Reviewed: Noise - A History on BBC Radio 4

Give us a Scooby.

Noise: A History
BBC Radio 4

“We assume the past was much quieter,” chides David Hendy in the opening seconds of his new 30-part series (weekdays, 1.45pm) on the history of noise (“turning up the volume on the past; making sense of history through sound”). Hendy is clearly walking down a New York street and then suddenly – unusual travel budget alert! – hauls us to a black cave in Burgundy looking for evidence of life from 20,000 years ago. “Put humans in a cave,” whispers David, feeling his way along the bare rock, “and it can become quite unnervingly noisy. If we hum or sing, the cave . . . sings back as if the cave itself is alive.”

How nose-stroking can a lunchtime show get? In the background, terrible sounds recur: groans repeatedly dissolving into the kind of surprised, rising grunt issued by an on-hisuppers Scooby-Doo. “That’s Igor Resnikov,” admits David after a moment, awed. “He’s a French archaeologist conducting an interesting experiment.” No way. Igor communicates exclusively through grunts and taps, uttering not a human word, leaving us to imagine him rocking through weeks of intense glooms, a jungle of bone medallions nestling in a hairy chest, occasionally visited by neuropsychologists and economic historians eager to widen the scope of their funding applications. Igor has been searching for the most aurally resonant places in cave systems for decades, proving that 80 per cent of prehistoric paintings occur in places where the acoustics are particularly unusual. David insists it’s incredibly interesting –but the moment Igor detects something that sounds outré, he turns on his torch and finds a painted bison. “Something drew them to these most inaccessible chambers . . .” ferrets Hendy, a professor of media and communication at Sussex who one suspects is never more than a phone call away from a mixed mezze at the Lebanese opposite Portland Place. “Whoever created this art seems to have chosen acoustically ‘interesting spaces’ as if mesmerised by echoes . . .”

Next up: the alarm calls of the vervet monkey, the “talking drum” and a song to summon rainforest spirits. Put like that, this sounds like the most sub-avant-garde and brilliant new programme on BBC radio. And what a way to intro The Archers!

Professor David Hendy makes some noise. Photograph: BBC

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, After God

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Conjuring the ghost: the "shape-shifting, queer, violent, hippie genuis" of David Litvinoff

A new biography tracks down the elusive Kray confidant who became a friend of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.

David Litvinoff is a mythic character to anyone with an interest in London during the Sixties. An intimate of the Krays, he was a tough and violent Jew from the East End. He was also a musical genius with an unrivalled knowledge of jazz, the blues and rock that made him a valued friend of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. It was his ability to move from the East End to Chelsea, from the dives of Soho to Notting Hill, that was the critical factor in the extraordinary vision of London that Donald Cammell and Nicolas Roeg conjured into the film Performance, for which Litvinoff is credited as dialogue coach. And yet, even though all this is known and recorded, he remains a ghost, a figure who wrote nothing and who systematically destroyed all the records of his life he could lay his hands on. Even his exact role in Performance is shrouded in mystery. He is said to have dictated much of the script to Cammell. This biography claims that Jagger’s mesmerising song on the soundtrack, “Memo from Turner”, was in fact a memo from Litvinoff.

Multiple reports describe him as the most brilliant talker London had known since Coleridge, but although there are rumours of tapes they have always been just rumours. I’d have thought he was a figure who would defeat any biographer – a shape-shifting, queer, violent, hippie genius lost in a mist of hallucinogens – but Keiron Pim’s account of this extraordinary character is a magisterial work of scholarship. He tracks down all the living witnesses; he has also unearthed letters, and even some of those long-lost tapes.

The story that emerges is even harder to believe than the legend. Litvinoff came out of the Jewish East End but he was from one of its most talented families. His name was not even Litvinoff: his mother’s first husband went by that name but David was the son of her second, Solomon Levy. Long before he met the Krays or the Stones, he was a gossip columnist on the Daily Express, practically inventing the Chelsea set that shocked the prim Fifties. By that time he had met Lucian Freud, who painted him in an astonishing study, the working title of which was Portrait of a Jew. Litvinoff was furious when Freud exhibited it with the new description of The Procurer, and the bad blood between these two men, both of whom inhabited the drinking clubs of Soho and the Krays’ gambling joints, remained for the rest of their lives. In fact, it is Freud who comes over as the villain of the book, fingered by Pim as the man behind the most violent assault on Litvinoff: he was knocked unconscious at the door to his own flat, on the top floor, and awoke to find himself naked and tied to a chair suspended from the balcony, nose broken and head shaved bald.

I learned much from this book: a period working for Peter Rachman before he became involved with the Krays; sojourns in Wales and Australia when he was fleeing threats of violence. The big discovery for me, however, was Litvinoff’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the jazz and blues traditions that gave birth to rock’n’roll. He taught the Stones a lot but he taught Eric Clapton even more – they were both living at the Pheasantry building on the King’s Road, and Litvinoff seems to have had unlimited access to the most recherché back catalogues and the most recent unreleased recordings. The book traces, but does not comment on, a transformation from an amphetamine-fuelled hard man in the Fifties and early Sixties to the oddest of hallucinogen hippies by the Summer of Love in 1967.

But, for all Litvinoff’s knowledge, wit and gift for friendship, his tale is a tragedy. A man who could talk but couldn’t write; an out gay man long before it was acceptable, who seems never to have been at ease with his sexuality; a proud Jew without any tradition of Judaism to which he could affiliate. Above all, this was a man who lived to the full the extraordinary moment when London dreamed, in Harold Wilson’s Sixties, that class was a thing of the past. Back from Australia in the early Seventies, Litvinoff awoke again to find that it had indeed been a dream. His suicide in 1975 was cold and deliberate. He had outlived his time. 

Colin MacCabe edits Critical Quarterly

Jumpin’ Jack Flash: David Litvinoff and the Rock’n’Roll Underworld by Keiron Pim is publisyhed by Jonathan Cape (416pp, £16.99)

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser