5 Reasons To Love Dr Brian May

1. He's a fantastic guitarist.

Voted the 7th-best guitarist of all time by Planet Rock and the 37th-best by Rolling Stone, Brian May's prowess on the guitar has become almost legendary - a fact never more obvious than when he was invited to play atop Buckingham Palace as part of the Queen's Jubilee celebrations.

2. He's a great songwriter.

While it is tempting to see Freddie Mercury as the driving force behind Queen's compositional output, many of the group's best-loved hits were actually written by Brian May, including 'We Will Rock You', 'Tie Your Mother Down', 'Who Wants to Live Forever', '39', 'Save Me' and the beautiful 'White Queen (As it Began)'.

3. He sings, and sings well.

Clearly, Brian May is a guitarist, and not a singer, by trade. Within Queen, secondary vocals were usually filled by Roger Taylor in concert, and by multi-tracked versions of Mercury on studio recordings. Despite this, on the occasions when he does step up to the plate (in 'Who Wants to Live Forever' and '39', for example), May manages to put many other professional singers to shame.

4. He's ridiculously qualified.

May left school with A-levels in Mathematics, Applied Mathematics, Additional Mathematics and Physics, and went on to obtain an Honours Degree in Physics and Mathematics in university. He was in the middle of a PhD "studying reflected light from interplanetary dust and the velocity of dust in the plane of the solar system" when Queen became successful; thirty years later, he completed his thesis (A Survey of Radial Velocities in the Zodiacal Dust Cloud) and was awarded his doctorate in Astrophysics.

5. He built his own guitar.

Unlike many guitarists, who seem to enjoy trying to use as many guitars as possible in the space of one gig, Brian May has remained faithful to one instrument for almost his entire career: the Red Special, which he designed at age 16 and built out of an 18th-century fireplace mantle. It says a lot about this guitar that it has its own Wikipedia article.

6. And a final bonus point:

He has amazing hair.

Bás na Bó, le Liam Ó Flaithearta

Rugadh marbh an lao. Tháinig sé in aghaidh a chos agus luigh sé ar an bhféar glas ina mheall dearg sleamhain, a cheann casta siar ar a dhroim.

Sheas siad timpeall air, ag craitheadh a gceann, gan focal astu. "Sé toil Dé é," adúirt bean an fhir ar leis an bhó.

Thosnaigh an bhó ag éagaoine; ar mire le tinneas beirthe. Ansin chas sí go tromchosach, a crúba ag brú síos na talún faoin mheáchan a coirp.

Chrom sí ar an lao, ag éagaoine agus í á bholú. Ansin thosnaigh sí á liachaint lena teanga gharbh go grámhar.

Do chimil an bhean clár éadain na bó agus bhris deor faoina súil: ba mháthair í féin.

Chinn an phian ar an mbó ansin. D'imigh sí ón lao. Sheas sí agus a ceann fúithi, a hanál ag teacht go tiubh as a polláirí. Do tháinig a hanál i gcolúna fada caola, mar bheadh dhá ghath gréine ag sileadh isteach imeasc breacsholais teampaill, trí fhuinneog ghloine-dhaite.

Dhíbrigh siad siar í go ceann na páirce. Sheas sí, a ceann thar an gclaí, go tuirseach, ag lascadh a taobhanna lena heireaball.

Rug siad ar an lao agus thug leo é trasna na páirce go dtí an claí; á tharraingt ar an talamh, amach tríd an gclaí go páirc eile, amach trí chlaí eile fós, suas ardán féarach go bruach na haille.

Chaitheadar síos sa bhfarraige é.

Thit sé ina mheall gan cruth ar charraig. Thogadar na clathacha arís go cúramach agus tháinig siad ar ais go dtí an bhó.

Thairg an bean deoch mhin choirce dhi ach dhiúltaigh sí an deoch. Rugadar uirthi ansin, agus dhoirteadar an deoch síos a scornach trí adharc thairbh. Shlog an bhó leath na dí. Chuir sí uaithi an chuid eile den deoch, ag casadh a béil go fiánta.

D'imigh siad abhaile ansin, an bhean ag caoineadh an lao agus ag déanamh a gearáin le Dia. D'fhan a fear leis an mbó ag faire an tsalachair. Chuir sé an salachar faoi charnán cloch. Ansin thóg sé beagán créafóige ina láimh agus rinne comhartha na croise leis ar thaobh dheis na bó.

D'imigh seisean abhaile.

D'fhan an bhó i bhfad ag dearcadh thar an gclaí gur laghdaigh a tinneas. Chas sí go tobann, gur lig géim is gur chraith a ceann.

