So here I am in an Edwardian boarding house in a private school somewhere in Kent. I appear to be staying in a room which, during term time, is occupied by a young girl. Her favourite pictures and a series of brightly-coloured post-it notes carrying messages from friends are all over the walls. Being in a space which is so plainly someone else's world feels a touch intrusive.
Looking on the bright side, however, one of my colleagues is in a room with hundreds of pictures of One Direction on the walls. That would be a little bit more difficult to deal with! Imagine Harry Styles' face being the first thing you see in the morning. Worse still, imagine waking up from a nightmare to see the little stumpy Irish one's face; the one who thinks he's witty in a sort of sinister way,
That said, I feel like I'm on a rather brilliant adventure. I love residential courses because those on them have nothing to do other than work on the project in hand. The focus is a great deal more intense, as is the sense of camaraderie. I keep having flash backs to my teenaged years and the half-term music courses I'd almost permanently find myself attending. They were some of the happiest times of my life.
We've just finished the first day of rehearsals for Brass. It's been a long old slog and I'm the last one standing, writing late into the night to ensure that we have decent material to use in rehearsals tomorrow.
I'm hugely impressed by the set up here. The NYMT are brilliantly organised, and run a tight, tried-and-tested ship. I've even been provided with a little room with a keyboard in it where I can go in the middle of the night if the muse strikes me. How many other organisations would have thought in that level of detail?
We had a read-through of the piece today. It's plainly too long. Probably by as much as half an hour. We're going to make a number of internal cuts in scenes whilst we rehearse, but it also feels like something might need to shift structurally. Perhaps even the loss of an entire number... or two!
I remain deliriously happy with the cast, and even more content with our happy, talented creative team. Sara at the helm is calm, cool and maternal. Matt the choreographer is witty, creative and highly diligent, and Benjamin, our MD seems to be in his absolute element when working with the kids. Add to that, a fascinating assistant director who I suspect has the hutzpah to go far in this industry, a assistant musical director with a passion for brass bands, a fabulous DSM who is also a counter tenor, and a deeply intuitive set designer, and the stars begin to align for something rather special. Let the magic begin!
Tuesday, 8 April 2014
Sunday, 6 April 2014
Feeling dirty
We're driving along the country lanes from a little village outside Thaxted where we've been taking part in the annual Thaxted Tennis Club quiz.
As Nathan puts it, we're feeling a little dirty. We were announced runaway winners of the quiz but our entire team got the distinct impression that we'd been over-marked by exactly ten points. The score we thought we ought to have received would have placed us third. The prize was a bottle of wine each, which made us feel even more guilty. Our only consolation was that we didn't win a single raffle prize, and there were about 100 of them, so the goodies were spread out equally amongst those attending.
It's been quite a hectic day, which started with a morning of composing and led on to a production meeting for Brass at Sara's house with Matt Flint and our designer, Erik Rehl, who, purely by chance also designed the first professional musical I ever wrote; Letter To A Daughter with Sir Arnold Wesker. Erik hasn't changed a bit in the 15 or so years since we last saw one another. I know this to be true because there are two large photos on my wall from the time. The one taken at the top of Arthur's Seat is one of my favourite pictures ever.
Matt had dug up a load of film clips of soldiers performing the Swedish Drill, which was a rather crazy exercise regime which all of the Pals battalions did to get fit quickly. It's a rather curious blend of military marching and ballet and yoga moves, which, if we put into Brass, I'm not sure anyone would believe!
As Nathan puts it, we're feeling a little dirty. We were announced runaway winners of the quiz but our entire team got the distinct impression that we'd been over-marked by exactly ten points. The score we thought we ought to have received would have placed us third. The prize was a bottle of wine each, which made us feel even more guilty. Our only consolation was that we didn't win a single raffle prize, and there were about 100 of them, so the goodies were spread out equally amongst those attending.
It's been quite a hectic day, which started with a morning of composing and led on to a production meeting for Brass at Sara's house with Matt Flint and our designer, Erik Rehl, who, purely by chance also designed the first professional musical I ever wrote; Letter To A Daughter with Sir Arnold Wesker. Erik hasn't changed a bit in the 15 or so years since we last saw one another. I know this to be true because there are two large photos on my wall from the time. The one taken at the top of Arthur's Seat is one of my favourite pictures ever.
