Category: English

Vamps, riffs and ostinanti

By Simon

At the community choir last night our conductor referred to part of a song we were practising as a vamp. I have heard this term before in the context of songs, but wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, so decided to find out.

According to the OED, vamp (/væmp/) has a number of meanings, including:

1. That part of hose or stockings which covers the foot and ankle; also, a short stocking, a sock.
2. The part of a boot or shoe covering the front of the foot; U.S., that part between the sole and the top in front of the ankle-seams.
3. Anything vamped, patched up, or refurbished; a patchwork; a book of this nature.
4. A vamped or improvised accompaniment.

Etymology: from the Anglo-Norman *vampé / *vanpé, from the Old French avanpié, which later became avantpied – a combination of avan(t) (before) and pié foot.

None of these definitions entirely fit what we were singing last night – a short repeated phrase at the end of a song.

According to Wikipedia, a vamp is “a repeating musical figure, section or accompaniment” that’s used mainly in jazz, gospel, soul, and musical theatre, and also in other types of music. Vamp can also mean “to improvise simple accompaniment or variation of a tune”.

The equivalent of vamp in classical music is ostinato, the Italian word for ‘stubborn’. A related term is riff, which is perhaps an abbreviation of refrain and refers to a repeated chord progression, pattern, refrain or melodic figure, and is used mainly in rock, funk, jazz and Latin music.

A kitten’s growl

By Simon

A kitten’s growl would not come near the plights of your spoken voice.
You are a banana moon subverting the sun.
Your ear-splitting sequels have a mind of their own.
Demonize your sofa. It will lend forth more peanuts between the cushions.
The tiny sounds of ancient bees resound forth from the forrested coercions between your toes.

The above sentences were generated by the The Surrealist Compliment Generator. They look a bit like things that emerged from a game some friends and I devised involving going around the group saying one word each and trying to connect the words into sentences.

The SCG also throws up surrealist compliments in other languages occasionally. For example:

– Mano a mano, le tue ossiflexe, si starnubbano nel brondio.
– Votre regard est plus penetrant qu’une stalagmite sertie dans son antre d’albatre
– Heizenmizstenwerner ut mal die westernmoviefurter und glipzenglagenheimer zieden un der witzelwaltzerfloggen…

Coming up with surrealist sentences like this in languages you’re learning could be a fun way to practise using them.

The OED defines surrealism as:

“A movement in art and literature seeking to express the subconscious mind by any of a number of different techniques, including the irrational juxtaposition of realistic images, the creation of mysterious symbols, and automatism; art or literature produced by or reminiscent of this movement.”

The word surrealism comes from the French surréalisme, which was coined by Guillaume Apollinaire in 1917.

Mainbrace splicing

By Simon

maritime signal flags for 'splice the mainbrace'

When any swashes they can find have been thoroughly buckled, or indeed buckles swashed, swashbucklers might hear the exclamation/order ‘splice the mainbrace!’. I’ve often wondered what a mainbrace was and how you would splice one. So I decided to find out.

It turns out that nowadays the order ‘splice the mainbrace’ has nothing to do with the splicing of braces, main or otherwise, but is in fact an order to issue the crew of a navel vessel with an extra ration of rum or grog.

Originally the order referred to the repairing of the mainbrace, the largest of the lines or ropes that control the angle of the yards on a sailing ship. This was a difficult but essential task, as a ship could not be steered without a mainbrace, which was a prime target during battles, and it was customary for an extra ration of rum to be issued after the mainbrace had been successfully spliced. The order continued to be used after sailing ships were no longer used, but referred just to the extra rum ration rather than to the actual mainbrace splicing, and tended to be made after after victory in battle, or on the occasion of a change of a monarch, a royal birth or wedding, or an inspection of the fleet. [source]

The flags on the right are the maritime signal flags for the order ‘splice the mainbrace’.

The word splice, meaning ‘to join (ropes, cables, lines, etc.) by untwisting and interweaving the strands of the ends so as to form one continuous length’ comes from the Middle Dutch word splissen, the origins of which are uncertain [source].

Buckling swashes

By Simon

In one of the books I read recently quite a few swashes were buckled, and this got me wondering what exactly was a swash and who you would go about buckling one.

A swashbuckler (/ˈswɒʃˌbʌklə(r)/) is a swaggering bravo or ruffian, or a noisy braggadocio, and first appeared in writing in 1560, according to the OED. It is a combination of two words, swash and buckler:

swash, v. /swɒʃ/
– to dash or cast violently.
– to make a noise as of swords clashing or of a sword beating on a shield; to fence with swords; to bluster with or as with weapons; to lash out; hence, to swagger.
– to dash or splash (water) about; to dash water upon, souse with water or liquid; (of water) to beat with a splash against.

Etymology: imitative of the sound of splashing or agitated water, or of a resounding blow
[source]

buckler, n. /ˈbʌklə(r)/
– a small round shield
– a means of defence; protection, protector.

