Yanda Time

October 9, 2005

Quotes from a Drunken Woman with Stripy Tights

"I can tell from the way you're mopping that you're indignant!"

"Quit looking at my chesticles!"

"Ah, the beautiful women of Walsall, whistling through their broken teeth…"

I, myself, am a touch too tired (and possibly hungover) to comment much on the above. It's been a Whirlwind Weekend of Wonders in Walsall and I am currently speeding back to London on Britain's answer to the mighty Japanese Bullet Train - the Virgin Pendolino.

On Thursday, the charming spouse and I went to the premiere of a modern dance show at the Arena Theatre in Wolverhampton. It was a great show and there was a reception afterwards with free food and drink and lovely dancers all shiny and happy after their performance. It was heaven.

Friday night we saw three pieces by the Birmingham Ballet. It's been a while since I'd seen any proper ballet. The girl dancers were great but the boy dancers were boring. One of them fell repeatedly during his solo, but the choreography for the men in general was a bit dull.

Saturday we went to a college basketball game and then walked around the Walsall Illuminations. The highlight of the basketball game was finding out that at the next game some of the dance students were planning to do a cheerleading routine. The highlight of the Illuminations was the giant ferris wheel. It had these big round baskets that you could set spinning by turning a wheel in the center. I loved this. It was fun and practical. You could either set the basket spinning super fast and try to make your charming spouse ill, or you could turn it more gradually and let each of you get a good look at the splendor of the Illuminations. It was like a mini battle of good and evil tugging at my soul.

The Wheel itself obviously symbolized the cycle of birth and death and rebirth. And the blinking lights could be thought of as representing the constant creation and annihilation of matter and anti-matter on a quantum mechanical level. And, if you squinted your eyes a bit and looked at the floor of the basket when it was spinning, there was a piece of chewing gum that looked just like the Hindu God Vishnu.

After the wheel, we joined a friend at a nearby pub for dinner, where things became even more metaphysical. She's a bit of a regular there and we ended up staying a touch past closing time. The woman with the stripy tights was an off duty waitress in the pub who had had a bit too much to drink. She sang a wide variety of songs while we were eating our dinner and joined us just as we were finishing dessert.

I can't remember her name, but she was extremely entertaining and was intrigued by our foreign (Canadian) accent. She demanded to know our whole life story, which she interwove with tales of her own. I simply don't have the energy to do justice to the woman so please just ponder the quotes above and ruminate on the fact that, at one point during a fierce argument about who would pay the bill, she stuffed my credit card down her underpants and dared me to retrieve it.

Posted by YandaMan at 2:22 PM | Comments (0)

July 5, 2005

Being a Tourist with Godo

More Pics of Tourism with Godo

An old friend from Canada stopped by to visit for a couple of days on his way back from a business trip in Germany. Because he was a vegetarian environmentalist who used to live in the same housing co-op as Vicki, on the first night he was here we took him out drinking with a bunch of investment bankers.

I suspect he may have had a better time on Sunday night when we saw an open-air production of the Canterbury Tales. It took place in a variety of outdoor locations in Southwark, starting at the Old George Pub. James cleverly brought a blanket and a few bottles of beer which helped quench our thirst between the third and fourth acts. It was the perfect way to while away a summer evening. It was fun and mildly bawdy and there was singing and Vicki reverted to her perfoming instincts and got up on stage and danced like a chicken. She was startlingly believable in her poultryness. I fully expected to be hen-pecked when we got home that night.

I'm a bit envious of Godo. He's managed to become quite successful doing doing an incredibly useful job that he loves. He started a company called Carbon Busters which advises local governments and school boards how they can save money by being more energy efficient.

Posted by YandaMan at 11:13 PM | Comments (0)

February 13, 2005

Of Wind Chimes and Wine Glasses

A while ago I wrote that I was worried about losing my appreciation for music or at least for going to live gigs. Thanks to Ed Harcourt, it may slowly be coming back.

