Category: Uncategorised

Lost on the quest? Lost in translation? Either way… lost.

I first reviewed this, for Amazon UK, in 2010. This is a complete rewrite, or different review, however (same star rating, though).

This is my first taste of Peter Ackroyd’s writing, and, I must confess, it was a slog getting through this book.

Ackroyd mentions trying to retain the “plangent and sonorous” language of Malory’s original – although from what I can tell this was in itself a somewhat patchy synthesis of older tales – but this is an aspect that, for me at any rate, is lost in translation.

The stories making up this book feel like small tales from an oral tradition, one in which any one of the many small adventures described might plausibly be little gems, when taken individually. Or perhaps they were simply tall tales told to pass a cold night huddled round the fire? Sometimes with a moral, sometimes just for the thrill of the adventure.

The trouble is that in this version, the sense of homogeneity is not one of an overarching larger story, or even the charismatic voice of one particular storyteller, but rather a patchwork of oft-repeated formulae – a hunt, a jousting tournament, the discovery of a chapel/hermit – which I found dull rather than exciting.

And there are times when different narrative voices seem to intrude, with no real consistency, such as when the narrator momentarily refers to the reader’s potential doubts regarding a particular miraculous occurence. Such a note really jars, as almost nowhere else are the many such occurrences in any way questioned. A similar but different moment is a reflection on the bizarre theme of courtly love, that does run like a thread throughout these tales: again, out of the blue, the narrator suddenly addresses the reader, and again, it jars somewhat.

Ackroyd may well be right in thinking that some modern readers (perhaps some of the people he had in mind are more watchers than readers?) might not have the palate for Malory’s version. But, in this age of visual recycling – I’m thinking of all the cinema and TV remakes of older books/films and so on – this smacks somewhat of a literary equivalent, so I think the dumbing-down charge made elsewhere, by other reviewers (e.g. on Amazon’s UK website, where I first posted a version of this review), rings true.

It’s been said that Tennyson’s version of this material, The Idylls of The King, says more about Victorian England than it does about the times from which the mytho-poetic subject allegedly springs. I think perhaps the same could be said of this version, and, sadly, it reflects rather poorly on our times, as lacking in either depth or a grand vision. Dare I even suggest that this may have been a project motivated more by a desire for profit from an ever popular subject, than the pure love of it?

By way of contrast, I’d like to refer the potential reader of this book to Tolkein’s fabulous book The Legend of Sigurd And Gudrun. Arising from Professor Tolkein’s work as an academic philologist, this posthumous publication is, by contrast, very clearly a work driven by a deep and abiding love of his subject, a subject ostensibly similar or parallel to Arthurian legend (the Celtic and Nordic myths even connecting at points, through characters such as Tristan and Isolde), including similar aspects of storytelling: warring clans, betrayal, revenge, shifting alliances, feats of arms, love and honour, portents, omens, charms and potions.

But where Ackroyd loses the magic, Tolkien succeeds in retaining it, perhaps even enhancing it, so that the story remains compelling and exciting, as opposed to the rambling hotch-potch on offer here.

I couldn’t, in all honesty, recommend this.

I first reviewed this on Amazon UK, a decade ago. This rewritten review is a similar age.

Betjeman’s original book covered twice as many churches (approximately 5000). This new shiny hardback coffee table version is lavishly illustrated, and as a result cuts the number of churches covered in half, at roughly 2,500… still plenty!

First I’d like to point out before going any further that I’m not Christian. I am, using A. C. Grayling’s pithy phrase, a naturalist and free-thinker. Nonetheless, I, like this country and our culture, am steeped in the ever-evolving Christian tradition. I was brought up Christian, and went to several churches, none of which were deemed beautiful enough for inclusion here!

And the legacy on our landscape, and in our lives, from our language to the sights and sounds we deem typically English, are all bound up with the history of Christianity. And, regardless of all this, some churches are just very beautiful. I’ve often liked stopping at a random church and wondering around inside, connecting in my own quiet, personal and meditative way, with all that life and history. So this book was a must.

I confess I know little about Betjeman outside this book, except that he was a poet, and indeed poet Laureate for a while. When reading his introductory essay, it struck me that Betjeman chooses to spell the word ‘show’ using the rather archaic British variant ‘shew’, which is fittingly antiquarian, but irritates me mildly, as I feel, and indeed my brain is wired, through learning commonplace English, to think that it should be pronounced to rhyme with shrew, stew, brew or few, of for that matter pew: that’s how it looks!

