I took myself to the Squirrel Hill district of Pittsburgh today. It’s a lovely, leafy neighbourhood, high on a hill, where a lot of the Jewish Pittsburghese live. It instantly reminded me of the Haight district in San Francisco. It’s not got the hippy dippy vibe, but the buildings look quite similar and there’s something about the way the local park tumbles into the Main Street which reminded me of Golden Gate Park. It’s much much greener, however. Pittsburgh smells of English summers: freshly mown grass and flowers. It’s full of birds. Cardinals are particularly pretty with their bright red and black feathers, and American robins, which my friend Matt described as “British robins on steroids” are, well, just as Matt describes!
I went to a Judaica shop to buy myself a kippah. When you sing every week in a synagogue, you can never have too many kippot. They keep blowing off my head on the tube! I’d had a shop recommended to me which sold tweedy-looking specimens, so I bought one and had a lovely chat to the lady who owned the place.
I sat down in a fabulous diner called Pamela’s and had an over-sized omelette. It was whilst I ate that I realised the kippah I’d bought was a bit of an optical illusion which made my eyes feel very funny. Fortunately, I will never see it whilst I’m wearing it!
I walked with great trepidation to the Tree of Life Synagogue, which is where eleven people were murdered in October last year in a brutal anti-Semitic attack. It felt important to pay my respects, and I stood, for some time, in the beautiful sunshine, staring at the building whilst trying to comprehend what had happened there. People have showered the place with love. There were little crocheted Stars of David hanging from the fences, coupled with messages of: “I hope you know how loved you are”, “love is always the best choice”, “always hope, always love.”
I walked home to the hotel through the charming Schenley Park, which is something of a leafy wilderness in the heart of this quirky city. A network of large roads pass through the park, many on large iron bridges. And just as in Hampstead Heath’s Vale Of Health, a small community exists within the park. Much of it sits underneath these curious road bridges, so they’re surrounded by green forests, yet, over head, the traffic roars louder than it does over the West Way. It’s a curious contradiction.
I managed to get myself utterly lost at one point, using Sat Nav to get to roads which should have taken me home, only to realise that the roads were in culverts or didn’t have footpaths. Americans don’t seem to like to walk unless it’s part of an organised trek. I ended up in a lorry park, hugely grateful to the trucker who helped me to find the cycle path! It didn’t really bother me. I had nowhere to be. I was simply enjoying the weirdness of it all.
I took myself to Point State Park in the afternoon. This is the spot at which the Allegheny River meets the Monongahela River and becomes the surging Ohio River which actually flows out into the Gulf of Mexico. It’s not the most exciting park in the world. There’s a rather impressive fountain, but nothing there spoke to me like so much else in the city.
I walked back to the hotel along the north side of the river. It was a considerably less lovely option than my charming river walk the day before. I found myself on a grotty cycle path, following the route of a deafening dual carriageway. I must have walked about fifteen miles today. My feet feel like stumps
I’ll leave the saga of this evening to a separate blog because, for now, I must sleep, and I have a plane journey tomorrow which I probably need distraction from! Watch this space...
Wednesday, 22 May 2019
Tuesday, 21 May 2019
Pittsburgh
There was a huge electric storm in the night. It was a little surreal because there didn’t seem to be either any thunder or rain. Temperatures are unseasonably high in New York, so thunder storms are likely.
I was staying at my friend Frank’s apartment, which is down by the Hudson on 42nd Street. He has wall-to-ceiling windows and is on the 16th floor, so the flashes of lightning looked spectacular. Great big, Scooby Doo forks in the sky. The sky itself was crimson and angry. It was hugely dramatic.
Maybe because of the storm, or because I was alone in an apartment I don’t know, I woke up in the night feeling disorientated and a little panicky. I watched a bit of telly to calm myself down. Surely US programmes are considerably shorter than British ones? The adverts seem to occur about every eight minutes. My favourite ads are the ones for medicine where a voice over is legally obliged to list all the adverse things which might happen to someone who takes the product; “may cause dizziness, nausea, drowsiness, manic episodes, heart attacks or death.” You think I’m joking?
I had breakfast in a cheap and cheerful little place just up from Frank’s. It’s the sort of no fuss joint which attracts the local coppers. I had a mushroom and feta omelette, which, as is custom in the US, came with fried potatoes and pieces of pre-buttered toast for me to have with grape jam. It’s always grape jam. I’ve never been offered anything else for breakfast. And it’s always delicious.
My internal flight to Pittsburgh took me to La Guardia airport for the first time. It’s a nasty old place, which feels rather low rent. You get herded like cattle through security and thrown into little standing-only rooms whilst waiting to board. It’s the sort of place where apples get wrapped in individual cloches of cellophane. David Attenborough be dammed! Like our carbon footprints aren’t already large enough just by being in an airport!
