Guy Fawkes Night; What's it all about and why do we celebrate?

In two weeks time celebrations will reign across England. Flames will cackle at the wood by which they are fueled. Fireworks will soar and light up the night sky. Aluminum foil will blacken around the jacket potatoes housed within. And drinks will most certainly be drunk.

“Remember, remember the Fifth of November” is a phrase well known in the United Kingdom. Over 400 years have passed since the plot to destroy London’s Houses of Parliament was thwarted, yet Guy Fawkes Night (also popularly known as Bonfire, or Fireworks Night) remains a highly celebrated occasion in most of the UK, and even some of its former colonies.

As a Canadian writer living in London, whose awareness of the historical event was limited to that told in the blockbuster film V for Vendetta, I wanted to know more about what drew so many people out of their homes each year to join in the festivities.

So I went to my most obvious source and the person with whom I plan to celebrate the occasion: my Oxford-born girlfriend.

“It’s about Guy Fawkes. He tried to blow up Parliament,” she told me. I agreed, but asked again why it was a celebration and what exactly were people celebrating. “Hm. Don’t know really.”

I asked some friends in London. Nothing. I asked some people sitting in Starbucks as I drank my morning coffee. Nope. I asked the gentleman sitting next to me on the tube. Nada.

And then I came to the conclusion that, like Christmas has become a celebration of gifts and family, like Boxing Day has become a celebration of shops with slashed prices, like Easter has become a celebration of chocolate bunnies and painted eggs; the origins and the purpose of celebrating Guy Fawkes Night has long been forgotten by many (if not most) Londoners.

Guy Fawkes was one of 13 English Catholic conspirators involved in hatching the Gunpowder Plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament on 5 November, 1605. The Plot was led by Sir Robert Catesby, who was believed to be disappointed and angered when King James turned out to be much less tolerant of religion than his followers had hoped.

Most people today seem to have a general idea of how things unfolded. Fawkes was elected to set 36 barrels of gunpowder in a cellar directly underneath the House of Lords during the State Opening of the Parliament, killing the King. But an anonymous letter was revealed to authorities and to the King, who ordered the building searched until Fawkes was eventually found patrolling the gunpowder and all the necessary tools to set the building to dust.

On 7 November, Fawkes succumbed to his torturers, revealing the entire plot and all those involved. All 13 were either arrested and executed, or killed resisting their capture.

But does that explain the bonfires, burning effigies, and fireworks? Did Britons love their monarchy so dearly that the foiled plot gave them cause to shoot lights into the air and set stuffed-Fawkes dummies alight, continuing still even four centuries later? Not quite.

The year following the Gunpowder Plot, Parliament passed the Thanksgiving Act, making 5 November an official annual event on which sermons would be given to commemorate the spoiling of the Plot. Coincidentally, this occurred at the same time as the pagan Gaelic festival, Samhain. This overlap is where the flames factor in.

Samhain was celebrated to mark the end of the harvest season, what Gaels called the ending “lighter half”, and the beginning of the “darker half”. They saw the dying crops associated with end of harvest as the time of year when the gap between this world and the “other” was the thinnest, allowing the dead of the otherworld to take life from the living. Bonfires were the most prominent symbol in recognizing the occasion and they were used to cleanse the living.

The Gaels celebrated Samhain in full mask and costume, which they believed might placate the spirits of the otherworld. Turnips were hollowed and carved into faced lanterns. All traditions that eventually would make their way into Christian-celebrated All Hallow’s Day on 1 November and All Hallow’s Eve on 31 October; which has evolved into today’s secular Halloween.

Part of the Samhain celebration was the burning of a masked and costumed dummy that was thrown into the fire. After the Thanksgiving Act passed and Britons celebrated the foiling of Guy Fawkes alongside Samhain, the dummy, dubbed a “guy”, over time became a personification of Guy himself. This gave rise to the UK tradition of holding a bonfire, setting things alight, and watching an effigy of Guy Fawkes slow-roast. The Thanksgiving Act remained law until 1859, but the festive celebrations live on.

                So this Guy Fawkes Night when someone coyly remarks, “Remember, remember the Fifth of November,” you should certainly have no reasons as to why, “it should ever be forgot.”

My night out at the Royal Albert Hall

Royal Albert Hall at night

I have never been a fan of classical music. Screaming guitar riffs and pounding drum solos have always taken precedence on my iPod over screechy violins and weeping cellos. And as I wait for my host for the evening I begin to regret ever accepting the invitation to sit through multiple hours of the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra, a performance to which I've been persuaded with an "extra ticket".


As she turns the corner a few dozen yards away, I catch the eye of my company for the night; a former co-worker from my college job at a clothing store that specializes in over-priced jeans and flashy crystal-studded shirts. On her arm is her new beau, a successful Hollywood special effects man and the gracious donor of the now-dreaded extra ticket. I hug my old friend and introduce myself to her hubby, thanking him through my teeth for having insisted that I join them. He asks if I ever enjoy classical in my spare time. I lie.


