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.
Thank you technology for giving us this.
That^ was replaced with this…
David Greig has written some of my favourite plays. I will never forget his Macbeth addendum, Dunsinane. And The Strange Undoing of Prudentia Hart is a play like no other you have ever seen. Add to that The Suppliant Women (after Aeschylus) Solaris and Yellow Moon and you have a writer of significant importance. (And that’s just the tip of the iceberg).
I bumped into him on Monday lunchtime on Lothian Road, and after chittery chattery he asked me if I was still writing this largely undiscovered colossus of writing magnificence. “Yes”, I humbly replied.
“Well, you’ll regret meeting me today” he proclaimed as he fumbled in his rucksack to fish out a copy of Columba’s Bones and thrust it into my hands. With that he disappeared into the fog.
It wasn’t foggy.
Gulping with fear I strode to Sainsbury’s for my Red Pepper and Lentil Soup, a bargain at £1.50 in these days of crippling extortion. Fear, because the thought of ploughing through a religious tale set in Iona in 825 was my idea of hell – I’d read the publicity and had abandoned the idea of purchasing this novel.
Fast forward 5.5 hours, to whence I sit on the #43 Lothian County Bus to South Queensferry. People are looking at me like I’m a leper as I guffaw at page three of this magnificent jewel.
It’s only 180 pages, it’s A5 in size, pocketable, and has big type for the hard of reading, so if it was going to be a chore it was going to be a manageable chore.
It’s not a chore.
Yes, it’s set on Iona. Yes, it’s 825AD (or whatever they call it now). Yes, it stars a monk, a viking and a widow. No, it’s not a turgid bag of fleapiss.
What David Greig does, and this cues me up to blow voluminous smoke up his beardy arse, is conjure up (based on an existing story I think) a truly great thing. Firstly, it’s hysterically funny (think Monty Python meets Mary Beard, pissed). Secondly, it’s properly engaging. In so few words Greig creates three characters that are at once unique and at the same time familiar. Thirdly it’s unputdownable.
It’s a story about revenge, love (of God, man and woman) and values. But mostly it’s just a right rollicking read. I’ll say no more because it’s easy to spoil it.
By Wednesday teatime, as I rolled off the #43, it was done. I will be extolling its virtues to all and sundry for many moons.
Not only must you read it. You must.
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.
Go see.
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.
Great work Curtis.
Keep ’em comin’ please.
I seriously hope that Andy McGregor’s sublime Battery Park gets a longer life than its 12 or so show tour of Scotland, because it’s fantastic.
Andy wrote, composed and directed this gig theatre show about a fictional band from Greenock that might have made it in the BritPop era if circumstances had conspired.
In two 45 minute acts, the first hilarious, the second melancholy, we follow the rise and fall of this extremely talented bunch of misfits through a grudgingly acceptant reminiscence of the older Tommy (in his 40’s) looking back on his complicated heyday in conversation with Chloe-Ann Tyler’s Lucy. He’s buried a past that she wants to unearth and it spells trouble.
Everything about this excellent show delights; from a pitch perfect soundtrack performed magisterially by a pitch perfect ensemble cast (Charlie West, Chris Alexander, Kim Allan, Stuart Edgar and Tommy McGowan, alongside the aforementioned Chloe-Ann Tyler) to a pitch perfect script that had me in stitches with its accurate Brit pop references and just plain funny dialogue.
Charlie West gets the laughs as the moronic drummer Biffy (get the name ref?) but Chris Alexander as the older Tommy holds the show together with his profound reminiscences. The girls in the cast have the job of bringing reason and sobriety to the mix. Kim Allan’s Robyn is clearly modelled on Shirley Manson and carries it off beautifully.
A brother in law of Cora Bissett’s glorious “What Girls are Made of” this show deserves to echo that one’s undoubted and deserved success.
Look out for its revival. Hopefully at The Traverse at The Fringe next year.
I’ll be there.
In which Curtis follows up her dream debut, Prep with a bid of a dud. It follows the relatively uninteresting fantasy, and then real, love life of Hannah, starting when she’s fourteen and never been kissed.
