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The Beethoven vs Chopin Adagio Smack Down Post

When it comes to piano concertos I’m a bit of a traditionalist. I prefer the early 19^th and late 18^th century pieces to their 20^th century descendants. I suspect it’s because of the lyricism of the great European composers of that era, and – to be blunt- the whistle-along tunes they composed. If you ask me, a lot of 20^th Century pieces involve too much noodling; great if you’re a musical theorist who understands what’s going on but not always so great to listen to for lay people like me. But hey, that’s just my opinion and what do I know?

*Beethoven. Cheer up.* *You’re a genius.*

There are 2 stand out concertos that I keep going back to. Both are popular and well known which is a slight departure in terms of the music I’ve been writing about on this blog.

Firstly, Beethoven’s wonderful Piano Concerto No 5, known as the Emperor concerto; a name given to it by the English publisher of the piece. And then there’s the boringly named Piano Concerto No. 1 by Chopin.

It’s All Gravy

A couple of years back, I was walking with a friend through the Christmas market on the southern end of Hungerford Bridge in London. It’s an interesting, brutalist spot for a market, trapped between the muddy river, a massive bridge and the imposing late 1960s concrete arts bunker known as the Southbank Centre.

*The Southbank centre.* *A kinder, artsier sort of brutal.*

(I only found out recently that the Southbank centre was actually the vanguard of what was supposed to be a ground-breaking architectural redesign of London in the 1950s and 60s. The plan called for large parts of central London to be razed, including Soho and Whitehall, to be redeveloped with huge concrete office and residential blocks. Covent Garden was also slated to be flattened but the local residents organised and defeated the plan. Thank fuck it never happened.)

I’m Sure About Sor

For Sure.

I’ve made no secret here at urbancrows about my love of classical music, particularly the canon of music that’s been composed for the guitar. In a previous piece I salivated about the glorious Turkish flavours baked into “Koyunbaba”, a suite in 3 movements written by Carlo Domeniconi, an Italian composer who lived in Istanbul for years. I’ve also blathered about Bach’s incredible violin piece, the Chaconne, and droned on ad nauseam about Tallis‘s contribution to the development of English votive music.

Well, today it’s the turn of the brilliant guitarist Fernando Sor, a Spanish composer and string-plucker who was born in Barcelona on Valentines Day, 1778. He lived to the not-really-so-ripe age of 61, and died a nasty, slow, painful death from tongue and throat cancer. I can only imagine what that was like in 1839.

Underground Drilling

Things Geologists Do. Part Something.

Mine geologists –whatever their species, open pit or underground- will eventually end up supervising drill machines.

Open pit mine geologists rely heavily on sampling the cuttings produced by production blast hole rigs. The assay results help to map the average grade of the ore before it’s mined and sent to the metallurgical plant. They may also have core drills working in and around the pit testing for deeper, unexplored parts of the ore body.

*An underground core drill. Definitely not ca. 1986*.

I Hate Christmas Markets

With Christmas just around the corner, towns and cities around the UK -and Canada too for that matter- begin to sprout outdoor Christmas markets like mushrooms on a cowpat. They pop up anywhere there’s space; row upon row of bland little wooden huts looking like the bastard offspring of a beach hut that’s had a one-night stand with a camp site toilet. I saw at least 6 different-but-exactly-the-same markets in the UK last week, scattered morosely around London, York and Harrogate. My wife and I are divided on the attractions of the seasonal markets. She loves them; me, less so..

Geologists Gone Bad

Sex, lies and phone calls.

Geologists aren’t born deviant. We usually start out as normal people. But prolonged isolation – weeks and weeks in the field without a break- can do strange things to otherwise normal people.

*I was normal before I became a field geologist*

I used to work 6 weeks on, 2 weeks off. I did it for a couple of years. My longest shift stretched to 7 weeks which is a long time when you live somewhere nice, with a fiancée you miss. Three weeks in, with 3 more long weeks to go, it’s hard not to let the mind wander off to contemplate the finer things in life. A fine cup of coffee and a newspaper perhaps. A good British comedy on TV. Sex. A juicy steak paired with a robust glass of red. Sex. Did I mention sex? (Yes. get on with it. Ed.)

