I have a tendency to not sleep very well in hotels. It's 3.30am, and my head is full of little stubs of conversation and snippets of music from the day. I'm dosed up to the nines with cold and 'flu medicine, which must have been full of caffeine, because, I feel a little hot and buzzy!
I'm presently in Lancashire. At least I think I'm in Lancashire. I'm in a place called St Helens, if that helps with the identification process, or at least I would be if I weren't in a Travelodge in some desperate trading estate on the fringes of the town.
I'm here because I'm talking to a group of students in a local university tomorrow. For much of the rest of the day, however, I was in Northamptonshire.
Our mini-odyssey stared with a car journey to a little West Northamptonshire village called Badby. It's a village which creeks with memories from my childhood. My school year stayed in a (now-closed) Youth Hostel there in the early 1980s. It was my first experience of being away from home, and it was hugely formative. We went bat watching and badger watching, and, a year or so later, my Dad and I returned to the village on a more official badger watch, which was quite extraordinary. I seem to remember seeing huge numbers of the beautiful creatures streaming out of a sett on a sandy hillside. It was one of the most exciting moments of my life up to that point.
Anyway, I was in Badby attempting to find the source of the River Nene. As with all rivers, there are a million sources, none of which are that exciting to look at, and most of which are in farmers' fields or down dangerously steep banks. Well that was our experience today in any case!
We did a fair amount of trespassing, but managed to find a few rather charming spots, including a genuine spring, where fresh water seemed to burst out of the ground. The surrealness of this particular location was aided by a pair of cockerels - one with a ludicrously high and ineffectual cock-a-doodle and the other with a low, somewhat meaty call. Neither would shut up and they seemed to take it in turns to screech. The weather was stunning. Crisp and autumnal. And, as the sun set, it created golden paths across the ridges in the fields and painted a pair of rainbow-like coronas in the sky. Rather magical.
I was at the source of the Nene because the good folk at Northamptonshire music school have commissioned me to write a major new work about this particular river. And before anyone asks how to pronounce its name, it's Nene to rhyme with Ben. This Neen business that they go in for in Cambridgeshire, and the Eastern reaches of the river, royally irritates me!
I pretty much grew up on the Nene. It ran through Higham Ferrers, and we must have walked down by the river most Sundays in my childhood. There couldn't be a project about a river which would excite me more, and I'm thrilled to report that the work will receive its premiere at the Albert Hall.
The wait for employment was worth it!
...And just like busses, premieres come in larger numbers, because this evening, the Northamptonshire Youth Choir performed a four-part choral version of I Miss The Music from Brass at the Derngate Theatre and, in doing so, created a really very beautiful moment, which I shall remember for some time. The choir sings exquisitely, from memory, in a very classical style, which suits that particular song. They performed with piano and euphonium at a much slower pace than the show version. This new tempo gave the piece a stillness which I found hugely moving. They also added an element of theatre, which was incredibly simple, but highly effective. The women appeared wearing large poppies and decorated the male singers with flowers throughout the song, almost as though they were pinning medals on their chests. It somehow felt like the poppies were representing the deaths of the Leeds Pals, as one by one they were decorated in this manner.
The song ended and there was absolute silence in the audience. Total silence, for maybe five to ten seconds. It was unnerving and yet curiously beautiful. It felt like the audience was simply taking a moment to digest what they'd just experienced... almost as though applause might cheapen the moment. When the applause started, it didn't seem to want to end. It just carried on and on. Respectful, dignified applause.
The rest of the concert was brilliant. These November "Youth in Music" concerts at the Derngate have been happening for years. I used to play in them when I was a teenager. In fact, Brother Edward and I were founder members of the Northamptonshire Youth Choir and our first gig was at one such concert, all of which are there to promote the work of the senior county youth music ensembles. Northamptonshire remains at the forefront of youth music in the UK, and tonight's concert reminded me why. The quality of those young musicians is really quite remarkable. It's an amazing organisation, one which I feel deeply proud to be associated with.
At the end of the concert, Nathan and I went up to the upper circle to meet the choir, who were deeply charming and seemed really rather excited to meet me, telling me how much they'd enjoyed singing the song. It was such a lovely moment.
Hell, it's been a lovely day all round, and I reckon I was due one of those! Now all I need to do is lose this stinking cold and fall asleep!
