Yesterday was something of a day! Rehearsals went well. We’ve been running the show for the last couple of weeks now, but yesterday morning was the last time we’d have props and bits of set in the rehearsal room. At lunch time, they were all packed up and put onto a lorry to be taken to the venue, so, for the rest of the week, until our tech begins on Sunday, we’re back to using plastic chairs and our imaginations! It’s good for us.
There was quite a todo at lunchtime, when I took myself off to Greggs for soup and a pastie. I asked the lady behind the counter if they had a vegetarian soup and she said they had tomato, so I asked for a cup of that and a cheese and onion pastie. As I placed the soup in the carrier bag, I could see that there was a suspiciously meaty looking blob on the side of the pot, so immediately looked inside and found, to my great dismay, that she’d given me some kind of chicken broth.
I immediately went back to the counter, but the girl who’d served me had gone into the back room. The man who’d replaced her looked quite appalled and, after searching for the girl for way longer than it would have taken to simply replace my soup, he returned and gave me a pot of tomato soup, and I took myself back to Mountview.
I saved the pastie till last. There are few people in the world who don’t love a Greggs cheese and onion pastie and I was really looking forward to it. I took a bite. It tasted weird. There was something gritty and fibrous in my mouth which I pulled out. She’d given me a chicken bake...
I didn’t actually know whether to feel sick or furious. I opted for both. It’s deeply traumatic for any vegetarian to eat meat by mistake, let alone one, like me, who has been a strict vegetarian for 37 years.
I took myself back to Greggs to complain.
The girl behind the counter seemed altogether not bothered. “Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry. It must have been because you were on the phone whilst you were ordering that the order got mixed up...” And in saying this, she told me all I needed to know. She’d plainly taken umbrage at the fact that I was on the phone whilst ordering and had, very deliberately, decided to punish me by giving me two portions of meat as punishment. I told her I was disgusted. “What do you want me to do about it? I’ve apologised.” “I want you to give me a full refund. I want you to give me a proper pastie and I want you to look like you’re sorry...” She walked away...
Cue some rough fucker in the queue stepping forward, “here, you have no right to talk to a lady like that. Would you talk to your wife like that?” “I’m gay” I said. “Would you talk to your boyfriend like that?” “Husband” I said, “and yes, if my husband fed me meat without telling me, I would talk to him like that... in fact, I’d be a great deal more shouty.” This was a red rag to his bull and he rounded on me, “get out of the shop. You’re not welcome here.”
I felt threatened enough to heed his advice and left the shop without the refund or a cheese and onion pastie. The incident was witnessed by a Mountview student who found me later in the day to ask if I was alright and say how shocked she’d been by the way I was treated.
Obviously I instantly took the matter up with Greggs customer services and had to get pretty heavy-handed with them to make them understand that feeding meat to a life-long veggie was a fairly outrageous act. Some serious retraining of that staff member needs to happen. Greggs have subsequently offered me compensation. And so they should. It was a horrible experience all round.
After rehearsals, I went to London Bridge to see my dear friend Nat performing in a play, Pack Of Lies, directed by another dear friend, Hannah Chissick. It was actually dear friends all round because I went to see the play with Anabelle (who plays Kirsty off of the Archers) and Nic (another stunning actress.) We also met up with Tom beforehand who was meant to be seeing the show with us, but, well, that’s a long story...
Anyway, the play, which was at the Menier Chocolate Factory, was wonderfully acted and, of course, directed. It’s a thought-provoking, gently funny piece about a pair of communist spies in Suburbia, which, I discovered afterwards, was actually a true story. Natalie was brilliant, as ever, in the piece. She’s such an intelligent actress.
It was exciting biting (as my dad would say) when a stage manager came onto the stage, asked the actors to leave, and then informed us that we ALL had to leave the theatre, specifically NOT via the entrance we’d come in by. A flustered usher ran out as we were leaving via an emergency exit and started saying “this way out, please, ladies and gentlemen.”
We ended up in an alleyway behind the theatre, actors and audience both in the cold, autumnal air. Nat sidled over and told us that we were in the midst of a bomb scare, and that a bag had been found front of house with wires sticking out of it. It was a surreal experience. The actors weren’t sure whether they ought to be hiding, or somehow maintaining that sense of aloofness, but, in the end, everyone adopted a war time spirit and we all giggled, and huddled like nervous penguins, waiting for the explosion.