Matt had dug up a load of film clips of soldiers performing the Swedish Drill, which was a rather crazy exercise regime which all of the Pals battalions did to get fit quickly. It's a rather curious blend of military marching and ballet and yoga moves, which, if we put into Brass, I'm not sure anyone would believe!
Friday, 4 April 2014
Ravel
Today's been about formatting music for Brass. There's lots of it, and I'm not in a position where I'm able to do it very well. I do wish there were another week before rehearsals, so that I could sort everything out properly, and give some serious consideration to the songs I've not yet written. Still, it will be what it is, and I can only do what I can do. Once this week of rehearsals is out the way, I have the time to finesse everything.
I went to a lunchtime concert at St Martin-in-the-Fields with Ted and Ma Thornhill today. I haven't seen Ted's Mum for years, and she looks incredibly well. We talked about the old days; the days when Ted and I roamed the Midlands as teenagers searching for crop circles and haunted woods. Ted used to drive an enormous brown estate car, which was big enough to carry an entire string quartet and their instruments, so that became our busking wagon!
Joan wanted to hear all about the wedding and at one point joyfully corrected me when I referred to Nathan as my "partner." Old habits die hard. It feels so peculiar to use the word husband. Both exciting and wrong!
The concert was brilliant. The programme was violin sonatas; first Brahms and then a glorious work by Ravel, which I found particularly thrilling. Yolanda Bruno was the soloist and she's a damned fine player.
Ted and I immediately slipped into our teenaged music school parlance. The leader of our orchestra back then was called Helen Whitehurst. She was better than everyone else, and was a bit of a hero to all of us. Half way through the concert, just after Bruno had effortlessly got her fingers around the most astonishingly dexterous passage of music, Ted leaned over and whispered in my ear; "she's better than Whitehurst!"
We had lunch at Soho House - soup and chips - and then I returned home to continue formatting music.
This evening, we finally got an opportunity to sit down and open our wedding cards. All sorts of glorious words jumped out at us. My dear friend Sam Becker's letter made Nathan (who was reading it aloud) burst into tears, and I couldn't get beyond the first paragraph of Sally's card. She'd copied out a passage about love from Captain Corelli's Mandolin. Sally lost her beloved husband, Ben last year. The thought of someone so beautiful in every way being subjected to so much pain fills me with desperate sadness and the words she'd written completely finished me off.
I went to a lunchtime concert at St Martin-in-the-Fields with Ted and Ma Thornhill today. I haven't seen Ted's Mum for years, and she looks incredibly well. We talked about the old days; the days when Ted and I roamed the Midlands as teenagers searching for crop circles and haunted woods. Ted used to drive an enormous brown estate car, which was big enough to carry an entire string quartet and their instruments, so that became our busking wagon!
Joan wanted to hear all about the wedding and at one point joyfully corrected me when I referred to Nathan as my "partner." Old habits die hard. It feels so peculiar to use the word husband. Both exciting and wrong!
The concert was brilliant. The programme was violin sonatas; first Brahms and then a glorious work by Ravel, which I found particularly thrilling. Yolanda Bruno was the soloist and she's a damned fine player.
Ted and I immediately slipped into our teenaged music school parlance. The leader of our orchestra back then was called Helen Whitehurst. She was better than everyone else, and was a bit of a hero to all of us. Half way through the concert, just after Bruno had effortlessly got her fingers around the most astonishingly dexterous passage of music, Ted leaned over and whispered in my ear; "she's better than Whitehurst!"
We had lunch at Soho House - soup and chips - and then I returned home to continue formatting music.
This evening, we finally got an opportunity to sit down and open our wedding cards. All sorts of glorious words jumped out at us. My dear friend Sam Becker's letter made Nathan (who was reading it aloud) burst into tears, and I couldn't get beyond the first paragraph of Sally's card. She'd copied out a passage about love from Captain Corelli's Mandolin. Sally lost her beloved husband, Ben last year. The thought of someone so beautiful in every way being subjected to so much pain fills me with desperate sadness and the words she'd written completely finished me off.