Our flight was delayed as a result of some sort of weight restriction problem on the tiny little plane we’d been slung onto. People were offered compensation to the tune of $375 to walk away. Four left, to great rounds of applause from other passengers. It was like The Price Is Right. The whole experience made me very uneasy. There was also a weird hot gale blowing as we boarded and the pilot was completely incomprehensible. He used the word “bumping” instead of “turbulence.” I like my pilots to sound articulate to the point of arrogance.
The flight itself was horrible. The plane buffeted, bounced and banked its way out of New York. I felt like I was in a car being lobbed out of a giant catapult. My palms sweated constantly. I didn’t feel at all safe.
The landing was even worse, to the extent that I wondered if I’d ever be able to fly on a small plane again. I ended up with a lap full of Coca-Cola! I was somewhat relieved after we’d landed to hear the co-pilot saying to the hostess, “well that was one of the bumpiest flights I’ve had for a long while!”
I was taken to my hotel by an Armenian Uber driver who was a lot of fun. As we passed the local jail, he waved and then said “that’s the jail: hey bad guys...”
After arriving at the hotel, I took myself for a very long walk along a road called East Carson Street which is well known locally for its many bars.
I have to say, on the strength of my walk, I really rate this city. Rather like Sheffield, it’s known as a centre of steel and iron manufacturing and it wears its industrial past on its sleeves.
It’s situated on three rivers, which carve their way through a steep, green tree-lined valley. Many of the houses which cling to the valley’s slopes look a little Dutch, with clapper board walls and steep roofs.
East Carson Street itself is rather arty and alternative with shops selling crystals, gems, tie-dye clothes and tarot readings alongside tiny independent cinemas and music venues. I was particularly intrigued by a sign in a window which read, ‘“Love each other” Jesus.’ There’s nothing particularly odd about that, except that the sign was surrounded by English flags and stars of David.
The road looks like something from the Mid-West. The buildings are tall and brick built. Probably late Victorian. A hot wind was blowing bits of grit and pollen into my eyes, so there were moments when I simply had to look at the ground and make haste, but I found the area fascinating. Periodically, an old school American truck would trundle past and I was immediately transported to scenes from On The Road, which became even more vivid every time a goods train, on the track parallel to the street let off its whistle, which echoed a perfect minor seventh chord along the valley. It was hugely intriguing and atmospheric.
I came upon an old-fashioned railroad crossing in an area of Victorian warehouses and my imagination started to soar!
I walked back along a river path, surrounded honey-scented flowers, hearing nothing but the rustle of trees in the wind and the chirping of very happy birds. At one point, a woman cycled past, proudly singing Material Girl by Madonna. It was rather lovely to hear. She was better than Madonna herself (based on her recent Eurovision fiasco!)
We ate in a lovely restaurant tonight. I can’t say anything more about what I’m doing here until tomorrow...
I was staying at my friend Frank’s apartment, which is down by the Hudson on 42nd Street. He has wall-to-ceiling windows and is on the 16th floor, so the flashes of lightning looked spectacular. Great big, Scooby Doo forks in the sky. The sky itself was crimson and angry. It was hugely dramatic.
Maybe because of the storm, or because I was alone in an apartment I don’t know, I woke up in the night feeling disorientated and a little panicky. I watched a bit of telly to calm myself down. Surely US programmes are considerably shorter than British ones? The adverts seem to occur about every eight minutes. My favourite ads are the ones for medicine where a voice over is legally obliged to list all the adverse things which might happen to someone who takes the product; “may cause dizziness, nausea, drowsiness, manic episodes, heart attacks or death.” You think I’m joking?
I had breakfast in a cheap and cheerful little place just up from Frank’s. It’s the sort of no fuss joint which attracts the local coppers. I had a mushroom and feta omelette, which, as is custom in the US, came with fried potatoes and pieces of pre-buttered toast for me to have with grape jam. It’s always grape jam. I’ve never been offered anything else for breakfast. And it’s always delicious.
My internal flight to Pittsburgh took me to La Guardia airport for the first time. It’s a nasty old place, which feels rather low rent. You get herded like cattle through security and thrown into little standing-only rooms whilst waiting to board. It’s the sort of place where apples get wrapped in individual cloches of cellophane. David Attenborough be dammed! Like our carbon footprints aren’t already large enough just by being in an airport!
Our flight was delayed as a result of some sort of weight restriction problem on the tiny little plane we’d been slung onto. People were offered compensation to the tune of $375 to walk away. Four left, to great rounds of applause from other passengers. It was like The Price Is Right. The whole experience made me very uneasy. There was also a weird hot gale blowing as we boarded and the pilot was completely incomprehensible. He used the word “bumping” instead of “turbulence.” I like my pilots to sound articulate to the point of arrogance.
The flight itself was horrible. The plane buffeted, bounced and banked its way out of New York. I felt like I was in a car being lobbed out of a giant catapult. My palms sweated constantly. I didn’t feel at all safe.
The landing was even worse, to the extent that I wondered if I’d ever be able to fly on a small plane again. I ended up with a lap full of Coca-Cola! I was somewhat relieved after we’d landed to hear the co-pilot saying to the hostess, “well that was one of the bumpiest flights I’ve had for a long while!”