It’s like Curtis took a breather after Prep which, as fairly obvious auto-fiction, was a book bursting to get out of her. But this, the difficult second novel, was something to keep her publisher happy. It’s unoriginal, uninspiring and fairly insipid. So bad is it, in fact, that I’m even struggling to remember the plot a month after reading it.
The boys and men are all cads of course and the only good one gets away. All a bit fucking Mills and Boon. (Certainly not Penguin standards although my copy was Picador published).
One to resist. I mean, the title kind of sends out big red distress flares, doesn’t it.
Go instead for her fabulous later canon which has established her at the top of living American women writers.
I’ll bore for Scotland about Curtis Sittrenfeld, just not this one.
Look at these magnificent creations for example. Obviously some are better than other but I love the way AI can make shadows meaningful. This could probably be achieved by human retouching of course, but it would be tricky.
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.
The ultimate curate’s egg of a book.
I love Bob. The clown prince of comedy.
His latter career has actually escalated him to a higher status than Vic Reeves (Gone Fishing and Atletico Mince), but oddly the latter stage of the aforementioned is the most uninteresting part of this, in places, great book.
The first act, his childhood and early career is by far the most successful section of the book as he recounts his slow clamber out of painful shyness that cripples his ambitions. Once succesful, and telling the story we know, he tries too hard to write his way though it rather than simply storytelling. It exposes his weaknesses as a writer pretty badly.
Early on, his similes are laugh out loud funny, but they dry up. The real strength is his descriptions of laddishness and naivety that populate his early years.
The shyness he experiences feels a little laid on too thickly for me, but when he concludes the book he comes back to it and urges readers to overcome their own feelings of inadequacy, so maybe it is for real.
Either way it lurches from laugh out loud funny (the shoe waterfall) to banal.
I doubt I could cope with his novel which I fear would suffer from trying to be funny rather than naturally being so.
OK, I have an excuse for my profound exhaustion. I’m 61 and I’m holding a job down whilst taking in exactly 60 shows.
God knows what it must be like for performers doing multiple shows, there are plenty of them, me and my wife’s favourite being Xhloe Rice and Natasha Roland (And then the Rodeo Burned Down and What if They Ate The Baby), who put on two shows and, when we talked to them, told us they were taking shows in too.
It turned out to be the fifth biggest Fringe ever in terms of ticket sales, but it was a stripped down official EIF and an uninspiring programme, apart from the dance which was excellent. What theatre I saw was sub-optimal. That said Nicola Benedetti is an inspiration.
So, as said, 60 shows with a big mix of comedy, theatre, dance and music.
What stood out?
Much, I have to say.
I get accused of gushing about what I see, but I spent months planning (advance planning) my itinerary and that paid off well with experience playing a role.
Certain venues are more likely to offer quality than others and that forms the basis of my summary.
Before I start I have to say that week one was banging with those in the know taking advantage of lower ticket prices, the second weekend saw Edinburgh simply overwhelmed, but it tailed off rapidly after that. The cost of the Fringe is scary , although I believe there is astonishing value to be had in ticket prices, even at full price. It really is a bargain if you can find good value accommodation and is surely the greatest place to be on planet Earth for culture lovers like me, in August..
The shows/Venues
Roundabout with Paines Plough at Summerhall provided England & Son (utterly stunning), Daniel Kitson and Strategic Love Play all of which were brilliant. Lady Dealer was good and so was Salty Irina, but Bangers disappointed.
Summerhall itself always inspires and Mass Effect, Ben Target: Lorenzo, An Interrogation, Klanghaus: Inhaus and Club Nights were all amazing. I didn’t see a bad show at Summerhall. I just wish I’d got Gunter and Woodhill tickets.
The Traverse had a mixed bag. Bloody Elle and No Love Songs (you need to see this in Dundee) were both gig theatre inspiration, but The Grand Old Opera House Hotel disappointed, despite the inevitable hype. After the Act was truly awful.
