A rambling collection of personal thoughts, feelings, and experiences of popular culture, with serialised creative writing woven in for good measure. Social formality not included, so beware. Filled with natural human error.
Outside time. Across worlds. Between rivers. Two children in ancient Mesopotamia become unwitting emissaries to heaven and the underworld, as gods and humans go to war over honour, love, and destiny. This work of historical-fantasy fiction contains period morality which may unsettle some readers.
PART TWO
OF THE YOUNG THIEF AND HIS ORDEAL AT THE COPPER RIVER
CHAPTER ONE
“Wake up, child!”
The alarmed voice barrelled across the royal tent, waking its one remaining inhabitant, as the roar of the natural storm outside, sent by the god Iskur, and the thunder of battle, brought by the besieged city of Lagash, finally calmed to a dull moan.
“You may go home now, the battle is over.” Said the voice, a weak stutter noticeably present.
The young scribe of Umma sat up from his rug in the corner far from where the men of power would usually lounge. But such men were no longer to be seen. The scribe rubbed his eyes and gazed about the tent for the owner of the voice.
“Who goes there?!” The boy said, crossing his legs and wincing keenly into the torch-broken darkness.
“Your master will not be returning.” Said the voice, a shadow flickering by the seat of the absent king. “You have done good work at his side. He loved you, boy, which is known amongst the scribes of Lagash. But now you must go home to your mother!”
The scribe leaned on one arm and rested a tired head against his shoulder.
“But… where is everyone?!” The boy said, wary of the shadow stalking about the private and holy domain.
There was a pause from the shadow, which seemed to be examining tablets and treasures.
“They are all in the field, bathed in blood, awaiting their journey to the underworld. But this is no longer your concern, child.” The shadow said, before an audible rattle of objects belonging to the Lugal of Umma broke the silence. “Take what you will, and go home to your mother.”
The scribe considered this, then sighed.
“Well, I will have letters to deliver. Has the master left any for me?!” He said, slipping his white linen tunic over his head and down to his bare buttocks.
“You will deliver no more letters, child.” Said the voice. “There is no-one left to dictate them, and there is no-one left to read them.”
The young scribe scrunched his face up in confusion. As he sat there, unsure, on his beloved rug, the mysterious owner of the voice began a fire in the centre of the tent. There was a crackle as the fire happily consumed a bloodied royal standard. The scribe pretended not to notice this offensive act, then pushed himself onto his sore feat and began searching about his corner of the tent.
“My belt.” He said, worriedly. “I have lost my belt!”
There was a snap from the fire, embers from which began to make smaller fires nearby. The shadowy figure grunted to acknowledge the scribe’s complaint and the quickly spreading flames.
“Take any belt you desire, boy, no one will be coming back for the meaningless things about you. They will all soon join their owners in the underworld.” The shadow said in a haunted murmur.
The scribe’s face brightened as he rushed over to the corner usually occupied by the Lugal of Umma’s brave guard. The sureness of his direction suggested he had been dreaming of such a moment for quite some time. His hands clasped a heavily-jewelled leather belt that rested over a broken shield of Umma.
“May I have this one, whomever you are?!” The boy said, his eyes sparkling with the hope of one who has never known fortune.
“You may.” Said the shadow. “It is your final payment from your king.”
“And first.” The boy muttered, in a disgruntled fashion.
The scribe fixed the belt around his small waist and, for the first time since he had been rudely awoken, examined the shadowy figure that now stood only a few feet away. The figure was that of a stocky man in his mid-twenties, who wore the uniform of an unfamiliar army. The uniform, much to the boy’s dismay, was freshly torn and smeared with the blood of its wearer.
“The master does not accept unclean fashion within his camp.” Said the precocious scribe, taking one cautious step back, while his fingers still caressed the prized new apparel about his frame.
“There will be a new master now, child. Here,” the soldier held out his hand, which contained a small pouch with his master’s insignia embroidered upon it, “there are gobbets of silver and lapis lazuli within, take them home to your mother and hide yourself beneath her bosom!”
The scribe stepped forward and, allowing a moment of fearful hesitation to pass, pulled the pouch from the soldier’s grasp. The scribe loosened the string that bound the pouch’s opening, peering inside. There were, indeed, at least ten of the finest metal and stone gobbets gleaming back up at him.
“You have been a loyal servant.” Said the soldier. “Be sure to stay off the roads and tell your sweet mother to hide her valuables well.”
At this, the scribe’s eyes snapped back up at the soldier, who himself turned and pushed aside the mouth of the tent.
“I do have a father too, you know.” Said the scribe, with fiery indignation.
But no response came.