The Boys in Blue arrived very swiftly, and stormed dramatically into the building, and rather soon after that point we were told that everything was okay. One of the audience had left his bag in the bar with a phone attached to a charger of some kind. So we all went back into the theatre and the play continued where it had been paused.
I rushed home afterwards after a quick hug with Nat. It was gone 11 and I have another big day today. It did, however, serve to remind me that we’re living in jumpy times and furthermore that places, like theatres, where large numbers of people gather together in small spaces, are vulnerable when it comes to potential acts of terrorism. So the next time someone asks to check your bag as you enter a theatre, hand it over willingly!
Wednesday, 31 October 2018
Monday, 29 October 2018
Society disintegrates
I wore a jacket this morning for the first time since about last March. It’s funny: I’ve not really noticed Autumn creeping in this year. I haven’t been for nearly enough walks on the heath and the tree outside our kitchen window is always the last to shed its leaves. It was back-lit by the sun this morning and looked lush and tropical. It might have been the height of summer. But, when I stepped outside, there was a distinct chill in the air.
Of course my jacket made me sweat profusely on the crowded underground, which seemed even more crowded than usual this morning. I find myself going very still and withdrawn during my morning commutes. I’ve found it’s best to pretend you don’t exist when things get stressful!
Shul went by without too many hitches on Saturday. That said, on one occasion, we sang a long and somewhat elaborate Amen rather brutally out of tune. I don’t think any of us knew how to remedy the problem, so we all adjusted our tuning in different directions, which meant, as the Amen continued, it became more and more catastrophic. Ah! The joys of singing unaccompanied!
It was Saturday night before I found out what had happened in the synagogue in Pittsburgh. It took me a long time to process the information, largely, I suspect, because there’s still something in me that doesn’t understand anti-semitism and, as a result, don’t quite believe that someone could hate Jewish people enough to do something so grotesquely inhuman. Knowing that he chose a baby-naming ceremony and that an elderly married couple and a 97-year-old holocaust survivor were among the people killed reenforces my belief that there’s a disconnect in society at the moment. The dual-headed beasts of Trump and Brexit have legitimised these extreme, xenophobic views. Listening to Trump blithely describing himself as a Nationalist was chilling in the extreme. “It’s an old-fashioned word,” he said, “which doesn’t get used any more.” More chilling, of course, are the faces in the crowds at his rallies, gurning and grinning like he’s the answer to their prayers. Not a thought between their ears.
Of course, the terrifying thing is that these sorts of attacks have the nasty habit of generating copycats. The shooting at my school when I was 14 was a direct response to the Hungerford massacre. I can guarantee that there will be someone out there, bolstered by Trump or Brexit - or possibly even Corbyn - who believes some convoluted, nonsensical conspiracy theory about Jewish people and decides to have a pop. Of course he may have similarly bizarre views about another minority group. He may not attack a synagogue. He might choose a mosque. A gay bar. A women’s refuge. The frightening thing is that it’s not a matter of “if”, it’s a matter of “when” and “where.”
Of course my jacket made me sweat profusely on the crowded underground, which seemed even more crowded than usual this morning. I find myself going very still and withdrawn during my morning commutes. I’ve found it’s best to pretend you don’t exist when things get stressful!
Shul went by without too many hitches on Saturday. That said, on one occasion, we sang a long and somewhat elaborate Amen rather brutally out of tune. I don’t think any of us knew how to remedy the problem, so we all adjusted our tuning in different directions, which meant, as the Amen continued, it became more and more catastrophic. Ah! The joys of singing unaccompanied!
It was Saturday night before I found out what had happened in the synagogue in Pittsburgh. It took me a long time to process the information, largely, I suspect, because there’s still something in me that doesn’t understand anti-semitism and, as a result, don’t quite believe that someone could hate Jewish people enough to do something so grotesquely inhuman. Knowing that he chose a baby-naming ceremony and that an elderly married couple and a 97-year-old holocaust survivor were among the people killed reenforces my belief that there’s a disconnect in society at the moment. The dual-headed beasts of Trump and Brexit have legitimised these extreme, xenophobic views. Listening to Trump blithely describing himself as a Nationalist was chilling in the extreme. “It’s an old-fashioned word,” he said, “which doesn’t get used any more.” More chilling, of course, are the faces in the crowds at his rallies, gurning and grinning like he’s the answer to their prayers. Not a thought between their ears.
