This is a frustrating book, but it couldn’t be any other way. Most other popular science writing is about questions answered, perhaps with a few unknowns left over.

This book, about how we perceive music, is about mysteries with no real explanation. Sacks’ writing style doesn’t help matters; he opts for the atheist-mystical prose style all too popular in this genre: meditative, introspective, it rapidly becomes the literary equivalent of listening to Coldplay on repeat, made worse by his tic of describing all his male patients as ‘eminent’ and all his female ones as ‘gifted’.

Musicophilia begins by asking why humans are the way we are. What is the point of humans being evolved to be interested in music? Why is it so important to us? Why do tunes get stuck in people’s heads, when photographs and paintings just don’t? Why is our processing of speech and sound so separate, so people who cannot speak due to a stroke can sing perfectly, or can understand speech but hear music as a cacophony?

Theories exist, and Sacks mentions them, but the main focus of the book is a series of case studies, which show how abnormalities can throw a little light on how our minds perceive music. All different, many terrifying (imagine being unable to stop hearing music in your mind), their bare facts alone give tantalising hints of how brains work.

Brain damage can suddenly give people a talent for music they did not have before; mescaline can make emotional music overpowering but destroy perception of classical music’s structure; amnesia victims unable to remember anything for more than a few seconds can conduct a choir perfectly.

Ultimately, the fascination, scope, and sheer strangeness of the book’s subjects transcend its flaws: Musicophilia gives a real sense of where science might go next, and how little we understand of what goes on inside our heads. Big mysteries, frustrating though they might be, are fascinating in a way a small answer can’t hope to match.

Four stars

Today I chanced upon the worst piece of journalism I’ve ever come across. Insert your own OxStu joke here if you must, but I am in fact talking about Peaches Geldof’s new column in Nylon magazine.

Wince at the reference to the inhabitants of Indiana as ‘locals’ that somehow evokes Michael Palin inviting himself into a Yurt on the Russian steppes. Laugh at the way she seems to think buying second-hand clothes is cool and original. Gawp at the complete lack of either self-awareness or irony. Pay closest attention, however, to the way she characterises a few weeks in a van in America as a ‘Jack Kerouac adventure.’

This is the lasting legacy of Kerouac and On the Road. He and his most famous book are also to blame for the tiresome phenomenon of bald white guys who think themselves cool because they own a few jazz records, but his most heinous crime is that of romanticising slackerdom.

Thanks to Kerouac, middle-class kids think it’s fine to waste time and money (the issue of whose time and money it is matters little) being noncontributing members of society, spending all their time drunk, high, or having sex.

Kerouac, then, invented the gap year; the idea that if you spend enough time wandering aimlessly you’re sure to ‘find yourself’ eventually. By the end of the book, Sal Paradise is drained, weary, symbolically dead, let down by his hollow dream and empty idols, but Kerouac has spent too much time glorifying Paradise and Moriarty’s transcontinental hedonism for the final pages’ sobering moral message to really ring true.

There’s another reason Peaches Geldof considers On the Road such a cultural touchstone. It’s there in her column, when she coos with glee at buying family heirlooms from the poor at knockdown prices, and it’s there in Kerouac’s awkward, voyeuristic depictions of blacks and Mexicans in On the Road. The book represents the middle-class desire to shrug off the oh-so-wearying shackles of privilege and wealth in order to go see how the other half lives.

It is, in large parts, Pulp’s Common People with all the irony sucked out, or Orwell’s Down and out in Paris and London minus the genuine pain and suffering. With a writing style as lazy as its characters, this is soft fiction for soft people.

Redeem Yourself: Read this instead
Allen Ginsberg’s Howl – A far more powerful statement of the Beat movement’s ideals.

I have been lucky (I use the term loosely) enough to arrive on my year abroad in time for the ten-day Cairo Festival of Experimental Theatre. Far from Oxford’s bubble-wrapped student productions, Cairo takes the Middle East’s theatrical answer to the Eurovision Song Contest to a whole new level.

