Friday, September 29, 2006
This Isn't The Blog You're Looking For
Move along, move along.
Nothing more to see here. I would tell you my new blog address, but that would simply be too embarrassing for me. Ask me if you really want to know. Or if you want to laugh at me.
Nothing more to see here. I would tell you my new blog address, but that would simply be too embarrassing for me. Ask me if you really want to know. Or if you want to laugh at me.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Lefort BSSO
I’m in so much pain right now.
The past few days have been nothing less than a world of hurt. It really wouldn’t be an understatement to say that I have not known this much suffering on a personal level prior to this.
The operation is called a Lefort BSSO – bilateral sagittal split something-or-another. Basically they make incisions from within your face, saw your bone here and there, pull your front jaw forwards using titanium plates, and shift your lower jaw backwards using titanium screws. It’s every bit as painful as it sounds.
Having always thought of myself as having a mostly sound mind before this, my self-confidence has been thoroughly shaken. I have no idea how many times and how close I was bordering on the edge of madness, but rest assured I had a chance to explore those boundaries on a very personal level. I spent the first few days after the operation crying from the pain, the shock, the sheer regret. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that a lot of me is regretting it now. Had I known beforehand what I was to go through I probably would not have gone through it at all. But that phase is past – now it’s about enduring the recuperation period.
You have no idea what it feels like to be woken up in the middle of the night several times, to be injected with huge syringefuls of the colourless anti-biotics – they feed it through your IV drip into your arm, this 3 inch long plastic tubing that is attached to your arm, into your vein for several days. They pump in so much of the liquid that you’ll swear you can taste and smell it as it flows in via the drip. There is no dignity nor mercy from the cathether – it is every bit as painful and unforgiving as it looks. They don’t actually tell you the precise moment they remove it from your body because the shock would be too great otherwise. I only remember that I burst out in tears at that moment. The wailing, the crying, the feverishly hot pillows wrapped in plastic all congeal to form the backdrop of an ongoing nightmare. So… many… needles.
The psychological burden is huge. Not being able to open your mouth for a few weeks may very well bring a person to insanity by itself. I can’t swallow anything less fluid than water. Porridge is out of the question. This has not only led to extremely low stamina but also severe demoralization not unlike that during a field camp. In addition your face swells to around twice it’s normal size – I wince whenever I look in the mirror because it looks as though I’ve put on about twenty kilos in the past few days. It doesn’t help that I can’t feel half of my face because it’s totally numb. It’s just sick that you can feel your face using your hands while your face itself can’t rationalize it.
That’s all the focus I have to write with. Need a break before I pass out. I’m this close from going stark-raving mad.
P.S. Thank you to those who visited me, as well as those who wanted to visit me but were deterred by my insistance. I think your ongoing support has played a major role in keeping me sane, and I am very grateful for that. Thanks to my brother's friends for the flower as well, and to the guys for visiting me after my operation - I can only apologise for barely being conscious enough to flip you guys off at that point of time. Lastly thank you to the people in camp, who think of me enough to ask me about my status and to get me to endorse my MC despite the fact that I'm so weak that I can barely leave the house. I kid. Thank you all for your concern and support!
The past few days have been nothing less than a world of hurt. It really wouldn’t be an understatement to say that I have not known this much suffering on a personal level prior to this.
The operation is called a Lefort BSSO – bilateral sagittal split something-or-another. Basically they make incisions from within your face, saw your bone here and there, pull your front jaw forwards using titanium plates, and shift your lower jaw backwards using titanium screws. It’s every bit as painful as it sounds.
Having always thought of myself as having a mostly sound mind before this, my self-confidence has been thoroughly shaken. I have no idea how many times and how close I was bordering on the edge of madness, but rest assured I had a chance to explore those boundaries on a very personal level. I spent the first few days after the operation crying from the pain, the shock, the sheer regret. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that a lot of me is regretting it now. Had I known beforehand what I was to go through I probably would not have gone through it at all. But that phase is past – now it’s about enduring the recuperation period.
You have no idea what it feels like to be woken up in the middle of the night several times, to be injected with huge syringefuls of the colourless anti-biotics – they feed it through your IV drip into your arm, this 3 inch long plastic tubing that is attached to your arm, into your vein for several days. They pump in so much of the liquid that you’ll swear you can taste and smell it as it flows in via the drip. There is no dignity nor mercy from the cathether – it is every bit as painful and unforgiving as it looks. They don’t actually tell you the precise moment they remove it from your body because the shock would be too great otherwise. I only remember that I burst out in tears at that moment. The wailing, the crying, the feverishly hot pillows wrapped in plastic all congeal to form the backdrop of an ongoing nightmare. So… many… needles.
The psychological burden is huge. Not being able to open your mouth for a few weeks may very well bring a person to insanity by itself. I can’t swallow anything less fluid than water. Porridge is out of the question. This has not only led to extremely low stamina but also severe demoralization not unlike that during a field camp. In addition your face swells to around twice it’s normal size – I wince whenever I look in the mirror because it looks as though I’ve put on about twenty kilos in the past few days. It doesn’t help that I can’t feel half of my face because it’s totally numb. It’s just sick that you can feel your face using your hands while your face itself can’t rationalize it.
That’s all the focus I have to write with. Need a break before I pass out. I’m this close from going stark-raving mad.
P.S. Thank you to those who visited me, as well as those who wanted to visit me but were deterred by my insistance. I think your ongoing support has played a major role in keeping me sane, and I am very grateful for that. Thanks to my brother's friends for the flower as well, and to the guys for visiting me after my operation - I can only apologise for barely being conscious enough to flip you guys off at that point of time. Lastly thank you to the people in camp, who think of me enough to ask me about my status and to get me to endorse my MC despite the fact that I'm so weak that I can barely leave the house. I kid. Thank you all for your concern and support!
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Why hello there
Wow, it’s been five whole months since I updated. This is for you people who have never stopped believing that I would eventually write something here again. Yes, all two of you.
I don’t write much because I simply haven’t had anything of interest happening within the past few months. Either that, or because I am lazy as hell, and I don’t actually enjoy writing anymore. I was actually invited to write for some rather comical website hosted by some of my acquaintances – but having noticed the rather bleak tone of my writing of late I decided that that would not be entirely fitting. Anyway, nothing particularly fancy has popped up in the past few months. I did attend the DT concert, which was, well, an experience. I wouldn’t exactly use the word fun, but it was an evening of unmatched virtuosity - I wouldn’t expect anything less. It was the first rock concert I have ever attended. A real mosh, and people taking drugs or something – not something I can claim to witness every other day. I also got body surfed against my will at some dinner and dance event, which was, similarly, a new experience for me.
The few things in my life that matter have not so much changed, as evolved over time. My applications for accommodation in Nottingham have been submitted. Basically, everything is prepared. I am ready to leave. My aunt is picking up winter clothing from me and sending it over. My accommodation is settled and so is my research regarding the campus life there. I have done whatever I can to ensure that I will be properly settled in and taken care of once I leave.
