In the Critics this week

Terry Eagleton on Roger Scruton, Kate Mossman on Michael Jackson and Anne Applebaum interviewed.

In the Critics section of this week’s New Statesman, Terry Eagleton reviews Our Church, Roger Scruton’s personal history of the Church of England. “Scruton is homesick for the medieval England of Piers Plowman,” Eagleton writes. “He seems not to know that it was . . . a place of filth, fanaticism and excruciating torture.” Eagleton argues that Scruton has succumbed to his Romantic prejudices. “One suspects that this maverick intellectual is as fervent as he is about belonging because he will never really be able to.”

In the Books interview, Jonathan Derbyshire talks to Anne Applebaum about her new book about eastern Europe after the Second World War, Iron Curtain. “There’s a very real sense,” she says, “in which Soviet totalitarianism contained the seeds of its own destruction.”

Also in Books: William Cook on an edition of Mary Whitehouse’s letters of complaint to broadcasters in the 1960s and 1970s; Emma Hogan reviews John Batchelor’s biography of Alfred Tennyson; Anita Sethi on Ali Smith’s essay collection Artful; philosopher Simon Blackburn reviews Mind and Cosmos by Thomas Nagel, and finds Nagel giving succour to creationists and fans of intelligent design; the BBC’s environment analyst Roger Harrabin on The Carbon Crunch by Dieter Helm; and Toby Litt on Julian Cope’s Copendium.

Our Critic at large this week is Kate Mossman, who revisits Michael Jackson’s epoch-making album Thriller, 30 years after its original release. “One of the reasons Thriller still sounds so brilliant today,” Mossman writes, “is that what came next” – Jackson’s radical experiments with cosmetic surgery – “never enters your head.”

Elsewhere in the Critics: Alexandra Coghlan on pianist Ben Grosvenor at the Queen Elizabeth Hall; NS theatre critic Andrew Billen on Damned by Despair, This House and The River; Rachel Cooke on the BBC’s Dickens update, Nick Nickleby; Antonia Quirke on the sacking of Danny Baker of BBC London 94.9; Ryan Gilbey on Ben Affleck’s Argo; Thomas Calvocoressi visits a new gallery in the Parisian banlieue; and Will Self’s Real Meals.

Michael Jackson in the mid-1980s (Photograph: Getty Images)
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How Dame Vera Lynn was told to “posh her accent up”

Radio 2’s 100th-birthday tribute reveals how Lynn was forced to change her voice.

“I remember seeing her near an elephant, and this elephant rolled over a bit and she had to get out of the way . . .” Vic Knibb, the vice-chairman of the veterans’ group the Burma Star Association, was one of the thousands of British soldiers serving in the Far East during the Second World War who came across Vera Lynn in the jungle, singing from the back of a Jeep, accompanied by an out-of-tune piano.

Speaking in Radio 2’s celebration of the singer’s 100th birthday, Vera Lynn: the Sweetheart of the United Kingdom (Sunday 19 March, 8pm), Knibb and others recalled what it meant to them that Lynn travelled so far to perform for the so-called Forgotten Army in Burma. Unlike other entertainers, who stayed in Europe or visited only military hospitals in the UK, she deliberately went where few others did – where she felt she was needed by “the boys”.

The programme, which featured a rare interview with Lynn herself, was dominated by clips of her recordings from the Thirties and Forties. We heard frequent extracts from “The White Cliffs of Dover”, “We’ll Meet Again” and “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”. The contrast between these two voices, separated by more than six decades, was the most arresting thing this otherwise pedestrian documentary had to offer. The now gravelly-voiced centenarian sang, in her youth, with a smooth, effortless-sounding tone and crystal-clear diction. But how did the cockney daughter of a plumber from East Ham end up singing with received pronunciation?

The answer, as ever in Britain, is class. Lynn had no formal musical training, and as she had been performing in working men’s clubs from the age of seven, she was considered closer to a musical-hall crooner than a “proper” singer. But with her small vocal range and flawless self-taught technique, she chose her own songs to suit her voice. The BBC, for which she made her hugely popular radio show Sincerely Yours, requested that she take elocution lessons to “posh her accent up” and even at one point took her show off air for 18 months. “Every­body’s Sweetheart” wasn’t immune from snobbishness, it seems. 

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman. She writes a weekly podcast column.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution