Happy Mondays: The Greatest Hits (4)

Toward the end of the eighties, the well-known British indie band, Happy Mondays, also added a keyboardist / multi-instrumentalist to their line-up, in the person of Bill Bailey. This, however, was not a very successful and long-lasting collaboration - mostly because it never happened.

***

Bill Bailey did, however, happen  (and is still happening); and his keyboard/ guitar/ theremin/ glockenspiel ("Er spielt mit glocken!") skills are very real, as well. The reason why he merits the inclusion in this series of posts is twofold: his narrative comedic style, and his ability to find and to create humor in and through music.

On the first aspect, I would say that in Bailey's case we encounter a combination of attributes not unlike the one that we enjoyed in Dylan Moran's case - wit and intelligence, a fairly well-read and informed mind, and an artistic imagination that is able to roam freely, making connections on the fly, with a special propensity for the surreal and the paradoxical. It is especially this dimension of creativity - not being afraid to go wherever imagination and the feel for the comedic may take you - that sets his narrative comedy apart, and makes it interesting and (let's say) literate. Because, just like in Moran's case, what Bailey is doing is in fact "writing" - but, on the spot, with and for an audience, and through the means of orality. Stand-up comedians are, in fact, writers (most of them) - whether they pick up a pen or a laptop, or not.

The second aspect refers to the way in which Bill Bailey incorporates music as a comedic field, medium and instrument. This means finding the humorous (paradoxical, surprising, incongruous) within music itself, and also being able to express oneself comedically through music. But no, this does not mean some half-baked, three-cord "funny songs;" that would be appalling (unless, of course, it is intentionally stupid). Bill Bailey's musical knowledge and skills are in fact of quite a high level and wide ranging - style-wise, from classical to dub-step; and instrument-wise, from the keyboard to the (aforementioned) theremin (see his special, the Remarkable Guide to the Orchestra, which follows in the very noble and British tradition of Benjamin Britten's The Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra) - which is why his "musical comedy" is also intelligent and interesting.

Now, "Bill Bailey" (which, of course, is not his real name, but a stage name inspired by that famous song) at times also brings other parts of his persona to his comedic work - the persona of the aged hippie, of the nature- and animal-lover (perhaps a bit too much so), of a spiritually interested (with the usual Eastern leanings) but now probably agnostic (or a-religious) bloke - all in all, with all the good and the bad (blind spots, prejudices, some cultural clichés) of his time (born in 1965) and of his place (Brit mainstream culture). But this is where a mature consumer of art should be able to make certain differentiations - between a person's high level artistry (in one domain), and the same person's less than impressive show-up in other domains.

As a side note, it is a peculiar - if understandable - weakness to look at famous people (who are famous because of a particular skill, or simply because of the mechanisms of the market) and to try to see them as life models (fame does not translate to wisdom, and more often than not their private lives are miserable).

So I selected Bill Bailey for this series of posts on excellent comedy - because of his superior, intelligent, and creative comedic artistry. And, since nowadays we have all those commands at our disposal - of Play, Rewind, Fast Forward, Pause, Skip - let us press "Play" for the following bits of baileian comedy:














Speaking of Bill Bailey and Dylan Moran, the two of them (whom I consider to be the two top British - and not only - stand-ups of the 2000s) also worked together in a wonderfully creative, bleak, funny, and smart sitcom (written by Moran & co.), Black Books - which featured the bohemian trio of a misanthropic Irish bookstore owner (Moran), his half-gnomic hippie aid (Bailey), and their perpetually lost and searching, caring yet acerbic woman friend (Tamsin Greig).

Three Scripts by Ingmar Bergman

Through a Glass Darkly; Winter Light; The Silence

The book was translated into English by
Bergman's brother in law, Paul Britten Austin. 

While reading these scripts, one is involuntarily - and voluntarily – thinking about, and making comparisons with, the movies themselves. I saw Through a Glass Darkly a few years ago, thus before reading the script; Winter Light I saw many, many years ago, so I re-watched it after reading the script; and The Silence I have never seen before, so I watched it only after reading the script. I chose to read these scripts (this book) for several reasons: out of curiosity; because I like Bergman (and was in the mood for it); because I find reading scripts interesting and useful; and because I have read a Bergman novel (!) years ago, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. So, a combination of these – this much for the reasons. But I kind of forgot all these initial impulses, once I started reading the book itself.

