Yesterday was a fairly relaxing day which found us heading into Muswell Hill for lunch. We ate at Jenny's, which is a fabulous anachronism. The place is like a Wimpy from the 1980s. It's very much the sort of place we used to have children's parties at when we were kids. I never got invited because I was vegetarian and could only ever eat chips, a coke float and a knickerbocker glory. The walls of Jenny's are covered in 1980s-style posters. You know the sort: pictures of Piccadilly Circus in black and white with the London busses coloured red. There's also a picture of a gondolier weaving his way through the waterways of Venice. I was staring at it for some time. At first I took the picture at face value, before I started to realise that all the buildings were looking a little shiny and modern. It suddenly dawned on me that I was actually looking at a picture of the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas! Ghastly! I wondered if the owners of the chain had noticed this particular fact or whether they'd bought the giant print because they thought it was actually Venice.
We went to a little coffee shop next door for a pot of tea. The walls informed me that it was the oldest coffee shop in North London, which I felt was a somewhat dubious claim to fame. Surely there are coffee shops north of the river in Central London which are far older? Muswell Hill is an Edwardian neighbourhood. The coffee shop can't be much older than 100 years.
A little old man sat eating an ice cream served in a fancy glass. It slightly broke my heart. I don't know why. You often get people sitting drinking tea and coffee on their own in places like that, but a fancy ice cream is surely something you reserve for occasions when you have companionship? Am I being daft? For some reason the fact that he was eating ice cream alone felt indicative of the fact that he was lonely.
We went down to Islington to Michelle and Ben's wedding party in the evening. They'd got married the day before up in Derbyshire with just family and very close friends and invited the rest of us to a do in London. Ben and Michelle actually met at our wedding. Michelle was in the choir and Ben was conducting and playing piano. Their eyes met over a microphone and the rest, as they say, is history. They made a lovely speech where they explained how they'd met and thanked Nathan and me for bringing them together. To celebrate the way they'd met, they decided to have a six-coloured rainbow cake. A gay cake. A gake!
Speaking of gay cake, or just gay people really, we came home and watched Gareth Thomas' enlightening documentary about homophobia in the world of football. It's such a massive problem. The headline is that there are a number of premiership footballers who are gay but feel utterly unable to come out for a catalogue of reasons including the ghastly behaviour of fans, the reaction they'd get from team mates and a sort of institutionalised homophobia within the governing bodies. Greg Clarke, head of the Football Association, actually refused to do an interview with Thomas and the equalities representative at the PTA was so ill-informed and unprepared for questions that Thomas afterwards said "I don't know whether to laugh or cry."
Monday, 7 August 2017
Sunday, 6 August 2017
exit pursued by bear
I had another birthday party yesterday! I've been excessively greedy this year and, as a result, am growing rather tired of blowing out candles! Yesterday was all about my family. The plan had been to go to Cambridge, yet again, but, yet again, the weather was inclement. As yesterday approached, it became clearer and clearer that the mother of all storms was going to race across the country at lunchtime, and wreck any plans I might have had for punting.
The huge irony was that I'd asked Michael to join us as recompense for the fact that it had slung it down with rain the last time we'd tried to go punting. Michael is an Oxford man, so it's become something of an obsession for me to prove to him that punting in Cambridge is a superior experience.
As we drove up, we were brutally attacked by a thunder storm. Lightning. Bucket loads of rain creating aqua-planing opportunities on the roads. Ghastly driving conditions. I looked at the sky and bid a bitter farewell to the concept of punting.
Cambridge was a wash-out. Chinese tourists were standing, miserably, under every doorway and awning. We met my parents in the Bath House pub where we ate vegetarian fish and chips. My Mum had a child's portion of macaroni cheese. She's lost a phenomenal amount of weight recently, largely by cutting down on the size of her portions and eating what she does have very slowly. It's done the trick, she looks amazing, but I can't help but feel a little sorry for her when I see her tiny little plates of food!
