The blonde-haired and blue-eyed Lissie Maurus started stealing hearts last year after the release of her EP Why You Runnin’. Since then, a number of successful online covers and on-stage duets with Ellie Goulding have caused the American’s fan base to grow considerably. But whereas Ellie is a soft, sparkling sequin of a singer, Lissie is a true Midwestern country girl, with mud on her jeans and grass in her hair. Illinois-born, she’s two parts Stevie Nicks to one part Sheryl Crowe, with a dash of Johnny Cash, and topped off with a smattering of freckles and a whole lot of tequila.

But there’s more to her than just cornfields and pickup trucks. She also cites Snoop Dogg and musicals such as Blood Brothers and Miss Saigon as influences. It’s perhaps no surprise then that that she seems a little unsure about how to define her music, describing it as ‘indie-folk-rock-soulful-heartfelt kind of music’. That’s probably the best way to categorize her debut album, Catching A Tiger.

From the first clattering notes of “Record Collector” to the final throbbing remnants of the beautiful “Oh Mississippi”, Lissie’s raw, passionate enthusiasm pours out and fills your ears and hearts. She leaps eagerly into the album, saturating the first three songs with emotion and scattering crashing crescendos. We’re granted a brief respite with the gentle “Bully”, before Lissie pulls us back onto the dance floor with the foot-stomping, thigh-slapping, “Little Lovin'”.

The album starts to lose some of its initial momentum after the halfway mark; “Loosen The Knot” ties itself up in a mess of bland and rather generic-sounding guitar, while “Cuckoo” struggles to get off the ground. But thankfully it’s rescued by Lissie’s soaring vocals, which shine through the dreamy “Everywhere I Go”, reflect off the waters of “Oh Mississippi”, and accompany her as she rides off into the sunset.

What would feminist theorists say to the neurological research which shows that it takes the male brain only 0.2 sec to classify a woman as ‘hot’? No doubt a recapitulation of the never-ending Nature versus Nurture debate. But the 2008 study entitled ‘The Chronoarchitecture of Human Sexual Desire: A High-Density Electrical Mapping Study’ reveals that the ‘hot-or-not’ decision is made before the brain is anywhere close to consciously processing sexual desirability.

Scientific studies like this, and the questions they prompt about gender, neuroscience and society,are the driving force behind Louann Brizendine’s most recent book ‘The Male Brain’, the timely sequel to her 2006 international bestseller ‘The Female Brain’. Both books map the neurological, chemical and developmental changes that accompany the phases of life in men and women, and gives the scientific evidence behind such well-known phenomena as the ‘biological clock’ in women, and the lesser-known and ‘sympathetic pregnancy’ or Couvade syndrome in men.

Brizendine is undeniably qualified to produce popular reading on the scientific basis behind sex and gender; her resume includes a degree in neurobiology from UC Berkeley, a doctorate in medicine from Yale University and a residency in psychiatry at Harvard. Her book deftly and accessibly blends research in neurology, biochemistry and psychology to explain some of the most puzzling aspects of masculinity, ranging from the adolescent’s bizarre obsession with computer games to the ‘sugar-daddy’ phenomenon of older men marrying much younger women. According to Brizendine, there is a neurochemical basis to these and other male stereotypes and she has Nature papers cited to prove it.

While any self-respecting scientist will balk at some of Brizendine’s conclusions based on research that does not presume to attribute causation to its findings, her books fill a literary niche in applying science to gendered relationships in easily digestible prose. Brizendine leaves the question of how much of this gendered behavior is innate and how much is learned unanswered but ultimately suggests that with a deeper understanding of the male brain, ‘we can create more realistic expectations for boys and men’.

