I was looking at a newspaper piece about the new Harry Potter play this morning and read with interest that Imogen Heap has written incidental music and, one assumes, a smattering of songs for the show. Good for Imogen Heap. I have enormous respect for her as an ambassador for electronic music and as a recording artist. I also have great respect for J K Rowling's seemingly relentless desire to promote British talent.
But here's my problem: There are a small band of composers in the UK who have dedicated their careers to musical theatre. It is their great love. It is what they live for. The issue is that whenever a big opportunity emerges in musical theatre in this country, the job of composer is always given to a writer who specialises in something else. Damon Albern, Cindy Lauper, Tori Amos, Gary Barlow, David Arnold... These are all people I respect enormously as writers in their own fields, but when they write for theatre, they start to come unstuck. Their songs often lack story, theatricality and drama. The dance breaks don't work. There's often a sense that the music has been written in haste. Scores of other people will be thrown at the project, often at great expense, to mop up the shite that's been created. I've even known more writers from the world of pop to be thrown at the seething mess, which just exacerbates the problem. Do the shows these people create ever set the world on fire? Rarely; if ever!
I can't think of another art form where this would happen. "Adele needs help with her latest song, so let's employ a classical composer who has no experience of pop music to assist her." "We need someone to put together fragments from Beethoven's incomplete tenth symphony. Let's see if Andrew Lloyd Webber is free." "We need a master painter to restore this fragile work by Rafaelle. Tracy Emin's big in art at the moment. Let's see if she's free. It would get young people really interested in the art form." You wouldn't suddenly put a rock guitarist on the BBC Young Musician of the Year, but the assumption is that you can do what you like in musical theatre regardless of the rot which comes from the lap tops of the people you choose.
How are we ever going to encourage audiences back to British musical theatre if we don't treat our home-grown specialist writers with a bit more respect? In the States, musical theatre specialists are revered. Lin-Manuel Miranda, who wrote Hamilton, went into his own show and tickets started selling for $10,000 dollars. He's not a pop writer who happens to have landed on his feet with Hamilton. He's a musical theatre legend whose ambition was always to be a musical theatre legend.
I get it. Producers hold all the power in British theatre. They buy up all the rights to high profile novels and films, sit on them for years, and when they finally bring them to the stage, think hiring a famous singer-songwriter will bring more audiences into the theatre. I've watched golden opportunity after golden opportunity being squandered in this manner. Home grown musical theatre writing talent effectively gets cock blocked by this process. Writers are prevented from working on shows which have large potential audiences and no producer will invest in a large scale show by an unknown writer because it's "too much of a risk." But what do musical theatre audiences want to see? Large scale shows. It's an astounding viscous circle where literally no one is winning!
There was an unbelievable smell of rain in the air as I ate my lunch today. Actually, more specifically, it was the smell of rain mixed with the promise of a storm. And that storm came at 3pm. It wasn't as impressive as I'd have liked. Fiona texted to say a real humdinger was passing over Brighton a few hours earlier. The news this evening suggested that most of it fell on Croydon. In fact, a whopping 4 months' rain fell in just an hour. So much that the place is presently under water.
The lover of Schadenfreude in me was joyously amused by the sight of thirty school children and their teachers getting caught out in the rain in Dartmouth Park. I passed them as I drove to the gym. They were running for their lives to a bus shelter, screaming like harpies.
The sight reminded me of an occasion during the Edinburgh festival. I've no doubt told this story in this blog before, but it was the day of some big procession and I stood and watched as a carnival float full of children passed by. They were all terribly excited and very happy. Their clothes were entirely made of newspaper. They looked a picture of loveliness. No doubt their Mums had been busy making the costumes for weeks and were terribly proud of their offspring.
The float passed around a corner, and three seconds later, there was a crack of thunder, and a sudden, massive downpour of rain. I kid you not when I say that, no more than a minute later, the float re-appeared and, at top speed, vanished in the direction it had come from. The children were soaked to the skin, and their lovely newspaper costumes had turned into papier-mâché! Every single one of them was weeping. I'm sure it was tragic but I chose to see the funny side. But then again, I'm evil.
Wednesday, 8 June 2016
Monday, 6 June 2016
contretemps
It's Ian Knauer's birthday today, and by rights we should be at Giraffe on the South Bank surrounded by a colourful bunch of waifs and strays from around the world. We're not there, though, because Ian selfishly now lives in New York, so we had to make do with a Skype chat instead. We virtually found Ian and Jem in Manhattan's Chelsea District eating scones. It's afternoon over there. It never ceases to amaze me that it's possible these days to video call someone in the States, and see them in high definition on the screen with no time lag. We take so much for granted.
