Friday 30 October 2020

Shibboleth schmibboleth

OK, it's a fair cop. Pedantry is not a stranger to  me.  I've dealt, often in this blog, with linguistic pedantry; one of my more visited posts is this one, the first of two trottings out of one of my most cherished bons mots, about "pedants of the world having nothing to lose but their chains" (make that three trottings out).

<background>
New readers start here: it's an etymological joke (i.e. absolutely hilarious), about the root of the word "pedant": Greek pedai (which means "chains").
</background>

I'm not a fan of this sort of pedantry; not that that spares me from being prey to it from time to time. It's hard not to be , the way people throw words around quite disirregardless of their proper meaning,

<irony_warning>
And, as they say in the UNIX world, send complaints about that use of "proper" to /dev/null/.
</irony_warning>

A bridge between linguistic pedantry and the sort of pedantry I want to address now is somewhere in this (which I have no time to trawl through just now for the sake of a spot reference, and besides, "no names, no pack drill") someone who had put together a virtual choir said that the effort involved increased exponentially with the number of recordings and he or she...

<parenthesis>
(well, I know which, but to specify which would spill the beans as – apart from the ring-mistress – there was only one wo..[oops])
</parenthesis>

... said "and I don't need to explain about exponential growth" (or words to that effect). And it's clear that the speaker wouldn't have been able to explain it. My savings, with varying interest rates (averaging not much more than than 1.5%), grow exponentially, but the exponent in question is about 1.0015. With an exponent of significantly more than one, exponential growth is indeed very fast and getting faster and faster (roughly what people mean when they use the word), but if the exponent is one-and-a-smidgen the growth rate is nugatory, and when the exponent is less than one....

<home_study_recommendation>
Somewhere on the net you'll find a story about someone doing a service for a Chinese emperor (aren't they always?) who says – do they never learn? – "Ask of me anything you want". And the doer of the service spots a chessboard (there's usually one lying around) and asks the emperor to give him one grain of rice on the first square, two on the second, four on the third, eight on the fourth etc. doubling all the way to 64, and aggregating all the contents of the previous squares. The total is (as I remember) astronomical (really) – anyway, it's huge (not that all those kilos of rice would fit on the squares, if I'm being honest). There the exponent is 2, and the growth really is great.
</home_study_recommendation>

...But she knew what she meant. and everybody else did . So I should give her a break.

Anyway, this is the sort of pedantry I want to address: arithmetical pedantry – usually influenced by a teacher or teachers. At my primary school, when we started adding and taking away ...

<autobiographical_note type="Oh, the naivety">
At secondary school "taking away" was scorned in favour of "subtracting". I still have a vision of Doc Lewis's withering scorn...

<tangent>
Excuse the cliché: is there any other sort? <blush />
</tangent>

 ...when people on Countdown say "times it by..."; "The word is multiply, boy."
</autobiographical_note> 

 ... we were told to label the columns "H/T/U". A "1" in the H column stood for "100". In fact, although we hadn't yet thought about the wonders of this new-fangled zero thing (the Romans managed without it), that's what the zeros in 100 are doing – making sure the "1" stays in the H column and doesn't migrate to somewhere else where it would mean something different.

/More next week

AOB

I must get on.... But my mind has been occupied of late with this carol competition. I've been following this on Radio 3 Breakfast for a few years now, but it's always seemed beyond me. People submitted complex 4-part settings of modern poems.

But  numbers must have been falling off...
<rant>
 (one could ask a woeful succession of Education Ministers why, I suspect; but is there any wonder that people in this benighted country couldn't tell a melisma from a melanoma? )
</rant>
..., and now they've moved the goalposts; the competition people simply want a melody, which I  can just about do ("Has ability but is disinclined to use it musically" wrote my music master, in the days when teachers were allowed to put what they liked in school reports.)

The rules require a melody for one verse, suitable for all the others.  How can you do any word-painting when you don't control the arrangement?

Still, it's done now:

Well, I'm not holding my breath, although for other reasons I'm counting down the days to 18 November...

Bye for now

b

Update: 2020.11.07.16:20  – Added PS

PS: Another prejudice...