As said, I have read a Bergman novel many years ago, and I remember liking his writing style very much, and finding it very cinematic, and also curt, summary, brisk (bringing to mind Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald – that interwar style of modern American literature – a style that I am very fond of). Browsing through the book (while deciding whether to pick it up and read it) I noticed that these scripts are formatted not quite like the usual scripts, but in a more easy-to-read, almost novel-like format (or like a play, but more fluid than that). Not like the usual movie scripts – as regular scripts follow very hard, formal rules, which makes them a bit awkward to read (as texts). For example, in these Bergman scripts one can find fairly lengthy descriptions of what characters are thinking or feeling, or of actions, which one would not find in a usual film script. So, I guess the genre employed in this book is something in-between a novel and a script (or viceversa) - and all that makes for an even more pleasurable reading experience. By the way, the script for The Silence has the most and the longest of such descriptions (or indications) – and rightly so, because a significant part of that movie’s “message” is conveyed through the presence of silence (and of related states) - expressed through sounds, through images, and through actions. Since dialogue can not “depict” those states and perceptions, one needs to add lengthier descriptions.

This is also why I found the script itself (for The Silence) the least satisfactory and engaging (as a text) - because it works much better as a movie, with images and sounds. Conversely, Through a Glass Darkly worked better for me as a text, not because the movie would be poor in any way, but because reading the script clarified certain things and in fact made the film more intelligible. And, since I am in the process of classifying (or so it seems), I should add that the script for, and the actual movie, Winter Light, were equally satisfactory - that "it" works equally well, in both mediums.

But what does it mean, that "it" - "works well?” Well, I find that a “characteristic” of Bergman’s movies is that they tend to start slow and somewhat underwhelming – and then, as soon as you are into them, that they grip you powerfully; and I found that this characteristic, which I have discovered while watching his movies, is also present and “palpable” and “working” in the texts, as well. Take Through a Glass Darkly, for example; it starts with a fairly inconspicuous scene of four people (two men, a woman, and a teenager) coming out of the sea, somewhere along the gray coasts of Sweden. (The color palette does not help in these three Bergman movies, as they are all variations of an overcast or closed - or wintry – sky, and of a fairly desolate land; or so one perceives them – remember, the movies are black and white; and Through a Glass Darkly actually takes place in the summer!). So, they might start a bit un-engaging - because what would one have in common with a mid-twentieth century middle-class Swedish family, spending time in these fairly desolate seaside environs? But, very soon, you enter into the meat and guts of the dissection of the human soul – and you are gripped; because Bergman’s movies are about that, about relationships and about our tempestuous and passion-filled inner lives.

And this is the thing at which Bergman is indeed best, masterful even – depicting relationships and inner happenings – the truth of existence in that sense – something one can not help but find gripping, and be gripped by. I have never encountered - not yet – any other director who does this as well as Bergman does (although I also have movies within his oeuvre that I do not like - like Fanny and Alexander, or like Saraband; the latter being especially disappointing, since it is supposed to be a sort of a sequel to Scenes from a Marriage, which is a perfect exemplar of Bergman at his best, and which might well be my favorite Bergman film). So it was surprising to see how this characteristics of Bergman’s films – and this foremost Bergmanian skill – of dissecting and presenting human relationships, and the inner happenings of the human soul, are also present and “working” in the scripts, as texts – just as much as on the screen, in the images-cum-audio medium.

But why is this? Why is the same thing effective both in the movie (the image-and-sound medium) and in the text (a different medium) - in Bergman's films? To understand why we should even ask this question, let’s take another example – say, Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev; now, I have not read the script for that movie, nor am I interested in reading it – or, rather, I would be interested, but only on a technical level, of how does one write a script for such a movie (that is, if he actually did use a traditional script). In other words, how could a text, a script, “describe” the poetic sweep of what is presented in Tarkovsky’s movies only through images, movement, camera, sound? The specificity of the medium of cinema is that its main tool of expression is the moving images – to which one ads sound, color etc.; that is what sets it apart, that is what gives it its specificity, that is its language (with its specific powers and limitations).

So what is the specific position (or status) of the word, and of dialogue, in a movie? It is but one component of it - sometimes necessary, but not always; a film is a film because of the moving pictures (with sound); and there have been some exquisite movies that have only used that, the moving images with sound (for example, Into Great Silence). Yes, words are necessary in a specific kind of movies - well, in most types, nowadays; but not in all. So what is then the status of “the word” in Bergman’s movies? Well, if Tarkovsky’s principal mean of expression is the poetic image (images, movement, faces and actions, sounds), in Bergman dialogue (expressing relationships and inner states) is essential (even if as a monologue). And this is not because Bergman would be wordy, or because his films would be “filmed theater plays” (although he also wrote plays), but because his films’ essence is the dissection and unveiling of the deeper realms of the human interiors (heart, soul, mind) - and of the human relationships. And while this can be done – and is done, The Silence comes to mind – through wordless acting, through faces - words, especially by expressing and revealing relationships, are central to what these movies are and do. But, of course, this does not mean, ever, verbosity or cheap loquaciousness; his style is restrained, like his characters (very often) are. (Bergman is no Woody Allen.) But because of the role that dialogue and words play in his movies, both the scripts and the movies work similarly, and in parallel, and we perceive things around similar points in the narrative - both while watching the movie, and while reading the texts (the exception, as said, is The Silence, which works much better as “moving images with sound,” than as text - because we need to perceive “the silence,” whether it is manifested as a street’s cacophonous noise, or as the alien and slightly threatening presence of an unknown building; but all these, we need to see and to hear, and a script can not do justice to these forms of perception).

I mentioned that I really like Bergman’s writing, qua writing (his style). Although these are scripts (or a variety of that genre), the same briskness that I saw used in his novels – get to the point! do not explain too extensively! let actions speak for themselves! let the reader fill out the rest (emotions and images) within himself! – is also a trait of these scripts. But I am repeating myself.

What I did not like, or what I liked less, in these scripts (and movies) were those moments or dialogues (not many, though) which came across as slightly artificial – words that were probably meant to underline something that Bergman wanted us to know, and that were forced in incongruously with the previously built characters and actions. I am referring to moments or words that did not seem to be rooted in, and to follow naturally from, where the given persons were and what they were, and what had gone on before. I include here the concluding words spoken by the boy in Through a Glass Darkly, or the lengthy self-exhibiting diatribe directed by Tomas, the pastor, to Jonas, the farmer, in Winter Light. The latter, for example, would be uncharacteristic for the reserved Pastor Tomas, especially versus a fairly anonymous (in terms of the existing relationship between the two) parishioner. And, in Through a Glass Darkly, those concluding words from Minus... - who talks like that? I guess that my concern is with the groundedness of these episodes in the actual reality of the people, contexts, and actions, as we have come to know them from the film itself - and from our own general understanding of human behavior and of everyday existence (and this groundedness is what I refer to as “realism”).

My answer to this problem is that I think that we should trust the reader (spectator), and his understanding – we do not have to tell him what to understand, but the skill is to shape the action and the characters so that what is to be understood will emerge and will be felt “naturally,” through (and along) the unraveling of the events.

Another technical detail – and related half-question that I would have – regards the fact that the movies themselves (as filmed) follow these scripts very closely (except for very few, very minor deviations); so, I am wondering whether these scripts were (re)written, for publication, after making the movies - or whether Bergman’s movies, as a rule, had to follow their scripts with utmost faithfulness, even strictness. (In other words, this is a question about his directorial style and approach, and about his relationship with the actors.) In any case, I found that the actors followed the attitudes and feelings depicted on paper very faithfully; or, of course, vice versa.

Reading, then, these scripts – or these stories, or these “novelettes” – one finds them gripping and fascinating, mostly for the same reasons that Ingmar Bergman’s movies are thus. A very rewarding reading, therefore.

***

Finally, let me add here a formal or ‘quasi-official’ clarification, namely that these three movies are part of Bergman’s “faith” or “God” trilogy – which one might describe more accurately as stories about the search for, or the lack of, God – or, about spiritual life as experienced in (a fairly desolate) mid-twentieth century Scandinavian country.