I worked up in the village today, attempting to make my way through a list of admin which had grown out of proportion throughout last week. Top of my list was trying to find funding for the NYMT trip to France at the end of the month. Our little fundraising site hasn't gone quite as well as it could have. I asked the cast to see if they could give the fund a big push just before the bank holiday weekend, and I learned today that not a single extra pound has been raised, which obviously made me fly into a panic! I'm not quite sure what I'll do if we don't get enough money for the trip. I suspect it'll have to be another music quiz. If anyone reading this is feeling flush and has thought they might like to add a bit of money to the pot, you can do so by going to:
http://www.nymt.org.uk/support-brass1.html
I personally think all young people need to have the opportunity to visit the First World War trenches. It brings the whole conflict to life, somehow, and reminds us how lucky we are to be living in this era. Remind me not to organise a similar trip at any point in the near future, however. This one has been stressful beyond belief! Why is doing something nice for a group of people always fraught with such misery?!
I had a contretemps with a ghastly man in the gym today. Our new gym has ludicrous "pod" entrances. Each gym member has an eight digit code which they have to type into a special pad which activates the doors. The doors then open and close like something in Star Trek. Sadly there are only two of them and both work as entrances and exits. You have to use your code to exit the building as well and once someone has started tapping their number into the key pad the person on the other side of the door's key pad suddenly freezes. It's so badly thought out.
Anyway, one of the doors has been broken for five days now which means it now takes five minutes to get into the building at peak times.
When I arrived today, a bloke in Pure Gym uniform was standing, ineffectually, in the foyer watching people struggling to get in and out. I asked him how long the door would be broken. "I dunno. It's not my problem." He said, "I'm a personal trainer, not someone in charge of the doors." "What are you doing in the foyer then?" I asked. "I'm helping with a delivery..." "But you're wearing a uniform with Pure Gym all over it. Surely it's your responsibility as an employee of this company to make sure the customers are okay?" He sneered, "I've apologised to every customer who's come in." "You didn't apologise to me." "You're the one customer I didn't apologise to." I've seldom seen a man drip with such little interest in what I was saying.
The situation was made a lot worse by a prannie in front of me in the queue, who butted in with that awful thing that people often say in these instances, "leave it out mate" he said to me, "he's only doing his job. We're all here at the gym to chill, so why don't you just chill out?" And what's the one thing which is guaranteed to make a stressed person even more stressed? Telling them to chill out! And I personally do not go to a gym to chill out. My body drips with sweat. My thighs burn. That is not chilling out! At that point, the personal trainer looked me in the eye and said, "you're really embarrassing yourself right now, mate..." It was horrifying...
Nathan got back from work this evening and we watched films of Elaine Paige dancing really badly, and the Great British Sewing Bee, which I'm very much enjoying. I would personably watch a Sewing Bee, a Bake Off or a Pottery Throw Down every night of the week!
I worked up in the village today, attempting to make my way through a list of admin which had grown out of proportion throughout last week. Top of my list was trying to find funding for the NYMT trip to France at the end of the month. Our little fundraising site hasn't gone quite as well as it could have. I asked the cast to see if they could give the fund a big push just before the bank holiday weekend, and I learned today that not a single extra pound has been raised, which obviously made me fly into a panic! I'm not quite sure what I'll do if we don't get enough money for the trip. I suspect it'll have to be another music quiz. If anyone reading this is feeling flush and has thought they might like to add a bit of money to the pot, you can do so by going to:
http://www.nymt.org.uk/support-brass1.html
I personally think all young people need to have the opportunity to visit the First World War trenches. It brings the whole conflict to life, somehow, and reminds us how lucky we are to be living in this era. Remind me not to organise a similar trip at any point in the near future, however. This one has been stressful beyond belief! Why is doing something nice for a group of people always fraught with such misery?!
I had a contretemps with a ghastly man in the gym today. Our new gym has ludicrous "pod" entrances. Each gym member has an eight digit code which they have to type into a special pad which activates the doors. The doors then open and close like something in Star Trek. Sadly there are only two of them and both work as entrances and exits. You have to use your code to exit the building as well and once someone has started tapping their number into the key pad the person on the other side of the door's key pad suddenly freezes. It's so badly thought out.
Anyway, one of the doors has been broken for five days now which means it now takes five minutes to get into the building at peak times.
