Legally Blonde the Musical, Starring Sheridan Smith

I have never seen Legally Blonde the film, nor do I have any particular desire to do so, but when I heard the hype around Legally Blonde the Musical, I was intrigued to see what all the fuss was about. In fact it was Ant who first suggested we go and see it in the West End, having read Stephen Fry's enthusastic Twitter review. Of course I couldn't even consider going to such a thing without my dear pal and fellow lover of musicals, Damien. It took us the best part of year to get our arses in gear to get tickets and go up to Town, but last night we finally made it. 

After all the months of anticipation, the three of us were giddy to the point of hysteria when we met up at Brighton station yesterday lunchtime. Our excitement continued throughout the day as we made the most of the trip by taking in the René Gruau exhibition at Somerset House and indulging in a spot of window shopping around Covent Garden. After a bite to eat at my favourite little Moroccan haunt and drinks next door at the wondferfully rustic Beaujolais, we were just about fit to burst.

One of the most lauded things about the West End production of Legally Blonde the Musical is its current leading lady, Sheridan Smith. Having never seen Two Pints of Lager...  or indeed any of her other noted TV or stage performances, I had no expectations either way, but was duly impressed by her sparkling performance as Elle Woods. The rest of the cast were equally outstanding, giving it their all from start to finish and clearly relishing every bonkers minute of it. Someone else whose musical career has so far evaded me is Denise van Outen, who recently joined Legally Blonde as the hapless hairdresser Paulette. She, too, was surprisingly accomplished; I had no idea she could sing so well.

Of course I'd anticipated high camp and energetic dance numbers, but wasn't quite prepared for the bizarre, almost magical-realism dimension to the production (Riverdance? Talking dogs? WTF?). It was unashamedly and zealously inhabiting the World of Musicals and all the insane poetic license it allows. It was also genuinely very funny (think Glee/Sondheim-esque New York-Jewish humour) and at even  at times, moving. And I LOVED it. As I glanced either side of me at Damien and Ant's beaming faces, I could tell they did too. Feeling thoroughly entertained, we giggled and grinned all the way home (via a nightcap at my old student hang out the Retro Bar).

I defy anyone but the most cynical anti-musicalites not to enjoy Legally Blonde the Musical, and would especially recommended  it to anyone in need of a pick-me-up. The charming Sheridan Smith will only be in it for another few months, so hurry.

Robyn at the Concorde 2

I go to a lot of gigs, mostly in seedy pub function rooms or muddy fields at festivals and that's the way I like it. The last time I went to a genuine pop concert was back in 2008, when Neel persuaded me to go and see Kylie at the O2. It was certainly an experience and a brilliant night out with one of my favourite people, but I can't imagine ever wanting to go back to that particular venue. I do really like a fix of uncomplicated, energetic electro-pop, though, so when I saw that Swedish popstrel Robyn was coming to the Concorde 2 (and not the awful Brighton Centre), I was quick to snap up tickets.

I've heard Robyn described as Sweden's answer to Britney before now, presumably because she too was a child star. Certainly both share a history of catchy pop tunes and a massive gay following, but somehow Robyn's Swedishness makes her quirkier and more interesting by default. In the flesh she is less kooky and more unabashedly Euro-pop than you might expect, which endeared her to us even more. It made a pleasant change to be at the Concorde amongst a bouncy crowd of excitable gaylords and giggly girls, as opposed to the usual hipster chin-stroking contingent - although interestingly there were a few of those around too.

There's nothing surprising or challenging about Robyn's material, but it is bloody good pop music. I like to think of it as a cleansing of the musical palette - a sort of sorbet gig, if you will. And she puts on a great show: energetic, enthusiastic and emotive. I couldn't help but dance. Lots. Particular highlights were 'Dancing on my Own' (my favourite track from Body Talk Pt.1) and 'Hang with Me', a more stripped back almost-ballad which showed off her true vocal abilities. The best thing was being so up close and personal with such a big personality and an even bigger sound in an intimate venue. It could only have been better if dear Neel had been here to enjoy it with me instead of thousands of miles away in Melbourne.