I've been to two Ed Harcourt gigs now. Last night's was at the St. James Church on Piccadilly, an absolutely beautiful venue. We sat in the gallery just above and to the left of the stage. I watched from a similar vantage point at the other gig as well. I prefer it to being front and center. It has a kind of I'm-with-the-band-backstage-groupie feel to it. The other gig was at Dingwalls in Camden (or whatever it's called now). That gig was much rowdier. There was much jumping up and down and spilled drinks and shouting. Ed brought his banjo to that gig.

St. James is not the kind of place conducive to jumping up and down or rock and roll banjo playing. It's a church, after all. What made the St. James gig stand out for me, though, was the trumpet player. Now HE was rock and roll. He was totally cool. He just did his job, ignored the crowd, and played his music when called upon. And the man didn't just play the trumpet. Oh no. He also played the xylophone, the wind-chimes, and the wine glass. This last was my favourite and completely made up for the absence of the banjo.

I used to play the wine glass on occasion after a big family dinner. Unfortunately, while I enjoyed the sound, it seemed to drive the rest of the family into the kind of frenzy exhibited by dogs reacting to a noise beyond the range of human hearing.

The technique is simple but requires a certain mastery and practice. You dip your finger in the wine to moisten it and then run it slowly around the edge of the wine glass. This produces a delightful (or possibly not) high-pitched keening noise. You have to have just the right amount of wine in the glass, of course. This involves a long calibration process. The wine is carefully poured in, and then carefully sipped out until it is at just the right level. This is usually when the person doing the calibration is too drunk to distinguish between a beautiful ringing full tone and an irritating fingernails-on-chalkboard screech.

Fortunately, trumpet-playing dude was a professional and his wine glass produced the desired ringing full tone rather than the screech. Later on in the performance, when the wine glass was no longer needed, he knocked back the contents in between bouts of trumpet playing and wind-chime tingling.

The man was a consummate professional when it came to his other instruments as well. I remember one piece in particular where he hunched over, dangling the wind chimes carefully from his teeth and hit a series of precise notes on the xylophone, tingling the chimes all the while. Very impressive. I also liked the way he used a couple of empty paper coffee cups to mute his trumpet. The man is a genius. I'm confident he could produce beautiful music given nothing but a block of spam and a feather.

His coolest performance, though, was during the last song. He sat down at a bench towards the back of the stage and methodically emptied all his pockets. He then stood up, walked to the front of the stage and played his trumpety bits. When that was over, he sat back down on the bench, and searched through the items spread beside him until he determined the least crumpled piece of paper and then rolled himself a cigarette. He had just enough time to finish this before it was time for a final blast on the trumpet. Then, while everyone was taking their bows and waving to the crowd, he put the ciggie in his mouth, grabbed a lit candle and headed for the door. Now that is the kind of coolness that can make a man believe in music again.

Posted by YandaMan at 10:25 PM | Comments (0)

May 16, 2004

Eurovision 2004

The Eurovision Song Contest is on so I thought I'd make some notes for the folks back home who may never have heard of it. It's huge here in Europe, watched much in the same way everyone watches the Oscars in North America. This year it has a television audience of 500 million. Basically, all the countries in Europe put forward a pop group and a song and the continent votes for their favourite. The performances are almost always universally terrible. I can think of only one band that went anywhere after Eurovision and that was Abba.

Many people hold Eurovision parties where they boggle at the absolute tawdry crapness of it all. The British presenter, Terry Wogan, makes snide comments through the show and reportedly drinks Bailey's steadily throughout the evening. He's been doing this for years. The first time I saw the show I was flabbergasted at how rude he was, but now his behaviour strikes me as entirely appropriate, and really, that's what a Eurovision party is all about. Everyone gets hammered and laughs at the appallingness of it all. Wogan is just lucky enough to get paid for it.

The voting is politically charged. You're not allowed to vote for your own country, but unofficial alliances have grown up over the years. Turkey usually gives most of their votes to Germany and Germany usually gives most of their votes to Turkey. And, of course, people tend to vote for their neighbours.

Anyway, the show is beginning now…

Turkey won last year. The winning country hosts the next year's Eurovision. And the show begins with last year's winner singing last year's song. The most notable thing about her performance is that she has a bare midriff and what appears to be a very prominent caesarean scar which she has packed with glitter or possibly diamonds. It's the perfect beginning to Eurovision -- just the right level of glamour, tackiness, and weirdness.