Monday, 14 November 2016
Saturday, 12 November 2016
Walnut the whippet
The rain this morning would have kept anyone in bed. A murky, grimy, rather sick light ineffectually crept its way through the bedroom window this morning, informing everyone who was contemplating starting their day that there wouldn't be much coming from nature to get them excited. I spent the morning writing music underneath a duvet.
I read a really charming story this afternoon about a dog owner who was being forced to have his beloved 18-year old whippet, Walnut, put down. He made an emotional appeal on social media asking people to join him, and the dog, for one final walk along a Devon beach. The appeal went viral, and hundreds of fellow dog walkers joined them. I'm not quite sure why the story moved me so much, it's a bit of a nonsense that newspapers make a big deal about these acts of kindness, yet regularly condemn so many human beings for the choices they make, but, right now, I'll take any story which makes me believe there's hope for the future.
I came to see Brother Edward and Sascha this afternoon and we walked around a rainy Canary Wharf following a remembrance trail which consisted of a series of seven thought-provoking pieces of public art, which commemorate fallen soldiers with the symbol of the poppy. By far the most powerful was in the little plaza outside the new Cross Rail station, which features a series of about 100 metal poles, each of which is marked with the name of a 20th Century battle. On the top of each of the poles sits a helmet - a genuine helmet - from the battle written on the pole. Some are bashed-up and rusting into little shards. I was so moved to see the helmet from the Battle of the Somme, which was really just a little husk of disintegrated metal, obviously dug up from the ground.
We went back to Edward and Sascha's house, ate lasagne and watched all the reality shows. For the record, off of the X Factor cohort, I have always supported Saara Aalto (who has too many a's in her name, but is a highly-talented vocalist) and that bloke called Matt, who I think is a little star with a massive career ahead of him. When it comes to Strictly, I like Louise, Ore and Danny Mac. My Mum says she used to wear Danny Macs in the 1960s. They're a type of coat.
I read a really charming story this afternoon about a dog owner who was being forced to have his beloved 18-year old whippet, Walnut, put down. He made an emotional appeal on social media asking people to join him, and the dog, for one final walk along a Devon beach. The appeal went viral, and hundreds of fellow dog walkers joined them. I'm not quite sure why the story moved me so much, it's a bit of a nonsense that newspapers make a big deal about these acts of kindness, yet regularly condemn so many human beings for the choices they make, but, right now, I'll take any story which makes me believe there's hope for the future.
I came to see Brother Edward and Sascha this afternoon and we walked around a rainy Canary Wharf following a remembrance trail which consisted of a series of seven thought-provoking pieces of public art, which commemorate fallen soldiers with the symbol of the poppy. By far the most powerful was in the little plaza outside the new Cross Rail station, which features a series of about 100 metal poles, each of which is marked with the name of a 20th Century battle. On the top of each of the poles sits a helmet - a genuine helmet - from the battle written on the pole. Some are bashed-up and rusting into little shards. I was so moved to see the helmet from the Battle of the Somme, which was really just a little husk of disintegrated metal, obviously dug up from the ground.
We went back to Edward and Sascha's house, ate lasagne and watched all the reality shows. For the record, off of the X Factor cohort, I have always supported Saara Aalto (who has too many a's in her name, but is a highly-talented vocalist) and that bloke called Matt, who I think is a little star with a massive career ahead of him. When it comes to Strictly, I like Louise, Ore and Danny Mac. My Mum says she used to wear Danny Macs in the 1960s. They're a type of coat.
War memorials and butterflies
I slept in late this morning. I have some kind of cold developing nicely in my lungs, and thought I'd give it a chance to bed itself in!
Fortunately, at 10.30am, Nathan reminded me that it was the 11th November, so I instantly dragged him out of the house, and we jumped in our car with the idea of driving to the war memorial opposite Jack Straw's Castle on the Heath.
Sadly, we got snarled up in traffic along Spaniards Lane, and hadn't yet found a parking space at three minutes to the big moment. Nathan suggested I jump out of the car and leg it to the war memorial, and I made it, just as the young trumpeter from Highgate School was limbering up for the Last Post. At the same time, the police stopped all the traffic, leaving Nathan, behind the wheel of the car, trying his best to do silent contemplation in stationery traffic. The young lad played well. He was obviously a little nervous because his trumpet sounded a little like someone playing tracing paper over a comb, but he didn't crack any notes and God knows, it's a tough gig.
