I remember the first time I realised I was going to die. I was only a child, and wept at the injustice of it, the incomprehensible nothingness that was, and is, at all times approaching me. But my tears and yours are meaningless, and they fade even as they fall, millions and millions, like a blizzard over the ocean.

Here are some songs that sometimes help me forget about that.

1. No Hands – Wacka Flocka Flame ft. Wale & Roscoe Dash

TUNE ALERT. What’s got no thumbs and is a massive tune? This song, that’s what. A towering sixty-story colossus of a tune, that’s what it bloody well is. And when I listen to it, I never stop to think about the four and a half minutes of slender, oh so precious life, that will never return to me. 

2. Live Forever – Oasis

‘Maybe I don’t wanna die / wanna live and don’t wanna die / maybe death terrifies me / (You and I will probably die in great paaaaiiiiiinnnn)’ [Guitar Solo].

3. Bros – Panda Bear

This jubilant anthem of kinship over time treads a wonderful line between on the one hand, the near-ambient, underwater charm of Noah Lennox’ other group, Animal Collective, and on the other, the unknowable truth hidden in the first germ of all life, which is its own demise.

4. Skeng – The Bug ft. Killa P & Flowdan

This is truly intimidating music. The ominous, slow count that gives the track its momentum perfectly counterpointed by the repeated warning ‘you don’t want to see me get evil then’. Strangely enough, fear actually makes us cling to life harder. It’s a simple tactic – present yourself with an immediate threat, and your focus will be on survival, and not on the futility of your actions. #mortalityprotips

5. Family Tree – TV On The Radio

Think of your descendants, your ancestors. Have you considered that you are part of something bigger, and that the magnitude of this sequence of life does not diminish, but constellates you? No, you have not. The void smiles wider and wider, a deafening absence that calls you on.

Also, how much like the beginning of ‘Bound 2’ does that intro sound? Like, crazy similar, right?

Peace.

The gloomy and ever so slightly sinister Gustav looks up from his paper. He tosses it aside and makes his move on the unsuspecting Adolph. Gustav is not really a very nice character; in his first scene he has this to say “you see, a girl cannot have freedom except by providing herself with a chaperon—or what we call a husband.” With such misogyny, you can understand my shock dear reader when I looked down to see Gustav’s paper… The Daily Mail, The Sun, the Oxstu you say. No dear reader; lying on the well-trod boards of the BT, Oxford’s Independent Student Newspaper, lay discarded. Surely man like Gustav couldn’t have read Cherwell…

Gustav’s journalistic tastes are probably the only redeeming feature in his character, a character whose villainy is otherwise attested from the minute he casts aside this beacon of journalistic excellence. Indeed, in this scene he is about to convince the poor Adolph of his wife’s infidelity and consequently impose upon him a Nietzsche inspired male suprematism (one begins to wonder which section he was reading…) 

Gustav and the worst of late nineteenth century sexism that his character seems to embody, resembles precisely the sort of figure that his author, Strindberg, has often been accused of having been. Indeed it is said that at one point he called women “instinctively evil animals”. That Strindberg should thus paint a figure like Gustav so unsympathetically complicates how we should approach the play. This ambiguity director Christopher White tells me, is a central concern for his production. 

This perhaps explains his and his cast’s preparation for the play. As self professed Stanislavkians they have spent copious amounts of time researching their characters and immersing themselves in the historical period of the play. They have even decided on what sort of paintings Adolph (who is an artist) would paint. This historicism is perhaps an attempt to get to the bottom of what was really going on when Strindberg wrote this, both personally and historically.

Whatever the truth was, the search for it has certainly translated into a great set of performances. In particular Isobel Jesper Jones is utterly convincing as the elusive Tecla, Adolph’s wife and the subject of a big revelation at the end of the play. Having been excellent in King Lear as Regan, Jones brings something of the enlarged presence needed for the O’reilly to great effect in the intimacy of the BT. Her playful, and at times jarringly perverse characterization (calling Adolph “little brother” with his head in hear hands), is central to unraveling how Strindberg really saw women and consequently represented them. Jones herself explains the challenge and the advantage of playing a character who is unceasingly talked about, but always by men.

Gustav played by Tom Lambert, has a very fun part to play, but one which he is avoiding turning into an easy pantomime esque villain by being generically sinister. I don’t how he will manage after the enormity of his opening stunt, but I shall be curious to see how he pulls its of. Finally Jake Boswell inhabits Adolph perfectly, there is a quiet and pathetic resignation about the look he gives Tecla and the submission of his voice as he talks to Gustav. It’s a very quietly brilliant performance and I’m sure it will suit the BT perfectly. I think perhaps ‘quietly brilliant’ will be true for the show as a whole.

Creditors will be running from Tuesday 5th to Saturday 9th of May

In Oriel College, Harry Househam and Alex Yarrow, the organisers behind College Comedy Nights, are faced with doubt as to whether they will be able to bring a stage into the bar. They’re used to adapting to different performance spaces and circumstances, as would be expected from an organisation that relies on their ability to find somewhere to perform in any college, but this seems to be a unique difficulty never faced before. Oxford colleges are weird places with weird rules, and bringing performances into their bars or JCRs or… anywhere really, is in part a challenge of fitting the hilarity on offer around some occasionally frankly bizarre dictates.

