This show is the funniest thing I've seen for ages! If you get the chance to go and see it at the Noel Coward Theatre in London, you must go. The boyfriend and I went to see it last week and had a fantastic time.
"Avenue Q" is like a warped version of "Sesame Street", where puppets and humans in a rundown New York neighbourhood share the traditional dilemmas of young adulthood. The agony of trying to work out your life's purpose is rendered into a hilarious series of songs and spoof educational animated films. The puppets face racism, commitment phobia, repressed homosexuality and all sorts of other issues. The most bizarre thing is that you actually come to care for them and identify with them as their lives get increasingly crap, yet you can't help but laugh an awful lot too.
The comedy is so sharp and funny because it has such a powerful element of truth about it. When a large, hairy monster starts singing that "The internet is really, really great... for porn," you know that he's singing what everyone is actually thinking. Actually, I found this particularly amusing as I've spent the past nine months researching whether or not the internet is really, really great... for creating a new kind of democratic public sphere through a fresh approach to news reporting. But really, deep down, I've always known that it's for porn. "Avenue Q" exploits to spectacular effect the fact that it's far easier to sing what can't be said out loud, particularly if you've got your hand up a puppet's bum when you're singing it. This is why songs such as "Everyone's a little bit racist", "If you were gay, that'd be okay" and "It sucks to be me" are so wittily effective, and surely destined to become classics.
The entire cast is extremely talented, not least because they weren't actually trained to use puppets before doing the show. So I guess they've had to learn a whole new form of expression, as well as getting rid of the notion that puppets are cute and cuddly children's playthings (something that the audience had well and truly done by the end of the two hour performance). For the most part the performers were young, too, and a lot were making their West End debuts, so maybe there was a bit of empathy there between them and their puppet characters. Who knows what the winning formula was, but it worked. The show is brilliant and it provides the perfect acerbic antedote to the schmaltzy, sugary overdose of niceness that invades entertainment of all kinds around Christmas time. It made me laugh. A lot. An awful lot.
The boyfriend has been telling everyone to go and see it because "It's great - it's got everything - even puppet sex!" Do you really need any more of an endorsement than that?
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
The Producers
The boyfriend and I took our respective mothers to see "The Producers" at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, on Saturday. It was worth the associated stress of meeting our parents to see the show, which turned out to be really funny. It's based on the Mel Brooks film, with the central premise being that two Jewish theatre impressarios put on a spectacularly bad, tasteless musical entitled "Springtime for Hitler", intending to make money from it being a flop via some form of tax scam. Now, I have immense respect for the brain of anyone who can come up with that kind of idea for a plot!
I had a housemate at university who loved Mel Brooks and suddenly all of his comedic points of reference now make hilarious sense. I had not laughed so much in a long time - the show closes for good in January so I really wanted to see it before then, and I wasn't dissappointed. Reece Shearsmith (one of the "League of Gentlemen") turned in a great performance as accountant-turned-producer Leo Bloom. There's always a kind of surprising satisfaction whan you find out that someone who isn't known as a singer can actually sing, isn't there? And not just sing - engage in the full onslaught of musical theatre, with all of the physicality that it necessitates. We went to the afternoon performance, and thus we watched an understudy play the central role of Max Bialystock (Kit Newman instead of Cory English), but he was fantastic too. It seemed like a really demanding part to play. He was in pretty much all of the big numbers and he had a real belting energy in his voice. His characterisation was superb and you'd never have guessed that he wasn't the big-name, first-choice for the part. As if that wasn't enough, the show also had tapdancing grannies with zimmer frames, animatronic pigeons and, of course, the showstopping number "Springtime for Hitler", with the Third Reich realised in true Busby Berkeley style. Who could ask for anything more?
The only problem now is that I can't stop singing "Springtime for Hitler and Germany, winter for Poland and France...". As this floats through the criminally thin walls of our cottage, devoid of context, I fear that it is giving our neighbours the impression that we have become neo-nazis. Perhaps I should try and persuade them to go and see the show.
I had a housemate at university who loved Mel Brooks and suddenly all of his comedic points of reference now make hilarious sense. I had not laughed so much in a long time - the show closes for good in January so I really wanted to see it before then, and I wasn't dissappointed. Reece Shearsmith (one of the "League of Gentlemen") turned in a great performance as accountant-turned-producer Leo Bloom. There's always a kind of surprising satisfaction whan you find out that someone who isn't known as a singer can actually sing, isn't there? And not just sing - engage in the full onslaught of musical theatre, with all of the physicality that it necessitates. We went to the afternoon performance, and thus we watched an understudy play the central role of Max Bialystock (Kit Newman instead of Cory English), but he was fantastic too. It seemed like a really demanding part to play. He was in pretty much all of the big numbers and he had a real belting energy in his voice. His characterisation was superb and you'd never have guessed that he wasn't the big-name, first-choice for the part. As if that wasn't enough, the show also had tapdancing grannies with zimmer frames, animatronic pigeons and, of course, the showstopping number "Springtime for Hitler", with the Third Reich realised in true Busby Berkeley style. Who could ask for anything more?
The only problem now is that I can't stop singing "Springtime for Hitler and Germany, winter for Poland and France...". As this floats through the criminally thin walls of our cottage, devoid of context, I fear that it is giving our neighbours the impression that we have become neo-nazis. Perhaps I should try and persuade them to go and see the show.
The Internet is the Answer
I came across an interesting message when trawling through the excessive quantities of spam in my inbox this morning. I'm guessing that the subject line was supposed to say enticingly: "melt away fat instantly". What it actually said was "melt away fate instantly".
And suddenly millions of us could start to finally take control of our destiny, with the help of a dodgy online pharmacy :-)
And suddenly millions of us could start to finally take control of our destiny, with the help of a dodgy online pharmacy :-)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Sculpture
We went to see the Rodin exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts on Friday evening. It was worth the price of admission to witness the sheer scale of “The Thinker”, lit to perfection and standing in the final room of the exhibition. Alongside his monolithic pensiveness were a series of rare photographs of other works by Rodin. The photographers were artists documenting art, so they played with light, filters and shutter speeds to try and bring to the fore the complex details of Rodin's sculptures - of which there are many, as the exhibition made abundantly clear. I dabble in photography and the whole Rodin experience made me think about what I try and do with a camera when I get behind the lens.
I would love to be able to take good portraits, but I can't do it. I can set up macro shots of intricate details, leaves, flowers and so on and they come out more or less as I plan them to, but if I get a good shot of someone's face it's by chance. Feet and shoes are different. I assure you this is in no way a strange fetish or related to that old adage about the size of men's feet being an indication of the size of other things! I find foot shots easy to compose, kind of quirky and yet really human. Somehow you get to the essence of a person – these are the feet they use to walk around, to go everywhere they need to go in life. You capture the foot, you capture a bit of that life, I think. Now one of the things you notice when looking at Rodin's sculptures is that the hands and the feet are extremely detailed, but quite out of proportion to the rest of the piece. Apparently he used to often get his students and assistants to make studies for these parts and then sculpt them for him, which may go some way to explaining why they're different and bigger, but from an artistic point of view he could be trying to draw our attention to these parts of the body and how they can be expressive. A face has lots of complex things going on. From a photographic point of view, one slight change, one shadow cast over an eye, a twitch, a wrinkle, cough or laugh and the moment is lost. Everything changes in an instant and you're constantly having to digest a lot of information. Hands and feet make bigger, bolder movements. They tell more simple tales and force the viewer into a slower, more steady and concentrated engagement with what they're trying to say. They represent human communication distilled and brought into a clearer focus.