There were a surprisingly large number of people at the memorial. The crowd included several police superintendents, a couple of Jewish people in kippahs, a few local workmen, a rather decrepit-looking Henry Kelly, some sort of mayor, and a smattering of small children from a local school. There's always a smattering of local school children. A man of the cloth, in some sort of military uniform resplendent with medals, did some prayers into a microphone, which forced me to temporarily and politely turn my back. I pretended to stare out across North London and no one seemed to be too put out at my blasphemous behaviour. If someone had said something I might have been obliged to point out that God himself had turned his back on millions of soldiers, systematically, over the course of countless conflicts. I have no idea how religious people justify that nonsense.
During the two minutes of silence, I thought about the Leeds Pals, the Barnbow Lassies and the wonderful cast of Brass. I then hoped for some stability in the world after the double tragedy of Brexit and Trump. My Dad thinks a new world order is on its way, which could well be a positive one. I hope so.
As the trumpeter played some kind of reveille to signify the end of the two minutes silence, a butterfly flitted its way in circles around the memorial. Those who know Brass well will know that the white butterfly is a recurring motif in the show. Whenever I've visited the site of the trenches in France, I've been astonished by the number of butterflies which all seem to gravitate towards where No Man's Land once was. I've subsequently held the somewhat romantic belief that butterflies somehow represent the souls of the men who were killed. It therefore felt rather special to have a butterfly join us today. In November! I hope he or she has found somewhere warm to hibernate!
We had a lovely walk across the Heath afterwards; down past the tree with the hole in it and around the edge of the Vale of Health, before heading back to Highgate for lunch in the greasy spoon, where the man on the next door table was on the phone. I don't know who he was speaking to, but they'd obviously just asked him for his name, "yes" he said, "it's Robert... and I'm going to spell my surname: F.A.R.T.O.N." I genuinely didn't know where to look.
Fortunately, at 10.30am, Nathan reminded me that it was the 11th November, so I instantly dragged him out of the house, and we jumped in our car with the idea of driving to the war memorial opposite Jack Straw's Castle on the Heath.
Sadly, we got snarled up in traffic along Spaniards Lane, and hadn't yet found a parking space at three minutes to the big moment. Nathan suggested I jump out of the car and leg it to the war memorial, and I made it, just as the young trumpeter from Highgate School was limbering up for the Last Post. At the same time, the police stopped all the traffic, leaving Nathan, behind the wheel of the car, trying his best to do silent contemplation in stationery traffic. The young lad played well. He was obviously a little nervous because his trumpet sounded a little like someone playing tracing paper over a comb, but he didn't crack any notes and God knows, it's a tough gig.
There were a surprisingly large number of people at the memorial. The crowd included several police superintendents, a couple of Jewish people in kippahs, a few local workmen, a rather decrepit-looking Henry Kelly, some sort of mayor, and a smattering of small children from a local school. There's always a smattering of local school children. A man of the cloth, in some sort of military uniform resplendent with medals, did some prayers into a microphone, which forced me to temporarily and politely turn my back. I pretended to stare out across North London and no one seemed to be too put out at my blasphemous behaviour. If someone had said something I might have been obliged to point out that God himself had turned his back on millions of soldiers, systematically, over the course of countless conflicts. I have no idea how religious people justify that nonsense.
During the two minutes of silence, I thought about the Leeds Pals, the Barnbow Lassies and the wonderful cast of Brass. I then hoped for some stability in the world after the double tragedy of Brexit and Trump. My Dad thinks a new world order is on its way, which could well be a positive one. I hope so.
As the trumpeter played some kind of reveille to signify the end of the two minutes silence, a butterfly flitted its way in circles around the memorial. Those who know Brass well will know that the white butterfly is a recurring motif in the show. Whenever I've visited the site of the trenches in France, I've been astonished by the number of butterflies which all seem to gravitate towards where No Man's Land once was. I've subsequently held the somewhat romantic belief that butterflies somehow represent the souls of the men who were killed. It therefore felt rather special to have a butterfly join us today. In November! I hope he or she has found somewhere warm to hibernate!