And now this year's entries begin…

Spain
Quite Spanish. Basically a low rent Enrique Iglesias. He's a sexy boy, but he can't dance.

Austria
Imitation boy band trio. Sweet Mother of Boredom! Please let there be a technical fault so I can't hear them any more.

Norway
Time to pour some drinks.

France
There is a bald Woman wondering around the stage on stilts. No idea why. She's not singing or playing an instrument. She's just a bald woman on stilts.

Serbia and Montenegro
Very folk songy. The kind of song you'd imagine would bring tears to the eyes of a Montenegran goat herder (provided he'd had quite a bit to drink).

Malta
Stunningly crap duet with weird little operatic bits of vocal high-jinks from the female. The guy looks like he's escaped from a high school production of Grease.

Netherlands
Two guys with a guitar on stools. The three guys in dark suits playing backup fingersnaps in the background are cool though.

Germany
My favourite so far. Dude with a nice voice and a slightly jazzy backup band. You could actually imagine him making a living as a musician. It probably won't stand a chance in the voting though as it's neither very poppy nor very folky.

Albania
Best pop song so far. It's catchy if nothing else. Still prefer Germany though.

Ukraine
And suddenly the stage is awash in Vikings for some bizarre reason, apparently led by Xena, Warrior Princess. And, yes, the Vikings appear to be doing the Riverdance. Full marks for bizarreness. Okay, now the Vikings have whips. I have no idea where they came from. This should get the kinky vote.

Croatia
Nothing much to say about this entry, except that I met a previous Croatian entry at my friend John S's New Year's in February party. Any music is infinitely better when it's live. I spent several hours that night dancing happily to the kind of Croatian folk music that I am now mercilessly belittling on Eurovision.

Bosnia and Herzegovina
Welcome to the Eighties. Billy Idol surrounded by scantily clad dancers. Well, he looks a bit like Billy, but he sings with a slight lisp. If that man isn't gay, neither is Graham Norton.

Commercial Break
20,000 people outside in Hamburg watching the show. But when the camera switches to the presenter for the outside party in Istanbul, she has no idea she is on air and so we just watch her for about 10 to 15 seconds while she wipes her nose and looks bored and the on-stage presenters shout at her in Turkish. A classic Eurovision moment.

Belgium
One female backup dancer in workout shorts, tanktop and boots, and one male backup dancer with a red Mohawk. Again, lots of rocking dance machine.

Russia
Solo female singer with four backup circus acrobat gymnast dudes with their upper bodies dyed, respectively, purple, red, blue, and green. They're kind of cool, actually. And any distraction is welcome as the poor singer is out of tune. I assume she was picked because she is small and light. It's a heavily choreographed piece and every so often she ends up standing on one or other of the brightly coloured dancer dudes.

F.Y.R. Macedonia
Okay, I thought I was going to have nothing to say about this one, but now the Tom Jones sound alike on stage has just had two long red ribbons pulled out of his armpits by his backup dancers. WTF?

Greece
Okay. There seems to be a theme starting here. The solo male singer from Greece has just pulled two red scarves out of the butts of his two backup dancers. Oh, and now the backup singers have ripped their white suits off to reveal sparkly tinsel-like bras and panties. Oh, and now they've ripped the singer's white Don Johnson jacket off. And now he's done a back handspring for us. Lovely.

Iceland
Where the hell is Bjork when you need her? This man is trying to be Celine Dion except that he can't actually sing.

Ireland
It's a one man boy band. But the world already has one Ronan Keating. No hope here.

Poland
Mmm… Very sexy outfit if nothing else. Pretty much a see-through tight black scarf over some black underwear.

England
Not too bad, actually. Much better than last year when England came dead last (partially because the duo performing couldn't stay in tune). This guy sounds vaguely Country & Western. Dull, but not painful.

Cyprus
I think I actually like this one, in a cheesy kind of way. She wants to be Celine Dion as well, but at least she can sing. Vicki and I have a good friend from Cyprus who is currently drinking in a pub. I call her to find she's home now watching on the telly. It must be cool to have an entry you can be proud of.