The Grand Glee Finale: End of Act One

Warning: Luvvie Alert (if you have have an aversion to campery or showbiz of any kind, you may as well stop reading right now. If however you are fond of a showtune or two, or like me, are a fan of Glee, welcome to the party...)

Since I first raved about it back in January, Glee has become my only must-watch TV show (oh, OK, there's Mad Men too), providing wry satire and sparkling musical entertainment every Monday night, which, I think you'll agree, is just what Mondays needed. Like any long-running series, it's had its occasional 'nothing much is happening this week' episodes and a few ill-conceived or just plain vomit-inducing musical numbers. But on the whole it's been first-rate.

We've followed the ever more complicated fates of a group of High School misfits and their equally troubled teachers as they prepare for Glee Club sectionals, an inter-school musical performance competition traditional in America. We've wondered who will end up with who, whether the club will survive its many slapstick bust-ups and whether they will make it through to the next stage of the competition.

There's decent eye-candy in the form of mohicaned bad-boy Noah 'Puck' Puckerman (or pretty boy Finn Hudson if that's your thing), but the undisputed comedy star of the show is cranky sports teacher and cheerleader coach Sue Sylvester, whose cutting one-liner comebacks are legendary. My favourite from this week's episode: "You'll be adding revenge to the long list of things you're no good at, right next to being married, running a high school glee club and finding a hairstyle that doesn't look like a lesbian." Genius.

The highlight of each episode for me is invariably the big showstopper number, generally performed by the group or two main characters in the midst of a poignant storyline. The episodes that fall flat are always those in which they get the showstopper wrong. Thankfully for the mid season finale this week, they got it very very right with a magical rendition of 'Don't Rain on My Parade' from Funny Girl:

As someone who performed in many musicals as a youngster and harboured aspirations towards professional singing, I was right there with (the talented but irritatingly fame-obsessed) Rachel as she stole the show at the Glee Club competition sectionals. Her heartfelt performance perfectly encapsulated the hunger and drive I so vividly remember experiencing as a teenager treading the boards; it was thrilling, infectious and rousing - bringing back a rush of teenage yearnings.

Both Ant and I have been humming the tune ever since and going back to watch this video of said performance to re-experience the tingling sensation all over again. It was so powerful that I can't even recall what the other songs in the episode were. Now that's what I call showbiz.

If you are still reading and have yet to experience Glee for yourself, you can catch up on the last few episodes via 4oD, or order the DVD from Amazon.

I Am a Shooting Star: a Spaced Out Sci Fi Party

Ever since the Green Man Festival 2007 I've been trying to track down a song called 'I am an Astronaut', played in the dance tent there by Pete Fowler of Monsterism fame as the final track of his stormingly groovy DJ set (to which I can be seen dancing here).

All I could ever find, though, was a downbeat version by Snow Patrol which you'd never want to play at a party (unless you wanted people to leave). I managed to determine that the original was by Ricki Wilde (younger brother of Kim) and was originally recorded in the 70s - but never actually found anywhere to download or buy it.

When we decided to throw a space themed party for my birthday this year, I knew I had to include the song in my DJ set, and renewed my quest in earnest. With a little more online know-how and some purposeful determination, I eventually found it.

The 'Spaced Out' theme inspired some of the best costume efforts I've ever seen amongst my friends, and with the addition of a robot dancing competition, a superb Clangers cake (made by my talented sister), a screening of the legendary Turkish Star Wars and some out of this world live music from St Anthony's Fire, it truly was a night to remember.

Finally spinning the tune I've been dreaming about for the last two years, I watched affectionately from behind the decks as my drunken amigos stumbled around in a cloud of glitter, hugging each other in that end of the night "you're brilliant, no you're brilliant" way. I like birthdays.

Going La La at Shambala

Usually when I go to festivals, it's all about the music – discovering new bands, hero-worshipping favourite ones and generally jumping up and down in a field (or tent) for three or four days. Of course many of the more interesting festies these days also have other stuff on offer – theatre, comedy, cabaret, craft activities and more - but to me the music is always at the heart of the festival experience. So it was a bit of a shock to the system to go to Shambala, where the music turned out to be more of an afterthought. Unless you are big into smugadelic funk and uber-jolly world music, you would probably feel the same.