I was taken to my hotel by an Armenian Uber driver who was a lot of fun. As we passed the local jail, he waved and then said “that’s the jail: hey bad guys...”
After arriving at the hotel, I took myself for a very long walk along a road called East Carson Street which is well known locally for its many bars.
I have to say, on the strength of my walk, I really rate this city. Rather like Sheffield, it’s known as a centre of steel and iron manufacturing and it wears its industrial past on its sleeves.
It’s situated on three rivers, which carve their way through a steep, green tree-lined valley. Many of the houses which cling to the valley’s slopes look a little Dutch, with clapper board walls and steep roofs.
East Carson Street itself is rather arty and alternative with shops selling crystals, gems, tie-dye clothes and tarot readings alongside tiny independent cinemas and music venues. I was particularly intrigued by a sign in a window which read, ‘“Love each other” Jesus.’ There’s nothing particularly odd about that, except that the sign was surrounded by English flags and stars of David.
The road looks like something from the Mid-West. The buildings are tall and brick built. Probably late Victorian. A hot wind was blowing bits of grit and pollen into my eyes, so there were moments when I simply had to look at the ground and make haste, but I found the area fascinating. Periodically, an old school American truck would trundle past and I was immediately transported to scenes from On The Road, which became even more vivid every time a goods train, on the track parallel to the street let off its whistle, which echoed a perfect minor seventh chord along the valley. It was hugely intriguing and atmospheric.
I came upon an old-fashioned railroad crossing in an area of Victorian warehouses and my imagination started to soar!
I walked back along a river path, surrounded honey-scented flowers, hearing nothing but the rustle of trees in the wind and the chirping of very happy birds. At one point, a woman cycled past, proudly singing Material Girl by Madonna. It was rather lovely to hear. She was better than Madonna herself (based on her recent Eurovision fiasco!)
We ate in a lovely restaurant tonight. I can’t say anything more about what I’m doing here until tomorrow...
Monday, 20 May 2019
Welcome back... briefly
I’m in New York. The weather can only be described as balmy. It feels like the height of summer. It’s rather muggy. The orange, late afternoon sun is casting long shadows down the streets. A sort of haze is hovering on the horizon. The smell of singed pretzels and caramel-coated peanuts blended with the curiously sweet aroma of newly sun-kissed bodies fills the air. I strolled up 42nd Street, eating a slice of pizza. There is nothing better than the first food you taste after emerging from a long-haul flight. The fattier and more carbtastic the food, the better it tastes.
Flying across the Atlantic on my own was a strange sensation, which I’ve not experienced before. I felt a little pathetic at Heathrow airport. I’m a nervous flyer and as I walked around, searching for a WHSmith to buy God knows what in, I kept experiencing these nervous little twitches which I didn’t enjoy in the slightest.
I find sleeping on a plane impossible. The moment I doze off, I immediately wake up again with a bolt of adrenaline, which is always coupled with me flailing about and whacking the person sitting next to me. It’s irritating enough for a close friend but the poor guy sitting next to me today must have thought I was an absolute lunatic, especially when I realised I’d lost my mobile phone and had to ask him to get up to see if it had fallen down by his feet.
He was suitably jolly about everything. I apologised profusely in my best impersonation of Hugh Grant and he was able to pass me off as an eccentric Brit.
Not that us Brits get to play the bumbling-but-kind card abroad any more. The Brexit wankers have given the rest of the world the sense that we’re hideous, self-important, self-centred bigots.
I hosted a Eurovision party last night and the UK was predictably bashed into last place. I would have blamed Brexit had the song not been a cheap rip-off of an X Factor winner’s single, circa 2004. We selected a lad with bad skin and no stage presence, who’d won a third-rate TV talent show because the viewers liked that he was an ordinary lad from Newcastle. But as a friend texted last night, as the lad shouted that his dreams had come true, “Europe doesn’t give a shit about your back story.”
European countries put up their best artists: wonderful creatures with astounding stage presence and brilliant voices. And we shove a lad on stage who’s just happy not to be doing karaoke down the Dog and Duck. I sound cruel. He’s plainly a great kid, but Eurovision matters too much to too many people to be disrespected or misunderstood by the BBC like that.
Of course, the problem is that we always kid ourselves that it’s political voting. Someone always cries that we were robbed. To that, I answer that Israel won last year, weeks after troops had opened fire on a group of Palestinians in the West Bank. Israel don’t exactly have natural allies in Europe and antisemitism is at an all-time high. Yet they can still win Eurovision.
So why am I writing this blog? It was always my intention to write one blog for every one of Samuel Pepys diary entires exactly 350 years after he’d written them. Pepys kept his journal for 9 1/2 years. A wave of brutal sadness on my part stopped me writing mine after 9. So, I figured I’d pick it up for the last two weeks of May, so that I’m writing an entry on May 31st, 350 years to the day that Pepys stopped writing his. Curiously, Pepys also stopped writing for somewhat tragic reasons. He thought he was going blind. By the end of 1669, his wife had died, so realising he wasn’t actually losing his sight was probably no consolation and the diary was never written again.