The strange soldier simply stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, taking stock of the hellish vision that apparently lay before him.
“The next few days will be difficult for everyone.” Said the soldier, wiping dirt and tears from his cheek with the back of his broken hand. “So much change is coming!”
“Thank you, sir.” Said the scribe, unsurely,, tying his sandals as quickly as he could. He did not know what had transpired beyond the tend flap, or what would happen once he found his way home. All he knew was that he had to get away from this cryptic, maudlin individual who did not seem concerned by the inferno consuming the royal tent.
“Do not turn back, boy.” Said the soldier, still mesmerised by the landscape outside. “Just keep running. Run and run and run until you are in your mother’s arms!”
The scribe nodded, somewhat fruitlessly.
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”
The scribe folded his rug and slipped it, along with the pouch of treasures, into his satchel, which he slung over his head and adjusted until it was comfortably in place. As he moved to the canvass flap at the end furthest away from the gloomy soldier, the stocky man spun around in sudden realisation.
“What is your name, child?!” He said, a look of fear in his eyes.
“Anzu.” Said the scribe, raising a hand to wave goodbye. “Why is it so important, sir?”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Anzu. My name is Ninurta.” Said the soldier, mirroring the scribe’s friendly wave.”I must know, should I live to sing a song of our encounter and the great battle that preceded it!”
Anzu smiled and nodded respectfully as he allowed the canvass flap to drop behind him.
NOTE: The below article discusses music that features young singers, but the article itself is not really intended for the eyes of sensitive young readers or their even-more-sensitive guardians, so please bear this in mind. No refunds or returns or ifs or buts or coconuts blah blah blah.
Well, here’s something new for me! Can I constructively analyse the work of a music producer alone, or will I go wildly off-topic and just focus on the guitars?! Truly no mean feat. However, being an amateur, albeit professionally-trained, sound engineer myself, this challenge should be easy enough for me to conquer, surely. But, hey, there’s a reason why I’m an amateur still. An amateur at everything. I suppose, in a way, the work of a producer is easier to single out when it involves pop music. My vastly inexperienced assumption is that a pop producer directs a singer and gaggle of session musicians to create the producer’s musical vision, not necessarily the singer’s. By contrast, a rock band will navigate the direction of their own sound in the studio, whilst the producer acts simply as an engineer, plugging in this and pressing down that.
You know, a real “just shut up and hit record when we say” sort of thing, which I’ve heard is sometimes how it unfortunately goes.
The Dutch music collective, Kinderen voor Kinderen (henceforth referred to simply as “KvK”) has released an album and produced an all-singing-all-dancing live television show every year since 1980. They feature song ideas suggested by kids who have written in, which are then translated into songs by dedicated adult songsmiths and produced into tracks by more adults, then eventually sung and performed live by auditioned kids. Again, they do this each and every year, as if it’s a national holiday. I’ve got to give the Dutch people respect for this, as any other country in the world would get bored of the whole damn thing after a handful of halfhearted tries.
45 years this has been going on.
From what I can tell, KvK started off being the equivalent of a school’s end-of-year class performance, paying a heavy tribute to music hall acts of the late-1800s and early-1900s. I don’t believe it was really aimed at children. More likely, it was really for nostalgic grandparents with rose-tinted memories of a bygone age, bored parents to suffer through, and children to fear having to be roped into. Except for a minor blip in 1983, when the producers of 4 attempted to inject some modern pop styles, including ska and punk, into the fold, things remained pretty much the same for ten-long-years. They were all dated vaudevillian romps, usually driven by a piano, that were actually very cute and specifically designed around a final stage performance. I can guarantee you that not one child in the 1980s enjoyed this early concept. They were probably aware of it, of course, but they no doubt had other musical fish to fry.
While I have no hard facts at my disposal, due to most of KvK’s official online resources being fun visual stuff for kids, I’m gonna go ahead and assume that television viewership for KvK’s “Grotte Show” each year had severely dwindled by the time 1990 hit. The grandparents who enjoyed this stuff in 1980 were now probably all dead, and variety acts were becoming very rare indeed. The 90s would bring indie rock and edgy magazine programs to the mainstream, with regional accents kicking out antiquated broadcasters, who punished us all with their condescending posh voices.
Henk Temming, who had been producing independently for, coincidentally, as long as KvK had been going by 1990 and who also had been in some bands himself, would have a rejuvenating influence on the creaky Dutch music collective. Just like how film director Martin Campbell breathed life back into the James Bond series twice with Goldeneye and Casino Royale, as would Temming jumpstart KvK with 11, 23, and 24.