While few quick reads are as informative for one’s daily life as Brizendine’s books, it would be most interesting to see how contemporary feminist theorists negotiate the scientific research underpinning her claims. For example, gender theorist Judith Butler has been asserting the performative nature of gender since the 1980s, to the extent that her undergraduate lecture students at UC Berkeley, could not tell whether she was a man or a woman), suggesting that every day one must choose whether to be a man or a woman. How can the fact that the area of the brain which governs sexual pursuit is 2.5 times larger in men than in women, be reconciled with Butler’s championing of androgyny? Perhaps this disjuncture in scholarship is symptomatic of some larger impasse between the sciences and the humanities. However, Brizendine has placed the ball in the feminists’ court. It is now time for them to look into some neuroscience themselves before lobbing it back.

Imagine an X Factor contestant taking to the stage, introducing himself to the judges, opening his mouth – and screaming. This would not be unsurprising given the presence of Simon Cowell; yet it would be at odds with music’s general tendency towards pleasantness, or at least orderliness. However, the scream – deeply rooted as it is in primal experiences of mortal danger – is one of the most potent auditory communicators, and this is why it lends itself well to a variety of musical styles (and not just “screamo”). This emotional basis also explains why the sound of fingernails on a blackboard resonates so violently with the human psyche. Similarly, if you ever wake up in the middle of the night as people in the next room are watching Psycho on top volume, you’ll get the feeling that not all has gone according to plan for the lady in the shower…

The scream, an explosion of emotion which words and articulation just can’t match, is incited by all kinds of causes – consider for example the excited ululations and yelps typical of folk music at a barn dance. The shouts and whoops stem from humankind’s love for ritualistic expressions of sheer energy (not to mention the effects of alcohol). The founding fathers of rock ‘n’ roll progressed (regressed?) from excited yelps to ecstatic screams: Little Richard’s short bursts of vocal violence on “Keep A-Knockin” are used to introduce saxophone solos, cymbal-bashing, and carnage on the dancefloor. His trademark vocal drop-offs resemble Michael Jackson’s signature “Owww!” – both are instances of the scream expressing the unbridled joy of rhythmic music. Led Zeppelin took the scream a step further, using it to express eroticism. As he sings “Whole Lotta Love”, Robert Plant’s crude posturing leaves little to the imagination: he builds from moans and groans to a full-on sustained roar, in front of an audience of free-lovers.

In Western Classical music, the scream is noticeably less common; its function is instead assumed by abrupt increases in the singer’s pitch and dynamics (as demonstrated by Pavarotti’s belting top note in “Nessun Dorma”). Its unique rawness is more strongly associated with modern composers such as Schoenberg, whose collection of songs Pierrot Lunaire is definitely not music to wake up to. The singing pitch is only approximated, and interspersed with episodes of jarring “Sprechgesang”, or “speech-singing” (a self-explanatory term). This feature, combined with volatile variations in dynamics and pitch, and a disregard for pretty tunes and harmonies, gives the singer the freedom to express through scream-like sounds the nightmarish world of the songs’ protagonist, Pierrot the Clown.

Far from being the mainstay of the twentieth-century “screamo” band, the scream is a tool for the musical expression of emotion at its limits; unleashed before it can be shaped by melody, lyric or articulation. Fear, energy, eroticism, the unconscious, madness, rage, Simon Cowell – sometimes, all you can do is twist and shout.

Students of composition have cause to be anxious. Despite their great commitment to their work, they are threatened with complete extinction. Every young composer is aware of the dangers of dedicating his or her future to a profession that may not have a future of its own.

There is only one demon to blame for this phenomenon. The ongoing debate over the “decline” of Classical music rages furiously in circles of musical purists, to the extent that it distracts almost completely from any actual compositional activity. As it leaks into the national media, the debate forces us to focus on the sea of grey hair that accompanies every performance of a Brahms symphony or Mozart concerto, and to wonder why young people are unable to appreciate Classical music as they once were. Have they been brainwashed by consumerism? Or has the advent of popular culture taken its toll on more traditional arts? One needs only to glance at the website www.musoc.org to get an idea of how far this argument can be taken.