Clovis, NM

It was in the second half of the 1600s that Marquis Auguste Coriolan de Lagardiére (or Augustus Coriolanus, Marquis de Lagardiére), together with a company of about 30-40 men, stopped in a fairly unremarkable spot on the staked plains region of what would later be known as the southwestern United States. Tired and dusty after a fairly long haul, they made a fire, drank some wine, ate some dried meat, and went to sleep – and woke up the next day to the realization of the fact that they were being surveyed, from afar, by a small group of natives (Indians) - who left soon thereafter. They had rested along the banks (if one could call them that) of the mostly dried-out Blackwater river (although they did not call it by that name; in fact, for them it did not have a name, nor did they think that it deserved a name, given its meager appearance). That day the Marquis, together with about half of his men, continued the journey, leaving behind 15-20 men, some of whom were sick or had minor injuries, and others with orders to set up a base to which the Marquis and his retinue could return, after having explored further down south. But the Marquis never returned, nor did the men who left with him; those left behind, however, befriending some of the natives (including some of those who had surveyed them during their first night there), were helped to discover a better place to camp, with more grass for grazing, with fresh water (which was scarce all around), and with better opportunities for hunting. This camp became a settlement that was first known by the full name of its “founder,” Auguste Coriolan Marquis de Lagardiére, but then, for some reason, only as Coriolanus / Coriolá – the latter version being used by the Spanish-speaking peasants who also settled there. But the core of the population, those who gave the town its identity and its name, were still the descendants of the Frenchmen from the Marquis’ original retinue. And these people continued to speak French (although they learned, of course, some of the local tongues, as well), and in fact the town used French in most of its official dealings, and in the local school, as well - because, as hard as that is to believe, they did not lose contact with the “homeland;” or, mostly, with the French colonial territories of North America (although even “Louisiana”, that large swath in the middle of the continent, running from north to south, on the left and right of the Mississippi river, which was at a certain point claimed and partially controlled by France, was quite far off). Nonetheless, they managed to stay in contact with “France,” and even to receive some material support (such as books printed in French) and some French people (some clergy, perhaps a teacher here and there, some women, and, of course, some adventure-loving Frenchmen). Thus, the French connection was never broken, nor was the town entirely forgotten by the people in France (or, at least at the royal court in Paris, where they were still listed in the books as a kind of French territory or claim). And all this will become very important later, during the time of the French Revolution.

But before we get to that point, another important moment in the history of the place needs to be discussed, namely when, after the French and Indian War, the territories in North America that used to be under French control, were transferred to Spain's authority. Although the exercise of this authority was quite patchy (as in the case of most European claims on this continent), it so happens that the place we are discussing fell in the way of a Spanish aristocrat’s expedition for new territories, namely in the path of Barón Miguel Cardozo de Salazar, who rode into town one August evening with a retinue of heavily armed men. Long story short, part of them remained there, while the Barón left in order to discover (and claim) other places; unlike the Marquis de Lagardiére. he did return (for a while), before leaving definitively (and disappointedly) for Spain. A part of his men, therefore, together with their wives and households (those who had such things had brought them up from further down south), settled in what they now called (in honor of their “founder,” and clearly in spite of the local French people) “Cardozo”. And so it happened that for some fifty years thereafter the place bore two names, which were used competingly by the two dominant populations, the French (or, rather, francophones) and the Spanish (as in, those related to the original adventuring party from Spain). At the same time, some the simple Spanish-speaking peasants (unrelated to Spain proper) who lived in the area settled the issue by simply referring to the place as “Plano” (perhaps because it is located in the flat high plains?).

What is important here, however, is that the two dominant socio-cultural groups, the French and the Spaniards (to put it simply, because the so-called “French” were only culturally that, since most of them had been born from intermarriages with locals - and soon enough the same was true for the descendants of the original “Spanish” soldiers) still defined themselves in relation to their original European, aristocratic origins (and to their “founders”). And, as it happens in such cases, what had been a natural, lived condition originally (that is, being part of the retinue of a nobleman, and living in an aristocratic, feudal society), became sublimated culturally, embellished, and transformed into a gold-letter tradition that functioned more like an emblem of the given group, than as a social reality. But perhaps it is exactly the fact that there existed two rival social and cultural factions, the “French” and the “Spaniards,” that contributed to the survival of these aristocratic identities, traditions, and cultural frames of reference (as one’s identity is never stronger, and more ardently affirmed, than when it is challenged by a rival identity). And the ways in which these identities were affirmed and maintained were manifold – from keeping alive the memory of the “founders” (for example, by unveiling a portrait of the Marquis de Lagardiére in the house of a prosperous French landowner; or by purchasing an icon for the local Catholic church, which included a depiction of Barón Cardozo de Salazar, kneeling and looking at the Virgin and Child,  as a “donor”  - although it was in fact the current Spaniards who had commissioned and paid for the painting, and who were thus the “donors”), to other practices cultivating this "aristocratic" culture (or, what they felt as pertaining to, or expressing, such a culture). One of these practices was the development among the “Spanish” population of a real cult of Miguel de Cervantes - or, rather, of his hero, Don Quixote – as, ironically enough, representing said aristocratic culture. A “Cervantes club” or parlor was thus formed, which functioned somewhat like today’s cultural or heritage-keeping associations. Although there was no similar club on the French side, in the local school the French language and culture were still being taught and propagated – so perhaps that functioned as the equivalent of such a cultural association.