Of course, the terrifying thing is that these sorts of attacks have the nasty habit of generating copycats. The shooting at my school when I was 14 was a direct response to the Hungerford massacre. I can guarantee that there will be someone out there, bolstered by Trump or Brexit - or possibly even Corbyn - who believes some convoluted, nonsensical conspiracy theory about Jewish people and decides to have a pop. Of course he may have similarly bizarre views about another minority group. He may not attack a synagogue. He might choose a mosque. A gay bar. A women’s refuge. The frightening thing is that it’s not a matter of “if”, it’s a matter of “when” and “where.”
Friday, 26 October 2018
No roof
You know when you realise you’ve reached the end of your tether? The feeling when you wake up without having caught up on enough sleep? When you walk down to the tube in the morning, dreading getting on a train because you know you’ll have to stand for an hour when you could be sitting down, having a little sleep? The absolute inability to be anything other than deeply ratty and irritable in the face of the tiniest problem? The feeling when your bones creak, your eyes are bloodshot and your mouth is full of ulcers? That!
This year has suddenly caught up on me. My body is screaming for a break. My brain just wants to shut down. I realised there was a problem last night when we went to Julie and Sam’s after rehearsals. Nathan wanted to give them both copies of his book on account of them being the people who got him into knitting. We’d apparently last met up on my birthday, just before Nathan went off on his round-the-world odyssey. I wracked my brain and realised I couldn’t actually remember what we’d done on my birthday this year! It took me a long time to bring the memory back into my head. That is surely the sign of a brain which is over-full!
I guess it never serves one well to complain, because the universe has a habit of really getting stuck in when you whinge! This afternoon, as I left rehearsals, feeling tired and sorry for myself, I had a call from Nathan to say they’d ripped the roof off our house and that our loft was now open to the elements! In a way it’s a good thing because it means the house is finally being fixed, but the photos Nathan sent are surreal - made even stranger by the deep blue sky which was showing through the giant gaps between wooden slats.
They’ve simultaneously also re-plastered the sitting room roof, which is great news, but for half a tonne of dust which has apparently appeared in the process. So when I get home, we better start digging!
I just hope we haven’t got more cowboys coming in.
This year has suddenly caught up on me. My body is screaming for a break. My brain just wants to shut down. I realised there was a problem last night when we went to Julie and Sam’s after rehearsals. Nathan wanted to give them both copies of his book on account of them being the people who got him into knitting. We’d apparently last met up on my birthday, just before Nathan went off on his round-the-world odyssey. I wracked my brain and realised I couldn’t actually remember what we’d done on my birthday this year! It took me a long time to bring the memory back into my head. That is surely the sign of a brain which is over-full!
I guess it never serves one well to complain, because the universe has a habit of really getting stuck in when you whinge! This afternoon, as I left rehearsals, feeling tired and sorry for myself, I had a call from Nathan to say they’d ripped the roof off our house and that our loft was now open to the elements! In a way it’s a good thing because it means the house is finally being fixed, but the photos Nathan sent are surreal - made even stranger by the deep blue sky which was showing through the giant gaps between wooden slats.
They’ve simultaneously also re-plastered the sitting room roof, which is great news, but for half a tonne of dust which has apparently appeared in the process. So when I get home, we better start digging!
I just hope we haven’t got more cowboys coming in.
Monday, 22 October 2018
The Subway Game
My job at Mountview would be perfect if Mountview weren’t in Peckham, or even if Peckham were a tad closer to Highgate. There is something horrific about needing to get up at 7.30am for a job which starts at 10am. I have a bath, eat my breakfast, take a deep breath and then head down to the tube.
I have not yet manage to reach the rehearsal room in anything other than a mega-sweaty mess. There is something deeply dehumanising about being crammed into a boiling hot, moving metal box, filled with passive aggressive people. If I hear one more person saying “could you move down a little bit please?” to a person whose only crime is not to wanting to spend a journey locked in an embrace with a stranger, violence could erupt.