This is the last time I am applying for NUS law. I have come to terms with the fact that they do not think I am good enough for them. I will try again, of course – and this time I will actually prepare for it. I have actually applied so many times that I have managed to formulate certain interview formats. I have only one complaint – why do we adopt an admission system whereby we only: 1) look at results or 2) screw the applicants over, and see how they handle themselves from there? Why can we not follow the other top universities in the world, who treat their applicants with a larger amount of dignity? Is it so unbearable to pursue a system that actively questions the latent knowledge and thought process of a person, rather than tear them down and see how they react?
Ironic as it is, UK is my contingency plan. This time, the stakes are all real – no more ‘oh well I’ll try again next year’. It’s either there or here. There are a few role models to me in this aspect – people who have left their homes to pursue some goal or dream somewhere over the oceans. I now know why I respect them so much. I used to think that I respected them because they dared to dream, and that they dared to pursue that dream in spite of everyone else. I was wrong. I respect them because they have the wisdom and experience to tell them that what they are doing is right; that they are the people who are strong enough to break out from their figurative shackles, the ball and chain, and whatever inertia it is that people experience when they consider moving. These are the people who are strong enough to fight for what they believe in. So many of us believe, but so few of us ever have that resolve to do it.
It is probably just me that thinks this, but I think I share many commonalities with Dr. House from House M.D., less the whole genius part. I think I am sufficiently cynical, and possess the necessary distaste for the rest of the world. What do you think?
I am leaving the army soon. It has been a long and painful two and a half years, but I would be lying if I said that it did not have its benefits. The army is enjoyable in a sense. If you come here expecting to experience real and physical sensations of happiness, you will leave disappointed and empty. That is not what I mean by enjoyable – what I mean is that it is simply two whole years of nothingness. Pure, unadulterated nothingness. For two years you are kept in a self-contained bio-dome, peering out at the world, seeing the things that happen outside, but knowing that nothing you do inside here will ever affect the world outside. It is a real feeling you have to experience in order to understand. I hesitate to use the word ‘honeymoon’, but that is exactly what it is. Being transported to a faraway place where you can do whatever you want without a worry in the world. Unless, of course, you manage to get yourself charged. You learn and see things here, and they change you. You realize the nature of people, and you learn to use them as mirrors to view your own flaws. You will mellow out. Your tolerance will skyrocket. You will learn to feign diligence. Even a conservative person like me has learnt the fine art of nonchalance. It is imperative that you learn to not care – because no one will ever reciprocate such courtesy.
I have made the astute observation that the number of friends I have is inversely proportional to the amount of gadgetry I acquire. That is unfortunate as I happen to like gadgetry. I can’t decide whether that has something to do with my increasing general disdain for humanity as a whole, or the engulfing, inviting feeling of the media. Perhaps they are substitutes for one another. Anyway, I have learnt to embrace media as a whole. I guess it is only appropriate that as I spend less money on friends, I have more purchasing power for my gadgetry. It is almost a comforting feeling, and I can’t for the life of me explain why. I have actually reached a point where I carry less than half of my toys around simply because I am afraid of getting mugged.
I have recently purchased a PSP and new headphones. My ER-6i died on me. Anyway, I really hope they start making games for the PSP sometime soon, because last I heard, it was supposed to play games.
I go in for surgery next week. Seven days from today. Lots of people have asked me whether I am afraid, excited, etc. I always give the same reply: it’s going to happen anyway, so I am not going to will myself into feeling anything that I should be feeling. At the time of writing, I am still not feeling any particularly definitive emotion. My feelings are a maelstrom of vague fears, nervousness, and even anticipation. It is a major operation that is supposed to last some 4.5 hours. I hear some spinal operations take over 2 hours. I don’t know what to make of that. I am not going to elaborate on the nitty-gritty details of the operation, but it is sufficiently gruesome. Suffice to say I am somewhat numb to that after having been poked and prodded by multitudinous needles and wires over the past few months. I have seen so much blood being drawn from my body, but somehow it still terrifies me every time I see that crimson life leaving my body. I suppose it was fortunate that they chose to leave out these details before I started my special brace treatment. If I had to do this all again with the knowledge of what was to come on the way there, I would probably have second thoughts. I have been through too much to turn back. My lips are cracking, my mouth is afflicted with cuts and tears, and I have been playing host to several raging ulcers at every point of time in the past few months. I have suffered enough – and next week is what I have gone through all this for.
I don’t write much because I simply haven’t had anything of interest happening within the past few months. Either that, or because I am lazy as hell, and I don’t actually enjoy writing anymore. I was actually invited to write for some rather comical website hosted by some of my acquaintances – but having noticed the rather bleak tone of my writing of late I decided that that would not be entirely fitting. Anyway, nothing particularly fancy has popped up in the past few months. I did attend the DT concert, which was, well, an experience. I wouldn’t exactly use the word fun, but it was an evening of unmatched virtuosity - I wouldn’t expect anything less. It was the first rock concert I have ever attended. A real mosh, and people taking drugs or something – not something I can claim to witness every other day. I also got body surfed against my will at some dinner and dance event, which was, similarly, a new experience for me.
The few things in my life that matter have not so much changed, as evolved over time. My applications for accommodation in Nottingham have been submitted. Basically, everything is prepared. I am ready to leave. My aunt is picking up winter clothing from me and sending it over. My accommodation is settled and so is my research regarding the campus life there. I have done whatever I can to ensure that I will be properly settled in and taken care of once I leave.
This is the last time I am applying for NUS law. I have come to terms with the fact that they do not think I am good enough for them. I will try again, of course – and this time I will actually prepare for it. I have actually applied so many times that I have managed to formulate certain interview formats. I have only one complaint – why do we adopt an admission system whereby we only: 1) look at results or 2) screw the applicants over, and see how they handle themselves from there? Why can we not follow the other top universities in the world, who treat their applicants with a larger amount of dignity? Is it so unbearable to pursue a system that actively questions the latent knowledge and thought process of a person, rather than tear them down and see how they react?
Ironic as it is, UK is my contingency plan. This time, the stakes are all real – no more ‘oh well I’ll try again next year’. It’s either there or here. There are a few role models to me in this aspect – people who have left their homes to pursue some goal or dream somewhere over the oceans. I now know why I respect them so much. I used to think that I respected them because they dared to dream, and that they dared to pursue that dream in spite of everyone else. I was wrong. I respect them because they have the wisdom and experience to tell them that what they are doing is right; that they are the people who are strong enough to break out from their figurative shackles, the ball and chain, and whatever inertia it is that people experience when they consider moving. These are the people who are strong enough to fight for what they believe in. So many of us believe, but so few of us ever have that resolve to do it.
It is probably just me that thinks this, but I think I share many commonalities with Dr. House from House M.D., less the whole genius part. I think I am sufficiently cynical, and possess the necessary distaste for the rest of the world. What do you think?