Thug sí rith te reatha, a cosa ag snapadh. Sheas sí arís. Ní fhaca sí rud ar bith léi sa bpáirc. Ansin rith sí thart fán chlaí, ag cur a cinn thairis anseo is ansiúd agus ag géimneach go fiánta agus go cráite. Níor freagradh í. An macalla féin níor tháinig ar ais chuici. Chuaigh sí chun fiántais, do réir mar tháinig tuiscint di go raibh a lao ar iarraidh. Bhí a súile ag éirí ruaimneach agus iad ar nós súl tairbh. Thosnaigh sí ag smúracht na talún agus fuirse siúil fúithi, á treascairt sna tomacha féir.

Seo é an áit ar luigh sí roimh an bhreith, ar thaobh ardáin, an féar brúite faoi mheáchan a coirp. Siúd é an áit ar rugadh an lao; an talamh tochailte ag cosa na bhfear agus an chréafóg dhonn le feiscint aníos tríd an bhféar feoite.

Fuair sí boladh an lao san áit ar thit sé. Bhreathnaigh sí ina timpeall go fíochmhar. Chuir sí srón le talamh. Lean sí lorg coirp an lao tríd an bhféar go dtí an claí. Stad sí ag an gclaí, ag smúracht ar feadh i bhfad agus iontas uirthi cá ndeachaigh an lorg thairis sin. Ar deireadh bhrúigh sí roimpi an claí. Leag meáchan mór a coirp é. Ghearr na clocha a hucht, ach bhrúigh sí níos déine le neart uafáis, go ndeachaigh sí tríd an mbearna. Gearradh a hioscad chlé in aice an útha. Níor thug sí aird ar an bpian ach chuaigh ar aghaidh a smut le talamh.

Neartaigh a siúl. Anois agus arís chroch sí a ceann, gur lig búir - búir ghada, thruamhéileach; mar bheadh meall gaoithe ag timpeallú coirnéil.

Ag an dara claí stad sí arís. Ansin bhrúigh sí ar aghaidh. Thit sé roimpi. Ar dhul tríd an mbearna gearradh gach taobh léi sa mbléin. Do shil an fhuil anuas go casta, ag deargadh stríoca geal a bhí ar a taobh clé.

Seo suas an t-ardán í go dtí barr na haille. Thosnaigh sí ag craitheadh. Chas sí go tobann i leataobh, nuair a chonaic sí an fharraige agus nuair chuala sí an torann trom thíos amach: na tonntracha móra ag briseadh ar an gcarraig agus na héanacha ag scréachaíl go géar garg. Do bholaigh sí an t-aer, agus iontas uirthi. Chuaigh sí ar aghaidh go mall iar sin. Ar bhruach na haille, áit a raibh críoch leis an bhféar agus sraith gairbhéil ag fánadh thar bruach, rith sí in ndiaidh a cúil, ag géimneach ar mire. Tháinig sí ar ais arís. Chuir sí an dá chrúib thosaigh go haireach ar an ngairbhéal agus bhreathnaigh sí amach. Bhí deireadh le lorg a lao anseo. Níorbh fhéidir léi a leanúint níos faide. Bhí sé caillte sa doimhneas amuigh thar an mbruach. Shíl sí an t-aer a smúracht, ach níor tháinig faic go dtí n-a polláirí ach boladh goirt na farraige.

Thosnaigh sí ag éagaoine, a taobh ag at agus ag creathnú le rith na hanála. Ansin bhreathnaigh sí síos agus chonaic sí a lao caite ar an gcarraig fúithi.

Ghéimnigh sí go lúcháireach. Rith sí soir siar ar bharr na haille, ag cuartú bealach le dhul síos chuig an lao, ag smúracht thall agus abhus, ag dul ar a glúine, ag deasú síos.

Ach ní raibh strapa le fáil. Tháinig sí ar ais arís, a cosa deiridh ag lascadh sa rith, go dtí an áit ar caitheadh síos an lao.

Is fada a d'fhan sí ag féachaint síos air gan cor aisti. Ansin do ghéimhigh sí in ard a cinn, ach freagra ní bhfuair sí. Chonaic sí an taoille ag teacht isteach, ag timpeallú na carraige ar a raibh an lao. Do ghéimnigh sí arís. Tháinig na tonntracha ar shála a chéile, timpeall ar an gcorp. Thosnaigh sí ag búirthíl agus ag casadh a chinn go fiánta, mar bheadh sí ag iarraidh an fharraige a chur ar gcúl lena hadharca.

