It’s not often that I post music reviews here because it’s not often that new music absolutely hits me in the chest with its perfection. I’m struggling to find new work these days that hits every level of greatness in performance, originality, musicianship, tunes and deployability. Taylor Swift gets close but I find Indy Music way to hit and miss these days.
Burt this landed at the weekend and I immediately knew I was in the presence of greatness.
Washington’s The Epic (2015) falls under the same category but this took my by surprise. I was initially put off nay its length (90 minutes) but that’s one of its strengths as it wraps you up in its mood and develops (swirls) through some full on jazz to Ethiopian inspired afro jazz into jazz funk and semi classical choral wok that’s simply breathtaking.
It’s underpinned by Kamari’s peerless saxophone playing that you might think could outstay its welcome but is actually the bedrock of this glorious enthralling and happy sound.
Andrea 3000 and George Clinton make appearances along with Thundercat but it’s undoubtedly Washington and his ensemble that make this album of the year by far for me.
Luca Guadagnino is one of my favourite directors. If you have not seen his epic TV series, We are Who We Are, set on an Italian airforce base, you need to. I also love his Suspiria and Call me By Your Name that brought Timothy Chalomet to prominence.
Guadagnino loves blurring sexuality and sexual preferences and he does so again in this Tennis movie that has its share of jocks but is anything but Jockish.
It concerns the three way relationship between three tennis players, Tashi Donaldson (Zendaya) whose startling young career is abruptly cut short by a knee injury, her husband, Art, played by Mike Faist and her/their lover, Patrick, played by Josh O’Connor. Art and Patrick are private school buddies that simultaneously fall head over heels in love with Tashi at a tennis tournament and spend the next thirteen years fighting for her affection. She, having turned to coaching her succesful but failing husband, is happy to play each off each other (but subconsciously) she knows that they know that he knows what he knows about him and her.
It’s a non-consenting menage a trois that is deliciously wrapped up in bargaining, treachery and double crossing. The scene in which Zendaya intoxicates the two male leads is a brilliant and in part hilarious piece of sexual trickery that is the highlight of the movie.
It’s all set agains a low level tennis tournament that Patrick, now a journeyman, needs to win to improve his rankings and Art needs to win to restore his faltering confidence. Cue magnificent tennis action set to a pounding score By Trent and Atticus (one that will surely find its way onto my Spotify for regular listening), it’s maybe their best yet.
The cinematography is outstanding with a virtual reality feeling. If you’ve never faced a tennis ball at 140mph before, you will have after this. Just make sure to duck when it comes out of the screen at you (I wonder if there is a 3D version?).
It’s great really. Intoxicating, intriguing and unpredictable from start to finish with the final of the aforementioned Challenger Tour match in New Rochelle anchoring the action in what is a great story.
All three actors carry it off with aplomb and I’d strongly recommend it. Good escapist fun.
If M.C. Escher had written a whydunnit he might have called it Ripley.
I say this because the recent Netflix masterpiece starring Andrew Scott and written & directed by Steve Zallion (he of Schindler’s List fame – more on that later) is an Escherian nightmare of wrong turns, about turns, smart turns and climbs that lead to nowhere.
The plot (Patricia Highsmith’s genius cannot be overstated here) is one of the most elaborate and thrilling I have ever encountered. The world’s greatest crime writers thrown in a room together could not have conjured up anything more magical even if Jesse Armstrong had been put in charge of them. It’s not that it’s full of cliffhangers, as such, it’s the sheer chicanery that Tom Ripley demonstrates as he shape-shifts his way through the lives (and deaths) of himself and his unwitting benefactor Dickie (Deekee) Greenleaf that make this story so compelling.
But let’s start after Highsmith and look at what Steve Zallion brings to the party. Well, for a start, the script is terrific. I don’t know the novel so I don’t know if it’s laugh out loud funny – but this sure is. One might grumble at his mild mocking of Inspector Pietro Ravini’s occasional flaws with the English language, especially his pronunciation of Freddie Miles’ (Meeles) name, but Vittorio Viviani bring a wonderful blend of Inspector Clouseau and Poirot to the part that is delicious. His mild OCD is amusing and that is one of the themes that run through the movie.
Zallion can never have had as much fun making a film as here. He plays tricks with the audience from start to finish and his elaborate use of repetition (posting the mail, riffling through notebooks, application of pen to paper, placing of items on bureaux, zooming in on concierges, framing of the post office, police cars, the cat, stairwells, paintings, drinking (or not) wine, ashtray purchasing, mimicking of Caravaggio and Ripley) is bonkers and dazzling.
The central motif of climbing stairs is extremely interesting. I have two theories on this. 1) it represents class climbing – Ripley is a wannabe, a charlatan and a grifter. He aspires to greater riches and stature and is deeply uncomfortable in society situations such as at Peggy Guggenheim’s party in Venice where he is in real danger of being found out for not being one of ‘us’. He’s always climbing to attain his goal. 2) it represents the futility of the whole police hunt, the whole story, as Ripley outwits every character (even the reasonably savvy Marge) by shifting the sands, rearranging the staircases so that we reach that ‘going nowhere’ outcome that Escher so brilliantly portrays in his paintings.
And lastly there’s his choice of monochrome to create a film noire, but also a work of art. Art is a central metaphor of the series. Caravaggio’s work, his homosexuality and his murderous past are all reflections on Ripley’s own story. Ripley loves Caravaggio with a passion because he admires not just his work but his lifestyle. The fact that Greenleaf’s wannabe painterly skills are appallingly lacking is just a bonus.
The cinematography has to be seen to be believed. Mostly spot on (it’s occasionally a touch overexposed) by Robert Elswit (He’s PT Anderson’s go to guy and won an Oscar for There Will Be Blood – bosh!). It drives the mood and the beauty, aided by a strong soundtrack, and has its moment in the sun when he stunningly, and frankly hilariously, references Schindler’s List with a single step of blood red cat paw prints. One second of red in eight hours of monochrome. You know the scene I’m talking about in both productions, right? Episode 5 if you missed it.
And then theres the acting. Johnny Flynn I could take or leave, Dakota Fanning played her irritating role to perfection (entitled little Sylvia Plathesque romanticist that she is). I’ve talked about the marvellous Vittorio Viviani, but the stars of the piece are the deliciously camp and truly dislikable Eliot Sumer who gets his just desserts as Freddie Meeles and, of course, the joy of Andrew Scott.
What can I say about Andrew Scott that hasn’t already been said? In the last five years he has risen from nowhere to challenge Steven Graham as Britains top actor. I think he has more range than Graham but both are a delight every time they hit our screens.
In this Scott OWNS the screen. His arch, sometimes befuddled playing of the unintended villain that is Tom Ripley is extraordinary. He falls into his murders rather than premeditates them so that makes him OK, right? And we are desperate for him not to be caught, because Scott has intoxicated us with his charm, his humour and his intelligence, all hidden behind a relatively blank canvas of a face. In moments of stress you can see the brain ticking, by micro-movements of Scott’s demeanour. This is acting of the highest calibre and Ripley, not the victims, is our hero.
We love Andrew Scott, therefore we love Tom Ripley.
You might have guessed by now that I loved this. A straight 10/10.
Four movies into his very slowly expanding movie CV (Sexy Beast, Birth and Under The Skin) Jonathan Glazer once again lands a punch that no-one could see coming. I mean, how could they?
It’s been ten years since the sublime and shocking Under The Skin (from a source novel by one of my favourite authors, Michel Faber) now he’s done it again with a novelistic source from Martin Amis. Having read a little about this it would seem that the movie and the book are barely related. Same theme and location, yes, but story-wise very different.
For a start it would be a push to say the movie’s narrative led. There is a slight thread holding it together but this is really an exercise in stylistic horror like you’ve never seen before.
The psychology of the holocaust has long fascinated me. How could an entire country apparently sign up to a dictator’s whims when his charisma, to me, seems so indecipherable. But worse, how could so many of his followers carry out such atrocities seemingly without question?
But this movie goes a step further still. How could the families of these monsters knowingly reap the benefits of this accursed man’s activities?
Sandra Hüller (who might win best actress at the Oscars for the incredible Anatomy of a Fall) stars as that very woman (Hedwig Höss). Living a life of privilege in an unattractive house with a cultivated, but not exactly stunning, garden in the lee of Auschwitz. Her husband, the camp Kommandant, played by Christian Friedel, is a snidely little creep who sleeps in a separate bed (his work done having sired five children to his despicable wife). At night he takes his pleasure with the Jewish housemaid, who’s always one dropped crumb away from the gas chambers that brood ominously just across the garden wall. Höss’s more than happy to remind her of that.
Höss takes her pick of fur coats, new blouses, diamonds concealed in toothpaste tubes as the apparent spoils of genocide filter regularly into their home. They party, they feed sumptuously, they swim in the river, they cough up the ashes of dead Jews – only a small blot on an idyllic lifestyle
Höss’s mother arrives, but soon leaves in disgust at this heinous way of living.
A young girl sneaks out at night to hide apples for the Jewish labourers – a death defying act that is momentously captured on night vision film. This stunning technique turns her into a lurid white spectre against what looks like a nuclear background, to the sound of an outrageous soundtrack by Mica Levy. Underscoring the score the Kommandant reads Hansel & Gretel to his younger children (it’s no coincidence that the evil witch is burned in the oven – although the story “cooks” her to soften the blow). Who this mysterious figure is is not revealed, but perhaps it’s the Kommandant’s oldest daughter. The one with a conscience. The only one. The Kindly one.
It’s truly remarkable moviemaking.
The star of this colossal piece of work though is Johnny Burn, the sound designer, who brings Auschwitz to life without ever really seeing it. other than its rooftops.
On a side note. I’ve been to Auschwitz (which is actually three death camps not one) and the one that features in the movie, Auschwitz III is now a museum. These days it’s impeccably manicured and the buildings are entirely surprising, two or three story high red brick constructions that could be schoolhouses if we didn’t know better. It’s very disarming. The muddy, filthy wooden huts we all remember from the movies and the newsreels are in Auschwitz I, a short drive away. So this clean, Teutonic death factory is disarming and Glazer captures that strange orderliness of the setting as we often see the well-kept rooflines of the houses beyond. (Albeit with smoking chimneys and glowing fires)
What Burn does though is pull the rug away. The air of semi-respectability that we are seeing is subsumed by endless industrial groans suggesting boilers (certainly machinery we don’t want to think about too much) working at full blast. Gunshots echo out, but subtly in the distance, muffled shrieks, distant dogs barking, at one point a cold blooded murder. The steam train arriving with fresh cargo.
It all adds up to make Auschwitz a looming threat, playing out a murderous background soundscape, like a satanic orchestra, whilst in the foreground we see a sort of Utopia at play.
The movie is shot as a series of beautiful tableaux, often reminiscent of classical paintings, but interspersed with empty screens, red or black, and the mind-boggling night vision work. (it’s searingly black and white, not green, as you’ve come to expect). This creates a sense of tranquillity and opulence, and yet it’s backgrounded by the worst atrocities ever committed in Europe.
Jonathan Glazer has created his masterpiece. Few would imagine he could top his first three movies and yet this comes from a place that only he can truly understand. It’s not clear why he’s made this movie. It’s not actually telling us anything new and yet it feels like the most original take on a familiar tale we will ever come across.
I so wish I liked this movie more. It’s gorgeous and thoughtful and wonderfully acted, by Andrew Scott in particular. It’s a touching subject about grief, loneliness, the act of coming out, death and suicide.
But I’m afraid it’s just really boring. It’s way too darkly shot – the cinema projector simply couldn’t cope with how black it is and consequently you could actually see the projector’s bulb fighting to get on top of the opaqueness of the subject matter. Clare Foy looked out of place and Paul Mescal must dream for a role that doesn’t require endless shagging.
I nodded off several times as Andrew Scott struggled with his endless, tiresome grief over the death of his parents (like 20 years ago FFS) who are actually still alive, or are they ghosts, or is it a dream?
Actually…who cares in the end. My wife wept a bit. I did not. And I’m a sap.
I didn’t know of Sylvia Patterson, she was never really a big name music writer like Barbara Ellen or Miranda Sawyer but, as it turns out, she had quite the CV behind her.
Raised in Perth by an alcoholic mum and adoring dad her life story (Published in 2016 but evading me until now) is diaphanously explored through this wonderful book’s pages.
She’s a bit of a sorry soul in most respects; addicted to weed, a very heavy drinker and unable (mostly) to forge a real relationship, her housing situation in London is sub-optimal to say the least and she barely had two pennies to rub together – life as a music journalist, especially a freelancer, may be glamorous but it sure isn’t financially rewarding.
The book sort of evolves as it emerges into the light, starting out at the lite end of glamour in Dundee on Etcetra before graduating to Smash Hits (Ver Hits) in London then NME before Glamour magazine (fits your lifestyle and your handbag) as music editor, before going freelance.
We get real insights into all of these magazines as Patterson charts the gradual and terminal decline of the music press. My beloved NME being the most remarkable implosion.
But the meat of this extraordinary, and yes it is extraordinary, story is the interviews which she retells in forensic detail. She’s clearly kept the tapes which allows her to transcribe them in all of their gory glory.
Madonna, Prince, Spike Milligan, Blur (wankers especially Damon), Coldplay, Kylie (12 times), Spike Milligan, Eminem (utter cunt), Cypress Hill, Marc Almond (wanker), New Order, Oasis, Pulp, The Manics (bevvie merchants extraordinaire), Led Zeppelin, The Beckhams, Beyonce (as Destiny’s Child), Britney Spears, Amy Winehouse, Adele…The list is endless and all killa no filla. Most have at least a chapter each dedicated to them, all are analysed as artists and human beings. Some do not fare well.
The writing is brilliant, unique in style, relaxed, a bit gossipy but never show offy. This feels like a true expose of the music industry, a bit Kenneth Anger I suppose.
Patterson herself comes across as brave, bold, maverick, non-conformist but vulnerable and scatterbrained, so in no way is this a “look at me” self aggrandisement, but a slightly sad, slightly regretful summation of a career that feels terribly overlooked. If her journalism was as good as her book-writing she should have been the most famous music journo in the biz. Maybe spending too long at Smash Hits, which people like me sneered at, was part of her problem – although writing stars emerged from that stable. Perhaps her lack of ambition stimied her. I don’t know, but what I do know is I’d love to meet her and admire her tremendously.
I wonder if you share my enthusiasm for what at first seemed to me to be a gimmick release but turns out to be rather moving and beautiful. Although my Unbcle Rab declared it “a bit mushy”. And my wife Jeana said, “The trouble is I don’t like Paul McCartney’s voice.” Nicely spotted Jeana.
Me? It’ll be on my best of the year list because, quite simply, it’s one of the best of the year.
This is the 19th Martin Scorsese movie I’ve seen. It settles firmly into the upper quartile of this remarkable director’s work.
His range is immense and this sits closer to some of his American History documentaries than it does to, say, Gangs of New York or Wolf of Wall Street.
But it actually has its roots in Casino/Goodfellas territory, because it’s a kind of mafia film, in that it explores a very one-sided gang attitude to clansmanship (and in a small part Klansmanship).
It’s actually a story of genocide/ethnic cleansing, as Robert Di Niro’s (rarely better, certainly not in the last 40 years) rich, ranch-owning, Oklahoman one-man dynasty sets out to wrestle away the oilfield rights of the Osage tribe of Native Americans by hook or by crook – mainly by crook.
The Osage are mightily rich because oil has been found slap bang in the middle of their land and Di Niro’s William Hale is jealous and determined to get his greedy mitts on the money.
He does this in a pincer movement. Firstly by marrying his returning WWI war hero, a dim-witted nephew Ernest Burkhart (phenomenally played by Leonardo DiCaprio) into the Osage. His willing wife Mollie (a star turn by Lily Gladstone) is unaware of Hale and Burkhart’s long term ambitions and simply falls in love with him. Truth is, it’s mutual.
Hale’s second strategy in this pincer is the straightforward murders of Mollie’s family and many more Osage besides. There are numerous cold blooded killings that pepper the movie and yet it never feels gratuitous (cold blooded and shocking, yes, but not especially repellent – like it might have been in Tarantino’s hands.)
It’s a study in racism and of greed but that doesn’t mean Di Niro, DiCaprio and Gladstone don’t win you over with their overwhelmingly great performances – expect all three to feature at next year’s Oscars (I expect Di Niro to pick up his 9th nomination, DiCaprio his 8th and Gladstone her first – maybe a first ever Oscar for a woman of Native American descent?)
Gladstone is a silent but steely presence. Much of the film documents her suffering at the hands of Hale and Burkhart, and it’s truly shocking how DiCaprio treats her, despite his undoubted love for her.
It’s widely documented that the film is extraordinarily long (3h26mins without a break is a bladder challenging sit through) but although it features murders galore, it’s no action picture. Do not go looking for any Marvel escapades in this one folks. But it’s manageable, riveting and entirely justified in its length.
One other thing to point out. The soundtrack is an almost imperceptible blues bass thrum by Robbie Robertson that builds tension at an almost inaudible level but is like a heartbeat throughout. Sinister and compelling it quietly drives the story along. Bravo Robbie.
The movie is a savage insight into a part of American history that was not familiar to me and it deserves to be seen by a wide audience. Judging from the low availability of seats in Edinburgh’s cinemas this weekend that ambition at least appears to be coming to fruition.
In which Curtis writes a truly romantic novel that is laugh out loud funny. but it’s not a romantic comedy. Oh no. that would be vulgar.
Instead she writes a heartwarming love story about a mousy looking mid-thirties TV sketch show writer for Saturday Night Live who finds herself in a relationship with the hottest pop singer in the United States whilst writing a sketch for SNL about an unattractive man pulling a hot woman. (This is a common occurrence, usually linked to money. She appropriates it and calls it The Danny Horst Rule , which states that men from SNL can date way out of their league, but the same isn’t true for the women working on the show.)
Except, of course, they can, and she does.
Kinda meta.
Also it’s a favourite of writers to write about writing/writers but it’s the first time she’s done it and I think will land her her first movie. Just don’t call it a romantic comedy.
So that’s the premise. Hot musician pulls dowdy spinster.
It’s told in three acts. The first is a wonderful exposition of what goes on behind the scenes in a week at SNL (OK it’s called The Night Owls) and involves a guest host, Noah Brewster, of multi million selling Making Love in July fame who hosts the show and briefly falls for one of its best writers, Sally Milz.
Then Covid hits and their relationship is renewed via email in Act 2 before fully consummating itself IRL in Act 3.
The whole book wrestles with The Danny Horst Rule and explores the unlikeliness of this megastar falling for this ordinary woman. Except she’s not ordinary, she’s whip smart, experienced and very, very funny.
The whole basis of what grounds relationships, spoiler, it’s not looks, is explored over 300 page turning leaves.
I loved it. My seventh and now complete back catalogue of Sittenfeld’s (although the first signed one I have). It’s not her best, although it’s not far off, but it could be her most succesful when the movie goes stratospheric.
In the pantheon of great Scottish vernacular writers Graeme Armstrong has joined the podium. He stands alongside James Kelman, Irvine Welsh, Ely Percy and Anne Donovan.
Maybe he is the gold medalist, but let’s see what novel #2 brings.
My only criticism of this amazing book is it could have been edited a little more tightly.
That critique aside, in the meantime we have a belter in The Young Team which is an auto-fictional story of life in brutal, and I mean really brutal, gang culture in Airdrie and the surrounds (Coatbridge, Wishaw, Motherwell, Hamilton).
Whatever, they’re awe shite.
The Young team tells of Azzie’s life as a wannabe gang leader through the ranks, to…well, you’ll have to read it
The grit in this story is that Azzie has a brain. Trouble is he uses it infrequently as his gang-inspired rage too often rules his heart over his head.
At times you grit your teeth so hard you can barely breathe as this horrific story unfolds. It’s not quite Glasgow’s Jimmy Boyle-esque razor gangs, but it’s not far short.
Life in North Lanarkshire’s schemes is awful, although interestingly Armstrong rarely suggests that, it’s just life.
Aggro, violence, wine (Buckfast) drugs and motherly love are the soothing embraces that make this land home. No matter what.
The drugs (or is it the violence – there’s plenty of that) centre the book. Azzie is close to being a junkie, but he’s also close to being a murderer (OK, manslaughterer).
He’s smart, but he’s also mental.
I wouldn’t want to meet him (although I would love to meet Graeme Armstrong). We read of his life from wannabe gang master to sensible 22 year old retiree. But the needle still skips.
It’s, to be honest, terrifying. But it’s written with the mind of a philosopher.
Azzie can escape, unlike most.
This makes it sound like a cliche but it’s anything but. Ignore comparisons to Trainspotting. That’s lazy and predictable. This is a far more serious, and more important, book.
“It’s shite being Scottish”, yes it is – in this den of iniquity.
The stories of rave culture add a bit of levity (but even these are horrifying in places). I wasn’t one of them (thankfully reading this) but levity is not a tonal reference of this book.
Many say it is funny like Irvine Welsh. (It isn’t). OK, it has funny moments. But it isn’t a comedy book by any stretch of the imagination. It’s much more Alan Warner than Irving Welsh in this respect.
So, don’t buy this for a laugh.
Buy it to , I dunno, I’m so middle class that I don’t want to say/admit it – feel better about your life?
Actually, naw, just revel in Graeme Armstrong’s writing skills.
It’s a belter. And it’s coming to a TV near you soon so get it read first.
Two Fringe Firsts, a Five Star EIF Alvin Ailey part two, a performance art piece at the Talbot Rice art gallery, an hour’s talk and a signed book from Jesse Armstrong (Showrunner of Succession) and a preview of first works (x4) by young writers at Summerhall.
Let’s start with The Summerhall Surgeries, the last of four such one hour sessions funded jointly by Summerhall and the Edinburgh Festival Fringe Society in which four writers previewed 10 minute work in progress pieces to a small audience. A simply brilliant initiative and a peek behind the curtain of the writing process. My thoughts are captured below as all audience members were invited to do.
Next up I nabbed a return for Fringe First winning Ben Target (or Ben Target – with an acute to some – but WordPress won’t let me type an acute) and his show Lorenzo at Summerhall.
It’s a retelling of his inadvertent spell as a carer for his uncle (not uncle) Lorenzo Fong – there’s a clue somewhere in their respective surnames – during lockdown. His (not) uncle is nevertheless his most beloved extended family member since his childhood, which Target explores through the use of a shadow puppetry house (much better than Jesse Cave‘s incidentally).
Target is a stand up and repeatedly reminds us of his fall from a small height as winner of most promising comedian at the Fringe in 2012. And although this show is hilariously funny at times it’s really a sad story of death and palliative care administered in a truly DIY way, that gets close to euthanasia by Target and Fong, the Odd Couple of Death Row.
It’s entirely engrossing, spellbinding in fact, and Target should hopefully see a resurrection of his crumbling career as a result of this truly 5 star masterpiece.
I took a break at the University Courtyard and visited Jesse Jones‘ performance art piece called The Tower at The Talbot Rice. It’s rather lovely. The other show on just now isn’t.
Next to Zoo Playground (Blimey Zoo has had a great Festival) to see the third of their Fringe First winning shows. These included The Insider and Funeral, both reviewed earlier in the Fringe, But today’s winner was Beasts (Why Girls Shouldn’t Fear the Dark) a one woman play by Zimbabwean Londoner, Mandi Chivasa.
It’s a towering performance that charts the story of a young black London girl who is being followed through her neighbourhood by a man (although she describes him as a creature) at Twilight.
It’s told in rhyming poetry, although it’s kind of like a soft rap, that never stops the naturalism of the performance and often lifts it to glorious heights.
