Review: David Attenborough's Africa

David Attenborough's latest series shows we're not so different from the beasts.

The BBC have impeccable timing; just as the nation prepares for the onset of a case of January Blues, national treasure David Attenborough arrives on our screens, bringing with him a glorious display of animals and nature both industrious and wild.

Africa is a six-part series exploring the wildlife of the rich continent housing vast rainforest, savannah and desert. As well as being educational, last night’s series opener captured some amusing comparisons between us and our wilder counterparts. We share the same instincts of survival and the quest for love, as well as some remarkably similar social reactions.

Belligerent alpha male giraffes sparring in a Western-style showdown made for gripping viewing, with the upper hand changing unpredictably; an unnerving reflection of our society where two testosterone-fuelled youngsters might lock horns over a lady rather than a watering hole.

The featured Golden Wheel Spider epitomises most humans’ natural instinct in times of danger. After numerous attacks (by a wasp of all things) the arachnid cuts his losses and does what any self-respecting being would do: he curls up in a ball and cartwheels down the sand dune to safety.

The interplay between the Black Rhinos was at first extraordinarily intimate, using the latest photographic technology to capture never-before seen night-time interactions. This, however, quickly descends into something comical. We witness one Lothario trying his luck with an unsuspecting female, who at first seems open to the idea of cavorting in the dark - but upon her suitor’s below average performance, she pretends to be asleep. As David Attenborough points out, 'a girl can only put up with so much'.

It is unsurprising that this masterpiece took more than four years to shoot, so intricate are sequences like the Pompilid Wasp foraging for water in the expanse of the Kalahari Desert. As ever, Attenborough’s familiar, soothing and gently enriching narration aids Africa's intrigue. Menial, routine activities such as stalking prey and caring for young become fascinating and frequently amusing. The understanding of nature he has after 60 years is unrivalled, and his passion is endlessly apparent.

Majestic and enlightening, with quirky editing and some astounding shots, the series brings to light new creatures and explores new sides to those which are so familiar. David Attenborough told the New Statesman in 2011, “If you remove the licence fee, it would be gone in a decade”. As long as programs like Africa continue to be made, the fee is worth every penny.

Read the New Statesman's latest interview with David Attenborough here.

Black Rhinos. Photograph: Getty Images
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David Keenan's new novel is a dizzying recall of adolescence

This Is Memorial Device vividly recalls the teen years of the post-punk generation. I'm just not sure I wanted to remember.

Imagine dropping down the ­metaphysical wormhole to the scene of your adolescent self, with all your mates; with all that immortal music, sex, drugs, madness and tempestuousness. For some of us it’s a place we would rather not revisit. For the post-punk generation, David Keenan’s debut novel sends us plunging into that era anyway – violently, viscerally, surreally – in this “Hallucinated Oral History of the Post-Punk scene in Airdrie, Coatbridge and Environs 1978-1986”. Keenan’s real-life west coast Scotland is the home of a fictional dissonant, radical group called Memorial Device, whose underground misadventures are transmitted through a constellation of eyewitness accounts and psychedelic reveries from the damaged, delirious misfits in and around a band that sounded, as the narrator Ross Raymond describes it, “like Airdrie, like a black fucking hole”.

Such were the post-punk provinces across the UK, vividly realised here, populated by John Peel apostles transcending dead-end reality in bedsits wallpapered with pages from the NME and Sounds, romantic young minds consumed by Johnny Thunders and Iggy Pop, Jack Kerouac and H P Lovecraft. These are murky everytowns where, as Ross writes, “music deformed my life rather than just changed it”.

Keenan – an author, journalist, jazz critic, obsessive scholar of psych-folk – has a febrile imagination and his fiction debut is a fantastical meander in intense, magical-realist prose. Much like in youth itself, you’ve no idea what’s happening, or where you’re going, each chapter a crunching gear change of new characters who fizz in, dazzle, disappear and reappear. The chapter headings are filled with unfathomable imagery:

 

22. Ships Rising Up and Passing Through the Water Full of Sunlight and Memory the Tricks That It Plays: Bruce Cook on Autonomic Dreaming with Lucas and Vanity and all the baggage that comes back to haunt you like ghostly ships at the bottom of the ocean in a graveyard beneath the sea breaking free and rising to the surface.

 

This is the breathless style that dominates the book. Full stops are sporadically abandoned for chaotic streams of consciousness (Paul Morley’s sentences are tweets in comparison), like being trapped inside the amphetamine-boggled brain of Spud in the celebrated job-interview scene from Trainspotting (a struggle at times, with none of the daft jokes). With each new voice comes more forensic musical analysis, lurid recollections – of a barbaric scalping, of wanking on acid, of porn, puke, piss – and densely packed rushes of salty information. Ross’s co-author Johnny McLaughlin recalls his sexual exploits as a 17-year-old: he was “a collector . . . a gourmet, a pussy-eater (a body-gorger) (a piss-drinker, a shit-lapper), a woman-lover, a tit-biter, an auto-asphyxiator (an ass-lover, a panty-smotherer), a heel-worshipper (a hose-hugger)”. There’s as much sex here, it turns out, as music.

There are inevitable echoes of those fellow countrymen of Keenan’s, the literary dark lords Irvine Welsh and John Niven, yet little hilarity. But, mercifully, there are also passages of surrealist beauty: through prison bars, a main character is hypnotised by the moon, bathed in its “strange silver glow that made it seem like it was on fire, like ice on fire”, feeling “like a crystal ­being cleansed”. The last chapter is stunning, a soaring, existentialist, cosmic crescendo.

Memorial Device’s lead singer, the charismatic, amnesia-blighted, journal-writing Lucas, has his writing described as “a walking frame or a wheelchair, a crutch, which when you think about it is what most writing is, something to support the figure of the writer, so that he doesn’t fall back in the primordial soup of everyone else, which is no one”. Ultimately, This Is Memorial Device uses post-punk merely as its skeleton frame. It is a meditation on memory and perspective, on the magical forces of language, on the absurdity of existence and the dreadful thoughts bubbling like toxic fluid below the fragile surface of every human brain. Despite its black-humour set pieces (and a comically colossal, micro-detailed appendix, the undertaking of a madman), it’s a serious, disturbing book, free-form literary jazz for agonised over-thinkers, perhaps like the minds of intense young men.

In these creatively risk-averse times, it’s heroically bizarre, if more admirable than lovable. By the end, you’re exhausted, and happy to file it away for ever, along with the young life you no longer wish to live.

Sylvia Patterson is the author of “I’m Not With the Band” (Sphere)

This Is Memorial Device by David Keenan is published by Faber & Faber (298pp, £14.99)

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times