Hurrah for the Underdog

Last night I went to see Wicked for the third time - a Halloween outing organised by the lovely Neel, and a (very) belated birthday treat from me to Jo. I shall refrain from waxing lyrical about the show itself, as I have already blogged about it excessively, but I wanted to give well-deserved a nod to Cassidy Janson - the current Elphaba understudy - who was standing in for Kerry Ellis last night. Much of the cast has changed since Wicked opened in the West End just over a year ago, when the awesome Idina Menzel stole the show in the leading role. I was delighted to witness in Janson much that was lacking from (Menzel's successor) Ellis's execution of this intimidatingly demanding part - most notably a refreshing humility which suited the underdog nature of the role. Ellis had seemed too self-consciously starry when I saw her earlier this year, and also irritated the hell out of me with her grating Americanisation of the songs. Janson managed to avoid this trap, into which many British performers seem to fall these days - for which she scores huge brownie points in my critical eyes. Her diminuitve physical presence was more than made up for by a natural stage-presence that brought the necessary weight to the complex character of the wicked (or is she?) witch. So, hurrah for the underdog... or in this case, the understudy!

Cassidy Janson singing No Good Deed from Wicked

Middle Farm Apple Festival 2007

Having been absent from the party circuit for over six weeks now, it is with some trepidation that I have started re-introducing myself, and so The Middle Farm Apple Festival seemed the perfect non-threatening event at which to gently dip a toe into the social pond. I am a big fan of Middle Farm anyway, and a regular customer at their famous cider barn, which houses the National Cider & Perry Collection, as well as an impressive selection of real ales, fruit wines and liqueurs, and most importantly, pretty much every type of mead one could hope for. Their annual Apple Festival is a family-friendly event with local bands, fair-rides, food stalls, sheep-racing, Morris dancing, and gallons and gallons of cider. After popping into the Blind Lemon vintage fashion fair in Brighton on Sunday morning, I arrived at Middle Farm just in time to catch Carnival Collective, who describe themselves as: “a thriving group of musicians, dancers and artists...[combining] break-beat percussion, reggae, funk, house and other dance influences - played on traditional Brazilian instruments - with a rocking brass section, funky dancers and unique costumes and visuals.” This tres Brighton set-up brought the enthusiastically appreciative audience into a dancing frenzy - where it was heartening to see yummy mummies, crusties, kiddies, scarily blacked-up Morris Men (hmmm) and other random cider-fuelled red-eyed punters bopping happily together in the hay.

After a spot of fantastic people-watching and general mooching about in the sunshine, I spotted some friends and hooked up for the rest of the afternoon to watch Django Spears and the Mountain Firework Company. It was also good to have company in the heaving cider barn, where I purchased some Gregg's Pitt Hertforshire cider, apparently a rare find, and certainly extremely pleasing to my own critical taste buds. I also took a chance on some parsnip wine, which I have yet to sample, but am looking forward to sharing with Ant when he returns from his weekend away. Spotting a huge queue of traffic heading back towards Brighton on the A27, I turned left out of Middle Farm and took the scenic route along the coast via Alfriston and Newhaven. This also afforded me a prime view of the stunning autumnal sunset, rounding off the day beautifully.

Nothing to Blog About

It's now been over six weeks since I fell off my bike and fractured my jaw, and I'm still off work, cursed with sleepless nights due to ongoing pain and discomfort. I haven't been blogging, largely because I've had nothing to blog about, being stuck at home. You'd think that having so much time off work would have encouraged me to do something creative - read all those books that have been piling up; learn how to use the swanky new camera I'd just been bought; start writing that novel I've always talked about. But no, the sad truth is, I have done NOTHING for the last few weeks. Well, nothing meaningful anyway. So, what have I been doing when I've been doing nothing? Sleeping, mostly... Since the accident I have yet to sleep through a night, being woken by an assortment of aches and pains – jaw, teeth, head, ears (they just decided to get in on the act in the last few nights), and so I've been laying in most days, and dozing during the day. I have also lost many hours to the various DVD boxed sets with which my good friend Tim supplied me – and am now a firm convert to the compellingly silly '24', in spite of my better judgement. I guess that however bad life feels for me right now, Jack Bauer probably has it worse, as he frantically fights fends off yet another earth-shattering threat to humanity – which rather puts things into perspective! I've done a little bit of work from home, keeping up to speed with my emails, so at least I don't have to face an overflowing inbox on my return. There's been a steady stream of visitors – including my darling 3-year-old nephew Isaac and his daddy (my brother), who came to stay overnight for the first time in ages. This reminded me how restorative the presence of children can be in times of crisis. Unlike my grown-up visitors, Isaac had no real conception of my maladies, and continued with his toddler demands and needs – a refreshing change of focus away from me. I much enjoyed winning the little boy's favour by introducing him to the indulgent joys of watching TV in bed (not something I ever do, but our spare room where he sleeps does have a TV & VCR), at which point any wariness he may have had about his auntie immediately evaporated, as we cuddled up under the duvet watching The Clangers and Bod.