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Househam and Yarrow established College Comedy Nights in a bid to bring together comedy performers and potential audiences. They explain to me that in their time performing on the comedy circuit in Oxford – which is how the pair met – they’ve noticed that although there’s a lot of comedy being performed, a lot of the time potential audience members just don’t realise that it’s happening. For this reason they’ve set up a “Comedy in Oxford” Facebook group to detail the various events going on around the city, but College Comedy Nights takes an even bigger step towards uniting performers with willing attendees by bringing the comedy into the places at the heart of Oxford students’ lives.

But the venture isn’t just about supply meeting demand – the comedy nights are run not for profit, but to raise money for mental health charity Mind. When asked how Mind came to be selected as the charity of choice, Househam observes that ‘Mental health seems to be an issue that comedians and students alike care very deeply about.’ Certainly most students in Oxford seem either to have had mental health struggles themselves, or have been touched by those of people around them. As a comedy fan as well as someone struggling with mental illness, I personally have to say it seems an ideal combo, and doubtless one that will appeal to many other students as well.

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Obviously raising money for charity is always a wonderful thing to do, but, for a group claiming to bring the best in comedy to Oxford students, a more cynical question looms – are they any good? I go along to the Oriel Comedy Night (fear not, they got the stage in after all!) to find out.

One of the greatest strengths of the comedy night is the variety in the performances and styles – it’d be fair to say there was something for almost anyone at the night I attended, and for those with varied comedic tastes it’s an absolute delight. There’s character comedy, observational comedy,  and cool feminist comedy courtesy of cool feminist Anna Dominey. The comedians are extraordinarily talented – you can tell by how skilfully they deal with the presence of drunk hacklers on the front row (seriously, get your shit together Oriel) of which there are several. There’s also a decent amount of comedy with zero regard for the fourth wall; I’m unused to being singled out as a reviewer in front of an audience, but to be honest at this point I’ll take it as a long overdue puncturing of my easily inflated ego.

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The performers vary from comedy night to comedy night, so there’s little fear of getting the same show twice if you fancied gate-crashing a show at a friend’s college. After seeing how capably the organisers dealt with some of the challenges of staging a performance in a college unaccustomed to hosting such events, I am convinced that they could adapt to putting on a show almost anywhere. The only question that remains is when I can get them to come to my college; I’m sure we’ll be more than happy to have a stage in the bar.

“You will be grieved and shocked to hear that Emma died this morning shortly after nine o’clock. Her illness has been quite a slight one, and she was downstairs at tea on Monday evening. I was with her, fortunately, when she breathed her last. I am too distressed to write more.”

As 1912’s days grew ever colder, the days ever darker, Thomas Hardy lost yet another hour of light which would not return as the seasons made for warmer climbs. Although the author was the first to admit “it would be affectation to dent… the differences between us,” the sudden loss of his estranged wife in November 1912 had a profound affect upon both Hardy’s personage and in turn his work. “One forgets all the recent years and differences, and the mind goes back to the early times when each was much to the other — in her case and mine intensely much.” And thus began the drafting of some of the most beautiful verse to emerge from that eminent pen. And all due to the silence of a voice he had once ignored.

In the midst of the stream of letters sent out upon mourning stationary, Hardy set to work. His 18 poem sequence Poems of 1912-13, a progression of guilt-ridden elegies, finally entered print in the volume Satires of Circumstance (1914). Partway through these calls to loves of the past, there lies a milestone of modern elegiac poetry: ‘The Voice’.

Whereas his earlier ‘Neutral Tones’ (1867) abhors the dead lips of a living lover, one feels Hardy would give anything to give the phantom voice tormenting him an earthly body. But, like Aeneas’s attempts to embrace the vision of Creusa thrice, no matter where Hardy places the “thin ghost” of the voice echoing down the years, it remains but an echo that potentially will sound out and be heard no more.

The domesticity and intimacy of the collection evokes loss on the most personal of levels. But what differs with ‘The Voice’ is its unrelenting sound that beats from past idealised memories to the bald bleakness of Hardy’s present. Despite the oozing disintegration of the personas’ surroundings and motor faculties, the voice continues to bounce off what little remains. At points, the persona resolves that its existence on the temporal plains cannot be – “Can it be you that I hear?”

But in becoming a Poe-like disinterested gust of wind, as used in his ‘The Raven’, the voice of the dead succeeds in bounding around endlessly in mental space. As the stanzas decrease in size, Hardy proves that even the smallest space can provide a suitable memorial and epitaph. Hardy achieves in miniature what Tennyson does in over a hundred poems of ‘In Memoriam’. He forms an elegy that beautifully echoes like ringing crystal. It is both simultaneously connected to one moment whilst transcending all temporal boundaries. Although the reader cannot hear Emma’s voice, her “voice” serves as an elegiac milestone to her memory and the determination of her husband to allow her, and his guilt, to speak on.

