Post by Sediba on May 22, 2016 23:42:08 GMT 10
The Art of Communication
Russell Hoban
After all, when you come right down to it, how many people speak the same language ... even when they speak the same language?
Communication is a difficult art. How can we be sure that we understand even those who are closest to us, let alone others.
This is a small story, of no particular educational or moral value. 2 pages long. It tells the true story of an almost unbelievable misunderstanding that occurred many years ago
Around 1988 myself and a group of friends decided to go to Moreton Island for the weekend. My home town is Brisbane, Australia. Brisbane is inland and slightly north of the Gold Coast, Surfers Paradise / Southport area by about 60 kilometres. Brisbane is on the edge of a bay, Moreton bay. Moreton bay stretches from Southport north to Bongaree on the southern tip of Bribie Island. Moreton bay is about 50 kilometres wide and is protected from the Pacific Ocean by a chain of islands across its mouth. Bribie Island to the north, Moreton Island in the middle and North Stradbroke and South Stradbroke islands to the south.
North and South Stradbroke were once a single island, until a shipwreck occurred on its coast in the late 1800s, I think. Wisdom at the time decided the only way to remove the wreck was to dynamite it out of the water. This did remove the wreck, but unfortunately blew a hole in the coastline of the island allowing the sea to eventually cut it in half. You can visit it by clicking here
Moreton Island has no sealed roads, only sand tracks, and is made entirely of massive sand dunes. At that time I owned, and had restored, a WWII CMP Truck. In Australia these trucks were known as Blitzs' and were slow but would go anywhere.
So we packed the truck with all essentials including exactly 100 bottles of XXXX beer (Stubbies, half bottles) food and tarpaulins for shelter, dry ice and cool boxes (eskys in Oz) and set off for the ferry. We arrived late Friday and set up camp on the surf side where the long rollers from the Pacific crashed ashore. We partied around the fire most of the night.
The next morning, myself and Roscoe, both badly hungover, climbed the massive sand dune behind our camp. The rest were still asleep. We reached the peak and could see other peaks in the distance. Moreton Island is a mountain range of sand dunes, the largest in the world. In a nearby gully between the base of two sand mountains was a small lake. It was almost too small to be called a lake, a trapped bed of water, glistening green with invisible algae. We ran and tumbled down the dune face and plunged in, it was not deep, but cool and refreshing. A strange sound could be heard if you put your head under the water. A musical sound, a melody. A very distinct musical tune. I have never found out what caused it. I suspect it was millions of sand grains moving in the bed of the lake as the sand dunes engaged in their everlasting war for territory aided by the wind.
Floating on his back Roscoe said to me, "This music reminds me of the Communards". I had never heard of the Communards and asked him who they were. After telling me about the group he went on to say that this lake, sheltered all round by dunes would be the perfect place to smoke a few long numbers and play the Communards. I never thought much more of it at that time, but eventually the long drunken weekend drew to a close and Roscoe and myself opened and consumed the 99th and 100th stubbies (beer bottles) on the ferry home.
When I dropped him off home I borrowed his record of the Communards and took it home to listen to it. Roscoe assured me that the Communards were excellent, I would soon be a converted fan.
What can I say! When I got it home I played it. It was phucking awful. It was dreary and made you feel like cutting your wrists. What was Roscoe on about ? Like Leonard Cohen on a really depressed day, music to slit your throat by. My wife and children begged me to turn it off. But I'm stubborn and I was determined to find the key to unlock the secret as my friend Roscoe had done. So I played it, and I continued to play it. So far as I could work out it had something to do with Nelson Mandala, but that’s as far as I got. After a while, strange as it may seem I came to like it just a little bit, then a bit more, then a bit more. And so I came to be a Communard fan. But I never bought any of their records, just the one I had borrowed. And I played it quite often.
Years passed, and I never returned the record. Roscoe and I grew older, and many times we discussed the Communards and that day in the green lake. We were in perfect agreement about their music, we liked it, we shared a common interest. We discussed their style, their music, the depth of their compositions, the deep and meaningful insights of their vision.
One day, as it turned out, Roscoe ended up at my place for dinner. It had been a long hard day which we had spent up in the Toowoomba range looking for parts for our CMP vehicles. After dinner I poured Roscoe a port and we sat back in the lounge room replete.
I said I would put on some music, Roscoe suggested the Communards. Now here is a strange thing, despite our common liking for them I had never actually played Roscoe's record while he was present. This was just how things had worked out. It was probably now more than ten years since Roscoe had lent it to me.
I went into the next room where the stereo was and put the Communards on the turnstile. I went back into the other room and sat down, picked up my port and took a sip. Roscoe turned to me and said, "Whats that bloody crap, that’s not the phuckin Communards?". My wife said, "Of course it is, he's been playing that bloody thing for years and years now, for christs sake Roscoe, take it with you when you go home tonight."
Jules, another person present, and who knew the Communards, sided with Roscoe, denying that the music I was playing was he Communards, and further, whatever it was, it was making her feel sick.
Nobody would listen to me, so in desperation I went into the other room and returned with the record. "There," I pointed out, "what does it say on the bloody label". There was no doubt about it, this record was the Communards. How could this be ?
We all trooped into the other room, placed the record on the turnstile, and the old familiar strain blared out again. Jules leaned over the turnstile and flipped the switch from 33 rpm to 45 rpm. And so the mystery was solved.
For over ten years I had been playing this record at the LP speed of 33 rpm when it should have been played at the rate of a large single pressing at 45 rpm.
How often do we think we have reached perfect understanding and agreement, two minds with but a single thought. Almost always! How often do we examine that single thought and find within it an invisible abyss stretching from one persons viewpoint to the other. Almost never! Here is a true lessen in the art of communicating.
As it turned out the large single had nothing to do with Nelson Mandela, its all about a voyeur spying on a chick across the hall getting undressed.
I still play the Communards. I still play it on a CD burnt to the speed of 33 rpm. Its still one of my favourite CDs. If you ever bump into either member of the group, Jimmy Somerville or Richard Coles, please don't tell them this!
Here it is ... at normal speed ... The Communards: So Cold The Night.