The rain drove my parents back home after we'd eaten. Michael and I decided to stick around and wait for Brother Edward and Sascha to arrive, and had a wander around the shops. At one point we could hear a busker playing the accordion somewhere in the distance. "How come accordion players always sound like they're playing The Lambada?" I asked. As we approached, we realised he WAS playing The Lambada.
Edward called, and we agreed to meet him outside Kings College 15 minutes later. We went into a clothing shop in the meantime, and something rather extraordinary had happened by the time we'd emerged. The sky had suddenly become a beautiful deep blue. The sun was shining and glinting on the rain-soaked roofs and pavements of the market square. There wasn't a cloud in the sky.
Kings Parade was full of tourists, the like of which I've never seen. It might have been a product of them all suddenly emerging, relieved, from underneath awnings to make the most of the sun which, we all assumed was destined to disappear. But there were so many people there. I assumed there'd been a celebrity sighting! The large majority of them were Chinese. Maybe 80%. Brexit is very good for Chinese tourists. They come here because it's cheap, in the same way that we used to go to the Costa Del Sol. It's a delicious finger up to all the tits who voted Brexit to control the number of foreign faces they see on our streets. Raped by the Chinese. Fabulous.
We met Brother Edward and Sascha and, once again, mooted the idea of going punting. There were still no clouds in the sky...
We took a risk, there happened to be one Kings College punt left, and ten minutes later, I was on my hands and knees in said punt, scooping a huge amount of rain water into the Cam. Those boats are like buckets in a storm! We decided to stay on the backs - the stretch of water which runs along the backs of all the colleges - although probably if I'd had my time again, because the weather was so good, I might have suggested we punted all the way to Grantchester.
Initially, the only people on the river were the professional punters, who are contracted to be out on the water come hell or high water. It made for really lovely punting conditions because everyone was obeying the rules of the water, and steering adeptly to avoid collisions. There was a moment where a group of us were thwarted by an amateur who'd managed to steer his boat so badly that it ended up horizontally in the middle of the water, creating a barricade for all who wanted to pass. I decided to steer around him to the left. He looked at me, "just a little tip" he said, patronisingly, "try to stay on the right hand of the river." I laughed openly, "I'm just trying to get around your badly-steered punt."
I punted down to Jesus Green, where the boys bought a bottle of wine, and I opened my birthday presents. Edward punted us back, and then took us beyond Kings and up to Clare College, where Michael took over, bravely punting the more dangerous Cambridge way. The Oxford punters punt from inside the boat rather than on the more perilous back platform. Wilting pansies...
We went to Thaxted in the evening. I cooked a pasta meal and we went on a glorious walk across the fields in the copper evening light. A party was happenings in a house somewhere on the outskirts of the town. They were doing karaoke. Some poor woman attempted Unchained Melody. Her angular voice sailed across the fields, forcing birds to migrate as she attempted the "I need your love" sequence, Righteous Brothers style. At that point, the singing stopped and a man's voice took over. One assumes the original vocalist either ruptured her vocal cords or she was wrestled to the floor by a passing bear. You
The pasta went down a treat and we drove home late, somewhat disrupted by the M11 which was closed. The diversion took us round the Wrekin, and it was 1am by the time I'd got home. I slept like the dead.
The huge irony was that I'd asked Michael to join us as recompense for the fact that it had slung it down with rain the last time we'd tried to go punting. Michael is an Oxford man, so it's become something of an obsession for me to prove to him that punting in Cambridge is a superior experience.
As we drove up, we were brutally attacked by a thunder storm. Lightning. Bucket loads of rain creating aqua-planing opportunities on the roads. Ghastly driving conditions. I looked at the sky and bid a bitter farewell to the concept of punting.