Appropriately in Edinburgh it almost feels like a riff on Jekyll and Hyde as our heroine Ruva changes role from victim (ignored by the police when she reports her uncomfortable experience) to victor as she assumes the persona of a lion-like ‘Beast’ and exacts revenge on the Creature. clearly a repeat offender in his stalking of young women.
It feels mythological, it’s somewhat fantastical but most importantly it’s riveting and Chivasa is a highly accomplished actor. Sadly only half full, despite its Fringe First, I’d highly recommend it.
The fourth event of the day truly was an EVENT.
Jesse Armstrong was in town for the TV Festival, but somehow the Portobello Bookshop had persuaded him to come to Port Town Hall to talk to 1,000 of us and sign his newly published scripts to Succession Season 4. To say he was entrancing was an understatement. The hour’s talk zipped by in an instant. My female companions were salivating.
Thank you Jesse. Like an audience with the Pope (as I told him while he signed my book).
And finally Alvin Ailey Programme 1. A step up from Programme 2 with Revelations again and pieces by Twyla Tharp (A jazzy Roy’s Joys) and another by Kyle Abraham (a funky hip hoppy Are You in Your Feelings?). Both were considerably better than the support pieces to Revelations the night before and rounded off an extraordinary day of culture.
The day started at the Amplify Festival event by the Marketing Society at Assembly where the main speaker was Frank Cottrell Boyce. He of children’s book writing, the 2012 Olympics opening ceremony and The Queen x Paddington fame. He gave a talk about humour and its value that was interesting, seemingly pretty spontaneous, totally self-effacing and utterly charming. His best line, being a staunch Catholic, was that he thought the Ogilvy Lecture – that he was delivering – was about St John Ogilvy. (It’s not, it’s in memory of advertising super hero, David Ogilvy).
He made being Catholic with seven children seem pretty cool.
The main draw of the day was the first of two excursions to the wonderful Festival Theatre to see the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater of New York – founded by the now deceased eponymous dancer in the late 1950’s. The main event was his global phenomenon Revelations which closed a triple bill of 30 minute pieces (Programme 2). The first (Memoria) was unremarkable, save for the introduction of a large group of young Scottish dancers who had been trained by the troupe for two weeks, surely a life changing experience for these youngsters who looked every bit as accomplished as the main dancing corps.
The second piece (the River) was way too episodic for me and felt almost like individual or duet/trio audition pieces.
What struck me about both of these openers was the highly dated lighting, with a square speckled gobo effect that I really didn’t like and a lack of overall modernity. So far so meh.
But Revelations was to change all that.
You could say it was, indeed, a revelation.
An 18 strong piece about the history of black America (to 1960 when it was conceived, although I feel the music may have been updated since then) so it’s not a complete history, but does track the story from slavery to a degree of gentrification, at least in one demographic of the black struggle against oppression.
It’s stunning, ranging from one gorgeous male solo to a rumbustious finale when the full corpe is resplendent in golden dresses and dinner suits.
The gospel and spiritual music that combines in this ultimately joyous, but initially oppressive, dance is glorious in itself and the finale brought the house down and up on its feet. Me included.
It was even better on my second visit.
(But hey, that’s a spoiler alert and me looking into the future).
My 16th day on the Festival and my 50th production this year, but only my first Film Festival show.
It intrigued me because the movie is filmed wholly in Edinburgh, but particularly in the absolutely glorious Leith Theatre.
Nepotism alert! I’m on the board, but that can’t stop me marvelling at its beauty and versatility and it takes on a starring role, albeit in the background.
Anyway, it’s a new (but noir looking) monochrome version of The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde, (the 124th film adaptation of the story) although in this manifestation it’s very much seen from the POV of Jekyll’s lawyer Mr. Utterson.
No gurgling laboratories in this version. No cliched transformation scenes. Although there is a weirdly inappropriate (and wrongly set in time) story about plans to construct “the disgrace of Edinburgh” which was built in the 1820’s, although the movie is set in the 1880’s.
What’s of particular interest is it’s actually a theatrical production by the National Theatre of Scotland that was captured on film over three performances in the aforementioned grand dame of Leith. The director describes it as a hybrid version of the story to reflect the unusual technique.
It’s theatrical in style as a consequence and that has some drawbacks – very wordy and very actorly, but the performances are great and director Hope Dickson Leach imbues it with real style, aided and abetted by a fantastic score by Hudson Mohawk and superb cinematography.
A right old variety of good and bloody awful today.
Mass Effect is a Danish dance show at Summerhall. Dance with a difference as, for most of it, there’s no music just five dancers (2M,3F) dressed as runners who do exactly that for the first half hour building up a considerable sweat in the process. There’s comedic nods and winks to the audience, knowing looks that had us in stitches.
Of course, all that sweat can only be dealt with on one way, by gradually disrobing until all five are stark naked, as are several of the 15 “community” dancers who sprung from the audience and the wings to join in for the final act.
It’s unexpected but great fun. Proper Fringe fare.
Next to The Hub for an EIF talk with Domo Branch, an extraordinary 23 year old jazz drummer from Portland who was interviewed by the king of pretension who hogged the event with his “I know more than anyone, including Domo” approach. He’s no Parkie. But we were treated to some extraordinary drumming too.
Our third show was the wonderful What if they ate The Baby by Xhloe Rice and Natasha Roland who gave us the excellent deserved Fringe First winning And Then The Rodeo Burned Downlast year. It’s playing this year too and both shows are must sees. The new show is another surreal clowning romp in which the two writers actors and choreographers tell a more Groundhog Day than the movie story of two mid American queer housewives who can’t consummate their passion for each other fully, but give it a go, because to be queer in 50’s America during McCarthyism, was a distinct no no. It turns out, from their show research that McCarthyism not only outed Commies but gay people too. It’s funny, but also incredibly sweet and lovable, their stock in trade.
We met them both after the show, as we did last year, and I, for one, sincerely hope they land back to back Fringe Firsts. Please go see both shows, they’re a treat.
Finally, another EIF show at the Festival Theatre. The Threepenny Opera. I walked out of a production of this a decade ago and sadly reached the same conclusion this time too. 95 minutes (act one) of grim Brechtian and Weillian discord and ham singing and acting (although I think it was meant to be – is it maybe theatre of the absurd?) with a very dated script, made it teeth grinding stuff. Too much for this luvvie.
Only the one show and a game of two extraordinarily contrasting halves. The feeble common ground(s) needs no comment I’m afraid, but I was there for the main act.
Igor Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring by the Pina Bausch Foundation / École des Sables / Sadler’s Wells featuring an African dance troupe of 15 men and 15 women.
All black dancers, the women in white, the men in black on a set of earth that was laid to loud applause in a frenetic 20 minute interval by the stage crew. A show in itself.
Stravinsky’s music outraged the establishment on its premier in 1913 and seemingly Pina Bausch’s choreography did the same when it was revealed to the world in the 1970’s. I cannot imagine why.
It’s febrile and intoxicating as the 30 dancers with the female lead eventually dressed in red like the little girl in Spielberg’s nazi movie, Schindler’s List.
Gradually as the sweat gathers so does the dark brown substrate on the dancers’ dresses as they enact a passage of adolescent rites.
Of course Stravinsky’s music is unparalleled before or since its outrageous premier and is the ultimate soundtrack for dance.
It originated 30 years before Bernstein’s West Side Story but is reminiscent and the dance feels so attuned to the play’s Romeo and Juliet theme although in this case the Sharks and Jets are the rival sexes, rather than warring gangs.
It also feels like Hitchcock’s very best film scores. Psycho particularly, with its menace and endlessly growing tension
What Bausch does with this music is breathtaking. Don’t breathe or you might miss something special. It ranges from confrontation to conflagration with moments of intimacy but mostly of sexual parading, preening and uncertainty.
The final solo by our heroine, now fully clad in red but also semi naked, is a wild dervish dance that’s a fitting finale to a truly wonderful spectacle.
