In the Critics this week

Robert Skidelsky on British industry, Richard J Evans on Norman Stone, Olivia Laing on Sheila Heti, Megan Abbott on Detroit and Ryan Gilbey on Quentin Tarantino.


In the Critics section of this week’s New Statesman, the economic historian and biographer of Keynes, Robert Skidelsky, reviews The Slow Death of British Industry by Nicholas Comfort. “In the early 1950s,” Skidelsky writes, “Britain was an industrial giant. Today, it is an industrial pygmy.” The reasons for this sorry decline are various, Skidelsky suggests. But “running through this history is a lack of continuity: government policy towards taxation and incentives continually changed, long-term aims were repeatedly sacrificed to short-term financial exigencies, projects were taken up and abandoned when they became too costly …” But it needn’t have been like that. It was a historic mistake, Skidelsky argues, for Britain to rely so heavily in recent decades on financial services. “Like individuals, governments should hold balanced portfolios … Governments … need to promote a balanced economy.”

Also in Books: historian Richard J Evans reviews World War Two: A Short History by Norman Stone (“Perhaps the most disappointing aspect of this book is its unremitting dullness”); Olivia Laing reviews How Should a Person Be? By Sheila Heti and Wild by Cheryl Strayed (“Though Strayed’s book is both touching and instructive it’s Heti’s …that will stay with me”); Lesley Chamberlain on Roberto Calasso’s La Folie Baudelaire (“a kind of self-parodying continentalism for the coffee table”); Catherine Taylor enjoys Deborah Levy’s short story collection Black Vodka (“There is a sexy hauteur in Deborah Levy’s prose reminiscent of the voice of Marianne Faithfull”); American novelist Megan Abbott reviews Mark Binelli’s The last Days of Detroit (“the metaphorical distance between the city and its hostile suburbs is immense, treacherous”). In the Books Interview, Jonathan Derbyshire talks to Jared Diamond about his new book, The World Until Yesterday: What Can We Learn from Traditional Societies? “Life in Africa,” Diamond tells Derbyshire, “is socially rich but materially poor, whereas life in the west is materially rich but socially poor.”

Elsewhere in the Critics: Ryan Gilbey on Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained (“Portraying the perpetrators of slavery as merely monstrous, and their victims as holy, does a disservice to the oppressed …”); Rachel Cooke wishes the BBC hadn’t tried to adapt PG Wodehouse’s Blandings stories (“[Some] funny books … have never and will never work on television”); Antonia Quirke is baffled by Smooth Radio’s Osmonds obsession; and Alexandra Coghlan pays tribute to Polish composer Witold Lutoslawski, whose centenary is celebrated this year. PLUS Will Self's Real Meals.

An abandoned building in Detroit, Michigan (Photograph: Getty Images)
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On the trail of Keith Jarrett's melodies

Lose focus for a second and you can quickly drop the thread of Jarrett's complex improvisational techniques.

“So, this is a piano,” said Keith Jarrett, sitting down at the one that had been placed centre stage for him in the Royal Festival Hall on 20 November. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he acted as if he had never encountered such an instrument before, raising a chuckle from the hundreds of fans who had turned out to see the man in the flesh. For 40 years, Jarrett has been giving concerts like this – alone with the piano, playing his improvised music to a room full of rapt devotees. Notoriously grumpy – and now as well known for his tirades against cameras and coughing audience members as for his early days playing with Miles Davis – he has an almost eerie focus onstage, relieving the tension only very occasionally with his barbed observations about the excellence of the instrument, or the shuffling in the auditorium.

Jarrett gave us a series of short pieces, each rendering separate and distinctive musical ideas. He began with an intricately woven flash of notes in both hands, criss-crossing the melodies that were by turns dark and haunting, or light and dancing. At particularly complex moments, when his arms were crossed over and the notes were flowing from his fingers faster than anyone could imagine them into existence, he leaned his ear down towards the keys, as if physical closeness could help his ideas more swiftly become sound.

A couple of folk-inflected ballads followed; heart-achingly sweet melodies picked out above rumbling, sour arpeggios. Like Glenn Gould, the Canadian pianist best known for his recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Jarrett can’t help adding vocalisations as he plays, which are all the more evident in his quieter compositions. He rose and fell from his stool; we heard his guiding hum along with the melody, as well as the odd strangled shout, yelp and grunt. He might insist on absolute silence from the audience but his own noises seem completely uninhibited as the music spins around him.

Although notorious for his curmudgeonly attitude to his fans, Jarrett was mostly restrained in this outing, allowing himself just one short, sweary outburst about killing a “f***ing camera”. At the age of 70 and with the power to sell out his concerts in just a few hours, you do wonder how much of the persona is genuine and how much of it is just giving the audience what it expects. A case in point came near the end, when he yielded to clamouring and gave a surprisingly simple and straightforward rendition of “Danny Boy”, an encore that long-time fans know well.

Given that this recital was under the auspices of the London Jazz Festival, there was surprisingly little in Jarrett’s programme that could easily be identified as jazz. One piece, full of brisk rhythms and chunky chords, gradually revealed itself to be based on a modified 12-bar blues structure and another had haunting overtones surely pulled from the classic American songs of the first half of the 20th century. Indeed, this musical ghosting becomes a major preoccupation when you see Jarrett live. It is too easy to distract yourself in trying to follow the auditory trail he has laid for you – was that a bit of Debussy, or Bach, or Glass just then? – and lose the thread of what he plays next. The improvisational technique might have more in common with jazz but now, 40 years on from his bestselling live recording The Köln Concert, it’s difficult to characterise Jarrett’s output as anything other than contemporary classical music.

If it needs a classification, that is. At one point, I became convinced that a particular piece was a Jarrett riff on Beethoven’s Bagatelle No 25 in A Minor – or Für Elise, as it is more commonly known. I was sure it was all there: the extended opening trill, the rising arpeggios in the left hand, the melody cascading from treble to bass and back again. Except, by the time I surfaced from my musing, there was no trace of Beethoven to be heard. A clashing, almost violent melody was dangling over a long drone in the bass. If you try too hard to pin down Jarrett’s music, it moves on without you.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State