...yes yes, regular fans, it's been a while...I could possibly apologise for not writing as much lately but that'd be pointless...it's been summer holidays for E and we've been living it up as much as we can on some spectacular sunny days lately, days that make it worthwhile living in London, make you forget the nine-month winter ever happens! We've just lapsed into this timetable where I get home after the show about 11.30pm and we stay up until about 2, which is normally blogging time for me, oh well....
Just thought I'd share this one with you all...it's halfway through act 2, and I'm conducting tonight's show. Part of the set-up that surrounds my keyboard is a big round red light and an old-school black plastic telephone that's connected to most of the people backstage. Tonight the deputy stage manager has a malfunctioning something that's already made this red light flash in the first act. I've had dreams about this red light going off - it means that I have to talk to someone because something's wrong (bomb? psycho fan? actor with headache? could be anything!).
So we've just hit 'em with 'Dangerous', the powerhouse dance number, and now it's time to grab their hearts at three-quarter time with the power ballad, 'Earth Song'. The subdued synth-based intro begins, and the digital screen that hides the band for most of the show opens and reveals us to the stage, covered in a gentle blue wash of light with a little smoke machine work at the edges.
A solitary singer dressed in white walks to centre stage to take the spotlight and open the first verse.
And what do you think happens after that?
The red light goes off again!
It must have looked great from the stalls...a stage looking like that with a singer wailing about what we've done to the earth, and in the background a flashing pin-prick of red light with the MD madly trying to get someone's attention on a big black plastic phone.
Priceless!...
30 August 2009
25 July 2009
The Gateway
...9am Friday morning, about two months ago...
Everything's green, everything's wonderful...it's a rare sunny London day, and beams shine through evergreens towering over grassy fields. A squirrel darts across the ground to the right...
My path circuits a large pond, carefully sculptured between meandering bank and weeping willow, so that one might accidentally come across past an eye-catching viewpoint.
I'm wandering through Battersea Park, one of London's gorgeous old 19th century parks, now my local park, and probably the only one that borders the Thames River. Between the original village of Battersea (in parts dating back to the 9th century AD) and the city, this part of the south bank was marshland until the mid 19th century.
And when I arrive at the north-eastern corner of the park to cross the river on Chelsea Bridge, one realises just how different this part of town really is.
To my left, on the opposite bank is the green of Chelsea Barracks, and the view naturally follows west along the shore to the next crossing, Albert Bridge. Most Jazz musicians will know of the Billy Strayhorn tune named apparently after this bridge, the one I'm currently walking over, although for the life of me I can't understand why a tune hasn't been written about the other one, it's glittering, ornate counterpart further upstream.
Behind me to the left is the complementary green of Battersea Park. Halfway between the bridges is the recently constructed Buddhist pagoda; apparently a monk lives somewhere in the park, presumably nearby.
In total contrast to this symbol of peace (indeed in total contrast to anything other than itself!), behind me to the right is Battersea Power Station, the dominant feature of the landscape. The largest brick building in Europe, poised strategically at a bend in the river, it appears to be some long abandoned art-deco fortress defending the city from invaders.
It's hard to describe the overpowering nature of this building using words or even photos. Catching the train into work each afternoon, the line passes to the left of the station, running parallel to another trainline situated on a kind of aqueduct which, in the view from my train, hides where the building meets the ground, giving the building the appearance of floating above it, only adding to it's immensity.
There's a certain unreality to it that has passed over into the world of fantasy...a friend of mine who also lives locally recalls moving here a decade ago, seeing it for the first time, and being totally amazed that the building he'd seen on a particular Pink Floyd album cover actually existed in real life!
The station and the two giant cranes directly in front of it, sitting face to face on the river bank, haven't seen any action since the mid 70s. For this massive open space on the river not far from the heart of the city, every few years, various redevelopment plans come and go. What is to happen with this particular part of London? A housing estate complex, looking rather like a fleet of cruise ships, seems to watch with trepidation from the opposite bank.
I reach the northern side of the river and turn right, past a tall, narrow Victorian-era water tower (?) several stories high. The doors of the pumphouse are open to the street and as I walk past I get a glimpse of the giant silvery intestines within. Jammed in next to them are a collection of sidings from Victoria station, nearly a mile away, the ends of stationary trains parked perpendicularly to the road that runs along the riverbank.
What an odd part of town this is, with its giant mysterious structures littered arbitrarily on both sides of the river!
Everything's green, everything's wonderful...it's a rare sunny London day, and beams shine through evergreens towering over grassy fields. A squirrel darts across the ground to the right...
My path circuits a large pond, carefully sculptured between meandering bank and weeping willow, so that one might accidentally come across past an eye-catching viewpoint.
I'm wandering through Battersea Park, one of London's gorgeous old 19th century parks, now my local park, and probably the only one that borders the Thames River. Between the original village of Battersea (in parts dating back to the 9th century AD) and the city, this part of the south bank was marshland until the mid 19th century.
And when I arrive at the north-eastern corner of the park to cross the river on Chelsea Bridge, one realises just how different this part of town really is.
To my left, on the opposite bank is the green of Chelsea Barracks, and the view naturally follows west along the shore to the next crossing, Albert Bridge. Most Jazz musicians will know of the Billy Strayhorn tune named apparently after this bridge, the one I'm currently walking over, although for the life of me I can't understand why a tune hasn't been written about the other one, it's glittering, ornate counterpart further upstream.
Behind me to the left is the complementary green of Battersea Park. Halfway between the bridges is the recently constructed Buddhist pagoda; apparently a monk lives somewhere in the park, presumably nearby.
In total contrast to this symbol of peace (indeed in total contrast to anything other than itself!), behind me to the right is Battersea Power Station, the dominant feature of the landscape. The largest brick building in Europe, poised strategically at a bend in the river, it appears to be some long abandoned art-deco fortress defending the city from invaders.
It's hard to describe the overpowering nature of this building using words or even photos. Catching the train into work each afternoon, the line passes to the left of the station, running parallel to another trainline situated on a kind of aqueduct which, in the view from my train, hides where the building meets the ground, giving the building the appearance of floating above it, only adding to it's immensity.
There's a certain unreality to it that has passed over into the world of fantasy...a friend of mine who also lives locally recalls moving here a decade ago, seeing it for the first time, and being totally amazed that the building he'd seen on a particular Pink Floyd album cover actually existed in real life!
The station and the two giant cranes directly in front of it, sitting face to face on the river bank, haven't seen any action since the mid 70s. For this massive open space on the river not far from the heart of the city, every few years, various redevelopment plans come and go. What is to happen with this particular part of London? A housing estate complex, looking rather like a fleet of cruise ships, seems to watch with trepidation from the opposite bank.
I reach the northern side of the river and turn right, past a tall, narrow Victorian-era water tower (?) several stories high. The doors of the pumphouse are open to the street and as I walk past I get a glimpse of the giant silvery intestines within. Jammed in next to them are a collection of sidings from Victoria station, nearly a mile away, the ends of stationary trains parked perpendicularly to the road that runs along the riverbank.
What an odd part of town this is, with its giant mysterious structures littered arbitrarily on both sides of the river!
The Groove
S has been with us in town for most of the week, and contrary to my earlier blog, has been in remarkably good spirits considering...is it the joy of being off the road and playing a show in the one place for more than a day? Is it the strange relief of the passing of a long-suffering family member? Is it just plain enjoyment of the gig? Customary to our surroundings, S is a pretty reserved character at the best of times, so I guess we'll never really know...
...and in the last couple of days playing with D, our co-number one dep on drums, the groove has been fatter than anything! It's incredible how, especially on a two-show day like today (matinee 4pm, evening show 8pm), when you're playing a show centred on groove-based music and the groove is great, everything is great!, everyone's in a good mood, the sun shines...well, it feels like it anyway...
...and in the last couple of days playing with D, our co-number one dep on drums, the groove has been fatter than anything! It's incredible how, especially on a two-show day like today (matinee 4pm, evening show 8pm), when you're playing a show centred on groove-based music and the groove is great, everything is great!, everyone's in a good mood, the sun shines...well, it feels like it anyway...
23 July 2009
From The Road: Pasta of Love
...so S has just had a fairly major death in the family, and I'm feeling pretty terrible having just paid him out in prose (unbeknownst to him of course). However he had his first show in town last night and was in remarkably good form, so I thought I'd relate an anecdote from our three months on the road together (which I was going to do anyway, really!)...