Most of us bury these things away in the back of our heads. It gives us something to look forward to when we get back to civilization; that special feeling when you can finally sit down in your favourite bar, with the paper and a glass of the local brew, or maybe with friends at a dinner party.

My Favourite Carpet

Buying Rugs In Pakistan

The city of Quetta is a dump. It’s the provincial capital of Baluchistan, the western most province of Pakistan. It sticks out like a nasty looking spike, with Iran to the south and Afghanistan to the north. I was there in the late 1990s waiting for a government permit to head off road and up to the border region with Afghanistan to prospect for copper (see my earlier blog posts here and here) I waited about 3 weeks for the permit, which was finally granted after I hosted 15 or so officials from the ministry for lunch at a Chinese restaurant.

*The Afghan border. I was waiting for a permit to go here.*
*Sometimes I question the wisdom of my choices.*

Fast forward to 2019 and now it’s not just a dump, it’s a bloody dangerous dump, rife with Islamic sectarian extremism. The Shia Hazara tribes have been targeted by Sunni militants leading to bombings, kidnappings and other nefarious goings on. To compound its problems, the region is also prone to major earthquakes. The last big one in 1935 killed an estimated 40,000 residents.

September Stock Picking Update

More from the world’s greatest stock picking club!

Greeting Stockpickers,

It’s time for another look at how Hys and Lows, the world’s greatest mining stock picking club, is faring as we drift soggily into Fall. The following is an edited version of my monthly note to the club members, individual’s names redacted.

The Rules

First, the usual reminder of how our much envied club works. We meet in late January to quaff flagons of fine wine, mourn the state of the industry, and pick stocks. It’s not a club, just a casual once-a-year gathering of 25 or so knuckle-dragging hairy-palmed mining people at an overpriced steak restaurant in downtown Vancouver.

So waddya think about the gold price? Mmm. Fruity.

Everyone chooses 1 mining stock. It can’t be a company you work for, and it can’t be halted or pre-IPO. At the dinner, whoever chose the stock that went up the most over the year is declared the winner and they eat and drink for free. Everyone else has to bring a $100 bottle of wine and the loser gets to wear the toilet-seat-of-shame.

Sunny Side Up.

Where’d The Sunshine Go?

It’s that time of the year in BC. The weather’s gone all autumnal and rainy – the fine, misty, miserable drizzle that gets in through any zip or seam. The annoying damp spot on our kitchen ceiling, the one we can’t seem to fix, is back to doing its soggy thing. Yes, it’s Hallo Fall! Hallo mildew!

But to coin an over-used British phrase… “Mustn’t grumble, aye, could be worse.”

We had a very pleasant summer this year. A lovely warm forest-fire-free summer. A few years back it was a different story. Fire season was in full force and the valley north of Pemberton, where our cabin is, was shrouded in a thick pall of foggy smoke. A vigorous blaze was raging up along the banks of Anderson Lake towards the town of Lillooet, about 30km away from our modest shack.

*This year’s smoke-free view at our cabin.*

Accidents Will Happen

Some people are accident prone. It’s a fact. They have a higher predisposition to kitchen injuries, car crashes and the like and it’s a bloody miracle that some of them make it through adolescence without limb loss.

I had a field assistant once who suffered more accidents in a short period of time than anyone I’ve ever met. His name is Nejav and he lives in a small village in north-central Iran. My western geo-colleagues nicknamed him Yes-Yes because that’s all the English he knew.

Yes-Yes was/is a funny man. Happy as a clam at high tide, he cheerfully carried my backpack and rock hammer as we tramped across thousands of square kilometres taking stream sediment samples and prospecting for mineral deposits. He was with me when I went through my tortoise-signing phase and later on, he trained as a drill offsider to work on the drill rigs as we poked the first holes into the Zarshuran gold project.

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The Beethoven vs Chopin Adagio Smack Down Post

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It’s All Gravy

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