Rodin made detailed studies of people's head's too, and many of his sculptures do have intricately realised faces (John the Baptist springs to mind), but the large, detailed hands and feet are a recurring theme. Their true artistic meaning is probably a matter of great debate, but they've certainly provided me with some food for thought and inspiration for some new photographs. Does “The Thinker” have big feet because the existence of man is somehow grounded in his thought and inner life? Or... well, who knows?
I would love to be able to take good portraits, but I can't do it. I can set up macro shots of intricate details, leaves, flowers and so on and they come out more or less as I plan them to, but if I get a good shot of someone's face it's by chance. Feet and shoes are different. I assure you this is in no way a strange fetish or related to that old adage about the size of men's feet being an indication of the size of other things! I find foot shots easy to compose, kind of quirky and yet really human. Somehow you get to the essence of a person – these are the feet they use to walk around, to go everywhere they need to go in life. You capture the foot, you capture a bit of that life, I think. Now one of the things you notice when looking at Rodin's sculptures is that the hands and the feet are extremely detailed, but quite out of proportion to the rest of the piece. Apparently he used to often get his students and assistants to make studies for these parts and then sculpt them for him, which may go some way to explaining why they're different and bigger, but from an artistic point of view he could be trying to draw our attention to these parts of the body and how they can be expressive. A face has lots of complex things going on. From a photographic point of view, one slight change, one shadow cast over an eye, a twitch, a wrinkle, cough or laugh and the moment is lost. Everything changes in an instant and you're constantly having to digest a lot of information. Hands and feet make bigger, bolder movements. They tell more simple tales and force the viewer into a slower, more steady and concentrated engagement with what they're trying to say. They represent human communication distilled and brought into a clearer focus.
Rodin made detailed studies of people's head's too, and many of his sculptures do have intricately realised faces (John the Baptist springs to mind), but the large, detailed hands and feet are a recurring theme. Their true artistic meaning is probably a matter of great debate, but they've certainly provided me with some food for thought and inspiration for some new photographs. Does “The Thinker” have big feet because the existence of man is somehow grounded in his thought and inner life? Or... well, who knows?
Friday, October 06, 2006
Little Comforts
It looks as if Autumn has finally arrived here. There's a chill in the air, especially in the mornings, and there's cloud, rain and wind aplenty. It makes you appreciate the little things that make life better, like when you get a load of washing out of the dryer and it feels all warm and toasty.
Big cuddly jumpers are fashionable again, too, and soon it will be full-on hot water bottle weather. It's a fine time to be alive.
Big cuddly jumpers are fashionable again, too, and soon it will be full-on hot water bottle weather. It's a fine time to be alive.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Green Issues
Our benevolent local council began the kerbside collection of recyclable household waste last year. They just collect paper at the moment, but it's a start. Sadly only a few people in our street are currently taking advantage of this service, so I was pleased to see that our neighbours had started to fill their council-supplied recycling crate. Unfortunately they've got a bit confused and have filled it with plastic bottles. The council won't recycle these at all, let alone collect them from your house. They went so far as to produce a report stating that it was uneconomic for them to recycle plastic. It had figures. I'm no maths whizz, but I think that those figures show that it's not economic for them to recycle anything at all, but I guess that it doesn't tick any of the right government boxes or attract any nice government money if you admit that too openly. Economics aside, should I observe good recycling etiquette and let the neighbours know that they've rinsed out all their bottles for nothing?
I probably won't say anything, because they'll work it out soon enough for themselves, but seeing their crate reminded me how fascinating the whole business of recycling can be. People's lives are laid bare on the pavement on collection day. Walking to work in Canterbury after the introduction of clear plastic sacks for mixed recyclable waste was certainly an eye-opener. I would never have guessed how many people living in what I perceived to be a mellow, educated, academic-centred city read the "Daily Mail". The fact that you can't get hold of a copy of "The Guardian" in our village on a Monday (when they publish their media industry supplement) is not such a surprise - it's that kind of place. But anyway, back to recycling. I note with interest that our neighbours use one of those eco-friendly washing detergents. I couldn't quite believe it. My prejudices were exposed. Their consideration for the environment extends beyond recycling into the realms of hardcore green shopping. This doesn't fit in with how I have previously perceived them - loud, country-and-western music loving, motorbike owning, wife-beater-vest wearing types who probably think we're pale and geeky, hippie-like objects of ridicule. Now it turns out that they may care about the environment in a big way. Possibly more than we do. Who'd have thought it?
So that just proves you shouldn't assume anything about anyone... until you've examined their waste, perhaps. It's a brave new world we're entering, as ecological awareness becomes more widespread. I still don't think I'll be brave and tell them they've filled their crate with recyclables that aren't actually recyclable. I will, however, make sure that I continue to carefully screen and arrange the contents of our paper recycling crate, lest it be subject to prying eyes similar to mine. I like to ensure that a copy of "The Sunday Times" is on top (a proper broadsheet paper, none of this compact weekday "Times" lowering of standards) or, failing that, a sheet full of the boyfriend's complex logical calculations, replete with strange algebraic symbols. Being environmentally friendly doesn't make you immune to the anxious scramble to protect your reputation... or indeed outright snobbery :-)
I probably won't say anything, because they'll work it out soon enough for themselves, but seeing their crate reminded me how fascinating the whole business of recycling can be. People's lives are laid bare on the pavement on collection day. Walking to work in Canterbury after the introduction of clear plastic sacks for mixed recyclable waste was certainly an eye-opener. I would never have guessed how many people living in what I perceived to be a mellow, educated, academic-centred city read the "Daily Mail". The fact that you can't get hold of a copy of "The Guardian" in our village on a Monday (when they publish their media industry supplement) is not such a surprise - it's that kind of place. But anyway, back to recycling. I note with interest that our neighbours use one of those eco-friendly washing detergents. I couldn't quite believe it. My prejudices were exposed. Their consideration for the environment extends beyond recycling into the realms of hardcore green shopping. This doesn't fit in with how I have previously perceived them - loud, country-and-western music loving, motorbike owning, wife-beater-vest wearing types who probably think we're pale and geeky, hippie-like objects of ridicule. Now it turns out that they may care about the environment in a big way. Possibly more than we do. Who'd have thought it?
So that just proves you shouldn't assume anything about anyone... until you've examined their waste, perhaps. It's a brave new world we're entering, as ecological awareness becomes more widespread. I still don't think I'll be brave and tell them they've filled their crate with recyclables that aren't actually recyclable. I will, however, make sure that I continue to carefully screen and arrange the contents of our paper recycling crate, lest it be subject to prying eyes similar to mine. I like to ensure that a copy of "The Sunday Times" is on top (a proper broadsheet paper, none of this compact weekday "Times" lowering of standards) or, failing that, a sheet full of the boyfriend's complex logical calculations, replete with strange algebraic symbols. Being environmentally friendly doesn't make you immune to the anxious scramble to protect your reputation... or indeed outright snobbery :-)
Saturday, August 19, 2006
American Gothic
... or perhaps more accurately "American Minimalist," or even just "Minimalist," but that didn't sound as good.