I end this blog sitting by the River Hudson as the sun sets. Lights from piers and passing boats are glinting on the calm surface of the water. It’s a warm night. People are sitting at picnic tables, drinking beer and laughing. I can smell barbecues, cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes. A family of Indians are posing for a photograph but the youngest son is attempting to sabotage proceedings to the chagrin of his Mum who, no doubt, just wants a photo where they look like a normal, happy family for once!
You’re never far from noise in New York. Cars roar, sirens wail, music thuds and thumps and people shout angrily at each other from car windows. No one comes to New York to relax.
This is the exact spot where Chesley Sullenberger, that amazingly brave pilot, skilfully landed his plane after a flock of geese flew into his engines and the plane lost power. It’s unsurprisingly become known as the Miracle on the Hudson. I can’t quite imagine how I would react if, right now, a plane skidded along the surface of the river!
Flying across the Atlantic on my own was a strange sensation, which I’ve not experienced before. I felt a little pathetic at Heathrow airport. I’m a nervous flyer and as I walked around, searching for a WHSmith to buy God knows what in, I kept experiencing these nervous little twitches which I didn’t enjoy in the slightest.
I find sleeping on a plane impossible. The moment I doze off, I immediately wake up again with a bolt of adrenaline, which is always coupled with me flailing about and whacking the person sitting next to me. It’s irritating enough for a close friend but the poor guy sitting next to me today must have thought I was an absolute lunatic, especially when I realised I’d lost my mobile phone and had to ask him to get up to see if it had fallen down by his feet.
He was suitably jolly about everything. I apologised profusely in my best impersonation of Hugh Grant and he was able to pass me off as an eccentric Brit.
Not that us Brits get to play the bumbling-but-kind card abroad any more. The Brexit wankers have given the rest of the world the sense that we’re hideous, self-important, self-centred bigots.
I hosted a Eurovision party last night and the UK was predictably bashed into last place. I would have blamed Brexit had the song not been a cheap rip-off of an X Factor winner’s single, circa 2004. We selected a lad with bad skin and no stage presence, who’d won a third-rate TV talent show because the viewers liked that he was an ordinary lad from Newcastle. But as a friend texted last night, as the lad shouted that his dreams had come true, “Europe doesn’t give a shit about your back story.”
European countries put up their best artists: wonderful creatures with astounding stage presence and brilliant voices. And we shove a lad on stage who’s just happy not to be doing karaoke down the Dog and Duck. I sound cruel. He’s plainly a great kid, but Eurovision matters too much to too many people to be disrespected or misunderstood by the BBC like that.
Of course, the problem is that we always kid ourselves that it’s political voting. Someone always cries that we were robbed. To that, I answer that Israel won last year, weeks after troops had opened fire on a group of Palestinians in the West Bank. Israel don’t exactly have natural allies in Europe and antisemitism is at an all-time high. Yet they can still win Eurovision.
So why am I writing this blog? It was always my intention to write one blog for every one of Samuel Pepys diary entires exactly 350 years after he’d written them. Pepys kept his journal for 9 1/2 years. A wave of brutal sadness on my part stopped me writing mine after 9. So, I figured I’d pick it up for the last two weeks of May, so that I’m writing an entry on May 31st, 350 years to the day that Pepys stopped writing his. Curiously, Pepys also stopped writing for somewhat tragic reasons. He thought he was going blind. By the end of 1669, his wife had died, so realising he wasn’t actually losing his sight was probably no consolation and the diary was never written again.
I end this blog sitting by the River Hudson as the sun sets. Lights from piers and passing boats are glinting on the calm surface of the water. It’s a warm night. People are sitting at picnic tables, drinking beer and laughing. I can smell barbecues, cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes. A family of Indians are posing for a photograph but the youngest son is attempting to sabotage proceedings to the chagrin of his Mum who, no doubt, just wants a photo where they look like a normal, happy family for once!
You’re never far from noise in New York. Cars roar, sirens wail, music thuds and thumps and people shout angrily at each other from car windows. No one comes to New York to relax.
This is the exact spot where Chesley Sullenberger, that amazingly brave pilot, skilfully landed his plane after a flock of geese flew into his engines and the plane lost power. It’s unsurprisingly become known as the Miracle on the Hudson. I can’t quite imagine how I would react if, right now, a plane skidded along the surface of the river!
Friday, 16 November 2018
The end of an era
Sometimes it’s wise not to let your guard down too much. I have had a really wonderful time of late. I’ve had great reviews. Great successes. Good health.
On Monday afternoon, I went to Patisserie Valerie on Old Compton Street to toast the success of 100 Faces with a pain au chocolat and a cup of tea. I actually wanted a cream tea, but they’d run out of scones and the pastry they gave me instead was miserably stale. Nevertheless, I was very much looking forward to having a relaxed natter, knowing the pressure was finally off.