Of course, none of this is really true. Hordes of young composers are composing all the time; it’s just that a large proportion of self-proclaimed lovers of Classical music are uninterested. Why risk attending a premiere of an unknown work by an unknown composer when you could go just as easily go listen to the London Symphony Orchestra play Mahler and guarantee yourself a great time? Thus a cycle of historical validation is born, in which only those great works of the great composers are cared about; and audiences are left disillusioned over why there are no twenty-first century equivalents of Beethoven or Mozart, all the while unwilling to try to find them. The culture of Classical music has entered a self-fulfilling crisis.

The BBC Proms – the world’s largest classical music festival – is always a good place to witness this phenomenon. The festival never fails to showcase great new works by living composers, but these pieces are generally received with a sense of tolerance, not anticipation. They end up feeling like gaps between performances of the favourites, and suffer from a palpable dip in enthusiasm.

There was no better example this year than the premiere of Mark Anthony-Turnage’s Hammered Out. The piece, so blatantly an orchestrated version of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” that any youthful ears would instantly have spotted the link, was scheduled awkwardly between performances of Barber and Sibelius, and was thus ill-suited to the audience. As a result, Turnage’s conscious tip of the hat to youth culture went largely unnoticed by the audience and press alike. This was music written deliberately for young people, and yet the circumstances were unfortunate enough for it to go unappreciated.

We may well complain about young people’s disinterest in Classical music, but in order to engage young people we need to recognise it as an art form with its place in the present as well as the past. It is the responsibility of music lovers to give living composers the attention that they deserve, to provide a platform for the musical present separate from the museum of the concert hall, and to breathe some life into an art form that is so often mistaken to be dead.

Cherwell: Can you tell the readers a little bit about who you are and what you do?

My name is Mark Norfolk and I’m a filmmaker living in London. I also write drama for the stage, radio and screen. I initially studied drama and was an actor for a few years. However I was out of work, resting, as most actors are so I got a part time job at a local newspaper as a junior journalist. And thus began a writing career…writing about old ladies’ cats stuck in trees and errant tortoises. I did once get a scoop though. It was an exclusive photograph of Sarah Ferguson before she married Prince Andrew. That was also the time that I learnt ‘Lesson No. 1: Ambition can be a killer’. Especially in the cutthroat world of the media. Survival first.

So I was sent to see if I could get a photograph of ‘Fergie’. After waiting two hours I managed to grab the shot. I called the staff photographer and told him I got the shot and he came to get it. I handed him the undeveloped film (it was all film in those days) and he said he would develop it immediately as the editor was holding the front page. It was all very exciting, my first front page. However, when the newspaper came out that evening somehow I found my by-line shared between myself and the staff photographer, who at the time I was taking the photograph was at least ten miles away. Incidentally, he was soon off from this little local newspaper to the grand offices of the London Evening Standard.

Cherwell: Could you briefly explain the plot of your new film, ‘Ham and the Piper’, and perhaps explain how the project came about?

‘Ham & The Piper’ is a love story about an elderly man who discovers his wife is dying. In his moment of grief he finds himself battling with his own conscience about the frailties of long term marriage. Although he loves his wife dearly, as far as he’s concerned he has given up much of his life investing in the marriage and losing her now would mean he has nothing more to live for. His psychosis is such that he begins to question the role society has played in forcing him to abandon his youthful dreams and ambitions in order to get married. So he decides to take revenge against the society whom he blames for his weakness.

The project came about in very strange circumstances. I was writing a script for a futuristic political fantasy feature film which I’m very excited about. But then one day everything changed. For the last four years I have been a writer in residence in a prison. During my time there I found it to be full of interesting characters – and I’m not just talking about the prisoners. One day after I’d finished teaching a class of inmates I got talking to a student who told me he was now going back to the war. He certainly wasn’t a soldier (unless he was a street soldier) so I asked him what he meant and he went on to explain that when the cell door bangs shut behind you, it’s just you and your mind in a battle for the next twelve hours or so. This set me off thinking about the human mind and how well it sits within itself and how it copes under stress.

Cherwell: How did you get into film directing?

