What do Ken Dodd and Serge Gainsbourg have in common? Or how about Leroy Homes and Sarah Brightman? And what do they all share with Muse and James Last?
If it did and if there was a still a Chopin estate, it would be very wealthy on the back of this sequence of notes alone. There is probably no need to analyse why when you have heard it - the composer himself considered it his most beautiful tune and one he couldn't surpass.
Fairly early on, the poignancy of the melody led to it being christened "Pathetique", "Farewell" and most popularly: '"Tristesse'" although Chopin himself never used that name. The titles of the various derivatives have often had a similar air of romantic melancholy: "Autumn in my Heart", "My dreams of love", "Never Again" and so on.
Death has rather been in the air of late. Despite the sunshine that has finally blazed London in light and with Andy Murray radiating health, victory, success and all that, I seem to have been involved in some rather morbid activities. And I mean that in the most positive way.
Speaking of South of the River, if you live in London you will be aware of the great divide. South definately feels different than North - which has often spuriously claimed to be posher, more sophisticated, somehow more London. This may have its roots in that during the eighteenth century, bodies found floating in the river were allowed to be used by surgeons for anatomical experiments. Those landed on the north bank fetched a better price for those who dredged them as there was a greater demand from the northern hospitals..
Sergey Chernov knocked on the battered door under the archway. We waited. A couple more knocks. Nothing. Then, as we were discussing what to do, the door opened a crack and a wisp of scented smoke curled out. Against a dim glow, a face appeared. A bulky bearded wizard-like figure peered out. Sergey spoke to him in Russian. The figure looked at me, smiled, held the door open and said: 
We entered. For me, a borderline neurotic when it comes to domestic arrangement, it was more like Hell. Every surface was covered with a cacophany of books, pictures, records, photographs, lamps and arcane twisted organic artwork in a dark interior which bore no resemblance to an apartment. The atmosphere was heavy with incense, there were no windows, little furniture and almost no evidence of ordinary life.
I had been in St Petersburg with The Real Tuesday Weld for a concert and TV show and had stayed on for a couple of days with my friend Sergey Korsakov of Cardboardia . We were doing research and interviews for a project I am involved with about samidzat recordings from the soviet era. Sergey Chernov another friend and a journalist for the St Petersburgh Times had set up this meeting with Nikolay Vasin, a character of some note in Russia where he is known simply as "The Beatles Guy". In his youth in the early sixties, Nikolay had come across an illegal recording which turned out to contain a Beatles song. It changed his life irrevocably. He had an epiphany. Since then he has devoted virtually his whole time and meagre resources to the Fab Four and John Lennon in particular. He calls his apartment "The Temple of Love" and he is its priest. 
As we entered, he retreated to an armchair in the corner. We found a seat where we could amongst the chaos of his collection. Every single item was in some way Beatles related: hundreds of items of memorabilia and tribute, homemade miniature shrines and shelves creaking under the weight of documents and recordings. Our conversation, alternating between Russian translated by the Sergeys and broken English began. I can't really call it an interview. Whilst I was able to steer Nikolay back to the period and subject we are researching, it was clear he was far happier talking about the Beatles. Now don't get me wrong, although I'm not a massive fan I am quite interested in them myself so his anecdotes and memories of various near-encounters with Paul McCartney, trips to foreign fan conventions, peculiar meetings with people tangentially associated with the band and deep analysis of their lyrics were fascinating. They are a band of course who have spawned an unparalleled amount of fandom and they did have a significant cultural effect*** in the Soviet Union, but without doubt there is no fan to compare to Nikolay.
As fascinating (albeit in a poignant way) as his reminiscences was his mystical take on the music and the effect it has on his life. He spends most of his time in The Temple of Love listening to the band (Beatles music was playing for the duration of our visit). His main passion is to talk to people about them. At one point he asked us if we wanted to see his 'family album'. My understanding is that this is a feature of many traditional Russian homes - a book of photographs of a person's family and forbears. As Nikolay had mentioned his mother several times, I was intrigued to see his. However when he opened it, we were startled to find it was completely filled with images of McCartney, George Harrison, Ringo and especially, John Lennon. These were often personalised and worked on with odd illustrations into a kind of outsider art. 
As he showed us the album, he declared several times:
"He isn't dead"
"And he has made 34 albums since.." 
It had been a fascinating if unsettling visit but it was time to leave. I genuinely liked Nikolay and thanked him. He gave us each a warm hug and some parting words of Beatles related wisdom. As he hadn't asked anything about what I did, I mentioned I had made a Beatles mashup if he would like to hear it. He would.
Circuses and fairs were a big deal in Regency and Victorian London. Samuel Pepys was a big fan of Bartholomew Fair held down the road from here at Smithfield. He was particularly fond of the freak show attractions: the woman with a third breast, the man with three legs, the midgets, the fat boys and the Siamese twins. Personally, I would have loved to have seen "Madame Gobert, The French Female Hercules" swinging anvils and picking people up with her teeth.
I like Lincoln's Inn Fields a lot. As a youngster, I remember back in the prehistoric era (the nineteen eighties as you would call it), it was the unlikely location for a citadel of homeless people as was the Waterloo roundabout (now the site of the gleaming I-max cinema**). It is funny how times change isn't it? I mean one of the reasons I liked the anti-capitalist protest at St Pauls last year was that it reminded me of those times when central London was not so corporate and hygenically controlled. I was as apolitical then as I am now (albeit for reasons of age) but it seemed to be an era in which the city authorities were much kinder to the dispossessed. Camden, who control Lincoln's Inn and a bit of Clerkenwell, must have almost encouraged them given the extensiveness of their cardboard shanty town. But then property prices took off and everything changed. A memory of the time does linger on as there is still a nightly soup kitchen in the square(organised by the Hari-Krishnas I believe).
On a more bloody note, it has a personally squeamish association. During one of the darker nights of a personal apocalypse a few years back I dreamt of a scarlet road leading from my place through the centre of town to the West. I dreamt that me and my friend and then housemate Glen Duncan were walking along it and as we passed Lincoln's Inn, we witnessed the horrific execution of Anthony Babington. He was a young, idealistic, romantic Catholic (er, I guess that was the connection) but a bit thick and ended up disembowelled with his head on a pole on London Bridge after leading a failed plot against Elizabeth I. 
Are you South of the river or North of the river? After the success of sold-out Salon No 1, we are back at Westminster Arts library with Salon No.2 featuring Travis Elborough and Chris Roberts telling strange stories about London's oldest and best known bridge. A soundtrack for the city will be provided by yours truly. 
Tickets are very limited - you can get them here: WeGotTickets 
-Gunpowder |
| Leigh Bowery by Fergus Greer |