My nephew, Isaac, with Natalie's little boy, Reggie in Queen's Park

I've indulged in a little well-needed pampering, courtesy of Ant, who treated me to a massage for my birthday. Then today I went for a haircut, and decided to change my style completely – a symbolic new start for my imminent return to civilisation. Despite my ongoing grievances, I am planning to return to the office next week, not least to preserve my sanity. It will be a long while before I am 100% back to my old self, as I still have much dental work to get done, and this has to wait until my jaw is fully healed, but being back at my desk and seeing my colleagues again will hopefully give me some semblance of normality. Meanwhile, I still have five more days to try and do something constructive. Or I could just finish season 2 of 24....

A Smile Mourned

Just over two weeks ago I lost my smile. I left it in the road somewhere just off the A27, along the familiar cycle route that I take every day to work between Brighton and Lewes. I suppose I'd always taken the ability to smile and laugh for granted, never realising how much I used or valued it, until suddenly I was flying over the handlebars, hitting the road chin first, in a slow-motion catastrophe moment that will haunt me for the rest of my life. As I lay staring down at my shockingly blood-spattered clothes, spitting bits of my own teeth into my hand, the gravity of the situation started to sink in. I wasn't going to get up, brush myself down and get back on the saddle. I was going to need an ambulance. This was bad. As it turned out, I had fractured my jaw in two places and had damaged or lost several of my previously immaculate pearly whites (not so much as a filling in 32 years). So yes, my smile is literally broken, compromised, lost - at least until my jaw heals and I get my teeth fixed up. But I'm not only talking about the obvious physical damage - about which I am inevitably self-conscious - or even the prohibitively painful act of attempting to raise a grin with a broken jaw. The emotional impact of losing one's dignity in this way is enough to banish the desire to smile for some time. And now that I'm stuck at home convalescing, I have plenty of time to dwell on things, to sit feeling sorry for myself, thinking about everything I'm missing out on, and wondering if I'll ever feel the same again. Everyone keeps telling me it could have been worse, that in a way I'm lucky. The stoical side of me agrees with them. But even so, I can't help missing my old smile. I wish I'd appreciated it more when it was just effortlessly there.

Green Man Festival 2007

I can't imagine better compensation for enduring relentless downpours and trudging through endless mud-slicks for an entire weekend than being treated to some of the best live musicaround in one of the most magical settings in the country. Last weekend was my second time at the Green Man festival, and this year was even better than the last - which was pretty damned good! We arrived lateish on the Friday night, driving straight from work, and so missed most of the Friday acts. Though we were just in time to see Tunng, an affable 'folktronica' set-up, whowere attempting to raise people's waterlogged spirits by appearing in Hawaiian shirts and throwing beach balls into the crowd. Last time I witnessed a band attempt this kind of stunt at a festival (The Levellers, Glastonbury 1997), they were repaid with heartless mud-slinging! But Tunng kept the audience happy with their Kings-of-Convenience-meets-Captain twiddly-pop-folk, and the occasional comedy rock-out moment. Anything had to be better than the alternative on the main stage – the incensingly contrived Joanna Newsom – and it seemed most of Tunng's fans agreed. I actually overheard one guy say to his friend - who was departing to catch the last of the grating harpstress's set - (in a simultaneously sulky and jeering voice) “Go on then, enjoy your warbling...”.

Tunng in the Folkey-Dokey tent

After a deliciously reviving Saturday brunch at the Thali Café, we watched the Moon Music Orchestra before popping down to Crickhowell (the local village) to replace my wellies, which had unfortunately split just as the rain decided to settle in for the day. After lunch we saw the distinctly forgettable PG Six and the crowd-pleasing Broken Family Band, during which I spotted a fellow Brightonian in the audience – a friend of a friend who I've met a couple of times at parties. In true festival spirit I bounded over and introduced myself, much to his and his companion's bemusement. But once we'd established the connection, we got chatting and agreed to meet up later. Feeling pleasantly invigorated by this point, I fancied a boogie, so we decided to give the DJ tent a go. Peter Fowler was playing a mad mix of prog-rock and happy-house, and we threw ourselves into the throng with gusto, managing to take photos and dance at the same time! Justin Spear (of Freakzone fame, and son of the Bonzos Roger Ruskin Spear) was up next on the decks, and continued with an appropriately eccentric set, of which some uber-cool French lounge sticks most in my memory.