The next important moment in the history of the town was, as mentioned, during the time of the French Revolution (1790s) – and here, the fact that the ties with la patrie were never entirely broken played a crucial role, namely at the point during those turbulent years when the court and the aristocracy in France were in a febrile search for external allies, support, and ways of escape. As is known, during the harshest and bloodiest persecutions many noble families – and not only – escaped from France to aristocratic England; some of them, however, also went to North America – and it was a descendant of the Marquis de Lagardiére who remembered at that point that there existed in those savage North American lands a settlement that bore (or used to bear) the name of his great-great-great-...grandfather; and thus he took his household and moved, after an adventurous and dangerous trip that lasted about eight months, to  - what? – Coriolá? Cardozo? or just Plano? This move – which represented a lifeline for the Marquis and for his family – was also a boon for the local “French” people, who saw their claims and aristocratic “identity” thus confirmed, reaffirmed, and – they felt – definitively instated.

But another interesting – and crucial - development also took place, as a consequence of the Marquis' arrival and settlement in this town. What is this about? Well, we did not mention earlier the fact that the “original founder,” the Marquis de Lagardiére, was actually a Huguenot, and that part of the determination that fueled his bold ventures in North America (and the reason why he was accompanied by such a large retinue) was that he himself was in the process of escaping the anti-Huguenot policies and sentiment prevalent then in France. His later descendant, however - Louis Marie de Lagardiére, who was in fact a descendant of the original Marquis’ brother – was a fervent Catholic, even more so as he was escaping a regime that persecuted with equal viciousness royals, aristocrats, and the Catholic Church (clergy and believers). His religious affiliation had become thus something assumed both personally, culturally, socially and, why not, politically – and thus a defining trait for him and for his family (who were, therefore, proudly French, aristocrats, and Catholics). However, they had landed in a place where the division between the “French” and the “Spanish” groups also represented the dividing line between Protestants (namely the French, who were Calvinists) and Catholics (the Spaniards). So, although the Marquis, as a French aristocrat, was a boon for the local French population, he did not share their religion, but practiced the religion of the other faction, of the Spaniards.

But this potential source of tension or conflict became, surprisingly, a way of bridging the gap between the two distinct (and long-separated) communities; suffice it to say that the first time that the Marquis, his wife, their two daughters and their baby boy made their appearance in the (mostly Spaniard-frequented) Catholic church, it caused quite an upheaval – but also a kind of a pleasant surprise and relief for the Spanish. (By the way, I know that we are not saying much about the other local populations – the Spanish-speaking peasants, or Mexicans, as they would soon call themselves; or those of Native American origin; or the not-so-many English-speaking inhabitants; I know, but the reason for that is that the socially, culturally and economically dominant - and relevant for the town's identity - communities were the two I mentioned.) During the six months preceding their appearance in church, the Marquis and his family have been having the local priest say mass at their home; after a while, however, they decided that this could not go on any longer – the wife and the girls insisting that they missed going to church on Sundays, and being able to attend daily mass. But, for all the courageousness of the Marquis' initial gesture, how do we get from simply attending mass, to “building bridges between the communities"?

Well, one must remember that in France at this time French history (and French identity) was being re-written and re-thought, with the intention of brushing over (or even erasing) the feudal and Catholic dimensions of that tradition. In response, those opposing these developments accentuated and emphasized exactly those elements of French history that reinforced these aspects; and among these was, of course, the figure of Charlemagne, the great French Catholic emperor – and of Clovis, the first Catholic king of the Franks. Meanwhile, as Spain’s influence was dwindling in North America (and also in Central and South America), and as the new independent state of Mexico was being formed (and will in fact soon form), the local “Spaniards” (i.e. those descended from, and affiliated culturally with, continental Spain) felt somewhat under siege and insecure about their future. This is then the context in which Marquis Louis Marie de Lagardiére‘s aristocratic and Catholic identity came as a boon – for both communities. Thus, although some of the Spanish protested, the Marquis was nevertheless invited, soon after his church visit, to the “Cervantes” parlor, to give a speech on “The State of Politics and of the Faith on the European Continent.” After the speech, although he did not alleviate everyone’s suspicions, a noticeable change of heart and of mood took place among the Spaniards, who now realized that they might have some new allies not only in the Marquis’ family, but also among the local “French” population - at least in what regards their shared aristocratic and ancien régime identity.