Turkey
Punk-Ska-Klezmer kind of thing with a touch of Tom Jones hip-hop vocal styling. This is definitely my favourite after 30 seconds. Good rock and roll showmanship. And it's a Turkish guy with red hair. You've got to love that.

Romania
Sweet Mother of Jesus! That's an impressive leather bra! I didn't know they made Barbie dolls that can sing. A text from a Dutch friend points out that she looks like a bit like a skinny half-naked Ivana Trump. Well, 90% naked, more like.

Sweden
Typically Swedish. Absolutely beautiful, but a bit dull. She looks like she came as a flat pack from the same factory that built Helena Christianson and Heidi Klum.

The voting
And now the voting begins. 36 countries entered this year and they all get to vote. Of the 36, 24 made it to the final. Each country voting assigns a certain number of points to the top ten countries. The lowest of the ten gets 1 point. The favourite of the ten gets 12 points. For some reason no one gets nine or eleven points. I have no idea why. It's just one of the endearing quirks of Eurovision.

The voting seems to go on longer than the performance of the actual songs and is almost as bizarre. In the end, the Ukraine wins narrowly over Serbia. Then there is a bit of a delay because the Ukranian group didn't realize they might win and would have to perform again. The prize is presented by last years's winner. Unfortunately, the poor woman loses her shoe in the grating at the edge of the stage and a stage hand has to yank it out of the grill and give it back to her. Now they're performing the song again. The only thing I can think of is that everyone in Europe got a bit confused and thought it was a Xena look a like contest.

For more info including pictures of the performers, lyrics of all the songs, and how everyone voted, go to the Eurovision official site.

It's over. And, once again, I'm baffled why I spent the last 3 hours watching this. Oh well, it's marginally better than pop idol, I suppose.

Posted by YandaMan at 10:56 PM | Comments (3)

March 12, 2004

Touristy Times

(more pics)

My mother’s visiting from Canada. A couple of nights ago we went to see the Tbilisi Marionette Theatre at the Barbican. It’s not your typical Punch and Judy type puppet show. It’s a bit more along the lines of the puppets in “Being John Malkovich”. Except, coming from Georgia, a little more convoluted, a little more Soviet. Think Chekhov on drugs. Or maybe what Chekhov dreams about when he’s on drugs. Or maybe beat poetry written about the dreams of a totally stoned lovechild of Chekhov, Tolstoy, and Catherine the Great’s horse.

The puppets were cool and beautifully made and the puppetry itself was masterfully done and the actors reading the dialogue were excellent. But the narrative was too obtuse for my rapidly aging brain.

I just didn’t really have a clue what the Hell was going on. I think it was about a horse who was in love with another horse, except that maybe he wasn’t a horse but a soldier in the Russian army and the soldier just happened to look like a horse. The play was called “The Battle of Stalingrad” and it took place in Kiev and Berlin and various other locations some of which might have been Stalingrad or maybe Bury St. Edmonds. I couldn’t really tell. At one point the horse died and was brought back to life by a fairy. And there was an ant that seemed to have a fairly pivotal role. And there were various soldiers and artists and other folk hanging out in cafés talking about historical events which I am too ill-educated to remember. Or maybe they were fictional events. Dunno.

It was cool and all and intellectually stimulating, but mainly because I had to use my entire intellect to follow what was happening. My mother, on the other hand, being jet-lagged, just fell asleep.

The day before yesterday, we went a bit more traditionally touristy and saw “Anything Goes” which is a big West End musical with tunes by Cole Porter and story at least partially written by P.G. Wodehouse, amongst others. It was far more accessible and infinitely more difficult to sleep through. Cheesy and loud and fun -- just the thing to make us forget the day’s early embarrassments.

Early in the day, you see, I took my mother to Harvey Nick’s. We managed to make fools of ourselves four times in two hours. It started with lunch in Harvey’s posh dining room. It’s a lovely place and the tables all have very thick tablecloths which are very handy for sopping up water. This turned out to be very handy.

The way I happened to be sitting, my foot was exerting subtle pressure against the base of the table. This pressure built up as we ate lunch. Eventually, the pressure exceeded some kind of threshold and the table shot away from me across the floor. Not far, probably only about three feet, but enough to spill everything on the table. It must have looked a bit like it had been yanked away from us by an invisible bungee cord.