I am leaving the army soon. It has been a long and painful two and a half years, but I would be lying if I said that it did not have its benefits. The army is enjoyable in a sense. If you come here expecting to experience real and physical sensations of happiness, you will leave disappointed and empty. That is not what I mean by enjoyable – what I mean is that it is simply two whole years of nothingness. Pure, unadulterated nothingness. For two years you are kept in a self-contained bio-dome, peering out at the world, seeing the things that happen outside, but knowing that nothing you do inside here will ever affect the world outside. It is a real feeling you have to experience in order to understand. I hesitate to use the word ‘honeymoon’, but that is exactly what it is. Being transported to a faraway place where you can do whatever you want without a worry in the world. Unless, of course, you manage to get yourself charged. You learn and see things here, and they change you. You realize the nature of people, and you learn to use them as mirrors to view your own flaws. You will mellow out. Your tolerance will skyrocket. You will learn to feign diligence. Even a conservative person like me has learnt the fine art of nonchalance. It is imperative that you learn to not care – because no one will ever reciprocate such courtesy.
I have made the astute observation that the number of friends I have is inversely proportional to the amount of gadgetry I acquire. That is unfortunate as I happen to like gadgetry. I can’t decide whether that has something to do with my increasing general disdain for humanity as a whole, or the engulfing, inviting feeling of the media. Perhaps they are substitutes for one another. Anyway, I have learnt to embrace media as a whole. I guess it is only appropriate that as I spend less money on friends, I have more purchasing power for my gadgetry. It is almost a comforting feeling, and I can’t for the life of me explain why. I have actually reached a point where I carry less than half of my toys around simply because I am afraid of getting mugged.
I have recently purchased a PSP and new headphones. My ER-6i died on me. Anyway, I really hope they start making games for the PSP sometime soon, because last I heard, it was supposed to play games.
I go in for surgery next week. Seven days from today. Lots of people have asked me whether I am afraid, excited, etc. I always give the same reply: it’s going to happen anyway, so I am not going to will myself into feeling anything that I should be feeling. At the time of writing, I am still not feeling any particularly definitive emotion. My feelings are a maelstrom of vague fears, nervousness, and even anticipation. It is a major operation that is supposed to last some 4.5 hours. I hear some spinal operations take over 2 hours. I don’t know what to make of that. I am not going to elaborate on the nitty-gritty details of the operation, but it is sufficiently gruesome. Suffice to say I am somewhat numb to that after having been poked and prodded by multitudinous needles and wires over the past few months. I have seen so much blood being drawn from my body, but somehow it still terrifies me every time I see that crimson life leaving my body. I suppose it was fortunate that they chose to leave out these details before I started my special brace treatment. If I had to do this all again with the knowledge of what was to come on the way there, I would probably have second thoughts. I have been through too much to turn back. My lips are cracking, my mouth is afflicted with cuts and tears, and I have been playing host to several raging ulcers at every point of time in the past few months. I have suffered enough – and next week is what I have gone through all this for.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Probation plates are expensive
I am now a qualified driver. Yay.
I realise it has been something like two months since I last updated - in part due to my total computer reformat, and in part due to sheer laziness in two aspects, the first being that I can't even be bothered to reinstall Office, and the second, being that I'm just too lazy to update, really.
Had my driving test yesterday. What fun. I didn't tell anyone about the details of my test. Heck, even my parents didn't know when my test date was - simply because I am not overly fond of getting unnecessary attention over things which I am not actually comfortable with. Last thing I need is to fail my test and get something twelve messages asking, 'So how was it...' and soon after, 'ROFLS U NUB, U FAILD!!!!! *GUFFAW*!!'.
So anyway, interesting test. I mounted the kerb twice in - get this - the first five minutes. No lie. First course was the S-course. Let's face it, nobody ever screws that up. I have never screwed it up. In fact, when I struck the kerb, my mind didn't even rationalise it. All I thought was: 'hmm... did I... nah, impossible.' Such that I wasn't even aware of what to do next. So anyway, moving on, I struck the kerb on the next event - vertical parking. Once again, who the heck strikes a kerb during vertical parking?! At this point of time I was ready to bang my head repeatedly on the center of the steering wheel in the hope that the combination of the siren and airbag inflating simultaneously would knock me out so hard that I would fly back into yesterday. With four demerits left to spare, I had to complete the second half of the circuit, and the road section flawlessly, a feat so ridiculous that I should have given up then and there and laughed my way back home.
But somehow, I managed to pull it off. Or the invigilator was being merciful for some reason. Either way - Yay.
Not that I have a car to drive. My father has hinted that I might get a chance to touch the BM once in awhile, but I was not to go anywhere near the contraption my brother drives. Not as though I want to. In fact, I have no desire to go near either car, seeing that they probably have numerical values that are worth more than several of my lives ($12). Anyway, that is a burden I am glad to get off my back.
What else has been happening - aside from the usual irritation at work which I have no desire to talk about - what else, what else. Ah, I watched Harry Potter with the gang. Good movie, a bit rushed, but I don't envy having the task of compressing one of the most celebrated novels in the series into a two-and-a-half hour feature. It is best to watch the show with real potter-scholars, as I have discovered. My knowledge of the subject, admittedly, is none too shabby, but not to the depth to which Weibin understands the series. Nevertheless, the reason I love watching movies with these guys is undoubtedly the post-movie segment; the supremely elitist and geeky part where we dissect the movie like rabid wolverines, tearing it apart and devouring it hungrily. We are not the controversial kinds who seek to be anti-establishment whenever we can - we are the truthful philosophers who always see things in the larger scheme of things, and question the purpose of the presentation as a whole. Quite simply, we are snobs who read too deeply into things that probably never had the intention of having that sort of depth. And we love it. Or at least, I do.
I also think that I may be a pedophile. Don't quote me on that.
Jamie Cullum is brilliant. I love most of his new album, I dislike a little bit of it, specifically the slow songs. Jem is pretty good stuff, charming, simple, and she has a pretty awesome voice. Some of it is a little abstract, though. And WB is right about Jewel - what's up with her? All I can say is, Intuition can be a bad thing.
I have literally spent days learning the basic formula of jazz from the many resources I have gathered over the past weeks, under the influence of the drum legend LC himself. I am thankful for the exposure, and sorry that I have reached a point that only talent can take me past. And that, I have a total drought of. However, it has been good fun, and I will continue working on it, simply because I pride myself in being different. In being a musician who understands what I'm doing, and wanting to do something because I love the subject, and not because I'm a poser. Even if I can't do it, I will continue to persevere.
I have bought tickets to the Dream Theater concert. Yay. I am not a rocker by nature, but I have an appreciation for the technical arts. And that, they have in abundance, to be sure. The fact that they are not one of those 'WOO! THROW UP THE DEVIL HORNS!' bands makes it that much sweeter.