<parenthesis>
(by which I don't mean to deprecate the belief; thinking about it I find it innumerate, lazy, and misleading. I'm simply saying I feel this antipathy without thinking about it.)
</parenthesis>

 ...ingrained in me by Doc Lewis  is the habit of many commentators (particularly sports commentators) to keep the HTU words even after the decimal point: "reducing the world record to nine point twenty-four seconds". No. no, no. in the expression "9.24 seconds" the 24 isn't twenty-four; twenty is represented by a 2 in the Tens column; in 9.24 the .24 stands for two tenths and four hundredths. Calling that sort of 2 "twenty" is making the same mistake as calling 31 "twenty eleven", because when you get 11 in the Units column you put down a one and carry a one – every fule no that.

Of course, there is a language that – while not saying "twenty eleven" – does say "sixty eleven": soixante onze: a Guardian Notes & Queries page explores the tip of the septante huitante nonante issuewhich is partly (as far as quatre vingts is concerned) due to the fact that the Celtic language spoken in Gallia Transalpina before the Romans came and taught them how to speak proper used a vigesimal (base 20) counting system. In fact, that vigesimal counting system affects English dialects as well. A friend of mine with a holiday home in Swaffham once heard a farmer talking about "half a score of pigs".  (The word score itself suggests a vigesimal counting system, but the phrase "half a score" seems to me more persuasive, as it deliberately avoids the word "ten".)

Still more numerical navel-gazing to come, but I must show my face in the Real World.
 
b


Monday 19 October 2020

On the one hand...

Last week I met a new word – well, new to me. BBC Radio 4's Book of the Week was a version of The Good Germans, which began:


<minor_bugbear response="I know, I know, I should lighten up"> 
My hackles rose at that first sentence (on the radio), as the reader omitted the commas, and I tried to imagine what a "Gymnasium grammar school" was.

</minor_bugbear>

It had to be taken down. The caretaker claimed not to be able to find the key to the tower, but the day was saved by the one-armed French master, a mutilé de guerre, who climbed up unibrachially (as is the wont of the one-armed... and don't bother looking that word up) and took it down. The narrative goes on:


<autobiographical_note>

(which reminds me of my history master, who larded his lessons with contemporary quotations: "Roll up that map of Europe", "Blood and iron", "Contemptible little army"... that sort of thing. The watchword for The Battle of Verdun was Ils ne passeront pas. Such quotations were the key to writing good history essays, he said.

In the mid-late '70s, I was visiting a friend in Paris. On one occasion, on the Metro,  I was standing, unhelpfully, in the middle of the carriage's doorway as it drew into a station.  And, as the bottleneck tightened, I was slow to get out of the way of the massed Parisians...

<regret>
(I thought my hostess, who had introduced me to the pun 'One man's Mede is another man's Persian' [which turns out to be less original than I initially thought] would appreciate the joke, but she was sufficiently acclimatised [though a  native of New Jersey] to be rather quick to join in with the general hostility to the boorish behaviour of this particular rozbif.
</regret>

...as I mused on how appropriate the station's name (Verdun) was: Ils ne passeront pas du tout.  Mr Crosby would have been proud. 

</autobiographical_note>

A few weeks ago I made the mistake of watching For a Few Dollars More again. The music was fun, but the action was  – as I should have remembered – tedious; lots of our hero riding backwards and forwards watching other horsemen riding pointlessly in the distance. My boredom was assuaged by the vagaries of the subtitles.

The protagonist did everything but shoot with his left hand, and I got an inkling of who was about to figure in the plot when a bounty-hunter's name was revealed as Manco...

 <suspension_of_objection>
Yes I KNOW. If you know what's coming and object, stick with me. This is the story of my enlightenment.
 </suspension_of_objection>
...Spanish for "one-armed man". Manco was an appropriate nick-name for a gunfighter with this trait.

But the subtitle said Monco. I thought I had noticed an issue that is heightened when British ears meet American pronunciation of what in British English is /ɒ/ (the stressed vowel in "biology").

<???What's_he_on reason="Why not got or something?">
Trawling through *AL* words  for When Vowels Get Together vol. 2 –  Sonorants...