Ansin tháinig maidhm mór millteach isteach. Scuab sé an lao den charraig.

Chuir an bhó búir aisti agus síos léi.

One of the uninitiated reviews Monteverdi's 'Orfeo'

Widely acknowledged as history's first real opera, L'Orfeo is a 17th-century blockbuster featuring shepherds, nymphs, demigods, denizens of the underworld, poisonous snakes, magic lyres, the personification of Music herself and the sun-god Apollo in a Counter Reformation retelling of the ever-popular Orpheus myth. It premiered in Mantua in front of a small audience of aristocrats in 1607.

The story centres around Orfeus (Orfeo in Italian), son of Apollo and possessed of a magical gift of music, losing his wife Eurydice when she is bitten by a snake and dies, and his journey into the Underworld in an attempt to save her. Pluto's wife is moved by Orfeo's laments and convinces her husband to let Eurydice go; he consents, but in classic Greek style adds a stupid condition: if Orfeo looks back at his wife on the journey back to the surface, he'll lose her forever. Which of course he does.

The original Greek story then featured lots of angry Humanists arriving and tearing Orfeo apart, and in some versions, eating him. Monteverdi's first draft of the opera had a similar ending, but it was scrapped after the first-night audience decided they didn't like it very much, and the version eventually featured in the first publication features Orfeo's dad coming down out of the clouds in a very literal deus ex machina, and making everything all right again.

The orchestra for L'Orfeo features loads of lovely period instruments like baroque violins, viols, little old trumpets and trombones, a theorbo, some big crazy drums, recorders, and even a couple of gemshorns for when they go down to the underworld (because, apparently, brass represents the underworld. Who knew?). Before the main event begins, the little orchestra have a sort-of-overture, called a toccata despite being nothing to do with keyboard toccatas, which is more or less an extended fanfare. Then there's a Prologue, which stars La Musica and her signature tune, or ritornello, which is played between each verse of her song talking about how great music is and introducing the story in a vague way.


The first act of the opera is completely concerned with telling the audience just how happy Orfeo is, and how happy the entire world is as a result. This mainly involves lots of shepherds singing and lots of nymphs dancing delightedly while Orfeo and Eurydice stand around looking blissful and occasionally singing to one another. Monteverdi really doesn't skimp on the sense of overwhelming joy in this act, and it gets even more stifling at the beginning of the second act, when Orfeo goes out to the fields of Thrace and watches nymph dances while singing about how he's the happiest man in the world.

Inevitably, this state of ecstasy is interrupted by Sylvia, the Messenger, who has some pretty sudden news: Eurydice has been bitten by a snake and is dead. The mood changes drastically very quickly, and Orfeo sings a heartfelt lament for his wife entitled "You are dead" (it has more of a ring to it in the original Italian) and vows to go to the underworld to save her. The shepherds chime in as well with their refrain, "What a bitter blow!"

So down he goes, guided by Speranza, the personification of Hope; but in a shout-out to Dante, she has to leave him at the gates. Orfeo then encounters Charon, the oarsman of the river Styx, who he lulls to sleep with his singing and steals his boat.

His singing profoundly affects Proserpina, Pluto's wife (who, incidentally, was probably played by the same man - yes, man - as Sylvia and Speranza in the original production), and Eurydice is released under the stupid conditions described above. Orfeo starts to doubt the honesty of the Lord of Hell on his way back, for some reason, and turns around to check his wife really is there. This is a big mistake.

The fifth act is short and really quite silly. Orfeo is sad for a while, then Apollo comes down on a cloud in what is admittedly one of the coolest effects in the show, tells him everything will be all right in heaven in what is almost certainly a bit of counter-reformation propaganda, and Orfeo hops on the cloud and rises gently up out of sight. And that's the end of it.

I'm not an opera aficionado by any means, and a lot of the significance and innovation of L'Orfeo is lost on me. However, it was a big deal at the time - a Mantuan aristocrat wrote before the premiere that it was bound to be interesting and unusual because all the actors were to sing their parts. This they certainly do, and do it well; Monteverdi had come from a background of writing extremely popular madrigals (songs for multiple voices) and knew what went into a good tune. The music is very intelligent, with specific characters even being assigned their own keys - Eurydice sings in D major, and Orfeo sings almost exclusively in G minor, except when he sings about his wife, when he briefly adopts her key.

The story does drag at times, and the ending is a bit ridiculous, but in spite of its failings L'Orfeo remains an enjoyable show four hundred and two years after its first performance - even if the counter-reformation messages are somewhat lost on a modern audience!