As a young actor I was always particularly interested in how shows and projects were put together. I saw that the director had a vision which he or she tried to achieve. I found that this was a brave and yet scary position to be in. If it works, everybody loves you. But if it doesn’t work, for whatever reason, the director cops the blame. No one talks about the lack of money or the limited choice in casting or the dodgy venue – it’s the director’s fault. That aside, I was fascinated by the creation of ‘the show’, not that I ever thought I would be directing films – I couldn’t even get work as an actor. Back in those days, black actors were only hired if the part called for a black person. So you’d get an audition and find yourself lined up alongside the cream of the black acting community. Can you imagine going up for a one liner in a TV soap and you find yourself next in line after Denzel Washington? Well, that was it then. I’m not sure how much things have changed, though I’m positive it has in many ways.

Anyway, one day my journalism skills saw me get offered an afternoon’s work at a Sports News Agency when a reporter missed his flight back from vacation. To cut a long story short, one afternoon for £30 turned into 6 years as a freelance sports reporter. I eventually left the company to go back to acting (once an actor always an actor), taking a massive wage reduction too, but the writing continued. I had been attending a few video production courses mostly for access to the equipment. And here’s where I learnt ‘Lesson No.2: Beware of the green-eyed monster’.

Not long after completing a course at Super 8 Film I went to work on a BBC documentary series as a production assistant. I had started off on travel expenses only but by the end of the shoot I was an Assistant Producer and was then headhunted to work as a Researcher on a ‘Dispatches’ documentary. The documentary led to me writing my first screenplay and being short listed and nominated for a couple of screenplay awards. It was at one of these awards events at BAFTA that I learnt my next lesson when a Scottish writer who used to write for Billy Connolly asked me ‘Are you serious about this business?’ Well, of course I am. ‘Do you want me to pat you on the back and tell you how good you are? Or do you want me to tell you the truth?’ I candidly asked for the truth and his reply was, ‘Your screenplay was easily the best one there (out of 12 others in the final) but it won’t win. It’ll never get made. That’s just the way it is.’ He then bought me a drink and told me ‘Your first big screenplay is a ‘show script’. It’ll get you through the door. Use it to get other commissions.’ With that he went off on his merry way. Of course, true to form, my screenplay didn’t win, didn’t even come in the money places (1st, 2nd or 3rd). I slunk into a corner to drown my sorrows in the pint the Scottish writer had bought me. ‘Lesson No. 3:Life isn’t fair. Neither is the movie business’. I stuffed my face on canapés and got thoroughly pissed on free wine. Within three months I was at film school in Cardiff studying Independent and avant-garde film.

Cherwell: What films and film directors have been the biggest influences on you? Do you have any current favourites?

I suppose one is influenced by a number of things, not just films and filmmakers but stories, art and politics. I began watching foreign films, when growing up Russian, Czech, French, Japanese, Indian. What I noticed for the most part, particularly amongst the European films was their adherence to the art of film rather than pure narrative. Then when I entered film school I discovered that one of my fellow students also lectured in Czech cinema and collected early Eastern European film. We talked long and hard about film and debated the whys and wherefores of narrative structure… the discontinuous non-narrative feature film.

The movies that always remained emblazoned across my brain locker were the epics, ‘Lawrence of Arabia’, ‘Doctor Zhivago’, ‘Once Upon a Time in The West’ and edgy suggestive films such as ‘Black Narcissus’ and ‘Peeping Tom’. My favourite director though is David Lean. He is often seen as over-elaborate but was a genuine director with a vision. He would attempt to film classic books and as far as I’m concerned he’s been the greatest ever British director. The man was an artist and was able to get as close to popular imagination as anyone with films such as ‘Great Expectations’, ‘Oliver Twist’, ‘Madeleine’, ‘Ryan’s Daughter’, ‘Bridge on the River Kwai’ – I could go on. I also like Guy Ritchie who gets a very bad press but is actually a much better director than he gets credit for.

Cherwell: Do you or would you ever direct someone else’s script?