Cambridge was a wash-out. Chinese tourists were standing, miserably, under every doorway and awning. We met my parents in the Bath House pub where we ate vegetarian fish and chips. My Mum had a child's portion of macaroni cheese. She's lost a phenomenal amount of weight recently, largely by cutting down on the size of her portions and eating what she does have very slowly. It's done the trick, she looks amazing, but I can't help but feel a little sorry for her when I see her tiny little plates of food!
The rain drove my parents back home after we'd eaten. Michael and I decided to stick around and wait for Brother Edward and Sascha to arrive, and had a wander around the shops. At one point we could hear a busker playing the accordion somewhere in the distance. "How come accordion players always sound like they're playing The Lambada?" I asked. As we approached, we realised he WAS playing The Lambada.
Edward called, and we agreed to meet him outside Kings College 15 minutes later. We went into a clothing shop in the meantime, and something rather extraordinary had happened by the time we'd emerged. The sky had suddenly become a beautiful deep blue. The sun was shining and glinting on the rain-soaked roofs and pavements of the market square. There wasn't a cloud in the sky.
Kings Parade was full of tourists, the like of which I've never seen. It might have been a product of them all suddenly emerging, relieved, from underneath awnings to make the most of the sun which, we all assumed was destined to disappear. But there were so many people there. I assumed there'd been a celebrity sighting! The large majority of them were Chinese. Maybe 80%. Brexit is very good for Chinese tourists. They come here because it's cheap, in the same way that we used to go to the Costa Del Sol. It's a delicious finger up to all the tits who voted Brexit to control the number of foreign faces they see on our streets. Raped by the Chinese. Fabulous.
We met Brother Edward and Sascha and, once again, mooted the idea of going punting. There were still no clouds in the sky...
We took a risk, there happened to be one Kings College punt left, and ten minutes later, I was on my hands and knees in said punt, scooping a huge amount of rain water into the Cam. Those boats are like buckets in a storm! We decided to stay on the backs - the stretch of water which runs along the backs of all the colleges - although probably if I'd had my time again, because the weather was so good, I might have suggested we punted all the way to Grantchester.
Initially, the only people on the river were the professional punters, who are contracted to be out on the water come hell or high water. It made for really lovely punting conditions because everyone was obeying the rules of the water, and steering adeptly to avoid collisions. There was a moment where a group of us were thwarted by an amateur who'd managed to steer his boat so badly that it ended up horizontally in the middle of the water, creating a barricade for all who wanted to pass. I decided to steer around him to the left. He looked at me, "just a little tip" he said, patronisingly, "try to stay on the right hand of the river." I laughed openly, "I'm just trying to get around your badly-steered punt."
I punted down to Jesus Green, where the boys bought a bottle of wine, and I opened my birthday presents. Edward punted us back, and then took us beyond Kings and up to Clare College, where Michael took over, bravely punting the more dangerous Cambridge way. The Oxford punters punt from inside the boat rather than on the more perilous back platform. Wilting pansies...
We went to Thaxted in the evening. I cooked a pasta meal and we went on a glorious walk across the fields in the copper evening light. A party was happenings in a house somewhere on the outskirts of the town. They were doing karaoke. Some poor woman attempted Unchained Melody. Her angular voice sailed across the fields, forcing birds to migrate as she attempted the "I need your love" sequence, Righteous Brothers style. At that point, the singing stopped and a man's voice took over. One assumes the original vocalist either ruptured her vocal cords or she was wrestled to the floor by a passing bear. You
The pasta went down a treat and we drove home late, somewhat disrupted by the M11 which was closed. The diversion took us round the Wrekin, and it was 1am by the time I'd got home. I slept like the dead.
Saturday, 5 August 2017
Hay fever and the Flask
Yesterday was all about writing string music for Em. I spent much of the afternoon working on a sequence of Irish folk music to accompany the landlady's song. It's perhaps a little cliched to give an old Irish character a shedload of fiddly-diddly, but it feels appropriate in this context. It also serves up a different musical flavour to the show. Musical theatre is fairly unlike any other arts medium in that diversity is key. Musical theatre thrives on pastiche. A musical will often whip through a fair number of different genres. Tango, jazz, Latin, folk... all fair game.