In light of this I was not initially sure I go with the TLS quote on the cover which effusively describes Betjeman’s introductory essay as ‘pure gold’. In fact at first I found it more crabbily and fustily conservative (rather like some of the church wardens you may bump into when visiting churches using this book), if very erudite and occasionally quite funny, as for example: “If the path leading… wealthy unbelievers … key from there.” (p23) Well, that’s certainly priceless, but not necessarily because it’s ‘pure gold’!

He also, as well as making some very prescient remarks, says a few things, which, to my mind at least, are a little odd, such as “It must be admitted that spirituality and aesthetics rarely go together.” I guess this depends on you how you define spirituality, a nebulous term at the best of times. But many admirers of culture, including eminent scholars of religion, for example Diarmid MCulloch, stress the great contribution religion makes to our aesthetic culture. Quite apart from own mainly Christian heritage ( which has plenty in it that’s clearly pagan), one need only think of the incredible non-figurative arts of Islam, the rich iconography of Buddhist mandalas, or the great traditions of religious music, to wonder if perhaps Betjeman has made a mistake with this particular pronouncement. In the context where he makes it, it is more plausible – he’s lamenting the restorations and addition to a church that are, by and large “practical and unattractive”, and begs that we remember “however much we deplore it … [these ugly things] have been saved up for by some devout and penurious communicant.’

Whilst this sonorous phrasing has an appeal, its rendering of the ‘spiritual’ is open to debate. And the quote that follows is dour Puritanism, and despite England’s break with Rome, I don’t think that Christianity, or humanity, for that matter, was suddenly and totally bereft of aesthetic awareness. Indeed, that’s more than half the attraction of this book: these churches are frequently very interesting, and often, in part or in whole, quite beautiful.

It is true, there are some horribly oppressive Christian buildings across these islands, and even some of the churches we’ve visited using this book belong in that category, but fortunately they’re in a minority. however, when he follows his line of thought to the conclusion that “Conservatism is innate in ecclesiastical arrangement” I can’t disagree. But perhaps this pinpoints the difference between religion and spirituality?

“Who has heard a muffled peal and remained unmoved?” Well, ironically part of the appeal of hearing church bells to folk like me, nowadays, is the comparative rarity with which you hear the sound. In the times where I’ve lived close by a regular ringers church what has annoyed me is not that “they are reminders of Eternity” (in the whole I get along well with Eternity and any reminded I get of her), buy that I’m being reminded of a belief which I don’t share, and a belief whose omnipresence, and even perhaps omnipotence, is, thankfully, receding.

One little criticism is that the photos which illustrate points being made in the introductory text give only the village/town name, and then the church name, but not the county. This could very easily been included, and would have been very useful in determining if the church shown is within easy reach. So, for example ‘EAST SHEFFORD: ST THOMAS’, which happens to be on the page I was on when this shortcoming struck me, could so very easily have been ‘EAST SHEFFORD: ST THOMAS (Berkshire)’.

The Man Who Recorded The World

More from ye archives. This one’s a biog’. Szwed has also written about Sun Ra, Miles (I’ve read that one, as well) and Billie Holiday.

Alan Lomax lead a manically busy life, and he did so on the margins of academia and popular culture, carving out his own path, and forging his own ideas along the way.

A collector, recorder, performer, promoter and general svengali, he was best known as a ‘folklorist’, travelling first America and then the world, recording (and also filming and photographing) first music, and then also dance and speech.

In Alan Lomax, The Man Who Recorded The World, academic music historian John Szwed tells his fascinating story.

As I’ve found with many stories concerning a passion for musical culture, it’s the early chapters that sizzle with energy and excitement – a time of discovery and optimism – with later chapters tending, by comparison, to fizzle somewhat, with a melancholy sense of youthful enthusiasms being blunted, over time, by the world’s indifference.

Lomax, like many of his subjects, is in danger of disappearing in the maelstrom of our commercially lead culture. I share Lomax’s views that ‘art emerges from deeply encoded but virtually nonconscious behaviour’.

I also share Szwed’s view that Lomax’s influence and legacy are massive, if often unknown or unacknowledged. I know that a lot of stuff I like, in culture as a whole, and musical culture more particularly, is, in various ways, related to his passions, echoes of which can be encountered in all manner of places, both obvious and obscure (from the soundtrack of Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou, to Joni Mitchell’s use of Burundi drumming in her song ‘The Jungle Line’).