I accompanied the boyfriend to the Royal Albert Hall last week to see the American composer John Adams conduct three pieces of his own work, all as part of the current BBC Proms season. We go to the Proms quite a bit. The boyfriend sometimes even "proms" properly, standing with the die-hard prommers down by the stage, but I (being more accustomed to luxury and citing low blood pressure) prefer to sit. John Adams always gives excellent Proms value as he talks about his work in pre-prom interviews before taking the conductor's stand and really going for it. He's an energetic performer who knows how to get the best out of orchestras, especially when they're playing his music, and it's an amazing sight to see.
At an Adams prom the best place to sit is in the choir stalls, right behind the percussion. You get a really good view of him conducting, but you also get the full benefit of the bizarre percussive combinations that underpin his music. Bells, bowls, drums, gongs and the use of a bow to play a vibraphone - it all goes on right under your nose. The music itself, for me, is something that I feel I can really inhabit. Whether it's because I remember all of the composer's descriptions of what the music represents from his pre-prom interviews or because I genuinely connect with it on some deeper level, I'm really not sure, but there's something there that appeals to me. In "My Father Knew Charles Ives" the soundscapes of lakes, mountains and marching bands in small American towns are vivid. In "The Wound Dresser" you can feel the essence of what Walt Whitman was trying to say as he described his experiences as a wartime nurse - the small moments of calm determination to do the right thing amidst the pain and the tragedy that a life spent caring for others comprises. The final piece "Harmonielehre" was tremendously loud and exciting, building to a huge conclusion. It was extremely popular with the audience. John Adams took many curtain calls and grateful bows, but he is definitely entitled to milk the audience's appreciation on account of his being extremely talented.
We're off to the Proms again this Sunday, to see Shostakovich's "Lady Macbeth of the Mstensk District". This is a bit of a gamble for us, as neither of us knows what it's like, but it's good to challenge yourself culturally from time to time, surely? With two hours of opera sung in Russian. Oh well, if it's no good at least they serve decent ice creams at the interval.
I accompanied the boyfriend to the Royal Albert Hall last week to see the American composer John Adams conduct three pieces of his own work, all as part of the current BBC Proms season. We go to the Proms quite a bit. The boyfriend sometimes even "proms" properly, standing with the die-hard prommers down by the stage, but I (being more accustomed to luxury and citing low blood pressure) prefer to sit. John Adams always gives excellent Proms value as he talks about his work in pre-prom interviews before taking the conductor's stand and really going for it. He's an energetic performer who knows how to get the best out of orchestras, especially when they're playing his music, and it's an amazing sight to see.
At an Adams prom the best place to sit is in the choir stalls, right behind the percussion. You get a really good view of him conducting, but you also get the full benefit of the bizarre percussive combinations that underpin his music. Bells, bowls, drums, gongs and the use of a bow to play a vibraphone - it all goes on right under your nose. The music itself, for me, is something that I feel I can really inhabit. Whether it's because I remember all of the composer's descriptions of what the music represents from his pre-prom interviews or because I genuinely connect with it on some deeper level, I'm really not sure, but there's something there that appeals to me. In "My Father Knew Charles Ives" the soundscapes of lakes, mountains and marching bands in small American towns are vivid. In "The Wound Dresser" you can feel the essence of what Walt Whitman was trying to say as he described his experiences as a wartime nurse - the small moments of calm determination to do the right thing amidst the pain and the tragedy that a life spent caring for others comprises. The final piece "Harmonielehre" was tremendously loud and exciting, building to a huge conclusion. It was extremely popular with the audience. John Adams took many curtain calls and grateful bows, but he is definitely entitled to milk the audience's appreciation on account of his being extremely talented.
We're off to the Proms again this Sunday, to see Shostakovich's "Lady Macbeth of the Mstensk District". This is a bit of a gamble for us, as neither of us knows what it's like, but it's good to challenge yourself culturally from time to time, surely? With two hours of opera sung in Russian. Oh well, if it's no good at least they serve decent ice creams at the interval.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Blood, Sweat and Tears
Another week, another wedding. This time we are preparing to celebrate the nuptials of my boyfriend's elder sister and it has already proved to be a painful experience.
The sister has decided not to have a wedding list. Neither did the sister send out benevolent, warmhearted greetings to all of her guests saying that for them to be "present" at the ceremony is the only "present" that she requires to celebrate the day. So we really needed to get some sort of gift for her and her new husband. It would just be wrong not to. Now the boyfriend and his sister are not close, and to say that she and I do not get along well would be a serious understatement. We don't really know her and we certainly don't know the future Mr. Boyfriend's Sister, so shopping for them is difficult. Add to this anxiety the knowledge that the gift is likely to be opened in front of the massed throng of family and trendy, London-based thirty-somethings with critical eyes and you have a recipe for extreme stress.
The happy couple threw us a welcome life-preserving inflatable device, though, by planning to get married in the architectural madness that is Brighton Pavillion. I got the bright idea that a framed print of this iconic building might be a charming, lasting reminder of their vows. A quick internet search turned up many prints of John Nash's original pavillion studies, which were nice but not terribly exciting. Eventually I stumbled across a gallery in Brighton that offered a stunning reproduction of a painting of the pavillion by night, painted by a local artist. So we ordered the print and I must say that the service from the Window Gallery was excellent. It arrived really quickly and it is a thing of great beauty. I urge you to buy things from them. To save a few bob and add a personal touch to the gift, we just bought the print unframed and decided to frame it ourselves. I don't really urge you to do this.
We spent yesterday afternoon measuring, cutting, hammering and taking an unscheduled trip to the local craft store to buy white mounting board. White isn't just white, by the way - there are several different shades of white and the right white is very hard to find. Eventually we got to the stage where we could lift the mounted picture and glass front panel into the frame. It was here that we learned an important life lesson - the edges of glass are sharp. Just as everything slotted into place I noticed that the boyfriend was bleeding all over the mount, glass, frame and backboard. He went off in search of a plaster whilst I disassembled the frame and tried to clean up the attendant mess. The print, luckily, was fine, and most of the blood wiped off. The backboard, however, was rather porous and had a murderous red stain on it. We managed to cover this with the authenticity label detailing the artist's name, gallery address and print number - always buy your art from reputable galleries who give you such things! Then we started attempt number two at putting the picture together. Shifting the glass into position, I felt the corner graze my knee. It thought it was just a scratch, but as I looked down I saw my knee rapidly reddening as blood oozed from it. I limped off to get a plaster of my own, taking care to avoid the print in the process.
The print is now framed and it looks great. I'm sure the happy couple can't fail to like it and it's bound to go down well with the crowd. They'll never know the effort that went into it, though, or appreciate the minor catastrophes that befell us as we put it together for them. Still, I feel that we're really giving something of ourselves to them on their special day.
The sister has decided not to have a wedding list. Neither did the sister send out benevolent, warmhearted greetings to all of her guests saying that for them to be "present" at the ceremony is the only "present" that she requires to celebrate the day. So we really needed to get some sort of gift for her and her new husband. It would just be wrong not to. Now the boyfriend and his sister are not close, and to say that she and I do not get along well would be a serious understatement. We don't really know her and we certainly don't know the future Mr. Boyfriend's Sister, so shopping for them is difficult. Add to this anxiety the knowledge that the gift is likely to be opened in front of the massed throng of family and trendy, London-based thirty-somethings with critical eyes and you have a recipe for extreme stress.
