish and French versions the verbs used in the quote were 'dormir' and 'acostarse' ('to sleep') in that order, so instead of inferring that the person was engaging in coital activity the image I got was rather of someone enjoying another person's company in bed.

Why this disparity? And by no means understand the nature of my confusion as a contentious line of enquiry. It is just that there's a massive gulf between both acts in the languages I mentioned previously. However, it is the English version that makes more sense at first as someone who has read the book will aver.

The plot centres on the aforementioned Tomas, a Czech doctor who begins a relationship with Tereza, a waitress at a hotel. After Tomas spends the night at the hotel Tereza follows him to Prague the next day. Tomas is a serious philanderer and this is when the above quote rears its head. At this point in the novel, the doctor violates his unwritten contract of erotic friendships that stipulates that he should exclude all love from his life. In order to achieve this, he never sleeps with the women he conquers. This, according to him, is the corpus delicti of love.

The passage quoted before appears in chapter 6 of the 1st Part, 'Lightness and Weight', page 14. By then, Tereza has managed to get a strong grip on him (literally, as she squeezes his hand tightly whilst sleeping) and he surprisingly finds himself warming to her. This is where my linguistic confusion appears. As Tomas runs through the previous few hours spent together making love, 'he began to sense an aura of hitherto unknown happines emanating from them'. So, the English version is very succinct and to the point on this. Or is it?

The next paragraph chucks this notion out of the window. 'From that time on they both looked forward to sleeping together. I might even say that the goal of their lovemaking was not so much pleasure as the sleep that followed it'. It is at this point where both Spanish and French have the upper hand over English. Whereas we have two main words (amongst others) to describe the act of rest afforded by a suspension of voluntary bodily functions and the natural suspension, complete or partial, of consciousness, in English the boundaries are more blurred. Can you say or write 'to sleep with someone' without implying a carnal liaison? Note that we're dealing with strangers or acquaintances. Of course, I have slept with friends of mine and no one has every thought anything of it. But how about when we step out of our friends and relatives' circle? Does it still have the same innocent meaning?

And yes, that's a question for you my dear reader. Because, despite having a good command of and being very keen on this lovely lexicon, English sometimes has the reputable rabbit tucked well inside its hat and makes it appear when I least expect it.

In order to clarify this conundrum, I e-mailed the translator who transposed the novel from Czech to English. And no, I was not and I am not questioning his credentials at all. This is not a post about translation. I wrote one about that subject just the other day. This is a post about the confusion that sets in when Romance languages go to battle against the Germanic ones. No losers, just winners, mind.

The translator, Professor Michael Henry Haim, first came to Kundera's attention when the former published a very good translation of two passages of 'The Joke'. Milan was touched by the professor's gesture because previously Kundera's debut novel had been translated without taking into account his opinion at all, especially in the structuring of the chapters. The result was a literary piece of work almost completely divorced from its creator's original idea. It was professor Haim who carried out the translation of 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being' and it's because of him that I was able to enjoy the novel once more, this time in English.

Mr Haim has not replied to my e-mail so far and I can only speculate as to why there's such a stark difference between the versions in Spanish, French and that in English. I can't speak Czech, in fact Slavic languages are not my forte and therefore my conclusion is that for want of a better word in English to sum up the act of sleeping with someone without implying sexual intercourse, the professor had to resort to the better-known phrase 'make love', which in reality does not fully express what Tereza feels for Tomas, and what he himself experiences in return.

I would be really grateful to you, readers and fellow bloggers, if you could give me your opinion on this subject. Although I do think in English (it would be a funny old world for me if I was to translate each and every thought of mine) I am not a native and maybe I am wrong in assuming that English cannot provide a fitting equivalent to those two words in Spanish and French (dormir/acostarse con) and (dormir/se coucher) respectively besides the conspicuous 'to sleep'. This cyber-conversation will be continued in future posts.

Thanks, and now, if you all excuse me, it is time for me to go to bed to sleep with my other half. Good night.

Copyright 2008

Wild Swans (Étude)

My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards
False gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough
What else can you show me?

And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They'd probably put my head in a guillotine
But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only.

'It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)'
Bringing It All Back Home
Bob Dylan (1965)

I close the book and shut my eyes. I clench my fists and open my soul. The tears in my eyes well up. My pulse races. My breathing increases. Outside, my body is inert. Inside, my body is a volcano about to erupt. But it's alright, Ma, I am just bleeding. I do not want to cry here, though. I am at the hairdresser's. My long single twists have not been touched for a few months and the untangling process is claiming my scalp as a victim. But my pain is not of the follicle variety. It has to do with the death of roughly 30 million people. 'Is it hurting?' 'No, it's fine'. 'You shouldn't leave your hair unattended for so long'. 'Yes, I know, but you know, lack of time'. 30 million people. Or maybe it was 20 or 40. Who cares? One man, supported by mainly an idea contributed to the demise of millions of his compatriots. What prices paradise? What prices Heaven? How can you measure a panacea in human lives? And is there a measure unit to assess how many humans are needed in order to achieve someone's utopia? 'I hope those watery eyes are not the result of my comb'. 'Oh no, don't worry, you have to do what you have to do and I have been too careless with my hair'. No, my watery eyes were the result of reading someone's story about worshipping a leader whose actions brought suffering and devastation on her family. For the next three hours as the hairdresser continues to do my hair I carry on reading (a different book now) but my mind wanders back to the one I have just closed. As soon as she finishes ('Well, remember, don't leave your hair tangle up so much, come back in six or seven weeks', 'OK, I will') I go out into the London night. It is drizzling (or spitting, as they say here), perfect weather to let out my tears. I switch the taps on and allow my feelings for those victims of utopias everywhere to show.

