At last we have an excuse to take more interest in the lute without simply tracing the whimsy of a washed-up Rock star (see Sting’s attempt). Bosnian born Lutenist, Edin Karamazov, has set out to create an album with the sole intention of making his instrument sing.
The collection of four songs and four pieces combine to form an incredible record which displays not only the sheer virtuosity of Karamazov himself, but also the incredible diversity and mystical nature of the lute.
Lute recordings may usually – perhaps understandably – remain ignored by the general public, but this album comes highly recommended to all open-minded music-lovers.
Excellent adaptations of iconic Baroque pieces, including Purcell’s ‘Dido’s Lament’ and J.S Bach’s ‘Toccata and Fugue in D minor’, stand out as exceptional examples of the expressional capabilities of the gigantic theorbo, an orchestral and solo instrument too often regarded as largely redundant, or simply as belonging only in the mid to late eighteenth century.
This record is a testimony to the revival and re-introduction of the lute. Karamazov is unafraid to juxtapose early music with modern: you may find more than you bargained for in this CD.
‘So Maki Sum Se Rodila’, a Macedonian folk song featuring the haunting voice of Kaliopi, is a beautiful articulation of both performers’ Balkan heritage, and adds to the cultural diversity of chosen tracks.
Edin Karamazov is joined by several friends along the way, including highly esteemed figures such as the countertenor Andreas Scholl, soprano Renée Fleming and even the aforementioned international nuisance Sting.
It was only a relatively short time ago that Sting was assisted by the Bosnian to assemble his own album of John Dowland’s seventeenth century lute songs, bringing early music, and the lute, into the spotlight after its considerably long  wait in the shadow of ‘popular classical music’.
Karamazov light heartedly admits that he may be only the second most famous Lutenist after Sting, but in the wake of this record it seems clear that this relegation to second place is no just indication of his talent as a musician.

3/5

No democracy exists without the freedom to mock those at the top; satire is the cornerstone of a democratic state. That makes Ian Hislop, editor of  Private Eye and Have I Got News For You team-captain, a pretty important cog in the democratic machine. You might expect a cut-throat, stop-at-nothing vendor of grime and gossip, when you imagine the man behind the fall of Jeffrey Archer and Robert Maxwell.  A world away from the middle-aged, chuckling man sitting opposite me.

Don’t be fooled; Hislop’s dogged determination to sniff out the truth from the lies has landed him in court countless times, earning him the dubious title ‘the most sued man in British history’. Emerging from the extended court case with the wife of Peter Sutcliffe (The Yorkshire Ripper), who tried to claim up to £600,000 from the Eye, Hislop cheekily quipped ‘if that’s justice then I’m a banana’. His flippancy concealed relief; he appeared in court that day prepared to be sent to prison, toothbrush in briefcase.

Hislop sits behind a large wooden desk in Private Eye’s musty head-quarters. His slightly grizzly appearance merges with the office around him, as though over eighteen years as editor-in-chief, it has become an extension of himself. Private Eye cartoons hang haphazardly on the walls, winking cheekily down at the piles of papers and randomly-placed chairs which litter his editor’s den.
‘Satire should mock the strong’ he begins, speaking firmly and directly, unlike the politicians he pokes fun at. ‘There’s a strong tradition of it in Britain, which aids freedom and democracy’.  

Hislop agrees with one of his few heroes, Alexander Pope; satire is the ‘exposure of vice, folly and humbug’.  Some examples?; ‘fiddling expenses’, deceiving shareholders…’ Politics hasn’t changed much in 300 years then. Hislop speaks angrily about the way politicians treat the public like they are stupid; and equally, praises the British press’s ‘rumbustious attitude’ towards authority figures. ‘This government has an authoritarian streak, but the press are always there to expose them’. Exposing people is at the heart of Hislop’s job; ‘my duty is to ask ‘Is that true?’ and to investigate’.

Hislop talks about his former self with a wistful admiration; the quick, sparky Oxford graduate who controversially became editor at 26.  ‘It is good when you are younger because you are more confident. This is one of the advantages of youth. They asked me if I wanted to edit the magazine with hardly any experience and I said ‘no problem’. Now I am a lot more careful.’  He claims, at least;  there have been times when the magazine has had to appeal to its loyal readers to save it from being made bankrupt by under the weight of libel cases.