I am presently reading Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, having bought a few more of his books recently at some place having a 3 for 2 offer. Charming, very charming. He is a fascinating writer who writes with more flair and wit than most of his peers. Brilliantly creative, clashing, innovative, daring. Developed and vivid imagery, fused with unlikely elements that are, at once, totally absurd in it's contrast, and yet totally startling in it's spontaneity. A brilliant writer who deserves a lot more attention than some of the media-whoring writers of today.
That is all, I think! I really need a pensieve. That would be an awesome Christmas present.
Paranoia out.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Précis
It's late, I'm not particularly eloquent, and I really can't be bothered to rephrase sentences coherently, so this will probably not read smoothly at some places. I will simply jot this down in the exact order it comes out of my head, expression and phrasing intact. Well, basically, as I normally write these things.
There’s this jap song that sounds like a Happy Tree Friends theme. Also, J-Pop Hits (a concert band piece) is comprised of three songs – the first being typical, the second called ‘White Breath’, and sounding exactly like a news station weather report theme song, and the third, comprising entirely of some strange symbols that your computer produces when lacking the codec to translate a foreign language, sounds vaguely like, ‘IAYE YUEGH’ (no lie), or a guttural throat clearing noise.
Anyway.
I’ve got a pretty close friend who’s kinda studying for his ‘A’ levels right now, and watching him inspires some amount of nostalgia, and envy – thoughts of the past, memories of camping the MacDonald’s with the 3B gang, solving the ‘brain teasers’ which MCDs put up everyday, with the promise of free ice cream to anyone who could solve their ‘mindboggling’ puzzles; let’s just say that we couldn’t have eaten any more ice cream without passing out from the sugar overdose. Memories of Lionel hugging a stretch ball bigger than my entire body mass, and how it must have looked to any passer-by watching him lug it back home; memories of the abomination made out of McDipper containers, empty drink cups, and forks (damn you for pushing all the crap over onto me, Gary!!!) ; memories of trying to psycho the guys to stop studying and come over to my house for a ‘little’ R&R. I swear, I could have gotten a perfect score if not for that.
Then, sitting down next to him, and gazing over his past-year papers, bearing the Raffles crest, suddenly filled me with all sorts of dread and fear, and some amount of relief, the ‘holy crap I never want to see another trigonometry question as long as I live’ feeling. I guess retrospect is always 20/20 – you filter out all the things you don’t want to remember and cherish only the best things you experienced back then, keeping the memories most precious to you sealed in that little alcove in your mind, away from the cerebrovascular cleaners and erosion of time. Trying to relive them will only unearth the horrors that you want nothing more than to keep suppressed. But my my, how time has flown by.
After getting into the sight-reading mode again, I’ve managed to resusticate some amount of a previous passion for concert playing – I have discovered that the area I am totally and utterly sick of is undoubtedly within the March genre. I never want to play another damn march for as long as I live. I’m tired of the mindless repetition and symmetrical trios – marches are barely a type of music as much as an accompaniment for moving around pointlessly from place to place, following a rhythm for some unfathomable reason with a tempo that is derived from the fact that we have an even amount of legs. All I want to play are concert pieces – and having been given a chance to do so over the past few days over our well-deserved lull period, I’ve begun to realize the comfort and security in what I grew up learning as a musician – like a womb, the concert band has always been the warm, nurturing place that I developed my potential and unraveled the mysteries of the note. The pressures of expression, dynamics and improvisational reading are the essential facets of music which elevate the experience, not hamper it – unlike the parade, where the lethargy of the mid-day sun, the searing heat, humidity, and sheer boredom are poor companions to music-making. Once again, sitting down to play familiar and unknown pieces alike, I am reminded of my true roots – reminded by my peers, especially, of what genre of music I was born to appreciate, of the genre I was trained to craft and mold with my intuition and experience. I regain my confidence in the band room because I know that everything I have learnt has enabled me to face any challenge in this respect with all my wisdom and confidence, confidence in the stability and superiority of my training. How I’ve missed that feeling.
In line with that, I’ve decided that I’m sick and tired of wasting these precious years of my life here, and hence, have formulated ‘Operation Parasite Eve’ – a complex project which will, according to my schematic, unfold over the next six months. It is a project with the sole intention of utilizing the resources at my disposal to achieve one specific goal – the pursuit of knowledge. Having visited our library many times – and I might add, one of the best music libraries in the country – has made me realize how silly I’ve been all this time. To be surrounded by literally thousands of catergorised and meticulously organized scores, from the archaic to the super-modern, to all sorts of technique guides, exam references, music encyclopedias is not something just any musician can lay claim to. I have that fortune, just that I’ve never once thought about appreciating it. Starting today I compiled a seriously long list of pieces from ‘the Catalogue’, as I call it – a list detailing every piece I’d played before, and pieces with percussion parts I am interested in – and have decided that over the next few months, I’ll devote my time and resources to obtaining them to enrich my personal library at home. I’ve always celebrated knowledge as a percussionist, and all my close friends know that. I have little respect for people who can play well, but lack the technical knowledge to appreciate fully what they are playing. Of course, I will seek full permission and endorsement for this – trying otherwise is suicide.
LC seemed to detect a sudden thirst for knowledge within me, and immediately invited me over to his studio to browse through his personal library, generously extending an invitation to me to borrow scores, with the promise of returning it eventually. That was a honour far greater than I deserve – LC, one of the greatest and most talented percussionists I know, inviting me to view his source material? I spent the next two hours receiving a personal drumset master-class from the legend himself, and asked him questions about the different source books he used, what he recommended, technical demonstrations and applications, and any doubts that leapt to mind. He resolved them all with his usual carefree attitude, and later added that I shouldn’t be so disheartened at not being at a professional standard, saying that what is more important is that I do it because I like it, not because I want to be the best. That meant something I guess, coming from him, the percussionist with the impeccable knowledge I’ve come to trust wholeheartedly over the past year. Anyway, I managed to filter out a large stack of material which I deemed useful to me – criteria being, firstly that he recommended it, and secondly, that I would actually have a decent chance of learning it over the duration of my lifetime. Most of the material failed the second one. But it was an incredible haul nonetheless – carrying only what I could, I promised that I would be back very soon for the rest.
As for the material I did manage to carry back – let’s just say $30 worth of photocopies at 5 cents a page is a lot of pages.
Oh, Advent Children was very nice. It would be a no-brainer to say that it was hands-down the best animation movie I’ve seen to date. The promise of a ‘contemplative’ storyline was not quite fulfilled, I think – it seemed pretty linear to me. But then again, I’ve always been ‘different’. I pursued the final fantasy VII story longer than most normal people would even after the third run-through of the game. Getting all the hidden materia, unlocking every possible secret, and mastering every nuance of the game is of course, unsurprising. My interest in the game bothered on fanaticism. Which explains why I was more than a little excited when they first announced the development of the follow-up movie. The fact that the movie did, in most respects, live up to my expectations, is entirely expected from a company as reputable as Square, and is most admirable, given my lofty expectations concerning the game I regard to be one of the greatest masterpieces of the age. The movie was humorous, somewhat reflective, thrilling for the better part of it, and all-round heart-wrenching in it’s whole ‘this is for YOU, true believer’ feel. The music was beautiful, the remakes were moving, and the subtle references to the past events were both reassuring and provocative. Advent Children is poetry in motion.