Etymology: from the Old French boucler, bucler, from the Latin *bucculārius (having a boss) from buccula (visor).
[source].

So now we know. Are there interesting equivalents of swashbuckler in other languages?

Flame of the woods

By Simon

Gold finch from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/sheedypj/4176105819/in/photostream

Lasair choille or ‘flame of the woods’ is the Irish name for the goldfinch (carduelis carduelis), two of which I saw on my apple tree this morning. I like to know the names of birds and other creatures in the my languages, and particularly liked the Irish version when I discovered it.

The Irish word lasair means flame or blame comes from las (to light, inflame, ignite, blush). It probably shares the same root as the English word lamp, which comes from the French word lampe, from the Latin lampas, from the Greek λαμπάς (to shine).

In Welsh the goldfinch is known as nico, but has many other names, including jac nico, teiliwr llundain (London tailor), peneuryn (head gold jewel?), eurbinc (gold pink), pobliw (every colour), soldiwr bach y werddon (little soldier of the green place/oasis), cnot, ysnoden felen (yellow band) and asgell aur (gold wing).

The English word finch comes from the Old English finc, possibly from the Old Germanic *finki-z or finkjon, which is thought to be of echoic origin.

Names for the goldfinch in many other languages can be found on the avibase.

Ukuleles and machetes

By Simon

My new ukulele

Yesterday I bought myself a ukulele, something I’ve been thinking about doing for a while. I already play the guitar and mandolin, and had been thinking about trying other stringed instruments, such as the ukulele, banjo and bouzouki. A while ago I saw a poster about the Bangor Uke Club / Clwb Uke Bangor and thought it might be cool to join it, and yesterday I finally did.

The usual story is that the word ukulele (/juːkəˈleɪliː/) comes from the Hawaiʻian words ʻuku /Ɂuku/ – louse, flea; small, tiny, and lele /lele/ – to fly, jump, leap, hop, skip, swing, bounce, and many other meanings.

The OED describes the ukulele as “a small four-stringed Hawaiʻian guitar that is a development of a Portuguese instrument introduced to the island c1879”, and the Online Etymology Dictionary says that the name ukulele or ‘leaping flea’ comes from the rapid movement of the fingers used to play it.

Braguinha

According to the ‘Ukulele Guild of Hawai’i, ‘ukuleles developed from a type of small guitar known as machete do braga or braguinha (see right) from Madeira. They also mention that there is some uncertainity about the origins of the name ukulele – one story is that a certain Edward Purvis, an English solider who was assistant chamberlain to the Hawaiʻian King Kalākaua in the 1880s, and who was a small man with a lively playing style on this instrument, was nicknamed ‘ukulele (dancing flea) by the Hawaiʻians, who gave the same name to the instrument.

The earliest written reference to this instrument, in a travel book about Hawai‘i, dates back to 1891 and it was spelt ukelele rather than ukulele, a word which didn’t appear in print until 1895 in the Hawaiʻian Gazette. Both spellings were used interchangeably for a period, and the former possibly comes from the Hawaiʻian word ʻukē – to swing, sway; tap, rap, tick, thud.

The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain mention a number of possible origins of the word ukulele: a certain João Fernandes from Madeira was nicknamed ‘ukulele (dancing flea) by the Hawai‘ians, who were impressed by his virtuosity and speed on the braguinha, and the way his fingers jumped about, and the name became associated with the instrument as well. Alternatively it was Edward Purvis who acquired the nickname. Or that the name comes from uku (a tribute, reward, fee) and lele (to land, disembark); or from ʻūkēkē lele (‘dancing ʻūkēkē’ – a type of musical bow); or that Gabriel Davian and Judge W. L. Wilcox coined and translated the name, joking that the way one scratched at it, the instrument must have been a jumping flea.

Other Hawaiʻian expressions featuring lele include:

– lele māmā – to fly swiftly, dart
– hoʻo.lele – to cause to fly; to fly, as a kite; to disembark, to embark, as on a project; to palpitate; to enlarge or project, as pictures
– hoʻolele leo – radio broadcast, broadcaster, microphone, ventriloquism, ventriloquist
– hoʻolele hua kēpau -to set type
– mea hoʻolele leo – microphone

Academic English

By Simon

Yesterday I listened to an interesting episode of Word of Mouth, BBC Radio 4’s programme about language, which looked at academic English. They talked to staff and students in Swedish universities about how English has taken over from Swedish as the main language of higher education and research in Sweden. One researcher explained that if you want an international audience to read your research, you have to write it in English, and that it can be a challenge to get research papers in Swedish published, so most people don’t bother. As a result, many academics are unable to discuss their work in Swedish as they’re so used to doing so in English and don’t have all the relevant vocabulary in Swedish.

The students said that most of their textbooks and classes are in English, especially at postgraduate level, and that most of their written work has to be in English, which can be quite a challenge, even though their spoken English is very good.

