Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

Dear Britain,

I never intended to make this letter public. You see, you and I have had our disagreements over the years but on the whole our relationship has been rather solid. I love you, Blighty, royal warts and all. But this latest twist of events in your current social affairs has got me worried.

I thought that the tide had turned against working class people. In my innocent Cuban mind, to call someone “working class” in 21^st century Britain was to liken them to skivers, benefits fraudsters and scroungers. In this respect I had come to the conclusion that the Cameron-led coalition had unfortunately won.

How wrong I was. Not on the working class bit, mind you. They are still seen as “chavs” with all the negative bias that that word conveys. No, I was wrong because it is not just hoi polloi who are despised, but also posh people. Who would have thought that the very upper class so admired – envied, some might say – by many denizens on this pleasant and beautiful land are also derided and mocked?

Don’t believe me? Exhibit A: Andrew Mitchell. Now, if you are resident in the UK, you probably remember what got Andie in hot water last year. Apparently the former Conservative cabinet minister called a policeman a “pleb” after a verbal spat with the officer outside the Downing Street gate. Let’s forget for a moment the rather patronising comment by the high court judge who oversaw the case. To quote him verbatim, our learned friend opined that the officer in question was not the sort of man “who had the wit, the imagination... to invent in the spur of the moment what a senior cabinet minister would have said to him”. Make of that what you will. But what to say of Andrew Mitchell? Or rather, what did the papers say of him? They went for his jugular. At the centre of their attack on Mr Mitchell was that word, “pleb”. Like a swearword let out accidentally in a roomful of children in a nursery, this is one of those terms that has the label “toxic” scribbled all over it. It is also a word that carries with it a sense of superiority and entitlement on the part of the user.

I've made my point, you pleb! Now, I shall cycle off.

Sense of superiority could be the link to our Exhibit B: David Mellor. Another Conservative former cabinet minister, Mr Mellor found himself recently in a black cab with his wife leaving Buckingham Palace. Following a disagreement with the driver over which route to take, David Mellor proceeded to give the taxi driver a piece of his toff mind. What ensued was a volley of insults from the politician to the cabbie, from calling him a “smart-arsed little git” to that old do-you-know-who-I-am chestnut “I’ve been in the Cabinet, I’m an award-winning broadcaster, I’m a Queen ’s Counsel. You think that your experiences are anything compared to mine?” Unfortunately for David, the cab driver was recording him all along. On finding out that his arrogant tirade had been captured on record, Mr Mellor told a tabloid: “I will leave the public to judge his actions”.

I will leave you readers to judge his actions, too. And those of Andrew Mitchell. Two specimens who suffer from the same self-delusional illness that apparently makes its victims behave like total idiots. Idiots with a sense of superiority.

But Britain, back to you. I thought, I honestly thought that you would side with these two “sweaty, stupid little shits” (to use David Mellor’s words when confronting the cab driver. Don’t you love it when a supposedly erudite man stoops so low to show off his power?). After all, according to a recent documentary called Posh People: Inside Tatler, we are apparently fascinated by the lives of those who live “upstairs” whilst laughing at those who live “downstairs”. Yet, this is not what happened to David and Andrew. They were taken apart by both right-wing and left-wing media. Could it be that we are witnessing a grand occasion in the history of class in this nation? The moment when the playing field is finally being levelled? Or, could the reason be a more mundane one? Editors need to sell more newspapers and both stories were too good to take into consideration decades-old political allegiances. Let rip and rake in the profits.

Still, Britain, you owe me an answer. Proles or toffs? Plebs or posh? Who is really Public Enemy Number One?

Yours truly,

Your Favourite Cuban In London



© 2014

Photo taken from The Daily Telegraph

Next Post: “Living in a Multilingual World”, to be published on Wednesday 10^th December at 11:59pm (GMT)

Killer Opening Songs (Song For My Father by Horace Silver)

Kind of Blue is the go-to album for people who are first introduced to jazz. Whether initially averse to the genre or curious about its intrinsic musical patterns, neophytes are usually given Miles Davis 1959 masterpiece as a way to join the ever-expanding jazz community. That is why Kind of Blue has remained such a powerful symbol of the coolness of jazz.

This is not fair on other equally ground-breaking records, however. There’s Alice Coltrane’s harp-driven, lyrical and sublime third album, Ptah, the El Daoud, Mary Lou Williams’ groovy and blues-infused Free Spirits and ass-kicking (pardon K.O.S.’s French) Horace Silver’s 1965 LP Song forMy Father.

Killer Opening Songs will concentrate on the third of these three albums tonight. Inspired by a trip Horace Silver made to Brazil, Song for My Father was one of Blue Note’s signature records from the sixties. Silver’s mother was of Irish and black descent, and his father was originally from Cape Verde. The influence of this ethnic mix on Horace is what makes Song for My Father such an enjoyable record.

Equally, part of what makes the record successful is the Killer Opening Song, the title song that is dedicated to Horace’s father, John Tavares Silva. This melody is quintessential hard bop with a funk element added in for good measure. Uncharacteristically it is not the binomial of drum and bass that kicks off the track but Horace’s deeply, swinging, groovy piano accompanied by tenor saxophonist Joe Henderson (although in the clip below both trumpet and saxophone come in at the same time at the outset). The feel of not just the Introductory Track with Murder Tendencies but of the whole album is one of ebullience and optimism. Calcutta Cutie has an air of eeriness about it whilst Que Pasa is a foot-tapping, catchy little number.

Now that Christmas is almost here, maybe it’s time to revisit your gift lists (if you are in the habit of making them up) and include this gem of a record. After all, it is not only Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue that has the knack to express the coolness of jazz, but also Horace Silver’s Song for My Father. And once again it is partly down to the Killer Opening Song.

© 2014

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 7^th December at 10am (GMT)