The happy couple threw us a welcome life-preserving inflatable device, though, by planning to get married in the architectural madness that is Brighton Pavillion. I got the bright idea that a framed print of this iconic building might be a charming, lasting reminder of their vows. A quick internet search turned up many prints of John Nash's original pavillion studies, which were nice but not terribly exciting. Eventually I stumbled across a gallery in Brighton that offered a stunning reproduction of a painting of the pavillion by night, painted by a local artist. So we ordered the print and I must say that the service from the Window Gallery was excellent. It arrived really quickly and it is a thing of great beauty. I urge you to buy things from them. To save a few bob and add a personal touch to the gift, we just bought the print unframed and decided to frame it ourselves. I don't really urge you to do this.
We spent yesterday afternoon measuring, cutting, hammering and taking an unscheduled trip to the local craft store to buy white mounting board. White isn't just white, by the way - there are several different shades of white and the right white is very hard to find. Eventually we got to the stage where we could lift the mounted picture and glass front panel into the frame. It was here that we learned an important life lesson - the edges of glass are sharp. Just as everything slotted into place I noticed that the boyfriend was bleeding all over the mount, glass, frame and backboard. He went off in search of a plaster whilst I disassembled the frame and tried to clean up the attendant mess. The print, luckily, was fine, and most of the blood wiped off. The backboard, however, was rather porous and had a murderous red stain on it. We managed to cover this with the authenticity label detailing the artist's name, gallery address and print number - always buy your art from reputable galleries who give you such things! Then we started attempt number two at putting the picture together. Shifting the glass into position, I felt the corner graze my knee. It thought it was just a scratch, but as I looked down I saw my knee rapidly reddening as blood oozed from it. I limped off to get a plaster of my own, taking care to avoid the print in the process.
The print is now framed and it looks great. I'm sure the happy couple can't fail to like it and it's bound to go down well with the crowd. They'll never know the effort that went into it, though, or appreciate the minor catastrophes that befell us as we put it together for them. Still, I feel that we're really giving something of ourselves to them on their special day.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Matrimonial Misadventures
Last Saturday the "big day" finally arrived for my friend Wendy and her other half John, as they tied the knot in Mildenhall, Suffolk. For the boyfriend and myself, this meant a cannonball-run style drive up country that nearly culminated in us missing the ceremony. It wasn't the almighty queue for the Dartford Tunnel that caused the problem. Actually, that was a popular topic of conversation at the reception. We dealt with it by winding down the windows and belting out Verdi's "Requiem" at high volume, much to the bemusement of everyone who was crawling past us in the adjacent lanes. Missing our turnoff on the M11 was a bit more difficult to rectify.
In the end we took a long detour through Essex, turned ourselves around and got back on the right track. Somehow we found the right county and even managed to get on the appropriate A road for Mildenhall... only to find yet another queue as part of the road was closed. By now it was extremely hot. The monotony of slowly creeping forward in the blazing heat was broken only by the enthusiasm of a small child waving a stuffed dog out of the window of a people carrier to our right (that's a soft toy dog, by the way, not some freakish example of taxidermy). We passed people whose cars had overheated. Our car was fine, but we were starting to smell distinctly interesting as we sweltered and baked. Half-past two ticked on by, the wedding was scheduled to start at three, neither of us was dressed for the occasion and the deodorant was buried under mountains of stuff in the boot. We were starting to get worried.
All of a sudden the traffic started to move and we found ourselves diverted through the Suffolk countryside around the blockage. Finally we were in Mildenhall itself. At 2.45pm we were on Mildenhall High Street and the hotel was in sight. We screeched round a corner and into the car park, thinking we'd get changed in the loos. We were confronted by a phalanx of nervous-looking bridesmaids and men in matching waistcoats. Thinking better of it, we made a swift exit. We'd have to make a mad dash for the hotel where we'd arranged to stay and risk missing the exchange of vows. Luckily our hotel was only five minutes up the road. Even more luckily, they didn't seem to want to take any of our details as we checked in. They practically gave us the room key as we walked through the door. So, we sprinted up the stairs and found the room. Clothes, hairspray, deodorant (oh precious, wonderful deodorant) and shoes went everywhere as we struggled to make ourselves presentable. The boyfriend had forgotten his cufflinks. I realised that I needed to pin the top of my dress together to prevent inappropriate flashes of cleavage. Still, though, I think we got ready quicker than we ever have before. It must have been five to three or even later by the time we were back in the car, having passed another wedding party on the way out. Driving back into Mildenhall once more, we saw a ribbon-clad wedding car containing another bride and a bearded man in a layby. I was pretty sure that this was Wendy and her dad, which was a great relief. Either she'd got cold feet and decided not to go through with it, or she was exercising her bridal prerogative to be late - and either way we'd make it to the ceremony before she did!
Well, we did make it in the end and we had a great time. It was fantastic to see Wendy again, although it is very strange to see the girl that you sat next to in school and who was your childhood friend in full bridal regalia. Who'd have thought we'd actually be all grown up one day? She looked amazing and she and John are obviously very happy together, so congratulations and good luck to them. All of the effort to get there was worth it so that we could "share the love"... maybe a little even rubbed off on the boyfriend and myself, who knows?
In the end we took a long detour through Essex, turned ourselves around and got back on the right track. Somehow we found the right county and even managed to get on the appropriate A road for Mildenhall... only to find yet another queue as part of the road was closed. By now it was extremely hot. The monotony of slowly creeping forward in the blazing heat was broken only by the enthusiasm of a small child waving a stuffed dog out of the window of a people carrier to our right (that's a soft toy dog, by the way, not some freakish example of taxidermy). We passed people whose cars had overheated. Our car was fine, but we were starting to smell distinctly interesting as we sweltered and baked. Half-past two ticked on by, the wedding was scheduled to start at three, neither of us was dressed for the occasion and the deodorant was buried under mountains of stuff in the boot. We were starting to get worried.
All of a sudden the traffic started to move and we found ourselves diverted through the Suffolk countryside around the blockage. Finally we were in Mildenhall itself. At 2.45pm we were on Mildenhall High Street and the hotel was in sight. We screeched round a corner and into the car park, thinking we'd get changed in the loos. We were confronted by a phalanx of nervous-looking bridesmaids and men in matching waistcoats. Thinking better of it, we made a swift exit. We'd have to make a mad dash for the hotel where we'd arranged to stay and risk missing the exchange of vows. Luckily our hotel was only five minutes up the road. Even more luckily, they didn't seem to want to take any of our details as we checked in. They practically gave us the room key as we walked through the door. So, we sprinted up the stairs and found the room. Clothes, hairspray, deodorant (oh precious, wonderful deodorant) and shoes went everywhere as we struggled to make ourselves presentable. The boyfriend had forgotten his cufflinks. I realised that I needed to pin the top of my dress together to prevent inappropriate flashes of cleavage. Still, though, I think we got ready quicker than we ever have before. It must have been five to three or even later by the time we were back in the car, having passed another wedding party on the way out. Driving back into Mildenhall once more, we saw a ribbon-clad wedding car containing another bride and a bearded man in a layby. I was pretty sure that this was Wendy and her dad, which was a great relief. Either she'd got cold feet and decided not to go through with it, or she was exercising her bridal prerogative to be late - and either way we'd make it to the ceremony before she did!