When I arrived today, a bloke in Pure Gym uniform was standing, ineffectually, in the foyer watching people struggling to get in and out. I asked him how long the door would be broken. "I dunno. It's not my problem." He said, "I'm a personal trainer, not someone in charge of the doors." "What are you doing in the foyer then?" I asked. "I'm helping with a delivery..." "But you're wearing a uniform with Pure Gym all over it. Surely it's your responsibility as an employee of this company to make sure the customers are okay?" He sneered, "I've apologised to every customer who's come in." "You didn't apologise to me." "You're the one customer I didn't apologise to." I've seldom seen a man drip with such little interest in what I was saying.
The situation was made a lot worse by a prannie in front of me in the queue, who butted in with that awful thing that people often say in these instances, "leave it out mate" he said to me, "he's only doing his job. We're all here at the gym to chill, so why don't you just chill out?" And what's the one thing which is guaranteed to make a stressed person even more stressed? Telling them to chill out! And I personally do not go to a gym to chill out. My body drips with sweat. My thighs burn. That is not chilling out! At that point, the personal trainer looked me in the eye and said, "you're really embarrassing yourself right now, mate..." It was horrifying...
Nathan got back from work this evening and we watched films of Elaine Paige dancing really badly, and the Great British Sewing Bee, which I'm very much enjoying. I would personably watch a Sewing Bee, a Bake Off or a Pottery Throw Down every night of the week!
Liking the river
I got a message through on Facebook this morning inviting me to "like" my good friend Julian's page about his recording studio, DIN, a place in which I've recorded music countless times over the last fifteen years. "Liking" something on Facebook is a funny old concept, which feels a little too easy to be flattering or useful, but I adore Julian and his studio, so I dutifully clicked like. What surprised me, however, was Facebook's immediate attempt to get me to like something else. Words flashed up on the screen: "Related to DIN... 'Butter, Sugar, Eggs, Magik: custom cake creations made in Loughton Essex.'" Now, I'm sure this bakery business is quite wonderful with its cupcakes looking like penguins and its enormous pastel bouquets of flowers made from sugar paste, but it's not a recording studio. And the last time I checked, the word magic was spelt with a c. A little digging revealed the only reason it had been suggested was that a mutual friend had "liked" both. Sometimes these algorithms don't quite work...
We went down to Baron's Court this afternoon for lunch and a lovely walk along the Thames with Philip and Daryl. It's an area of London I don't know that well. Well, in fact, at all. It was a gloriously sunny day and we took ourselves on a tour of a number of pubs. There are a large number of very charming and rather quirky drinking establishments littered along the river in those parts.
We ate lunch in a pub where the French Open tennis final was being broadcast on scores of TV screens. Andy Murray was playing and had just won the first set when we arrived. He proceeded to lose pretty much every subsequent game, which triggered me to make the suggestion that I had jinxed the match by watching it. Pretty much every time I invest in British sports, the match I'm watching goes tits up. Daryl reckons he is similarly jinxed. Philip, of course, pointed out how ludicrous we both were to talk such nonsense. He's right of course. In fact, it's possibly the most self-centred thing it's possible to claim!
Anyway, we were sitting at a table in the restaurant part of the pub where there were no TV cameras, but the guys in the courtyard outside were watching the match, and we could see their faces slowly glazing over and losing interest. We didn't need to watch the match to know what was going on.
We finished our lunch and walked along the Thames path, past the old Riverside Studios, once an iconic theatre space, now a building site where they're creating aspirational apartments over-looking Hammersmith Bridge. We spent some time looking at the images on the billboards surrounding the site which show passers by exactly the sort of place the builders are hoping to create. The flats are destined to be filled with beautiful objects d'art and books about Luis Vitton and everyone who lives in them is going to be thin, young and white.
The next pub was a tiny little place called The Dove, just beyond Furnival Gardens, which I'm told has the smallest bar room in the world. The staff seemed a bit rude to me, but it was a very pleasant place to hang out. I drank fizzy raspberry juice.
There were people everywhere along the river bank, spilling out of pubs, perched on the river walls and picnicking in pocket parks. It's amazing how a sunny day sends people running for water!
We went down to Baron's Court this afternoon for lunch and a lovely walk along the Thames with Philip and Daryl. It's an area of London I don't know that well. Well, in fact, at all. It was a gloriously sunny day and we took ourselves on a tour of a number of pubs. There are a large number of very charming and rather quirky drinking establishments littered along the river in those parts.