Hailing from as faraway as Latvia or Brazil, the productions constituted a surreal cocktail from interpretative Sudanese line dancing to Shakespeare in Nigeria. Moreover, the governing body, taking things a little too literally perhaps, exhibited an ‘experimental’ level of organisational incompetence that would make even the OUDS committee blush.

There was always the possibility that the venue may have been changed without warning, the show may not start on time (if at all), or the theatre may not even exist.

Yet, armed with nothing but that proverbial pinch of salt and an invulnerable sense of humour I set off, like a wanderer in the night, in search of theatrical treasure.

When I struck gold it was often for the wrong reasons. I soon came to learn that comedy was, if unintentionally, high on the agenda. I saw an utterly bizarre show called Frog’s Wing, where a combination of Casio keyboard kitsch, a temperamental technical producer and three graceless Sudanese men dressed as birds, resulted in a hilarious show performed at times in absolute darkness to a pre-recorded string section accompaniment.

My experience with Shakespeare has been equally painful. Had it not been for three very carefully placed English sentences I would have had absolutely no idea that I was even watching Julius Caesar. The rest of the pale skinned and fair-haired members of the audience were, having foolishly trusted the word of the festival schedule, expecting a Russian play about the beginning of the world.

It doesn’t get better I’m afraid. Turning up to see Romeo and Juliet at a small theatre inside the National Opera House compound, I walked in on the final death scene hopelessly clutching a ticket that said it wasn’t to start for another ten minutes. The bows were good though.

However, despite the absurdity, I have many happy memories. An exhausting hour searching for The Tale of the Deadly Butterfly (at a nonexistent theatre) resulted in a wonderful evening: I was taught to play Backgammon (well, I might add) in a local Egyptian coffeehouse.

If theatre in Cairo has taught me anything it is to appreciate the unexpected. For that I am extremely grateful.

If you are someone who enjoys comedy, this is not the play for you. Endgame is bleak. And I mean quasi-apocalyptic, legless humans living in bins sort of bleak. Originally written in French as Fin de Partie, the play’s name refers to the dying moments of a chess game when only a few lone pieces remain standing.

Centred on leaving and the characters’ painful inability to do so, silence litters the dialogue like rests falling on a musical score. Director Samantha Losey adeptly highlights this, emphasising the nothingness between lines: words, shouts, wails and sobs echo into silence. The effect is simultaneously profound, tender and disturbing.

The focus in Endgame inevitably falls on the four actors; aside from a smidgeon of overacting in parts, and the redundant use of silly accents (Sam Bright’s unfortunately camp choice of twang for the character of Clov was bizarrely reminiscent of Frank Spencer) the actors pull it off with style and heaps of dark humour.

Will Spray, in the role of blind wheelchair-bound Hamm, dominates the stage. With his bedraggled hair and weary, bloodshot eyes (maybe due more to his 21st Birthday the night before than to absolute synthesis with the character) he is genuinely terrifying in parts, whilst also ably managing moments of warmth and tenderness. Exchanges between Nell (Rowan Parkes) and Nagg (Benjamin Coopman) are a treat – paradoxically hopeless yet full of vitality, they ooze black, uncomfortable humour.

The stage design (a giant chess-board) will elaborate upon Beckett’s chess metaphor; characters figuratively become pieces, unable to move. Though inventive, my small concern is that some of the existential hopelessness of a life that is, after all, meaningless may be lost with the prevailing inter-scene suggestion of an omnipotent presence.

Yet in a play where the overriding sense is that of desire to leave, I found myself truly gripped, moved, and invariably wanting to stay.

Three stars

Richard III: one of Shakespeare’s least likeable villains in one of his longest history plays. But just as Milton secretly preferred Satan to God, so an audience secretly revels in watching a real bastard ruin the lives of those around him.