Well, we did make it in the end and we had a great time. It was fantastic to see Wendy again, although it is very strange to see the girl that you sat next to in school and who was your childhood friend in full bridal regalia. Who'd have thought we'd actually be all grown up one day? She looked amazing and she and John are obviously very happy together, so congratulations and good luck to them. All of the effort to get there was worth it so that we could "share the love"... maybe a little even rubbed off on the boyfriend and myself, who knows?
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Bit of Fluff
I purchased a new can of furniture polish the other day - or rather "multi-surface cleaner" as it is now called. It came with a free "fluffy duster" attached. This is one of those hand-held mini mop-style things that have replaced the old feather duster in the exciting modern world of cleaning. Now tropical birds don't have to die so that we can clean behind our radiators and between the slats of our venetian blinds. The feather has been replaced by synthetic fluff with some mysterious anti-static (or is it static?) charge that attracts the dust with minimum effort. Doing the housework should now be a positive thrill. Lucky me.
On the back of the packet, though, in bold letters, was a stark warning. This fluffy duster should be used "for cleaning purposes only". Oh to have been party to the details of whichever lawsuits forced the good people at Pledge to have to put that down in writing!
On the back of the packet, though, in bold letters, was a stark warning. This fluffy duster should be used "for cleaning purposes only". Oh to have been party to the details of whichever lawsuits forced the good people at Pledge to have to put that down in writing!
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Jumping over brooms
It seems that we are to be surrounded by weddings this year. Most significantly for me, my dear best friend from high school is getting married this July and I have just bought her wedding gift. I consulted the appropriate list from the store where my friend and her husband to be have registered, chose something I would like myself and bought it. It's sitting behind me now in my study as I'm typing this, actually, looming like a huge monolith. It's not big, but it is heavy, so I'm now worrying about how I'm going to get it from the car to the reception... what if there's not a table for gifts? What if it ends up coming back with us in the car because I didn't know what to do with it and amidst the wedding throng there was not an appropriate moment to ask? How am I going to wrap it? Of course all this worrying about the gift is probably transference. Really I'm venting my secret fear of being left an old maid and never having a wedding day of my own... sob...sob... poor me :-)
Putting all of my highly unattractive bitterness and self-pity aside, all of these weddings have got me in a thinking mood. My friend has opted for a civil wedding ceremony at a pretty riverside hotel near where she lives. I've never been to a civil marriage so I was curious as to what goes on at one (forewarned is forearmed, so they say) and thus I fired up my computer. The wonderful entity that is the internet pointed me in the direction of various running orders and scripts detailing the vows to be made. One of the most interesting sites belonged to Cambridgeshire Council, who provide a helpful list of music that might be appropriate to use at a wedding, along with the full track listings of the CDs which they keep at the Cambridge register office. As I scrolled down the list I was amused to find that the opening track on one of them was "It's Over" by Roy Orbison. Hearing that would certainly make a great start to some couple's new life together, wouldn't it?
Speaking of Roy Orbison, I'm reminded of the fact that the late, great John Peel chose "It's Over" as one of his Desert Island discs, having heard it blaring out from a nearby factory as he stood on Stowmarket railway station early one morning. Since my friend is getting hitched not a million miles away from Stowmarket and Peel Acres, I hope that the celebrations are infused with a hint of the Peelian sensibility, with wine, merriment and good conversation in profuse quantities. Indeed, may her marriage and those of all our friends and relatives who are jumping over brooms this summer be as happy, long-lasting and fecund as Peel and the Pig's.
Putting all of my highly unattractive bitterness and self-pity aside, all of these weddings have got me in a thinking mood. My friend has opted for a civil wedding ceremony at a pretty riverside hotel near where she lives. I've never been to a civil marriage so I was curious as to what goes on at one (forewarned is forearmed, so they say) and thus I fired up my computer. The wonderful entity that is the internet pointed me in the direction of various running orders and scripts detailing the vows to be made. One of the most interesting sites belonged to Cambridgeshire Council, who provide a helpful list of music that might be appropriate to use at a wedding, along with the full track listings of the CDs which they keep at the Cambridge register office. As I scrolled down the list I was amused to find that the opening track on one of them was "It's Over" by Roy Orbison. Hearing that would certainly make a great start to some couple's new life together, wouldn't it?
Speaking of Roy Orbison, I'm reminded of the fact that the late, great John Peel chose "It's Over" as one of his Desert Island discs, having heard it blaring out from a nearby factory as he stood on Stowmarket railway station early one morning. Since my friend is getting hitched not a million miles away from Stowmarket and Peel Acres, I hope that the celebrations are infused with a hint of the Peelian sensibility, with wine, merriment and good conversation in profuse quantities. Indeed, may her marriage and those of all our friends and relatives who are jumping over brooms this summer be as happy, long-lasting and fecund as Peel and the Pig's.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Country Living
I would personally like to thank the enterprising farmer who put up the following signs at periodic intervals by the side of the road, presumably advertising his produce:
Long and thin...
Covered in skin...
Red in parts...
Great in tarts...
RHUBARB!
That had me giggling all the way home. May he sell much rhubarb and more besides.
There are a lot of roadside farm shops around here, with a multitude of signs to let you know what you can buy from them. Most of them sell the same sorts of things, so you see the same lists of stuff everywhere you go and if you go on a long country drive it all gets a bit boring after a while. Much hilarity ensued a couple of years ago, though, when the boyfriend and I drove past a farm advertising "Potatoes, Apples, Blackberries, Leeks, Pears, Hamsters". The diversification of rural business knows no bounds.
Long and thin...
Covered in skin...
Red in parts...
Great in tarts...
RHUBARB!
That had me giggling all the way home. May he sell much rhubarb and more besides.
There are a lot of roadside farm shops around here, with a multitude of signs to let you know what you can buy from them. Most of them sell the same sorts of things, so you see the same lists of stuff everywhere you go and if you go on a long country drive it all gets a bit boring after a while. Much hilarity ensued a couple of years ago, though, when the boyfriend and I drove past a farm advertising "Potatoes, Apples, Blackberries, Leeks, Pears, Hamsters". The diversification of rural business knows no bounds.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Checking it out
Going to the supermarket is a generally unpleasant experience, so you need to find ways to alleviate the feelings of rage that are prone to build up when you are forced to make that dreaded trip. Having a foolproof way of amusing yourself as you shop could prevent you from descending into a violent spiral of madness in the dairy produce aisle or taking out your anger on the clueless youth at the deli counter who overfills your pot of olives. I find that casting a critical eye over the contents of other people's trolleys works for me.
When paying for my purchases in an Asda store once, I noticed that the person behind me was loading the conveyor belt with around twenty tins of baked beans. Given their dietary habits, I was glad I wasn't queueing behind them. I worried for the health of the elderly lady who purchased three large cans of hairspray and a bottle of cheap vodka one Saturday night as the boyfriend and I waited patiently behind her at the "baskets only" till, especially as she kept protesting very loudly that the vodka wasn't for her. Standing in the queue in the living hell that was the local Tesco yesterday morning, though, I noticed that the man in front of me had a basket full of goods that seemed to win a prize for the most bizarre collection of purchases ever. A balding, middle-aged chap, he was buying a box of "Mini Milk" ice lollies, a five pack of extra-large tights, some loose bananas and a jar of thousand island dressing. Obviously he was planning to put the tights over his head to conceal his identity and rob a bank, using a carefully disguised banana as a gun substitute, but what on earth was he doing with the lollies and the thousand island dressing?