<inline_PPS>
I'm not sure what this link will do for you. You may need to instal the free Cloud ePub Reader (but the link could automagically enlist the aid of the Reader installed on my system).
<inline_PPS>
...found that areas of study, from astrology to zoology, were all -ologies, with one exception, genealogy. But some American English pronunciations of words that in British English have an /ɒ/ have a vowel not unlike the /æ/ used in British English to (sometimes) represent a written o.*

<inline_ps>
Here is the note I wrote in that book.
Perhaps because of the popularity of genealogy on the Internet, the American English pronunciation (which Cambridge Dictionary of American English gives as having either /æl/ or /ɑl/) is often misheard, misreported, and then mistakenly learnt as /ɒ/ and misspelt as geneology. As this is the only -alogy in English, it is possible that the erosion will continue, and that in 22nd-century English the a spelling will seem as old-fashioned as – for example – shew or 'bus does today.
</inline_ps>

The craze for genealogy is something I associate with the USA possibly because of the Mormons' records in Utah. Anyway when an American speaker says genealogy it's easy for a British English speaker to assume it's spelt geneology which has become a fairly common mistake (Google, after you've convinced it that you don't really want "genealogy" reports more than 1.5 million instances) My guess is that over the next hundred or so years (Global Warming Permitting) it will become increasingly common (and ultimately accepted as right).

That's why I gave biology as an example.
</???What's_he_on>

So when I saw Monco I assumed that the person writing the subtitles had simply misheard.

But the truth is much less interesting. The many script-writers (credited and uncredited, including Sergio Leone twice) were Italian, and Italian for one-handed is Monco. Of course, the idea of a bounty-hunter in an originally Spanish-speaking part of the world adopting an Italian nick-name is ridiculous; and if the thing had really happened he would have been called Manco.  But the mistake wasn't the subtitle-writer's; it was the script-writers'.

That's all for now. Time for guitar practice  –  a much simplified version of Albéniz's Leyenda (which I think, eerily, means "subtitle" [in some secondary meaning in a misremembered language that I don't have time to research])

b


Update: 2020,10.19.13.50 Added footnote

* Early readers may have noticed a typo here I initially put "a". Sorry, I find that not using the  IPA symbols gets very confusing.

Update: 2020,10.19.16.45 Added <inline_ps />

Update: 2020,10.19.17.15 Added <inline_pps />

Update: 2020,10.21.12.45 – Added confirmation of leyenda meaning.


Here, courtesy of Google Translate:


Knew I didn't dream it :-)

 



Saturday 10 October 2020

Where have I heard that before? (Take 2)

Today's excursion (taking a thought for a walk, whereas Klee took a line) is an idea I've looked at before (here, and probably other places – I often notice these things [and as often can't place the tunes]

Many years ago, when my ability to read music was even more hesitant than it is now, I found the score of Goodbye old paint in a collection  of American folk songs. It wasn't a melody I knew, but the book provided chord symbols and I eventually worked out A tune that fitted the harmonies. But my grasp of the actual notes petered out after the first phrase

When I later heard the Delius piece [HD – On hearing the first cuckoo in Spring] I thought  AHA. While Delius was living in Florida he must have been exposed to Goodbye Old Paint.

But the BBC has now disabused me of this. The Delius piece was not an original idea (although I've never been a stickler for originality – as I've said often enough in this blog,  here for example); he got it from Edvard Grieg who he was with in Leipzig in 1887...

Grieg's source was the Norwegian folk song In Ola valley, which he included in a collection of piano transcriptions in 1896. But as that radio programme made clear, the atmosphere of the piece was very different. The story behind In Ola Valley is rather Scandi Noir...

More here

(You may want to follow that link,  but here's a plot-spoiler: the falling third represents not a cuckoo but a bell tolling for a lost boy.)

My most recent AHA moment came in a guitar lesson ...

<background>
Between the late '60s and the mid '70s I was a folk-rock hero manqué. One of my most cherished memories of this time is of an American audience member at the folk club in the crypt at St Martin-in-the-Fields saying to me "You're subdood, but hit it"; I was never sure what this meant, but it felt encouraging.

My last public performance with a guitar was in an OUP Christmas Revue in 1979. (I appeared in the 1980 one as well, but sans guitar... 

<inline_ppps> 

(Captain Hook, the character I was playing, would've had trouble with the fingering.)

</inline_ppps> 

  Now, after 40 years, I've decided to learn properly.
</background>

... as I was stumbling through a Russian folk tune about a Little Tree in a Meadow (life's too short to track down the Cyrillic) I thought I recognized it.

<yawn reason="Everyone knows that">
Well I don't. I know that a favourite habit of some composers is to quote from folk songs, and if I had a decent musical education I could reel off umpteen examples. But no, apart from the Hovis advert (which everyone does know) I keep tripping over this stuff and it's always a surprise.