We had a lovely walk across the Heath afterwards; down past the tree with the hole in it and around the edge of the Vale of Health, before heading back to Highgate for lunch in the greasy spoon, where the man on the next door table was on the phone. I don't know who he was speaking to, but they'd obviously just asked him for his name, "yes" he said, "it's Robert... and I'm going to spell my surname: F.A.R.T.O.N." I genuinely didn't know where to look.
Thursday, 10 November 2016
Euston
I found myself entering Euston station today at 6.12pm. The situation I walked into can only be described as one bomb threat short of pandemonium. More and more people were blithely heading down the escalators from the main station into the tube, but hundreds more were being held down in the ticket hall to prevent the tube platforms from becoming dangerously swamped. A massive crush of people therefore started forming against the ticket barriers. It was all a little worrying, not least because I'm pretty sure it's something which happens at the same time every night. If someone had whipped out a machete, there would have been a stampede.
I had that awful feeling this morning when you realise you don't have a great many reasons to get out of bed. It's a sensation which doesn't often engulf me and I know I just need a day or so to dust myself down and start moving forward again. I've had bigger set backs and more will come. As Nathan said, as we got into bed last night, there's seven people who were on a tram in Croydon this morning who are never coming home. Terrible. And texts from Llio this afternoon continued to put my first world problems into context.
Later on, I bumped into one of my neighbours in the local shop, who told me that his entire internal organs were messed up to the extent that he can't control when he vomits, so has to carry plastic bags around with him in case he has an incident. Classic overshare, but yet another reason to be cheerful...
I was cheered up enormously by going to see Jack Reitman performing at the first showcase by this year's cohort at the Royal Academy of Music's musical theatre course. They were performing an evening of music from American shows, and the whole thing started with a rendition of the Stars and Stripes, which I'm surprised nobody booed after yesterday's insanity.
There were about thirty in the year group and they tackled some incredibly complicated harmonies with great panache. I was rather pleased to see that the majority of arrangements had been done by two of the trainee musical directors who are learning their craft at the Academy. There was quite a lot of material, all arranged for a fairly sizeable band, and being thrown into the deep end like that is a really good way to learn your craft.
It was a hugely enjoyable night, although I would say that the year group as a whole tended towards having rather bad posture which is something they'll really need to look into if they're going to be successful in the industry. Posture is so important for performers. Some of them had such odd postures that I feel sure the way they were standing was affecting the vocal choices they were able to make. They need to learn to bring choreography into their bodies and give it back to the audience with seven times the energy. But they're right at the beginning of their training, and all that will come. I was hugely proud to see Jack on stage doing his thing, singing so beautifully and looking so handsome.
I had that awful feeling this morning when you realise you don't have a great many reasons to get out of bed. It's a sensation which doesn't often engulf me and I know I just need a day or so to dust myself down and start moving forward again. I've had bigger set backs and more will come. As Nathan said, as we got into bed last night, there's seven people who were on a tram in Croydon this morning who are never coming home. Terrible. And texts from Llio this afternoon continued to put my first world problems into context.
Later on, I bumped into one of my neighbours in the local shop, who told me that his entire internal organs were messed up to the extent that he can't control when he vomits, so has to carry plastic bags around with him in case he has an incident. Classic overshare, but yet another reason to be cheerful...
I was cheered up enormously by going to see Jack Reitman performing at the first showcase by this year's cohort at the Royal Academy of Music's musical theatre course. They were performing an evening of music from American shows, and the whole thing started with a rendition of the Stars and Stripes, which I'm surprised nobody booed after yesterday's insanity.
There were about thirty in the year group and they tackled some incredibly complicated harmonies with great panache. I was rather pleased to see that the majority of arrangements had been done by two of the trainee musical directors who are learning their craft at the Academy. There was quite a lot of material, all arranged for a fairly sizeable band, and being thrown into the deep end like that is a really good way to learn your craft.
It was a hugely enjoyable night, although I would say that the year group as a whole tended towards having rather bad posture which is something they'll really need to look into if they're going to be successful in the industry. Posture is so important for performers. Some of them had such odd postures that I feel sure the way they were standing was affecting the vocal choices they were able to make. They need to learn to bring choreography into their bodies and give it back to the audience with seven times the energy. But they're right at the beginning of their training, and all that will come. I was hugely proud to see Jack on stage doing his thing, singing so beautifully and looking so handsome.