Brass script
I've been ensconced within the world of Brass today, effectively doing a twelve hour day on the script so that it could go off to the lovely Jeremy to be printed in time for the first wave of rehearsals which start on Monday.
At seven o'clock this evening, I started the manic and eccentric process of reading the entire script out loud to myself; accents, inflections, emotions and all. Sometimes I even cry when the characters cry! It's quite a cathartic process. When Nathan got home from work, I had to hide in the kitchen, because I felt so ludicrous chuntering and weeping away to myself!
Anyway, I feel that the script is now in very good shape, which is fabulous, but makes me even more conscious that the music itself feels a little in disarray! I reckon I've still got about a quarter of the music to write. During rehearsals I'm going to be sitting in a little room writing like a mad man by candlelight! It feels like there's a phenomenally high mountain still to climb!
This afternoon I tubed it down to London Bridge for a meeting at Southwark Cathedral which is where my next composition, Invisible Voices, is due to be performed. We're hoping to do a big gala performance with the London Gay Men's Chorus for the Kaleidoscope Trust, which could be really very exciting.
Quite when I'm actually going to have an opportunity to write the piece I'm not sure, but I guess that's what May is for!
The messages, emails, letters, tweets and cards about our wedding continue to arrive, but it's only now we're actually starting to get around to replying. We haven't even had the time to look through the photos! It's been utterly insane.
I've been deeply moved by some of the things I've read in the last few days; stories of people coming out to their parents, mothers writing to their sons to tell them how proud they feel, a man in Lancashire painting his door pink, inspired by our show. It seems the wedding has genuinely generated a wave of love, not just towards us, but towards and within the gay community at large. I don't think that's just my perception, and as a result, I genuinely couldn't feel prouder.
I've read news reports about it from the US, Australia and France. Big wigs at the BBC and C4 are describing it as "important" and "the most unique piece of television they've ever seen." People email and tweet to say they're watching it repeatedly, and crying all the time.
The house is, of course, a hopeless mess with unopened cards and presents on tables and surfaces everywhere. At some point we'll get to stop and relax, but not just yet...
At seven o'clock this evening, I started the manic and eccentric process of reading the entire script out loud to myself; accents, inflections, emotions and all. Sometimes I even cry when the characters cry! It's quite a cathartic process. When Nathan got home from work, I had to hide in the kitchen, because I felt so ludicrous chuntering and weeping away to myself!
Anyway, I feel that the script is now in very good shape, which is fabulous, but makes me even more conscious that the music itself feels a little in disarray! I reckon I've still got about a quarter of the music to write. During rehearsals I'm going to be sitting in a little room writing like a mad man by candlelight! It feels like there's a phenomenally high mountain still to climb!
This afternoon I tubed it down to London Bridge for a meeting at Southwark Cathedral which is where my next composition, Invisible Voices, is due to be performed. We're hoping to do a big gala performance with the London Gay Men's Chorus for the Kaleidoscope Trust, which could be really very exciting.
Quite when I'm actually going to have an opportunity to write the piece I'm not sure, but I guess that's what May is for!
The messages, emails, letters, tweets and cards about our wedding continue to arrive, but it's only now we're actually starting to get around to replying. We haven't even had the time to look through the photos! It's been utterly insane.
I've been deeply moved by some of the things I've read in the last few days; stories of people coming out to their parents, mothers writing to their sons to tell them how proud they feel, a man in Lancashire painting his door pink, inspired by our show. It seems the wedding has genuinely generated a wave of love, not just towards us, but towards and within the gay community at large. I don't think that's just my perception, and as a result, I genuinely couldn't feel prouder.
I've read news reports about it from the US, Australia and France. Big wigs at the BBC and C4 are describing it as "important" and "the most unique piece of television they've ever seen." People email and tweet to say they're watching it repeatedly, and crying all the time.
The house is, of course, a hopeless mess with unopened cards and presents on tables and surfaces everywhere. At some point we'll get to stop and relax, but not just yet...
Thursday, 3 April 2014
Picardy
It seems like a life-time since we left for France, but it's barely 24 hours! The trip has been simply wonderful; am almost perfect honeymoon, I'd say.
It's been another day of great coincidences. The kind of day when questions get answered by the universe almost as quickly as you ask them.