It was about six weeks in, the tour was up and running, and some dates were approaching where the production company (for some unknown reason) decided to offer three nights of accommodation at a Butlins.
For anyone not from the UK, Butlins is a chain of ultra-cheap holiday camps dotted around the country, infamous for getting exactly what you pay for.
I didn't quite know how I was going to break this one to the band, but I had a fair idea how they'd react. I had already accepted staying there - it would end up only being two nights for me, and I guess it was part of the adventure. The three English members, well aware of the situation, all opted out immediately. The two continental members however were quite unknowing, even though S had been here for ten years!
On my weekend home beforehand, E and I found photos this particular one on the internet and it looked uncannily like a concentration camp - six miles from town, a complex of long blocks of flats in the middle of nowhere by the sea.
I rejoined the tour on the second day of their stay, and when I met S and G at the theatre they were pissed off, and rightly so I suppose. Having been an effective employee of this production company for more than two years now, one becomes glazed over to the liberties it regularly takes with people who work for it.
Cabbing back there after the show however, the situation turned a little for the better. Unlike the norm, where everyone's accommodation was dotted throughout whatever town we were in, dancers and crew were only in the next block over, and there was absolutely nothing to do out there, so S decided to cook his Pasta Of Love. Word spread to our two favourite dancers who were torn between joining us or the crew for spicy pepper soup (I think they somehow ended up making it to both!)
It was a rubbish situation and everyone had complained far more than enough about it, but at the end of the day, literally, everyone made do...some of us even enjoyed the camaraderie of staying in the one place, a holiday camp after all.
I couldn't believe how S made it and so simply...pasta, tomato sauce, olive oil, a little salt, but cooked and timed absolutely to perfection with generous helpings of parmesan. I've never had pasta quite like it, before or since...and there we were, the three immigrants of the tour, in the flat, waves breaking in the night breeze not far away.
It was about six weeks in, the tour was up and running, and some dates were approaching where the production company (for some unknown reason) decided to offer three nights of accommodation at a Butlins.
For anyone not from the UK, Butlins is a chain of ultra-cheap holiday camps dotted around the country, infamous for getting exactly what you pay for.
I didn't quite know how I was going to break this one to the band, but I had a fair idea how they'd react. I had already accepted staying there - it would end up only being two nights for me, and I guess it was part of the adventure. The three English members, well aware of the situation, all opted out immediately. The two continental members however were quite unknowing, even though S had been here for ten years!
On my weekend home beforehand, E and I found photos this particular one on the internet and it looked uncannily like a concentration camp - six miles from town, a complex of long blocks of flats in the middle of nowhere by the sea.
I rejoined the tour on the second day of their stay, and when I met S and G at the theatre they were pissed off, and rightly so I suppose. Having been an effective employee of this production company for more than two years now, one becomes glazed over to the liberties it regularly takes with people who work for it.
Cabbing back there after the show however, the situation turned a little for the better. Unlike the norm, where everyone's accommodation was dotted throughout whatever town we were in, dancers and crew were only in the next block over, and there was absolutely nothing to do out there, so S decided to cook his Pasta Of Love. Word spread to our two favourite dancers who were torn between joining us or the crew for spicy pepper soup (I think they somehow ended up making it to both!)
It was a rubbish situation and everyone had complained far more than enough about it, but at the end of the day, literally, everyone made do...some of us even enjoyed the camaraderie of staying in the one place, a holiday camp after all.
I couldn't believe how S made it and so simply...pasta, tomato sauce, olive oil, a little salt, but cooked and timed absolutely to perfection with generous helpings of parmesan. I've never had pasta quite like it, before or since...and there we were, the three immigrants of the tour, in the flat, waves breaking in the night breeze not far away.
16 July 2009
Meeting 'S'
...saw S a couple of nights ago at the theatre. Hadn't seen him since I left the tour more than six weeks ago.
Astonishing how once I left the tour and came into town, unintentionally the blinkers went on and it was all about Town World, as opposed to Road World I guess. Previously, during the three months on tour, I'd come in to the town production to fill in for the odd show and the band guys, good friends of mine whom I'd worked with closely on four tours over the past two years, would look at me with a faint suggestion of, "Yeah I remember you"...and now I know why!
S was in to observe the town show as the tour is going abroad next week for two weeks, and our resident bass player is doing a swap. Our guy goes out on the road, and S comes in to fill his place while he's gone. Dashing needlessly yet again between stage and bandroom, I chance upon meeting him in the backstage stairwell before the show...his large frame, shaved head, and wiry goatee belie a quietly spoken, gentle manner. For most of the show I was looking forward to a cheerful post-match drink, a catch up on the current tour gossip, maybe even a laugh over an anecdote in days gone by...
Usually in ones and twos we file out of stage door, through the nightly throng of audience well-wishers and autograph hunters, across Great Windmill Street to the small stage door pub, funnily enough called the Lyric. It appears to be pretty crowded outside with cast, crew and associates, and S is standing with the rest of the bandies directly out front.
We couldn't have been more than half a dozen sentences in, just catching up on the tour, searching for a subject to latch on to, and it was on an alternate work offer for S where things seemed to change sharply, and I felt I had to look for something to hang on to as the vibe of the conversation started hurtling inexorably downward. Personal difference this and politics that and money issue the other...we'd worked together six nights a week for three months, I hadn't seen the guy in a month and a half, and this is what I get?
I let him finish his rave, unsure of how to respond to such negativity.
Amidst waves of chatter, we're suddenly on an island in an ocean of show talk, just he and I.
Hours seem to pass....and then....
"So how is it working out in the flat, with your girlfriend?"
Yeah, that's it mate, don't work too hard, it's only been six weeks...and you're joining us for how long? How many of these do I have to look forward to?!
Sure enough, I only learnt today that continuing family problems for S might have cast a shadow over his mood, which could be understood completely...but then, was my hope of a silly bit of laugh and talk just too much to expect?
Astonishing how once I left the tour and came into town, unintentionally the blinkers went on and it was all about Town World, as opposed to Road World I guess. Previously, during the three months on tour, I'd come in to the town production to fill in for the odd show and the band guys, good friends of mine whom I'd worked with closely on four tours over the past two years, would look at me with a faint suggestion of, "Yeah I remember you"...and now I know why!
S was in to observe the town show as the tour is going abroad next week for two weeks, and our resident bass player is doing a swap. Our guy goes out on the road, and S comes in to fill his place while he's gone. Dashing needlessly yet again between stage and bandroom, I chance upon meeting him in the backstage stairwell before the show...his large frame, shaved head, and wiry goatee belie a quietly spoken, gentle manner. For most of the show I was looking forward to a cheerful post-match drink, a catch up on the current tour gossip, maybe even a laugh over an anecdote in days gone by...
Usually in ones and twos we file out of stage door, through the nightly throng of audience well-wishers and autograph hunters, across Great Windmill Street to the small stage door pub, funnily enough called the Lyric. It appears to be pretty crowded outside with cast, crew and associates, and S is standing with the rest of the bandies directly out front.
We couldn't have been more than half a dozen sentences in, just catching up on the tour, searching for a subject to latch on to, and it was on an alternate work offer for S where things seemed to change sharply, and I felt I had to look for something to hang on to as the vibe of the conversation started hurtling inexorably downward. Personal difference this and politics that and money issue the other...we'd worked together six nights a week for three months, I hadn't seen the guy in a month and a half, and this is what I get?
I let him finish his rave, unsure of how to respond to such negativity.
Amidst waves of chatter, we're suddenly on an island in an ocean of show talk, just he and I.
Hours seem to pass....and then....
"So how is it working out in the flat, with your girlfriend?"
Yeah, that's it mate, don't work too hard, it's only been six weeks...and you're joining us for how long? How many of these do I have to look forward to?!
Sure enough, I only learnt today that continuing family problems for S might have cast a shadow over his mood, which could be understood completely...but then, was my hope of a silly bit of laugh and talk just too much to expect?
11 July 2009
Up To Speed
...Saturday morning, late May...
Summer is coming. You can feel it your bones. Any sense of warmth from the sky and air brings a shiver of anticipation. Winter's endless grip is failing. And yet the newfound mid-morning sun is only just enough to wake to.
The train is crossing a river somewhere in the west of the country, rolling green fields, with a nice little collection of white buildings down by the bank...
Hang on, didn't we just pass that same building?
Or was that a couple of days ago?
What a week it's been, one of those ones where you literally don't have half an hour to scratch your head.