Of course. As an arthouse filmmaker, producers tend to be afraid of you. They think you don’t or won’t understand mainstream sensibilities so they are reluctant to approach you with projects. A few years ago I was up for a couple of movie projects, one in particular I got really close. There were three producers, two British and one German. The Germans were putting up most of the finance. They’d all seen a short film I’d made and called me in. I had a few meetings but I noticed that the German producer wouldn’t speak to me at all, just stared and barely nodded his head. Here’s ‘Lesson No. 4: Trust your instincts’.

It turned out said German producer had a German director up his sleeve so I was off the picture. I went to see the movie when it came out. I have to say it was brilliantly done, a very good film – though I would’ve done it better (I would say that). No really, in terms of directing actors’ performance I will blow my own trumpet.

Cherwell: Do you think that independent films are in general more interesting than mainstream Hollywood fare?

One would expect an Indie filmmaker to say, ‘Hell, yeah.’ But in all truth that’s not the case. Most films are made independently and most of them are quite frankly awful – I think there were over four hundred films made in the UK last year, and we can thank our cotton socks that we never got to see them. The Hollywood fare, or what we consider to be Hollywood fare, is generally exceedingly well done. The studios make films that cinema-goers are going to pay to see; that means stars, explosions, car chases, CGI, gloss, extraordinary production value. The CGI effects in ‘Transformers’ were out of this world, the sound quality was second to none, the look of the film on the big screen just tells you you are at an event. Hollywood is a brilliant model of people power. Yes, I said people power because the studios adapt to what the people want to see and thus they will spend millions of dollars delivering it so they can make even more money.

Cherwell: Has the internet helped you to gain a larger audience than you might otherwise have?

If you asked me this six months ago I would have said no. However in the last few weeks I’ve had people contact me from different parts of the world asking me for news of my next project or wanting to screen something of mine – weird. In all honesty though, I believe the internet in practice is not all it’s cracked up to be in the entertainment stakes. It’s great for buying your weekly shopping or some badly made electronic goods or paying bills, but when it comes to media it’s all about the sound bite. There are people who watch films on the computer screen, but they aren’t seeing what the filmmaker intended. They’re seeing a squashed down apparition of the work. If you watch a download for instance (so you can tell your mates you saw that latest blockbuster) then go and watch it in the cinema you will find that you are watching an entirely different film. The experience is different, the little things in the corner of your 17″ laptop screen are actually props that the production designer searched all over the county of Waco to ideally place in order to enhance the visual aesthetic of the mise en scene. The internet can be reduced to ‘Change’, Obama’s election slogan. Two years later, nothing’s changed but the ‘internet believer’ generation bought it.

Cherwell: Is British independent filmmaking in good shape right now? Will the closure of the UK Film Council make things noticeably more difficult?

British independent filmmaking, for all its ills, has been doing okay. With the industry as it is currently, filmmakers such as myself can go out and try to seed projects and get them produced. It’s still hard but when you have an industry you can ride alongside it and feed off the crumbs. However this was all thrown into jeopardy when the so-called coalition unilaterally decided to kill the UK Film Council. It’s a bad decision. Okay, the entity might have needed trimming and decentralising but to announce abolishing it as a direct policy is tantamount to a coup d’etat. Don’t get me wrong, I have no love for the UKFC. They have never been a friend to me. I have been working in the film business for the best part of the whole time they have been in existence and being one of only a handful of black film directors, I’ve never had a meeting.

What I see happening in the future is a new body being set up. But in the meantime, while the politicians are pissing about, the Goose that lay the golden egg will die. It will take ten years for the golden egg to hatch before we get to the stage where we are now. The UKFC’s demise is a poor decision less based on financial matters than political ones. That said, I recognise that they have done a phenomenal job here in the UK and abroad; let’s not forget that their tentacles reach across the globe.

Cherwell: What have you got planned next?

Next up for me is a psychological thriller set in Norway. I am currently writing the script and meeting with Norwegian co-producers. At the same time I’m still developing my futuristic political fantasy thriller.