Take this morning, for example. As we travelled to Thiepval, Sara said how much she wished she'd photographed the wonderful man who'd shown us his phenomenal garden shed museum in Bus Les Artois and, bizarrely, just as we pulled unto the car park, we found the very same man standing there! It turns out that he works as a gardener for the Commonwealth War Grave Commission. So Sara got her picture after all!
There were other things too. At one stage I told the lads that I was convinced there were no Tills within the 72,000 names of missing British soldiers inscribed on the monument. I'm pretty sure I'd checked the last time we were there. It turns out that this isn't the case at all. We went to the official lists and discovered that there were actually three Tills, one of whom had died on my birthday in 1916.
And so it went on.
We had lunch in Albert; the same place we'd eaten in the night before, and in fact every night we were there with my parents in September.
The weather has been glorious throughout our trip; powder blue skies, almost burningly-hot sun. We sat outside our cafe today basking in the sunshine.
From Albert we went to the Beaumont Hamil memorial, a massive area of preserved trenches owned by the Canadian government and dedicated to the countless Newfoundland people who were killed there on the same day as the Leeds Pals, two miles further along the line, were themselves suffering unprecedented losses.
We had a guided tour, which was interrupted briefly by a low-flying single-seater aeroplane. For all of us it seemed almost as though there'd been a time slip. Almost 100 years before, enemy biplanes would have sailed above the trenches on reconnaissance missions.
Later still, we stood on an elevated platform, looking down across what had been no man's land. We stood in silence for some time, all thinking the same thought, which was finally articulated by Matt; "if only I could blink and see what it was recall like..."
From that elevated position we got a sense, the merest glimmer. A criss-crossing mesh of zig-zagging trenches which would have been filled with frightened people running, crouching, shouting. Thousands of shells and bullets relentlessly flying overhead. Noise. Confusion. Mayhem. A dreadful sunlit vision of hell.
It's been another day of great coincidences. The kind of day when questions get answered by the universe almost as quickly as you ask them.
Take this morning, for example. As we travelled to Thiepval, Sara said how much she wished she'd photographed the wonderful man who'd shown us his phenomenal garden shed museum in Bus Les Artois and, bizarrely, just as we pulled unto the car park, we found the very same man standing there! It turns out that he works as a gardener for the Commonwealth War Grave Commission. So Sara got her picture after all!
There were other things too. At one stage I told the lads that I was convinced there were no Tills within the 72,000 names of missing British soldiers inscribed on the monument. I'm pretty sure I'd checked the last time we were there. It turns out that this isn't the case at all. We went to the official lists and discovered that there were actually three Tills, one of whom had died on my birthday in 1916.
And so it went on.
We had lunch in Albert; the same place we'd eaten in the night before, and in fact every night we were there with my parents in September.
The weather has been glorious throughout our trip; powder blue skies, almost burningly-hot sun. We sat outside our cafe today basking in the sunshine.
From Albert we went to the Beaumont Hamil memorial, a massive area of preserved trenches owned by the Canadian government and dedicated to the countless Newfoundland people who were killed there on the same day as the Leeds Pals, two miles further along the line, were themselves suffering unprecedented losses.
We had a guided tour, which was interrupted briefly by a low-flying single-seater aeroplane. For all of us it seemed almost as though there'd been a time slip. Almost 100 years before, enemy biplanes would have sailed above the trenches on reconnaissance missions.
Later still, we stood on an elevated platform, looking down across what had been no man's land. We stood in silence for some time, all thinking the same thought, which was finally articulated by Matt; "if only I could blink and see what it was recall like..."
From that elevated position we got a sense, the merest glimmer. A criss-crossing mesh of zig-zagging trenches which would have been filled with frightened people running, crouching, shouting. Thousands of shells and bullets relentlessly flying overhead. Noise. Confusion. Mayhem. A dreadful sunlit vision of hell.
Tuesday, 1 April 2014
Albert
I'm currently
in Albert in France on some kind of honeymoon. I say some kind of honeymoon because we're not alone. In fact, we’ve
come here with a screen writer, an Olivier award-winning actress, and a choreographer
from Scarborough. I don’t believe we’ve managed to tick off a single wedding
stereotype. No cake. No chair ties. No bride. No honeymoon.