It is, of course, a great deal worse when you have a cold and you really just want a lovely lie-in! I spent much of my journey this morning trying to remind myself that London’s transport infrastructure problems were not the fault of the woman sharpening her elbows to my right. We were both in the same boat, and it was sinking fast. Best to blame Europe!
The dot matrix machine displaying much-needed information about tube trains leaving London Bridge station is presently broken, so every time I stand waiting for the Northern Line, I’m accompanied by some poor LU staff member, talking into a mini-tannoy, telling people which type of train is coming next. The woman who was there tonight was plainly incredibly bored of having conversations with irate customers, so opted to deliver a non-stop monologue:
“Customers are asked to check the destination on the front of the train. As you can see, the sign is broken. We have no idea when it will be fixed. It’s been like this for three weeks, so I’m not holding my breath. I’ll probably be old and on crutches by the time it’s fixed. And I’ll probably still be here delivering this message. Once again, only God himself knows when this sign will be fixed...”
She riffed a bit on the theme and then started all over again.
I was introduced to the Subway Sandwich game by Teri, one of my cast members, a few weeks ago. This won’t appeal to anyone who is not familiar with this particular fast food chain, but, in a nutshell, customers are always met with a bewildering number of questions when they reach the counter. “What sort of bread do you want that sandwich on?” “Do you want a 6” sub or a foot long one?” “Would you like the bread toasted?” “Which salad vegetables would you like with that?” “Can I offer you any sauces or dressings?” “Do you want the meal deal?” “Which drink would you like with that?” And so it goes on...
Anyway, the Subway Sandwich game involves predicting every question you’re going to be asked and ordering your entire meal without once being asked one by the person behind the counter. Believe me: it is far more difficult than it sounds. They always sneak in a little question which blindsides you.
I tried it last week and lost when the server asked if I wanted a single or double portion of cheese. You’ve got to be on it like a bonnet to win the Subway Sandwich game. Try it one day...
I have not yet manage to reach the rehearsal room in anything other than a mega-sweaty mess. There is something deeply dehumanising about being crammed into a boiling hot, moving metal box, filled with passive aggressive people. If I hear one more person saying “could you move down a little bit please?” to a person whose only crime is not to wanting to spend a journey locked in an embrace with a stranger, violence could erupt.
It is, of course, a great deal worse when you have a cold and you really just want a lovely lie-in! I spent much of my journey this morning trying to remind myself that London’s transport infrastructure problems were not the fault of the woman sharpening her elbows to my right. We were both in the same boat, and it was sinking fast. Best to blame Europe!
The dot matrix machine displaying much-needed information about tube trains leaving London Bridge station is presently broken, so every time I stand waiting for the Northern Line, I’m accompanied by some poor LU staff member, talking into a mini-tannoy, telling people which type of train is coming next. The woman who was there tonight was plainly incredibly bored of having conversations with irate customers, so opted to deliver a non-stop monologue:
“Customers are asked to check the destination on the front of the train. As you can see, the sign is broken. We have no idea when it will be fixed. It’s been like this for three weeks, so I’m not holding my breath. I’ll probably be old and on crutches by the time it’s fixed. And I’ll probably still be here delivering this message. Once again, only God himself knows when this sign will be fixed...”
She riffed a bit on the theme and then started all over again.
I was introduced to the Subway Sandwich game by Teri, one of my cast members, a few weeks ago. This won’t appeal to anyone who is not familiar with this particular fast food chain, but, in a nutshell, customers are always met with a bewildering number of questions when they reach the counter. “What sort of bread do you want that sandwich on?” “Do you want a 6” sub or a foot long one?” “Would you like the bread toasted?” “Which salad vegetables would you like with that?” “Can I offer you any sauces or dressings?” “Do you want the meal deal?” “Which drink would you like with that?” And so it goes on...
Anyway, the Subway Sandwich game involves predicting every question you’re going to be asked and ordering your entire meal without once being asked one by the person behind the counter. Believe me: it is far more difficult than it sounds. They always sneak in a little question which blindsides you.
I tried it last week and lost when the server asked if I wanted a single or double portion of cheese. You’ve got to be on it like a bonnet to win the Subway Sandwich game. Try it one day...
Sunday, 21 October 2018
ELO again...
I have just been to see the Electric Light Orchestra playing at the O2, which means I’m in a crush of very happy people trying to leave North Greenwich tube station.