We ate lunch in a pub where the French Open tennis final was being broadcast on scores of TV screens. Andy Murray was playing and had just won the first set when we arrived. He proceeded to lose pretty much every subsequent game, which triggered me to make the suggestion that I had jinxed the match by watching it. Pretty much every time I invest in British sports, the match I'm watching goes tits up. Daryl reckons he is similarly jinxed. Philip, of course, pointed out how ludicrous we both were to talk such nonsense. He's right of course. In fact, it's possibly the most self-centred thing it's possible to claim!
Anyway, we were sitting at a table in the restaurant part of the pub where there were no TV cameras, but the guys in the courtyard outside were watching the match, and we could see their faces slowly glazing over and losing interest. We didn't need to watch the match to know what was going on.
We finished our lunch and walked along the Thames path, past the old Riverside Studios, once an iconic theatre space, now a building site where they're creating aspirational apartments over-looking Hammersmith Bridge. We spent some time looking at the images on the billboards surrounding the site which show passers by exactly the sort of place the builders are hoping to create. The flats are destined to be filled with beautiful objects d'art and books about Luis Vitton and everyone who lives in them is going to be thin, young and white.
The next pub was a tiny little place called The Dove, just beyond Furnival Gardens, which I'm told has the smallest bar room in the world. The staff seemed a bit rude to me, but it was a very pleasant place to hang out. I drank fizzy raspberry juice.
There were people everywhere along the river bank, spilling out of pubs, perched on the river walls and picnicking in pocket parks. It's amazing how a sunny day sends people running for water!
Sunday, 5 June 2016
Adam's Apple and the gift of enthusiasm
The weather's been very strange today. Humid, misty and slightly sticky. I put a shirt on earlier and couldn't work out if it was a) cold b) slightly damp or c) both cold and slightly damp. Then suddenly I was boiling hot like a wet dog. Is this what it feels like to live in Hong Kong? Air shouldn't make you feel claustrophobic, should it?
I spent much of the day feeling utterly wiped out, hiding from the world, drinking copious mugs of tea and eating rounds of toast. It's amazing how a day like this can slip through ones fingers. By the time I'd started feeling guilty for doing nothing, it was 3pm and almost time to head into Central London. So, in a somewhat adrenalised state, I competed and sent off an application for an opportunity I have to assume has already been awarded to someone else! I refuse to become jaded, however. One day I know I will apply for a job which both exists and I am right for...
I met Fiona and her American friend Jesse in the cafe at the end of Old Compton Street, which appears to be one of the only establishments in the district these days which isn't some kind of chain. Even the big names are moving out of the area because rents are so offensively high. Costa has left the street. Maos has gone...
Jesse played wind instruments and keyboards is in the band Midlake, and is in the country touring with another band. It was lovely to meet him. The presence of an American always turns me into a proud London tour guide. I dust off a few quirky anecdotes and hope I'm not being too boring! The joy about Americans is that they're so darn enthusiastic. My Grandmother gave me the gift of enthusiasm and taught me to respect it greatly in others.
We ate at Number One Bistro for the second time in as many days and were joined by Meriel, who'd been at a conference all day, and Jesse's friend Anne, who works for a record label and comes from Germany.
After eating, we walked across town to Nathan's theatre, picked him up, and strolled up to King's Cross. The tour guiding continued. And then stopped because I felt sure I was being boring.
Nathan and I continued to Old Street and the marvellous Hoxton Hall, which is in the part of town estate agents would probably describe as De Beauvoire. It's a curious district where 1960s council blocks rub shoulders with grand Regency terraces and quirky Victorian warehouses. It was obviously bombed rather viscously during the Second World War which explains all the modern in-filling. I think I would rather like the area if it were a little more honest with itself and not so painfully trendy. The hipsters are moving slowly north from Old Street and Broadway Market.
Hoxton Hall itself is an authentic and very charming 19th Century music hall, one of a very small number of that style of theatre which still survive in the country. Music halls are characterised by their rather small stages and incredibly intimate auditoriums where the audience feel often like they're crammed in like sardines. I have a feeling there are only three such theatres surviving in the UK. Hoxton, Wilton's and the City Varieties in Leeds where Brass was first performed.
We were at Hoxton Hall to see young Harrison in a workshop performance of a piece called Adam's Apple, which carries a very important message, namely that our speaking voices are a big part of how the world sees us. It's often not so much what we say but how we say it. Huge amounts of research has gone into the subject. Women who speak with a creak in their voice are apparently perceived differently to men with the same issue. We trust people who speak with certain accents more than others. I personally hear a Northern Irish accent and immediately assume I'm talking to a backward homophobe...