Everyone stared of course. It was definitely a stareable event. It was by far the loudest thing that had happened in the restaurant in some time, the taste of the diners running more to muted pinks and beige. The staff wasn’t fazed though. The waiter very kindly and smilingly cleaned everything up and pushed the table back into place.

Half an hour later exactly the same thing happened again. I think it was at this point that they marked us down as being not exactly the Harvey Nick’s sort.

After lunch we did a bit of shopping. We found some lovely hats in the designer Men’s section. There were a bit pricey though: £275 - £330 each. Since we couldn’t afford to buy them we decided we should take a picture of ourselves wearing them. This greatly distressed the department manager and he told us to stop. This, in turn, greatly flustered my mother and so she left her shopping behind. The shopping now, of course, became a suspect package to be treated with great caution.

Fortunately, one of the manager’s assistants spotted us a short while later and asked us to come identify the bag my mother had left behind. Once again, we felt grossly embarrassed and ran away into the “casual” department and then out through a trendy noodle bar onto the street.

Next time she comes I think we’ll try Marks and Spencer.

Posted by YandaMan at 8:36 AM

March 8, 2004

Lost: One obsessive passion

Of all the things to lose! Of all the cruel tricks that fate could play!

I think somehow I lost my ability to appreciate music.

I went to a gig a few days ago with my Crazy Landlord. "The best gig of the year so far!" according to him. Admittedly, it's still February but he seemed convinced it wouldn't be surpassed in the near future.

Objectively, I knew it was a good gig. The venue was La Scala which is a lovely rambling place with multiple rooms and bars and not entirely obvious traffic routes between them. I'd been there a couple of times before and we managed to find our way to this little balcony thing right above the stage. It's a great vantage point to watch a gig from.

The warmup band, Ella Guru, seemed to have an affection for funny-sounding instruments. Their eight piece band included a ukulele, a vibraphone, and a flugelhorn. And it all sounded pretty good.

Even before this the night had begun in a promising fashion. When we arrived there was a huge queue so we went to have a pint and wait for it to dwindle a bit. We popped into a bar called Sahara Nights. It was pretty much decorated as you would expect a bar called Sahara Nights to be decorated -- lots of dark corners and tassels and red velvet draperies and multiple levels and overstuffed cushions and just plain magic. Eight women were taking part in a belly-dancing class on the dance floor. Above their heads was a huge plasma screen television showing a football match. The goalkeeper had just been kneed in the face and the TV showed a close up of blood literally pouring from his forehead. Oblivious to this gruesome scene, the women below continued to writhe to Arabian pop. It was a wonderfully surreal sight. And they had good crisps.

The headliners, the band we had gone to La Scala to hear, were "The Silver Mount Zion Memorial Orchestra and Tra-la-la Band". The band was formed by one of the founders of "Godspeed, You Black Emperor". They played some really beautiful music. At least, objectively, from somewhere high above myself, I judged that it was really excellent stuff. Original, haunting, with a dash of rock and roll feedback to keep you awake. It should have inspired me. John certainly seemed to eat it up. But me, I wasn't inspired. I was mainly hot and thirsty and uncomfortable and a little bored. They were even a Canadian band. I should have pretended to be crazy about them for patriotic reasons if nothing else, but I just couldn't. Fortunately, John was dying for a drink as well and so we slithered our way through the crowd and went to the top level bar and got some water.

There are a number of booths in the top level bar at La Scala and we ensconced ourselves in one of them. Only one of the other booths was occupied - by the ukulele flugelhorn warmup band. Everyone else was crowded around the railing tying to get a glimpse of A Silver Mount Zion. You couldn't see anything from the booths, but, damn, they were comfy and there was a table to put your drink on and it was comparatively cool and you stretch out and, anyway, you could hear the music as well as you could fifteen feet away at the railing. So why not sit in the booth?

Well, because you're obviously not a real fan if you sit in the booth! You have to strain like a constipated lemming to get as close to the source as possible! That's what you do if you appreciate music.

And so that's why I'm worried. I mean I enjoyed the gig (at least once I was safely inside the booth, I enjoyed it). But obviously something has happened to me over the years. I've lost a little bit of my passion. Maybe it's down the back of the couch. Or maybe the cat ate it. But it's gone and I may never get it back.

