An Exploration of Time and Space: World War I 1945 - 1939

Now I'm not one for believing in doomsday theories or Armageddon conspiracies but as I fell into a slumber, no more than two nights past, I had a realisation of sorts as I lay in bed. I realise that many a man will have had such epiphanies and the majority can be discounted immediately, but I compel you to continue and give me just a little of your time to consider what I have to say. I propose that time is, in fact, moving backwards as we know it.

Consider this; the main events in our history so far have seen man develop towards an infinite point of technological advancement. Yet our collective behaviour would suggest that we are no more fit to wield such weapons of potential destruction than our simian cousins in London Zoo. If we were to assume that we began with an infinite knowledge of our universe and had in fact chosen to destroy it, whether consciously or subconsciously, then certain things would begin to make much more sense.

Take our love affair with war for instance. We must begin here by understanding that the possibility for nuclear war is redundant as it serves the purpose of no man to eradicate the human race. If we look at the major conflicts of humanity in reverse order we can see a distinct pattern whereby old enemies battle it out for dominance and control of natural resources. Each time a war of great magnitude occurred, although truthfully there can be no other kind; the weaponry at military disposal became significantly reduced in quality. This being the knock on effect of years of blood shed and barbarism. If we believe time to travel under the current definition we see man improving his arsenal and developing his thirst for cruelty. The former proposition would highlight not only a tendency for evolution, but also a more tangible understanding of the effects of war. Par example, the world was almost destroyed between 1945-39 and thus when 'old' quarrels were reignited in 1918 soldiers were forced to prevail with less than adequate weaponry as all sides struggled to come to terms with the devastation of the previous war. If we were to assume that time is indeed following the path we currently accept then surely man would have learned his lesson as far as war and tyranny are concerned? Your humble narrator would like to think so anyway.

My argument as far as war and peace are concerned is brief. Though it is my aim to inspire curiosity not to bore you with triviality and details of little consequence. You may still be asking yourself how can this be and even possibly be searching for loopholes in my theory. The fact is, you are asking  questions. Next time we shall consider Religion and the sense that can be drawn from a paradoxical time shift. Remember, unlike light, time does not travel in straight lines.

Jude 

Greatest 20th Century Spy?

Camden and "Proud".

    I arrived in London on a terribly damp and extremely dank May afternoon, though this did little to quash the overwhelming sense of importance and significance the city throws down like a gauntlet every time I visit. As the clouds threatened to open overhead I took to pastures below the surface and made my way from Victoria to Camden Town. I made my journey in search of a converted stable known as "Proud". Enigmatic as they come, the website danced circles around the actual location and were it not for an inside tip on a large steel horse I may still be struggling through the hustle and bustle that is naturally draped across Camden Market during the infamous bank holiday weekend "crawl".

    As I entered the venue I was immediately taken aback by the intimacy of the main room and its subtle juxtaposition to the outer area that consisted of stables converted to seating booths with high definition television screens and the seemingly obligatory fus-ball table. Only for a few well placed white and purple spotlights the main room was shrouded in total darkness. Comfortable sofas were delicately arranged around the room allowing maximum comfort to the most respectful or crowds already assembled. Delayed ever so slightly by the human traffic naturally accumulated on Cup Final Day, I made my way to the bar aware that on stage sat the figures of Ciaran Lavery and Aaron Shanley. The atmosphere generated within such unique confines was startling to say the least and as I struggled in the most Scottish of ways with London prices, I knew, alas, I was in for a special afternoon.

    Since his was the first and most distinctive voice my ears encountered I shall begin the performance of Ciaran Lavery. Having heard Ciaran perform many times centre stage for the ragtime Americana bandits they call Captain Kennedy; I had an idea what to expect from this gig. Well, at least that’s what I thought as I made my way to the big smoke. With ears open I could not believe the haunting undercurrents present in the naturally maturing melodies of this still very young man. The rough gravel of his voice was succinctly complimented by the vulnerability of his character as he put it on show for the whole world to see. A circus of the heart, mind and soul where tickets cost not penny one. The accomplishment with which he teased the guitar into submission surpassed any expectations held by thine own self, for I was of the impression that the focus here was lyrical content as opposed to the musical accompaniment. Both were magnificent and the strumming, plucking, picking patterns on display were inspirational on both a personal and professional level. If the Postman ever got tired of the doldrums, learned to play guitar and shared the stories he had to tell, you can bet they wouldn’t be far off what was to be heard on a rainy night near Soho. Combined with quasi-stories about old train sets, which may have gone slightly over the head of many an English audience member, Ciaran’s set made for a thoroughly enjoyable showpiece. As I watched him on stage I got the impression that each step in this young man’s rise to “fame” had been meticulously planned. Yet I find it impossible to believe that you can choreograph the tenderness and fragility inherent in the substance behind the man. Then again this could all be supposition. Only time will tell.

    Aaron Shanley, to your humble narrator at least, was an unknown entity aside from the fact that he was signed to Public Sector Records alongside some fantastic Northern Irish musicians. My immediate thought, and I may as well get it out of the road now, was that he suffered from the misfortune of having been beaten to the post by Damien Rice as far as his vocal identity was concerned. It must be noted at this point that although they may share a soothing vocal tone and use a capo (and a shiny red on at that), the similarity ends here. Aaron Shanley appeared on first sighting to possess the sincerity and intensity of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Lyrically he did little to quell this notion, yet as if by synaesthesia he was able to lift both his own weight, and the emotional burden of the audience, each time he stepped up to the plate and drew us in with his own brand of melancholia riddled euphoria. His fascinating chord structures and delicate melodies stood out to your humble narrator and as each song progressed I simply wished that it would not end. Very rarely do I actively pursue an artist’s back-catalogue upon first listen, but in this case I will certainly be making an exception.

The posters say the tour would feature Ciaran Lavery versus Aaron Shanley, and even though the judges scorecards were tied by the final bell, the real winners here ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, were in fact, music and the fine people of Camden.

Fancy more from artists of the same ilk? Music Plus Fire