Monday, 30th Birthday! Much frivolity with girlfriend, breakfast in Angel, afternoon on Primrose Hill with a bottle of champers, looking over London underneath a stormy sky, then night-long dinner/bender with friends, mostly people from both town and touring productions.
Tuesday, afternoon rehearsal with originals band for upcoming gig, then playing on the town production in the evening.
Wednesday, back to MD the tour in Torquay.
Friday, four hour train back to London to play with the town show.
Saturday, back to MD the tour in Cardiff, two shows.
How did I end up in this mess again!?
And what an intense year...after the best part of two years and four tours, Flying Music, the production company that kicked the whole thing off, at the start of January finally put the show in the West End at the Lyric Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue, a stone's throw from Piccadilly, right in the heart of London theatre land.
For the first time, a second production was created for the fifth Thriller tour, this time mostly UK, but a little of the continent, and after much deliberation, given the option of taking the cushy, stationary town gig, or stepping up to run the tour as musical director, I somehow came to the decision of taking the latter. From mid February until the end of May, I was in probably the first leadership role of my life ever, of anything! At times I had to scratch myself to believe it was all happening.
But lo and behold, it certainly was, in every way imaginable...our tour took us all over England but this time with a difference...no more the relentless grilling of two months of one-nighters like previous tours...this one had us staying in most provincial cities for a week, sometimes less, but it made all the difference.
I'm not long at the theatre in Cardiff and the drummer calls...he's driven up from Torquay today on an infamously difficult route and is somehow stuck in traffic, may not make the soundcheck...right, so we're straight back into it then! He's not getting it...we had a day off yesterday, he's had more than 24 hours to get here, and besides, there aren't any excuses, this is show business!
The two shows in Cardiff are a resounding success. In an open concert-style venue, we play to two packed houses full of people from a country that knows all about great voices. We trudge through Saturday night carnage back to the hotel, one of those new shiny business one-nighter ones, so in the generic weirdness of the hotel foyer, most of the cast and band gather for drinks, partly to celebrate my last night with the tour before I join the town production.
It's in a daze that I sit at a second breakfast at a sushi place in Paddington station when a text comes through asking me to take vocal warm-up before a two show day! Crazy! But I'm happy to take it, partly because the guy sending me the the text is always more busy than I am, even this week. And I've arranged for someone else to play my chair for the second show...why? Because I'm moving house! After the matinee!
Curtain comes down about 5pm and I'm out of there like a shot on the nearest bus or train...walking down my street in Hackney for the last time, she pulls up in her little silver car, gets out in a dress, and says, "I'm here to take you away", and that's when it really hit me, in the Sunday dusk...I'm doing it again, moving in with a girlfriend, for the second time.
I don't have much stuff and my awesome soon to be ex-housemates have done most of it in my absence. It's a tight fit but it fills most of Eri's car, of course leaving no room for a passenger. She speeds off with all my possessions, I hello the new guy and farewell my two wonderful housemates, Ruth and Tammy, from one of the best sharehouses I've had the privilege to live in...sorry to see 'em go...
The trains are down, so it's looking like one big long bus to Victoria station, and it's the first slab of time in about a week where I haven't been on the train to a show or conducting or drinking a skinful, and so I seem to have no choice but to partake in a little public transport nap. It's Sunday night and there aren't too many crazies around on the 38, the big long bendy bus, the free bus, the robbery bus...of course forgetting the route of the 38, I'm stirred into waking somewhere in town, and it's Shaftesbury Ave, and I look out the window and THERE HE IS! The big spangly silver jacket on the big red square sign...aaarrrgh! Whether it be out on tour or here in town, I just can't bloody get away from the show!...
It takes me an hour but I finally get to our new place, and my gorgeous girlfriend has lugged just about all my stuff up two flights of stairs. I help her with the rest, and then it REALLY hits me...creeping carefully through the hall of our new flat, the smell of the bare white paint, the boxes everywhere...and all the thoughts, the daily noise, suddenly quiets in my head...the start of another chapter, a new beginning...
Summer is coming. You can feel it your bones. Any sense of warmth from the sky and air brings a shiver of anticipation. Winter's endless grip is failing. And yet the newfound mid-morning sun is only just enough to wake to.
The train is crossing a river somewhere in the west of the country, rolling green fields, with a nice little collection of white buildings down by the bank...
Hang on, didn't we just pass that same building?
Or was that a couple of days ago?
What a week it's been, one of those ones where you literally don't have half an hour to scratch your head.
Monday, 30th Birthday! Much frivolity with girlfriend, breakfast in Angel, afternoon on Primrose Hill with a bottle of champers, looking over London underneath a stormy sky, then night-long dinner/bender with friends, mostly people from both town and touring productions.
Tuesday, afternoon rehearsal with originals band for upcoming gig, then playing on the town production in the evening.
Wednesday, back to MD the tour in Torquay.
Friday, four hour train back to London to play with the town show.
Saturday, back to MD the tour in Cardiff, two shows.
How did I end up in this mess again!?
And what an intense year...after the best part of two years and four tours, Flying Music, the production company that kicked the whole thing off, at the start of January finally put the show in the West End at the Lyric Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue, a stone's throw from Piccadilly, right in the heart of London theatre land.
For the first time, a second production was created for the fifth Thriller tour, this time mostly UK, but a little of the continent, and after much deliberation, given the option of taking the cushy, stationary town gig, or stepping up to run the tour as musical director, I somehow came to the decision of taking the latter. From mid February until the end of May, I was in probably the first leadership role of my life ever, of anything! At times I had to scratch myself to believe it was all happening.
But lo and behold, it certainly was, in every way imaginable...our tour took us all over England but this time with a difference...no more the relentless grilling of two months of one-nighters like previous tours...this one had us staying in most provincial cities for a week, sometimes less, but it made all the difference.
I'm not long at the theatre in Cardiff and the drummer calls...he's driven up from Torquay today on an infamously difficult route and is somehow stuck in traffic, may not make the soundcheck...right, so we're straight back into it then! He's not getting it...we had a day off yesterday, he's had more than 24 hours to get here, and besides, there aren't any excuses, this is show business!
The two shows in Cardiff are a resounding success. In an open concert-style venue, we play to two packed houses full of people from a country that knows all about great voices. We trudge through Saturday night carnage back to the hotel, one of those new shiny business one-nighter ones, so in the generic weirdness of the hotel foyer, most of the cast and band gather for drinks, partly to celebrate my last night with the tour before I join the town production.
It's in a daze that I sit at a second breakfast at a sushi place in Paddington station when a text comes through asking me to take vocal warm-up before a two show day! Crazy! But I'm happy to take it, partly because the guy sending me the the text is always more busy than I am, even this week. And I've arranged for someone else to play my chair for the second show...why? Because I'm moving house! After the matinee!
Curtain comes down about 5pm and I'm out of there like a shot on the nearest bus or train...walking down my street in Hackney for the last time, she pulls up in her little silver car, gets out in a dress, and says, "I'm here to take you away", and that's when it really hit me, in the Sunday dusk...I'm doing it again, moving in with a girlfriend, for the second time.
I don't have much stuff and my awesome soon to be ex-housemates have done most of it in my absence. It's a tight fit but it fills most of Eri's car, of course leaving no room for a passenger. She speeds off with all my possessions, I hello the new guy and farewell my two wonderful housemates, Ruth and Tammy, from one of the best sharehouses I've had the privilege to live in...sorry to see 'em go...
The trains are down, so it's looking like one big long bus to Victoria station, and it's the first slab of time in about a week where I haven't been on the train to a show or conducting or drinking a skinful, and so I seem to have no choice but to partake in a little public transport nap. It's Sunday night and there aren't too many crazies around on the 38, the big long bendy bus, the free bus, the robbery bus...of course forgetting the route of the 38, I'm stirred into waking somewhere in town, and it's Shaftesbury Ave, and I look out the window and THERE HE IS! The big spangly silver jacket on the big red square sign...aaarrrgh! Whether it be out on tour or here in town, I just can't bloody get away from the show!...
It takes me an hour but I finally get to our new place, and my gorgeous girlfriend has lugged just about all my stuff up two flights of stairs. I help her with the rest, and then it REALLY hits me...creeping carefully through the hall of our new flat, the smell of the bare white paint, the boxes everywhere...and all the thoughts, the daily noise, suddenly quiets in my head...the start of another chapter, a new beginning...
Who's It All About?