This book was a fascinating read, and very hard to put down. It leaves me wanting to access as much of Lomax’s legacy as I can, in particular the films he made about folksy music scenes in America, and enrich myself via access to his ideas, enthusiasm, and the huge archives he compiled.

Much of his enormous body of work – from records and films, to books and compilations of songs, etc. – is out of print. But some of it can be found, via such resources as the Association For Cultural Equity, on labels like Rounder Records, and even on YouTube.

I’ve already watched some of his American Patchwork films, such as Appalachian Journey, and found them fascinating and enjoyable. So I’ll be seeking out more in due course.

Szwed’s book on Lomax is both a testimony to the man’s manic energy, and wide-ranging interests, and a fascinating account of a modern maverick. Highly recommended.

Above is Appalachian Journey, from a 1991 series called American Patchwork.

PS – Lomax’s archives are huge, and legendary. Some have found their way into institutions, but most haven’t. Here’s an interesting link to an NPR (National Public Radio, the US equivalent of BBC Radio) article about how a load of his archives are being made available to the public:

Alan Lomax archives go online.

Jazz Cat in a Rock n Roll Circus

Oh dear, another legend shuffles off…

It was only a very short while back that Charlie Watts announced he’d be sitting out the upcoming Stones tour, and letting Steve Jordan take his place. He’d be back as soon as he recovered.

But now, like so many before him, he’s gone. At least he leaves behind a musical legacy. Most of us will pass through this vale of tears mostly unnoticed, leaving precious little trace once we’re gone.

Not so Charlie Watts. I won’t bother lionising him, here and now, nor even analysing his part in The Stones. I’ll just share a few pics and tracks, and get back into listening to the music more.

In truth, Charlie Watts’ death is, for me, the trigger to finally dive deep into The Stones. Something I’ve always been slightly resistant to, for some obscure reason.

So, anyway, despite a total absence of funds, I’ve managed to get hold of a bunch of Stones’ albums, namely: Satanic, Beggars, Bleed, Sticky and Goat’s Head… plus I already had Exile. So that’s a solid run of their albums, from ‘67-‘72, probably their best ‘streak’?

In the longer term I’ll probably get more; a few earlier ones, to see where they were coming from, and poss’ even some later ones (Goat’s Head Soup might already be on its way?), some of which – Undercover, Dirty Work, for example – I heard as a kid at home.

Like Charlie, I’m a keen jazzbo. Obviously he grew up closer to all the stuff that he loved/influenced him. And my route into and through jazz has been much later and very different. But, to a certain degree, like Watts I feel like my heart is in jazzville, whilst my body is in a rock n roll, or, (poss’ much worse!?) pop land.

Well… so long, Chuck!

Whilst it’s the follow up to The Seven Crystal Balls, Prisoners of the Sun is quite different. Whereas Balls is very much a European affair, with lots of comedy and interpersonal drama, Prisoners is an exotic Peruvian travelogue.

The artwork is fabulous, beautifully evoking everything from the flora and fauna to the varied landscapes. And in this quintessentially adventurous album, nature in its many guises – mountains, forests, rivers – and exotic peoples and animals, a as ll play their part.

Hergé loved National Geographic magazine, and Prisoners is a kind of Boys Own Adventure version of NG, on steroids. The hokum of the Inca sacrilege thread is pure ‘McGuffin’, by which I mean plot driving yet immaterial.

By this stage, Hergé had come a long way from the anti-Soviet and colonialist roots of the first two albums (Soviets and Congo). And yet whilst Tintin is proud to appear to respect the Inca and stand up for natives bullied by ‘foreigners’, neither he nor Hergé have entirely escaped the white man’s burden of condescension, witness the ‘playing’ of Western scientific knowledge against native superstition.

But it’s great that we can still enjoy this classic serving of Tintin in-Bowdlerised; beautifully rendered if still laden with the assumptions of its times. It’s a cracking good adventure. A as of a great deal of fun. Love it!

The thirteenth of the ‘official’ albums, and the third of four double-bill type adventures in the series overall, The Seven Crystal Balls is pure classic Tintin.

A Peruvian expedition gets a brief mention as Tintin travels by steam train to Marlinspike Hall, after which a lengthy episode develops around Captain Haddock’s efforts to replicate a music-hall magic trick in which a conjuror turns water into whisky.