Adam's Apple focusses more on the pitch and timbre of speaking voices, and tells its tale from a gender perspective. Does a trans-woman with a deeper voice feel less feminine? Does having a squeaky high-pitched voice make a cis man feel more emasculated? There is, of course, something fascinating in those murky waters, but the piece has not yet found its way, largely because it doesn't know what it is. Good theatre needs a compelling story and a narrative arc. The audience needs to care about the characters. It needs to know what makes them tick, what makes them happy and sad, and more crucially, it needs to feel surprised. Having a theme and an interesting message is not enough. Furthermore, it's important to hire a composer who understands scansion and works a little harder at crafting her songs so that they work theatrically. It also felt a little uncomfortable to be confronted by a director at the start of a performance telling the audience that the work has been in development for years but that the writers "still aren't sure where it's going." In my view this is tantamount to saying "look at all this public subsidy we've pissed up the wall." It felt indulgent and insulting. Question number one when you're writing a piece for the stage: who is this for, and what is its goal?
Thank God for the lovely, and rather honest cast who were incredibly engaging. I was immensely proud of Harrison who acted and sung beautifully. I was so pleased to have seen him do so well in his first professional gig.
I spent much of the day feeling utterly wiped out, hiding from the world, drinking copious mugs of tea and eating rounds of toast. It's amazing how a day like this can slip through ones fingers. By the time I'd started feeling guilty for doing nothing, it was 3pm and almost time to head into Central London. So, in a somewhat adrenalised state, I competed and sent off an application for an opportunity I have to assume has already been awarded to someone else! I refuse to become jaded, however. One day I know I will apply for a job which both exists and I am right for...
I met Fiona and her American friend Jesse in the cafe at the end of Old Compton Street, which appears to be one of the only establishments in the district these days which isn't some kind of chain. Even the big names are moving out of the area because rents are so offensively high. Costa has left the street. Maos has gone...
Jesse played wind instruments and keyboards is in the band Midlake, and is in the country touring with another band. It was lovely to meet him. The presence of an American always turns me into a proud London tour guide. I dust off a few quirky anecdotes and hope I'm not being too boring! The joy about Americans is that they're so darn enthusiastic. My Grandmother gave me the gift of enthusiasm and taught me to respect it greatly in others.
We ate at Number One Bistro for the second time in as many days and were joined by Meriel, who'd been at a conference all day, and Jesse's friend Anne, who works for a record label and comes from Germany.
After eating, we walked across town to Nathan's theatre, picked him up, and strolled up to King's Cross. The tour guiding continued. And then stopped because I felt sure I was being boring.
Nathan and I continued to Old Street and the marvellous Hoxton Hall, which is in the part of town estate agents would probably describe as De Beauvoire. It's a curious district where 1960s council blocks rub shoulders with grand Regency terraces and quirky Victorian warehouses. It was obviously bombed rather viscously during the Second World War which explains all the modern in-filling. I think I would rather like the area if it were a little more honest with itself and not so painfully trendy. The hipsters are moving slowly north from Old Street and Broadway Market.
Hoxton Hall itself is an authentic and very charming 19th Century music hall, one of a very small number of that style of theatre which still survive in the country. Music halls are characterised by their rather small stages and incredibly intimate auditoriums where the audience feel often like they're crammed in like sardines. I have a feeling there are only three such theatres surviving in the UK. Hoxton, Wilton's and the City Varieties in Leeds where Brass was first performed.
We were at Hoxton Hall to see young Harrison in a workshop performance of a piece called Adam's Apple, which carries a very important message, namely that our speaking voices are a big part of how the world sees us. It's often not so much what we say but how we say it. Huge amounts of research has gone into the subject. Women who speak with a creak in their voice are apparently perceived differently to men with the same issue. We trust people who speak with certain accents more than others. I personally hear a Northern Irish accent and immediately assume I'm talking to a backward homophobe...
Adam's Apple focusses more on the pitch and timbre of speaking voices, and tells its tale from a gender perspective. Does a trans-woman with a deeper voice feel less feminine? Does having a squeaky high-pitched voice make a cis man feel more emasculated? There is, of course, something fascinating in those murky waters, but the piece has not yet found its way, largely because it doesn't know what it is. Good theatre needs a compelling story and a narrative arc. The audience needs to care about the characters. It needs to know what makes them tick, what makes them happy and sad, and more crucially, it needs to feel surprised. Having a theme and an interesting message is not enough. Furthermore, it's important to hire a composer who understands scansion and works a little harder at crafting her songs so that they work theatrically. It also felt a little uncomfortable to be confronted by a director at the start of a performance telling the audience that the work has been in development for years but that the writers "still aren't sure where it's going." In my view this is tantamount to saying "look at all this public subsidy we've pissed up the wall." It felt indulgent and insulting. Question number one when you're writing a piece for the stage: who is this for, and what is its goal?