All credit to director Natalie Holden for weaving a darkly exciting ghost ride through the bloody Wars of the Roses. Some of the play’s more tedious elements have been sensibly streamlined, emphasising supernatural fatalism at the expense of political motifs. On a limited budget and making full use of the OFS’ winding balconies and stairways, this is an unexpected but satisfying interpretation.

Jack Chedburn gives a blistering performance of manic intensity, his Richard stripped of sympathy or austerity and whittled down to a core of deformed energy. He is Clockwork Orange-esque, a cunning delinquent writ large as a king, with touches of poetic psychosis and a deluded grandeur that grows ever darker and more directed after his coronation.

Rather than failing to match classic portrayals of the role like Olivier or McKellen, Chedburn’s anti-majesty is perfect for a student cast, yet still capable of subtlety and flashes of humour even as his machinations collapse around him.

The other outstanding performance is Flossie Draper as Queen Elizabeth, who is a powerful counterpoint to Richard’s excesses: one almost believes that the kingdom rests on her shoulders, not his. Their exchange of anger in Act IV is magnificent and a surprising highlight before the play’s climax at Bosworth Field.

The rest of the cast are solid enough, particularly Charlotte Bayley as Anne, who oozes crushed worthlessness in Richard’s devilish games. Ed Boulle’s Buckingham is a slick and attentive spin-doctor, and Max Hoehn a capable King Edward, although his illness was rather overwrought. I must admit, though, that I had little sympathy for the murdered Clarence’s daughter Margaret, played callously by Alice Hamilton.

But forget a few teething criticisms: there are two excellent performances leading a fresh reading of the play. This is an electric, vital Richard III hard-wired for modernity.

Four stars

Barack Obama told Aaron Sorkin that his intention was ‘to steal a lot of your lines.’

Watching this compelling performance of Sorkin’s play, it is easy to see why. A Few Good Men forces us to question what we think we know about truth, justice and honour, and how far we should go to protect what is ‘good.’

The play opens after the death of PFC Willy Santiago at the US Marine base in Guantanamo Bay. Two young Marines, Downey and Dawson, are accused of killing him during an illegal disciplinary measure – ‘Code Red’.

Their case is noticed by Commander Joanne Galloway, an inexperienced and idealistic lawyer, who then persuades the assigned officials to allow her to work with them. The plot follows their attempt to piece together a defence and culminates in an explosive courtroom scene where the ‘honourable’ nature of the US Marine Corps is called into question.

The ‘quick-fire’ energy of the play was immediately palpable, and the cast work skillfully as an ensemble. Tor Lupton gave an exceptional performance as Galloway, delivering her pithy lines with aplomb, and speaking volumes with her emotive facial expressions.

She laudably managed the transition from an initially unlikeable character into an engaging and admirable one. Sam Caird’s Kaffee was strong, effectively conveying his naïve bewilderment at the ‘Marine Way’.

Archie Davies and Matt Orton are scene-stealing as Downey and Dawson; entirely in sync, their bond is clear. Davies portrays Downey superbly as a vulnerable and confused boy who looks to Dawson for guidance, while Orton’s Dawson effectively conveys his growing sense of desperation as the system he loves begins to fail him.

Vic Putz chillingly conveys Jessep’s supreme arrogance, although he is a little static and sometimes lacks variety of tone; his immortal line about truth feels like it should have more force.

Tim Hoare’s direction is effective; his well-thought-out blocking carefully reflects the stifling atmosphere of the play.
This a superb production of an excellent play, performed by a fantastic cast. With some deeply affecting lines, A Few Good Men illuminates the grey area between good and bad. It is provocative, challenging and funny.

Theatre, at it’s most effective, can play a powerful role in sharpening public consciousness, if not actively evoking change. In the intensity of today’s international climate, this production poses pertinent, if uncomfortable questions for anyone who has ever wondered how far we are prepared to go for our beliefs, both as citizens and as individuals.