I briefly popped up into Highgate Village in the evening to say hello to our old friend Carey, who is in the country to oversee the new production of his musical adaptation of Flash Dance, which, coincidentally, is being directed by Hannah and choreographed by lovely Matt who were two thirds of the creative team behind Em. The world of musical theatre seems to get smaller by the second.
We drank at The Flask, which is probably one of London's most famous pubs. It's a ancient building. I went on their website earlier to try and find out just how ancient it actually is, but it merely informed me that the pub is "centuries old." It's probably 17th Century. Karl Marx probably drank there. It's that sort of place. It's certainly a quirky old building, filled with all sorts of nooks and crannies where Highgate residents drink real ale and eat slightly fancy gastro-pub cuisine. There are scores of tiny little rooms with wooden panelling and uneven floors, and there's a charming courtyard out front. It is top of the list of drinking establishments for most North Londoners. Not to be mistaken for the Flask in Hampstead, which is nothing like as nice!
My hay fever season has arrived. I don't know what it is about me and the first two weeks of August but there's obviously a pollen which is specific to this time of year. Sometimes I wonder if it's thistle. My birthday (which is in three days time) is often accompanied by the sight of thistle down floating, like snow, through the air.
I briefly popped up into Highgate Village in the evening to say hello to our old friend Carey, who is in the country to oversee the new production of his musical adaptation of Flash Dance, which, coincidentally, is being directed by Hannah and choreographed by lovely Matt who were two thirds of the creative team behind Em. The world of musical theatre seems to get smaller by the second.
We drank at The Flask, which is probably one of London's most famous pubs. It's a ancient building. I went on their website earlier to try and find out just how ancient it actually is, but it merely informed me that the pub is "centuries old." It's probably 17th Century. Karl Marx probably drank there. It's that sort of place. It's certainly a quirky old building, filled with all sorts of nooks and crannies where Highgate residents drink real ale and eat slightly fancy gastro-pub cuisine. There are scores of tiny little rooms with wooden panelling and uneven floors, and there's a charming courtyard out front. It is top of the list of drinking establishments for most North Londoners. Not to be mistaken for the Flask in Hampstead, which is nothing like as nice!
My hay fever season has arrived. I don't know what it is about me and the first two weeks of August but there's obviously a pollen which is specific to this time of year. Sometimes I wonder if it's thistle. My birthday (which is in three days time) is often accompanied by the sight of thistle down floating, like snow, through the air.
Thursday, 3 August 2017
Nadiya Hussain
I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Nathan was out late and I just couldn't settle. I woke up at 8.30am and simply couldn't get myself to lie-in any longer. As a result I've been in something of a haze all day.
I've been orchestrating Em all day, continuing the process of adding string parts to the existing arrangements. It's tiring work. As I mentioned in yesterday's blog, I've told myself I can't write any more than twelve minutes total of string music across the entire album so that everything can be recorded in a single session. It's actually a really interesting process because it makes you question where you REALLY need to place the strings for maximum impact. It's also making me question the need for strings at all in the show. Some of the songs I've written have an inherent emptiness which I rather like. I don't want to fill all that glorious space with over-the-top luscious string goodness!
I've started watching Nadiya Hussain's British Food Adventure on iPlayer. For those who are trying to place the name, Nadiya is the hugely charming Bengali lass who won the sixth season of the Great British Bake Off. She is absolutely brilliant in front of the camera. Natural. Likeable. Knowledgeable. Luminous. Funny. Candid. I'm a real fan. I think she's the perfect role model for young Muslim women.
I went for a beautiful walk across the Heath this evening. There was an impromptu night time picnic on a bench near the tree with the hole in it whilst damsel flies and bats fluttered about in the brown and midnight blue sky. The wind was up and the clouds were moving at high speed. I'm told the jet stream is sitting right on top of us at the moment and causing this highly changeable weather. August always used to be such a dependable month weather wise...