....I couldn't believe it, how incapable I felt writing out this silly card for a friend of mine!
When I was in full swing with the blog a couple of years ago, the creative juices felt like they were flowing, I was getting a bit of wordsmithery out here and there, it was all good....but then sure enough, life took over for a bit in the form of 'Thriller Live', the show I've been working on since May 2007, and it started to fall by the wayside.
I also went through a period where I couldn't help feeling that the whole thing was a bit self-centred. Me, writing about me, attempting to lend a descriptive edge to my daily goings-on...I didn't want to add any words to existing reservations about the self-centred nature of being in show biz.
But then, I'm not forcing anyone to read this, right? You can drop by if you like, or not. I've never swayed from my firm belief in lending a creative edge to one's daily existence (perhaps to share with the net at large) being a worthy pastime, nay, sometimes crucial for one's daily sanity.
So it might be a bit clunky at first, but that's the same as when I kicked the whole thing off. And it might not take the form it used to...I might just put random stuff up if I feel like it, it's my choice, right? But eventually I'm hoping that it'll get back into the rhythm.
AND I'm looking for any help I can get in terms of assisting my literary skills...writing competitions, grammar websites, anything....if anyone out there finds any links I'm all up for it....I was about to say 'well' up for it...there, it's already improving, right? (hee hee!)...
There also might be some exciting (and hopefully intriguing) recent developments to share with you all.
CURRENTLY READING:
Paul Auster, New York Trilogy
If On A Winter's Night A Traveller, Italo Calvino
CURRENTLY LISTENING:
Pat Metheney, The Way Up
Cold Chisel, Breakfast at Sweethearts
When I was in full swing with the blog a couple of years ago, the creative juices felt like they were flowing, I was getting a bit of wordsmithery out here and there, it was all good....but then sure enough, life took over for a bit in the form of 'Thriller Live', the show I've been working on since May 2007, and it started to fall by the wayside.
I also went through a period where I couldn't help feeling that the whole thing was a bit self-centred. Me, writing about me, attempting to lend a descriptive edge to my daily goings-on...I didn't want to add any words to existing reservations about the self-centred nature of being in show biz.
But then, I'm not forcing anyone to read this, right? You can drop by if you like, or not. I've never swayed from my firm belief in lending a creative edge to one's daily existence (perhaps to share with the net at large) being a worthy pastime, nay, sometimes crucial for one's daily sanity.
So it might be a bit clunky at first, but that's the same as when I kicked the whole thing off. And it might not take the form it used to...I might just put random stuff up if I feel like it, it's my choice, right? But eventually I'm hoping that it'll get back into the rhythm.
AND I'm looking for any help I can get in terms of assisting my literary skills...writing competitions, grammar websites, anything....if anyone out there finds any links I'm all up for it....I was about to say 'well' up for it...there, it's already improving, right? (hee hee!)...
There also might be some exciting (and hopefully intriguing) recent developments to share with you all.
CURRENTLY READING:
Paul Auster, New York Trilogy
If On A Winter's Night A Traveller, Italo Calvino
CURRENTLY LISTENING:
Pat Metheney, The Way Up
Cold Chisel, Breakfast at Sweethearts
09 July 2009
The Card
...Lyric Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue, half eleven, one evening mid week, about two months ago...
...what to write, what to write...
...I want to show him my appreciation, but not have it sound not too sycophantic...
...do I need to fill up a whole card? How bout less is more?....
...no, he's too wordy for that, you gotta speak on his level...
...okay, here goes...
In the middle of a hugely busy travelling week, and with the stage door guy about to burst in on his closing rounds, I press pen to paper in a slightly desperate attempt at a thank you letter...
...yeah, that'd sound clever...
...no, not so much, but what about...
...never know what to write in these things...
...are the other boys still at the pub? It's nearly an hour since curtain...
...what about this turn of phrase?...
...oh no! a scribble out, a mistake! terrible!...
...and another one!...
I get to the end of the second half of the card and cast an eye over the results...not impressed, a little disappointed even, but more importantly, what will he think? Have I just written a love letter to my effective employer?
And precisely at that moment....in the corner of my eye, at the end of the room....one of the famed Lyric theatre mice darts by!
Everyone's left the building, the residents are in, it's time to go....
And so I trudge out stage door into Great Windmill Street, past the gaudy red neon of the adjoining strip club, head hung at a most unimpressive attempt at a show of appreciation for the last two years of working with him.
But despite my dismay at a poorer hold on the English language than I'm sure I used to have, I'm guessing that the humorous card and mid-price-looking bottle of unfamiliar Aussie red might do something towards communicating the idea...
And what to do about these diminished abilities?....
...what to write, what to write...
...I want to show him my appreciation, but not have it sound not too sycophantic...
...do I need to fill up a whole card? How bout less is more?....
...no, he's too wordy for that, you gotta speak on his level...
...okay, here goes...
In the middle of a hugely busy travelling week, and with the stage door guy about to burst in on his closing rounds, I press pen to paper in a slightly desperate attempt at a thank you letter...
...yeah, that'd sound clever...
...no, not so much, but what about...
...never know what to write in these things...
...are the other boys still at the pub? It's nearly an hour since curtain...
...what about this turn of phrase?...
...oh no! a scribble out, a mistake! terrible!...
...and another one!...
I get to the end of the second half of the card and cast an eye over the results...not impressed, a little disappointed even, but more importantly, what will he think? Have I just written a love letter to my effective employer?
And precisely at that moment....in the corner of my eye, at the end of the room....one of the famed Lyric theatre mice darts by!
Everyone's left the building, the residents are in, it's time to go....
And so I trudge out stage door into Great Windmill Street, past the gaudy red neon of the adjoining strip club, head hung at a most unimpressive attempt at a show of appreciation for the last two years of working with him.
But despite my dismay at a poorer hold on the English language than I'm sure I used to have, I'm guessing that the humorous card and mid-price-looking bottle of unfamiliar Aussie red might do something towards communicating the idea...
And what to do about these diminished abilities?....
27 August 2008
The Arts Centre
...a nice pub by the river, Putney, South London, Friday afternoon...
The need for a pint after a play is, well, it's like ---, and of course it being the end of the week (even though weekdays don't mean anything to me anymore), the urge is just too difficult to resist, so after a rewarding session on organ with guitarist D in his tiny but cosy apartment, we wandered down to the Thames and met up with his loverly yogic guru partner the Mudgee Girl for a little tour of the establishments in the area.
It was two pints, maybe three, with no lunch or dinner and it went straight to my head and I'm off on a tangent about the most recent trip back home to rural New South Wales. And it's a full tangent, complete with descriptive passages leading to (hopefully) some sort of glowing fact about the place that I can relate to my counterparts, also originally from a similar place, that they won't find too boring in place of the football on the telly behind them.
"...he describes everything...it's okay, he always talks like this!" says D to Mudgee Girl and I'm broken from my reverie.
I don't know why it was, maybe it's because no-one ever actually said those words to me before, but it just hit me in a huge way that yes, that's how I talk. That's how I attempt to communicate to people, by trying to describe as much as possible of my subject in the hope that they will come to as complete an understanding as myself.
In general conversation, over a pint!
The son of teachers!
With little or no view to assumed knowledge, to suggestion, to the idea that the listeners might like to draw their own conclusions or make up their own minds about something, or that they simply may not be as interested in what I'm talking about as I am.
...and then, in the days and weeks afterward, subsequent conclusions about how I'd always had an immediate distrust of people who withheld information or gave no thought to inconsistency and fabrication, and how this was obviously at odds with my occupation as a musician, with the particular element of hanging out and talking with people in bars....but then conversely it also occurred to me how patronising I might sound in general conversation if I'm trying to explain too much to people.
And I'm suddenly working all this out within a year of my thirtieth birthday?...
The subject I was talking of at the time was a source of great excitement to myself and a host of people in my hometown, that is, the ongoing evolution of the Cootamundra Arts Centre. Before my three year sojourn in the UK, the idea of transforming a disused woolskin factory into a community-owned complex for the promotion and production of multiple artistic disciplines originating locally and beyond was mere talk, and anyone who lives or grew up in a small country town knows that there's no shortage of that.
Via an immigration scandal involving a false international company (a whole other story) and the intervention of a committed group of local citizens, on my eponymous return in December 07 I was amazed and delighted to find that it was up and running, a work in progress no doubt but already a functioning venue for visual and performing arts, complete with white grand piano. Consequently, before my return to the UK I held two concerts there with different groups of musicians imported from Canberra and Sydney to excellent turn-outs and crowd responses.