11 (1990)
A new decade. A new sound. The exact same year gangly slapstick comedian Tom Hanks decided to start being serious and win Oscars, as did KvK decide it could no longer continue making embarrassing music hall skits for nobody. It was time to take a look at that fourth album and figure out why it was so interesting. And so they did, bringing in experienced pop producer Henk Temming to brush away the cobwebs and liven things up somewhat. I believe KvK now has its own dedicated studio in Amsterdam, the grand glass foyer of which features in many of their more budget-minded music videos, but I’ll bet they hit the road to independent studios and performing arts academies a lot in the early years. Again, I have no facts at my disposal, this just feels like what would have probably happened. Now the kids come to them, having to suffer through anxiety-inducing cattle calls for selection. Fun, fun, fun! How I would describe Temming’s signature sound, which I’m sure he would disagree with, is the inclusion of a consistent, bouncing, electronic rhythm. No sudden moves in the beat or change in tempo are present, but he does rely on some very creative low-end rhythms, especially with the bass guitars. I actually wonder whether he’s a bass player himself, as these parts are particularly interesting on these three albums. The two standout tracks on 11 are, for me, “The Achtertuin” and “Ik Wil Nog Dit, Ik Wil Nog Dat”, with the former being about two kids playing in their titular back garden, while the latter is about a 10-year-old boy lamenting age catching up with him. Yup, the lyrical themes were starting to get way darker. “The Achtertuin” has a surprisingly sombre edge to it, with its descending bass notes undercutting the joyful theme of the song. “Ik Wil Nog Dit, Ik Wil Nog Dat” has a colourfully spiky keyboard intro and organic percussion driving it forward, pushing faster and faster until its sudden conclusion. The track that I would earmark as being “quintessentially Henk Temming” is “Omzichtbaar”. It has the key tempo-belying-tone quality I mentioned above, so much so that it actually could be on any of these three albums. The man is nothing if not consistent! The preceding “Allemaal Kebaal” should have been 11’s opening track, with the fact that it isn’t I’d say is a failing of Temming’s, or whomever had final cut regarding the tracklist. But, hey, “Onderweg” is nearly as strong of a way to get things going. The album’s one major let down comes with “De Kerstezel”, which, funnily enough, doesn’t sound like Temming’s work at all. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if it turned out to be a “hold over” from a previous album. It’s not a bad song, per se, it just doesn’t belong here. In other areas, If you take the music as being the “world” of 11, then there’s a sonic theme of non-diegetic sound effects about the place, from “Zomaar” and its imitation barnyard animal noises, the pocket money jangling at the start of “Zakgeld”, to the gentle nighttime atmospherics of “Stom Hoor”. I believe the album represents a musical cycle, with the opening and closing tracks briefly featuring the same adult male singer. This feels out of place to me, but it happened quite often in the early days. They’ve done away with adult voices altogether on more recent albums. Saying that, closer “Naar Bed” features one of my favourite vocals by one of the younger singers, being so fragile and thematically sleepy. Just so adorable. There’s no wonder KvK never looked back after this landmark production, with the following decade featuring one indie rock hit by them after another, but, by 2002, they clearly needed Henk’s reinvigorating energy again…
23 (2002)
The 1990s was a great decade for KvK, with 13 and 15 being two of the greatest indie rock records, by anyone, that most people outside of The Netherlands have tragically never heard of. But we’re not here to talk about those two albums. Well, not yet, anyway. So, what happened within KvK for them to invite Temming back to produce two albums back-to-back? Had the reputation and status of 11 increased so much so that they felt honour-bound to give him more work, or had KvK’s sound once again become stale by the turn of the new millennium? 22 certainly was excruciatingly old-hat in places, I must say. One thing we certainly lost in the 90s was the cuteness factor, which was so prominent on the 80s albums. New production techniques meant we stopped getting KvK’s preteen singers constantly going out of time and tune and gasping for breath as their tiny bodies struggled to cope with the demands of each song, although much to the delight of their listeners. Things sound technically “better” now, but, at the same time, not quite as fun. The cuteness factor still hasn’t properly returned, as of last year’s polished but only passable 45. Before I knew the same creative mind was responsible for the sound of 11, 23, and 24, this one’s sonic landscape (I apologise for using such a pretentious term) felt very feminine. I can’t describe how this assumes itself in the music, as I am not educated enough in music criticism to quantify it in exact words. Perhaps it’s something to do with the outpouring of emotion in each song, or the way each track gently bleeds into the next without sudden breaks, or that the lyrical themes are about bearing your personal problems and feelings to the outside world. No longer do we have simple songs about playing outside or going to bed or having to do homework. 