Five stars

JazzSoc Jam

Thirst Lodge; Thursdays, 9pm; £1

Harry Thompson

Upstairs at Thirst lodge and a handful of drunken people are involved in a poor imitation of what I presume is Salsa, whereas downstairs the air is close, the fingers are clicking and JazzSoc’s thursday night jazz jam is in stylish swing.

The format is essentially this: turn up with an instrument and get on the stage. For all your humble writer’s alleged musical knowledge, his skills at playing it are limited to whistling and rocking a mean air drum, so I did not perform. But those who did bring their saxophones, basses – double and guitar – trombones and trumpets produced some brilliant impromptu performances.

All comers played from Real Books, using jazz standards as a jumping off point to endless riffing and improvising on both solo and group efforts. A highlight was one trumpeter hitting such audaciously high notes that I can only assume left his lips in a pulpy mess.

The Thirst Lodge’s basement venue isn’t particularly spacious, but there’s a well-stocked bar and still enough room for eager jazz punters to get in the standard jazz appreciation moves – the ubiquitous finger click, the involved foot-tap, the expressive nod accompanied by over-bite – and I can’t help but indulge in all of them.

Saxophonist Peter Daunton, who played a great set with fellow bandmates of local group The Oxford Tubes, says, ‘It’s a great opportunity to play in a friendly atmosphere and have the ability to freely experiment on stage’.

The night is undeniable fun for performers, aficionados and Jazz-virgins alike and, for the princely sum of £1, a cheap and thoroughly enjoyable way of spending an evening.

Jazz & Sausages

The Big Bang Restaurant, Jericho; Tuesdays, 8pm; main meal and jazz £15

Alex Watson

There are those who say that jazz is an outdated relic. They’re wrong. I would defend in particular the British ‘new school’ of Polar Bear, Soweto Kinch et al. as a community still able to innovate intelligently and productively, while keeping true to the jazz ‘message’ pioneered by Davis, Coltrane and Parker – that of improvisation and soul.

However, the Big Bang Sausage Restaurant (pictured above), huddled between glitzy cocktail bars and expensive restaurants along Marston Road in Jericho, is, predictably, not the place to find evidence of this.

In an atmospheric basement, the enthusiastic restaurant staff serve excellent portions of bangers and mash while a house band of Martin Pickett and Paul Jeffries on keyboard and bass, augmented by local talent, forge on through some easy-listening jazz, all for the fair price of £15.

It’s hard not to recommend this ‘jazz night’, since the food is so appetising, and the opportunity to listen to jazz and have a candle-lit dinner in such a cosy locale seems so enticing. Unfortunately, for the jazz enthusiast at least, the music is pretty standard fare.

Of course, this jazz night is designed to perform a function, and it certainly does so with aplomb. The music enhances the dining experience and is not so intrusive as to totally stop conversation. However, when I visited I left with the impression that the band had never even grazed the limits of their abilities and were very comfortable churning out sweet, unchallenging versions of jazz standards.

In short, this is a great concept, and many will be utterly satisfied with the experience. Just don’t expect the music to be as fresh and spicy as the sausages.

OU Big Band & The Oxford Gargoyles

Magdalen Auditorium; Saturday 7th week, 8pm; £5

James Archer

Most people’s contact with Oxford’s student jazz scene is the University’s three big bands. The Donut Kings can claim to be Oxford’s hardest working student ensemble, and few would dispute that they are the most fun, while the OU Jazz Orchestra will be showcasing an exciting range of repertoire at a Varsity contest in Hilary term.

Meanwhile, the Big Band has cemented its place as Oxford’s flagship jazz ensemble with an unprecedented series of foreign tours. The OUBB’s joint concert with the European a cappella champions, the Oxford Gargoyles, promises to be the jazz event of the term.

Both ensembles will bring down the house at Magdalen auditorium with a mix of classic and contemporary material and exciting original compositions.

Really, there’s never been a better time to look beyond that infamous turtleneck jumper and discover the talent of our best student musicians. ‘Nice!’, I’m sure you’ll agree.