Now, in this fifth week (of hopefully no more than nine) of my return to Australia and subsequent bureaucratic incarceration, I was lucky enough to be bribed into performing solo at the Arts Centre this very afternoon for a group of sculptors, here in Cootamundra today for the official opening of the Bradman Walk, a series of bronze busts of all the various Australian cricket captains, complete with a full-size of the Don himself who would have turned 100 today.
After the official unveiling the sculptors were invited down to the Arts Centre for a reception/afternoon tea, for which yours truly was the monkey organ grinder installation. After they all trailed off there were talk amongst the locals that the sculptors, all from out of town, were all impressed with the establishment, complete with plans on display for the 120-seat theatre to be built in the largest of the sheds of the complex.
It just thrills me so much that one of the potential drawcards of the town is artistic in nature. In this region of New South Wales there are a collection of towns of a similar size to Cootamundra, all of which can propser or fail with the potential, realised or un-realised, for visitors and passing trade. In previous years, here in Coota it was things like the rail freight centre and public offices that pulled people through and into town. With these things now gone, the town needs to constantly keep it's eye on other attractions. If this Arts Centre can become a fully recognised venue for visiting performing and creative artists, still within easy travelling distance between the nation's capital and it's largest city, it could be very promising times for the Wattle Town indeed.
I must send a link of this entry to D and Mudgee Girl, in the hope that they'll finally know what I was on about!...
The need for a pint after a play is, well, it's like ---, and of course it being the end of the week (even though weekdays don't mean anything to me anymore), the urge is just too difficult to resist, so after a rewarding session on organ with guitarist D in his tiny but cosy apartment, we wandered down to the Thames and met up with his loverly yogic guru partner the Mudgee Girl for a little tour of the establishments in the area.
It was two pints, maybe three, with no lunch or dinner and it went straight to my head and I'm off on a tangent about the most recent trip back home to rural New South Wales. And it's a full tangent, complete with descriptive passages leading to (hopefully) some sort of glowing fact about the place that I can relate to my counterparts, also originally from a similar place, that they won't find too boring in place of the football on the telly behind them.
"...he describes everything...it's okay, he always talks like this!" says D to Mudgee Girl and I'm broken from my reverie.
I don't know why it was, maybe it's because no-one ever actually said those words to me before, but it just hit me in a huge way that yes, that's how I talk. That's how I attempt to communicate to people, by trying to describe as much as possible of my subject in the hope that they will come to as complete an understanding as myself.
In general conversation, over a pint!
The son of teachers!
With little or no view to assumed knowledge, to suggestion, to the idea that the listeners might like to draw their own conclusions or make up their own minds about something, or that they simply may not be as interested in what I'm talking about as I am.
...and then, in the days and weeks afterward, subsequent conclusions about how I'd always had an immediate distrust of people who withheld information or gave no thought to inconsistency and fabrication, and how this was obviously at odds with my occupation as a musician, with the particular element of hanging out and talking with people in bars....but then conversely it also occurred to me how patronising I might sound in general conversation if I'm trying to explain too much to people.
And I'm suddenly working all this out within a year of my thirtieth birthday?...
The subject I was talking of at the time was a source of great excitement to myself and a host of people in my hometown, that is, the ongoing evolution of the Cootamundra Arts Centre. Before my three year sojourn in the UK, the idea of transforming a disused woolskin factory into a community-owned complex for the promotion and production of multiple artistic disciplines originating locally and beyond was mere talk, and anyone who lives or grew up in a small country town knows that there's no shortage of that.
Via an immigration scandal involving a false international company (a whole other story) and the intervention of a committed group of local citizens, on my eponymous return in December 07 I was amazed and delighted to find that it was up and running, a work in progress no doubt but already a functioning venue for visual and performing arts, complete with white grand piano. Consequently, before my return to the UK I held two concerts there with different groups of musicians imported from Canberra and Sydney to excellent turn-outs and crowd responses.
Now, in this fifth week (of hopefully no more than nine) of my return to Australia and subsequent bureaucratic incarceration, I was lucky enough to be bribed into performing solo at the Arts Centre this very afternoon for a group of sculptors, here in Cootamundra today for the official opening of the Bradman Walk, a series of bronze busts of all the various Australian cricket captains, complete with a full-size of the Don himself who would have turned 100 today.
After the official unveiling the sculptors were invited down to the Arts Centre for a reception/afternoon tea, for which yours truly was the monkey organ grinder installation. After they all trailed off there were talk amongst the locals that the sculptors, all from out of town, were all impressed with the establishment, complete with plans on display for the 120-seat theatre to be built in the largest of the sheds of the complex.
It just thrills me so much that one of the potential drawcards of the town is artistic in nature. In this region of New South Wales there are a collection of towns of a similar size to Cootamundra, all of which can propser or fail with the potential, realised or un-realised, for visitors and passing trade. In previous years, here in Coota it was things like the rail freight centre and public offices that pulled people through and into town. With these things now gone, the town needs to constantly keep it's eye on other attractions. If this Arts Centre can become a fully recognised venue for visiting performing and creative artists, still within easy travelling distance between the nation's capital and it's largest city, it could be very promising times for the Wattle Town indeed.
I must send a link of this entry to D and Mudgee Girl, in the hope that they'll finally know what I was on about!...
28 April 2008
Workin' Day And Night...
I got in quite late, about half three…the previous times I’ve stormed the stairs of her house she’s been kind of awake, but this particular night I knew as soon as I touched her that I was waking her from an unmemorably deep sleep…exhausted from a week’s touring I curled up beside her and watched as she sank back into the realm…
My walk to the tube later in the morning was marked by the growing realisation that the English summer is definitely on its way. It gets in under your clothes, stays with your every thought like an old joke you can’t quite remember. For after the English lion of a nine-month winter, one's memories of the warmer times almost vanish into the drizzle until sure enough the thaw comes around. A concept such as drawing heat AND warmth from the sun simultaneously (usually mutually exclusive in this country) becomes a frightening possibility.
My second day ‘off’ from touring was spent at the Pineapple studios on Langley Street in Covent Garden, a day of auditions and recalls for JM’s other show for which I attended as faithful organ grinder monkey piano player for willing contestants. Last week we were at the top, today in the basement, under absurd conditions. Intimate bedroom scenes played out before us were accompanied from the room to our left by rehearsals for the new production of ‘Chess’, then at times from the rehearsal above of the new production of ‘A Chorus Line’. Then of course the Chess people wanted air conditioning, which in a typically absurd English building kind of way set off the air conditioning in our room as well, noisy and cold. What were we to have next, burst Victorian water mains from the floor as well?!
So I didn’t play much but got to watch some stellar acting and great singing…
In the afternoon I called a good friend of mine who was at a bit of a loose end with hemispheres and freelance music career and relationships and stuff. Having had some experience with these matters, a stir-fry led to a bottle of wine led to another excursion into Henry VIII's old hunting fields of Soho to meet up with PR for another night on the lash (is that the expression?) at Gerry’s. This was meant to be my off night, nice takeaway curry with Medusa at her house, quiet movie, but no, it’s back into the den of iniquity on Dean Street….
We flew to Amsterdam today for Thriller’s Dutch leg…it’s so nice to be back in the continent, little things like people being happy and stuff working and looking nice…I didn’t hit the nightlife of the northern town of Zwolle like most of the rest of the guys, instead sitting in at the hotel bar with the band boys and some solid scotch…
My walk to the tube later in the morning was marked by the growing realisation that the English summer is definitely on its way. It gets in under your clothes, stays with your every thought like an old joke you can’t quite remember. For after the English lion of a nine-month winter, one's memories of the warmer times almost vanish into the drizzle until sure enough the thaw comes around. A concept such as drawing heat AND warmth from the sun simultaneously (usually mutually exclusive in this country) becomes a frightening possibility.
My second day ‘off’ from touring was spent at the Pineapple studios on Langley Street in Covent Garden, a day of auditions and recalls for JM’s other show for which I attended as faithful organ grinder monkey piano player for willing contestants. Last week we were at the top, today in the basement, under absurd conditions. Intimate bedroom scenes played out before us were accompanied from the room to our left by rehearsals for the new production of ‘Chess’, then at times from the rehearsal above of the new production of ‘A Chorus Line’. Then of course the Chess people wanted air conditioning, which in a typically absurd English building kind of way set off the air conditioning in our room as well, noisy and cold. What were we to have next, burst Victorian water mains from the floor as well?!