The surprise pick of venues (although it has been rising in my opinion) was Zoo Venues, it picked up three brilliant Fringe First and I saw them all, the Danish Insider, Funeral by Ontreroed Goed and Beasts(Why Girls Shouldn’t be afraid of the Dark) but also a great show from Belgium called the Van Paemel Family. They punched above their weight.
In dance I was blown away by EIF shows Rite of Spring, L-E-V and Alvin Ailey in that order but also the aforementioned Summerhall dance spectacle, Mass Effect.
The Pleasance delivered for me with great shows like Hello Kitty Must Die ( although still a WIP in my view) and the five star Lucy and Friends and the ever reliable Showstoppers (I also hear Icehouse was amazing).
Assembly definitely delivered. Mythos Ragnarock (Death metal Norse mythology wrestling), Baby Wants Candy, Party Ghosts and Tutu,
And even Underbelly had some quality with Kathy and Stella Solve a Murder and the quite good Choir Choir Choir.
Space nailed it with the aforementioned Xhloe Rice and Natasha Roland (And then the Rodeo Burned Down and What if They Ate The Baby).
And then, right at the end I saw Singing Sands a new Scottish play by Our Theatre at Greenhill. Magically heartwarming.
On the Festival, official, Food delighted but the theatre programme was gash.
All, in all a brilliant Fringe with one life changer. Funeral.
I only took in one show today. the beast that is the Fringe has broken me. We bailed on Gustavo Dudamel because Wagner’s 1st Symphony seemed a step too far, especially after spending three hours with my great friend Alex in the bar at Summerhall.
Anyway my one show was well worth the effort of travelling into Edinburgh. It takes an hour and a half each way in August so that makes the days even longer and more arduous.
But today’s absolute treat was Singing Sands at Greenside Ivy by a new company called Oor Theatre. My first ever visit to this old school venue.
Aside from the cramped seating and uncomfortable chairs everything else about this little gem of a venue was outstanding, especially the show.
Set on the tiny Scottish Island of Eigg a brother and sister have been arranging and attending their Gran’s funeral, whilst unbeknown to them their cousin Ali has set up home at Gran’s house. The show opens with Ali (Hugo Shack) rummaging through a box of Gran’s belongings which leads to a hilarious imagined conversation between them with only an old pair of Gran’s spectacles as a prop. It works brilliantly and sets the tone for this new piece of theatre which is hilarious and a little poignant too.
The writing by Shack, Eilidh Park and Sean Russell (the other two performers in this three hander) is terrifically on point and every single joke (there are many, and some particularly subtle) land perfectly. I laughed out loud many times.
It’s fresh, original, funny and beautifully crafted, deserving another life outside of this short, but sold out, run in Edinburgh.
The show explores the relationship between the siblings and their black sheep cousin, taking them back through childhood memories to the Singing Sands of the title, (a natural phenomenon in several locations in Western Scotland) and whilst death is the construct on which the show is based, and leads to some great gags, it’s really about familial love, loyalty and the power of blood ties.
Highly recommended.
Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better…
If Carlsberg did cultural festivals.
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.
But, man, am I bushed.
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).
This is a journalistic review of The Johnson years as Prime Minister. The man I should just laugh at and write off as a fool and egotist beyond compare, but whom I actually despise with all my being.
In its lengthy account of a short period of power he is spared little in the way of criticism but not lampooned. Yet, the authors who have previous in this space are clearly holding back, although we are under no illusion that this man was entirely unfit for this, or any, office of state and that not only had he no moral compass but he actually had no compass at all.
So clueless was he in the job that the real Prime Ministers of this sad, pathetic ruin of a country (largely his fault) was not him but Dominic Cummings and his smart but desperately unlikeable wife, Carrie Simmonds.
The Cabinet had virtually no say in ANYTHING. But, you know, look at who that bunch of wankers were.
Johnson’s tenure is simply a series of flip flopping popularity policies, so desperate was he to recreate his popularity as Mayor of London where he had few “Big decisions” to make and the opportunity to make grandiose investments in infrastructure that made him look the great visionary he so strived to be.