And it's not just folk songs. Watching The First Night of the Proms earlier this year I was struck by the similarity between Copland's Quiet City (at 24'45" in that programme) and Frank Loesser's My Time of Day . Maybe it's just the plaintive lone trumpet and the general atmosphere of deserted city streets (and they're both set in New York), but I wouldn't be at all surprised if there was some other theoretical clue in the music.  Loesser might well have heard the Copland piece (or vice versa – they both premiered in 1940. Come to think of it, they might both have borrowed it from somewhere else).

I discuss another example (but the Devil's music this time [Clapton's Wonderful Tonight and Handel's Silent Worship] here). And that song brings to mind another musical quotation which brings us back to folk; in one of Cream's songs [I'll have to look it up] Jack Bruce's bass line is The Cutty Wren.
</yawn>

After a false alarm when I thought I'd placed it in the 1812 (at 8'10")...

<inline_PS>
(in my defence, the two songs are both in the Dorian mode.

<mnemonicsʁus>
On the piano's white notes, the Dorian mode starts with D.
</mnemonicsʁus>

</inline_PS> >

... I found it in the same composer's  Fourth Symphony (it first appears at 0'15" into the 4th movement, but is restated several times).

That's all for now. I may revisit this next week (Sunday's a day of rest) with an update about my time with "the fastest balalaika player in the West".

b

Update: 2020.10.13.14:10 – added < inline_PS /> and PPS

PPS: That folk song mentions a balalaika; I know only a handful of Russian words,  but balalaika leaps out of the jumble of foreign sounds – that is, most of it does (the last syllable seems a bit /u/-ish to me, but I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason for that). 

Anyway, listening to it reminded me of my time as Boris the Accompanist, supporting Bibs Ekkel, the fastest balalaika player in the West. If you saw a film or TV drama that called for a balalaika-playing extra, if it was made in the 1970s or '80s it was probably Bibbs. (IMDB cites more recent films, so maybe he was younger than he looked). It was Bibbs who introduced me to the idea of practice rewards  – Stolichnaya in his case.

When we first met, he asked  exciting questions like Had I got a passport? and How soon could I fly to Israel? (he had worked on cruise ships; I think the Israel  gig was a figment of his imagination. But the furthest afield we ever got was a restaurant in South Kensington, where he was constantly asked to play Lara's Theme, which he despised (to the extent of not telling me the chords, so we couldn't rehearse – and this was in the pre-Youtube days, when research like that was a less trivial matter).


Update: 2020.10.28.16:20 – added < inline_PPPS />








Thursday 1 October 2020

Well said, that man

In this week's Start the Week on BBC Radio 4, Rowan Williams was talking about his new book The Way of St Benedict., which led me to think about the many appearances of Benedict in my life.

The first was as near home as you can get. When looking for a house to buy, my father had three priorities: nearness to church, RC school, and Ealing studios (in that order). He got the first two spot on: the church and the school were within walking distance. The journey to Ealing Studios (where he worked at the time)  would have taken a little longer – maybe 15-20 minutes in the Standard Vanguard (known, for reasons I  never questioned, as "the Green Lizard"):

The church and school were named for St Benedict, as was indirectly... 

<parenthesis>
Very indirectly. Father Ben (sic  – younger and trendier than most of his peers) named the youth club he started after the bird that figured on the school's emblem: "the Corbie":

 

<subparenthesis>  
And there are twa. I wonder.... Probably not though. I suspect the corbies were just a heraldic pun referring to the great Benedictine foundation in Picardy: Corbie Abbey. (Although perhaps the designer of those arms knew the song.) 
</subparenthesis>
</parenthesis>

... the folk club that was the scene of my first guitar-related efforts.

Benoît ....

<you-at-the-back command="Wake up">
Do I really need to point out that this is one of several French names cognate with "Benedict"?
</you-at-the-back>

... was "my" member of the Regnault family, who lived in Motteville.

<background-info>
Throughout the 1960s my family took part in a number of exchange visits with a family made up of conveniently spaced children. Jo exchanged with Odile, Mick with Denis, Angela with Vincent, I with Benoît, and Yag [don't ask] with Nicolas (note the names; we were matched in religion, an important consideration at the time,  as well as age).
</background-info>

Which brings me to Bene't – presumably the anglicized version of Benoît.  My college at Cambridge was built next to St Benet's Church – and at one time was known colloquially as "Bene't College". The church stands in Bene't Street, scene of a bit of unconsummated ésprit d'éscalier recounted here

A few years ago I was in Cambridge, and missed a trick. I was at the front of the crowdlet in front of the Chronophage [HD: See here], and a tourist behind  me wondered aloud what the inscription meant: 

Mundus transit, et concupiscentia ejus 
It took me a while to work it out, as two of the less obvious words (everything except transitet and ejus) had glyphs that hid the letters un and en behind the conventional stone mason's tilde, giving ũ and . But what it says could be rendered as The world passes, as does its concupiscence. (I think the comma justifies my as does).