We’ve had some lovely reviews for our film in the papers
today, however. I think I was probably most touched by what was written in the
Telegraph; “the flow of tears down Till’s face as Taylor crooned his undying
love was more powerful than anything all the romcom writers in the world could
have put together.” I’m not sure I’ll ever garner a better quote than that!
So why am I in Albert? Well time stops for no one, not even
a happily married groom, and I’ve got the rest of my life to be getting on
with. The five of us have come here on a research and writing trip for Brass
and we’re revisiting all the places I discovered with my parents in September
last year.
In fact, it’s a little like ground-hog day, for although the
fields are a different colour, and instead of yellowing leaves on the trees,
there’s blossom everywhere, we are bumping into the same local characters, who
seem to want to have the same conversations with us.
As we pulled into Serre today, the same farmer who’d come up
to us last time, collared Sara Kestleman and asked if she knew Judy Dench,
which was exactly what he’d said to my Mum when we were last there. It became
all the more surreal when Sara assumed the farmer was asking if she knew Dame Judi
personally, which of course she does.
As we pulled into Bus-les-Artois, the same man popped out of
the yellow house opposite the church and invited us in to see his wonderful “in-a-shed”
museum, which of course was exactly what we were hoping he’d do because I’d
found the experience so profoundly moving the last time.
It feels a little like we’re being rewarded for our return
visit. When we pulled up to the Lochnagar crater, that terrifying,
incomprehensibly large shell-hole, we found a bloke selling First World War
souvenirs by the side of the road. It was something I was desperate to find the
last time we came, but we were unlucky. Sara bought all sorts of things to show
to the cast. I bought a button. I only had five euros!
The other thing Nathan and I had spent ages doing on the
last trip was scouring the sides of fields just in case something interesting
and metal-like from the conflict had been thrown up by a farmer’s plough. We
found nothing, but today, a veritable treasure trove of ancient metal had found
its way onto the edges of the grassy walkways including a few twisted pieces of
metal fence, and three shells. We managed to freak ourselves out at the thought
that one of them hadn’t been detonated, and that, by hitting it with a stick,
we were facing terrible calamities.
Our two other travelling companions are Philippa (my best
man, and dramaturg on Brass) and Matt Flint, (who’s doing our choreography.)
They are, of course, brilliant travel companions. It’s a bit uncomfortable with
us all squeezed into the back of the car in bizarrely warm temperatures (21
degrees today,) but there’s a lot of laughter, a lot of bonding, and a lot of
sensible chatter about Brass.
We were up so early this morning, and in bed so late, that
all of us keep drifting off to sleep at inopportune moments; me mostly in car
journeys! This evening we went into Albert, managed one course and then swiftly
came back to the hotel to go to bed. My eyes have stopped focussing on the page
which surely means it’s time to sleep!
LoveIsEveryone
Well today has been, quite frankly, extraordinary. It started with a terrible rude awakening. Nathan had forgotten to set the alarm and all I could hear was swearing and someone leaping out of bed. I had no idea what was going on. In my half-slumber I decided we'd actually managed to miss our own wedding!
It was 7am and a taxi had already arrived to take us to to Broadcasting House for an interview with the BBC World Service. We sat in relative silence during the journey. I was still terribly upset about a string of ghastly comments which had been written about us by Daily Mail readers, including perhaps the most dreadful piece of nonsense I've ever read: "Disgusting. In Germany in 1939 they would have been arrested and detained."
As the day wore on I became rather grateful to the bigots because it reminded me above anything that the fight against homophobia is not yet over and that we are doing the right thing by allowing our wedding to be seen on television because we have a duty to challenge entrenched perceptions about gay people!
From the BBC we went to ITV where we were interviewed by Philip and Holly on the This Morning sofa. How bizarre did that feel? For the record both of them are utterly delightful, very easy to talk to, and as charming in real life as their television personas.
The researchers also managed to pull out footage of Nathan dancing naked on the show in 2008 when he was in Naked Boys Singing. Hysterical.