This is an example of domain loss, i.e. in the domain of higher education and research in Sweden Swedish is being replaced by English. This is a common occurrence when languages are endangered and in decline, and Sweden isn’t the only place where this is happening – the situation is similar in Denmark, according to this paper, and probably in a number of other countries.

The presenter of the programme also pointed out that even native speakers of English may need help with Academic English, the particular style of writing used in higher education and research. This made me think that the current position Academic English is similar to that occupied by Latin until the 18th century.

Calembour

By Simon

Calembour /kalɑ̃buʀ/, nm – Jeu de mots fondé sur la différence de sens entre des mots qui se prononcent de la même façon (ex. : personnalité et personne alitée) (de Larousse).

This is a French word I learnt last night that means pun or, “a play on words based on the difference in meaning between words that are pronounced the same”. The example above doesn’t work as a pun in English – personnalité = personality and personne alitée = a bedridden person.

Calembour first appears in a letter by Denis Diderot from 1768. According to Webster’s Online Dictionary, it comes from a character known as “der Pfaff vom Kahlenberg” (the Jester of Kahlenberg), a.k.a. Wigand von Theben, in a German story called Tyll Eulenspiegel (Owl’s Looking-glass). The Jester of Kahlenberg, or Calembourg in French, spent time in Paris during the reign of Louis XV and was known for his puns and blunders.

The English word pun (/pʌn/, /pən/) is of uncertain origin. The OED suggests that it possibly comes from punctilio (a minute detail of action or conduct). Other possible origins of pun, discussed in The Pun Also Rises by John Pollack, include:

– pundit, from the Sanskrit पण्डित (paṇḍita – “a learned Hindu versed in Sanskrit”), although the Sanskrit word for pun is श्लेष (śleṣa)
– pun, Old English for “to pound”
– पुण्ड् (puṇḍ), a Sanskrit word meaning “to heap up together”
– punctilio, Latin for “fine point”
– pun, an Anglo-Indian word meaning “a stake played for a price; a sum” – named after a type of Indian coin.

There’s also discussing of the etymology of pun on the OUPblog.

The Pun Also Rises is an interesting and pun-filled history of puns and punning which suggests that they have been around perhaps since language first emerged, and that the dismissive attitude and groans which they often evoke are a relatively recent development. The author argues that by forming links between unlikely things, puns can stimulate creative thinking and mental agility, and that they can also help children to develop their linguistic skills – knock knock jokes (invented by William Shakespeare), are perennial favourites for this.

Golems and trolls

By Simon

I’ve always thought that the word golem was pronounced /ˈgɔləm/ with a short o as in doll, probably influenced by Tolkein’s gollum, and my preference for northern vowels. Yesterday however, while watching Going Postal, a film based on the Terry Pratchett’s book by the same name, I noticed that some other people pronounce it /ˈɡoʊləm/.

According to Wikipedia, golem /ˈɡoʊləm/ comes from Hebrew and appears as גלמי in the Bible (Psalms 139:16) and means ‘my unshaped form’. This became the Yiddish word גולם (goylem), and in Modern Hebrew גלמ (golem) means “dumb” or “helpless”.

According to the OED, golem is pronounced /ˈgəʊləm/ or /ˈgɔɪləm/ and comes from Hebrew גלמ (gōlem – shapeless mass) via the Yiddish גולם (goylem).

I pronounce troll /tɾɔl/, rhyming it with doll, whereas I’ve heard other people pronounce it /tɾəʊl/, rhyming it dole.

Troll /trəʊl/, a being from Norse mythology, comes from the Old Norse trǫll, though only arrived in English, probably from Swedish, during the 19th century.

How do you pronounce golem and troll?

Climbing

By Simon

Yesterday I climbed Snowdon (Yr Wyddfa) for the first time. It was a warm sunny day, though a bit hazy, and the views were spectacular – there are some photos on Flickr. When I say that I climbed Snowdon, what kind of activity does that conjure up for you?

I went up the Miners Track from Pen y Pass and then descended by way of the Llanberis Path. In places the Miners Track is very step and hands are needed to help you up or down, while you can walk up and down the Llanberis Path relatively easily, or even run, if you’re feeling very energetic. So no actual climbing, as in climbing up or down rock faces, was involved. Other routes up Snowdon might require that kind of climbing.

The OED defines climb as:

1. To raise oneself by grasping or clinging, or by the aid of hands and feet; ‘to mount by means of some hold or footing’ (Johnson); to creep up; to ascend, come, or go up, a perpendicular or steep place.
2. To ascend (anything steep) by hands and feet, creep up; to get to the top or summit of; to mount, scale.

It comes from the Old English climb-an, clamb (clǫmb), clumbon, clumben, which is believed to be a nasalized form of the Germanic *klîƀan (to cleave).

So I did climb in the sense that I ascended or scaled the mountain, though didn’t need to use my hands or to grasp or cling very much, and I didn’t creep up either.