May means so much to so many people – there are tree-planting days, mothers' days, towel days in tribute to Douglas Adams, pagan festivals, up-the-revolution margarita parties, and last but not least Norwegian Constitution Day. That is something to celebrate; I’ve been to Norway and tried some of their ‘delicacies’, like cheese that tastes of seawater, and one needs a certain constitution to indulge in rollmop herrings without chucking Øp.
I lied – not about the herrings, they’re terrible. But about it being the last but not least of May rituals. Because really, the last great bastion of May celebrations must surely be the Grade II-listed heritage custom of sending troops into hostile foreign lands armed only with a battle cry and a microphone. And sequins. Yes, it’s Eurovision.
The Eurovision Song contest is loathed by so many and loved by so many more. Actually, I think it is probably loathed by everyone – it’s far too long, longer even than a game of Monopoly – but it’s endured nevertheless by a loyal many. And although an evening might be better spent braiding a cat, I’m one of the loyal many, in spirit if not in practice. I always manage to miss it somehow, but if I were to learn my days of the week and mark it in a diary that I looked at more than once, then I’d be there too; year after year, bum on sofa, hands in choc-box, eyes on telly, ears searching for an escape route. I’d be bored beyond my mildest dreams but I’d be there, because it’s a reality contest that’s been around since I was a kid and I’m willing to kid myself that I’m a fan too in the name of tradition.
And it does have its upsides. The joy of seeing the whole show, live, as it happens, as Royaume-Uni files its ‘un point’, there’s no chance for tv production tricks and clever editing. No chance to correct the mispronunciation and misunderstandings or explain the jokes that don’t appear to travel.... And so there are upsets like predictable political voting (you know who you are Greece, Cyprus and Turkey!), surprises like the Beowulfish Finnish winning entry of a couple of years’ past and Latvia’s motley crew of pirates singing Wolves of the Sea, Jewish Princesses who were once Princes, and the not surprising plethora of forgettable dirges and ballads, sung by dancing eyebrows and punctuated with thrusts of crotch-tight flares – they do provide terrific moments to go and get a top up.
But why? What is it about singing? Why are we riveted by the Eurovisions, American Idols, Factor Xs, Wales Has Got Talent (it has... Bryn Terfel, for one... be still my stirring love spoon); why is the wiggle of a uvula and the resonance of a high palette the object of our affection? Why does singing make a perceived ugly person suddenly beautiful (Susan Boyle didn’t stun us with her charity work after all)? Why does Matilda insist on announcing the everday in song-form – “I won’t tidy my roooooom; no I won’t; I won’t do it; I’m hungry can I have choc-o-laaaaate?”
And why did I insist that we do karaoke the other night? I did. We booked a room in a Korean-run Karaoke joint where the music videos – be it Madonna or Megadeath – involved asian lovers reuniting in a park, and we sung our little hearts out. And quite a few numbers belonging to our Eurovision vanguards. The Abba Medley was definitely in there... I think. Who knows, I was downing up-the-revolution margaritas. Never – NEVER – mix your May festivals.
I like Dr Beetle's theory on why we like music. Basically, it’s because humans have desires – desire being blocked emotions – and music, musical structure, gives these desires a pathway out of the body, coining an emotion much in the way that a good piece of writing can (you won’t find that here). And we do have many many blocked emotions, my chakras are postively chocka.
My penchant for karaoke could illustrate my suppressed desire to be more extrovert, perhaps – or it could offer an outlet for the hideously tacky side of my nature that my nice upper-middle upbringing wasn’t too keen on. Matilda’s song could be another form of play, after all why should ‘playing’ involve only movement of limbs? Or maybe it’s because once, when she asked me for a KitKat, I told her to go and sing for it. Either way, she’s more likely to get chocolate through song than through whinge, because song amuses me, triggers emotion in me, and hearing her tweet so sweet makes me soften and subsequently see how I’ve been so hard in the past – shut the guilt up, give the kid chocolate!
Maybe Susan Boyle’s songbird voice triggered a suppressed emotion in all of us – like ‘I know I can do better than this’, and ‘I wish I was liked’. Maybe a good song reverberates inside us, whether we’re singing or not, unlocking doors of inhibition and letting urges escape, like some crazed saboteur raiding a vivisection lab. It sounds almost as tasteless as a karaoke rendition of Let’s Hear It For The Boy (yes, I did), but we spend so long experimenting on our suppressed emotions, prodding them, asking questions, analysing their erratic side-effects and circumstantial reactions... why shouldn’t we stick on some music and let them soar? Maybe listening to music we like makes us like ourselves, just for a few stanzas. Maybe music just lets us be, no questions asked.
So here's a question: why listen to Eurovision’s bunch of incoherent Eastern Bloc warblers or European predictables who sing (if it can be called that) songs (if they can be called that) that we generally don't like one little bit?
Well, you need only look at the efforts they’ve gone to – the pleading in the brow, the perspiration at the temple, the national pride sewn into every Swarovski crystal-embellished belt to know that for them, emotion is running very high. Very high indeed.
And when you’re feeling a bit under the weather, nothing makes you feel better than watching someone else go through an awkward stage.
Long live the Eurovision Song Contest.
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