It was a last-minute offer from Philippa, who texted at about noon to ask if I was free because her friend Vanessa had a spare ticket. Obviously I said yes without a second thought!
I did manage to catch ELO playing here a couple of years ago. It was Nathan’s Christmas present to me and I thought at the time I would never get another chance to see a band performing live who had played such an important role in my childhood and teenaged sound worlds.
I knew the band was touring again, and my friend Julie had offered to go with me, but the tickets were very expensive and I decided to ring fence my extraordinary experience with Nathan as a never-to-be-repeated chink of joy.
...until today!
...And how thrilled was I to be back in that space hearing all those tunes again? The ELO back catalogue is astonishing by any standard. Philippa and Vanessa couldn’t quite believe how many songs they either recognised or loved on hearing for the first time.
I, of course, was in seventh heaven. I knew every word. Every vocal lick. Every string riff. Every harmony. And, of course, every song has a memory for me, mostly associated with sitting with my brother in my bedroom listening to albums on my little record player, or driving around the Midlands countryside as teenagers with Fiona and Ted Thornhill looking for places to busk. Sweet Talking Woman and Last Train to London remind me of driving up the M1 with the aforementioned and Fiona laughing at me because I used to drive at the speed of the songs!
Wild West Hero reminds me of my Dad. I can see him now, sitting on the sofa at Hind Style, eyes closed, nodding his head appreciatively to the beat. And Telephone Line reminds me of my Mum. I can see her dancing to the song in that same living room. I cried during both songs, remembering the person I was.
The band play brilliantly and Jeff Lynne still has a full set of pipes. He occasionally hands the odd verse over to a highly charismatic backing vocalist, but, otherwise, his voice is no different to the voice which recorded those legendary albums over 40 years ago. There were about twelve band members in total and I was trying to work out how much was being played on click track. The songs sounded remarkably similar to the album tracks. For a long time I thought the symphonic string sound was pre-recorded, until I noticed a keyboard player at the back sitting in front of the three live string players, doubling everything they were doing with highly nimble fingers, so it’s possible that considerably more than I’d initially thought was happening live.
Sadly, I’ve come down with a cold. Something’s been doing the rounds in the Brass company, as is always the case when actors rehearse a play. It started at lunch time with a hot face and an itchy throat, and, by the time I’d reached the O2, I was curiously hungry, my nose was running like a tap and I was sneezing every couple of seconds.
But hey, I went to see ELO playing live tonight! Who cares about having a cold?!
It was a last-minute offer from Philippa, who texted at about noon to ask if I was free because her friend Vanessa had a spare ticket. Obviously I said yes without a second thought!
I did manage to catch ELO playing here a couple of years ago. It was Nathan’s Christmas present to me and I thought at the time I would never get another chance to see a band performing live who had played such an important role in my childhood and teenaged sound worlds.
I knew the band was touring again, and my friend Julie had offered to go with me, but the tickets were very expensive and I decided to ring fence my extraordinary experience with Nathan as a never-to-be-repeated chink of joy.
...until today!
...And how thrilled was I to be back in that space hearing all those tunes again? The ELO back catalogue is astonishing by any standard. Philippa and Vanessa couldn’t quite believe how many songs they either recognised or loved on hearing for the first time.
I, of course, was in seventh heaven. I knew every word. Every vocal lick. Every string riff. Every harmony. And, of course, every song has a memory for me, mostly associated with sitting with my brother in my bedroom listening to albums on my little record player, or driving around the Midlands countryside as teenagers with Fiona and Ted Thornhill looking for places to busk. Sweet Talking Woman and Last Train to London remind me of driving up the M1 with the aforementioned and Fiona laughing at me because I used to drive at the speed of the songs!
Wild West Hero reminds me of my Dad. I can see him now, sitting on the sofa at Hind Style, eyes closed, nodding his head appreciatively to the beat. And Telephone Line reminds me of my Mum. I can see her dancing to the song in that same living room. I cried during both songs, remembering the person I was.
The band play brilliantly and Jeff Lynne still has a full set of pipes. He occasionally hands the odd verse over to a highly charismatic backing vocalist, but, otherwise, his voice is no different to the voice which recorded those legendary albums over 40 years ago. There were about twelve band members in total and I was trying to work out how much was being played on click track. The songs sounded remarkably similar to the album tracks. For a long time I thought the symphonic string sound was pre-recorded, until I noticed a keyboard player at the back sitting in front of the three live string players, doubling everything they were doing with highly nimble fingers, so it’s possible that considerably more than I’d initially thought was happening live.
