No, this isn’t an essay about Sgt Pepper’s as one of the greatest concept albums ever made, just a few thoughts on the effect iTunes has had on my listening habits.
I love homemade compilations - unique inlay covers, beatsy songlists in perfected running order; there’s just something really good about that variety.
I also love iTunes, a catalogue of all your music with that fantastic ‘shuffle’ button giving you Ben Folds after Kate Rusby; The Shapeshifters after The Kooks.
Out of their album context though, some songs just sound pants. I love ‘In Between Dreams’ by Jack Johnson, but I often find myself skipping past its song when they start to play on iTunes. I’ve also noticed that songs from musicals don’t seem to fit so well intermingled with the rest of my collection.
I’ve bought a few new cds recently, under a little plan to buy an album a week and explore music a bit more. The first port of call for these cds is THE CD PLAYER. Without the touch of the shuffle button, I appreciate the feel of the over all album, and get to know the songs in their context.
Of course, you can listen to music in their album forms on iTunes if you like, it’s just that I like to have that shuffle feature on the go, and then I’m not just shuffling an album, but a whole catalogue of cds spanning genre and time. It can be great and sometimes iTunes compiles the greatest tracklist. But from time to time, it’s good to just remember those songs in the context of their album.
If you’re a shuffle-addict like me then give it a try...
Tuesday 26 June 2007
Friday 22 June 2007
Inextricably Linked
I don’t want to forget the house I grew up in. It was an ex-council masionette in a Peterborough council estate. My parents moved from the North during the 1980s housing boom under Mrs Thatcher, only the house prices hadn’t risen up North, so they lost out. There was only 5 of us then, but a 6th came along the following year in the form of Jenny Rachel.
It was a bit of a squeeze in our small 3-bed house. The housing market plummeted, the value of the house halved, and still no one would buy it off us!
Years went by, the little Crawfords grew up and two of them flew the nest. Mum had gone back to work, and my parents could just afford to buy another house and let ours out.
We moved to our beautiful new 4-bed detached on 15th October 1999. Within a few years house prices had risen considerably, the estate had deteriorated and my parents were advised to try and sell the old house.
This time we managed to sell. An offer was made an accepted by an organisation who housed asylum seekers.
Roll on eight years. I sit in Swansea Museum - a long way from home, watching the ‘Asylum Monologues’; drama voicing the stories - in many cases through the exact words - of those who have come to UK to seek asylum. Asylum is a human right, allowing people ‘seek and to enjoy in other countries asylum from persecution.’1 It was made in 1948 in response to the laws that had prevented persecuted German Jews from gaining entry to other countries.
I hear the horrible stories, and I’ve heard them before. It’s just words to me, I’m thinking to myself. Then I look around the room. It’s not the same sea of white middle-class faces I’m normally surrounded by. There are faces that aren’t from here. I start to wonder what this must be like for them to hear. What it reminds them of.
Peterborough is mentioned: a place where those seeking asylum are often sent. I'm reminded of my old house, and the people who live there now. I have a slightly better idea of their ordeal now. I’m glad they get our house. I feel blessed and privileged to have lived there for 10 years, and to have passed it on those rightfully looking for refuge in another country.
I remember something else I’ve read recently too: ‘The Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. "Get up," he said, "take the child and his mother and escape to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Herod is going to search for the child to kill him."2 So he got up, took the child and his mother during the night and left for Egypt, where he stayed until the death of Herod.’ Joseph, Mary and Jesus; the asylum seekers.
I'm thinking maybe this has a bit more to do with me than I thought. What did I do to be born into a fantastic, loving family in Britain? Not a thing.
1. http://hrw.org/doc/?t=refugees&document_limit=0,2
2. Matthew 2:23-15
It was a bit of a squeeze in our small 3-bed house. The housing market plummeted, the value of the house halved, and still no one would buy it off us!
Years went by, the little Crawfords grew up and two of them flew the nest. Mum had gone back to work, and my parents could just afford to buy another house and let ours out.
We moved to our beautiful new 4-bed detached on 15th October 1999. Within a few years house prices had risen considerably, the estate had deteriorated and my parents were advised to try and sell the old house.
This time we managed to sell. An offer was made an accepted by an organisation who housed asylum seekers.
Roll on eight years. I sit in Swansea Museum - a long way from home, watching the ‘Asylum Monologues’; drama voicing the stories - in many cases through the exact words - of those who have come to UK to seek asylum. Asylum is a human right, allowing people ‘seek and to enjoy in other countries asylum from persecution.’1 It was made in 1948 in response to the laws that had prevented persecuted German Jews from gaining entry to other countries.