There is one detail of the night, however, that as we stroll towards our destination has me hopeful and excited that I may still enjoy myself: the venue.


"Have you ever been to the Albert Hall?", he asks me. I hadn't, despite an interest since I'd seen a documentary featuring the site in some forgotten period of my yet earlier youth. As I answer, the corner of my mouth curls up at my first distant view of the Hall as it emanates every bit of grandeur I had expected.


The Royal Albert Hall was the brain-child of Prince Albert after the 1851 Great Exhibition, held in Hyde Park, which prompted the Prince Consort to propose construction of new grounds to permanently exhibit the Arts and Sciences and educate the public. Sadly, Prince Albert died ten years before the Hall's completion and grand opening on 29 March, 1871.


The exterior design makes the building one of the most recognizable in London. The influence of Ancient Greek or Roman amphitheatres is immediately apparent in the work of the Hall's designers, civil engineers Captain Francis Fowke and Major-General Henry Y. D. Scott. Its elliptical body consists of Fareham Red brick and terra cotta. Around the building stretches a large mosaic frieze, illustrating various scenes titled "The Triumph of the Arts and Sciences"; the cause to which the Hall was commissioned.


Atop the stunning red building sits its most defining feature, a 41-metre-high glass and iron dome. At the time of construction in 1869, the roof was, "the largest of its kind ever to span an unsupported space".


While London school children popularly purport The Albert as the home to Hitler's, er... lost private part, the interior has served far greater purposes. The Albert has been home to performances from Rachmaninov to Led Zeppelin, from Wagner to Sinatra, from The Beatles to Jay-Z. It has housed
speeches from world leaders such as Her Majesty The Queen, Sir Winston Churchill, Nelson Mandela, and the Dalai Lama.


I step into the entrance hallway through Door 6, and maneuver through crowds of concert-goers and classical enthusiasts, most mingling at the bar and chatting over glasses of champagne and wine. The usher checks my ticket and points me through a doorway into the Hall.


I can't help but grin. It's stunning. I'm struck by a wave of deep red, every bit in keeping with the Hall's "Royal" title. The chairs in the first section of seating that surround the floor and stage are covered in rich scarlett velvet with aged golden frames. The private boxes are framed by scarlett drapes and white Ionic columns with scroll-shaped capitals resting at their tops. The sectioned seats wrap all the way around behind the stage and underneath the masterpiece of the room; the second largest organ in the British Isles, boasting 9,999 pipes.



At the height of the room, suspended from the roof, are a series of large discs, or "mushrooms", as they are commonly called. I think back to the documentary in an effort to recall their purpose. The discs had been installed in the late 1960s to remedy problems with the building's acoustics. The grand opening, nearly 100 years earlier, had revealed that the acoustics of the room had not been entirely thought through and the Hall was plagued by a noticeable echo.


As the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic take the stage, led by conductor Vasily Petrenko, stragglers shuffle into their respective rows. They murmur "thank you"s and flash insincere smiles to the early-birds who muddle their discontent at being removed from their chairs time and time again.


The stage comfortably houses the massive orchestra. My eyes adjust as the house lights dim, leaving only the spotlight to illuminate the orchestra in an electric blue, which contrasts the scarlett room beautifully. The orchestra begins and I'm delighted to discover that I recognize several of the opening pieces. I can't quite put a name to them until I'm later told, but the simple sense of familiarity fills me with a false sense of belonging at the event.


The music continues as Petrenko passionately conducts his orchestra and guest soloists enter and exit the stage at the behest of the cheering crowd. I couldn't care less, but I'm still entertained. Not by the orchestra, or Petrenko, or the series of FM Radio hosts emcee'ing the evening, but by the room itself. I feel part of something older than me. Bigger than me. Something truly royal.


The orchestra concludes the evening with Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture", cannons and all, and I bustle towards the exit with my hosts and the rest of the sold-out crowd. After a few extra moments of mingling, I thank my new and old friend and I head home, happy. Classical music may not have swept me off my feet, but a classic venue did.

Kings of Leon: "Come Around Sundown" album review.

Kings of Leon: Come Around Sundown

(RCA: 2010)

               The Followill brothers (and cousin) that make up Kings of Leon have found themselves at a crossroad. Fans of their earlier work have had no hesitation in voicing their discontent with what they see as the sellout of an immensely talented indie southern rock band. Yet their last release, Only By The Night – mainstream though it may be – shot the Tennessee group into unmatched global spotlight and success.

                Lead singer and song-writer Caleb has struggled with both the criticism and the success very publicly, one minute on a strong defensive that his music hasn’t changed; the next openly shunning the fan base that supported him from the start for which he now, apparently, has no need. On 18 October, the Kings of Leon dropped their latest release, Come Around Sundown, an album much anticipated by fans old and new.

                Come Around Sundown, to the dismay of the old, surely foreshadows a continued path down sold-out stadiums and screaming teenage fans. The album is laden with anthem-like vocal hooks and radio-rock guitar riffs, definitively stamping Kings of Leon with what many have called the “U2 Effect”.