He fucked up Brexit, then fucked up Covid, aided and abetted by so many muppets that he almost gets excused for some of the paucity of vision and insight. But the behaviour of number 10 during this period of national abstention was part of what brought him down, and of course, the lies.
It should be a big old schadenfreude read but the truth is it’s all a bit disappointing. It’s very badly written, and I mean awfully so. Many paragraphs are so badly constructed that you have to read them two or three times to get the point. (It was a rush job I think.)
And there’s a lot of f***ing redacting of swearing which drove me nuts.
So Daily Mail.
So, the experience of reading what should be a good old character assassination (and in a veiled way it is) is diluted by its lack of commitment and an attempt at fairness (constantly Johnson is complimented on his dealings with the Ukraine – he hardly won any medals of honour in his ill fated term at the Foreign Office though, did he.)
It’s not great. And wasn’t worth the time out of my life.
It could have been a lot shorter.
Let me have a go.
Chapter One
Boris Johnson got elected. He was a total cunt. He got binned by his inept cronies.
The End
Andrew Greig is a poet, novelist, philosopher and climber. (He might even consider himself a golfer.)
After a near death experience he resumes the childhood sport that protected him from his abject misery at Dollar Academy.
Golf.
He’s clearly a decent golfer, but rusty. In this philosophical musing on his life and the merits of golf, whether competitive or solo, he visits 18 golf courses (nearly all in Scotland) from the bizarre and almost never played in the likes of Gigha, North Ronaldsay and Iona, via the better known but still relatively obscure Shiskine on Arran (personally my favourite golf course), to better know and championship courses like North Berwick, Nairn, Forres and Royal Dornach.
It’s not a sporting handbook and it’s not a philosophy on life. I mean it is a bit of both. But, taken in totality, it’s actually an inspiring self help manual on how to value life, love and, yes, sport so that golf can be something to inspire and fulfil your life rather than, like I do, break clubs in frustration.
I may learn from it. I hope so.
It’s an interesting read for anyone who harbours any sort of interest in this noble game.
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.
In 2018 we saw the extraordinary HOME by Geoff Sobell at the King’s Theatre in which he built a home on stage and then residents past present and future enacted a sort of glorious farce. It was five star then (here’s a wee clip to give you the idea).
Last night we saw his latest more modestly scaled production, a one man show this time, called FOOD. We had booked early so had a seat at the table, a huge 50 seat dinner table and stage in which we speculate on the meaning, origin and future of the food chain.
It’s a philosophical polemic on mass production and is utterly compelling, involving model making (remember Michael Bentine’s Potty Time?) magic, slight of hand and a magical gross out eating sequence that is truly baffling.
Both Jeana and I played our audience participation part and really enjoyed sharing our memories from smelling a glass of woody wine. Both of us chose childhood memories, her’s her own, mine, of our children’s.
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 Down last 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.
Home James.
Another Festival day after a full on office day.
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.
But entertainment?
No.
I kinda liked it.
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.
Moment. Silence. Dryness. Emptiness. Fear. Wholeness. Concealment. Longing. Black. Moon. Water. Corner. Smell. Demon. Gap. Coldness. Eyes. Intension. Impulse. Fold. Hideout. Color. Lis. Salt. huge. Side. Stitches. Love. Point.
Sharon Eyal
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.
First up, a trip to see my pal David Eustace’s existential photography and sculpture exhibition at the Signet Library. Life and death captured elegantly and eloquently with symbols of home throughout it. His monochromatic photographs from that famous Parisian necropolis sit as a mournful but peaceful centerpiece of a peaceful collection that really resonates.
Next up, Free Fringe comedy showpiece with three comedians, two funny one not, in the repulsive Three Sisters pub. It’s classic Fringe fare but the Three Sisters is too ghastly for my liking. Worth a fiver though. I made my voice heard by pretending to be from Ostende but was quickly rumbled by the hungover but alert MC.