Apart from the odd burst of more moody and interesting bands - Kid iD, My Panda Shall Fly, The Legend of the 7 Black Tentacles - variations on a funky theme was pretty much the order of the day. I can handle this kind of music in small doses, maybe even enjoy it for a night, but four days solid is a bit much. Luckily there were plenty of other diversions on offer, not least the hoardes of like-minded, friendly people. After music, people-watching and photography are two of my favourite pursuits, and there was plenty of opportunity for both at Shambala. Once I'd got over the lack of musical inspiration, I threw myself into the spirit of the occasion wholeheartedly, working the colourful fields and woods of Kelmarsh estate with camera in hand and mind firmly open.

The things I remember most from the weekend were the random encounters and conversations, though I am sure there are plenty of those I have also forgotten. As is so often the way, the best party action was all going down in the tiniest tent in the far corner of a field, where those who dared to venture found kindred spirits and music to lift the soul. Saturday's fancy dress parade provided a feast for the eyes, with highlights including the complete cast of Sesame Street, a Tetris troop and a pack of Crayola crayons. I'm sad to say that my own costume efforts were rather more understated, but thankfully more than made up for by my illustrious friends' various ensembles – which you can see in glorious technicolour above.

After dancing and ranting the night away on Friday and Saturday, Sunday brought more sedate activities in the form of a chin theatre, an animatronic horse display and some excellent cabaret, including a pole-tango-acrobatics routine (it has to be seen to be believed) that rounded off my weekend beautifully in a flourish of theatrical splendour. And in the absence of interesting music, theatrical splendour is the next best thing.

Witches of Eastwick, Congress Theatre Eastbourne

When I saw that Witches of Eastwick the musical starring Marti Pellow was coming to Eastbourne, I knew I must organise an excursion, and it didn't take much persuasion to muster a gang from amongst my more theatrically-minded friends. Seven of us - three gay guys and four girls, rocked up at the Congress last Wednesday night, all strangely giddy in anticipation. All apart from my mum, everyone was of an age to recall Pellow's superstar peak as lead singer of Wet Wet Wet, and though none of us were even particularly big fans at the time, they were one of the biggest home-grown groups of our impressionable childhood years.

Despite being familiar with its star, I didn't know the show at all, and can't remember having seen the 80s film version, though I feel I must have done at some point. The plot didn't exactly hold any big surprises, but it was an entertaining couple of hours nonetheless. After a spirited and colourfully-costumed opening chorus number, the three leading ladies drew us into a magical mood with the spookily wishful 'Make Him Mine'. Conjured by the trio's accidental summoning, Pellow appeared soon after as the self-assured sleazemeister Darryl Van Horne - a character that clearly comes easily to him. Compared to the three 'witches', all of whom were excellent, Pellow's performance seemed conspicuously stiff, and his dialogue often gabbled. But songs such as 'Dance with the Devil' proved that the boy can still belt a tune, and he bounced around the stage with an admirable amount of energy. He certainly got the seal of approval from the gay contingent of our party, as they mock-fanned themselves, mouthing "I would" to each other; even one of the girls (and no, it wasn't me) professed to having developed a crush by the end. Though he doesn't really do it for me, I have to admit he's in pretty good shape for a middle-aged ex-junkie.

I wouldn't put Witches of Eastwick up there with my all-time favourite musicals (e.g. Sweeney Todd, Wicked, Hedwig), but it was a good fun night out, and nice to be back on home turf with some of my all-time favourite people. Let's do it again soon, Ladies.

In Which I Finally Get Frocked Up and Go Dancing

You wait five months for a big night out, then two come along at once... I may occasionally possibly have mentioned once or twice lately my frustrations about not having been out dancing since my birthday back in September. It was a sorry state of affairs, which I am relieved to report has now been rectified with a double whammy of social festivities.