So I didn’t play much but got to watch some stellar acting and great singing…
In the afternoon I called a good friend of mine who was at a bit of a loose end with hemispheres and freelance music career and relationships and stuff. Having had some experience with these matters, a stir-fry led to a bottle of wine led to another excursion into Henry VIII's old hunting fields of Soho to meet up with PR for another night on the lash (is that the expression?) at Gerry’s. This was meant to be my off night, nice takeaway curry with Medusa at her house, quiet movie, but no, it’s back into the den of iniquity on Dean Street….
We flew to Amsterdam today for Thriller’s Dutch leg…it’s so nice to be back in the continent, little things like people being happy and stuff working and looking nice…I didn’t hit the nightlife of the northern town of Zwolle like most of the rest of the guys, instead sitting in at the hotel bar with the band boys and some solid scotch…
20 December 2007
Hometown
...'You can stay here forever if you like. What, did you think I was gonna start charging you rent?'...
I was being too polite again, just thought I'd ask me old pa if I could stay another month on top of the two and a half already planned. Dunno why I asked really, just wanted to make sure is all.
But what a thought! Stay here forever, in this beautiful little country town with my mum and dad in our gorgeous townhouse, wander down every day to the Arts Centre and get a flat white before a couple hours on the grand piano there...surrounded in my room by the books of my childhood...wake up to the sound of rain on the tin roof...not go back to the UK, not even Melbourne, just stay here and practice and read books for the rest of my life. What a wonderful thought!...
I was being too polite again, just thought I'd ask me old pa if I could stay another month on top of the two and a half already planned. Dunno why I asked really, just wanted to make sure is all.
But what a thought! Stay here forever, in this beautiful little country town with my mum and dad in our gorgeous townhouse, wander down every day to the Arts Centre and get a flat white before a couple hours on the grand piano there...surrounded in my room by the books of my childhood...wake up to the sound of rain on the tin roof...not go back to the UK, not even Melbourne, just stay here and practice and read books for the rest of my life. What a wonderful thought!...
15 November 2007
Barthelona!
NFA Day 56
...so she has pale skin a-freckled, and a big mop of black curly hair, and shimmering, dragon-green eyes like creamy jade...and last Sunday she took me to this great place on Southbank, near Waterloo station, behind the restaurant Las Iguanas, right across from Royal Festival Hall....for any Londoners I thoroughly recommend it....it's like French patisserie meets Italian antipasto and all kinds of nutty breads and full desert....scrumptious stuff...
What an afternoon that was...I remember now! I used to do this with someone on a regular basis, a good while ago, in a land far away, before a money-driven bachelor working life took over, motivated by the Edge of London, fuelled on baked beans and meals at gigs. But not last Sunday...a nice walk, and loverly conversation, over a gorgeous meal on a lazy Sunday afternoon where the commanding hands of the clock hung loose and limp. A welcome change from tour buses and half an hour to grab a £3.80 sandwhich at a random services on the M something somewhere among the green fields....
So it was this same place on the waterfront that I took my old and fine feathered friend D-Funk on Wednesday night. He's got an inkling that I'm not gonna be around here for a while, and so on Facebook instigation we met at the great southern rail juncture of the city and headed for the river. We've known each other for ten years, and tonight would be no exception...two bottles of red later, we wind up at Gordon's Wine Bar on the other side of the river for what? some more! and then another pub just up the road for some BEER! If she hadn't scooped us off the pavement and whisked us away, I don't know what would have happened....
...which of course made the next morning far more entertaining as her and I coached it up to Stansted for an early morning Ryanscare flight to Spain's great coastal city. Nooooo, don't make me walk any more from the bus station to the apartment check in, and then another fifteen minutes? I can barely stand, in fact I can barely stand being alive right now....first tip to anyone thinking about coming here...those regular city blocks on the map are far bigger in real life, especially with a lashing hangover...
...so she has pale skin a-freckled, and a big mop of black curly hair, and shimmering, dragon-green eyes like creamy jade...and last Sunday she took me to this great place on Southbank, near Waterloo station, behind the restaurant Las Iguanas, right across from Royal Festival Hall....for any Londoners I thoroughly recommend it....it's like French patisserie meets Italian antipasto and all kinds of nutty breads and full desert....scrumptious stuff...
What an afternoon that was...I remember now! I used to do this with someone on a regular basis, a good while ago, in a land far away, before a money-driven bachelor working life took over, motivated by the Edge of London, fuelled on baked beans and meals at gigs. But not last Sunday...a nice walk, and loverly conversation, over a gorgeous meal on a lazy Sunday afternoon where the commanding hands of the clock hung loose and limp. A welcome change from tour buses and half an hour to grab a £3.80 sandwhich at a random services on the M something somewhere among the green fields....
So it was this same place on the waterfront that I took my old and fine feathered friend D-Funk on Wednesday night. He's got an inkling that I'm not gonna be around here for a while, and so on Facebook instigation we met at the great southern rail juncture of the city and headed for the river. We've known each other for ten years, and tonight would be no exception...two bottles of red later, we wind up at Gordon's Wine Bar on the other side of the river for what? some more! and then another pub just up the road for some BEER! If she hadn't scooped us off the pavement and whisked us away, I don't know what would have happened....
...which of course made the next morning far more entertaining as her and I coached it up to Stansted for an early morning Ryanscare flight to Spain's great coastal city. Nooooo, don't make me walk any more from the bus station to the apartment check in, and then another fifteen minutes? I can barely stand, in fact I can barely stand being alive right now....first tip to anyone thinking about coming here...those regular city blocks on the map are far bigger in real life, especially with a lashing hangover...
13 November 2007
A Meal
...I cooked a meal! A massive one, for all the people I was staying with and a straggler. Two things: One, after living no fixed address for fifty-four days on the trot now, it's such a treat to cook a meal, and two, it was for a whole bunch of new friends! Sure, it was a super-easy university-dorm-level Mexican thing, but it was massive and it filled five bellies and we all sat around on the couch afterwards and watched TV - what a treat!, for me at least.
At this transient time in my life where I don't know if I'm coming or going, what hemisphere I'm going to be living in for the near future, hanging out with a certain someone where it's felt the best it has for a long time, and also having been recently extracted from my main source of employment/big bunch of travelling mates with the show, it was just plain great to sit in someone's house and eat a happy-making meal, that I cooked, that was enjoyed by all.
London Tourist
NFA Day 54
...and so I find myself back in London, currently gigless.....well, aside from a three-dayer with another show in Germany in December. It was all politics, my friends, which resulted in the two weeks notice given....yep, was well looking forward to six months of steady work next year, but after five months and with merely three weeks to go before the winter break, not even memorising the pad and playing it better than the guy who wrote it, nor my impeccable professionalism and conduct, could keep me in the keys 1 chair of 'Dancing In The Streets'. And so last Saturday it was farewell to my newfound friends, the company I felt I'd only just gelled with, the people I was looking forward to working with for a while yet, for another itinerant return to London for a while.
The last couple of visits I've felt like a real tourist, compelled to take photographs of stuff I come across - a church with a dragon windvane, or a pedestal with a golden eagle on it on the other side of the river.
About a fortnight ago the show was in Dartford, about a forty-five minute train ride away, and on a particular commute around dusk, the train trundled over Charing Cross bridge, the sun was at just about the right level and there it was, the semi-fabled Waterloo Sunset, where the pallid grey gloom of the buildings that face the river were suddenly awash with pink. In three years, London had never appeared so beautiful.
But like most things in this town, blink and you miss it...that late summer sweetness has given way to the cold and gloom, when this place becomes real depressing, and I'm enjoying being a visitor once again, especially in recent times keeping company with a certain pale-skinned, freckled girl with a mop of black curly hair and shimmering green eyes. We're off somewhere totally new this Thursday, somewhere I've always wanted to go, and if you're lucky, noble reader, I may even write here about it!...
...and so I find myself back in London, currently gigless.....well, aside from a three-dayer with another show in Germany in December. It was all politics, my friends, which resulted in the two weeks notice given....yep, was well looking forward to six months of steady work next year, but after five months and with merely three weeks to go before the winter break, not even memorising the pad and playing it better than the guy who wrote it, nor my impeccable professionalism and conduct, could keep me in the keys 1 chair of 'Dancing In The Streets'. And so last Saturday it was farewell to my newfound friends, the company I felt I'd only just gelled with, the people I was looking forward to working with for a while yet, for another itinerant return to London for a while.