23 has a sense of hitting puberty and beginning to take responsibility for your body and mind and future. Golly! Still, the music is defiantly even more primary coloured than Temming’s previous 11, to sometimes outrageously-camp effect. This is, by far, my favourite of his three albums. It would be difficult to say that even one song is better than the other, but I shall endeavour to give you three of my personal favourites. These are life-changing melodies. The first to come along is “Podiumbeest”, which is actually a real grower. The contrast between its verse and chorus parts are initially very jarring, to such an extreme that you start wondering whether you’ve accidentally skipped to the next track. But that’s the point, you see. This is essentially what the song is all about: a little girl who is painfully shy in everyday life, until she gets up on stage and sings. Aww, bless. The singer who features in the music video I assume is also who sings the song on the record (I don’t think they’re always the same), if so, she turns out to be an offbeat-looking ginger girl who absolutely nails her dual performance like no one else could. She’s amazing! I heartily recommend you watch said clip below. My second favourite song is “Nee!”, which I believe is a song about trying to avoid someone you find annoying, but who wants to be your friend and won’t stop hounding you about it. I’m not going to use the phrase “toxic”, as I don’t find that to be an acceptable way to describe another human being, no matter how much you don’t like them. As if you’re so fucking perfect. “Nee!” might not even be about what I described above, to be honest, but it really does give off that impression. You’ll find out why. My third favourite, and what I find to be the centrepiece of the record, is “Dyslectisch”, about a boy with, you guessed it, dyslexia. I once asked a genuine dyslexic person whether mainstream depictions of his disability were accurate, or frustratingly simplistic and insulting, which I suspected they were. He responded that, yes, they were not at all accurate. I’m going to give KvK’s unsung hero songwriters credit in doing slightly more research than your average primetime sitcom might. “Dyslectisch” ends with a detailed rundown of the symptoms of dyslexia, followed by a defiant: “nou en?!” (“so what?!”). It goes on and on and on, to purposefully-hypnotic effect. You are truly out of breath by the end of the song, even though you’ve not sung a single word yourself. Literally breathtaking stuff! Sadly, the live performance shortens this powerful outro considerably, but the massive smile on the young performer’s face makes up for it. Special consideration must also go to startling-opener “Kletsmajoor”, which kicks the door open and off its hinges with terrifying bluntness; “Vandaag Even Niet”, which harbours Temming’s signature bouncing rhythm on 23, whilst also bringing back some of the missing cuteness; and “Recht Op Vrije Tijd”, which is a song that would get even me dancing, and I’ve not danced since that burning box of fireworks fell on me. If you only wish to pick one of these three albums to listen to, then please pick this one.
24 (2003)
He’s back! This one feels like the culmination of everything the first two albums were setting up. Now Temming’s sound is officially out of the closet and dancing down the street, bold as brass! Sadly, it starts off slightly on the wrong foot, with two songs that really belong somewhere in the middle. Fortunately for us, “Liefdesverdriet” soon comes along to get things going properly. This one took a while to grow on me, as Temming’s penchant for unnecessarily pitch-shifting the preteen vocals to make them sound more like toddlers I found, and still find, rather grating. Kids sound little, you don’t need to make them sound even smaller. But it’s a great song, with the bright colours and bouncing rhythm that we have become so accustomed to with Temming’s producing style. Next we get a bombastic stomper, “Papa Doe Niet Zo Idioot”, featuring a teenage boy complaining about his embarrassing father. We’ve all been there. This song is so petulant in nature that you can’t help but feel sorry for the titular “papa”. The singer also looks on the live show just like how you’d imagine he looks, which is rare with these recordings. The singers often have major growth spurts in between their studio and television performances. Then we have the album’s one and only stinker, “Een Beetje Uit M’n Doen”, which sounds like it belongs in the background on a second-rate romantic comedy, probably sung by a film studio executive’s daughter. Urgh. But, it’s alright, because then along comes the great, great, great “Net Een Ballon”. Coincidentally, I mentioned James Bond above, and this feels like a James Bond theme that never was. Damn I’d love to see a lavish music video made for this song, possibly featuring a diminutive secret agent failing to befriend inappropriately-aged Bond women at a casino bar, probably as he drinks a shaken-not-stirred “mock-tail”, then having to rescue one of the women from a supervillain, all with the aid of a water pistol or perhaps a Bugsy Malone-style custard pie submachine gun, then sailing off into the air in a balloon at the very end with his rescued maiden by his side looking awkward. Wouldn’t that be great?! Anyway, the song has got so much flare and attitude and cool that it has become one of my all-time favourite KvK tunes. “Jij Bent Goed Zoels Je Bent” should be the final track, but we find it in the middle. Who’s compiling these tracklists?! It also features more vocal pitch-shifting, but we’re so used to it by now that it honestly doesn’t matter anymore. After this song fades out, like it’s the end of the album, we get a similar song, only at double the speed. Another epitome of Temming’s stylistic fingerprint, for sure! “Monster In De Kast” echoes the Middle Eastern vibe of “Spinnenkop” from 23, which, given that ethnic diversity is a major part of KvK’s admirable ethos, is no bad thing at all. Plus, its 3… 2… 1 intro blips make me fist-pump the air every time. Much like the key difference between the single and album versions of “Revolution 1” by The Beatles, KvK’s “Help” (no relation to The Beatles’ own song of the same name) is just a fraction too slow. It’s almost imperceptible, but it always slightly bothers me. I say “slightly bothers”, as the song still remains one of 24’s highlights. After this gem, we somewhat lumber weakly to the end with “Leren Voor Idool”. It’s a well-written song, but missing a little inspiration in the instrumentation. It also somewhat self-indulgently features a cameo by Temming himself, speaking jovially to his singers in the studio. Meh. We didn’t need that. Still, the man has done so much for us here that I don’t mind him showing his, erm, face just the once. He genuinely sounds like a nice chap too.