Was the dancing perfect? I don’t know. I don’t have the technical nous to tell you one way or the other. But is it a visceral experience that enthralled a sold out Edinburgh Playhouse? Yes it was. We rose to our feet in unison, awestruck by the beautiful ferocity of a masterpiece.
After a challenging Festival Theatre programme this proved that Edinburgh in August is the place to be for world class art. Truly magnificent.
As Far As Impossible by Comedie de Geneve is a hard slog for a Monday night after your first day back to work, especially when it’s two hours of Portuguese/French subtitled wall to wall monologues with no interval and no ‘drama’ as such.
But that’s what I signed up for, with a bad cold.
Comedy de Geneve performed the largely impenetrable Dusk last weekend that pretty much brainmelted me. I should really have known better.
It’s a “play” about frontline Aid workers recounting their war zone tales. Few are uplifting , many are grim that tell of their experiences in “the Impossible” a collective name for all war zones where the worst happens, including a blood bank Sophie’s Choice moment, a potential rape saved only by a favourite football strip and an enforced ceasefire across two mountains.
The soundtrack is a highly sensitively mic’ed drummer (Gabriel Ferrandini) who plays in a massive field tent that initially covers him but is gradually raised by the cast to reveal him in all his glory before he closes the production with a 15 minute drum solo.
He is the heartbeat and the bombscape of the show.
It’s a tough gig, that’s for sure. To say it’s entertaining would be a push, but once again by this company I feel challenged and kinda glad I showed up.
It’s the second time I’ve seen Israeli dance company L-E-V, this time performing Chapter 3: The Brutal Journey Of The Heart at the Festival Theatre in the Official Festival.
The last time I saw L-E-V was in 2018 and I raved about them then. (Even though, like tonight, there was a Palestinian demo outside the theatre, screeching that our tickets were covered in Palestinian blood.)
I’m raving about them even more now. And GET THIS you can see them tomorrow night, and I will probably go again, availing myself of the fabulous Tenner On The Day deal that the Festival provides.
The set is a big black box, no decor, and only four lights are used in the entire show but to outstanding effect.
The absorbing and beautiful techno music, by Ori Lichtic, keeps up a relentless 160bpm beat for 50 minutes with no breaks as the piece is performed “straight through”, as it was the last time I saw L-E-V .
I know nothing of the dance peice’s meaning but it’s ecstatic.
The seven dancers (4M,4F) are dressed in tattooed flesh coloured body suits (from Maria Grazia Chiuri, the Creative Director of Christian Dior Couture) and their make up looks as if they have been bruised. The performance largely consists of micro movements, tics and robotic movement, largely as a unit as they crawl across the vast Festival Theatre stage like a giant crustacean. Rarely is there physical contact between the dancers. It’s exquisitely realised, completely mesmeric and all aspects of the company’s component parts are rendered completely as one.
This description of the piece by Sharon Eyal sheds not a morsel of insight into what it’s about, but maybe you will understand it.
Nonetheless, it’s extraordinary and the 50 minutes vanish in the blink of an eye. Although there’s no grandstanding going on by the end we could see rivers of sweat pouring off the troupe as it’s minimalist attention to detail and rigour took its toll.
I’ve seen magnificent dance at the Edinburgh International Festival and this certainly cements L-E-V’s position at the top of the hierarchy. Magnificent. 5 Stars.
Interesting to note that L-E-V’s founder, Sharon Eyal, who is now based in France (Not Isreal) has been commissioned 7 times by my all time favourite Dance company (NDT) to create works for them, so her status amongst the world’s greats is unquestionable.
I’ve only seen 38 shows out of the 3,750 or so that are available, but I’ve very carefully curated my festival So here are my personal, all five star, picks. (In order of my own view of brilliantness)
Funeral by Ontroerend Goed at Zoo Southside. A sublime experience like no other and incomparable.
Here’s what Time out said about it.
I’m sure I write a variation on this same introduction pretty much every Fringe, but there can be no theatre company in the world more bewilderingly mercurial than Belgian legends Ontroerend Goed, whose formally experimental shows run the gamut from flagrant audience trolling to some of the most beautiful theatre I’ve ever seen.… Sure, it’s an art experiment. But it’s also utterly transcendent, a work of elegiac beauty, a mirror on our own loss. I couldn’t have put it better myself.
England & Son by Mark Thomas at Summerhall Roundabout. (Paines Plough). A one hander beyond criticism.
An Interrogation at Summerhall by Jamie Armitage.
Bloody Elle at The Traverse.
Grit at the Ross Bandstand (EIF – a one off performance)
No Love Songs by Dundee Rep at The Traverse.
Mythos: Ragnarock at Assemby Roxy.
Club Life at Summerhall.
Lucy and Friends at Pleasance. (Not fort the faint hearted – and certainly not for prudes.)
But check out my first nine days’ picks including four of the six Fringe First winners. Two of them INCREDIBLE, (Funeral and England and Son) two of them not so much (Grand Old Opera House Hotel – predictably – and JM Coetzee’s Life & Times of Michael K – although how that show is eligible is anybody’s guess (same can actually be said for Funeral TBH, as neither are premiering at the Fringe).
We started out at Jessie Cave’s Work In Progress Show at Just The Tonic. First time in this poorly lit venue, half the audience tripping up trying to find their seats. How odd.
Jessie Cave is perhaps famous for being the partner of fellow comedian, philanderer and possible alcoholic (her words not mine) Alfie Brown. They have four kids together and that provides much of the material for her decidedly patch barely 3 star gig. My fellow attendees said it was “shite”.
Next up we are going to see Geoff Sobell‘s Food in the EIF next Saturday but we also had tickets for his free chat at The Hub that was surprisingly poorly attended which is a sham because it was a great insight to his work, some free magic thrown in, a taster for the sold out Food and a lovely hour in lovely room with a lovely audience.
It was lovely.
Jeana departed stage left at this point, exhausted whilst I returned to zoo Southside (rapidly coming up on the rails as a contender to Summerhall for the best and most interesting off-piste but rewarding theatre.
I’d already Seen The Van Paemel family and Funeral (fringe First winning) here and to day I moved from Belgian theatre to Danish for Teater Catapult’s The Insider, which is a one man show with the artist in a glass box in which he interacts with a prerecorded soundscape (we all wear headphones) and a series of excellent projections and special effects. He is one of the perpetrators of the cum-ex tax scam: 50 billion GBP ‘robbed’ from the treasuries around Europe and is facing the music for a sort of tax evasion pony scheme that’s getting out of hand. What are the moral issues of this. If countries lose money to dodgy financiers they have to reduce investment in, say, social housing or benefits. It’s an excellent production that was sadly, poorly attended. One to see folks.
After a long break during which I discovered the delightful Noodle and Dumplings on South Clerk Street it was back to Summerhall.
This was the day’s highlight which I attended with my sister Emily.. A two and a half hour long dance-athon.
Club Life is the creation of Fred Deakin (our host) one half of the band Lemon Jelly he was also famously a co owner of several famous Edinburgh night Clubs that eschewed the pretension of London’s “If your names not on the list you ain’t coming’ in” schtick.
Instead his clubs welcomed all and sundry and included the likes of Misery, Blue, Devil Mountain, Fury, Thunderbolt and, most famous of all, Going Places that took Lounge Core to the max and often played in Edinburgh’s 70’s style ABC cinema (now an Odeon) on Lothian Road.
Going Places was as famous for its stylish posters (by Deakin – he went on to become a succesful designer and his screen print graphic style moved on to computer graphics that grace all the Lemon Jelly sleeves) as it was for its music aesthetic. (See above.)
The show is Fred’s story, essentially, but also a deep dive into Scottish Club Culture in the 80’s and 90’s with a cast of five young dancers/actors. In a very warm room we are invited to join the party as Deakin plays music that’s representative of each of the above six clubs plus additional music of the time. The audience becomes part of the show as we join the dancers on stage. There’s even a bar with Souvenir Deakin cans and cocktails and the whole jamboree has a party atmosphere.
There is no hidden meaning or deep philosophical undertow, it’s just a great club night in its own respect and me and Emily didn’t stop grinning throughout its 150 glorious minutes.