Has he lost his nerve then, over the years? ‘I am more keen to get things right now, to run the correct stories and target the right people. Some stories turn out not to be true and you think ‘I wish I hadn’t run that’.  
All of which has its consequences. ‘Its reasonable that people should dislike me. You have to develop a thick-skin. I am much more thick-skinned now than when I first took the job.’ The resulting feuds can be public; mocking Piers Morgan on Have I Got News certainly brought Hislop more than he bargained for.
I ask him whether he’s ever stumped, especially on television.  Appropriately enough, his answer comes without hesitation: ‘Never’.  Both Private Eye and Have I Got News, he explains, provide a means to release pent-up frustration. ‘I often listen to the radio seething with irritation; Have I Got News is a platform. I’ve always fancied a platform where I could mouth off. Its a way to vent steam’. Hislop, who never misses an episode of the quiz show, hosts a team opposite co-star Paul Merton. He is the ‘witty one’, coming in with cutting quips and clever puns. I ask him whether he has a TV persona. He replies carefully that it’s an exaggerated version of himself; ‘friends and family will tell you that I’m just that bit more boring normally!’ Surprisingly, Hislop does admit that he’s ‘always nervous beforehand’.

Hislop is an efficient mix of ruthlessness and steely determination when it comes to exposing lies.  If I were Brown I would be quaking in my boots, for Hislop- master satirist- is not a fan. ‘Labour government?!’ He scoffs. ‘This is not what people expect from a left wing government’. He is staunch in his opinion. ‘The people of Britain are badly served by the government. There is nothing to grab them, nothing to choose from. Little surprise they are becoming more apolitical.’ I know better than to ask his own political leanings; though he does let slip that ‘Vince Cable seems at times to be the only sensible person in parliament’. When I suggest that flow of speech in this country isn’t as free as it could be, he immediately puts things into perspective, showing a level-headedness which balances his taste for scandal. ‘Lets put it this way; there are no satirical magazines in Beijing.’ 
But is satire dying out?  ‘Political correctness’, Hislop spits, ‘is a term used by the Right to get people to shut up, and by authoritarian governments to insure that nobody writes anything bad about them’. Ironically, another pet-hate of Hislop’s puts him on the same side as arch-nemesis Piers Morgan. ‘The tightening of privacy laws are a threat to freedom of speech. Its difficult to see yourself on the same side as the Daily Mail, but these laws make it easy for the rich and powerful to get away with things. They will be able to control what we know about them’.

As he starts to talk politics, Hislops frustrations emerge. ‘Since 9/11 there’s been a steady erosion of civil liberties under the pretense that its necessary…Terrorism isn’t a new phenomenon. I remember when the IRA bombed Oxford Street’. A stiff-upper lip is all that’s needed then? ‘Yes.’  And the same goes for the credit Crunch. He refers to the last economic meltdown; ‘In a similar climate of unemployment in the thirties, Oswald Mosley (founder of the British Union of Fascists) failed to spread fascism, simply because people’s reaction to him was one of laughter: PG Wodehouse turned him into a ludicrous figure of fun in the novel ‘Code of the Woosters’, and he was forced off the scene.’ 

Hislop’s frank manner is refreshing, rather than blunt, cutting through the proverbial political bullshit; ‘Why is the government blanketing the whole population in the name of wiping out terrorism? Why are they clamping down on protests?’ Why indeed.

Hislop is optimistic about young people, blaming flaws in the system rather than laziness for the apparent lack of political zest amongst the youth. He rejects the belief that youngsters are only interested in reading about film and music celebrities. ‘We do not believe in ‘catering’ for young people. Its condescending to think they only want to read about popstars – the number of them involved in organisations like ‘Liberty’ and ‘Amnesty’ demonstrates this.’ Do you target any audience at all, young or old? ‘No, what we put in the magazine comes from things I like and find funny.’ This apparently simple strategy works. Private Eye is read by over 700,000 people, and sales are increasing.

Hislop is a moralistl, not a gossip; dedicated to truth, not lies.  When I ask him whether he isn’t sometimes just a little tempted to make use of his position to finish a grudge or two, his answer is honest: ‘I try not to’. Does he ever think about giving it all up, trying something different? ‘Sometimes. But then I think, what else would be this much fun?’

As usual, I was late. Cruel fate had decided to put many interesting events on at 10am which is, as everyone knows, four hours before internationally accepted vacation waking time.

But the sleep deprivation was worth it. I’d been expecting a bunch of writers to read their work and then wait to sign hopefully newly-purchased books, and to be fair, there were plenty such events, some better than others – but was floored by the sheer variety of what else was on offer.