Nathan called from America in a complete tizzy, “we’ve been evicted!” That’s about all I could hear. My mobile phone (like my computer) is broken, so I can’t hear what anyone is saying unless I put the call on loud speaker, press the phone right to my ear and find an entirely quiet corner.
After a while I ascertained that we were losing our flat. We’ve been given two months to get out. After everything the landlord has put us through whilst simultaneously promising that our long-term tenancy was assured, we are out on our ear. We’ve endured floods. Rats. Broken windows. Black mould all over the ceiling. Promises to fix kitchen cabinets which turned into someone tying all of our draws together with bits of string. We’ve put up with all of that because we knew our rent was low, and we wanted to be no-fuss tenants. And just as we finally find ourselves living in a dry house with a proper roof, we’ve been evicted.
To make matters worse, we have to live out our tenancy in a house covered in dust, with filthy carpets, a wrecked loo and no paint on the walls.
The greatest sadness to me is that our leaving Highgate signifies our being forced to leave London. There’s no way on earth we can afford to stay. Obviously there’s lots to think about. We have discussed the possible idea of going to Hove which feels like the lesser of all evils. It’s horrifying, really, because I feel like a Londoner, and can’t imagine living anywhere else, but this country is going to hell in a hand basket at the moment. We cannot rely on a steady income, and have nothing spare right now to spend on rent. Nathan’s burgeoning career as a knitting guru is hugely dependent on his being able to teach in European countries, and I know we won’t be able to rely on that income stream post-Brexit, particularly after yesterday’s news.
So the situation is bleak, and I am terribly depressed. I feel an emptiness creeping into my body.
As a result of all of this, I won’t be writing this blog for a while. I need to feel upbeat to write, and I don’t much want to be one of those people who does nothing but whinge about the world. We’re all suffering enough at the moment.
Stay safe everyone. We’re in for a rocky ride. Those who voted Brexit now have a particular responsibility to look after people in trouble, so keep your eyes peeled and get those food parcels ready.
Lots of love, and many thanks for reading. It’s been quite the ride, hasn’t it?
Love Benjamin
On Monday afternoon, I went to Patisserie Valerie on Old Compton Street to toast the success of 100 Faces with a pain au chocolat and a cup of tea. I actually wanted a cream tea, but they’d run out of scones and the pastry they gave me instead was miserably stale. Nevertheless, I was very much looking forward to having a relaxed natter, knowing the pressure was finally off.
Nathan called from America in a complete tizzy, “we’ve been evicted!” That’s about all I could hear. My mobile phone (like my computer) is broken, so I can’t hear what anyone is saying unless I put the call on loud speaker, press the phone right to my ear and find an entirely quiet corner.
After a while I ascertained that we were losing our flat. We’ve been given two months to get out. After everything the landlord has put us through whilst simultaneously promising that our long-term tenancy was assured, we are out on our ear. We’ve endured floods. Rats. Broken windows. Black mould all over the ceiling. Promises to fix kitchen cabinets which turned into someone tying all of our draws together with bits of string. We’ve put up with all of that because we knew our rent was low, and we wanted to be no-fuss tenants. And just as we finally find ourselves living in a dry house with a proper roof, we’ve been evicted.
To make matters worse, we have to live out our tenancy in a house covered in dust, with filthy carpets, a wrecked loo and no paint on the walls.
The greatest sadness to me is that our leaving Highgate signifies our being forced to leave London. There’s no way on earth we can afford to stay. Obviously there’s lots to think about. We have discussed the possible idea of going to Hove which feels like the lesser of all evils. It’s horrifying, really, because I feel like a Londoner, and can’t imagine living anywhere else, but this country is going to hell in a hand basket at the moment. We cannot rely on a steady income, and have nothing spare right now to spend on rent. Nathan’s burgeoning career as a knitting guru is hugely dependent on his being able to teach in European countries, and I know we won’t be able to rely on that income stream post-Brexit, particularly after yesterday’s news.
So the situation is bleak, and I am terribly depressed. I feel an emptiness creeping into my body.
As a result of all of this, I won’t be writing this blog for a while. I need to feel upbeat to write, and I don’t much want to be one of those people who does nothing but whinge about the world. We’re all suffering enough at the moment.
Stay safe everyone. We’re in for a rocky ride. Those who voted Brexit now have a particular responsibility to look after people in trouble, so keep your eyes peeled and get those food parcels ready.
Lots of love, and many thanks for reading. It’s been quite the ride, hasn’t it?
Love Benjamin
Monday, 12 November 2018
Blimey
...And breathe! It’s 11am, and I’m still in bed after a fiendishly busy and exhausting week. Today is my first lie-in for what seems an age, and I decided to wake up naturally to see how tired I actually was.
There is something rather special about being awoken by sunlight. I could feel it on my face, streaming through the windows, and when I opened my eyes I was almost blinded by dusty shafts of light.