Wednesday, 9 November 2016
Hell day
I woke up this morning to "the" news. I wasn't at all surprised. If Brexit taught me nothing else, it was that people feel disenfranchised and angry, and are desperate to punish the establishment, even if that means cutting off their own noses to spite their faces.
Trump makes me feel sick. I can't look at him without feeling a rush of anger. Those prissy little hand gestures, the hair like candy floss and lips like tangerine segments make me wish his mother and father had never decided to have sex, but I'm afraid we, the Brits, have to take a degree of responsibility for what has happened Stateside. The shock of Brexit formed the foundations of Trump's campaign. If the Brits could overthrow the political elite, then so could America. Trump, as a result, talked about Brexit endlessly: "It'll be Brexit times ten," he promised in a typically American grandiose style.
I can't really watch the news. The BBC continues with its ridiculous desire to report everything without bias, so we were subjected to a series of jaunty packages, with upbeat music, featuring shots of ludicrous Republicans gurning like imbeciles, and a redneck, toothless tit, flushed with excitement screaming, "we gotta get back to the values of the United States: God, faith and country." Whatever that means. Personally I think God and faith are the same thing in this context, but what do I know? I had to watch the same package three times today, despite the fact that, in Croydon, there's been a terrible tram accident which has killed five people. This hugely important story was relegated to the "let's take a quick look at the other news" segment.
Frankly, the Trump news could have been covered in a few sentences: "unsurprisingly the Americans have monumentally cocked up, and brought a mentally unstable, misogynistic psychopath into the White House. Here's some somber music to listen to whilst we all consider the end of LGBT and immigrant rights, and worry about what this will mean for the stability of the world."
My American friends seem to be in shock. A spool through Facebook felt like reading some kind of book of condolence to the extent that I don't think there's anything else I can say about the situation that you won't have read a million times on your own timelines. I suppose there are but two consolations. Firstly, that insanity is not simply a bi-product of being British, and secondly that Trump is an English word for fart.
It's been a horrible day all round. I found out this afternoon that I haven't been given Arts Council funding for the recording of Em, which is utterly destabilising. I knew I was in trouble last week when I realised I'd started assuming the project was going to happen. Hope is not something which goes hand-in-hand with British musical theatre and I'm close to proving what I always felt was the case, namely that it's nigh on impossible to carve out an existence as a musical theatre writer in the UK.
Bleak, bleak, bleak.
I was cheered up immensely this evening by a meeting with the lovely Clare Chandler, who runs the musical theatre course at Edge Hill university. We periodically hook up in a cafe at Euston station to chew the fat (is that a phase?) and talk about musical theatre. It is always a privilege to talk to someone with so much genuine passion for the art form. One of the big hurdles that we have to overcome in the UK is our general apathy towards the genre. So often British musical theatre is reviewed by theatre specialists who are prejudiced against the art form. They value the stuff which musicals are incapable providing them with, and baulk at the very concept of someone expressing their feelings by bursting into song. This is just some of the nonsense we need to work through if British musical theatre is to rise from the ashes again.
Trump makes me feel sick. I can't look at him without feeling a rush of anger. Those prissy little hand gestures, the hair like candy floss and lips like tangerine segments make me wish his mother and father had never decided to have sex, but I'm afraid we, the Brits, have to take a degree of responsibility for what has happened Stateside. The shock of Brexit formed the foundations of Trump's campaign. If the Brits could overthrow the political elite, then so could America. Trump, as a result, talked about Brexit endlessly: "It'll be Brexit times ten," he promised in a typically American grandiose style.
I can't really watch the news. The BBC continues with its ridiculous desire to report everything without bias, so we were subjected to a series of jaunty packages, with upbeat music, featuring shots of ludicrous Republicans gurning like imbeciles, and a redneck, toothless tit, flushed with excitement screaming, "we gotta get back to the values of the United States: God, faith and country." Whatever that means. Personally I think God and faith are the same thing in this context, but what do I know? I had to watch the same package three times today, despite the fact that, in Croydon, there's been a terrible tram accident which has killed five people. This hugely important story was relegated to the "let's take a quick look at the other news" segment.