Sadly, I’ve come down with a cold. Something’s been doing the rounds in the Brass company, as is always the case when actors rehearse a play. It started at lunch time with a hot face and an itchy throat, and, by the time I’d reached the O2, I was curiously hungry, my nose was running like a tap and I was sneezing every couple of seconds.
But hey, I went to see ELO playing live tonight! Who cares about having a cold?!
Demos and Patti Lupone
Yesterday started, as Saturdays so often do these days, at 7am with an alarm which made me jump out of my skin. I am rather grateful to the days when I’m singing at shul because they stop me from a languishing start to my weekends.
I love the journey in. The tubes are always very quiet, and, I can sit, looking through my music, with a lovely cup of tea.
The ensemble yesterday was a good one, and featured young Jack Reitman, who, it happens, is also in the cast of Brass at the Union. Probably as a result of being engulfed by rehearsals for a 3 hour epic, he was a little underprepared for shul, and spent the service looking a little like a rabbit in headlights! I personally breezed through the material until the very last number, when a badly-written-out setting of the Adon Olam caught me entirely off guard. The words were a million miles away from the bass part and the moment I opened my mouth, I realised I didn’t have a chance of sight singing it effectively. The noises I was making were so awful that I instantly had a fit of hysterical laughter, the sort of uncontrollable, inappropriate giggling which is usually reserved for school assemblies and funerals!
Michael and I walked across Hyde Park in glorious sunshine after the service, carrying the wonderful anti-Brexit placard which Little Welsh Nathalie had painted for me so beautifully and left on the stairs up to my flat. She couldn’t make the march herself but wanted to do her bit, so asked me what slogan I’d most want written. I considered all sorts of angry, sweary phrases and puns based on the idea that EU sounds a bit like “you”, but in the end, shot from the heart and asked for it to merely say “musicians love Europe.” I don’t know any that don’t.
The march itself was a major event. We’re told some 800,000 people headed for central London, all, seemingly, with good-natured, kind, attractive faces. I very much felt as though we were marching with our tribe. Nathalie’s placard went down brilliantly. Scores of people came up to me to ask if they could take my picture. She’d painted it in appropriate blues, whites and yellows, so I wore my royal blue suit.
We met Brother Edward, Sasch, Sylvia and two of their Eurovision friends on the corner of Piccadilly. They all looked utterly resplendent in blue and yellow feather boas. I always feel particularly proud when marching alongside my brother. My parents also nearly joined us, but my father is ill with the flu. The four of us wouldn’t have marched together since CND marches in the early 1980s. I know Brother Tim would have been marching with us in spirit as well. Having an entirely pro-European family means so much to me.
The most moving sight on the march was an old woman staggering along on a pair of crutches. Even if it took her forever, she was going to show her solidarity.
We broke off the march at Jermyn Street. The rallies which follow these marches are always for the politicos. You can never hear anything which is being said.
Michael and I instead went window shopping. For a suit lover like me, Jermyn Street is something of a punishment. If I could, I would have bought something in every shop. But I’m not a millionaire. We can but dream.
We went to the Groucho club and sat in a pair of very comfortable leather arm chairs and both of us immediately fell asleep like a pair of old men. I don’t know how long we were asleep for. All I know is that I was awoken by someone gently tapping my leg and saying my name. It was Philippa. I think she was a little confused because people don’t usually go to the Groucho for a shluf, but it was delightful to see her. I always bump int someone I know at the Groucho Club. Usually Philip Sallon. Yesterday I also bumped into Richard Le Coq and the wonderful singing impressionist, Christine Bianco.
Less delightful was the phone-call I received from Little Welsh Nathalie telling me that her bedroom ceiling had caved in. That’ll be the bedroom ceiling directly below the floor of our bedroom. The photos looked dreadful. Huge chunks of plaster had fallen from the roof onto her bed. Had she been asleep in there, she could have been badly injured. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
I had to spend the rest of the day wondering whether her ceiling had caved in as a result of something awful happening in our flat, but it turns out it was the product of a build up of water coming through our roof, seeping down the walls of our flat and being sucked into the floor boards. Our entire building is a mess. It’s a massive lesson for our landlord in the “stitch in time saves nine” philosophy.