Soon thereafter, at the Marquis’ initiative and under his leadership a new parlor was established, named “Clovis”, which was open to both communities (!), being designed to appeal both to the French (Clovis being one of the major figures of French history, and representing a period long before the Reformation) and to the Spaniards (Clovis as a Catholic, ancien régime monarch). Furthermore, the Marquis arranged for some of the meetings to take place in the refectory of the Catholic church, alternating with meetings and soirées held in the shade of the trees of the now-expanding orchard situated on the Marquis' property. Although not all “Spaniards” joined or attended the new club, it was regularly and most pleasurably attended both by the French and by the Spanish, and thus it enjoyed a great success. Overall, the Marquis soon became a most beloved figure both for the French (for whom he represented France, aristocracy, the ancien régime, and their very founder) and for most of the Spaniards (for the reasons explained above, and also because he reminded them of their own ardently Catholic founder, Barón de Salazar).

In 1828 the Marquis died, aged 65, leaving behind six children (three born in North America), a second wife (a Spanish Catholic woman! - the first wife, whom he had loved very much, dying eight years after their arrival, after a brief but severe illness), and a general population – “French” and “Spanish”  - for whom he had become a guiding light and a pillar of the community. As mentioned, at this point the place still bore several names - mostly referred to as Coriolá-Cardoso by outsiders and neutrals – but now the grieving town decided to settle the matter, once and for all, renaming it in honor of their beloved deceased Marquis. However, since they could not name it (again) Lagardiére, and given that “Clovis” had become the “meeting ground” for both groups, and a source of renewal for their (shared) aristocratic and European identity - and also honoring in this manner the decisive impact that the Marquis had on the life of the town - they decided to rename the place “Clovis” (thus affirming, once and for all, that this town’s identity was European, aristocratic, and – broadly speaking – Christian).

Of course, many things happened in the two centuries that followed after the town received its new name of “Clovis”. Among the more noteworthy events that one could perhaps mention was the arrival of a small group of French aristocrats (of a different kind, most of them being liberals and Freemasons) during the 1830s-1840s, who were also the last “immigrants” from either France or Spain. After that, other groups also settled, but in smaller numbers – mostly Mexicans and Anglos, but also some Irishmen and Germans. Of course, as time passed, fewer and fewer people spoke French or continental Spanish – so that by 1920 there were only English-language schools in town (while the Mexican children learned their language at home or at church).

But what is the situation today? Well, even today certain things remain – one still has the Cervantes Club (for a short while called the Don Quixote Club, but that did not really catch); although the Clovis parlor stopped meeting soon after the death of the Marquis, the Clovis “spirit”, and the name of the town, obviously survived; there is a small garden dedicated to the Lagardiére family, where there are always fresh flowers; and, importantly, other clubs and associations have formed, disbanded, and re-formed, over time, all with the goal of maintaining and cultivating this European, aristocratic, and (now very broadly) Christian identity (for example, one such association was, I kid you not, the “Medieval Knights of Clovis”). One can notice, therefore, in various places in Clovis, buildings constructed or adapted so as to reflect this identity, and where clubs meet or events are held in keeping with these traditions (such as the short-lived Renaissance Festival) – even if, as said, nobody speaks French anymore, and those who speak Spanish are in fact the local Mexican-Americans.

However, these remain the defining traits of the place – and that is quite something, given the fact that Clovis, NM is located in the heart of the rural, agricultural region of the dusty staked plains (“llano estacado”) of the Southwestern United States (not far from the border with Texas).

The seat of the Cervantes Club today; also a medieval-themed restaurant.

This granary was used for the Renaissance (later Medieval) Festival
(as a venue & for "capture the castle" competitions) 

           

This water tank is owned by the Lagardiére Water Co.
(the name is painted on the opposite side, facing the railways)

This was built (adapted) for a short-lived (re)incarnation of the "Clovis parlor";
now it serves as the meeting place for a French-affiliated Freemason club

***

This, then, is the alternate history of Clovis, New Mexico.