Brighton Twestival, 12th Feb

On Thursday Ant and I joined the Brighton Twitterati for Brightwest at the Black Lion, part of the global Twestival fundraiser, which I've already written about for the C&M blog. It was a fun evening of putting real faces to avatars and shooting the breeze with like minded, passionate and interesting people. Unlike the majority of attendees - whose morning-after hangover Tweets provided much amusement - I stayed sober for the duration, which was just as well because Friday night brought an altogether more epic and energetic adventure...

Last Tuesday Society Ball, 13th Feb

One of London's many 'alternative' nightlife purveyors, The Last Tuesday Society has been putting on weird and wacky events since 2006. The latest (and reportedly final) event was an anti-Valentine's affair entitled 'Loss' which took place, appropriately, on Friday 13th. I was there with the lovely Angell, whose acquaintance I made almost exactly two years ago at another alternative night - from the currently dormant Lost Vagueness. After fuelling up with vintage rum and hearty pasta on board Angell's cosy houseboat, we made our way to Notting Hill, where a queue was building up outside the Tabernacle. Most had made a decent effort with their attire (the theme being 'Decaying Beauty'), but as always there were one or two conspicuously under dressed punters, who were frankly just begging to be mocked.

Inside, peacock feathers were being handed out in a half-hearted attempt to furnish those without costumes, but unfortunately there was no dressing up area like at Lost Vagueness, leaving the towny element at the mercy of our ongoing contempt. Embarking on the obligatory exploration of the venue, with which neither of us was familiar, we discovered an atmospheric central room with a stage and dancefloor, and a surrounding mezzanine - perfect for people-watching. The rest of the space was a warren of less theatrical flourescently-lit side rooms and corridors, where various activities such as onion chopping (to make you cry) and a life drawing class had been laid on. It was in such areas that our more colourful encounters occurred, though the dancefloor did afford some quite sociable dancing episodes.

The highlight of my night - apart from Angell's charming company of course - was a storytelling session in a tiny side room, for which we demanded that the annoyingly intrusive lights be switched off. Six or seven of us huddled in a broom cupboard in the dark were just able to make out the flowing ginger hair and emphatic expressions of our rakish raconteur, who treated us to a spellbinding Arthurian tale, told faultlessly from memory. The gloriously sonorous storyteller was Giles Abbott, a true stalwart luvvie (in the best possible way) if ever there was one.

Both the live bands we saw were good fun, particularly The Guillotines, whose Saxophonist I'm sure I recognised from Brighton. I particularly relished flagellating the singer (upon his request, I might add) with a large stuffed tiger which had been pulled from one of the many bundles of cuddly toys hanging from the ceiling. An 'avant-garde' (i.e. wanky) drag mime act died on its feet and spelled the beginning of the end when punters began to boo and throw things at the stage. It didn't help that the bar had run out of spirits by 1am (note to self: conceal hip flask in stockings in future), and people were getting increasingly tetchy about it. But despite these slight hiccups, the atmosphere was a friendly one, and we had an excellent night of random conversations and wanton mischief.

Back at the boat, Angell and I polished off the best part of a bottle of rum and stayed up chatting til sunrise. I can't remember the last time I did that, and it was especially magical to do so from inside a houseboat on the Thames, which provided a most stunningly dramatic view. The following day was spent watching the world go by on the river whilst listening to an eclectic selection of tunes and reminiscing about our exploits the night before. I finally dragged myself back to Brighton in the early evening, feeling far less wretched that I ought to have done considering, and with my dancefloor cravings firmly sated.

More photos from the Last Tuesday Society Ball at: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar

Frocks, Freaks and Fabulous Friends

The last time I got dolled up to go dancing was probably for Born Bad vs Gypsy Hotel at Komedia back in July, which actually turned out to be a bit of a let down, so I was really looking forward to celebrating my birthday at The Magic Theatre at the weekend. I'd chosen this event specifically because it was in London, and I fancied a change from the usual Brighton party circuit. I discovered that it is quite difficult to persuade other people out of their seaside comfort zone though, so it turned out to be a small (but perfectly formed) gathering of a few game Brightonians and some London-based friends - all of whom looked fabulous in an eclectic assortment of costumes. I went for a Bugsy Malone-inspired vintage ensemble, including a dress purchased from eBay especially for the occasion, accessorised with bits and pieces from the dressing up trunk.