‘Literary’ wasn’t just a codeword for schmoozing over classics, or the writings of an old boy network, but embraced pretty much anything and everything in writing. There were books and discussions about science, politics, food, art, architecture, even a malt whisky tasting.

Some of the higher-profile events included the first annual lecture on ‘Englishness’, delivered by the Archbishop of York, Dr. John Sentamu, and the Sunday Times Award for Literary Excellence ceremony, in which Ian McEwan was duly honoured.

I was more interested in the national final for Off by Heart, which is the BBC’s new poetry reciting competition for 7-11 year olds. Not just because I’m a fan of poetry, but also because you’re allowed to laugh at kids more than authors and archbishops.

Talented and often funny performances were put on by all, especially the 10 year old winner Yazdan Qafouri Isfahani, whose exuberant charm was buoyed up by a snazzy outfit that made him look like Michael Jackson out of Thriller (minus the creepiness).

The adults did provide some entertainment too. A debate on who was the greater writer, Orwell or Dickens, saw a lively and light-hearted exchange between the four speakers, including the hilariously deadpan comedian Hardeep Singh Kohli. It didn’t make much difference to people’s opinions in the end, but was definitely enjoyable.

I also took the chance to attend events to satisfy my inner self-help junkie. One of the most engaging talks was given by Abbot Christopher Jamison, best known from the reality TV show The Monastery, who discussed some of the ideas from his new book Finding Happiness.

Obviously he considered religion as fundamental to happiness, although when asked what to do if one didn’t believe in gods, his response was disarmingly direct: ‘Become a Buddhist.’

More worryingly at one point, the abbot stated that a key to appreciating religion was to wake early enough to watch the sun rise, but my faith in him was restored when he hastily added, ‘Except for teenagers.’ Apparently it’s enough for the hormonally advantaged to pray at night, with candles as solar substitutes.

While a lot of these events often put forward familiar viewpoints, some managed to venture further. At the Oxford Poets & Refugee Writers event, for example, refugees who’d had the chance to work with local poets read aloud their life stories turned into poetry.

True, it wasn’t great poetry with all the bells and whistles of the English tradition, but the poems’ rawness often added to their force. It’s difficult to deny the empowering and cathartic effect literature can sometimes have when you listen to someone read about their experience of being raped, beaten, or losing their children, and most people in the room were visibly moved.
Similarly enlightening was a discussion on how disabled characters were portrayed in contemporary literature. The key issue was that disabled characters’ lives were often portrayed as revolving almost solely around their disability, although a lot more about disability in general was said by the three speakers.

The panel itself was diverse, comprising of the very witty former Head of Comedy Development at Carlton TV, Nigel Smith, and the Canadian playwright and literary manager Alex Bulmer, both of whom talked frankly about the experience of dealing with their own disabilities.

The third member, the able-bodied writer Adam Mars-Jones, also read a scene from his work in which two adolescent boys in a school for disabled children play at being secret agents. Skilfully interwoven with the homoerotic elements were meticulous descriptions of, for example, how one of the boys handles the supports he uses to assist his polio-crippled legs.

Ultimately, it’s these little unexpected glimpses which drew me in and stayed with me afterwards. And I was glad that the Sunday Times Oxford Literary Festival had embraced a definition of literature that celebrated as many voices as possible, both expected and unexpected.

Of course, that’s just what appealed to me. The beauty of such variety is that there really is something for everybody.