Frankly, the Trump news could have been covered in a few sentences: "unsurprisingly the Americans have monumentally cocked up, and brought a mentally unstable, misogynistic psychopath into the White House. Here's some somber music to listen to whilst we all consider the end of LGBT and immigrant rights, and worry about what this will mean for the stability of the world."
My American friends seem to be in shock. A spool through Facebook felt like reading some kind of book of condolence to the extent that I don't think there's anything else I can say about the situation that you won't have read a million times on your own timelines. I suppose there are but two consolations. Firstly, that insanity is not simply a bi-product of being British, and secondly that Trump is an English word for fart.
It's been a horrible day all round. I found out this afternoon that I haven't been given Arts Council funding for the recording of Em, which is utterly destabilising. I knew I was in trouble last week when I realised I'd started assuming the project was going to happen. Hope is not something which goes hand-in-hand with British musical theatre and I'm close to proving what I always felt was the case, namely that it's nigh on impossible to carve out an existence as a musical theatre writer in the UK.
Bleak, bleak, bleak.
I was cheered up immensely this evening by a meeting with the lovely Clare Chandler, who runs the musical theatre course at Edge Hill university. We periodically hook up in a cafe at Euston station to chew the fat (is that a phase?) and talk about musical theatre. It is always a privilege to talk to someone with so much genuine passion for the art form. One of the big hurdles that we have to overcome in the UK is our general apathy towards the genre. So often British musical theatre is reviewed by theatre specialists who are prejudiced against the art form. They value the stuff which musicals are incapable providing them with, and baulk at the very concept of someone expressing their feelings by bursting into song. This is just some of the nonsense we need to work through if British musical theatre is to rise from the ashes again.
Tuesday, 8 November 2016
I suggest you keep your children in doors
I'm currently walking around the perimeter of Hampstead Heath, where an incredibly charming chap has been photographing me as part of a post-Brexit-this-is-the-UK-now sort of project. He confesses that he's still not found a great many people to photograph with, how should we put this sensitively, less Europhile tendencies, prompting me to further wonder how I too can have spent my entire life only rubbing shoulders with 48% of the population. To my knowledge, only nine people I know actually voted Brexit, including my aunt and uncle, who are almost eighty. We sat with Philip last night discussing the same topic. All I can think is that I live a very sheltered life, or that a lot of my friends are keeping what happened in the voting booth a secret to avoid confrontation! You don't get many people actually saying how proud they are to have voted Brexit. When the country goes down the drain, I'm sure many of them will swear they voted a different way! It's like all the people who say they were in the Olympic stadium on Super Saturday.
Anyway, for the photograph, I suggested we went down to the tree with the hole in it, which is basically my favourite of favourite places on the Heath. When we arrived, we could hear children shrieking and my heart slightly sank. The kids, who were maybe 6 or 8-year olds, were obviously part of a school group who'd come to the Heath for a bit of a run around in nature. They were sitting on a branch about fifty yards away, so I climbed inside the tree, and the photographer started lining up a shot.
I'm sure it won't be a surprise to learn that, within twenty seconds, one of the adults with the children came scurrying over. She looked at us as though we were a pair of criminals: "Can I ask who you are and why you're here..." Because I was hiding in the shadows of the tree, Jack, the photographer, spoke. She'd plainly made him feel the need to justify his existence, "this is my friend, and we're simply here to take some photographs." The woman smiled wryly, "ah, you ARE taking photographs. Well, I'm afraid for the safety of the children, I'm obliged to ask you to stop." "But the children are behind me, and I'm only planning to take photos of my friend, and this tree." Said Jack. Rather too politely for my liking. The woman was having none of it, "if I could ask you to take photographs elsewhere. Perhaps you can come back when we've finished?" She smiled, a little passive aggressively, a little embarrassed, like she'd just sharted. It was at this point that my angry face emerged from the tree: "This is a public space and we are entitled to be anywhere we choose and take photographs wherever we want. We've said we're not photographing the children and if you see us turning the lens on the children, I give you permission to come to us and ask (politely) if we'd mind stopping. You have chosen to bring these children into a public open space. Their safety is none of our concern. They're not in a designated play area. If we'd wandered into your school, you would have every right to ask us who we are and what we're doing, but as that's not the case, and I think we're simply going to carry on. Thank you." I probably wasn't quite that eloquent. I was too shocked. I do remember smiling sweetly like one of those people you get in HR departments, whom you want to throttle whilst screaming, "just because you're smiling, it doesn't mean you're saying something palatable!!"