There is a lot more I should be writing about – the reunion with the RV guys who I literally haven’t seen in years, my recent infatuation with ridiculously technical jazz, my unique dining experience at a particularly unique restaurant, the books I’ve only just finished reading.
But I’m too lazy. So there.
Paranoia out.
There’s this jap song that sounds like a Happy Tree Friends theme. Also, J-Pop Hits (a concert band piece) is comprised of three songs – the first being typical, the second called ‘White Breath’, and sounding exactly like a news station weather report theme song, and the third, comprising entirely of some strange symbols that your computer produces when lacking the codec to translate a foreign language, sounds vaguely like, ‘IAYE YUEGH’ (no lie), or a guttural throat clearing noise.
Anyway.
I’ve got a pretty close friend who’s kinda studying for his ‘A’ levels right now, and watching him inspires some amount of nostalgia, and envy – thoughts of the past, memories of camping the MacDonald’s with the 3B gang, solving the ‘brain teasers’ which MCDs put up everyday, with the promise of free ice cream to anyone who could solve their ‘mindboggling’ puzzles; let’s just say that we couldn’t have eaten any more ice cream without passing out from the sugar overdose. Memories of Lionel hugging a stretch ball bigger than my entire body mass, and how it must have looked to any passer-by watching him lug it back home; memories of the abomination made out of McDipper containers, empty drink cups, and forks (damn you for pushing all the crap over onto me, Gary!!!) ; memories of trying to psycho the guys to stop studying and come over to my house for a ‘little’ R&R. I swear, I could have gotten a perfect score if not for that.
Then, sitting down next to him, and gazing over his past-year papers, bearing the Raffles crest, suddenly filled me with all sorts of dread and fear, and some amount of relief, the ‘holy crap I never want to see another trigonometry question as long as I live’ feeling. I guess retrospect is always 20/20 – you filter out all the things you don’t want to remember and cherish only the best things you experienced back then, keeping the memories most precious to you sealed in that little alcove in your mind, away from the cerebrovascular cleaners and erosion of time. Trying to relive them will only unearth the horrors that you want nothing more than to keep suppressed. But my my, how time has flown by.
After getting into the sight-reading mode again, I’ve managed to resusticate some amount of a previous passion for concert playing – I have discovered that the area I am totally and utterly sick of is undoubtedly within the March genre. I never want to play another damn march for as long as I live. I’m tired of the mindless repetition and symmetrical trios – marches are barely a type of music as much as an accompaniment for moving around pointlessly from place to place, following a rhythm for some unfathomable reason with a tempo that is derived from the fact that we have an even amount of legs. All I want to play are concert pieces – and having been given a chance to do so over the past few days over our well-deserved lull period, I’ve begun to realize the comfort and security in what I grew up learning as a musician – like a womb, the concert band has always been the warm, nurturing place that I developed my potential and unraveled the mysteries of the note. The pressures of expression, dynamics and improvisational reading are the essential facets of music which elevate the experience, not hamper it – unlike the parade, where the lethargy of the mid-day sun, the searing heat, humidity, and sheer boredom are poor companions to music-making. Once again, sitting down to play familiar and unknown pieces alike, I am reminded of my true roots – reminded by my peers, especially, of what genre of music I was born to appreciate, of the genre I was trained to craft and mold with my intuition and experience. I regain my confidence in the band room because I know that everything I have learnt has enabled me to face any challenge in this respect with all my wisdom and confidence, confidence in the stability and superiority of my training. How I’ve missed that feeling.
In line with that, I’ve decided that I’m sick and tired of wasting these precious years of my life here, and hence, have formulated ‘Operation Parasite Eve’ – a complex project which will, according to my schematic, unfold over the next six months. It is a project with the sole intention of utilizing the resources at my disposal to achieve one specific goal – the pursuit of knowledge. Having visited our library many times – and I might add, one of the best music libraries in the country – has made me realize how silly I’ve been all this time. To be surrounded by literally thousands of catergorised and meticulously organized scores, from the archaic to the super-modern, to all sorts of technique guides, exam references, music encyclopedias is not something just any musician can lay claim to. I have that fortune, just that I’ve never once thought about appreciating it. Starting today I compiled a seriously long list of pieces from ‘the Catalogue’, as I call it – a list detailing every piece I’d played before, and pieces with percussion parts I am interested in – and have decided that over the next few months, I’ll devote my time and resources to obtaining them to enrich my personal library at home. I’ve always celebrated knowledge as a percussionist, and all my close friends know that. I have little respect for people who can play well, but lack the technical knowledge to appreciate fully what they are playing. Of course, I will seek full permission and endorsement for this – trying otherwise is suicide.
LC seemed to detect a sudden thirst for knowledge within me, and immediately invited me over to his studio to browse through his personal library, generously extending an invitation to me to borrow scores, with the promise of returning it eventually. That was a honour far greater than I deserve – LC, one of the greatest and most talented percussionists I know, inviting me to view his source material? I spent the next two hours receiving a personal drumset master-class from the legend himself, and asked him questions about the different source books he used, what he recommended, technical demonstrations and applications, and any doubts that leapt to mind. He resolved them all with his usual carefree attitude, and later added that I shouldn’t be so disheartened at not being at a professional standard, saying that what is more important is that I do it because I like it, not because I want to be the best. That meant something I guess, coming from him, the percussionist with the impeccable knowledge I’ve come to trust wholeheartedly over the past year. Anyway, I managed to filter out a large stack of material which I deemed useful to me – criteria being, firstly that he recommended it, and secondly, that I would actually have a decent chance of learning it over the duration of my lifetime. Most of the material failed the second one. But it was an incredible haul nonetheless – carrying only what I could, I promised that I would be back very soon for the rest.
As for the material I did manage to carry back – let’s just say $30 worth of photocopies at 5 cents a page is a lot of pages.
Oh, Advent Children was very nice. It would be a no-brainer to say that it was hands-down the best animation movie I’ve seen to date. The promise of a ‘contemplative’ storyline was not quite fulfilled, I think – it seemed pretty linear to me. But then again, I’ve always been ‘different’. I pursued the final fantasy VII story longer than most normal people would even after the third run-through of the game. Getting all the hidden materia, unlocking every possible secret, and mastering every nuance of the game is of course, unsurprising. My interest in the game bothered on fanaticism. Which explains why I was more than a little excited when they first announced the development of the follow-up movie. The fact that the movie did, in most respects, live up to my expectations, is entirely expected from a company as reputable as Square, and is most admirable, given my lofty expectations concerning the game I regard to be one of the greatest masterpieces of the age. The movie was humorous, somewhat reflective, thrilling for the better part of it, and all-round heart-wrenching in it’s whole ‘this is for YOU, true believer’ feel. The music was beautiful, the remakes were moving, and the subtle references to the past events were both reassuring and provocative. Advent Children is poetry in motion.