The yo-yo went flying back up this evening with a trip to see Company in the West End, in the most amazing seats, curtesy of wonderful Felicity. It was so so exciting to be there, and see Patti LuPone singing Ladies Who Lunch: a treat I’m very unlikely to forget. This, of course, is the gender-bending production of Company where Bobby is being played by a woman. I saw the show with Adrian Lester playing the title role about twenty years ago, and have to say it works remarkably well done this new way.
The production is exquisite. The set is remarkable. The cast is brilliant. If it doesn’t transfer to Broadway, I’ll eat my hat. It’s not my favourite Sondheim musical. It’s somewhat flawed in my view, largely because you don’t really get much of a sense of Bobby going on a journey. The piece feels a touch vignettey, almost review-like. The songs are, of course, cracking. But some feel a tad crow-barred into the script. But these are small things in the light of such an epic production which I was pleased as punch to see.
I love the journey in. The tubes are always very quiet, and, I can sit, looking through my music, with a lovely cup of tea.
The ensemble yesterday was a good one, and featured young Jack Reitman, who, it happens, is also in the cast of Brass at the Union. Probably as a result of being engulfed by rehearsals for a 3 hour epic, he was a little underprepared for shul, and spent the service looking a little like a rabbit in headlights! I personally breezed through the material until the very last number, when a badly-written-out setting of the Adon Olam caught me entirely off guard. The words were a million miles away from the bass part and the moment I opened my mouth, I realised I didn’t have a chance of sight singing it effectively. The noises I was making were so awful that I instantly had a fit of hysterical laughter, the sort of uncontrollable, inappropriate giggling which is usually reserved for school assemblies and funerals!
Michael and I walked across Hyde Park in glorious sunshine after the service, carrying the wonderful anti-Brexit placard which Little Welsh Nathalie had painted for me so beautifully and left on the stairs up to my flat. She couldn’t make the march herself but wanted to do her bit, so asked me what slogan I’d most want written. I considered all sorts of angry, sweary phrases and puns based on the idea that EU sounds a bit like “you”, but in the end, shot from the heart and asked for it to merely say “musicians love Europe.” I don’t know any that don’t.
The march itself was a major event. We’re told some 800,000 people headed for central London, all, seemingly, with good-natured, kind, attractive faces. I very much felt as though we were marching with our tribe. Nathalie’s placard went down brilliantly. Scores of people came up to me to ask if they could take my picture. She’d painted it in appropriate blues, whites and yellows, so I wore my royal blue suit.
We met Brother Edward, Sasch, Sylvia and two of their Eurovision friends on the corner of Piccadilly. They all looked utterly resplendent in blue and yellow feather boas. I always feel particularly proud when marching alongside my brother. My parents also nearly joined us, but my father is ill with the flu. The four of us wouldn’t have marched together since CND marches in the early 1980s. I know Brother Tim would have been marching with us in spirit as well. Having an entirely pro-European family means so much to me.
The most moving sight on the march was an old woman staggering along on a pair of crutches. Even if it took her forever, she was going to show her solidarity.
We broke off the march at Jermyn Street. The rallies which follow these marches are always for the politicos. You can never hear anything which is being said.
Michael and I instead went window shopping. For a suit lover like me, Jermyn Street is something of a punishment. If I could, I would have bought something in every shop. But I’m not a millionaire. We can but dream.
We went to the Groucho club and sat in a pair of very comfortable leather arm chairs and both of us immediately fell asleep like a pair of old men. I don’t know how long we were asleep for. All I know is that I was awoken by someone gently tapping my leg and saying my name. It was Philippa. I think she was a little confused because people don’t usually go to the Groucho for a shluf, but it was delightful to see her. I always bump int someone I know at the Groucho Club. Usually Philip Sallon. Yesterday I also bumped into Richard Le Coq and the wonderful singing impressionist, Christine Bianco.