Certain books have the capacity to ask us questions, others, aim at providing answers. And then there are books that just open themselves to us, untroubled but with problems, blithe, yet serious. They deliver the content in ways we are unaccustomed to.

Wild Swans is one of those books.

Written by a Chinese woman, Jung Chang, the book traces the history of that Asian nation in the twentieth century through the eyes of three generations of Chinese women, Jung's grandmother, her mother and herself. From the time when concubines were still a commodity down to Mao's last years, Wild Swans is not just a memoir, but also a literary documentary with even a photographic feel to it. Jung Chang's descriptions of the Chinese countryside provide the book with a sentiment of infinity and vastness. The sheer size of the land serves as a background for all the political and economic battles that roll out in the fifty-odd years the memoir covers.

As the empire is overthrown in 1911, there follows a succession of historical events culminating in Mao's Cultural Revolution upon which the Chinese people have very little say and direct influence, yet bear the brunt of the fallout.

Needless to say it is the section that covers Mao's years where my attention focused the most. The reasons stemmed from a desire to know more about an event whose significance was hardly ever discussed in Cuba when I was younger, but there was also an appeal that felt more personal, since Jung's life and mine mirror each other up to a certain extent.

Chang left China when she was 26 in 1978. I left Cuba when I was twenty-six years old in 1997. Jung majored in English language. So did I. The Chinese author found her 'knight without armour' in Britain. Although I found my 'lady under no distress' in Cuba, I can identify myself with her feelings for her other half. From an early age she showed a passion for books and it was this zeal that kept her sane throughout her hardship. In the early to mid-nineties as the Cuban economy nose-dived I was commonly found on buses, backs of lorries and any other means of transport reading placidly a novel by Jane Austen or George Orwell (the latter, in secret for reasons we all know) whilst all around me the world collapsed.

En brèf, Wild Swans was a reminder of a bigger truth. Whether it be a socialist, fascist or theocratic state, people's oppression and the means to carry it through changes very little. One of the most telling moments in the book is when Jung Chang, still a firm believer in Mao Zedong's policies, wonders how it is possible to whip up the frenzy that most of her compatriots seem to suffer from and that leads them to carry out violent acts. What is it that turns normal, law-abiding citizens into beasts whose thirst for blood overcomes even the minutest sense of respect for fellow human beings?

The only possible answer I have is a cynical one. We already have those traits and provided the puppeteer is capable enough, he/she will be abel to trigger off a series of emotions and feelings that will act as a catalyst for us to carry out these hideous deeds. That will irremediably lead to chaos and destruction. Recent events support my theory. Sierra Leone, Kosovo, Rwanda. The situation is probably all the more despondent if the main colluding element is the state, the one body in charge of protecting us.

According to Jung Chang, Mao Zedong did not have a secret police, Stasi-, G2-, or KBG-style. He did not need to. His own people acted as both aggressor and defender at the same time. This fact reminded me of a comment made by Milan Kundera in his outstanding novel 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being', already quoted on my blog a few times. On referring to the events of 1968 in Czechoslovakia, when Soviet troops invaded the country and comitted all kinds of atrocities, the author says:

'Anyone who thinks that the Communist regimes of Central Europe are exclusively the work of criminals is overlooking a basic truth: the criminal regimes were made not by criminals but by enthusiasts convinced they had discovered the only road to paradise. They defended that road so valiantly that they executed many people. Later it became clear that there was no paradise, that the enthusiasts were therefore murderers.'

There is no doubt that Mao was a murderer. Whether he knew what was happening in China or not (the excuse that some apologists and revisionists like to hang on to) under his mandate, the truth is that many innocent people died as a result of his narrow-minded and totalitarian attitude. But what about those who helped him? Let's go back to Kundera:

'Whether they knew or not is not the main issue; the main issue is whether a man is innocent because he didn't know. Is a fool on the throne relieved of all responsibility merely because he is a fool?'

And now let's read Jung Chang's comment on Mao's 'success' as a leader:

'He was, it seemed to me, a really restless fight promoter by nature, and good at it. He understood ugly human instincts such as envy and resentment, and knew how to mobilise them for his ends. He ruled by getting people to hate each other. In doing so, he got ordinary Chinese to carry out any of the tasks undertaken in other dictatorships by professional elites. Mao had managed to turn the people into the ultimate weapon of dictatorship.'

