The Flaming Lips

Ah yes, the show at Central Park SummerStage on Monday. Musically I quite like the Flaming Lips: did you hear their remake of Dark Side of the Moon? Love it.

My problem was with the needy, out-sized ego of the singer: between every song he'd do a pumping motion with his arms if he felt the applause wasn't sustained enough. He also had some childish political "thoughts" which he felt compelled to share: you know what, if every audience member did a peace sign all together it really, really won't change anything. Hippy-ist thought for the consumer generation. Likewise some of the lyrics feel self-consciously quirky and twee, and probably deliberately not taken to the extremes that might make them really interesting: check out Gong / Here & Now if you feel the need for unadulterated hippy quirkiness.

I'm always looking for that wall of sound at a concert that you can slam into. Flaming Lips delivered the wall, but sometimes also they provided a sparer sound with lots of spaces where interesting things could happen between the notes. Maybe they should record more sessions on the radio so the listener can cut through the visual excess to the musical core.

The (deliberately?) retro staging allowed me to have fun with my camera, but the blow-up ball and the roadies and groupies all dressed in orange just felt cultish. Everyone on stage (and many in the audience) were just ecstatic: you know what, it was a good show, but it wasn't really great sex. And that's despite the band members coming on stage through an on-screen projected vagina and the two phallo-horns ejaculating orange confetti and white smoke over the audience.

The whole event just felt over-indulgent, and made me long for a band like the Antlers who just get on the stage and play. A colleague recently criticized my over-detailed emails by observing "you've got cum on your hands". Yes, the Flaming Lips too had cum on their hands.

Happy Birthday Dad!

There are many noble and illuminating skill-sets that my Father continues to develop over his long, long, yes long life. There is of course his brilliance in the field of civil engineering, manifested in his ability to sketch a curve and then supply the mathematical formula that describes that curve. Then there are his people management skills, which he parlayed into the creation of the largest civil engineering consultancy in the world. Or perhaps his ability to transform Terminator-style into a walking compendium of botanical Latin names, complemented by his deftness with trowel and dibber. His design of hi-fidelity audio systems involving valves and ferro-concrete are rightly legendary. We should not forget his Fastnet boat racing skills with his professional crew: my mother. On a smaller note, I particularly remember the decorative back-lit panels that he created one Christmas in Pakistan, with wize men on camels overlooking the little town of Bethlehem.

These are amongst the many skill-sets for which Dad is widely admired. Impressive though these undoubtedly are, they pale into insignificance when set against his one vast, overarching accomplishment. I speak, of course, of his ability to fall asleep at a moment’s notice. Perhaps gaining inspiration from a toggle-switch mounted on his self-built amplifier in Pakistan, he flips the switch and is out for the count.

This skill has earned him fame, nay notoriety, at dinner parties. His timing is always perfect. He avoids falling asleep during the process of eating, as pitching head-first into the soufflé would be a trifle indelicate. He instead awaits until coffee is served, perhaps in the living room. He stakes his claim on the comfiest chair, or better yet an overstuffed sofa seated next to one of the insufferable bores he calls his friends (you know who you are!). He waits until the aforesaid insufferable one strikes up a conversation with him, perhaps on a riveting topic such as the beauty of sewage system design in Uzbekistan. Then, with the precision and –yes- grace of a leopard grabbing its prey, he flips the switch and falls asleep.

At first this practice caused some consternation amongst his circle of friends, acquaintances and entourage. They mistakenly applied inappropriate adjectives in their inadequate quest for the right terms to describe what they had just witnessed. Words such as “rude”, “unforgivable” and even “bugger” were deployed, often with a slight shortness in breath which denoted indignation. But Dad knew, as with much else in his life, that he was just ahead of the curve, and that unlike mere mortals he knew the equation for that curve. Playing the long game, he pressed ahead with developing his skills: wine and cheese parties, pot-luck suppers and haute-cuisine sit-downs were all grist to his mill. Over time, indignation gave way to acceptance, acceptance to a grudging admiration, until his coterie began to view a sleeping Roy as a seal of approval for the food just served. A worried host or hostess would whisper to his or her significant other, with a slight shortness of breath now denoting panic: “Roy’s not sleeping yet! Could it be the vol-au-vents?”

Like all skills, such as playing the banjo, continual practice is required to achieve perfection. Dad’s family was privileged to repeatedly view his devotion to his overarching skill. Now skills often require tools to deploy in their pursuance of perfection: in Dad’s case, his tools were “Classic Bike” and “Motorcycle News”. “Classic Bike” was deployed if he had had a so-so day: falling asleep in a chair with “Classic Bike” open at the ads page for spare parts for a BSA Rocket Gold Star, it was easy to maintain the pretence that he was reading: the small page magazine format, the quality stock glossy paper, the stiffening reinforcing of staples at the spine, all made it relatively easy to ensure that the monthly periodical remained open and vertical while he pursued his craft.

If he has had a good day, he felt up to tackling “Motorcycle News”. The large format, the floppy newsprint pages, the absence of stapling all conspired to present formidable challenges, which my father met head-on. There is nothing as awe-inspiring as seeing my Dad asleep, with “Motorcycle News” open and erect in front of his face, with Barry Sheene shaking on the front page with each intake of breath. I know that my Mother felt her bosom swell with pride when she came in from the kitchen, hands red from the washing-up, only to see such artistry in full display. Her words may not have reflected her unbound admiration, but we knew it was there: deep inside. Very deep inside.

As the offspring of a giant, my father is an enormous inspiration to me. Living with him when I was growing up, it became apparent to me that his cornucopia of skills and talents was over-abundant. Most sons wish to emulate their fathers in some way, and after carefully evaluating the many fruits he had in his basket, I settled on the skill I most admired: his ability to fall asleep at the drop of the proverbial hat. Some said I should have adopted his engineering, business or even his gardening skills. But Dad and I both know these to be ephemera, passing shadows in the confusing thicket of life, and that in life you should focus on the important things.

At seventeen, I managed to fall asleep on the ridged metal floor of a 4 ton army truck, as it bumped and grinded its way across the Welsh Black Mountains. This was a defining moment of my adolescence, the transition from childhood to adulthood. I make it a duty to fall asleep at the opera, the theatre or movie house, and strive to ignore Robin’s sharp elbows. The mosh pit at a rock concert is a little more difficult: I find an unfrequented corner, sit down cross-legged and swiftly am rocked into the arms of Morpheus.

I have even adopted Dad’s famous phrase as my own: “I must have dropped off, for five minutes”. For him and for me, it is never, ever five minutes.

Happy Birthday Dad!