In 1959, the year of her death, Eleanora Fagan, better known as Billie Holiday and later “Lady Day”, performed in New York for the final time. Years of alcoholism and drug use had whittled her powerful voice down to a fragile rasp. Even her spoken voice sounded close to breaking point as she introduced ‘Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone’. Holiday was dead a few short months later. However, her distinctive voice and the much mythologised tragedy of her life continue to haunt the music world. What is it about Billie Holiday that has extended her popularity far beyond the realm of jazz and blues fans, and kept her a household name a full century after her birth?

The facts of Holiday’s early life, roughly outlined in her autobiography Lady Sings the Blues, have been thrown into doubt by a new biography published this year, John Szwed’s Billie Holiday: The Musician and the Myth. Holiday’s ghost-written memoir famously begins, “Mom and Pop were just a couple of kids when they got married. He was eighteen, she was sixteen and I was three.” Szwed’s meticulously researched and fascinating account begins with some abrupt fact-checking, “When Billie was born her mother was nineteen, her father seventeen. They never married and had never lived together in a little house with a picket fence on Durham Street in Baltimore.” In fact, questions of veracity haunted Lady Sings the Blues from its publication in 1956. When asked by journalists to verify some of the book’s claims, Holiday retorted that she had never read it.

Certainly, Holiday was a keen creator of her own mythology. She was only too aware that part of her appeal lay in the audience’s belief that the raw emotion of her voice betrayed harsh personal experience. Factual discrepancies aside, it remains true that Billie Holiday’s brief life was a difficult one, marked by the triple obstacles of poverty, racism and sexism. Her childhood and early teens were darkened with the trauma of neglect, attempted rape, prostitution and periods of incarceration. Yet to reduce Holiday’s talent to the sadness of her life is to do her an injustice. As Miles Davis – an avowed fan of Holiday along with virtually all jazz musicians of his generation – once observed, “I didn’t wake up this morning sad and start playing the blues, there’s more to it than that.” Holiday was and remains more than a tragic victim; her mastery of the blues was the result of experience and raw talent.

Holiday began performing in small clubs and bars in downtown New York in her late teens. Lacking any kind of musical training, she worked off an intuitive grasp of cadence and narrative. What she lacked in range, she made up for in tone; few other voices could imbue the notes of ‘No More’ with such a bittersweet concoction of relief and regret, or convey the mingled weariness and tentative hope of ‘Pennies from Heaven’. The originality of her phrasing and her tendency to linger slightly behind the beat often revealed an edge of sadness to apparently simple melodies. A song like ‘All of Me’ has a cheerful melodic swing when sung by Ella Fitzgerald or Sarah Vaughan; only Billie Holiday’s slower, tougher rendition can draw out the profound sense of loss in its lyrics. Along with Frank Sinatra, the popularisation of the microphone allowed Holiday to cultivate an understated, intimate quality to her live performances; unlike her hero, Bessie Smith, she did not have to belt just to be heard. Her sinewy strength and melodic vulnerability became a beacon for depressionera audiences, and later the burgeoning civil rights movement.

Among the songs for which Holiday is best known is the protest song, ‘Strange Fruit’, a powerful account of racist violence inspired by the lynching of Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith. Abel Meeropol, a Jewish schoolteacher living in New York came across Laurence Beitler’s iconic photograph of the lynching and was moved to compose a poem which he named, ‘Bitter Fruit’. Holiday was introduced to the song in 1939 and began incorporating it into her set at the Café Society in Greenwich Village, at that time one of the few racially integrated venues in New York. Even among a comparatively friendly crowd, presenting such a raw and honest account of racist brutality was a courageous act. After her first performance of ‘Strange Fruit’, Holiday recalled in her autobiography, “There wasn’t even a patter of applause when I finished. Then a lone person began to clap nervously. Then suddenly everybody was clapping.” For the musicians, activists and would-be activists who encountered Holiday’s sparse and potent rendition, ‘Strange Fruit’ was more than a song; it was a battle cry. Jazz critic Leonard Feather called it “the first unmated cry against racism”, while Angela Davis, in Blues Legacies and Black Feminism, observed that ‘Strange Fruit’ put the elements of protest and resistance back at the centre of contemporary black musical culture.”

56 years after Holiday’s death, fans and critics are still grappling with her legacy. Szwed’s book, less a biography of Holiday than, as he puts it, “a meditation on her art”, moves the centre of discussion away from the details of her life and places a welcome emphasis on her craft as a musician and her legacy. He makes the case for Holiday to be considered “as a literary figure, along with Zora Neale Hurston”, a rare public voice of the private lives of AfricanAmerican women in pre-Civil Rights Era America. Echoes of Holiday’s unique sound can be heard in everyone from Nina Simone and Sarah Vaughan, to Erykah Badu, Norah Jones and Amy Winehouse. But Szwed wisely locates her legacy not within the limits of the music world. Her influence stretches into the work of writers such as James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, Ntozake Shange and Audre Lorde. Listening to her music today, Billie Holiday’s idiosyncratic and inimitable voice bears the mark of a true storyteller, one whose bittersweet narratives continue to connect her to new generations of music fans.