I've been orchestrating Em all day, continuing the process of adding string parts to the existing arrangements. It's tiring work. As I mentioned in yesterday's blog, I've told myself I can't write any more than twelve minutes total of string music across the entire album so that everything can be recorded in a single session. It's actually a really interesting process because it makes you question where you REALLY need to place the strings for maximum impact. It's also making me question the need for strings at all in the show. Some of the songs I've written have an inherent emptiness which I rather like. I don't want to fill all that glorious space with over-the-top luscious string goodness!
I've started watching Nadiya Hussain's British Food Adventure on iPlayer. For those who are trying to place the name, Nadiya is the hugely charming Bengali lass who won the sixth season of the Great British Bake Off. She is absolutely brilliant in front of the camera. Natural. Likeable. Knowledgeable. Luminous. Funny. Candid. I'm a real fan. I think she's the perfect role model for young Muslim women.
I went for a beautiful walk across the Heath this evening. There was an impromptu night time picnic on a bench near the tree with the hole in it whilst damsel flies and bats fluttered about in the brown and midnight blue sky. The wind was up and the clouds were moving at high speed. I'm told the jet stream is sitting right on top of us at the moment and causing this highly changeable weather. August always used to be such a dependable month weather wise...
Wednesday, 2 August 2017
Adrian Mole
I've spent the day today revisiting Em scores and working out which songs to record for the concept album I'm going to be recording in October. The majority of the show is scored for rock band, but I've also scraped together enough money for a single, glorious session with a string quartet. I'll have to be really canny about where to sprinkle them for maximum impact. I've started blocking out the areas where I want them to appear, and I'll do lots of detailed work over the coming weeks and then cut exactly half of what I've written. It's been fairly difficult trying to decide which songs to record. I learnt my lesson with the Brass soundtrack, where I attempted to record way more than I could handle, so, with Em, I've sworn I'll only record 12 songs. Choosing which ones to drop has been nigh on impossible. It's the killing babies thing which all artists dread. Of course I'm not cutting songs from the future show, but a recording like this allows me to breath life into songs, and shape them exactly the way that I want.
I went to the Menier Chocolate Factory tonight to see my good friends Jake and Pippa's musical version of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole. And what a royal treat it was! My only tiny disappointment was that the set designer had opted to cover the walls in pictures of Kim Wilde and Bucks Fizz, when I remember distinctly that Adrian Mole's favourite band was ABBA, which, believe it or not, when the book was written in 1981, was an indication of how square he was!
Anyway, Jake and Pippa delivered a stunning musical. The tunes were highly memorable. The score was rhythmically and tonally restless with every beat of music feeling like it was written to enhance the drama of the piece. This was content dictating form, rather than the other way around, which is what you get with musicals written by pop singers. The words were clever and witty. The script was excellent: a great adaptation of an iconic book which my generation all read as kids. I laughed out loud so many times. I defy anyone not to have a bout of hysterics whilst watching the brilliant Nativity sequence at the end. It was such a treat to see West End royalty on the stage in the form of Gay Soper and Barry James. All performances were wonderful, although this Midlander would have liked more attention to Leicestershire vowels!
The lad playing Adrian Mole was absolutely on the money. Quirky. Charismatic. Gauche. Funny. He carried the show. It was hard to take your eyes off him. As the piece continued I became obsessed with trying to work out who it was that he reminded me of. It finally dawned on me. He was the spitting image of the show's director, Luke Sheppard!
All in all this superb adaptation was a brilliant example of British musical theatre. This is home-grown writing which deserves to be both supported and promoted. Jake and Pippa understand and revere musical theatre and their shows are highly successful and engaging as a result. If you can get a ticket, get yourself down to the Chocolate Factory, and show that you care about the future of our industry. I shall fall asleep humming songs from the show. I salute you Jake and Pippa.