There is a lot more I should be writing about – the reunion with the RV guys who I literally haven’t seen in years, my recent infatuation with ridiculously technical jazz, my unique dining experience at a particularly unique restaurant, the books I’ve only just finished reading.
But I’m too lazy. So there.
Paranoia out.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Stomp Out Loud
I just watched Stomp. Wow.
Two incredible works within the past week has been an overload for my sense of culture. The costs have been significant, but worth every cent, and possibly more – I am beginning to wonder just how much the theatrical arts have in store for me, and just how much I have been missing all these years.
Foremost, I need to thank the greater powers that be. Without divine intervention, I would not have been able to catch Stomp today, in other words, effectively flushing away my $220. The reason I chose a Saturday night when I bought the tickets one month ago was because I figured, ‘well, surely the army wouldn’t deny me a Saturday night off this week!’ Well, it turns out that fortune frequently decides to take a piss on me – considering other hilarious antics such as declaring my birthday to be Barrack Orderly duty day, being amongst my favourites – and so, she decided to take another shot at screwing up my plans by declaring today to be a freaking commissioning parade. To further increase the chance of irony, She also decided to make me one of the two wet weather standby crew – meaning, whether it rained or not, and whether the parade was cancelled consequently, was inconsequential to me, since I would have to work my ass off either way, bound to a fate I have no control over.
Thankfully – the powers that be granted me divine mercy today, by giving us not only perfect weather, allowing the parade to commence as soon as possible without interruption, but also going further than that, by allowing me to get a cab amidst a throng of waiting people (albeit a harsh fare of $20). Even better, it turns out that my driver was a lunatic, driving at an average speed of 100km/h even on a relatively congested highway, sometimes topping out at 120. It was as though he was aware of my dire consequences, subconsciously. Weibin and I hypothesized that it could have been one of those Neil Gaiman moments where He decided to send one of his angels in disguise to assist me in accomplishing the seemingly hopeless. Anyway – no thanks to Weibin’s incessant reminders of the curtain call – I made it to the Esplanade with two minutes to spare. Two freaking minutes – how much closer can I cut it, I wonder? At least, despite today’s fiasco, I can still maintain what I so proudly declare all the time: I have never been late for any concert or performance, and if I’m late means I’m either not coming at all, or I’m dead. That was close though. Mental note: changing in a public area is not fun. And I don’t mean a bathroom.
Stomp! Stomp stomp stomp. Where do I begin? It was certainly as entertaining as I had hoped. I’ve been a Stomp fan for a long time – since I started percussion – and what started out as a casual interest in percussion has led to a full blown obsession with this touring show. I’ve watched it many, many times, video clips, dvds, whatnot. I’ve caught just about every separate item that I could humanly get my hands on. I know just about everything there is to know about Stomp – the cast, the creators, the origins, the shows, the awards, and the different items. So what were they going to surprise me with this time round? Granted, having watched Quidam last week made me feel a bit uneasy in the artifice of the place – a mass of derelict, rusting corrugated steel boards, with unstable looking junk welded on to widely spaced wire mesh flanking the balcony of a pile of rubble, on the stage of a grand, dedicated theatre stage?
Once they started, of course, all unease gave way to awe, amusement, laughter, and sheer respect for the group of performers who were professional in every respect – trained entertainers, sporting performers, and masters of theatre. They made the audience laugh, they made the audience stand and clap, stomp on the ground, slap themselves, and most importantly, instilled a sense of wonder towards common household objects. I recognized only two members of the cast – and only about half of the items that they performed. Brooms, of course, was their opening act, the most famous of all, and having written the entire brooms out by hand before, I can safely say that they took some liberty in modifying the original. Other familiar favourites were the basketballs, the kitchen sinks, the pails, the suspended signboard act, and of course, the famously spectacular closing act with the signature ‘S’ trash can-lids cymbals. There were some new and genuinely amusing acts – such as a metallic chairs one, a rubber tubing one, a crate hopping one, a bag of assorted carrying bags, and a wonderfully creative full-body slapping one. However, the act which had the most stage presence and ‘wow’-factor was the lighters one – completely in the dark, the performers flicked their Zippos open and close in perfect unison, despite the lack of communication in the total darkness, flaring the stage for a few, perfectly coordinated moments, and illuminating selected areas once in awhile, creating a complex flurry of patterns about the stage. It was truly magnificent to behold – something like a portrait of fireworks exploding, with a landscape of pitch blackness in the background lending a hand in helping to create the perfect contrast between light and darkness. Wonderful.
I also learnt that toilet humour is timeless.
It was energetic, it was lively, it was entertaining, and the way the performers yelled at each other, laughed, hollered and whooped, even the most composed of the audience were unable to control themselves in joining in with some rhythmic clapping, or even foot-stomping action. It was one of those moments that reminded me as to why I enjoyed being a percussionist – and why I’m so absolutely confident that not all instruments were created equal. I maintain that percussion is the only instrument that allows for such a degree of creativity and energy, as not only a musical art, but a performance art.
Change of Guards at the Istana is on tomorrow (Sunday), and we’re marching down from Heeren to Plaza Singapura again. This time, we’re playing marches written by our own bandsmen and our captain himself, interspersed with our usual percussion solo – but this time, we’ve gone full balls to the wall in it’s composition. This is just about the most difficult solo we’ve come up with, and we’ve written it keeping in mind the best players for their specific instruments of speciality. We’re not holding anything back this time – the reason is because more than a few of the percussion section are leaving within the next month, so it’s like a last hurrah for them. It will be quite a show, I promise. It starts at 5:30pm, next to the Heeren, for anyone interested.
Damn, I need to watch Corpse Bride sometime soon. And I need more theatre, soon. I need my fix. I only know one other cultural snob, though. Ideas, Weibin?
Paranoia out.
Two incredible works within the past week has been an overload for my sense of culture. The costs have been significant, but worth every cent, and possibly more – I am beginning to wonder just how much the theatrical arts have in store for me, and just how much I have been missing all these years.
Foremost, I need to thank the greater powers that be. Without divine intervention, I would not have been able to catch Stomp today, in other words, effectively flushing away my $220. The reason I chose a Saturday night when I bought the tickets one month ago was because I figured, ‘well, surely the army wouldn’t deny me a Saturday night off this week!’ Well, it turns out that fortune frequently decides to take a piss on me – considering other hilarious antics such as declaring my birthday to be Barrack Orderly duty day, being amongst my favourites – and so, she decided to take another shot at screwing up my plans by declaring today to be a freaking commissioning parade. To further increase the chance of irony, She also decided to make me one of the two wet weather standby crew – meaning, whether it rained or not, and whether the parade was cancelled consequently, was inconsequential to me, since I would have to work my ass off either way, bound to a fate I have no control over.