Thank God for the lovely, and rather honest cast who were incredibly engaging. I was immensely proud of Harrison who acted and sung beautifully. I was so pleased to have seen him do so well in his first professional gig.
Saturday, 4 June 2016
Lost in Mayfair
Nathan and I met up with Sam this afternoon in the Number 1 cafe in Soho, which is about the only place I recognise in those parts these days. They do an amazing two course meal deal there for just over a tenner, so we ate like kings.
We rolled out of the cafe and headed towards Regent's Street, passing the sad, old neon signs for Madam Jojos and Raymond Review Bar, which have started to look incredibly tatty. That was the Soho I knew and I mourn its loss. Not really for me - I'm too old for all of that stuff these days - but because the young people I know won't ever get a chance to experience how exciting that world was. It was like being part of the most brilliant club. A club filled with actors, sex workers, fashionistas and LGBT people of all colours, shapes and sizes.
We popped into Trailfinders to talk to a lovely chap called Scott about the fabulous once-in-a-lifetime trip we're planning for next summer which will see us traveling across the United States from San Fransisco to New York. We wanted to check that we weren't going out of our minds thinking it was achievable on the budget that we'd imagined. It turns out our guesstimates were fairly on the money, if not a little too pessimistic, so we left feeling somewhat elated and excited by be prospect.
We decided to take ourselves for a little walk through St James' Park, but my knowledge of the geography of that part of town is nonexistent and it turned out that everyone was following me. We ended up somewhere between Marble Arch and Hyde Park Corner, wondering how on earth we'd ended up so far away from where we thought we were going. Still, it wasn't really about the destination. We wanted a walk, and we got one. And now I know what Mayfair looks like. Not my bag. Too fancy.
We walked along the side of Green Park, and sat in a cafe whilst Sam talked about his fondness for pretty much everything attached to Japanese culture. He even practises origami. I admitted to a fundamental hatred of oriental art in all of its guises, but Sam's keenness was infectious enough for me to question why that stuff doesn't float my boat. I think it's to do with precision. For me art is passion, emotion and broad strokes in fiery colours which is almost the antithesis of Japanese art.
We walked across Green Park. All the entrances are now attack-proof with giant yellow metal structures which you have to walk through, or around. One assumes this has something to do with the Queen's 90th birthday rather than a state of terrorist red alert which no one is telling us about.
From Green Park, we passed Buckingham Palace and crossed over into St James' Park, where the birds seem entirely unimpressed by the people walking past. A heron was casually preening itself no more than two meters from the pavement. The pelicans in the park never cease to surprise me. They happily waddle along the pathways after joggers and women pushing prams. Quite what they're expecting I've no idea. I personally forgot to bring my little bag of fish offal.
We ended up walking through Horse Guard's Parade, which is the most touristy thing I've done in years. I thought how bewildered a lot of the tourists there looked. I guess there's nothing to see but a large expanse of gravel and sand. I think tourists very often "do" somewhere without really knowing why they're doing it. I'm not sure we knew why we were there. Probably because it was the fastest route back to Charing Cross. I told Sam I was going to take his photo with one of the guardsmen on their horses in those funny little boxes on Whitehall. He was horrified, but when we got there, the boxes were bare. I thought they were meant to be there at all times? Obviously not.
We rolled out of the cafe and headed towards Regent's Street, passing the sad, old neon signs for Madam Jojos and Raymond Review Bar, which have started to look incredibly tatty. That was the Soho I knew and I mourn its loss. Not really for me - I'm too old for all of that stuff these days - but because the young people I know won't ever get a chance to experience how exciting that world was. It was like being part of the most brilliant club. A club filled with actors, sex workers, fashionistas and LGBT people of all colours, shapes and sizes.
We popped into Trailfinders to talk to a lovely chap called Scott about the fabulous once-in-a-lifetime trip we're planning for next summer which will see us traveling across the United States from San Fransisco to New York. We wanted to check that we weren't going out of our minds thinking it was achievable on the budget that we'd imagined. It turns out our guesstimates were fairly on the money, if not a little too pessimistic, so we left feeling somewhat elated and excited by be prospect.