I went to the Menier Chocolate Factory tonight to see my good friends Jake and Pippa's musical version of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole. And what a royal treat it was! My only tiny disappointment was that the set designer had opted to cover the walls in pictures of Kim Wilde and Bucks Fizz, when I remember distinctly that Adrian Mole's favourite band was ABBA, which, believe it or not, when the book was written in 1981, was an indication of how square he was!
Anyway, Jake and Pippa delivered a stunning musical. The tunes were highly memorable. The score was rhythmically and tonally restless with every beat of music feeling like it was written to enhance the drama of the piece. This was content dictating form, rather than the other way around, which is what you get with musicals written by pop singers. The words were clever and witty. The script was excellent: a great adaptation of an iconic book which my generation all read as kids. I laughed out loud so many times. I defy anyone not to have a bout of hysterics whilst watching the brilliant Nativity sequence at the end. It was such a treat to see West End royalty on the stage in the form of Gay Soper and Barry James. All performances were wonderful, although this Midlander would have liked more attention to Leicestershire vowels!
The lad playing Adrian Mole was absolutely on the money. Quirky. Charismatic. Gauche. Funny. He carried the show. It was hard to take your eyes off him. As the piece continued I became obsessed with trying to work out who it was that he reminded me of. It finally dawned on me. He was the spitting image of the show's director, Luke Sheppard!
All in all this superb adaptation was a brilliant example of British musical theatre. This is home-grown writing which deserves to be both supported and promoted. Jake and Pippa understand and revere musical theatre and their shows are highly successful and engaging as a result. If you can get a ticket, get yourself down to the Chocolate Factory, and show that you care about the future of our industry. I shall fall asleep humming songs from the show. I salute you Jake and Pippa.
Crap Lumberjack
I was woken up at 8am this morning by a set of lumberjacks from a company called B and N Tree Care who seemed to be cutting down the evergreen in the next door neighbour's garden where the squirrels live. The noise was like nothing I've heard before. I thought the window must have been open because it sounded like someone was operating heavy machinery above my head. I opened the window and shouted down: "Is there any chance you could do this a little later?" I knew the question would fall on deaf ears. "It's 8am," the lumberjack quipped, arrogance dripping from his ear defenders, "I'm allowed to make as much noise as I like. I have a living to make." I explained that I was trying to sleep. "Should have gone to bed earlier," he said, like a smug, barrow boy Tory.
I loathe it when so-called "morning people" imply that a night owl's lifestyle is somehow lazy. I work in the arts. For my whole life, my working day has started and ended later.
I tried to write, as usual, at the kitchen table, but the sound of rotary saws was so intense that I realised my skin was beginning to crawl. After an hour of constant noise, I spontaneously burst into tears, and realised it was time to take myself to a cafe. Passing through the garden, I stopped to ask the lumberjacks when they were expecting to finish. "Why?" He asked, somewhat aggressively. "Well, it's quite loud and I'm trying to work from home. Actually, it doesn't really matter why I'm asking the question. It's not going to affect the answer!" He told me he didn't know when he was going to finish (he totally did!) then repeated his line about needing to make a living. And I thought, "yes mate. So do I. And as a composer, I can do without a million decibels of white noise bombarding my ears whilst I'm trying to write."
As I walked up the path, two more lumberjacks were pushing a big tree trunk in a wheelbarrow. As they tipped it out, one pointedly and sarcastically said to the other, "careful not to drop the log. Logs are really noisy." He then looked at me like a child who had won a name-calling spat in a playground. I flipped him the bird.
You know what, B and N Tree Care? You may be brilliant at tree care, but your customer service sucks!
I loathe it when so-called "morning people" imply that a night owl's lifestyle is somehow lazy. I work in the arts. For my whole life, my working day has started and ended later.