                But mainstream doesn’t always have to be a bad thing, and in this case, it’s not. Come Around Sundown may not have the grungy, garage-rock sound of Youth and Young Manhood, nor does it have whimsical lyrics about erectile dysfunction that fans came to love in Aha Shake Heartbreak, but it does represent yet another powerful release by a band that has proven to be brimming with rock.

                Come Around Sundown has a huge sound. “The Face,” stands out as a slow-rock power ballad that conjures images of stadium crowds swaying on rhythm with thrown backs heads singing full-force into the sky. “Radioactive,” the band’s first single from the release, throws the listener into a face-paced, guitar-driven chorus where Caleb seems to question the band’s origins and its future, “When the road is called up yonder/ I hope you see me there.”

               

                The album is not without the Tennessee twist that has defined the sound of their earlier albums. “Back Down South,” features a twanging country guitar riff combined with tambourine quarter-notes and Caleb’s trailing raspy vocals proclaiming, “I’m going back down south now.”

                Come Around Sundown is sure to be another hit album for the Followills, there is little question about that. What will be interesting to see is how the band handles that success. When Caleb and his family lament over their fame and riches, it’s tempting to want to shake them and say, “You’re famous. Get over it.” As it is equally tempting to say their nostalgic, soured apostles, “They’re famous. Get over it.”

The Kings of Leon’s music has changed, no doubt, but does change really have to be such a bad thing?

Sufjan Stevens: "The Age of Adz" album review

Sufjan Stevens: The Age of Adz
(Asthmatic Kitty Records - 2010)

Fans of Sufjan Stevens have been on their toes for another state concept album since his 2005 masterpiece, Illinois. While I was never keen on his early experimental and electronic records, Stevens' 50 State Project - one album for each U.S. state - launched his music to the top of the "most anticipated" list for me and many others.

When The Avalanche: Outtakes and Extras from the Illinois Album followed a year later, it seemed that Stevens was so full of musical ingenuity and a burning desire to combine research with melody that even a b-sides release could leave listeners glued to their headphones. Perhaps it was naivety, perhaps it was simply wishful thinking, but there was a window of obsessive fandom where I really believed that there was hope for all 50 albums.

That bubble was burst in an interview with The Guardian in 2009, when Stevens said, "I have no qualms about admitting that [the 50 States Project] was a promotional gimmick."

The Age of Adz, Stevens' latest album to be officially released on 12 October, puts to rest any concern among fans of Michigan and Illinois that his music will suffer the same fate as the remaining 48 states.
Adz combines Stevens' early experimentation in electronic mixing with the beautiful song-writing; quiet, melodic vocals; and varied instrumentals of his State albums. Stevens' lyrics are deep and thoughtful, exploring questions in his own life, his past loves, his faith, and his grasp on reality. While listeners won't get an adventure about the dark secrets of infamous American serial killers, as they did with Illinois, Adz takes you into Stevens' mind as he reflects on his own skeletons. The result is an absolutely mesmerizing package of songs that, through his trademark haunting vocals, leave the listener stricken with emotion. The Age of Adz is Stevens' best work yet.

The opening track, "Futile Devices" introduces the album with a soft and repetitive guitar riff, shortly followed by quiet, echoing vocals. It's immediately clear that those expecting a return of the bouncing horns and fun instrumentals heard in Illinois and The Avalanche can dash any hopes of a "feel good" record. "Words are futile devices." Stevens' sings as the short, two-minute track cuts out.

Subsequent songs suggest new musical influences in Stevens' writing. Mixed, rythmic bass lines reoccur across the album; some reminiscent of Stevens' earlier experimentation, as can be heard in "Too Much"; while others pulse heavily and walk a fine line between electronic and hip-hop, like those in "I Walked". "Get Real Get Right" features a hook recorded in robotic vocals that had me immediately drawing parallels between it and Kanye West's "Stronger". Even as he plays on the edges of different genres, Stevens remains careful not to alienate fans of his eerie voice and thought-provoking lyrics by maintaining softer, melodic vocal accompaniment throughout.

The title track, "Age of Adz", personifies the perfect marriage between the old Sufjan and the new. Metrical pulses are combined with dancing violins and fleeting horns that, together, create an emotional tension, which is finally released by a lone guitar and Stevens' quiet singing. He questions the value of his life and to what he has amounted. Instrumentals and emotions rise together as Stevens apologizes for being "consumed with selfish thoughts/ It's only that I/ Still love you deeply/ It's all the love I've got" with almost-angelic choir accompaniment as the song winds to an end.

"I Want To Be Well" suggests Stevens' uncertainty with his subconscious and grip on reality. It's a dark and fascinating song as he questions his "twisted thoughts" and pleas to get better. The refrain, repeated over and over, sings, "I'm not f*cking around/I want to be well".

While The Age of Adz is not what advocates of the 50 State Project were hoping for, it surpasses expectations of quality music on every level. The 11-track, 80-minute album has not a single low point. There may never be a New York or a California on the way, but Stevens' talent for inspiring music is far from lost.