We decided to take ourselves for a little walk through St James' Park, but my knowledge of the geography of that part of town is nonexistent and it turned out that everyone was following me. We ended up somewhere between Marble Arch and Hyde Park Corner, wondering how on earth we'd ended up so far away from where we thought we were going. Still, it wasn't really about the destination. We wanted a walk, and we got one. And now I know what Mayfair looks like. Not my bag. Too fancy.
We walked along the side of Green Park, and sat in a cafe whilst Sam talked about his fondness for pretty much everything attached to Japanese culture. He even practises origami. I admitted to a fundamental hatred of oriental art in all of its guises, but Sam's keenness was infectious enough for me to question why that stuff doesn't float my boat. I think it's to do with precision. For me art is passion, emotion and broad strokes in fiery colours which is almost the antithesis of Japanese art.
We walked across Green Park. All the entrances are now attack-proof with giant yellow metal structures which you have to walk through, or around. One assumes this has something to do with the Queen's 90th birthday rather than a state of terrorist red alert which no one is telling us about.
From Green Park, we passed Buckingham Palace and crossed over into St James' Park, where the birds seem entirely unimpressed by the people walking past. A heron was casually preening itself no more than two meters from the pavement. The pelicans in the park never cease to surprise me. They happily waddle along the pathways after joggers and women pushing prams. Quite what they're expecting I've no idea. I personally forgot to bring my little bag of fish offal.
We ended up walking through Horse Guard's Parade, which is the most touristy thing I've done in years. I thought how bewildered a lot of the tourists there looked. I guess there's nothing to see but a large expanse of gravel and sand. I think tourists very often "do" somewhere without really knowing why they're doing it. I'm not sure we knew why we were there. Probably because it was the fastest route back to Charing Cross. I told Sam I was going to take his photo with one of the guardsmen on their horses in those funny little boxes on Whitehall. He was horrified, but when we got there, the boxes were bare. I thought they were meant to be there at all times? Obviously not.
Friday, 3 June 2016
28 Weeks Later
It's been a busy day, which started with admin, and continued with a fabulous lunch with my old mate Marinella. We met about ten years ago whilst working on 28 Weeks Later. Marinella was the script supervisor and I was working as the acting coach on the film. It was a fun experience. We did countless early mornings and a great number of night shoots so that the film makers could give the illusion that London was entirely empty following a devastating virus which had turned everyone into zombies. We weren't actually allowed to call them zombies. They weren't dead. We had to call them the "infected." I remember one particularly eerie shoot on Shaftesbury Avenue very early one morning. We had permission to "lock off" the streets, so the entire theatre district was ours. The silence was deafening!
We shot another sequence in a pizza restaurant up in Finsbury Park, very early one Sunday morning. The "set" included an upside down car in the middle of the street which had been set up to look as post-apocalyptic as possible. I still remember the passing night busses filled with rather concerned-looking clubbers who were looking at the wreckage and plainly thinking they'd either taken too many drugs or that the end of the world had come whilst they were busy dancing!
Marinella and I used to sing a great deal. We'd sing to anyone who'd listen or wanted to join in. Our speciality was 1980s power ballads.
We remained close for many years after the film finished shooting. I even walked her down the aisle when she got married to Pete (on the same day as Eurovision!) In the last few years we've been terrible at keeping touch, which is useless. She came to our recent Eurovision party and we made a pact to see each other far more regularly again. Hence today...
We had lunch in a vegetarian cafe in Camden. It's impossible for a vegetarian to work out what to eat in a vegetarian restaurant! I get so used to scouring a menu for the single green "v" which pretty much tells me what I have to eat. When everything on the menu is up for grabs, a vegetarian will often go into meltdown, as I proved at lunchtime. I don't know how meat eaters cope! In the end, after much panicking, I opted for a mushroom and ale pie, and it was proper lush. Note to self: learn how to make puff pastry and eat more mushroom and ale pies.
We concluded our get together in the coffee shop next door and then I legged it into central London for a catch up with my mate James who knows everything there is to know about British musical theatre and is a great person to chat to about plans and schemes and opportunities. He is positive and enthusiastic and always makes me feel like the tiny band of us who are trying to make careers in musical theatre aren't deluded or invisible. Everyone needs a James in their world!
I came back home, (via the gym) applied for a number of "opportunities" and watched several episodes of Steve Backshall's "Fierce" which features a complete nutter repeatedly putting his life at risk for the enjoyment of ITV viewers. Who knew hippos were so astoundingly volatile? And put that freakin' scorpion down, Steve!