It has been a hugely successful week, but one which has moved so quickly I’ve barely been able to drink anything in.
The house is a mess, largely because the sitting room has now been re-plastered and we don’t know whether we can expect someone to come in and paint the walls, so all of our belongings are stacked up in piles in our bedroom, like some terrible scene from one of those programmes about recidivist hoarders.
This week saw the opening of my production of Brass at the Bernie Grant Arts Centre in Seven Sisters. Having seen a weekend of shows, I’m pinning my colours to the mast and saying I would like as many people to come along as possible. It’s two whole years since the last fully-staged production of Brass, so please don’t simply imagine you’ll catch it when it’s on again. I can’t believe I will have many opportunities to direct the show again, so this genuinely is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
It is a stunning production. It looks wonderful. The cast are absolutely amazing. The band sound great. What we’ve created is both life-affirming and deeply moving. Audiences weep openly. I can’t tell you how proud I am of everyone who has had involvement in the show. I have a wonderful family around me of hard-working, dedicated, kind, talented people, all of whom seem to genuinely love the show. The good folk of Mountview have treated me like a prince. It has been one of the happiest periods of my entire life. So, in short, you now have a week to see the fruits of our labours. Please come.
Whilst we toiled away in tech and dress rehearsals for Brass, the production of the same musical at the Union Theatre opened and started busily collecting reviews. It’s done brilliantly. From what I can gather it’s received nothing but four and five star reviews. The quotes have been quite astounding. Michael Arditti in the Express said, "Till's rich, melodious score, its influences, ranging from Marie Lloyd to Vaughan Williams, powerfully conveys the fervour, horror and heartbreak both in the trenches and at home."
BritishTheatre.com wrote “The raison d’etre for this version of the story is the powerful and beautiful music that threads throughout as a conduit for truth and depth of emotions. Till has written a score that pulses with musicality and shines from the opening bravura phrases.”
The musical theatre review went one step further and stated “Benjamin Till has created one of the finest ever pieces of British musical theatre.”
All good.
To add a comic level to the proceedings, whilst the two productions of Brass have been bursting onto the London scene, my 100 Faces Film was premiered, officially last night at the wonderful Phoenix Theatre, literally just up the road from me in Finchley, and unofficially at the opening Gala for the UK Jewish Film Festival on the giant screen at the BFI on the South Bank last Thursday. It is a huge treat to see the film as it was designed to be watched, and a little strange, because so much of my work has been for telly, so I’m used to seeing everything on a smaller screen.
100 Faces seems to have been going down as well as Brass. There have been lots of tears. Lots of laughter. Lots of people telling me it’s made them proud to be Jewish. Perhaps the nicest comment came today from one of the 100 faces:
“I feel a new sense of 'jewish' energy today and feel creative and buzzing.”
Exactly as it should be.
Apologies for the radio silence over the last week. I promise to write more often!
There is something rather special about being awoken by sunlight. I could feel it on my face, streaming through the windows, and when I opened my eyes I was almost blinded by dusty shafts of light.
It has been a hugely successful week, but one which has moved so quickly I’ve barely been able to drink anything in.
The house is a mess, largely because the sitting room has now been re-plastered and we don’t know whether we can expect someone to come in and paint the walls, so all of our belongings are stacked up in piles in our bedroom, like some terrible scene from one of those programmes about recidivist hoarders.
This week saw the opening of my production of Brass at the Bernie Grant Arts Centre in Seven Sisters. Having seen a weekend of shows, I’m pinning my colours to the mast and saying I would like as many people to come along as possible. It’s two whole years since the last fully-staged production of Brass, so please don’t simply imagine you’ll catch it when it’s on again. I can’t believe I will have many opportunities to direct the show again, so this genuinely is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
It is a stunning production. It looks wonderful. The cast are absolutely amazing. The band sound great. What we’ve created is both life-affirming and deeply moving. Audiences weep openly. I can’t tell you how proud I am of everyone who has had involvement in the show. I have a wonderful family around me of hard-working, dedicated, kind, talented people, all of whom seem to genuinely love the show. The good folk of Mountview have treated me like a prince. It has been one of the happiest periods of my entire life. So, in short, you now have a week to see the fruits of our labours. Please come.
Whilst we toiled away in tech and dress rehearsals for Brass, the production of the same musical at the Union Theatre opened and started busily collecting reviews. It’s done brilliantly. From what I can gather it’s received nothing but four and five star reviews. The quotes have been quite astounding. Michael Arditti in the Express said, "Till's rich, melodious score, its influences, ranging from Marie Lloyd to Vaughan Williams, powerfully conveys the fervour, horror and heartbreak both in the trenches and at home."
BritishTheatre.com wrote “The raison d’etre for this version of the story is the powerful and beautiful music that threads throughout as a conduit for truth and depth of emotions. Till has written a score that pulses with musicality and shines from the opening bravura phrases.”