A 100% music themed day today and solid yet again. We started with Davidson and McArthur, The Odd Couple.
They certainly are.
Davidson, who we saw last year is a good political satirist but this year used some old material and seemed to be off form. The ‘showstopper’ number about Rishi Sunak’s wardrobe, that bookended the show, was basically ten Wen to Mow a Meadow with some situational analysis, not good. His pal Finn McArthur, or Lurch, made the art of deadpan masterful with some very strange pieces, in particular their Jaws number that simply failed on all levels. When Lurch opted for character pieces like an affected poet he drew a lot of laughs – despite, not because of ,his acting skills. Avoidable for most I’d say.
Next up, The Fleetwood Mac Story (Both these shows are at Space) it’s basically Macwood Fleet, a Tribute band with a few stories along the way for context, which sounds dismissive, but is not. They are an outstanding seven piece band with a banging front woman. There is no impersonation going on here just a clear love of the band and their music in an unusually comfortable venue., A solid four stars for me.
For the most out there experience of the day I headed alone back to Summerhall for Klanghaus: Inhaus. An experimental performance art company from, I think, Berlin, although they all seemed English. It’s an immersive set in which you join them in their ‘home’ and they gig, very, very loudly (although sometimes beautifully melodically all around you, with interesting projections of graphics and film .
I loved it. Redolent of many things but if I had to opt for one I’d say Velvet Underground. Superb. Here’s the review I wrote after the show for their reviews box.
Day 6 was spent almost exclusively at Roundabout in Summerhall, my favourite venue.
We started with England and Son, a one man play devised for Mark Thomas, the superior political stand up. It’s a tour de force, comparable in quality only to Jodie Comer’s turn in Prima Facie. Indeed Summerhall’s owner, Robert McDowell, presented Mark with an award at curtains for “the best single hander I’ve seen in 42 years on The Fringe”.
It’s a play about the violence his dad doled out on his mum after returning from wartime duty in Malay and Thomas’ character’s own descent into thievery and class revenge.
It questions whether institutionalized violence is acceptable on the forces’ return.
It’s bleakly funny and then just bleak.
An outstanding script delivered perfectly by Mark Thomas. Another 5 star show that prompted Jeana to ask him for a hug after the show decaying that “I’m no luvvie but…” But, she was being a luvvie. I’ve broken her.
It was impossible to beat that day but had contenders the following day at the Traverse in the form of Bloody Elle and No Love Songs – more later.
Next up, Salty Irina, an interesting two (and laterally Three) hander about two gay girls who are inspired by each other to infiltrate a Nazi music festival to see what it is that makes them tick. It’;s a really lovely relationship drama with a beating political heart that covers racism and love equally well. Gay female love has nbeen a feature of our Fringe and it’s been joyous to behold. I liked the production very much and would recommend it.
Third of the day was Lady Dealer, another single hander and again a gay female central character . This time a loud and proud LADY drug dealer. Her USP because drug dealers are guys. The real theme here is loneliness. It’s described as a poem play and starts out very poetically by our heroin(e) Charly (get it?) played by Martha Watson Allpress. She’s magic in the role as she tries to cope with the real life challenge of a power cut that cuts out her lifeline to her business and personal contact with the world when her mobile phones run out of juice. It’s a mile a minute breakneck performance of considerable skill that won over the audience. Great stuff.
Number four was Strategic Love Play, Miriam Battye’s production by the glorious Pines Plough and the equally glorious Soho Theatre is about how to win the battle in a first date. She starts out a ball breaking cynic, he a bore but the tables turn (literally) in a clever set design that perfectly suits Roundabout, before swinging back and forth in a tennis match chess game of power. It’s brilliantly scripted and performed by the two protagonists and easily garners four stars.
Then we moved to Udderbelly for last year’s Roundabout breakout hit, Kathy and Stella Solve a Murder, expanded to suit the larger performing space it has a Six vibe that should see it transfer to the West End (Soho Theatre, or The Bridge at least). It’s already played at Bristol Old Vic. It’s about two Hull based true crime podcasters who are told by their hero podcaster that they’ll be nobody’s until they solve one. So they do.
With a superior supporting cast of five, including some big licks Musical Theatre talent, they put on a great and hilarious show with some decent tunes and a great script. It’s comedy gold. Another five stars to bookend the day.
My chosen image is of Martin Bennet, because he inspired today’s Five star concert.
The day started with The Life and Times of Michael K an adaptation of JM Coetzee’s Booker Prize winning novel. The Baxter Theatre Group is better known for the spectacular puppetry of Warhorse and although this is a better tale than the flimsy horsey pish it’s less impressive puppetry-wise. In fact the puppetry is a wee bit half pish.
It’s a bit of a voyage of misery, but is charming and extremely well staged with great acting and an impressive set. Definitely not a life changer, but others in the audience liked it more than I did resulting in a standing ovation. I wasn’t that into it before I went. I wasn’t that much into it after.
Next up, a spectacular free concert at the Ross Bandstand by the Grit Orchestra, Scotland’s national youth brass band and pipe band, accompanied by the Royal Conservatoire’s Soprano and alto singers with a late finale featuring Nicola Benedetti. The stage was epic, with not an inch of space to spare.
The opening few bars set the scene for an afternoon of majesty, fluctuating between searingly hot sun to pishing it down rain. Never mind, the music overcame it all.
The programme featured the late lamented Martyn Bennet’s songbook and was epic in scale, imagination and emotion.
Tears choked back by both me and Jeana. Outstanding.
Two more music shows followed.
Firstly Choir!Choir! Choir! Which is essentially a musical rehearsal led by two Torontonians who teach the audience a multi-part song each night. On our visit it was the songbook of George Harrison with A Long And Winding Road being the complex centrepiece at Udderbelly. It’s tremendous, uplifting fun.
Finally the incomparable Baby Wants Candy, a kind of low rent version of Showstoppers, but no less wonderful. Debate raged about which is better. Showstoppers in its swanky arena or Baby in its smaller scale, but no smaller ambition hothouse. For audience approval Baby wins every time, tonight has a particularly raucous audience as they performed Sweeney Toes the Demon Masseuse of Feet Street. This led to much wonderment in terms of Sweeney Music but also an absurd plot that we all loved. Everyone should see this five star company
So two fives a four and a slightly grudging three.
A quite incredible day at the Fringe today. I spend months planning, choosing, scheduling and getting anticipatory. It can , of course, go horribly wrong but not today.
I opened at Roundabout at Summerhall with Daniel Kitson, a Work in Progress show. For years I’ve wanted to see him but never been organised. Of course, as per usual, his entire run is already sold out. This show is entirely Meta because it’s a show about writing a show, the wormholes back to his previous performances are endless, but the construct is interesting (a little like Every Brilliant Thing that also played at Roundabout and is available on Netflix) in that he has written a script and printed 125 copies of it (he will renew it as the Fringe goes on – it’s Work In Progress you see).
The scripts are individually numbered as “parts” and the audience play those parts. One of them is the show’s antagonist, Keith, and has about 200 lines, the rest have merely one, two three , maybe five. Of course I happened to be Keith and revelled in the spotlight. At the end I was applauded roundly and Daniel proclaimed me “fucking brilliant”. It was an honour.
It’s a great show, very, very funny.
Next up, a contender for show of the Festival already and a slam dunk 5 stars. Have you seen Netflix’s Criminal? It’s a bit like that. In Summerhall’s Old Lab it’s called An Interrogation written by Jamie Armitage (of Six fame) and starring Jamie Ballard and Bethan Cullinane, both West End luminaries, their performances are dazzling and they script scintillating. I shall tell you no more other than to see it. It must surely win a Fringe First. I was transfixed from the opening seconds. Truly great theatre. Not just Fringe Theatre. John MacNeill has a smaller, but no less important role and he is fantastic too. Simply breathtaking. I shall go again.