Thankfully – the powers that be granted me divine mercy today, by giving us not only perfect weather, allowing the parade to commence as soon as possible without interruption, but also going further than that, by allowing me to get a cab amidst a throng of waiting people (albeit a harsh fare of $20). Even better, it turns out that my driver was a lunatic, driving at an average speed of 100km/h even on a relatively congested highway, sometimes topping out at 120. It was as though he was aware of my dire consequences, subconsciously. Weibin and I hypothesized that it could have been one of those Neil Gaiman moments where He decided to send one of his angels in disguise to assist me in accomplishing the seemingly hopeless. Anyway – no thanks to Weibin’s incessant reminders of the curtain call – I made it to the Esplanade with two minutes to spare. Two freaking minutes – how much closer can I cut it, I wonder? At least, despite today’s fiasco, I can still maintain what I so proudly declare all the time: I have never been late for any concert or performance, and if I’m late means I’m either not coming at all, or I’m dead. That was close though. Mental note: changing in a public area is not fun. And I don’t mean a bathroom.
Stomp! Stomp stomp stomp. Where do I begin? It was certainly as entertaining as I had hoped. I’ve been a Stomp fan for a long time – since I started percussion – and what started out as a casual interest in percussion has led to a full blown obsession with this touring show. I’ve watched it many, many times, video clips, dvds, whatnot. I’ve caught just about every separate item that I could humanly get my hands on. I know just about everything there is to know about Stomp – the cast, the creators, the origins, the shows, the awards, and the different items. So what were they going to surprise me with this time round? Granted, having watched Quidam last week made me feel a bit uneasy in the artifice of the place – a mass of derelict, rusting corrugated steel boards, with unstable looking junk welded on to widely spaced wire mesh flanking the balcony of a pile of rubble, on the stage of a grand, dedicated theatre stage?
Once they started, of course, all unease gave way to awe, amusement, laughter, and sheer respect for the group of performers who were professional in every respect – trained entertainers, sporting performers, and masters of theatre. They made the audience laugh, they made the audience stand and clap, stomp on the ground, slap themselves, and most importantly, instilled a sense of wonder towards common household objects. I recognized only two members of the cast – and only about half of the items that they performed. Brooms, of course, was their opening act, the most famous of all, and having written the entire brooms out by hand before, I can safely say that they took some liberty in modifying the original. Other familiar favourites were the basketballs, the kitchen sinks, the pails, the suspended signboard act, and of course, the famously spectacular closing act with the signature ‘S’ trash can-lids cymbals. There were some new and genuinely amusing acts – such as a metallic chairs one, a rubber tubing one, a crate hopping one, a bag of assorted carrying bags, and a wonderfully creative full-body slapping one. However, the act which had the most stage presence and ‘wow’-factor was the lighters one – completely in the dark, the performers flicked their Zippos open and close in perfect unison, despite the lack of communication in the total darkness, flaring the stage for a few, perfectly coordinated moments, and illuminating selected areas once in awhile, creating a complex flurry of patterns about the stage. It was truly magnificent to behold – something like a portrait of fireworks exploding, with a landscape of pitch blackness in the background lending a hand in helping to create the perfect contrast between light and darkness. Wonderful.
I also learnt that toilet humour is timeless.
It was energetic, it was lively, it was entertaining, and the way the performers yelled at each other, laughed, hollered and whooped, even the most composed of the audience were unable to control themselves in joining in with some rhythmic clapping, or even foot-stomping action. It was one of those moments that reminded me as to why I enjoyed being a percussionist – and why I’m so absolutely confident that not all instruments were created equal. I maintain that percussion is the only instrument that allows for such a degree of creativity and energy, as not only a musical art, but a performance art.
Change of Guards at the Istana is on tomorrow (Sunday), and we’re marching down from Heeren to Plaza Singapura again. This time, we’re playing marches written by our own bandsmen and our captain himself, interspersed with our usual percussion solo – but this time, we’ve gone full balls to the wall in it’s composition. This is just about the most difficult solo we’ve come up with, and we’ve written it keeping in mind the best players for their specific instruments of speciality. We’re not holding anything back this time – the reason is because more than a few of the percussion section are leaving within the next month, so it’s like a last hurrah for them. It will be quite a show, I promise. It starts at 5:30pm, next to the Heeren, for anyone interested.
Damn, I need to watch Corpse Bride sometime soon. And I need more theatre, soon. I need my fix. I only know one other cultural snob, though. Ideas, Weibin?
Paranoia out.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Under the Grand Chapiteau
Two posts in the span of one day. That is insane.
Anyway, I thought this deserved it’s own update. Just came home from watching Cirque Du Soleil’s Quidam. While I understand it’s not the absolute best of their productions, I had an unforgettable experience all the same. It was a treat for all the senses, bar none. It wasn’t a one-sided performance with only visual splendor and effects – it was provocative, deep, and emotionally moving. And there’s such a deep appreciation for theatrics, drama, and performance art that even a person like me could feel that sort of presence.
The tent, or the Grand Chapiteau, was a lot smaller inside than it looked from the outside. Frankly, I didn’t expect that – some part of me had a preconception of what to expect, and I was thinking of something like some grandstand with some rings in the middle, set in some coliseum style stadium. However, all I saw were rows upon rows of seats, packed tightly around the centre stage, the front row literally hugging the stage already. I mentioned to Weibin how peculiar I thought that was, and he told me that this sort of circus wasn’t the sort of circus I’d come expect from funfairs or really horrid B-grade shows. I mean, I knew that modern day circuses didn’t involve many animals and stuff, and hence could afford to be smaller and more compact – but this looked like some performance stage to me. He told me that this was more of an abstract, bourgeois thing, with a larger emphasis on theatrics, riggings, and imagery. How right he was.
Each performance was dazzling, from the Diabolos (with the girls who somehow reminded me of The Shining), the aerial hoops, the crimson silk contortion thingie, all the acrobatics and skipping, and many more – all linked by dynamic interlude performances, and music which was both reactive and emotional. The musicians were astounding. They responded perfectly to all the visual cues, be it improvised or not – and the understanding between the musicians and performers is something clearly forged only from years of experience and appreciation for each others works, poking fun at each other, and playfully messing each others’ cues up. The drummer (inevitably) was simple breathtaking, sitting soundly in his sound chamber, one of the few I’ve seen in actual performance, together with his mixing boards and equalizers, slamming out rolling fills and syncopations perfectly in time with the formers. His hi-hat was simply mind-numbing in it’s subtle perfection.
The clowns were fantastic. The best I’ve ever seen in person – the true silent comedians of the modern age, mature and quick-witted in their humour, and reactive to changing conditions. I’ve never laughed that hard before, and given my absolute lack of humour, that’s saying something. The two skits their acted out with the assistance of a sporting audience were reminiscent of an episode of Who’s Line is it Anyway, but I guess the fact that it’s all right in front of you on the stage makes it all the more appealing and exciting. In fact, a lot of performance art is like that – you just have to be there to feel it. It’s a sensory experience, and I have no doubt that Quidam falls squarely into that category.