From which my conclusion is, in the making of a dictator we all collude. Some, more passively than others, but we are all in it together. And no, this is not a pleasant thought. Because when I was reading Wild Swans (which I had to put aside a few times as there were parts too painful to read) I was suddenly reminded of the time when I could have done something. And yet, I remained silent. Or rather, I sat on the fence.

In 1992, on my way to my twenty-first birthday and half-way through my English course, I came across the subject Scientific Socialism, already downgraded from Scientific Communism, in uni. The lecturer was affable and friendly and we did not think much of the content of his classes. He was a joker and that was enough. One day, my classmate Luis Gustavo, who had been at El Saúl Delgado College with me and whom I knew very well, stood up to answer one of the teacher's questions: Was there freedom of speech in Cuba? Luis had a brilliant mind and he gave him a really thorough reply as to why he did not think that people in Cuba enjoyed the benefit of discussing and debating their ideas freely. The lecturer's reaction was curt and abrupt. I was called next to comment on Luis' remarks. Since year 12 when I spoke against one of my classmates' expulsion from college I had garnered a reputation for being something of an articulate and rational person. Now it was my big moment of showing the same capacity for oratory to defend my friend. However, I failed. I chickened out. At the eleventh hour I looked into my future and forgot his. I babbled incoherently about a different matter, thus, diverting attention from the real important issue my friend had just called attention to. The lecturer understood, my class understood, I think that even Luis Gustavo understood. There are many tales like mine in Wild Swans and this was partly the reason why Maoism triumphed where other systems had failed. Because they had people like me who put their personal interests above the ideals they cherished: the rule of law, independence of mind, rationality, accountability and respect for human and civic rights. As a consequence of his remarks, Luis Gustavo was expelled from uni. The lecturer was never the same again. I was never the same again, either. A sense of guilt overwhelmed me for a long time thereafter. After a while, though, that feeling of culpability subsided. Wild Swans brought to mind what happens when we all become bricks of the same wall. Our solid surface provides the façade against which everyone crashes. And those who crash today will probably be bricks tomorrow.

The ending of Wild Swans serves as a reminder that sometimes happiness is found elsewhere, even if one is separated from one's country of birth. Even if one, Ma, is still bleeding.

Copyright 2008

Road Songs (Allegro)

In his remarkable novel, 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being', Milan Kundera tells us how six fortuitous events brought Tereza and Tomas together. It was only a complex neurological case that led Tomas to Tereza's town, when he had to replace the chief surgeon at his hospital due to the latter suffering from sciatica. Although the town had several hotels, Tomas happened to end up at the one where Tereza was employed. He also happened to have enough time to kill before his train was due to depart, thus dropping by the restaurant where Tereza worked to have something to eat. Tereza happened to be working on that night and also happened to be serving Tomas' table.

The trivia game 'Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon' states that any actor can be linked through their film roles to the Hollywood star.

The Roman street system, based on the 'all roads lead to Rome' principle, aims at establishing a symmetrical system whereby most main avenues and roads will lead to a main point, easily recognisable to the motorist, pedestrian or cyclist.

Now, tell that to a Londoner.

Whereas in Havana most main streets will lead to El Malecón (seawall), based mainly on this Roman system adopted in most European countries and some in Latin America, in London, on the other hand, the road system seems to have been concocted to confuse the foreigner. Take the wrong turning and rather than heading for south London you'll end up in Canary Wharf in the eastern part of the city. Forget to check the A-Z before you set off and you will be contemplating endless one-way streets, multiple cul-de-sacs and mind-blowing round-abouts that will drive you nuts. What is it that makes it so hard to drive in London? The answer is that this city is the result of the union of two cities. So you can imagine how huge it is. And this aspect also renders London a marvellous place to drive in, contradictorily. Because when you do get it right, use your A-Z and as many shortcuts and back streets as you possibly can, you will end up with a succession of 'coincidences' like the ones featured in Kundera's novel and Bacon's game that will make your journey a pleasant and satisfying experience.

Music is like that sometimes. Certain artists' oeuvre can be analysed through the musicians they collaborate with, pretty much à la Bacon. The result is as eye-catching and stimulating as Tomas and Tereza's 'six coincidences.

For instance, Al Di Meola is an acoustic guitarist who has played with some of the greater performers ever. One of them was Paco de Lucia. Paco de Lucia has shared the stage with many musicians, one of them Larry Coryell, the brilliant jazz fusion guitarist. Larry Coryell has collaborated with people like Miles Davies, who used John McLoughlin's services on his album 'In A Silent Way'. John Mc Loughlin has played alongside Al Di Meola occasionally. We come back full circle.

And we also come to the end of the road this week. Or musical road I should say. The only reason why Tomas and Tereza died together was because six fortuitous incidents linked their lives forever. Kevin Bacon continues to be an extraordinary actor, 'six degrees' theory notwithstanding, most main roads, at least in Havana, still lead to Rome, or El Malecón for that matter, and in London, sometimes streets will not drive you round the bend, because you will happen to find the important left turning before it is too late.

Copyright 2008