I hear the horrible stories, and I’ve heard them before. It’s just words to me, I’m thinking to myself. Then I look around the room. It’s not the same sea of white middle-class faces I’m normally surrounded by. There are faces that aren’t from here. I start to wonder what this must be like for them to hear. What it reminds them of.
Peterborough is mentioned: a place where those seeking asylum are often sent. I'm reminded of my old house, and the people who live there now. I have a slightly better idea of their ordeal now. I’m glad they get our house. I feel blessed and privileged to have lived there for 10 years, and to have passed it on those rightfully looking for refuge in another country.
I remember something else I’ve read recently too: ‘The Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. "Get up," he said, "take the child and his mother and escape to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Herod is going to search for the child to kill him."2 So he got up, took the child and his mother during the night and left for Egypt, where he stayed until the death of Herod.’ Joseph, Mary and Jesus; the asylum seekers.
I'm thinking maybe this has a bit more to do with me than I thought. What did I do to be born into a fantastic, loving family in Britain? Not a thing.
1. http://hrw.org/doc/?t=refugees&document_limit=0,2
2. Matthew 2:23-15
Thursday 21 June 2007
Wales National Pool and Splash Gordon
I went swimming last night. For the first time in years. The first 50m nearly killed me, but fortunately I shared the slow lane with a couple who were only on their second visit, and a lady with a float, as well as a few other, faster swimmers.
After a while I ventured on to my back. I was enjoying it for a while, but then I suddenly started to lose faith that the water would hold me, lost my nerve, got back on to my front and continued to do something that vaguely resembled front crawl.
I think at one point I was even walking in the water.
I did manage to coordinate myself enough to do a few lengths of breast stroke. My defining memory of breast stroke had been feeling I was about to die attempting to swim it, aged 10. But this was surprisingly relaxing.
There was one problem with breast stroke, though. Having my head mostly out of the water left me vulnerable to the rather beastly splashes of one gentleman sharing the lane with us. I quickly moved into a kind of front crawlish doggy paddle every time he passed me, which seemed to do the trick.
Oh, and there was the fact that I was moving so slowly that people had to overtake me. In the slow lane.
Never mind! I had a good time, surprised myself, and will definitely be returning to show off my doggy paddle to Swansea.
I just hope Splash isn’t there on the same day.
After a while I ventured on to my back. I was enjoying it for a while, but then I suddenly started to lose faith that the water would hold me, lost my nerve, got back on to my front and continued to do something that vaguely resembled front crawl.
I think at one point I was even walking in the water.
I did manage to coordinate myself enough to do a few lengths of breast stroke. My defining memory of breast stroke had been feeling I was about to die attempting to swim it, aged 10. But this was surprisingly relaxing.
There was one problem with breast stroke, though. Having my head mostly out of the water left me vulnerable to the rather beastly splashes of one gentleman sharing the lane with us. I quickly moved into a kind of front crawlish doggy paddle every time he passed me, which seemed to do the trick.
Oh, and there was the fact that I was moving so slowly that people had to overtake me. In the slow lane.
Never mind! I had a good time, surprised myself, and will definitely be returning to show off my doggy paddle to Swansea.
I just hope Splash isn’t there on the same day.
Wednesday 20 June 2007
The Kindness of Strangers
I turn out of the drive, making the most of my borrowed car while my brother is in America. The bay looks beautiful. Even the sand looks nice; the tide is a fair way out, leaving on show bronzey-coloured sand, rather than the usual grey. But Swansea bay is not the setting for the day's adventures; I'm setting off for the South Gower Coast. Windows down, camera by my side and breeze on my bare shoulders; it feels good.
I drive as far as Shepherd's Ice cream place, and park. I'm sure someone said this is the place to park to walk to Three Cliffs from, so I look around for something that might be the path to the bay. There's a few paths, all in very different directions, so when I see two couples of different generations, one pushing a baby in a pram, I ask if they know the way. That's where they're going too, so they point me in the right direction and set of leisurely while I put the steering lock on, wind up the windows and lock the car.
I enjoy the walk to Three Cliffs; through a bit of woodland, over lots of sandy dunes, past the ruins of Pennard Castle and over a little wooden walkway. There's a steep sandy path up to the castle, which I would totally run up if I didn't have £500 worth of my boss' photography equipment slung over my shoulder.
I get to the bay, take a few pics, get frustrated that I really don't know how to use an SLR properly, and end up taking pictures that are better than I realise. Slightly.