If you find perusing the purchases of others a little voyeuristic, you can always play a variant of the game. It's immense fun to try and raise a smirk from cashiers by creating your own crazy basketfuls of goods. The weirdest combination of purchases that the boyfriend and I have thus far managed to beep through the checkout is, I think, a pack of ribbed condoms and a jar of pickled beetroot. Since supermarkets are rapidly branching out into electrical goods, clothes and all sorts of other things, the future possibilities are limitless. Heavy duty rubber gloves, courgette and a DVD player? Dyson hoover, thermal vest and some ginger nuts? Cillit bang, sink plunger and a tin of prunes? The choice is yours.
When paying for my purchases in an Asda store once, I noticed that the person behind me was loading the conveyor belt with around twenty tins of baked beans. Given their dietary habits, I was glad I wasn't queueing behind them. I worried for the health of the elderly lady who purchased three large cans of hairspray and a bottle of cheap vodka one Saturday night as the boyfriend and I waited patiently behind her at the "baskets only" till, especially as she kept protesting very loudly that the vodka wasn't for her. Standing in the queue in the living hell that was the local Tesco yesterday morning, though, I noticed that the man in front of me had a basket full of goods that seemed to win a prize for the most bizarre collection of purchases ever. A balding, middle-aged chap, he was buying a box of "Mini Milk" ice lollies, a five pack of extra-large tights, some loose bananas and a jar of thousand island dressing. Obviously he was planning to put the tights over his head to conceal his identity and rob a bank, using a carefully disguised banana as a gun substitute, but what on earth was he doing with the lollies and the thousand island dressing?
If you find perusing the purchases of others a little voyeuristic, you can always play a variant of the game. It's immense fun to try and raise a smirk from cashiers by creating your own crazy basketfuls of goods. The weirdest combination of purchases that the boyfriend and I have thus far managed to beep through the checkout is, I think, a pack of ribbed condoms and a jar of pickled beetroot. Since supermarkets are rapidly branching out into electrical goods, clothes and all sorts of other things, the future possibilities are limitless. Heavy duty rubber gloves, courgette and a DVD player? Dyson hoover, thermal vest and some ginger nuts? Cillit bang, sink plunger and a tin of prunes? The choice is yours.
Monday, March 13, 2006
One Day in September
BBC Four showed the film "One Day in September" late the other night. It was like the filmic equivalent of a book that you can't put down.
The old Yiddish proverb that opens Primo Levi's book "The Periodic Table" has been echoing around my head ever since the broadcast:
"Ibergekumene tsores iz gut tsu dertseylin," or "Troubles overcome are good to tell."
The particular trouble, or sorrow, told in the compelling film was the murder of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics. There were a number of things that made the narrative so strong. The moving testimony of Ankie Spitzer, whose husband was killed, wove a powerful central thread through the film, but it was interspersed with an interview given by one of the terrorists involved in his death, as well as the words of others who were there in Munich, watching the drama unfold. Graphic images of the athletes being held hostage and the tragic aftermath were shown, all accompanied by a soundtrack of 70s music. Michael Douglas provided a matter-of-fact voice over that linked the film together, but his tone seemed to add to the impact of the story being told. The 1972 Olympics carried on, even after the Israeli athletes were killed. Today that seems almost unbelievable. The film gives an appropriate significance to an event that, at the time that it happened, was rapidly pushed aside by the media, the authorities, seemingly the world.
In recent years the Munich tragedy has been the focus of more media attention, with Stephen Spielberg's film "Munich" telling the story (mostly fictionalised, or so I've read) of the operation to kill all of the terrorists involved. I'm not sure about watching "Munich", because the real events told in "One Day in September" seem to speak for themselves to me. The film was so good, so supremely well put together, that it drew you in. Any hint of fiction would muddy the waters too much for me. The clarity of expression and the forcefulness of the truth are two of the things that make "One Day in September" such a good film and something that it is worth watching. If you haven't already seen it, then I really urge you to do so.
In general, too, the feature length documentary is a genre that should be encouraged. It offers the chance for stories to be told in depth, for issues to be explored, for tales of troubles overcome to receive the wider audience that they deserve. Troubles overcome aren't just good to tell, the method of their telling can assure their place in history.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcfour/documentaries/storyville/one-day-september.shtml
http://www.sonypictures.com/classics/oneday/index.html
The old Yiddish proverb that opens Primo Levi's book "The Periodic Table" has been echoing around my head ever since the broadcast:
"Ibergekumene tsores iz gut tsu dertseylin," or "Troubles overcome are good to tell."
The particular trouble, or sorrow, told in the compelling film was the murder of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics. There were a number of things that made the narrative so strong. The moving testimony of Ankie Spitzer, whose husband was killed, wove a powerful central thread through the film, but it was interspersed with an interview given by one of the terrorists involved in his death, as well as the words of others who were there in Munich, watching the drama unfold. Graphic images of the athletes being held hostage and the tragic aftermath were shown, all accompanied by a soundtrack of 70s music. Michael Douglas provided a matter-of-fact voice over that linked the film together, but his tone seemed to add to the impact of the story being told. The 1972 Olympics carried on, even after the Israeli athletes were killed. Today that seems almost unbelievable. The film gives an appropriate significance to an event that, at the time that it happened, was rapidly pushed aside by the media, the authorities, seemingly the world.
In recent years the Munich tragedy has been the focus of more media attention, with Stephen Spielberg's film "Munich" telling the story (mostly fictionalised, or so I've read) of the operation to kill all of the terrorists involved. I'm not sure about watching "Munich", because the real events told in "One Day in September" seem to speak for themselves to me. The film was so good, so supremely well put together, that it drew you in. Any hint of fiction would muddy the waters too much for me. The clarity of expression and the forcefulness of the truth are two of the things that make "One Day in September" such a good film and something that it is worth watching. If you haven't already seen it, then I really urge you to do so.
In general, too, the feature length documentary is a genre that should be encouraged. It offers the chance for stories to be told in depth, for issues to be explored, for tales of troubles overcome to receive the wider audience that they deserve. Troubles overcome aren't just good to tell, the method of their telling can assure their place in history.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcfour/documentaries/storyville/one-day-september.shtml
http://www.sonypictures.com/classics/oneday/index.html
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Places to go, people to see
I had a really good time and about in London a few weeks ago. It started with lunch at Veeraswamy, quite possibly my favourite Indian restaurant. I discovered it many years ago when I was aimlessly wandering around the Regent Street area with the boyfriend, trying to find a place to have a birthday lunch. Attracted by their value lunch menu, we decided to go in and we've kept going back ever since. The food is really good and the waiting staff are something else - really polite and attentive, even making you feel special if you order from the cheaper set menu, but still leaving you space to enjoy your meal. The restaurant has just had a major refurbishment and now has a relentlessly "modern Indian" vibe going on. The food is still fantastic, but I'm a bit dissappointed that there's no longer a vegetarian option on the set lunch menu. I know, I could have asked if they had any veggie stuff... and it did give me an excuse to order a la carte, but I reckon they should cater for cheapskate veggies too :-)
They stopped doing free poppadoms and chutney last year too, which is a shame, but the food, service and decor are all excellent and I highly recommend the place.