My third choice was the weird and, in my view, wonderful Party Ghosts at Assembly Checkpoint. It’s frankly mad. A physical theatre, acrobatics, clowning, slapstick, juggling and visual effect triumph. Laugh out loud funny antics about ghosts and death with a banging soundtrack and brilliant references to The Shining and Psycho, not to mention Adele. It was the winner of Overall Best Circus and Physical Theatre, Adelaide Fringe 2023. I loved it but Jeana and Lesley were a bit less sold on it.
Next we had the frankly jaw dropping Lucy And Friends by Lucy McCormick. Her highly sexualised and deliberately provocative comedy sketch theatre has shocked and delighted audiences for years and this, like Kitson a first for me, did not disappoint. It comes, rightly, with an 18+ certificate but it is a full frontal barrage of humour, mental health mayhem, and actual mayhem. It’s difficult to describe in too much detail but there were things going on with hairbrushes, vibrators and microphones that the Women’s Institute would have CONSIDERABLE problems with. There’s angle grinding, and just plain grinding to celebrate. It’s hilarious in parts and deeply disturbing in others. I thought it was a five star piece of experimental theatre and performance art that had us talking for ages afterwards. Not for the faint hearted or the prudish. But if you’re woman enough go for it. Extraordinary (and I use the word advisedly).
Last up was the huge, black, gay, perspiring American singer and comedian Larry Owens (known in the USA for A Strange Loop). He performed a mix of comedy and music. Man can this man sing. And he has comedy chops too, but quite American so I missed some of the nuance of his routine. That said, very good.
For me, two 5 stars, two fours and a three. you can work it out from the above.
So excited for the Fringe to start and I was not disappointed.
A simply superb start.
Let The Bodies Pile by Henry Naylor at Gilded Balloon an (almost) one woman show that takes us on a partly comedy but truly dark journey from Harold Shipman to the care home deaths of Covid, via Myra Hindlay, and some pretty earthy sexual fantasies about Matt Hancock. Disturbing but funny. A cracking script and solid performances.
Next up comedy. Freya Parker at Pleasance. One half of Lazy Susan. A slightly meta, strangely amusing stand up show about being cheeky. Excellent use of the C Bomb (once) in an amusing autobiographical run through of Freya’s life. Very enjoyable.
The best was last. Mythos Ragnarock is an eight hander Norse Mythological story centred on pro wrestling with more oohs and Ahhhs than a 70’s wife swapping party. Extremely funny all action romp, set to a very loud Scandi folk and death metal soundtrack. Absolutely nailed on five star mayhem. An absolute must see. So see it at Assembly Roxy. Standing ovation material.
Not the best by a long way but plenty to get excited about.
Dry as a bone and with a mahoosive tent that I shared with my sister, Emily, it meant we were in relative comfort despite the constantly deflating airbed and the extreme heat of the Saturday (a pal of mine’s girlfriend had to go home with heat stroke).
We arrived, as usual, at 9.30 Thursday morning and really struggled to find a pitch in the Dairy Field, eventually having to ask our neighbour to move his tent a couple of feet. The sweat pissed off us collectively as we set camp and took hours to cool down but come 12 me, Alan and Emily went in search of our Yurt Loving bastard friends Pat and Paula. Fresh as daisies they emerged from the shimmering heat to enjoy our first pint of the day.
Thursday
Was mostly exploratory but we enjoyed The Beatles Dub Club in Shangri La and a first ever (excellent) comedy gig by Jonathan Pie in the Astrolobe. Showhawk Duo on the Bandstand were a disappointment, way too crowded and actually not that good anyway as they played Ibiza hits on acoustic guitar.
Friday
Was the first music day proper and I saw:
Star Feminine Band from Benin. Beautiful chill opener but not life changing
Yaya Bey from USA. Kinda mix of Jazz, R&B and soul/reggae. I liked her a lot. And of course both gigs benefited from being own West Holts (I attended more than quarter of my gigs on this sublime stage. Park has a lot too).
Billy Nomates on the Park came in for terrible trolling for using backing tapes burt that’s her thing. Brilliant. First highlight of the week.
Then back to West Holts for Gabriels. Now we are talking star material here. This band, or at least the singer will be massive (He later came on with Elton on the Sunday closer such is his promise).
Foo Fighters on Pyramid were tolerable but then we headed uphill again to The Park for the best ever Sparks Gig (I’ve been at – my third) with a show stopping cameo by Cate Blanchette in her stunning yellow suit.
We opted to miss Arctic Monkeys and were rewarded with a stunning set by Fever Ray that was thrillingly atmospheric. Only the Park Stage can deliver this.
Saturday
The heat was appalling!
Say She She opened on West Holts lovely Discodelic Soul from a top trio.
Then we had to run for cover but struck lucky with an hour and a half of Dub Reggae with the Channel One Soundsystem on The Glade Stage, in the shade by the water dispenser. Bliss.
Back out into the heat for Sudan Archives whose early sound problems stymied her gig and was ultimately one of the week’s disappointments.
Badly Drawn Boy in the Acoustic Tent was fine but it was too mukluk so I repaired to the shade and a hot can of Punk IPA. Gruesome. He was decent though.
I wish I could have seen the full Maggie Rogers set on The Other Stage. She’s a roots star in the making with the looks to guarantee cover pics on Rolling Stone.
I missed it because I was about to fulfil a 20 year ambition of seeing Tinariwen Live on Park. Boiling hot as it was the Bedouin guitar band rocked it in their unique swanky, jazzy way that only they can do. Sublime and trancelike.
I stayed on Park for Leftfield and was blown away by their sonic attack with deep bass growling right through the ground. Wonderful.
After that, again on park, The Pretenders blew us away. My God can Chrissie Hyde sing and guest appearances from Johnny Marr, Dave Grohl and even Macca came on for a bow. Outstanding rock and roll.
Then to close we saw the first three songs of a pathetic Lana Del Ray set on Other before bailing to see an equally grim Steve Hillage Band in the Glade.
Sunday
Opened with the glorious N’famade Koutyate on Avalon. One of my picks of the week he did not disappoint with a charming set featured around his two Balaphones (one major, one minor).
Then we set off for The Pyramid and the glorious The Chicks set.
Next another hike up the hill rewarded by a beautiful hippy trippy (and very funny chat) from Weyes Blood. A highlight. Before back doewn again to Pyramid for an awful set (ruined by the wind even further) by Blondie. I wish I’d seen her in her prime but twice in her 70’s was once too much.
We popped back to West Holts for a cool set by Barrington Levy followed by a trip back in timne with Candie Staton that Emily and I danced wildly too before ending our festival at Elton John in a huge crown but rewarded wit by a set full of pure bangers with his pipes in good shape. It was all it promised to be, and more.
Monday
The drive home was gruesome. The M6 closed TWICE and a 14 hour journey. Thank God I split the trip with Emily.
I watched this documentary at the Omni Centre in Edinburgh 50 years to the day that David Bowie retired Ziggy at The Hammersmith Odeon at the last gig of his Aladdin Sane tour.
It’s a profoundly moving experience in the cinema because this is maybe the greatest ever pop star at the very top of his game, on show with one of the greatest ever guitarists, Mick Ronson , on fire with his orgasm face in full flow throughout.
Not only is it a great gig (filmed almost in full) but it’s also a great documentary because we get behind the scenes footage, mostly with Suzanne Fussey, Ronson’s wife , applying Bowies make up and adjusting his weirdly unwonderful costumes. And a very very brief cameo from Ringo Star.
The crowd footage is particularly naïve, (in a good and endlessly interesting way). Shot in the natural light of the auditorium it veers from entirely revealing to shadowy mystery and this only adds to the overall mystique.
Of course the gig is FULL of bangers from Hunky Dory, Ziggy (naturally) Aladdin Sane and The Man Who Ruled The World, plus a bit of Space Oddity (notably Space Oddity itself).
There’s a wee spot of Lindsay Kemp madness as Bowie mimes his way out of a box. Like a prick. But that doesn’t distract too much.
The man himself is at his peak. He’s simply beautiful and there are no signs of the substance abuse that he indulged in heavily at the time. Instead we get a vocal performance of outrageous perfection and that’s what makes this a religious experience.