I have been known to be labelled 'The Paparazzi" so I'm snapping a fair bit, and a kind man stops while I get my camera out yet again. I thank him but let him go ahead of me; who knows how long I'll be?
By this point I've been desperate for the toilet for a fair while. (Why did I leave the house so soon after tea?) I look for an appropriately secluded place to go but without success.
I get back to the car, and feel much better now I'm sitting down. I'm enjoying cruising along the Gower roads. After perhaps 10 minutes of driving I take a right turn into a cafe car park. As expected, it looks closed, but there are people there, and I see in my wing mirror a dog approaching. I get out of the car and there's a close moment when I think the dog might leap in. However, I manage to close the door before this happens.
The side door of the cafe is open and I can see two ladies in the kitchen clearing up.
"Are you open?" I ask, from across the car park.
"No, we're not open love," the older lady shouts back. I'm walking towards them now and say,
"Do you think I could use your toilet? I'm really desperate."
"Oh yes, yes, come through," the younger lady says, perhaps the daughter.
She's kind, and understanding, shows me the way, switches the lights back on, apologises when I brush past her with my camera bag.
On my way out, the older lady (in her 60s perhaps?) touches my arm and says goodbye as if she's my Gran. I thank them a lot and say goodbye. As I pull out of the car park I look back and wave with a smile. They're waving too, as if I'm family member setting off after spending the evening with them. I thank God for them and ask Him to bless them big style. I kind of have the sense that my parents would be really chuffed about the whole thing; that they'd appreciate too the kindness strangers showed their daughter.
Maybe you think I'm being sentimental, but it was a lovely moment of a lovely evening.
The dog chased me out of the car park and I set off for the rest of my Gower adventure, smiling.
I drive as far as Shepherd's Ice cream place, and park. I'm sure someone said this is the place to park to walk to Three Cliffs from, so I look around for something that might be the path to the bay. There's a few paths, all in very different directions, so when I see two couples of different generations, one pushing a baby in a pram, I ask if they know the way. That's where they're going too, so they point me in the right direction and set of leisurely while I put the steering lock on, wind up the windows and lock the car.
I enjoy the walk to Three Cliffs; through a bit of woodland, over lots of sandy dunes, past the ruins of Pennard Castle and over a little wooden walkway. There's a steep sandy path up to the castle, which I would totally run up if I didn't have £500 worth of my boss' photography equipment slung over my shoulder.
I get to the bay, take a few pics, get frustrated that I really don't know how to use an SLR properly, and end up taking pictures that are better than I realise. Slightly.
I have been known to be labelled 'The Paparazzi" so I'm snapping a fair bit, and a kind man stops while I get my camera out yet again. I thank him but let him go ahead of me; who knows how long I'll be?
By this point I've been desperate for the toilet for a fair while. (Why did I leave the house so soon after tea?) I look for an appropriately secluded place to go but without success.
I get back to the car, and feel much better now I'm sitting down. I'm enjoying cruising along the Gower roads. After perhaps 10 minutes of driving I take a right turn into a cafe car park. As expected, it looks closed, but there are people there, and I see in my wing mirror a dog approaching. I get out of the car and there's a close moment when I think the dog might leap in. However, I manage to close the door before this happens.
The side door of the cafe is open and I can see two ladies in the kitchen clearing up.
"Are you open?" I ask, from across the car park.
"No, we're not open love," the older lady shouts back. I'm walking towards them now and say,
"Do you think I could use your toilet? I'm really desperate."
"Oh yes, yes, come through," the younger lady says, perhaps the daughter.
She's kind, and understanding, shows me the way, switches the lights back on, apologises when I brush past her with my camera bag.
On my way out, the older lady (in her 60s perhaps?) touches my arm and says goodbye as if she's my Gran. I thank them a lot and say goodbye. As I pull out of the car park I look back and wave with a smile. They're waving too, as if I'm family member setting off after spending the evening with them. I thank God for them and ask Him to bless them big style. I kind of have the sense that my parents would be really chuffed about the whole thing; that they'd appreciate too the kindness strangers showed their daughter.
Maybe you think I'm being sentimental, but it was a lovely moment of a lovely evening.
The dog chased me out of the car park and I set off for the rest of my Gower adventure, smiling.
Saturday 9 June 2007
Punny
If you're into puns or Stephen Fry, and need a distraction/some background noise for half an hour, check out this radio programme - http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/comedy/pip/i4deu/
Welcome!
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Enjoy! x
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