We rolled out of Veeraswamy some time in the mid-afternoon and went to check in at the City Inn, Westminster. We booked the hotel room through a great room consolidation site Londontown.com, which we've used in the past. You usually get good deals there, although it seems to be aimed more at American tourists visiting Britain. The hotel turned out to be a really pleasant surprise. The foyer and our room were clean and modern. The room had a dvd player and a stereo, with a free cd and dvd library for guests available at reception. It also had a real duvet on the bed. I hate those all-in-one hotel bedspreads and itchy blankets, so this was a real plus for me! Being located just off Millbank, round the corner from Tate Britain, the hotel was really well located, too.
Our evening entertainment consisted of going to see Jeremy Irons, Patrick Malahide and Jean Boht in "Embers" at the Duke of York's theatre. "Embers" is a play adapted by Christopher Hampton from the book by Hungarian Sandor Marai. As the boyfriend and I had both enjoyed the book, we were keen to see the play. It was really good. It was still in preview when we went to see it and it needed a bit of time to bed down, I think, but Jeremy Irons gave an utterly absorbing performance that really did the book justice. Judging by the audience reaction, a lot of people hold the book in great affection and appreciated the fact that it had been brought to the stage.
Next morning we took advantage of our proximity to Tate Britain and went to the Gothic Nightmares exhibition. The boyfriend loves Milton and read Paradise Lost with great enthusiasm, so he's very attuned to Blake, devils and gothic art. I studied gothic fiction as a response to social change ages ago, too, and we both thought that the exhibition looked good. There was an impressive range of material on display, all spanning out from the central spoke of Henry Fuseli's 1781 painting "The Nightmare". I particularly enjoyed the compilation of clips from films that have taken "The Nightmare" as inspiration. The boyfriend and I used to go to Tate Britain all the time, predominantly because it was free. We used to return to our student digs with armfuls of art postcards, feeling very cultured. Astonishingly, Gothic Nightmares is the first exhibition that we've actually paid to go and see at the gallery, so you can tell it must have been a good one! It looked good enough for us to fork out money to go and see it, and it certainly did not disappoint.
They stopped doing free poppadoms and chutney last year too, which is a shame, but the food, service and decor are all excellent and I highly recommend the place.
We rolled out of Veeraswamy some time in the mid-afternoon and went to check in at the City Inn, Westminster. We booked the hotel room through a great room consolidation site Londontown.com, which we've used in the past. You usually get good deals there, although it seems to be aimed more at American tourists visiting Britain. The hotel turned out to be a really pleasant surprise. The foyer and our room were clean and modern. The room had a dvd player and a stereo, with a free cd and dvd library for guests available at reception. It also had a real duvet on the bed. I hate those all-in-one hotel bedspreads and itchy blankets, so this was a real plus for me! Being located just off Millbank, round the corner from Tate Britain, the hotel was really well located, too.
Our evening entertainment consisted of going to see Jeremy Irons, Patrick Malahide and Jean Boht in "Embers" at the Duke of York's theatre. "Embers" is a play adapted by Christopher Hampton from the book by Hungarian Sandor Marai. As the boyfriend and I had both enjoyed the book, we were keen to see the play. It was really good. It was still in preview when we went to see it and it needed a bit of time to bed down, I think, but Jeremy Irons gave an utterly absorbing performance that really did the book justice. Judging by the audience reaction, a lot of people hold the book in great affection and appreciated the fact that it had been brought to the stage.
Next morning we took advantage of our proximity to Tate Britain and went to the Gothic Nightmares exhibition. The boyfriend loves Milton and read Paradise Lost with great enthusiasm, so he's very attuned to Blake, devils and gothic art. I studied gothic fiction as a response to social change ages ago, too, and we both thought that the exhibition looked good. There was an impressive range of material on display, all spanning out from the central spoke of Henry Fuseli's 1781 painting "The Nightmare". I particularly enjoyed the compilation of clips from films that have taken "The Nightmare" as inspiration. The boyfriend and I used to go to Tate Britain all the time, predominantly because it was free. We used to return to our student digs with armfuls of art postcards, feeling very cultured. Astonishingly, Gothic Nightmares is the first exhibition that we've actually paid to go and see at the gallery, so you can tell it must have been a good one! It looked good enough for us to fork out money to go and see it, and it certainly did not disappoint.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
If my iPod is me then am I free?
I've acquired an iPod. I've also studied the relationship between new technologies and feminism. This is a dangerous combination.
There are those who believe that new technologies afford us the opportunity to create very postmodern, decentred selves. My blog, here, these words I'm writing now, could be seen as a part of that. My thoughts expressed online are a fundamental part of myself, possibly the simulation or the simulcra of me if you subscribe to Baudrillard's theories. By allowing me to take control, this blogging technology is freeing me from being trapped in any one of those little boxes that society likes to put me in. It enables me to cross boundaries. So, following this argument to a logical conclusion, my iPod is allowing me to do the same thing. The music held within is me and by using it I am freely creating a self that I have chosen.
Now this is all well and good, but I fear the responsibility for this new, liberated me may be weighing rather too heavily on my shoulders. I log into online music stores and browse, but I can't help but wonder what people will think of me if I choose certain songs. Part of the attraction of the 'Pod for me is that it enables me to revisit all of the tunes of my youth, all of those albums I bought and lost along the way, songs that remind me of times and places and so on. All of that is a very personal history that I'm almost afraid to expose, even though nobody else is probably going to find out what I'm listening to. I did go to a party once where people were encouraged to bring 'Pods filled with playlists to share, to be plugged into the sound system and exposed to all. It felt almost dirty, like entering people's heads, reading their private thoughts. There was, however, a perverse pleasure in finding out that someone had a secret fetish for the Nolan Sisters and desperately wanted us to hear "I'm in the mood for dancing." Somehow the 'Pod provokes emotions that rummaging through someone's CD collection doesn't. I mean, you usually have to go to their home to do that, to be invited into their space. The iPod goes everywhere with them. It's a simultaneously public and private space, bounded by those little white headphones.
One little relief from 'Pod anxiety is the sheer hilarity of the software that tracks what you buy so that it can recommend more music that you might like. My boyfriend takes the pragmatic view that, as I haven't bought much from the stores, they don't really know what I like and are thus suggesting a broad range of things. I personally think that they may have got inside my head. The other day I was directed towards the original cast recording of "South Pacific." How did they know that one of the first songs I learnt as a child was "I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair"? How did they glean, from the smattering of jazz and "90's music" that I've purchased, that I once spent hours hunched over an electronic keyboard struggling to play "Bali Ha'i"? I feel drawn towards attempting some kind of interaction with the software now. I have wicked thoughts about trying to confuse it, perhaps making it crash because it can't figure me out. I heard a reggae version of Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" performed by Grace Jones the other day. I wonder how they would categorise me if I bought that?
There are those who believe that new technologies afford us the opportunity to create very postmodern, decentred selves. My blog, here, these words I'm writing now, could be seen as a part of that. My thoughts expressed online are a fundamental part of myself, possibly the simulation or the simulcra of me if you subscribe to Baudrillard's theories. By allowing me to take control, this blogging technology is freeing me from being trapped in any one of those little boxes that society likes to put me in. It enables me to cross boundaries. So, following this argument to a logical conclusion, my iPod is allowing me to do the same thing. The music held within is me and by using it I am freely creating a self that I have chosen.