The musical theatre review went one step further and stated “Benjamin Till has created one of the finest ever pieces of British musical theatre.”
All good.
To add a comic level to the proceedings, whilst the two productions of Brass have been bursting onto the London scene, my 100 Faces Film was premiered, officially last night at the wonderful Phoenix Theatre, literally just up the road from me in Finchley, and unofficially at the opening Gala for the UK Jewish Film Festival on the giant screen at the BFI on the South Bank last Thursday. It is a huge treat to see the film as it was designed to be watched, and a little strange, because so much of my work has been for telly, so I’m used to seeing everything on a smaller screen.
100 Faces seems to have been going down as well as Brass. There have been lots of tears. Lots of laughter. Lots of people telling me it’s made them proud to be Jewish. Perhaps the nicest comment came today from one of the 100 faces:
“I feel a new sense of 'jewish' energy today and feel creative and buzzing.”
Exactly as it should be.
Apologies for the radio silence over the last week. I promise to write more often!
Friday, 2 November 2018
Sitz
We had the sitz probe for Brass tonight. The band is good but I think there was some sort of mix up which meant none of the appropriate sound equipment was delivered to the theatre, so when I arrived our poor M.D. was tearing his hair out!
Fortunately, we have a very good sound designer who managed to rig up a fairly decent sound system which was actually more similar to the usual set up of a sitz, with a line of stand mics at the front of the stage which the singers walk to when they have a line. I think the original plan had been for the cast to wear their head mics and wander about the stage, standing in the places where they would be singing in the actual show: a “bummel probe,” if you like. I actually think this approach would have taken something away from the rather lovely ceremony associated with the cast sitting on chairs and standing to sing, so I wasn’t too fussed, although it would have been good to hear the instruments properly. My careful orchestrations turned into a bit of a wash of sound. It was reverb city up in the band balcony, and the drums weren’t miked.
I left the rehearsal and traveled back on a late night Friday night tube, forgetting how awful drunk people can be. One older woman was so drunk, that, as the doors opened at Kings Cross, she sort of fell out and got her head trapped as they closed again. She literally couldn’t function. I pulled her back into the carriage and asked where she needed to go, and she told me she was going to a place called “Fuck Off”, which I don’t know. I assume it’s on the same line as “Ungrateful Cow.”
Lots of revellers we’re celebrating Hallowe’en, their faces covered in black, red and white makeup. People don’t seem to dress as witches and ghosts with sheets on their heads any more. I think this is a terrible shame. Nathan and I hollowed out pumpkins on Sunday. I thought they were rather good, until I saw a tweet from my choreographer, Simon, who had created the most astounding pieces of art with his pumpkins. He told me that he liked the way I’d used the natural contours of my pumpkin, which was code for “try a little harder next time.”
Fortunately, we have a very good sound designer who managed to rig up a fairly decent sound system which was actually more similar to the usual set up of a sitz, with a line of stand mics at the front of the stage which the singers walk to when they have a line. I think the original plan had been for the cast to wear their head mics and wander about the stage, standing in the places where they would be singing in the actual show: a “bummel probe,” if you like. I actually think this approach would have taken something away from the rather lovely ceremony associated with the cast sitting on chairs and standing to sing, so I wasn’t too fussed, although it would have been good to hear the instruments properly. My careful orchestrations turned into a bit of a wash of sound. It was reverb city up in the band balcony, and the drums weren’t miked.
I left the rehearsal and traveled back on a late night Friday night tube, forgetting how awful drunk people can be. One older woman was so drunk, that, as the doors opened at Kings Cross, she sort of fell out and got her head trapped as they closed again. She literally couldn’t function. I pulled her back into the carriage and asked where she needed to go, and she told me she was going to a place called “Fuck Off”, which I don’t know. I assume it’s on the same line as “Ungrateful Cow.”
Lots of revellers we’re celebrating Hallowe’en, their faces covered in black, red and white makeup. People don’t seem to dress as witches and ghosts with sheets on their heads any more. I think this is a terrible shame. Nathan and I hollowed out pumpkins on Sunday. I thought they were rather good, until I saw a tweet from my choreographer, Simon, who had created the most astounding pieces of art with his pumpkins. He told me that he liked the way I’d used the natural contours of my pumpkin, which was code for “try a little harder next time.”
Sitz ahoy
It’s been a long old week. Yesterday was our last day in the rehearsal studio, so, from now on, everything happens at the Bernie Grant Theatre. The cast are ready and raring to go, so I gave them all a day off before the “sitz” tonight. Sitz is short for “sitzprobe” and it’s one of the most exciting parts of any theatrical voyage, as it’s the first time the cast get to hear the musicians. It’s obviously more scary than exciting for me personally, because these are all new orchestrations, which I’ve not heard before. The band are rehearsing as I write but I’m staying away. No MD wants the composer breathing down his neck in band rehearsals, even if the composer is the director!