There’s much hilarity and some beautifully rendered comic pratfalls as Tintin and the now wealthy Haddock (see The Secret of the Unicorn and Red Rackham’s Treasure) – trying out being the monocled country gent – follow this zany thread.

But Hergé also cleverly interweaves this slapstick stuff with the unfolding of the adventures more serious plot, using General Alcazar – now the knife-throwing ‘Ramon Zarate’ – and his Inca assistant, plus an Indian mind-reading duo (and a Castafiore cameo, for good measure), to link back to the Peruvian expedition, and the foretold fate of the ‘meddling foreigners’, who dare loot sacred Inca stuff!

As the plot thickens, the seven members of the Sanders-Hardiman Peruvian team are knobbled, one by one, via the titular seven crystal balls. Thompson and Thomson, Tintin, Snowy, Haddock and Cuthbert Calculus are all trying to protect the explorers, without success.

Calculus’ old pal Prof. Tarragon is the last explorer to fall foul of the Inca prophesy/curse. The sequel, Prisoners of the Sun, is set up not only by the need to rescue the seven explorers from their cursed comas, but because dear old Cuthbert gets himself abducted (and not for the last time, either!), which brings the old and true Haddock back.

I absolutely love this double-bill. The Tintin project is at its peak: a great story, beautifully drawn (and coloured!), filled with equal parts humour and drama, all adding up to huge amounts of fun.

A blunt ineffectual instrument.

More from the archives.

At one point in this book Overy describes strategic bombing as ‘the western front of the war’. By invoking the massive and largely wasteful carnage of the trench warfare of WWI this brief description from Overy delivers a judgement he elsewhere steps gingerly around. For us living on an island where for several hundred years the civilian population has been largely insulated from the vicissitudes of European war, bombing quite literally brought home what Overy aptly describes as an ‘unprecedented violation of British domestic life’, with 43,000 civilians killed. Overall though, for me, this book was more about exposition than judgement. Overy sets the facts before us. We have to decide what we make of them.

With a deft authorial touch Overy’s epic study of death from the air in the new era of ‘total war’ starts and ends in Bulgaria. I won’t spoil it by telling you how exactly. Confining himself to Europe, Overy shines a light on some areas less well examined, such as the bombing of Russia, Italy and occupied Europe (the latter in the well-titled ‘Bombing Friends Bombing Enemies’ chapter) and others much more widely debated, such as the Battle of Britain, the Blitz, and the Battle for Germany. The first thing to make clear is that, whilst numerous other aspects of aerial conflict are mentioned, this is about the ‘strategic’ heavy-bombing war, in which the home front became a new front line, and a major theme of the book has to do with ‘those [non-combatants] caught in the crossfire of war’.

Having begun WWII weaned on a diet of dystopian inter-war prophecy all nations and their air forces were slow, despite all the speculation, to adjust to the reality of this new modern form of conflict. Once combat is joined Overy notes a number of emerging paradoxes: the use of cutting edge science and technology to deliver what transpired to be a very blunt instrument; the rapid volte-face from the condemnation of any bombing where civilians might be killed (and attendant hollow promises not to resort to it) followed not only by the conscious embracing of killing an enemy’s civil population, but also by a seemingly inevitable escalation in doing so, as bombing changed from illegal barbarism to default weapon; and, perhaps especially, the mismatch between expectations and results.

In this last lie at least two further paradoxes: the first has to do with the ‘absolute nature’ of perceived threats leading to the necessary ‘moral relativism’ requisite to embracing strategic bombing; whilst the second concerns the ‘wide gap … between claims and results’. What emerged in this gap was not what the inter-war projections had suggested, i.e. the very quick and complete collapse of bombed societies, but a new aerial theatre of war, soaking up massive amounts of money, technology and blood, most often ending up in long, protracted campaigns. Whilst exact figures in such a history are hard to be certain of, for a host of reasons which Overy discusses, he tends to favour lesser but better substantiated (or estimated) figures, citing 600,000 civilian dead in Europe as a result of the bombing war.

Overy is very good on complexity and multiplicity: whilst acknowledging the enduring clichés and the propaganda of the time, he tries to sift the evidence (and the degree of research and detail is impressive bordering on mind-numbing) to provide more nuanced accounts. In places the statistics make for a dry account, but they are balanced with enough human interest to sustain the demanding level of detail. Whilst Overy more or less occludes his own views, a judgement seeps through from the bare facts: the so called strategic heavy bombing war was ‘inadequate in its own terms … [&] morally compromised’. And what have we learned? ‘The principal lesson learned from the bombing campaigns of the Second World War was the need for even greater and more indiscriminate destruction of the enemy if ever World War III materialised.’ Chilling stuff!