Now this is all well and good, but I fear the responsibility for this new, liberated me may be weighing rather too heavily on my shoulders. I log into online music stores and browse, but I can't help but wonder what people will think of me if I choose certain songs. Part of the attraction of the 'Pod for me is that it enables me to revisit all of the tunes of my youth, all of those albums I bought and lost along the way, songs that remind me of times and places and so on. All of that is a very personal history that I'm almost afraid to expose, even though nobody else is probably going to find out what I'm listening to. I did go to a party once where people were encouraged to bring 'Pods filled with playlists to share, to be plugged into the sound system and exposed to all. It felt almost dirty, like entering people's heads, reading their private thoughts. There was, however, a perverse pleasure in finding out that someone had a secret fetish for the Nolan Sisters and desperately wanted us to hear "I'm in the mood for dancing." Somehow the 'Pod provokes emotions that rummaging through someone's CD collection doesn't. I mean, you usually have to go to their home to do that, to be invited into their space. The iPod goes everywhere with them. It's a simultaneously public and private space, bounded by those little white headphones.
One little relief from 'Pod anxiety is the sheer hilarity of the software that tracks what you buy so that it can recommend more music that you might like. My boyfriend takes the pragmatic view that, as I haven't bought much from the stores, they don't really know what I like and are thus suggesting a broad range of things. I personally think that they may have got inside my head. The other day I was directed towards the original cast recording of "South Pacific." How did they know that one of the first songs I learnt as a child was "I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair"? How did they glean, from the smattering of jazz and "90's music" that I've purchased, that I once spent hours hunched over an electronic keyboard struggling to play "Bali Ha'i"? I feel drawn towards attempting some kind of interaction with the software now. I have wicked thoughts about trying to confuse it, perhaps making it crash because it can't figure me out. I heard a reggae version of Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" performed by Grace Jones the other day. I wonder how they would categorise me if I bought that?
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Edward Scissorhands
I'm one of those very lucky people who manages to get all of their celebrations over with in one chunk, leaving the rest of the year free for the peace and quiet of normality. As such, I have Christmas, then New Year, then my birthday in a great big swathe of festivity over the course of a few weeks.
I had a fantastic birthday this year. There were pancakes for breakfast, there were presents, there was lunch in my favourite local pub and in the evening I went to Sadler's Wells in London to see Matthew Bourne's "Edward Scissorhands". Last year I went to see his famous "Swan Lake" with the all-male corps of swans and it was amazing. I'd never been to see a ballet before and I was surprised that the narrative structure of the piece was so clear. I've since learned that this is one of the hallmarks of Bourne's choreography, and as I loved the film of "Edward Scissorhands" I was keen to see his adaptation. It was really good - it can genuinely be described as magical. It even had dancing topiary. Not many shows on in London at the moment can boast that.
Somehow I think that it's good for us to turn off the verbal bits of our brain sometimes and follow stories told through other means. This rings especially true if you're particularly verbose like me! So much can be conveyed through music and movement and you have the ability to lose yourself in the narrative far more when tales are told like this.
"Edward Scissorhands" is on until February 4th at Sadler's Wells, after which I think it's touring round the country. It's definitely well worth going to see.
http://www.edwardscissorhands.co.uk/
http://www.sadlerswells.com/
I had a fantastic birthday this year. There were pancakes for breakfast, there were presents, there was lunch in my favourite local pub and in the evening I went to Sadler's Wells in London to see Matthew Bourne's "Edward Scissorhands". Last year I went to see his famous "Swan Lake" with the all-male corps of swans and it was amazing. I'd never been to see a ballet before and I was surprised that the narrative structure of the piece was so clear. I've since learned that this is one of the hallmarks of Bourne's choreography, and as I loved the film of "Edward Scissorhands" I was keen to see his adaptation. It was really good - it can genuinely be described as magical. It even had dancing topiary. Not many shows on in London at the moment can boast that.
Somehow I think that it's good for us to turn off the verbal bits of our brain sometimes and follow stories told through other means. This rings especially true if you're particularly verbose like me! So much can be conveyed through music and movement and you have the ability to lose yourself in the narrative far more when tales are told like this.
"Edward Scissorhands" is on until February 4th at Sadler's Wells, after which I think it's touring round the country. It's definitely well worth going to see.
http://www.edwardscissorhands.co.uk/
http://www.sadlerswells.com/
Friday, January 06, 2006
'Tis no longer the season to be jolly
The "festive" season is over for another twelve months. Woo hoo!
Possibly the most Christmassy thing I managed to do was go along to the Barbican in London for the "Make the Yuletide Gay" concert by the London Gay Men's Chorus. This is fast becoming an annual event for me. It's full of energy, there's a bit of audience participation, there's always a good crowd and it's a bit of festive fun for those of us who don't usually feel particularly festive. Having once made my home in the halls of residence of a 1960s concrete university, the architecture of the Barbican also feels comfortingly familiar.
Proceedings this year had an extra frisson of celebratory significance as Civil Partnerships had been legalised only a few days earlier. It felt good to share in the sense of liberation that was clearly in the air. Make no mistake, the government was absolutely right to pass the Civil Partnerships Act. From my point of view it makes complete sense and I'm not even gay. My boyfriend and I have been together for almost eight years. On the rare occasions when he gets very sick, or accidentally hurts himself, I worry. If he goes to hospital and they're wondering whether to pull the plug on him or not, I can't help them make that decision. I'm not his next of kin. Technically they don't even have to keep me informed of his condition. We could easily change all of that by getting married (we aren't likely to, but that's another story). It isn't fair that same sex couples haven't had that choice until now, alongside all the other multitude of things that frankly weren't fair and that Civil Partnerships will go some way towards sorting out.
Politics aside, the London Gay Men's Chorus are great. "Well worth coming out for" indeed.
Possibly the most Christmassy thing I managed to do was go along to the Barbican in London for the "Make the Yuletide Gay" concert by the London Gay Men's Chorus. This is fast becoming an annual event for me. It's full of energy, there's a bit of audience participation, there's always a good crowd and it's a bit of festive fun for those of us who don't usually feel particularly festive. Having once made my home in the halls of residence of a 1960s concrete university, the architecture of the Barbican also feels comfortingly familiar.
Proceedings this year had an extra frisson of celebratory significance as Civil Partnerships had been legalised only a few days earlier. It felt good to share in the sense of liberation that was clearly in the air. Make no mistake, the government was absolutely right to pass the Civil Partnerships Act. From my point of view it makes complete sense and I'm not even gay. My boyfriend and I have been together for almost eight years. On the rare occasions when he gets very sick, or accidentally hurts himself, I worry. If he goes to hospital and they're wondering whether to pull the plug on him or not, I can't help them make that decision. I'm not his next of kin. Technically they don't even have to keep me informed of his condition. We could easily change all of that by getting married (we aren't likely to, but that's another story). It isn't fair that same sex couples haven't had that choice until now, alongside all the other multitude of things that frankly weren't fair and that Civil Partnerships will go some way towards sorting out.
Politics aside, the London Gay Men's Chorus are great. "Well worth coming out for" indeed.
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