Well, there you have it. It’s always nice to talk enthusiastically and hopefully spread the word about something that has gotten me through so much personal loss and declining mental health of late. It also helps that it’s all in a foreign language, as I’ve gotten very fed up of English-speaking people whinging about petty bollocks and being mean to each other. KvK is perfect escapism, with positive keywords cropping up in the lyrics all the time. Also, due to not wishing to pass on my hereditary, incurable, degenerative eye disease, I will never have children of my own. KvK fills that painful little cavity that subtly eats away at me inside.
This has been a post a few months in the planning and a couple of weeks in the writing, mostly due to “real-life stuff” intervening that has been both out of and in my control. Still, I wasn’t too sure how to start the damn thing for the longest time, and now I’m writing the closing paragraphs. So there! I apologise for misspelling any of the Dutch song titles or names of the people involved. It is not my first language, although I am casually trying to learn it on the side. KvK have helped with that tremendously.
I’ve included below a music video from each of the three above albums. These may or may not end up being my favourite tracks, but certainly powerful stage performances or clever music videos.
We’re now due “46”, although I’ve not found a release date for it yet. I dearly hope it will be more inspired than the lacklustre “45”. This is not to belittle the contributions of the young singers, of course, who are always perfect. I just believe we need another Henk Temming to spruce things up a bit.
Well, a lot.
I hope to write one or two more articles about Kinderen voor Kinderen, maybe about the 1980s era and definitely one combining the great 13 and 15. I’ll also need to look into who produced each album, from 1 to 45, as I have no idea how I found out about Henk Temming now. My memory is not what it was.
Perhaps he came to me in a dream to inspire my own production work!
One of my all-time favourite “drunk movies”, because it is now so dated that it tips over into being ridiculously camp and silly.
I mean, this scene in particular, in which a randy single bloke picks up a sultry foreign babe at a nightclub, only to take her back to his pad for some boring fried haddock, is enough to illicit giggles on its own. You’d think she’d be the one handing out warm fish, am I right?!
Anyone?! No? Oh well…
Still, Hitchcock chips away at the sexual repression of the time, which sadly now appears to be returning to British society. He hints at so much kinky business, whilst keeping it subtle enough so that idiot Christian moralists of the time wouldn’t pick up on it.
What a genius.
The 39 Steps is cute and quaint and cosy and suspenseful and thrilling, all in one package. It also shares a problem I have with 1979’s Mad Max, in which the plot reported by lazy professional reviewers isn’t actually the plot you get. Just as Mad Max is not really about “a man who seeks revenge after his family is murdered” (although that does eventually happen 15 minutes before the end of the film), neither is The 39 Steps about “a fugitive and a blonde handcuffed together”. Yes, that does happen, but it’s such a small sequence and not what the film is about, overall.
The above shot is very interesting, as you see both Richard Hannay and his wilful sex guest in the same shot, thanks to a gigantic mirror on the wall. The flat is so stark, as many single mens’ abodes are, that you absolutely believe it as a location. Also, the constant phone ringing, erm, rings a bell with me, as, being a confirmed bachelor in council dwellings myself, you are pestered all day every day about petty nonsense that some bureaucrat somewhere thinks matters.
And I used to be one of those bureaucrats.
While now seen as cosy, including by the likes of me, The 39 Steps is edgier than a casual viewer might imagine, which is why it has perhaps endured for 90-fucking-years.