I went up to Crouch End for the best part of the afternoon to eat soup and hang out with the Brass production team and thrash out some ideas for the show's set. It felt like a rather curious oasis in a day of wedding publicity. It was also brought to a rather speedy end by the arrival of a car to take me back to the BBC for an interview with Huw Edwards. There was a bit of a mix up with the car and some heavy traffic, the combination of which meant that I arrived, panting in the studio, a minute after the interview had started. Nathan was manfully holding the court, but the decision was made to insert me into the interview. It's not often you see a guest clambering into shot on live television. But clamber I did. Fortunately I was too het up to feel embarrassment!
From the BBC we returned to Highgate to almost immediately head back into town for the screening party of Our Gay Wedding: The Musical at Soho House.
It's difficult to think either of us will ever forget the experience of watching the show with our phones in our pockets going absolutely bananas. Every second, a mini vibration would tell me another message has come in on twitter. We trended world-wide, I gained 300 followers and, astonishingly, the majority of comments were overwhelmingly positive.
Our hashtag #LoveIsEveryone went global and messages poured in to say how moved, touched, excited and proud people felt. A curious piece in the Metro online even described the wedding as "better than Wils and Kate's" which was, of course, insane.
The guests at our little screening party got progressively drunker. Even I started drinking shots. Well one shot. Franschene, the registrar became delightfully paralytic and my good mate Cindy did a face plant off her Gaga heels, shouted at our commissioning editor and then vanished. We've no idea where she's gone, but with any luck the euphoria of the evening, and the fact that she was in Soho has kept her safe.
We're home now, and I have to get to bed as we're off to France first thing in the morning. It seems to be 3am.
I leave you with two thoughts.
1) In the words of Kate Bush, "every old sock meets an old shoe"
And
2) Love Is Everyone
It was 7am and a taxi had already arrived to take us to to Broadcasting House for an interview with the BBC World Service. We sat in relative silence during the journey. I was still terribly upset about a string of ghastly comments which had been written about us by Daily Mail readers, including perhaps the most dreadful piece of nonsense I've ever read: "Disgusting. In Germany in 1939 they would have been arrested and detained."
As the day wore on I became rather grateful to the bigots because it reminded me above anything that the fight against homophobia is not yet over and that we are doing the right thing by allowing our wedding to be seen on television because we have a duty to challenge entrenched perceptions about gay people!
From the BBC we went to ITV where we were interviewed by Philip and Holly on the This Morning sofa. How bizarre did that feel? For the record both of them are utterly delightful, very easy to talk to, and as charming in real life as their television personas.
The researchers also managed to pull out footage of Nathan dancing naked on the show in 2008 when he was in Naked Boys Singing. Hysterical.
I went up to Crouch End for the best part of the afternoon to eat soup and hang out with the Brass production team and thrash out some ideas for the show's set. It felt like a rather curious oasis in a day of wedding publicity. It was also brought to a rather speedy end by the arrival of a car to take me back to the BBC for an interview with Huw Edwards. There was a bit of a mix up with the car and some heavy traffic, the combination of which meant that I arrived, panting in the studio, a minute after the interview had started. Nathan was manfully holding the court, but the decision was made to insert me into the interview. It's not often you see a guest clambering into shot on live television. But clamber I did. Fortunately I was too het up to feel embarrassment!
From the BBC we returned to Highgate to almost immediately head back into town for the screening party of Our Gay Wedding: The Musical at Soho House.
It's difficult to think either of us will ever forget the experience of watching the show with our phones in our pockets going absolutely bananas. Every second, a mini vibration would tell me another message has come in on twitter. We trended world-wide, I gained 300 followers and, astonishingly, the majority of comments were overwhelmingly positive.
Our hashtag #LoveIsEveryone went global and messages poured in to say how moved, touched, excited and proud people felt. A curious piece in the Metro online even described the wedding as "better than Wils and Kate's" which was, of course, insane.
The guests at our little screening party got progressively drunker. Even I started drinking shots. Well one shot. Franschene, the registrar became delightfully paralytic and my good mate Cindy did a face plant off her Gaga heels, shouted at our commissioning editor and then vanished. We've no idea where she's gone, but with any luck the euphoria of the evening, and the fact that she was in Soho has kept her safe.
We're home now, and I have to get to bed as we're off to France first thing in the morning. It seems to be 3am.
I leave you with two thoughts.
1) In the words of Kate Bush, "every old sock meets an old shoe"
And
2) Love Is Everyone
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