We knew as soon as we walked up to the Bloomsbury Ballroom that we were in for an interesting night - a motley assemblage of smokers loitering at the door gave a hint as to the type of punters we'd find inside: weird and wonderful, bold and theatrical, wantonly disturbing and sexually ambiguous - suddenly the outfits in which we had felt so self-conscious on the bus from Hackney appeared positively pedestrian in comparison. Inside we discovered an elegant Art Deco ballroom, perhaps a little too polished and corporate-feeling for this type of debauched event, but pleasantly light and airy, with plenty of places to perch. Oh, and the toilets were immaculate, which is always a bonus.

Photos from The Magic Theatre by Jaded Lady

People were friendly and talkative, and each of us found ourselves making new friends and coming back together with stories to tell. The music ranged from show-tunes to rock 'n roll to jazz standards, and when I wasn't dancing I was merrily singing along to everything from 'Bad Guys' to 'Mein Herr'. Entertainment was laid on in the form of a couple of (frankly baffling) cabaret acts and a live band - The Voodoo Trombone Quartet - who got everyone dancing with their infectious funky brass rhythms. The night went by in a flash of sequins and salacious gossip, and suddenly I was wafting about to Edith Piaf, saying appropriately theatrical goodbyes to friends old and new. I wish more of my Brighton cronies had been there to enjoy what turned out to be a super special night, and well worth the trek up to Town - but big love to those who did make the effort, and thank you all for giving me a birthday bash to remember.

More photos at the Magic Theatre Flickr page.

Kylie Minogue at the o2

Last weekend I went to see Kylie at the 0² Arena - a major departure from my usual gig circuit of dingy pubs and muddy festivals. I hadn't been to a stadium gig since the early nineties (INXS at Wembley Arena was my last), and had forgotten what a strangely impersonal experience it was. Walking into the venue formerly known as the Millennium Dome, I felt literally nauseous surveying the 19,999 other punters lining its cavernous interior. I was there with Neel (who had organised the outing) and two of his other lovely fag-hags (and I mean that in the friendliest possible way ladies), Fred and Laura. Once we'd sat down and I'd had time to adjust my internal scale settings, I was soon infected by Neel's obvious excitement, and looking forward to witnessing what I'd been told would be an impressive show.

Descending onto stage like spiderwoman in her web, the diminutive pop princess embarked on a two-hour marathon of hits that included material from the new album, X, as well as many old favourites. The steep-sided auditorium and lack of leg room were rather prohibitive to dancing, but we did manage to bop around for a couple of numbers, including Love At First Sight - my own favourite Kylie tune. A veritable visual spectacular, the set included numerous costume changes and an impressive light-screen stage that made the 70s underlit dancefloor seem positively prehistoric. Flanked by a troupe of scantily-clad buff male dancers (she clearly knows her market), Ms Minogue exuded energy and charm throughout, leaping about deftly like someone half her age. Taking us all back in time, she finished on her first ever hit single, I Should Be So Lucky, which came out in 1987 - when I was in the last year of primary school. Back then, I wouldn't have been seen dead dancing to Kylie (I was on the verge of becoming a moody rock-chick), but have since realised that a slice of cheesy pop in the musical pie is well worth having. Apart from getting rid of the poodle perm and puffballs skirts, Kylie hasn't really changed much in over 20 years, and despite not having any real singing talent, has managed to sustain a successful career in the pop industry. You've got to respect that.

I very much doubt that I'll be repeating the experience any time soon (the claustrophobic tube journey back to London Bridge was enough to put me off forever), but it was good to be dragged out of my comfort zone for one night and mix with the masses. Hopefully it'll also make me appreciate the more familiar territory of muddy fields and obscure bands at Kendal Calling this weekend.