The trick I missed was the opportunity to give the tourists the impression that round every corner (the Chronopage is on the corner of Bene't St) in Cambridge there lurks a Vulgar Latinist. (And if you want to know more about concupiscence, read that post.)

There are other Benedicts in my life; a nephew, the celebrant of my little sister's wedding, the patron saint of Europe (who seems to have taken his eye off the ball spectacularly in the last few years), my choir's multi-talented accompanist ...

But what of my subject line, particularly the expression well said?  Well, according to Wikipedia, ...

Etymologically it [HD: Benedict] is derived from the Latin words bene ('good') and dicte ('speak'), i.e. "well spoken" [HD:my emphasis] 

...which strikes me as broadly true (though I wonder what 'dicte "speak"' is supposed to  mean...

<tangent>
Why the inflexion -e on dicte? Why cite a root in the ablative? I suspect the writer had only a passing acquaintance (if that) with Latin, and maybe once had a penpal called Bénédicte.
</tangent>

...) but crucially irrelevant. A person who in Latin is benedictus is not "well-spoken" but is BLESSÉD*. In the words of the Sanctus "he who comes in the way name of the Lord" is blesséd:

Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini

<tangent>
"He who comes in the way name of the Lord is well-spoken?" Just as well, really. We don't want any of those ill-spoken yobs coming in the name of the Lord.  What would people think?
</tangent>

The speaker of the good things is Himself – and it would be either anathema or pointless or meaningless (depending on your beliefs) to pass judgment on His elocution.

That's all for now

b

Update: 2020.10.02.10:05 – Added PS

PS

When listing Benedicts in my life, I missed an obvious one, which I might have remembered if I'd read the WCS rehearsal schedule for last night before I hit Publish. We were due to sing the Benedictus  from Beethoven's Mass in C (although in the rehearsal we overran on the Credo and didn't get round to it).

<parenthesis>
And when I said "in the words of the Sanctus " I meant it. Most composers treat the Sanctus and the Benedictus as separate movements (though often there is an actual or implied attaca linking the two, and each is followed by a Hosanna with broadly the same notes). But the Benedictus is part of the same prayer – at least it was in my altar-boy days.
</parenthesis>

Update: 2020.10.09.10.15 – Fixed misquote. Mea maxima culpa.

Update: 2020.10.24.14.15 – Added footnote

* I've just become aware of a case of contrasted benedicts versus Bad Lots that will be well-known to singers of various Requiems. The Ur-Requiem in my mind is Mozart's: in the Confutatis maledictis an ominous figure in the lower voices is interrupted by an angelic Voca me cum benedictis in the upper voices ("Call me [to be/to stand/to stay] with the blesséd [as opposed to the maledictis]. The music forces an interpretation that isn't strictly there in the prayer. The infernal tune and lower voices mark the maledicti. The angelic tune and upper voices stand for the benedicti ...

<inline-p4s>
(strictly, I suppose, benedictae)
</inline-p4s>

.... But in the prayer there is only one voice – that of a soul awaiting judgment: "When the wrong-doers have been condemned to Hell [confutatis maledictis] ...

<inline-pps>
(Some of the more attentive readers, if not deprived of the schooling in Latin that is everyone's birthright,  may have recognized the ablative absolute here –  "Caesar having thrown a bridge across the river" sort of thing.)
</inline-pps>
 ...call me ...". It's a bit like when a teacher is choosing the worthiest in the class: "Ooh me, pick me".

Update: 2021.03.31.15:00 – Added <inline-pps />

Update: 2021.12.22.11:35 – Added PPPS

PPPS

I've only just learnt, from an alumni magazine [incidentally, I wonder when "old boys/girls" became "alumn-i/-ae"] of another instance of "Benedict" turning up in my back-story: this fore-runner of that termly publication:

The Benedict was first published in 1898, and continued under that name (with a break in 1914-18) until 1928.


Update: 2022.12.31.15:00 – Added <inline-p4s>