It was the morning of the G20 protest, and the capital was poised for action. The words ‘this day will go down in history’ were on everyone’s lips. Little did we know that the day would be remembered for the actions of the riot police, rather than the agenda of the activists. Headlines following the demonstration called it a bloody battle between ‘good coppers’ and ‘violent anarchists’.  Until the release of videos began, telling a different story.
I was among the thousands drawn to the epicenter of London’s business playground on 1st April. Some came out of curiosity, others out of a conviction for change, and a very few to incite chaos. I joined the ‘green’ arm of the protest, which left Liverpool Street at 11am.  There would be the odd blurting out of ‘Make love not money!’ from a hippy bunch, and sporadic calls of ‘Shame!’ from others, but most ‘rioters’ rambled on peacefully, holding banners and mock monster heads high. A girl next to me even passed out homemade cupcakes, with a cheerful ‘no protest is complete without cake’.
By the time we reached the RBS HQ, a florescent bulk of riot police had formed a ring around us, sending a tangible wave of resentment through the crowd. People around me had reacted to the bankers with some contempt, but that was nothing compared to the anger felt towards police. Chants of ‘Right to march!’ grew louder as the procession came to a halt at a wall of riot officers. Pressure grew, as those keen to be in on the action shoved past me to the front line. I stood next to a tiny, white-haired lady, looking positively terrified. Clutching packed lunch in hand, she had come because she believed that ‘authority should start at the bottom’. ‘Will this make a difference?’ I ask. ‘I hope so’. Her reply was automatic, distracted by a police helmet sent soaring over our heads.
As far as I could make out, police had become an uneasy representative of authority, the real cause of resentment. I chatted to a chap behind me, who became nervous at the sight of the fluorescent army. He seemed peaceable enough, despite the intimidating black scarf obscuring his features. When I asked him why he felt the need to cover his face he replied, ‘they’ve got me on record’ he said, ‘like all of us’, before disappearing into the pulsing crowd. Although this may seem paranoid, it seems he has reason to be worried. Recent investigations have revealed that police hold thousands of legal campaigners’ details on record. Names, political associations and photographs can be kept on the system for at least 7 years.
For a moment, when all four contingents of the march met at Bishops Gate, the menacing atmosphere caused by the over-heavy police presence was momentarily forgotten, and a carnival began. Some plonked down stereos and spontaneously started boogying; others simply sat back and enjoyed the sun, munching on sandwiches. Wandering through the now more dissipated crowd, I crossed the line from hysteria to hilarity. A couple of mums had collared their kids to take part in a role play of the ‘banker’s family’, and, complete with plastic champagne glasses and feather boas, were loudly (and ironically) championing banker’s bonuses. A group of excitable youngsters in black performed a ritualistic ‘hanging’ of a puppet banker on a traffic light, while others beat at the puppet vigorously with skateboards. Another sinister-looking trio meandered through the masses, two dressed as austere bankers, wheeling a barrow of fake money, the other a grinning cop with ‘vigilance control’ plastered on his uniform. But these were only gestures. With no knowledge of crowd control I could have picked out the real fire starters, those throwing themselves into the fray, apparently hell-bent on inciting chaos. These were a tiny minority of hooligans in an otherwise harmless crowd. Why then, in the name of ‘security’, did the police blanket-target us all?
They call it ‘Kettling’: jargon for keeping protesters penned in so violence is ‘contained’. This tactic contradicts Article 5 of the Human Rights Act, which sets out the right not to be deprived of liberty apart from in five well-defined, highly exceptional circumstances. There is certainly no mention of shouting and waving banners in the street.
The carnival mood soon turned sour as it became clear that we were prisoners. The situation was ludicrous. There we were, with little in common apart from a desire to make our voices heard, coralled like misbehaving cattle. Campaigners who had behaved peacefully up until that point became increasingly agitated by the onerous atmosphere, exacerbated by monosyllabic officers. The confined space suddenly became oppressive and, in the absence of a toilet, there were rivulets of pee in the street. ‘We’ll let you know when you’ll be released’, was all I got from one burly officer when I asked him what was going on. Another two young cops shifted nervously in their riot gear, as bemused by their orders as we were. Cries were heard of ‘I need to pick up my kids’, ‘I’m going to miss my train’; all met with the same embarrassed shrug of refusal. The lack of information added to the crowd’s frustration, turning into panic as violence broke out in one corner of the square.
The obscuring of information around the G20 protests has cast a cloud of doubt over police authenticity. It has now become clear that Ian Tomlinson’s death was due to internal bleeding caused by being hit by a policeman. The contradictions surrounding this fatality, which was initially alleged to have been ‘caused by  a heart attack’ are worrying. Why didn’t the outcome of the initial post mortem mention any signs of having been hit?
In desperation to be free protesters piled up against the lines of police, pushing. These were the same people who an hour earlier had been happy to do their bit and leave. Now they felt compelled to take the law into their own hands. As soon as the barricade was broken a mass of people made a run for it, and I joined the fray. As police blockades closed behind me, I felt like I was fleeing a crime scene. Those who had not managed to make a run for it were faced with another seven hours in captivity. When they were finally allowed to leave it was only on the condition that they gave their names and addresses and had their picture taken.
The men drafted in to police the G20 protests are no different to the rest of us, and shouldn’t be given specialist treatment. If a protester had attacked a passerby unprovoked he would have been handcuffed on the spot. Why has it taken irrefutable evidence for the police to finally face up to their faults?