Weibin called it ‘the Beautiful People Parade’, and I couldn’t agree more, I guess. And that’s not only on stage – the audience were of a different type from, say, a movie audience or some band concert audience. This audience was constituted of mostly Caucasians, couples, and rather pasty skinned folk, who clearly spend too much time in their plush offices instead of out in the sun. And ANYONE on that stage, including the little girls, could have beaten all of us up at the same time, taken our lunch money, and done bench presses using us. Scary, beautiful, talented, silent people.
We spent some time discussing the whole story behind Quidam was well – mapping out our own framework of reflection about the various scenes, and how they tied together, how they critiqued modern day society, and specifically, the dysfunctional family which is becoming so increasingly predominant. Our literary deductions blew my mind, as usual – it’s amazing what happens when you get a group of people who just love to look too deeply into things together to discuss about such things. Fascinating.
The ticket cost a bomb – third row seats – but after walking out of there, there’s an unspoken, universal consensus that every cent was worth it, and all was right in the world. I would watch it again if I had limitless funds. Sadly, that day has not come yet. This sort of theatrical performance is an experience unlike any other, and it is things like that that foster my deeper appreciation of the cultural scene. Things which plebeians who just brush aside lightly, saying, ‘what? Hundred and thirty bucks? I could buy so many shirts and blahblahblah with that! No!’ The modern day person who only cares about material gains and deprives his soul of any appreciation for the living. I can only be thankful that I have friends who feel the same way – friends who can actually drag me out and tell me, ‘have you heard about this performance coming? You’ve got to watch it…’. For that, I am truly glad. It is one of the things I will miss, once I migrate from this place.
STOMP is next Saturday. I have been looking forwards to it for a long time. I think I might just be one of the biggest STOMP fans in the world – who else has actually sat down and transcribed an entire STOMP performance, by hand, into separate percussion parts? Heh. STOMP played an integral part of converting me into becoming an active percussionist, back when I first heard about them in secondary one. After realizing the potential of musical creation from a percussionists’ point of view, I realized that there was so much depth and room for creativity, and that I just had to go out and find it myself. In many ways, that has been the motivating factor which has led me to where I am, today.
First row seats, smack dab in the middle as well. Beat that.
Paranoia out.
Anyway, I thought this deserved it’s own update. Just came home from watching Cirque Du Soleil’s Quidam. While I understand it’s not the absolute best of their productions, I had an unforgettable experience all the same. It was a treat for all the senses, bar none. It wasn’t a one-sided performance with only visual splendor and effects – it was provocative, deep, and emotionally moving. And there’s such a deep appreciation for theatrics, drama, and performance art that even a person like me could feel that sort of presence.
The tent, or the Grand Chapiteau, was a lot smaller inside than it looked from the outside. Frankly, I didn’t expect that – some part of me had a preconception of what to expect, and I was thinking of something like some grandstand with some rings in the middle, set in some coliseum style stadium. However, all I saw were rows upon rows of seats, packed tightly around the centre stage, the front row literally hugging the stage already. I mentioned to Weibin how peculiar I thought that was, and he told me that this sort of circus wasn’t the sort of circus I’d come expect from funfairs or really horrid B-grade shows. I mean, I knew that modern day circuses didn’t involve many animals and stuff, and hence could afford to be smaller and more compact – but this looked like some performance stage to me. He told me that this was more of an abstract, bourgeois thing, with a larger emphasis on theatrics, riggings, and imagery. How right he was.
Each performance was dazzling, from the Diabolos (with the girls who somehow reminded me of The Shining), the aerial hoops, the crimson silk contortion thingie, all the acrobatics and skipping, and many more – all linked by dynamic interlude performances, and music which was both reactive and emotional. The musicians were astounding. They responded perfectly to all the visual cues, be it improvised or not – and the understanding between the musicians and performers is something clearly forged only from years of experience and appreciation for each others works, poking fun at each other, and playfully messing each others’ cues up. The drummer (inevitably) was simple breathtaking, sitting soundly in his sound chamber, one of the few I’ve seen in actual performance, together with his mixing boards and equalizers, slamming out rolling fills and syncopations perfectly in time with the formers. His hi-hat was simply mind-numbing in it’s subtle perfection.
The clowns were fantastic. The best I’ve ever seen in person – the true silent comedians of the modern age, mature and quick-witted in their humour, and reactive to changing conditions. I’ve never laughed that hard before, and given my absolute lack of humour, that’s saying something. The two skits their acted out with the assistance of a sporting audience were reminiscent of an episode of Who’s Line is it Anyway, but I guess the fact that it’s all right in front of you on the stage makes it all the more appealing and exciting. In fact, a lot of performance art is like that – you just have to be there to feel it. It’s a sensory experience, and I have no doubt that Quidam falls squarely into that category.
Weibin called it ‘the Beautiful People Parade’, and I couldn’t agree more, I guess. And that’s not only on stage – the audience were of a different type from, say, a movie audience or some band concert audience. This audience was constituted of mostly Caucasians, couples, and rather pasty skinned folk, who clearly spend too much time in their plush offices instead of out in the sun. And ANYONE on that stage, including the little girls, could have beaten all of us up at the same time, taken our lunch money, and done bench presses using us. Scary, beautiful, talented, silent people.
We spent some time discussing the whole story behind Quidam was well – mapping out our own framework of reflection about the various scenes, and how they tied together, how they critiqued modern day society, and specifically, the dysfunctional family which is becoming so increasingly predominant. Our literary deductions blew my mind, as usual – it’s amazing what happens when you get a group of people who just love to look too deeply into things together to discuss about such things. Fascinating.
The ticket cost a bomb – third row seats – but after walking out of there, there’s an unspoken, universal consensus that every cent was worth it, and all was right in the world. I would watch it again if I had limitless funds. Sadly, that day has not come yet. This sort of theatrical performance is an experience unlike any other, and it is things like that that foster my deeper appreciation of the cultural scene. Things which plebeians who just brush aside lightly, saying, ‘what? Hundred and thirty bucks? I could buy so many shirts and blahblahblah with that! No!’ The modern day person who only cares about material gains and deprives his soul of any appreciation for the living. I can only be thankful that I have friends who feel the same way – friends who can actually drag me out and tell me, ‘have you heard about this performance coming? You’ve got to watch it…’. For that, I am truly glad. It is one of the things I will miss, once I migrate from this place.
STOMP is next Saturday. I have been looking forwards to it for a long time. I think I might just be one of the biggest STOMP fans in the world – who else has actually sat down and transcribed an entire STOMP performance, by hand, into separate percussion parts? Heh. STOMP played an integral part of converting me into becoming an active percussionist, back when I first heard about them in secondary one. After realizing the potential of musical creation from a percussionists’ point of view, I realized that there was so much depth and room for creativity, and that I just had to go out and find it myself. In many ways, that has been the motivating factor which has led me to where I am, today.
First row seats, smack dab in the middle as well. Beat that.
Paranoia out.