The last couple of visits I've felt like a real tourist, compelled to take photographs of stuff I come across - a church with a dragon windvane, or a pedestal with a golden eagle on it on the other side of the river.
About a fortnight ago the show was in Dartford, about a forty-five minute train ride away, and on a particular commute around dusk, the train trundled over Charing Cross bridge, the sun was at just about the right level and there it was, the semi-fabled Waterloo Sunset, where the pallid grey gloom of the buildings that face the river were suddenly awash with pink. In three years, London had never appeared so beautiful.
But like most things in this town, blink and you miss it...that late summer sweetness has given way to the cold and gloom, when this place becomes real depressing, and I'm enjoying being a visitor once again, especially in recent times keeping company with a certain pale-skinned, freckled girl with a mop of black curly hair and shimmering green eyes. We're off somewhere totally new this Thursday, somewhere I've always wanted to go, and if you're lucky, noble reader, I may even write here about it!...
01 November 2007
Dancing In The Streets - Southport
NFA Day 42
We’d been here about three weeks ago with Thriller, at the same venue, but hadn’t gotten past the seaside. I get the impression that Southport was built in the Victorian era, what with the grandeur of our hotel, The Prince Of Wales, and the massive boulevard that I assume is the ‘high road’. After a couple of drinks at the smallest pub in the UK, not far from the theatre, and then one more at the Wetherspoons across the intersection, Matt and Andy and I stumbled into the foyer to find a free PC to check email. But no, it was not to be, as cookies are disabled. What the hell is a cookie?
‘It’s our paranoid IT guy,’ says the concierge. ‘Someone tried to look up the lotto the other day and was denied.’
After three glasses of red I suddenly replied, ‘The words ‘Fawlty Towers’ spring to mind.’
‘That’s right, and you’re only staying here the night!’
We’d been here about three weeks ago with Thriller, at the same venue, but hadn’t gotten past the seaside. I get the impression that Southport was built in the Victorian era, what with the grandeur of our hotel, The Prince Of Wales, and the massive boulevard that I assume is the ‘high road’. After a couple of drinks at the smallest pub in the UK, not far from the theatre, and then one more at the Wetherspoons across the intersection, Matt and Andy and I stumbled into the foyer to find a free PC to check email. But no, it was not to be, as cookies are disabled. What the hell is a cookie?
‘It’s our paranoid IT guy,’ says the concierge. ‘Someone tried to look up the lotto the other day and was denied.’
After three glasses of red I suddenly replied, ‘The words ‘Fawlty Towers’ spring to mind.’
‘That’s right, and you’re only staying here the night!’
20 October 2007
Coventry
...so it's been a nutty two months, as you can imagine...after Berlin I had some time off before Thriller 'went out' again for six weeks, mainly UK but just got back from 12 days in Denmark and a one off in Gothenborg in Sweden - more on that later. So after a rip-roaring time it's straight to a week in the Midlands....I was warned about this place.....
So, on this, my last day here, highlights of this week have included:
* - Lots of concrete, due to heavy bombing in WWII and subsequent redevelopment of the city into white boxes...
* - More than eight hours of rain on Wednesday
* - The Lady Godiva statue - depicted with a cunningly placed piece of cloth, and riding side saddle (so naked through the streets on horseback was fine obviously but still a lady)...
* - Coventry cathedral, which is amazing - walked in to the theatre from our B and B the other morning and had a look - the ruin of a 14th century masterpiece is adjoined perpendicular by the new 50s era cathedral...WWII history isn't ingrained into the streets of London as much as it is in Berlin, and so here was a tangible, walk-through reminder of those dark times....
* - Tonights performance which was signed, something a little different, watching all those famous Motown lyrics in hand gestures....
So it's a 4pm matinee and then our last show tomorrow night before a day off and then a week in Dartford, Essex - wow, can't wait for that one! Living the dream I guess....due to my current status of no fixed address, I'm currently planning a succession of couches across London to stay on across the week before a fortnight of one-nighters on the road in places like Stoke-On-Trent and Swindon....more from this terribly exciting life soon enough...
So, on this, my last day here, highlights of this week have included:
* - Lots of concrete, due to heavy bombing in WWII and subsequent redevelopment of the city into white boxes...
* - More than eight hours of rain on Wednesday
* - The Lady Godiva statue - depicted with a cunningly placed piece of cloth, and riding side saddle (so naked through the streets on horseback was fine obviously but still a lady)...
* - Coventry cathedral, which is amazing - walked in to the theatre from our B and B the other morning and had a look - the ruin of a 14th century masterpiece is adjoined perpendicular by the new 50s era cathedral...WWII history isn't ingrained into the streets of London as much as it is in Berlin, and so here was a tangible, walk-through reminder of those dark times....
* - Tonights performance which was signed, something a little different, watching all those famous Motown lyrics in hand gestures....
So it's a 4pm matinee and then our last show tomorrow night before a day off and then a week in Dartford, Essex - wow, can't wait for that one! Living the dream I guess....due to my current status of no fixed address, I'm currently planning a succession of couches across London to stay on across the week before a fortnight of one-nighters on the road in places like Stoke-On-Trent and Swindon....more from this terribly exciting life soon enough...
15 August 2007
Escape from Berlin
On my last day in this incredible central European capital, I took advice from yesterday’s guide and ascended the Reichstag. For free entry it’s one of the best views of the centre of town – the dome was shut that morning but normally one can walk right to the top.
The city is known for it’s museums – the World Heritage-listed island full of them in the middle of town was my next stop, but waiting in the queue for the Pergamon, the one full of ancient Greek and Roman sculpture, I realised that after Ludwig’s magnificent palaces and indeed most of Munich and Berlin, I’d seen enough imagery of antiquity for a while, and hopped the U-Bahn south to my plan B, the Jewish Museum.
Quite a recent addition to the city’s historical collection, it’s harsh, angular, metallic exterior houses a building of sloping walkways and empty concrete shafts spanning from basement to ceiling. An enduring motif here is emptiness, not only a reflection of Jewish history in this country, but also a stylistic feature of architect Daniel Liebeskind, in that the features of the building are left open to interpretation.
After a bilingual history of the Jews in Germany and various periods ranging between social acceptance and indiscriminate slaughter, the circuit ended with the Garden of Exile, similar to the memorial at the Tiergarten but set at a steeper slope, the vertical concrete blocks much closer together, more constrictive, unsettling.
Upon leaving, that larger question for me remained, of why such a learned, cultured people have been subject to endless persecution across the globe since ancient times. Some light was shed on various myths surrounding the Jews; for example, under the Holy Roman Empire, one of the only occupations through the Middle Ages allowed to Jews was money lending, creating a certain historical reputation. But that larger question still remained, for me, unanswered.
Before the late flight, I went back to Bergmanstrasse for my last meal. After a couple of miserable days, summer opened the skies back up again, inviting a quick scout around the neighbouring streets, some perfectly preserved in the style I’d seen in the north in Prenzlauer.
I learnt only later that in the West Berlin days, Kreuzberg was the hang of visiting rockers and artisans, an area worth checking on my next visit.
The city is known for it’s museums – the World Heritage-listed island full of them in the middle of town was my next stop, but waiting in the queue for the Pergamon, the one full of ancient Greek and Roman sculpture, I realised that after Ludwig’s magnificent palaces and indeed most of Munich and Berlin, I’d seen enough imagery of antiquity for a while, and hopped the U-Bahn south to my plan B, the Jewish Museum.
Quite a recent addition to the city’s historical collection, it’s harsh, angular, metallic exterior houses a building of sloping walkways and empty concrete shafts spanning from basement to ceiling. An enduring motif here is emptiness, not only a reflection of Jewish history in this country, but also a stylistic feature of architect Daniel Liebeskind, in that the features of the building are left open to interpretation.
After a bilingual history of the Jews in Germany and various periods ranging between social acceptance and indiscriminate slaughter, the circuit ended with the Garden of Exile, similar to the memorial at the Tiergarten but set at a steeper slope, the vertical concrete blocks much closer together, more constrictive, unsettling.
Upon leaving, that larger question for me remained, of why such a learned, cultured people have been subject to endless persecution across the globe since ancient times. Some light was shed on various myths surrounding the Jews; for example, under the Holy Roman Empire, one of the only occupations through the Middle Ages allowed to Jews was money lending, creating a certain historical reputation. But that larger question still remained, for me, unanswered.