I am intrigued to know when we're going to get over the paranoia we routinely feel regarding children, photography and men. I get it. I know all the arguments. I know all the reasons why children need to be protected in schools. I understand that some children are at risk and that men are more likely to be sex offenders, but let's look at the statistics before we start treating total strangers, who are trying to enjoy a day at their favourite open space, like criminals. We've reached an absolute impasse if we continue to view all men without children in public spaces with suspicion. What next? Lone men are banned from entering parks? It is brutally unhealthy for a man to need to spend all his time avoiding so much as glancing at a child. I have no idea how male teachers, youth workers, nannies, doctors and social workers actually cope. We are dangerously close to living in a world where men are only attentive to their own children, and vast swathes of children grow up without male role models or feeling that men are always aloof and over-formal with them.
Obviously, I don't care. I don't have children and, with the exception of my godchildren, a few relatives and the friends of a couple of mates, I don't much like kids. I'm more than happy to ignore them when they come over for a chat. But as long as children are inquisitive, and not inherently frightened of men, we need to find a way through this ludicrous maze. In my view, if you don't want your child to stumble into the background of one of my photographs (in the process totally wrecking the shot) then keep him or her on a lead.
Anyway, for the photograph, I suggested we went down to the tree with the hole in it, which is basically my favourite of favourite places on the Heath. When we arrived, we could hear children shrieking and my heart slightly sank. The kids, who were maybe 6 or 8-year olds, were obviously part of a school group who'd come to the Heath for a bit of a run around in nature. They were sitting on a branch about fifty yards away, so I climbed inside the tree, and the photographer started lining up a shot.
I'm sure it won't be a surprise to learn that, within twenty seconds, one of the adults with the children came scurrying over. She looked at us as though we were a pair of criminals: "Can I ask who you are and why you're here..." Because I was hiding in the shadows of the tree, Jack, the photographer, spoke. She'd plainly made him feel the need to justify his existence, "this is my friend, and we're simply here to take some photographs." The woman smiled wryly, "ah, you ARE taking photographs. Well, I'm afraid for the safety of the children, I'm obliged to ask you to stop." "But the children are behind me, and I'm only planning to take photos of my friend, and this tree." Said Jack. Rather too politely for my liking. The woman was having none of it, "if I could ask you to take photographs elsewhere. Perhaps you can come back when we've finished?" She smiled, a little passive aggressively, a little embarrassed, like she'd just sharted. It was at this point that my angry face emerged from the tree: "This is a public space and we are entitled to be anywhere we choose and take photographs wherever we want. We've said we're not photographing the children and if you see us turning the lens on the children, I give you permission to come to us and ask (politely) if we'd mind stopping. You have chosen to bring these children into a public open space. Their safety is none of our concern. They're not in a designated play area. If we'd wandered into your school, you would have every right to ask us who we are and what we're doing, but as that's not the case, and I think we're simply going to carry on. Thank you." I probably wasn't quite that eloquent. I was too shocked. I do remember smiling sweetly like one of those people you get in HR departments, whom you want to throttle whilst screaming, "just because you're smiling, it doesn't mean you're saying something palatable!!"
I am intrigued to know when we're going to get over the paranoia we routinely feel regarding children, photography and men. I get it. I know all the arguments. I know all the reasons why children need to be protected in schools. I understand that some children are at risk and that men are more likely to be sex offenders, but let's look at the statistics before we start treating total strangers, who are trying to enjoy a day at their favourite open space, like criminals. We've reached an absolute impasse if we continue to view all men without children in public spaces with suspicion. What next? Lone men are banned from entering parks? It is brutally unhealthy for a man to need to spend all his time avoiding so much as glancing at a child. I have no idea how male teachers, youth workers, nannies, doctors and social workers actually cope. We are dangerously close to living in a world where men are only attentive to their own children, and vast swathes of children grow up without male role models or feeling that men are always aloof and over-formal with them.
