Every man thy ear, few thy voice

Paul Buchanan's first album at 56
Mid Air is a collection of 13 ballads and an instrumental, recorded at some 3am of the soul, in the cell in the tower of song a few storeys above where Leonard Cohen is eternally recording Songs From A Room, Sinatra is composing “Where Are You?” and Tom Waits is working on Small Change. It barely rises above murmur and sigh, the clang of the night-train, the chime of the city clock, the foghorn from the docks.

It’s also, it almost goes without saying, magnificent. But here is a record that in its determinedly modest way – Buchanan describes it as a “record-ette” and apparently toyed with titling it “Minor Poets Of The Seventeenth Century” – matches their immaculate ’80s albums A Walk Across The Rooftops and Hats. It’s no great departure; it’s more like a refinement or elaboration of latent possibilities in the earlier music. In a way, Mid Air revisits the deep, still pool of Rooftops’ “Easter Parade” and explores the musical and emotional space as though it were a new ocean.

“Easter Parade”, in fact, always felt like the first draft of an ideal Blue Nile torch song, one that Buchanan pursued keenly down the years, across the classic early B-side “Regret” (“It’s 3.30 and I’m thinking of you…”) , Hats’ “From A Late Night Train” and Peace At Last’s “Family Life”.

Mid Air amounts to 14 enigmatic variations on this mood, just piano, voice, the occasional pale moonbeam of orchestration, which miraculously never feels monotonous or morose. This is partly due to the songs’ brevity (none lasts more than three minutes) and the spare neon-haiku imagism of Buchanan’s words. The title track lists “the buttons on your collar, the colour of your hair”, like the ingredients in a spell to conjure someone’s presence, while “Wedding Party” is not much more than a handful of snapshots – “tears in the carpark”, “a long walk in the wrong dress”, “I was drunk when I danced with the bride” – that seem to condense lifetimes of regret. But it’s also down to Buchanan’s peerlessly evocative croon. From a country known for its bluster and bravado (from the sublime – Billy Mackenzie – to the ridiculous – Jim Kerr), Buchanan signifies heartsick soul-storms with little more than the muttered, broken “yeah…” that closes the final song, “After Dark”.

It is an effortless portrait of life in all its simple glories and heartaches. Remarkably wonderful.

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story.

The end of the school year is always filled with mixed emotions. There is the overriding exhaustion of an unfit 40 year old. There is the apprehension felt for my students as they go face to face with the toughest exam that they'll ever likely face.There is certainly the optimistic vista of the summer holidays, the travel, time with the children and all that brings with it and there is also the regret at losing students whose company you've enjoyed in the classroom and on extra curricular activities.
 Every year, I am asked by my leaving certificates if I will miss them. I rarely answer honestly. I could say of course, you were the best ever, but that is too facetious. I could say another year another group, you lot are just another over the last eighteen years of teaching but that is far from true too. I've always loved the coda to Damien Rice's song The Blower's Daughter: "I can't take my eyes of of you"............... Until I find somebody new."
 I honestly believe that each student I teach affects my teaching profoundly. I was proudly presented with a plaque last year by my leaving cert students it bore a quote from Henry Adams:"A teacher affects eternity he can never tell, where his influence stops." The significance of this is profoundly overwhelming. But I must say "right back at ya!".
 My thought process, my educational philosophy, my view of people and my core beliefs have been changed by the fact that my profession is teaching and therefore by the students that I have taught. This year's leaving cert class are an exceptional bunch of thinkers and I am grateful for having known them. I have been blessed that as a group they are exceptional writers and incredibly creative. They have an admirable work ethic which will stand to them forever.
 My school will miss them. I will miss them............... Until I find somebody new.

new blog time

You know sometimes when you think out loud?I have a problem! I do it all the time. Today in class, I started rambling as is my wont. I was congratulating one of my fine erudite young students on being accepted for his drama course. I told him that it is a rare treat to make your hobby your profession. I also confessed that if I hadn't been waylaid into the teaching profession, my dream job would have been to be a critic; a food critic, a TV or film critic, a book critic  it doesn't matter. A number of students simultaneously proffered the view; why not now? as only a seventeen or eighteen year old can. I offered the usual excuses that any forty year old balding fat man can; mortgage, kids, time. As has been proved many times over the past two years they are wiser than I. (Collectively at least). This blog is the result of that discussion.
One of the great virtues of being an English teacher is the opportunities that it gives you to see great writing being written and subsequently the urge to help somebody make that great writing even better. While we criticize as teachers, the best of us only do it to allow our students improve that which is already there.
I love Ego's speech at the end of Ratatouille:
In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations, the new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new, an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto: Anyone can cook. But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere.
I hope to use this blog to thrive on positive criticism. To celebrate books, food, tv, film, teaching, parenting, sport and all the rest and I hereby dedicate my ramblings to my Leaving Certificate Class of 2012.