I had another nasty-ish accident last night. I was a little shocked and have a few cuts and grazes on my hands, arms and legs but I’m fine. The workmen, who have literally turned the house upside down, managed to break one of the wooden steps running up to the entrance to our flat on account of using the staircase as a basis for a whole scaffolding rig which gives them access to our roof.
The step has essentially broken in half, but instead of replacing it, they’ve got a 2” plank of wood and placed it over the damaged step, thereby making one of the steps 2 inches taller than the rest. Obviously we’re more than used to the feel of our steps, but because we don’t have a motion-sensor light, the staircase suddenly became a health and safety catastrophe last night. In the process of preparing myself to squeeze through the scaffolding on the steps, I lost my footing on the broken step and stacked it big time. It really was most unpleasant. It’s amazing how many parts of your body hit the deck when you go down in that manner!!
I went to see the first preview of Brass at the Union Theatre on Thursday night. It was a little mean of me to go to that performance, but my mate Matt was going and I realised there were limited options for me to see it before my own production kicks off.
The cast were wonderful. There are some brilliant performances and some lovely touches. It’s a difficult and long piece, however, and I think perhaps the creative team underestimated how long they’d need to get things together. I was a little surprised by some of the cuts they’d made, some of the tempi they’d opted for, and some of the parts of the story they’d omitted or not coaxed out of the material. The problem with Brass is that it tells a love story which is quite deliberately underwritten, so unless actors commit to the subtext and you find visual beats to bring these aspects out, you can get half way through act two before you realise what’s going on! The joy about a set of previews is that you have time to hone the material a little, so there’s more time to play. I remember the previews for Taboo. We were changing things all the time. Songs and lines were being cut and coming back in left, right and centre. It was all go.
I’m currently making my way down to Southwark to do a radio interview about Brass, before heading back north to Tottenham. Call me a yo-yo.
It was the tenth anniversary of Coventry Market The Musical yesterday and I did a quick interview on BBC Radio Coventry and Warwickshire. I still remember the premiere like it was yesterday. They’d put out an enormous red carpet so that everyone could walk from the indoor market itself to the place where they were showing the film. It felt like the whole of Cov had turned out to cheer us all on. It was one of the proudest moments of my life, and I only wish my Grandparents, both Coventrians, had still been alive to see me celebrating the city which had meant so much to them. Harry Hill, who regularly parodies the film on his shows, did an interview before me. He is, apparently, really fond of it. I rather like that the film has followed me about through my life and that people continue to discover its tatty, tongue-in-cheek magic!
I had another nasty-ish accident last night. I was a little shocked and have a few cuts and grazes on my hands, arms and legs but I’m fine. The workmen, who have literally turned the house upside down, managed to break one of the wooden steps running up to the entrance to our flat on account of using the staircase as a basis for a whole scaffolding rig which gives them access to our roof.
The step has essentially broken in half, but instead of replacing it, they’ve got a 2” plank of wood and placed it over the damaged step, thereby making one of the steps 2 inches taller than the rest. Obviously we’re more than used to the feel of our steps, but because we don’t have a motion-sensor light, the staircase suddenly became a health and safety catastrophe last night. In the process of preparing myself to squeeze through the scaffolding on the steps, I lost my footing on the broken step and stacked it big time. It really was most unpleasant. It’s amazing how many parts of your body hit the deck when you go down in that manner!!
I went to see the first preview of Brass at the Union Theatre on Thursday night. It was a little mean of me to go to that performance, but my mate Matt was going and I realised there were limited options for me to see it before my own production kicks off.
The cast were wonderful. There are some brilliant performances and some lovely touches. It’s a difficult and long piece, however, and I think perhaps the creative team underestimated how long they’d need to get things together. I was a little surprised by some of the cuts they’d made, some of the tempi they’d opted for, and some of the parts of the story they’d omitted or not coaxed out of the material. The problem with Brass is that it tells a love story which is quite deliberately underwritten, so unless actors commit to the subtext and you find visual beats to bring these aspects out, you can get half way through act two before you realise what’s going on! The joy about a set of previews is that you have time to hone the material a little, so there’s more time to play. I remember the previews for Taboo. We were changing things all the time. Songs and lines were being cut and coming back in left, right and centre. It was all go.
I’m currently making my way down to Southwark to do a radio interview about Brass, before heading back north to Tottenham. Call me a yo-yo.
It was the tenth anniversary of Coventry Market The Musical yesterday and I did a quick interview on BBC Radio Coventry and Warwickshire. I still remember the premiere like it was yesterday. They’d put out an enormous red carpet so that everyone could walk from the indoor market itself to the place where they were showing the film. It felt like the whole of Cov had turned out to cheer us all on. It was one of the proudest moments of my life, and I only wish my Grandparents, both Coventrians, had still been alive to see me celebrating the city which had meant so much to them. Harry Hill, who regularly parodies the film on his shows, did an interview before me. He is, apparently, really fond of it. I rather like that the film has followed me about through my life and that people continue to discover its tatty, tongue-in-cheek magic!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