Thank God I still care about vodka and chocolate chip cookies.

Posted by YandaMan at 11:08 PM

November 6, 2003

Art Mirroring Bald Spots

Today was pencil-thin moustache day. As a gradual depressurization from the goatee I wore to the Vampire party on Saturday, I've been slowing removing bits of my facial hair. Sadly, I have no pictures of this most recent look. Just imagine me as Errol Flynn or David Niven. In particular, imagine me with the looks of Errol Flynn and the charm of David Niven.

It's quite a unique look these days. I didn't see a single other man with a pencil-thin moustache all day. It's a look that seems to bring joy to many people. I'm surprised it's not more popular. My wife, for instance, thought it was very amusing, and such an attractive look she insisted I shave it off tomorrow morning so I wouldn't be quite so gorgeous to all the young ladies who were smiling at me today.

Yesterday was droopy moustache down the sides day. Think Mexican bandit in spaghetti western or Derek Smalls from Spinal Tap. It wasn't a very cultured look which is too bad as yesterday evening was a day of great culture.

First, the spouse and I went to a reading of Helen Fielding's new book. Okay, maybe we're not talking high culture here, but still, book reading: kind of cultural. She was talking with some intellectual dude from BBC Four about here latest book which is basically about a 30ish PR woman in the States who falls in love with a guy who may or may not be Osama Bin Laden. It's a black comedy and some reviewers have said it is in incredibly bad taste. Me, I don't know. She was funny at the reading and charmed me a bit but I couldn't get past the first dozen pages of her first novel which was a black comedy about an African refugee camp and the London fashion scene. I suspect I'll have a similar reaction to this one.

Actually, I'm not a huge Helen Fielding fan, I just like going to readings every now and then. They're cheap and entertaining and I get to dream I might actually write something other than a blog some day.

After that we had a tasty dinner at perhaps my favourite restaurant in London, the Pollo Bar which has a great variety of incredibly cheap Italian food and is right in the heart of Soho. It's one of those anomalies that remind you that the universe is a very random place.

And then we went off to the cool bit: a performance piece by the Merce Cunningham dance group.

It was fantabuliferous and held in the turbine room of the Tate Modern. The turbine room is the enormous entry hall at the Tate. It's as high as about two dozen elephants all balanced on one foot on top of each other. Actually, I have no idea how high it is. Damn high, that's all.

The ceiling was covered in mirrors and there was a big sun like thing at one end. This is apparently an installation art piece which was just serendipitous to the dance performance but it's what made the whole thing work so well. The dancers wore bright fluorescent leotards and danced on three spaces along the floor of the room. You could wander around at will throughout the show. I spent most of the show lying on my back and watching via the mirror which made the performances look a bit like a human kaleidoscope.

You can see a review here.

But, even if you don't go for the dance you should check out the big mirror installation thing. That bit's free and the Tate is just down the road.

As always with these things, the crowd was another bonus to the performance. And because of the free roaming nature of the venue, it somehow felt more permissible to just hang back and watch the people watching rather than the performers from time to time. Artsy people tend to look like freaks sometimes. I looked a bit freakish myself due to the Derek Smalls effect, but I wish I'd had the pencil-thin thing going on. And soon it will be scraped from my face by a razor sharp wafer of metal. Oh well, hair today, gone tomorrow.

Posted by YandaMan at 6:23 PM

October 21, 2003

Far Side of the Moon

Quick plug for a great play:

The Far Side of the Moon playing at the Barbican is fantastic!

I saw it last night. It's a one man show by Robert LePage, starring Yves Jacques. It's kind of about the Russian Space programme but not really. One of the things that impressed me most about it was the way that it did lots of cool stuff with the stage -- big sliding doors, an ironing board with multiple personalities, a giant rotating mirror, etc. But the magic thing about the cool stuff was that it contributed something to the overall show. It wasn't just there because it was cool. And, for the most part, it was used in an original way.

And the story was great and it was set in Quebec and I just thought it was keen and you should go see it.