Less delightful was the phone-call I received from Little Welsh Nathalie telling me that her bedroom ceiling had caved in. That’ll be the bedroom ceiling directly below the floor of our bedroom. The photos looked dreadful. Huge chunks of plaster had fallen from the roof onto her bed. Had she been asleep in there, she could have been badly injured. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
I had to spend the rest of the day wondering whether her ceiling had caved in as a result of something awful happening in our flat, but it turns out it was the product of a build up of water coming through our roof, seeping down the walls of our flat and being sucked into the floor boards. Our entire building is a mess. It’s a massive lesson for our landlord in the “stitch in time saves nine” philosophy.
The yo-yo went flying back up this evening with a trip to see Company in the West End, in the most amazing seats, curtesy of wonderful Felicity. It was so so exciting to be there, and see Patti LuPone singing Ladies Who Lunch: a treat I’m very unlikely to forget. This, of course, is the gender-bending production of Company where Bobby is being played by a woman. I saw the show with Adrian Lester playing the title role about twenty years ago, and have to say it works remarkably well done this new way.
The production is exquisite. The set is remarkable. The cast is brilliant. If it doesn’t transfer to Broadway, I’ll eat my hat. It’s not my favourite Sondheim musical. It’s somewhat flawed in my view, largely because you don’t really get much of a sense of Bobby going on a journey. The piece feels a touch vignettey, almost review-like. The songs are, of course, cracking. But some feel a tad crow-barred into the script. But these are small things in the light of such an epic production which I was pleased as punch to see.
Friday, 19 October 2018
The blue book
I had a fairly delightful day away from the intensity of the Brass rehearsal room yesterday. I left Simon, our wonderful choreographer, in charge, and headed to New West End synagogue to spend the day recording music.
The afternoon session was spent working on three pieces written by Trevor Toube, who is one of the stalwarts of the community there. He’s actually a very interesting composer and one of the pieces, dedicated to his grandson, Josh, was absolutely exquisite. It had an Eastern vibe, and yet it was somehow imbued with the expansiveness of Copland. Very impressive.
He didn’t half test us, though, in the piece he’d written for his grandson, Ben, which had a Microcosmos quality with octotonic runs alternating from tone to semi-tone. It took us a while to buffer that particular sequence up, but we got there, and I hope we’ve done him proud.
The evening session was spent recording four final tracks for our Blue Book album, one of which was a re-recording of a song we’d done in slightly too much haste in the studio in July. Was it July? It was very hot whenever it was!
It is an absolute joy to record in the synagogue. The acoustic there is second to none. If you stand in the middle of the space, performers can hear each other perfectly, and the sound wafts up into the ceiling, and then parachutes back down like a cascade of butterflies!
There is nothing like the sensation of performing with a group of top-notch singers. There are eight of us, and we sing two-per-part. My “desk partner” is James Mawson, who’s basically the fruitiest bass in the world. He thinks nothing of popping down to a bottom A - which I personally find deeply emasculating! Our voices blend together very well, however, largely because I am more than happy to play second fiddle and make it my primary objective to provide him with tonal re-enforcement!
I think it’s going to be a rather fine album.
The afternoon session was spent working on three pieces written by Trevor Toube, who is one of the stalwarts of the community there. He’s actually a very interesting composer and one of the pieces, dedicated to his grandson, Josh, was absolutely exquisite. It had an Eastern vibe, and yet it was somehow imbued with the expansiveness of Copland. Very impressive.
He didn’t half test us, though, in the piece he’d written for his grandson, Ben, which had a Microcosmos quality with octotonic runs alternating from tone to semi-tone. It took us a while to buffer that particular sequence up, but we got there, and I hope we’ve done him proud.
The evening session was spent recording four final tracks for our Blue Book album, one of which was a re-recording of a song we’d done in slightly too much haste in the studio in July. Was it July? It was very hot whenever it was!
It is an absolute joy to record in the synagogue. The acoustic there is second to none. If you stand in the middle of the space, performers can hear each other perfectly, and the sound wafts up into the ceiling, and then parachutes back down like a cascade of butterflies!
There is nothing like the sensation of performing with a group of top-notch singers. There are eight of us, and we sing two-per-part. My “desk partner” is James Mawson, who’s basically the fruitiest bass in the world. He thinks nothing of popping down to a bottom A - which I personally find deeply emasculating! Our voices blend together very well, however, largely because I am more than happy to play second fiddle and make it my primary objective to provide him with tonal re-enforcement!
I think it’s going to be a rather fine album.
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