Music

I have never felt greatly inclined to grow a beard myself. (Not that I could ever manage the full naval Prince Michael of Kent. A rather precious goatee would probably be the limit of my facial hair-growing powers, and the contumely and derision it would surely attract from all right-thinking people obviously rule that out.) But pop music has recently entered one of its occasional beardie phases, as folk music not only gains new popularity, but also comes right back into fashion, on both sides of the Atlantic. In the US we have such bands as Midlake discarding the soft-rock stylings of their first album to go way down deep into late-1960s British folk-rock.

Three months ago I wrote here about my chronic Amazon habit, in which I recklessly buy books, DVDs and CDs I will never have time to read, watch or listen to. It has been costing me as much as drink did when I was still a practising alcoholic. I made a firm decision in print to get the habit under control and spend no more than £75 a month. Recklessly, I said I would report here to let you know how I was getting along. Well, the news isn’t good. Looking back over my Amazon account — and the online mail-order supplier provides a scarily precise record of just what you’ve ordered and how much you’ve spent — my total over the past three months comes to £418. 48. Divide that by three and the total is £139.

When you really want to feel miserable, read a few lifestyle features in a glossy magazine. The other day, in a momentary loss of concentration, I started reading one about a family who were willing to admit publicly that they own five televisions. Obviously I ventured no further, assuming they all have enormous bottoms, brutally compromised digestive systems, failing eyesight, withered musculatures and the brains of ferrets. But then I thought of my own modest north-London flat. We have just the one television, unfashionably small in that it’s only about the size of a small car.

This week I am handing over the column to David Vick, who has contributed what I regard as the best (so far) of all the Top Tens I have received. Sound in judgment and admirably wide-ranging, Vick has in particular introduced me to Kurt Elling, an amazing jazz vocalist, still only in his early forties, of whom I had never previously heard. Having checked Elling out on Spotify, it’s clear that he is a superb artist, and I have now ordered several of his CDs. Trust me, trust David Vick. This guy is sensational and I cannot understand why he is so little known. Now, over to you, Mr Vick. Charles Spencer First up must be, of course, Dylan. He and I have been, in the words of his latest album title, together through life. The man is, quite simply, the greatest genius of our generation.

Matthaüs-Passion Barbican ‘God save us...it’s just as if one were at an opera!’ a woman is quoted as saying at a performance of Bach’s Matthaüs-Passion in the 18th century. If she meant that it is hard to imagine a more intensely dramatic experience — it is other kinds of experience, too, of course — then she was right. It was fashionable 40 years or so ago to say that the St Matthew Passion is less dramatic than the St John Passion, a view argued by Britten and his acolytes. I think they were wrong: the Matthaüs-Passion is at least as dramatic as its shorter twin, but it has other elements, too.

Hänsel und Gretel Royal Academy of Music Jenufa Birmingham Hippodrome Pelléas et Mélisande Sadler’s Wells Humperdinck’s Hänsel und Gretel loses none of its charm with repeated viewings, a good thing since there are plenty of productions of it around this year in the UK, the latest being at the Royal Academy of Music. I saw the first and almost wholly excellent cast, with the two children cast more plausibly than I have ever seen them before, though both Robyn Kirk, the Gretel, and Charlotte Stephenson, the Hänsel, are in their twenties. Both their singing and acting were ideal, worthy of DVD-ing, our version of immortality.

What is a genius? We use the word frequently but surely, to guard its meaning, we should bestow it seldom. To me, a genius is a person whose gift contains an element of the inex- plicable, not to be accounted for by heredity, upbringing, background, exertions and talents, however noble. Thus, we can’t account for the extraordinary imagination of Chaucer, the vintner’s son, brought up at a military-minded court. Equally, where Shakespeare got or acquired his magic is a mystery.

Have you Herd? If you haven't already done so, buy a copy of Mark Earl's Herd: How to Change Mass Behaviour By Harnessing Our True Nature  It sounds sinister, but there's not much harnessing in it and lots of exciting ideas about what it is to be human. Mark's thesis is that we're basically group animals, like chimps, and that ideas and fashions spread not as a direct result of some ad campaign, but because of our instinctive desire to mimic each other. This is tremendously cheering. It means all those threatening, cajoling ads -- inside mags, blocking the letterbox, thrust at you in the street -- will come to nothing. However urgent the blurb, it's not going to sway anyone at all. Hooray!