After a trip to the excellent Noodle Home and a spot of street theatre we rounded the day off at The Festival Theatre for an EIF gig by the full throated Lady Blackbird. A Gilles Peterson favourite she was a bit too Tina Turner for me but had a great band especially her outstanding pianist with a grand piano and the statutory Nord keys to play with. Good but not amazing other than her splendid sprawling version of Come Together.
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.)
Baby wants Candy at Assembly Studio one.
Showstoppers at Pleasance Grand.
Even the riders in the TDF get a rest, right?
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.
Bravo Fred!
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.
Traverse day. The gold standard. Well, yes, and no.
We started with Bloody Elle. And, yes, an appropriate title for this five star rerun from last year that we missed. Gig theatre extraordinaire.
Lauryn Redding is magnificent as Elle, a latent lesbian who falls in love at a Northern City Subwayesque Chips and Dips shop with a southern red-headed belle that is so far out of her league (in class terms) that it’s impossible to imagine that a) she is a lesbian and b) this Oxford bound temptress will become her lover.
But that’s what happens.
The coming out aspect of this story is breathtaking in its sensitivity and just sheer joy. For much of the second half of this show, after the hilarity of the opening act, I was welling up with emotion and love for these two characters (one of which you never meet).
Lauryn tells her tale through a mix of music, poetry and Katie Tunstallesque guitar pedalling magic. It’s engrossing, compelling theatre that I did not want to end. 90 minutes of pure theatre magic. Probably sold out but try for returns if not.
Oh, no. It’s not. BOOK.
The Grand Old Opera House Hotel was one of my picks of the Fringe. Isabel McArthur’s latest after a disappointing Kidnapped.
I couldn’t wait.
Bums.
A nice idea for sure, but some poor casting choices and some sub-par performances rendered this a significant disappointment. But because a lot of the audience loved it I’ll leave it at that. It’s only me.
BOOM. The flatness was quickly removed by the gorgeous, and I mean sublime, No Love Songs written by The View’s Kyle Falconer, with Laura Wilde and Johnny McKnight.
I think this is Johnny’s finest hour. Much more poignant than his usual comedic chops (but this has a lot of comedy burned in). It’s about Falconer’s life story. A pop star seeking fame in America and leaving behind his new partner with their baby as she fights, first mastitis, and then Post Natal Depression.
The show turns on a sixpence from hilarity to horror and is soundtracked by Falconer’s amazing music. I couldn’t bear the agony of the post natal depression that the show’s star Dawn Sievewright wrought out for us – a truly great performance – but all three on stage gave their all.
I loved, no LOVED, this show. It took me back to the births of my own children and my own absent father guilt while my wife had to deal with, in particular, the first year of our twins’ lives.
Anyone who has brought up kids and found it tough MUST see this show. It’s extraordinary.
The least said about After the Act the better to be honest. It’s a grand ambition and a noble idea. Gig theatre (musical really) about Clause 28. But it fails on multiple levels. Sorry to be a wanker but it just does.
So, to Trainspotting Live, (Pleasance EICC) in which I’m accused as an audience member of being an American tourist wearing a curtain (kind of fair enough TBH).
It’s become a Fringe institution and I’ve avoided it so far because I saw the original play at The Traverse and felt it could only be inferior. (Also, my cousin was in it, playing Alison, and in the movie too.)
It is inferior, but it’s still amazing.
It’s fucking bonkers. It’s off the scale fuck you doss cunt.
It’s brazen. It’s rude. It’s hilarious. It’s heartbreaking.
It’s theatre for non-theatre folk but that doesn’t demean it.
However, like Grand Opera House Hotel, it has casting issues.
Being a wee fucking Leith/West Granton scheme cunt ned or a brutal cunt like Begbie needs perfect casting (Begbie is close and so is Tommy, but only Alison is pitch perfect – an understudy on the night I saw it). But Renton and Sick Boy suffer from the same problem as Ewan McGregor in the movie. Too posh.
I’m too close to this coming from Leith, so It had to be bang on. It wasn’t, but it was bloody great all the same.
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.
Oh, and I’ve done 77,0000 steps so far.
gibberish 