Before the late flight, I went back to Bergmanstrasse for my last meal. After a couple of miserable days, summer opened the skies back up again, inviting a quick scout around the neighbouring streets, some perfectly preserved in the style I’d seen in the north in Prenzlauer.
I learnt only later that in the West Berlin days, Kreuzberg was the hang of visiting rockers and artisans, an area worth checking on my next visit.
14 August 2007
Secret Berlin Tour
Oh how wonderful it is to be in a country where the weather changes naturally, gradually. Yesterday’s raininess was followed this morning by what? Oh my god, it’s a sunny day! And set to stay for most of the day. I was all fired up to hit the museums but two and a half years of vitamin D withdrawals commanded me from the sub-atomic level to stay outside as long as possible.
I found a secret Berlin walking tour (that is, of old secret stories in Berlin) and hooked up on that near Zoo station, the old hub of West Berlin, which basically looked like it hadn’t changed since the mid 60s. Our guide took us back and forth across town, including the Wall Memorial; a storeys-high platform looks down upon a recreated part of the original ‘death strip’, the space between the two walls. Just along is the newly built Church Of Reconciliaiton, a traditional looking church stuck in the death strip until 1985 when levelled by the GDR, replaced after 1990 with a small concrete and wood chapel.
In total contrast, the guide then took us to Karl Marx Allee, previously known as Stalin Allee, a good couple of kilometres of yellow and white tiled model apartment blocks in Stalinist style, still immaculately preserved, built in the early 50s to show the rest of the world the marvellous accommodation available for the workers of the GDR.
Not far further on the S Bahn was the Stasi headquarters, a bleak collection of office buildings, where the tour ended.
In all the stories told to us by the guide of ordinary people and officials bucking the various systems, a recurring theme was the ‘threshold’ – where was that space, that moment in time, what was that particular motivation, where citizens stopped being compliant and started resisting?
I guess this tied in with my own interest in the tour, in the society of Nazi Germany but also of the GDR. How did these people (indeed, how does any people anywhere) go around their business, in a relatively functioning society, with the daily knowledge that a massive secret police system, the Stasi, as well as a system of civilian informants (almost triple in number to the Stasi) was keeping an eye on their every move? How could you trust your neighbour, your family, indeed, anybody?
On this, my last night on the continent for a while, I took advice from the tour guide and walked about fifteen minutes south of my hostel to Bergmanstrasse, a gorgeous old suburban street lined with huge trees, full of cafes and restaurants.
In my role as travelling musician, I felt a little remiss at not having made more effort to check out the local scene, seek out some live music, but I was on holiday and I decided to do ordinary person things instead (like watching ‘The Simpsons’ movie at Potsdamer Platz last night – it was okay, but I liked ‘Transformers’ better)…
I found a secret Berlin walking tour (that is, of old secret stories in Berlin) and hooked up on that near Zoo station, the old hub of West Berlin, which basically looked like it hadn’t changed since the mid 60s. Our guide took us back and forth across town, including the Wall Memorial; a storeys-high platform looks down upon a recreated part of the original ‘death strip’, the space between the two walls. Just along is the newly built Church Of Reconciliaiton, a traditional looking church stuck in the death strip until 1985 when levelled by the GDR, replaced after 1990 with a small concrete and wood chapel.
In total contrast, the guide then took us to Karl Marx Allee, previously known as Stalin Allee, a good couple of kilometres of yellow and white tiled model apartment blocks in Stalinist style, still immaculately preserved, built in the early 50s to show the rest of the world the marvellous accommodation available for the workers of the GDR.
Not far further on the S Bahn was the Stasi headquarters, a bleak collection of office buildings, where the tour ended.
In all the stories told to us by the guide of ordinary people and officials bucking the various systems, a recurring theme was the ‘threshold’ – where was that space, that moment in time, what was that particular motivation, where citizens stopped being compliant and started resisting?
I guess this tied in with my own interest in the tour, in the society of Nazi Germany but also of the GDR. How did these people (indeed, how does any people anywhere) go around their business, in a relatively functioning society, with the daily knowledge that a massive secret police system, the Stasi, as well as a system of civilian informants (almost triple in number to the Stasi) was keeping an eye on their every move? How could you trust your neighbour, your family, indeed, anybody?
On this, my last night on the continent for a while, I took advice from the tour guide and walked about fifteen minutes south of my hostel to Bergmanstrasse, a gorgeous old suburban street lined with huge trees, full of cafes and restaurants.
In my role as travelling musician, I felt a little remiss at not having made more effort to check out the local scene, seek out some live music, but I was on holiday and I decided to do ordinary person things instead (like watching ‘The Simpsons’ movie at Potsdamer Platz last night – it was okay, but I liked ‘Transformers’ better)…
13 August 2007
A Work In Progress
I tripped back up to Prenzlauer for some breakfast, a little less successful this time. My two favourite cafes didn’t open until midday so I had to settle for one round the corner. Most of the museums are closed here in Berlin on Mondays, and since the weather opened up in the morning I decided to take a stroll through the Tiergarten, the huge tract of parkland west of the Brandenburg Gate.
Part of the way from Prenzlauer to Zoo stations was on the S-Bahn, the German equivalent of London’s ‘overland’ but is practically the same as the underground. Travelling east to west, across the river, the museum island and buildings north of Unter Den Linden, it’s another good aerial viewpoint of the city, a moving platform from which to observe a work in progress.
I came up to the Victoria statue atop the pedestal at Groser Stern and was impressed at the fact that it was bigger than I expected, probably due to the fact that it was bigger than the one I saw in Munich about a month ago. This Berlin one must be at least ten metres high, and one can walk right up the pedestal to its base. Taking a couple of grey landscape pics, wanting to beat the ensuing rush back down a tiny spiral staircase, I legged it over to the nearby café for a Schofferhoffer, a Wiener Schnitzel and a read of my current book, Hemingways ‘A Moveable Feast’, no mean feat itself sitting in front of six lanes of traffic with more than the occasional rain droplet leaking through the tree above.
Part of the way from Prenzlauer to Zoo stations was on the S-Bahn, the German equivalent of London’s ‘overland’ but is practically the same as the underground. Travelling east to west, across the river, the museum island and buildings north of Unter Den Linden, it’s another good aerial viewpoint of the city, a moving platform from which to observe a work in progress.
I came up to the Victoria statue atop the pedestal at Groser Stern and was impressed at the fact that it was bigger than I expected, probably due to the fact that it was bigger than the one I saw in Munich about a month ago. This Berlin one must be at least ten metres high, and one can walk right up the pedestal to its base. Taking a couple of grey landscape pics, wanting to beat the ensuing rush back down a tiny spiral staircase, I legged it over to the nearby café for a Schofferhoffer, a Wiener Schnitzel and a read of my current book, Hemingways ‘A Moveable Feast’, no mean feat itself sitting in front of six lanes of traffic with more than the occasional rain droplet leaking through the tree above.
12 August 2007
In Seventeen Years
I went back up to Prenzlauer for some afternoon breakfast, deciding on a corner café round the quieter end of Helmholtzplatz, devouring a tasty panini and trying not to stare at the model-looking friend of the waitresses who was sitting at the end of the bar. Still rubbish weather but it didn’t stop me taking the four o’clock free walking tour from Brandenburg Gate, including the Holocaust Memorial, Hitler’s bunker site, Checkpoint Charlie, the site of the 1933 bookburning and finishing up at the Museum on the island.
I’ve only been here two days, and walking amongst the streets I’m starting to find that the whole place looks, as our tour guide put it, like it’s still all under construction. Barely seventeen years after the wall came down, a random, broken-up feel pervades – turn a corner past some baroque magnificence and you’re at an old GDR apartment block, or an empty patch of land, or a really hip café. It’s all jumbled up, and as a result still open for change and development, which is of course a thrilling prospect. I’m trying to imagine what it’s all going to be like in another seventeen years.
I’ve only been here two days, and walking amongst the streets I’m starting to find that the whole place looks, as our tour guide put it, like it’s still all under construction. Barely seventeen years after the wall came down, a random, broken-up feel pervades – turn a corner past some baroque magnificence and you’re at an old GDR apartment block, or an empty patch of land, or a really hip café. It’s all jumbled up, and as a result still open for change and development, which is of course a thrilling prospect. I’m trying to imagine what it’s all going to be like in another seventeen years.
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