Obviously, I don't care. I don't have children and, with the exception of my godchildren, a few relatives and the friends of a couple of mates, I don't much like kids. I'm more than happy to ignore them when they come over for a chat. But as long as children are inquisitive, and not inherently frightened of men, we need to find a way through this ludicrous maze. In my view, if you don't want your child to stumble into the background of one of my photographs (in the process totally wrecking the shot) then keep him or her on a lead.
Monday, 7 November 2016
Murder Ballads
We're returning from Central London where we've been watching the much-hyped Murder Ballads at the Arts Theatre. I didn't much like being in that particular theatre. It's the first time we've been there since Beyond the Fence, and upon entering, I was instantly bombarded with brutal and deeply painful memories. I'm almost relieved to report that the theatre is being pulled down.
...But enough about that...
Murder Ballads is one of those shows which feels like it's had a marketing campaign which targets the right sort of audience and promotes the type of show that it actually is. It has a ludicrously stellar cast which features some of the coolest, brightest stars in British musical theatre, including Kerry Ellis, Victoria Hamilton-Barritt and Ramin Karimloo. It's a rock show, and the cast are going big on the growling pipes to the extent that they give the impression of dangerously shredded vocal cords! As Philip (who came with us) said afterwards, "have a salt-water gargle, dear."
It was a very classy production. The band is excellent. The set is simple but beautifully appointed. And all the performances are first-rate. The songs serve their purpose with some very interesting harmonic shifts. The choral writing is glorious, with crunchy chords up the wazoo...
The issue I had with the piece was that I genuinely didn't give a shit about the characters on the stage. It was one of those psychological, four-hander musicals like Next To Normal, that occasionally escape their off-Broadway prisons and hit wider audiences. This genre of musical routinely depicts unlikable people doing unlikable things in a world which isn't particularly high stakes. In this sort of piece, no one really cares if an unpleasant person kills an equally unpleasant person - which is basically the thrust of the Murder Ballad narrative - and the audience leave the theatre wondering what they were meant to have experienced.
The cast did a brilliant job of posturing their way around the stage, all too-cool-for-school, in their preposterously high-heeled shoes and leather trousers, but ultimately, though the experience was engulfing and ticked very many boxes, I just feel a bit, well... underwhelmed. Nothing moved me. Very little truly excited me. Hamilton-Barritt and Karimloo are true stars: deeply alluring creatures that you simply can't take your eyes off. But the story was just so... well, dull. Ultimately I don't know why anyone would bother setting that story to music. And there was so much snogging on stage that even that started to wear a bit thin. Yeah, I get it, these two characters have great sex. Now surprise me... please!
...But enough about that...
Murder Ballads is one of those shows which feels like it's had a marketing campaign which targets the right sort of audience and promotes the type of show that it actually is. It has a ludicrously stellar cast which features some of the coolest, brightest stars in British musical theatre, including Kerry Ellis, Victoria Hamilton-Barritt and Ramin Karimloo. It's a rock show, and the cast are going big on the growling pipes to the extent that they give the impression of dangerously shredded vocal cords! As Philip (who came with us) said afterwards, "have a salt-water gargle, dear."
It was a very classy production. The band is excellent. The set is simple but beautifully appointed. And all the performances are first-rate. The songs serve their purpose with some very interesting harmonic shifts. The choral writing is glorious, with crunchy chords up the wazoo...
The issue I had with the piece was that I genuinely didn't give a shit about the characters on the stage. It was one of those psychological, four-hander musicals like Next To Normal, that occasionally escape their off-Broadway prisons and hit wider audiences. This genre of musical routinely depicts unlikable people doing unlikable things in a world which isn't particularly high stakes. In this sort of piece, no one really cares if an unpleasant person kills an equally unpleasant person - which is basically the thrust of the Murder Ballad narrative - and the audience leave the theatre wondering what they were meant to have experienced.
The cast did a brilliant job of posturing their way around the stage, all too-cool-for-school, in their preposterously high-heeled shoes and leather trousers, but ultimately, though the experience was engulfing and ticked very many boxes, I just feel a bit, well... underwhelmed. Nothing moved me. Very little truly excited me. Hamilton-Barritt and Karimloo are true stars: deeply alluring creatures that you simply can't take your eyes off. But the story was just so... well, dull. Ultimately I don't know why anyone would bother setting that story to music. And there was so much snogging on stage that even that started to wear a bit thin. Yeah, I get it, these two characters have great sex. Now surprise me... please!
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