Try to see it in the cinema or at the very least at 100% volume on your TV when it comes to Netflix.
Oh dear. There was so much to desire from this book. A history of my informative years in which two Scottish Labels (Fast and Postcard) were making Scotland the centre of the musical universe, right here in my own back yard. It was an amazing time.
Add to that the fact that the two central characters, the svengalis of the scene, were Bob Last and Alan Horne and that I know Bob well (indeed he is chair of the Leith Theatre on whose board I serve) and you have a recipe for greatness.
To be fair no stone is unturned in the research and there are thousands of interview snippets from the likes of Edwyn Collins of Orange Juice, Roddy Frame of Aztec Camera, Davy Henderson from Fire Engines, Phil Oakey et al from the Human League – alongside contributions from Altered Images, Josef K, Scars, Rezillos, Gang of Four, Joy Division, The Bluebells, Associates, and many more including Geoff Travis of Rough Trade.
Between these myriad interviews is a good, strong chronological narration of the times but, the trouble is, the interviews themselves are often flabby and repetitive with sometimes several renderings of the same topic. It can get really tedious.
Putting that to one side, and it’s a big put-aside, the story is great with Last coming out of it all as a hero and Horne a bit of a dork.
Consequently it can only possibly be of interest for a thin sliver of the boomer post-punk generation and even then it’s a marathon, not a sprint. If it comes out in paperback I’d recommend a tortuous visit to the editor’s room.
But, for those interested in the scene it is a must read. I just wish it had been leaner.
Every time I go to a dance performance and review it I claim that I am no expert. But this is my third ballet this year after the rancid Peaky Blinders (Rambert) and Matthew Bourne’s excellent Sleeping Beauty. I also have four dance shows booked already for the Festival in August so maybe I do have a point of view. Well, if I don’t I’m giving you it anyway.
It’s quite a thought taking on a play that has so many famous productions. The first starred Karl Maldon and Marlon Brando and there have been many famous Blanche DuBois’ in the following 3/4 century.
The story is nuanced and deeply culturally and tonally nuanced given that the whole deep south aspect of it drives many of the most famous performances. So, to translate this into dance and to tell such a complicated tale seems almost unthinkable and yet that is unquestionably achieved, along with the opportunity to showcase really seductive and wonderful Corps du Ballet work – the scene when the female corps come on stage en point is simply breathtaking. Both the opening, in which DuBois’s past literally crumbles in front of our eyes, and the finale, with the Corps dressed all in black with red flowers in their months, are just two of many visually stunning moments.
Great work by director Nancy Meckler and choreographer Annabel Lopez Ochoa.
I’ll stop there because I’ve already overstepped my technical mark, but if you get the chance to see this on the rest of its tour I’d strongly recommend that you do.
OK let’s get going with The Latvian entry Let 3’s, Mama ŠČ!
The Eurovision Song Contest celebrates diversity through music – nothing could be more apparent than this appalling song with a cast of five Hitler-light male drag singers and an intervention from a Croatian Lurch carrying a pair of smoking nuclear warheads. My guess is these guys are not meant to be fascists but maybe making some non-understandable anti war statement.
It’s bonkers and a lot of fun. The trouble is, without the visuals you are left with a slightly out of tune, punky Macarena, and we all know the Macarena is unbearable at the best off times.
Pish but fun.
Anna’s View
Croatia has a remarkable ability to traverse the musical spectrum with unfathomable fluidity.
They’re the nation that gave us ‘Guilty Pleasure’, ‘Tick-Tock’ and ‘Nebo’ – entries which are competitively nebulous. They’re also the nation that gave us Jacques Houdek – a man who stood on stage, (nearly) missed all his cues and still managed to perform a duet with himself. Now they give us ‘Mama ŠČ’.
Not Mama ‘S.C.’ as it was pronounced on a news podcast.
This entry is far from nebulous. It’s political, it’s satirical, it’s a veritable ‘washing-machine’ of a performance – with a pair of missiles, several costume changes and some spangled netting thrown in for good measure. This is more closely aligned with entries of a Eurovision since deceased – the mirroring spirits of Bosnia’s Laka and Verka Serduchka are resonant here, and that resonance will undoubtably extend to the viewer at home. It’s contextually political – evidently – but it’s competitively nostalgic.
Musically, it’s neither here nor there. And that seems to be the point. This band want to make a statement, and a statement is what they make. In terms of voting power, I don’t believe the viewers will be swayed by it’s tangible satirical overtones – instead responding to a rousing display of madness before them.
The more tunefully-inclined, however, might not get the joke.
Prediction: POSSIBLE QUALIFIER. If it gets there, juries will rate this very low on Saturday, but with a high televote due to it’s apparent ‘novelty’ value, will likely finish around 18th.
Spain
Mark’s view
Blanca Paloma – EAEA is Spain’s entry although you’d be forgiven for thinking it’s Morocco’s so strong are the Moorish influences in the song, albeit augmented by an interesting flamenco style clapping bunch of backing singers.
The title ‘EAEA” is slightly moronic and it’s a shame because what we have here is the best song I’ve heard this year in that it is a straight folk song, not trying too hard to be outlandish and is all the better for it.
What we have is a fine vocal performance with a classy video delivery by a very good singer, although I think its folk leanings may not sit very well with the judges. I, on the other hand, really rate it.
Bravo Blanca!
Anna’s View
This is one of my least favourite Eurovision entries of the past 20 years.
The first time I listened to this, I thought the strides and success of Chanel in the face of Spain’s Eurovision struggle had been washed away. I thought they had made the wrong choice – I found this totally inaccessible.
But my view is only that of one. I really appreciate what Bianca is doing – she’s clearly an enormous talent with a strong personal story to boot! The song, is just not for me.
However, people like this. They really like this. This is strongly emerging – as many Spanish entries do given the undying ferocity of the country’s fan-base – as a strong favourite, chasing the leading pack at 4th in the odds. This is an outside, but not impossible, winner on the night. It’s rich sounds, uniqueness and traditional overtones are as likely to strike a chord with the voting public as they clearly have with the fandom. Maybe Spain have made the right choice after all?
But equally, for all the same reasons, people might just not get this. But I’m willing to be proven wrong.
Prediction: Likely TOP 5 in final.
Latvia
Mark’s view
Sudden Lights – Aijā is the Latvian entry.
I’m not certain if it is about suicide by drowning or what but it goes from a rollicking Aha-esque pop song into a sudden last verse despairing plummet where the lead singer is moved from an empty swimming pool, by a bunch of sixth formers, to a bath and essentially drowned while the music dramatically transposes from English to Latvian and the tile, which means lull, corresponds to the ritual drowning.
They then carry him off to a funeral pyre. Although he may not burn ‘cos he’s too wet.
I’m not sure it’s exactly what you’d call a crowdpleaser and may come with a Samaritans phone number to phone after seeing it.
Having said all that. It’s a really good song that could do well with a positive ending.
But me, I like hard core misery so it’s a contender for my points.
Anna’s view
When at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.
Unfortunately, Latvia have been trying again for a very long time and haven’t got anywhere with it. With the honourable exception of Aminata in 2015, their success-rate in qualifying – and doing well – has left us wanting, and I’m sorry to say that this year is unlikely to be any different.
That said, there is a silver lining for Latvia. People adore this song – the performance in the music video is fresh, contemporary and fundamentally cool. It isn’t the most instant on a first listen – which doesn’t bode well in a contest where you only have one shot and three minutes – but when you get it, it’s a pleasant and a robust addition to any background Spotify playlist.
The live performance at Supernova was unimpressively staged – the band gave it their all – but we didn’t see very much that was new. Which rings alarm bells when you need to grab people’s attention to get them to vote. If however, they are able to harness some of the magic and aesthetic from the music video and pull it out of the screen and on to the stage, their could be a route to qualification. But it’s a long-shot.
There’s a song like this every year – fans enjoy it, but when it gets to the crunch of the competition, nobody ends up loving it quite enough.
gibberish 