Photo from Mirror.co.uk

I ♥ Musicals, Deal With It

I'm not ashamed to admit that I like musicals. It's in my blood - my great-grandparents were singers in the D'oyly Carte Opera (which pretty much invented the genre of the popular musical, performing the accessible and often humorous works of Gilbert & Sullivan), and I've been in dozens of amateur productions myself. It's been a few years now since I graced the stage, but I still like to go and watch other people leaping around and expressing themselves through the medium of song now and again. Of course it doesn't always work, and there are some dodgy productions out there that drag down the good name of the musical altogether. I recently tried to watch the film of Rent on DVD and had to turn off after 20 minutes, it was such a depressingly flat affair. To me, musicals should be jolly and uplifting, or at least have a good story and some memorable songs.

The last couple of West End productions I've seen - Avenue Q and Wicked - were both brilliant, and hard acts to follow, so when the lovely Neel announced that he wanted to go and see Hairspray on his birthday, I was somewhat dubious. But going on adventures with Neel is always fun, and with a gang of 15 signed up for it, I knew we'd have a giggle even if the show wasn't all that. But as it turned out, I quite enjoyed it. Never having seen either of the films, I was oblivious to the plot, which is a good thing in itself - with so many musicals you already know what's going to happen and just have to hope that the songs are enough to keep you amused. In the case of Hairspray, it's a pretty obvious rise of the underdog tale, set in 1960s Baltimore when racial segregation was still the norm. With full marks for feel-good factor, this new production is bursting with energy and humour, with a classic performance from Michael Ball in (almost believeable) drag. I know that a lot of people find him irritating, but I have a secret soft spot for old dimple cheeks. No one could deny that he has great stage presence, and a lovely singing voice. Admittedly, he did milk some of the comedy moments a little too much, but more in the over-the-top spirit of the show than through wanton self-indulgence.

The costumes were fabulous, and made me want to get straight onto ebay and treat myself to some vintage frocks. I found myself foot-tapping (though not clapping along - why do people do that?) through lots of the songs, and can even imagine one or two of them making their way into my DJ setlist repertoire. Most of all, it was lovely to break up the week with a cultural adventure, even if it did mean braving the cattletrucks and crowded streets to get across London. It also made me feel more excited about my own imminent return to the stage this Sunday, as part of a charity concert in aid of St Wilfrid's Hospice at Hailsham Pavilion. The last I heard, there were still a few tickets left (available from 01323 841414) if anyone feels inclined to witness this *ahem* historic event.

Meeting Sulu's Fag-hag

Living in Brighton, I've become accustomed to being surrounded by a host of eccentrics, freaks and weirdos - the colourful characters are a big part of what I love about the town. But Lewes - where I travel to each day for work - boasts a much deeper strain of eccentricity that has none of the Brighton affectation about it. Proper dyed-in-the-wool 'local' fruitcakes line the quiet streets of this quaint historical town, and sometimes you over-hear the strangest things.

Today, in Lewes Post Office, I was waiting in line with an increasingly frustrated queue of customers - all visibly staring daggers at the elderly lady being served at the counter, who was clearly in no rush to be on her way. "Do you know who this letter is going to?" she asked the long suffering clerk, who raised his eyebrows in a polite but bemused "No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me" sort of way. "George Takei" she proudly announced. "He was Sulu in Star Trek. It's his birthday next week". And then, as if to clarify that she was a genuine acquaintance, and not just a random geeky stalker: "Oh yes, I know him. He always sends me a Christmas card. Lovely man. Him and his boyfriend...Yes, boyfriend... Oooh, didn't you know, he came out three years ago?" Clearly she was hoping to provoke some sort of response, but sadly I couldn't hear the clerk's half of the conversation to discover if her revelation had the desired effect (although based on the above picture, I wonder that anyone was ever particularly surprised). I had been served at a different window, and was on my way out the door, and she was still in full swing. I hope I am as mad and annoyingly verbose in my dotage - this little episode really brightened up my lunch hour.

And now I can say that I shop at the same Post Office as Sulu's Fag-hag. Awesome.

Sham and James Get Hitched