I tried to write, as usual, at the kitchen table, but the sound of rotary saws was so intense that I realised my skin was beginning to crawl. After an hour of constant noise, I spontaneously burst into tears, and realised it was time to take myself to a cafe. Passing through the garden, I stopped to ask the lumberjacks when they were expecting to finish. "Why?" He asked, somewhat aggressively. "Well, it's quite loud and I'm trying to work from home. Actually, it doesn't really matter why I'm asking the question. It's not going to affect the answer!" He told me he didn't know when he was going to finish (he totally did!) then repeated his line about needing to make a living. And I thought, "yes mate. So do I. And as a composer, I can do without a million decibels of white noise bombarding my ears whilst I'm trying to write."
As I walked up the path, two more lumberjacks were pushing a big tree trunk in a wheelbarrow. As they tipped it out, one pointedly and sarcastically said to the other, "careful not to drop the log. Logs are really noisy." He then looked at me like a child who had won a name-calling spat in a playground. I flipped him the bird.
You know what, B and N Tree Care? You may be brilliant at tree care, but your customer service sucks!
Tuesday, 1 August 2017
Planning that trip
We went to Sam's house in Catford last night to talk through our American road trip in detail. We were looking at all the routes we'd be taking and trying to ascertain whether there was anything to see between our chosen destinations. It's suddenly hugely real, and more than a little bit exciting/ nerve-inducing. We've been planning it for so long that, when we first decided to do it, I'm not sure I could even envisage the person I'd be when the trip finally happened. It's going to be an exhausting adventure, but, by the time we reach New York, I'll have ticked about ten things off my bucket list!
We travelled home on the tube, sitting opposite a group of teenaged girls who were screeching and squawking at each other at a pitch and volume which blended almost perfectly with the teeth-shattering screams of the tube train itself. When they got off at Kings Cross, a silence descended which made almost everyone on the tube sigh with relief. Am I getting old, or are young people getting way less classy these days?!
The rest of the day was spent in a fire pit of admin. I've got quite a lot of stuff which I want to get sorted before I go away. There's the matter of the Nene composition and formatting myriad parts for that. And then there's booking musicians and singers for a recording later in the year.
If any of you enjoyed my musical, Em, and want to hear a wonderful recording of the song, Warwickshire which comes from the piece, you should have a little watch and listen to young Laura Barnard singing it. This is a bit of a cross-pollination of leading ladies, as Laura actually played the lead, Eliza in Brass and wasn't in Em. Ruby, who played the lead in Em, however, was also in Brass. Are you keeping up? So now all I need is to find a film of Ruby singing one of Eliza's songs from Brass!
Anyway, I digress. If you'd like to hear Laura singing Warwickshire, you can do so here:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=O09FkVAwv7A&feature=youtu.be
We travelled home on the tube, sitting opposite a group of teenaged girls who were screeching and squawking at each other at a pitch and volume which blended almost perfectly with the teeth-shattering screams of the tube train itself. When they got off at Kings Cross, a silence descended which made almost everyone on the tube sigh with relief. Am I getting old, or are young people getting way less classy these days?!
The rest of the day was spent in a fire pit of admin. I've got quite a lot of stuff which I want to get sorted before I go away. There's the matter of the Nene composition and formatting myriad parts for that. And then there's booking musicians and singers for a recording later in the year.
If any of you enjoyed my musical, Em, and want to hear a wonderful recording of the song, Warwickshire which comes from the piece, you should have a little watch and listen to young Laura Barnard singing it. This is a bit of a cross-pollination of leading ladies, as Laura actually played the lead, Eliza in Brass and wasn't in Em. Ruby, who played the lead in Em, however, was also in Brass. Are you keeping up? So now all I need is to find a film of Ruby singing one of Eliza's songs from Brass!
Anyway, I digress. If you'd like to hear Laura singing Warwickshire, you can do so here:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=O09FkVAwv7A&feature=youtu.be
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