We shot another sequence in a pizza restaurant up in Finsbury Park, very early one Sunday morning. The "set" included an upside down car in the middle of the street which had been set up to look as post-apocalyptic as possible. I still remember the passing night busses filled with rather concerned-looking clubbers who were looking at the wreckage and plainly thinking they'd either taken too many drugs or that the end of the world had come whilst they were busy dancing!
Marinella and I used to sing a great deal. We'd sing to anyone who'd listen or wanted to join in. Our speciality was 1980s power ballads.
We remained close for many years after the film finished shooting. I even walked her down the aisle when she got married to Pete (on the same day as Eurovision!) In the last few years we've been terrible at keeping touch, which is useless. She came to our recent Eurovision party and we made a pact to see each other far more regularly again. Hence today...
We had lunch in a vegetarian cafe in Camden. It's impossible for a vegetarian to work out what to eat in a vegetarian restaurant! I get so used to scouring a menu for the single green "v" which pretty much tells me what I have to eat. When everything on the menu is up for grabs, a vegetarian will often go into meltdown, as I proved at lunchtime. I don't know how meat eaters cope! In the end, after much panicking, I opted for a mushroom and ale pie, and it was proper lush. Note to self: learn how to make puff pastry and eat more mushroom and ale pies.
We concluded our get together in the coffee shop next door and then I legged it into central London for a catch up with my mate James who knows everything there is to know about British musical theatre and is a great person to chat to about plans and schemes and opportunities. He is positive and enthusiastic and always makes me feel like the tiny band of us who are trying to make careers in musical theatre aren't deluded or invisible. Everyone needs a James in their world!
I came back home, (via the gym) applied for a number of "opportunities" and watched several episodes of Steve Backshall's "Fierce" which features a complete nutter repeatedly putting his life at risk for the enjoyment of ITV viewers. Who knew hippos were so astoundingly volatile? And put that freakin' scorpion down, Steve!
Wednesday, 1 June 2016
Writers' block
I've had a bit of a depressing and nondescript day. The weather's been rubbish, and I came back to earth in London after the joys of Northamptonshire with a bit of a hefty bump. I need to find a job and I've got a bit of writers' block. If I'm honest, I still feel I'm mopping up after the experience of Beyond the Fence, which genuinely knocked the stuffing out of me. Nathan was very kind and supportive this evening and spent a couple of hours at the piano with me working through the two songs I've written for my new musical. He's incredibly good at steering and shaping the inherent drama of a song. Some people have funny bones. Nathan's bones are made of little cells of musical theatre. As a result of our session, I feel more focussed and confident about what I'm doing. I certainly have a clearer idea about where the music needs to go and the flaws in the lyrics I've written. I still need to find a job, though. That doesn't change.
I don't really know what else happened today. I went to osteopathy and had my last session with my present student osteopath who graduates next week. My back felt like something I made out of balsa wood in technology when I was twelve in 1986. I came home, cancelled a Skype interview with someone who wanted to talk to me about a project which I plainly wasn't right for, and then met young Harrison from the cast of Brass who is randomly rehearsing a play at Jackson's Lane at the moment. He drank coke. I drank tea. Nathan drank some kind of bizarre a fizzy drink with a straw. I bet it was gipping.
We had beans on toast for lunch. God this is dull. And then went to the gym. Boring. Then to Sainsbury's. Living the dream. I pushed the boat out and bought myself a jelly for pudding. Could life get any better? Yes, it could, because I ate the jelly with my tea in front of the TV whilst Nathan knitted a cowl. Rock. 'n. Roll!
I don't really know what else happened today. I went to osteopathy and had my last session with my present student osteopath who graduates next week. My back felt like something I made out of balsa wood in technology when I was twelve in 1986. I came home, cancelled a Skype interview with someone who wanted to talk to me about a project which I plainly wasn't right for, and then met young Harrison from the cast of Brass who is randomly rehearsing a play at Jackson's Lane at the moment. He drank coke. I drank tea. Nathan drank some kind of bizarre a fizzy drink with a straw. I bet it was gipping.
We had beans on toast for lunch. God this is dull. And then went to the gym. Boring. Then to Sainsbury's. Living the dream. I pushed the boat out and bought myself a jelly for pudding. Could life get any better? Yes, it could, because I ate the jelly with my tea in front of the TV whilst Nathan knitted a cowl. Rock. 'n. Roll!
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