Most everything I've seen at the Barbican lately has been amazing, now that I think about it. The Elephant Vanishes was a delight. Sacha Waltz was mesmerising. Woycek was brilliant.

Yay, Barbican!

Posted by YandaMan at 9:46 PM | Comments (0)

November 27, 2002

Fast Freddie

Saw Wayne's band at the Barley Mow last night. Cramped tiny bar with a good atmosphere. A spattering of fashionistas. Guess I've arrived in Hoxton. Beautiful French girl named Marie wearing a jumble sale and a Peruvian toque with shoulder length shock blonde hair and a Munroe beauty spot. Horn section didn't seem that rehearsed. Played a bit like they were just practicing at home in front of the cat. The drummer had the smallest drumkit in the world, like a child's drum kit. Shinri, who did back up vocals and some guitar, has a great voice, much musical shouting and whistling with four fingers in her mouth. Kind of like Roger Whittaker when Roger was a bit younger... And back when he was a sinewy black woman with lots of attitude and when he did more bluesy stuff rather than songs like 'Singing in the Rain'.

Overall the band could have been a bit tighter, but I enjoyed the gig. Didn't catch how many of the songs Wayne actually wrote. A number of them were by John Martin. Wayne was pretty solid. He sings all right, that boy.

Posted by YandaMan at 9:01 AM

November 7, 2002

Bald Rocking

My friend Zillah scored me a ticket to a Radio 2 taping of Phil Collins playing live at La Scala near Kings Cross last night. I'd been to the venue once before, but that was for Popstars, a gay nightclub a couple of years ago. The room with the stage is pretty small and so I was about ten feet from the man himself (and his ten piece band).

It was a intimate little concert. Phil had the whole family unit watching from the gallery including his wife, toddler-aged kid, sister and mother, whose birthday it was that night.

I enjoyed it but I had the unsettling feeling that I shouldn't be -- that Phil was no longer cool and hip and happening. It didn't help that everyone around me looked far older than I felt. Especially since, when I thought about it, they really looked about my age. Most unsettling. Anyway, we old fogeys had a good time. I clapped and yelled and danced around a bit and sang badly along with Phil's old standards. Phil sang baldly along with his old standards, but did it well.

A sign of how dated the crowd was. There was actually a guy beside me doing the lighter-held-up-in-the-air-swaying-back-and-forth-thing during one song.

Anyway, 'twas extemely fun.

Posted by YandaMan at 8:48 AM

October 31, 2002

Ondaatje = Santa Claus

Okay. This month has been out of control. I know London is supposed to be the city where you can do all this cultural stuff but I didn't think it would actually happen to me.

So, yeah, met Michael Ondaatje last night. Not this night, not halloween. It wasn't some literary little fart 12 year old dressing up as the Great Canadian Man of Letters and hitting me up for some toffee. It was last night, not halloween. Just a normal night and I and Fiona (curvaceous Italo-Australian work colleague with a broken nose - not recently broken, and not by me) went to a reading kind of thing were we sat around and watched Micheal Ondaatje chat with Walter Murch, the film editor. And afterwards we went upstairs and bought Mikey's new book and I got him to sign it and we had a brief chat and shook hands and become blood brothers after a fashion.

He's a really sweet man, by the way. He exudes twinkle. He reminded me of what I always imagined Santa Claus would be like. That is, if old Saint Nick decided to give up the crass consumerism of his current vocation and pick up the quill and ink. Anyway, cool guy. Liked him.

Padma, if you're reading this, tell him I say Hi when you're showing him your Booker in a couple of years.

Posted by YandaMan at 8:32 AM

October 14, 2002

Wozzeck Wevised

Man! This is turning out to be a glamourous month. Went to see a full dress rehearsal of Wozzeck at the Royal Opera House today. It's a German Opera based on the same Danish play called Woycek that I saw a Tom Waits musical of a couple of weeks ago. I think I preferred the Waitsian score. In fact, overall, I preferred the show at the Barbican, but this was definitely a spectacle.

The best thing about grand operas are the sets in my opinion. The sets of Wozzeck were stunning in their grandeur and audaciousness. Just the rake of the stage was enough to give me vertigo and the whole thing somehow suggested you were trapped like a spider in a urinal.