Perhaps a brutal editor could have helped trim this enormous tome a little, and I’d have almost certainly found it easier going if it had been broken up a bit more (sections and chapters err on the huge side). But the subject merits this in-depth treatment, and Overy delivers a compelling narrative with great aplomb. My proof copy lacked photos, map and index, all of which will doubtless enhance an already rich experience. Whilst I’d love to recommend this book to the widest possible readership, I think the scale and level of detail will mean it’s not read by as many as perhaps it ought to be. A model of scholarly research, lucid prose and balanced exposition, I just hope the books size doesn’t limit it’s readership. I suspect it will.

Nevertheless, very highly recommended.

Very little in life – perhaps nothing? – is truly perfect. So when something comes very close to perfection, it should be treasured as truly precious. Such a thing, in my humble opinion, is this BBC Radio 4 full cast dramatisation of Tolkien’s epic, The Lord of the Rings. 

There are, in my experience, few serial adaptations of great written works that will bear repeated listening. But I find that, as with Tolkien’s writing itself (and also his son Christopher’s superb work on his father’s unfathomable legacy), I can, and frequently do, go back to this excellent adaptation. 

First of all there’s the power of the story itself. Most fantasy writing I’ve read (or tried to read) that isn’t Tolkien is shockingly poor. But, as I recall one reviewer saying on the dust jacket of my first single volume paperback edition of the book (read till it fell apart, and long since lost), Tolkien’s writing is by turns ‘epic and homely’. And the breadth and depth of his mythos is just astonishing.

But setting aside the academic, intellectual and purely literary achievements that LOTR and Middle Earth undoubtedly are, it may be that works like this this cast their spells most effectively for those who can best combine a childish enchantment with a more mature, almost aged, kind of yearning romantic nostalgia for something that never really was.

This odd combo’ may quite possibly be where the potential for a more profound aspect of this genre, a variety of writing that is, after all, called fantasy (Tolkien referred to it as ‘fairey’!), lies; we can conjure in our minds whole worlds, and explore ideas in them, with a kind of clarity and purity that the real world disallows, in it’s ever changing complexity and contingency.

But now to this particular adaptation. There are many aspects of this particular production that I think make it so successful. Firstly it is, like the book itself, a world made of language. There are also sound effects, and there’s some great music (as well as some that’s less appealing and successful). But in essence it’s Tolkien’s language that is allowed to work it’s enchantment on the listener, and unlike movie or other visual adaptations (e.g. Wenzel’s Hobbit graphic novel, or Peter Jackson’s films) this leaves more space for the imagination of the listener.

Then there’s the good work that’s been done in nearly all aspects of the production. An excellent cast; a great distillation of the mammoth book into a small (but not too small) series – they take some liberties, but far less over all, with Tolkien’s vision, than the Jackson movies do – excellent sound design and sound-effects, with a great use of the narrator; and some great music, some of which is amongst, for my money, the best Tolkien related music I’ve ever heard.

I won’t rehash the plot, but I will briefly refer to some the casting choices. Ian Holm and Bill Nighy are pitch-perfect as Frodo and Sam (it’s nice seeing Holm as Bilbo in Jackson’s later film version), and John leMesurier and Michael Hordern are equally excellent as Bilbo and Gandalf. I prefer all of the rest of the Fellowship to the choices Jackson made (Merry and Pippin in particular are sooo much better here!), save perhaps only Sean ‘Sharpe’ Bean as Boromir.

Gimli and Legolas are likewise more authentically Tolkienian in this older BBC rendering of the tale. Robert Stephens as Strider/Aragorn has greater depth and gravitas. And, indeed, the entire cast of this radio adaptation acquit themselves admirably. Gollum/Sméagol has always been an extreme and challenging part. Frankly, whether it’s Wolfe Morris in the ‘68 Hobbit, Peter Woodthorpe, who plays the role here, or Andy Serkis more recently, all do a very similar take on the role, in the end, and – I would judge – all equally well.

Of all the many adaptations of Tolkien generally, and the epic LOTR more specifically, this is, so far, unquestionably my favourite, after the original writings themselves. I and others I know have listened to this series countless times, and still continue to get a lot out of them. I would definitely give this a massive thumbs up, and heartily recommend it to anyone who loves Tolkien, or just likes to get lost in a well told adventure. Fantastic!

As I said in an earlier but still very recent post, I’ve been aware of Metheny since my mid to late teens. But it’s only now, aged 49, that I’m having an epiphany, as his music finally enters my heart. Perhaps I just hadn’t heard the right stuff, or maybe I wasn’t ‘ready’?

Anyway, just over the last week I’ve been bathing in the goodness that is this album, and American Garage, it’s follow up, and New Chautauqua. I already had Bright Size Life (for quite some time), with Jaco and Bob Moses, but that’s quite different.

PMG, American Garage and New Chautauqua are all 1978-9, and share a very particular vibe. A vibe I find I totally adore. There is not one duff track on all of these three albums. In fact, it’s all amazing. Even individual pieces frequently contain an almost overwhelming range of mood and expression.

One reason the good ship Metheny hadn’t docked in my heart till now was the fact I wasn’t so keen on some of his later stuff, some of it with Mays, whose keys/synths sounds weren’t always to my tastes. I love that Mays favours piano a lot on this disc.

As I type this Lone Jack, the final track is playing. It’s a blisteringly uptempo number, mixing jazz and a Latin samba-esque feel, but with flashes of jazz-rock, and even lighter more mellow interludes. As I said earlier, even with individual numbers the scope is astonishing.

Casting my mind back, I could rhapsodise about every single track. It’s all totally top drawer. Beautiful compositions, played by masters, and recorded with a crisp icily warm clarity. Opener San Lorenzo, like the final track is an embarrassment of riches. And sandwiched between these two monsters of musical drama and feeling, is naught but magic.

What an album. Ten stars wouldn’t be enough. Can’t recommended it highly enough.

150 British and Irish birds and their amazing sounds, by Jonathan Elphick, Lars Svensson and Jan Pedersen.

My wife & I have really enjoyed poring over this unusual book, reading about and admiring birds both familiar and unfamiliar, and playing the audio samples. It’s the latter, played using the strange looking grey plastic panel, visible in the above cover image, that make this book on birds so unusual.

Not being experts in ornithology I can’t really comment on the quality of the material other than to say its fascinating and informative. But then that’s why we got it; to learn about our avian friends. What is immediately clear, however, is that the production is high quality, with the visual aspects of the book being quite sumptuous: each bird is illustrated with a large and beautifully shot photograph and, in many but not all instances, small painted illustrations, sometimes showing an alternate view (e.g. winter plumage) or how the male and female or juveniles differ.

There are a few pages introducing the book and it’s subject, including a ‘how-to’ for the rather chunky and ugly but immensely enjoyable and intensely fascinating audio player. These pages detail the types of noises birds make and their various functions, and give a brief rundown of basic anatomy and plumage.

Each bird is named firstly in large type by the common English name, and then under that by its Latin name, in smaller type. One of the only things about the book that puzzled me is the seemingly random order in which they’re presented. But apparently the book “follows standard scientific taxonomy and classification, listing species in order of genetic relationship”.

Under the name, each bird is described succinctly in four or five brief fact-filled paragraphs. related to this is my only criticism of the book (which I note other reviewers elsewhere have also made): a separate index of the audio clips would have been a good idea. As the book stands you have to use the index to locate the bird, and then from the page given, discover the number of the clip/s you’re trying to listen to.

But the positives far outweigh this one small criticism, and this rather odd book-cum-audio-resource is certainly living up to my hopes for information rich rewards: on first sitting down with it, after half an hour of checking out various of the audio samples (it’s such fun!), I immediately learned that Robins belong to the ‘chats and thrushes’ (which was news to me), and that they’re unusual in that the females are almost as vociferous as the males. And, rather fascinatingly, I learned that there is regional variation amongst birdsong and calls, in other words an avian equivalent of dialect or accent!

This would be a good book just on account of the visual and written content. But it is of course, as the title suggests, all about the wonderful sounds these exquisite creatures (the sole-surviving direct descendants of the dinosaurs, no less: apparently there were even, at one one time, creatures with four wings!) make. The audio element is fantastic, providing hours of enchantment, fascination and fun. We’re really chiff-chaff-chuffed with this delightful if unusual techno-tome.

PS – If, like us, you have a cat, your interest might be shared by your furry friend/s: ours came over to investigate, and was clearly perplexed, although I won’t lie and say he actually pawed over it as we pored over it.