It wasn't nearly as cheerful as the Waits version however. There's just something about people singing in German that lacks glee. I think if I hadn't known the story beforehand I might easily have killed myself on leaving the theatre. Thank God for light and bubbly Tom Waits. The memory of that other show kept me alive today.

Posted by YandaMan at 8:23 AM

October 3, 2002

Waiting for Woycek

Saw an absolutely fantastic show last night: the musical Woyzek at the Barbican directed by Robert Wilson with a score by Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan. Inclredible music, incredible, brightly coloured, slightly circusy sets, and a wonderfully quirky interpretaion of what should be a very depressing story. Also, the Barbican is a wonderfully comfy and well-designed theatre. All in all, a pretty groovy show.

Have I mentioned the music? Not to knock Tom's voice, but other people should sing his stuff more often. I don't think I've heard Tom do these songs yet, but (with all due respect) I think the performances last night must be better. I understand the music is available on his Blood Money album if you're curious.

The show was a musical version of an old Danish play about a soldier named Woycek who is in love with a lady of questionable virtue. In order to earn money for her and her child (I wasn't entirely clear if the boy was his child as well), he suffers through weird, sadistic medical experiments and various other torments. It's really not a nice life. When he finds out his sweetie-pumpkin-pie has been having an affair with a Drum Major he goes a bit wacko and kills her with a big knife.

But somehow, mainly because of the music and sets and staging, this version is kind of cheerful and surreal and one doesn't get all bummed out about what is really a very unpleasant and hopeless story. In fact, one tends to leave the theatre humming a happy little tune.

Posted by YandaMan at 8:55 AM | Comments (0)

October 1, 2002

Going to the Chapel

Saw the Irish folk singer Christy Moore at the Union Chapel last night and ran into Woody Harrelson. I believe I am becoming a celebrity anti-stalker. They all seem to be following me around trying to be my friend. First Angus Deayton, then Liv Tyler, and now Woody.

I got a call from Irish John just as I was finishing my dinner. John always seems to have spare tickets for everything he goes to. He had a spare ticket for Christy Moore, so I chucked my dirty dishes out the window and tottled off the Union Chapel.

The Chapel is about a ten minute walk from where I live at the moment, and is an absolutely gorgeous venue. It is (as you might expect) a Chapel converted into a theatre that does mainly folky type stuff. It's a little odd architecturally in that is it broader than it is deep which makes it work a bit better as a theatre I think. There are more good seats than there would be otherwise. Unfortunately, by the time I got there the show had already started and all these good seats were taken. There were a few crap ones dotted here and there but we chose to stand by the sound dudes instead.From there we had a great view of Christy and his cohorts. Unfortunately, I can't remember who they were. My knowledge of Irish folk singers is limited.

While we were standing there, Woody came up to us with a mysterious oriental woman and a girl of about ten in tow. I think he was too shy to talk to me directly so he asked the guy next to me if the doorway we stood next to was to the loos. Thilling! Then he literally brushed past me and went in search of relief elsewhere. A few minutes later the trio was back and stood next to us for most of the concert. I considered striking up a conversation with him but I decided not to risk it. What if he flew into a rage? A few months ago, he got angry and beat the hell out of a London Taxi-Cab. I may be a tough old man of the bush but there is no way I'm going toe to toe with a guy who picks a fight with a London Taxi. As a cyclist I know that you just don't mess with a London Taxi. They're big. They're metal. And they don't take no guff.

Oh, and the conert was grand, by the way. And we had a pint on the way home. And I plugged the great Stan Rogers to Irish John and The Wee Seonaid and told them Harris and the Mare is the saddest Canadian folk song ever written and The Mary Ellen Carter is the most uplifting.

And so a toast, "To the memory of Stan Rogers and the living soul of Christy Moore. And to that poor nameless black cab that got its ass kicked by a hollywood star". Slange.

Posted by YandaMan at 8:32 AM

August 8, 2002

Ascot, 2002

Vicki and I and Irish John and a bunch of French folk went to Ascot one Saturday this Spring. At one point I was £483,563 pounds to the good but I blew almost all of it on lager and chips and walked away with just enough to pay for the train home.

Posted by YandaMan at 11:28 AM