Dancers in the Rumpus Room

70s folk-legend Vashti Bunyan provided the perfect wind-down after all that dancing, and we sat on the hillside letting her soothingly ethereal vocals wash over us. Earlier in the day we'd spotted a mammoth bonfire being built in a tucked-away field, and this provided the perfect escape from the cringe-makingly cheesy Robert Plant, who was headlining the main stage. Eagerly soaking up the warmth of the now roaring fire, we sat listening to a guy nearby lecturing his genuinely enraptured friends on the secret life of bees. This set the tone for a wonderfully sociable evening of surreal banter, raucous laughter and plenty of spontaneous entertainment. There's something so primal about sitting with friends, or strangers, round a campfire. It seems to bring out one's tribal instinct, and in this case, enhanced the already convivial atmosphere of possibly the friendliest festival I've ever attended. Michael and Steve (the Brighton boys we'd bumped into earlier) joined us, making the experience all the more special - forging new friendships in such a magical context is a rare pleasure indeed. 4am rolled round before we knew it, and most of our gang decided to knock it on the head, leaving Michael about to get in on some energetic drum-jamming that was going down - and apparently he stuck it out til sunrise – respect!



Michael, Steve & Ant, bonding by the fire

Sunday brought a welcome end to the rain, and a fitful lie-in, during which I kept catching bizarre snippets of conversation, such as: “we've had a gazebo incident” outside the tent. Another hearty breakfast (this time from the Chai café) improved our mild jadedness no end, and set us up for a day of more outstanding musical exploits. First up were Soft Hearted Scientists, followed by the unsigned, but excellent Laughing Windows, who impressed with some mesmerising psychedelic prog-rock in the Do Make Say Think (but with vocals) mould. I'd been looking forward to introducing Ant to Misty's Big Adventure (who Jen and I had loved at last year's festival), and was pleased to see that they'd graduated to the main stage this year - where their infectious exuberance was given more room to breathe. We bundled right up to the front to get the full force of the Misty's experience, and so that I could take some snaps on my newly purchased Nikon D40x (geek alert!).



Misty's Big Adventure

A crazy mix of jazz, pop, klezmer and general madness, Misty's are perhaps the closest thing we have to the Bonzo Dog Doo-dah Band on the contemporary scene. With amusingly acerbic lyrics and freak-out catchy choruses, complete with trippy stage dancing from the Blue-Meany-esque mascot Erotic Volvo, they were the perfect Sunday afternoon reviver, and a welcome antidote to many of the more downbeat folksters. Not that there's anything wrong with downbeat folksters, as The Yellow Moon Band proved with their softly meandering prog-outs. Man of the moment Malcolm Middleton provided the soundtrack to Ant's afternoon nap on the hillside, while I happily people-watched and snapped away with my new toy, soaking up the mellow atmosphere and laughing at kids rolling down the hill and giving each other presents of mud-cakes.



Excellent people-watching

The indisputable, and unexpected, highlight of my festival was delivered by My Brightest Diamond, whose lead singer Shara Worden oozes the kind of effortless rock 'n roll sex appeal that most artists can only dream about. Her arrestingly eerie rendition of Edith Piaf's Hymne L'Amour sent shivers down the collective spine of the audience, and left me visibly breathless and incapable of meaningful speech for a good while afterwards. Defying comparison, MBD mix elements of opera, cabaret and rock to astounding effect. Currently on tour in Europe (for dates/venues see: http://www.mybrightestdiamond.com/) - I strongly urge you to go and see them for yourself – you won't be disappointed!



The strikingly sexy and talented Shara Worden

After such an exhilarating performance, I was in need of something a little less intense, and John Renbourn provided the ideal tonic for my (pleasantly) battered senses. The jovial old-timer was on form as he captivated a packed-out tent of appreciative fans, young and old, with some classic old-school folk. Up at the Green Man Café (a paved area with a bar, reminiscent of Edinburgh Festival's Pleasance Courtyard), Canadian songstress Jill Barber coaxed the crowd up with friendly banter, to appreciate her pleasant Martha-Wainwright-ish ballads. The one act I had been dying to see, Devendra Banhart, turned out to be a bit of an anti-climax in the wake of my earlier musical epiphany. Certainly he has charisma, and plenty of rock 'n roll attitude, not to mention an impressively luxuriant mane, but I found much of the material he chose to perform with his band rather bland in comparison with the more acoustic folky stuff I've grown to love. Thankfully, what he lacked in musical impressiveness, he more than made up for in photogenicality (is that even a real word?) and I snapped some of my best shots of the festival during his set – which was also our last gig before driving home, shattered but replete. It had been a memorable weekend of musical discovery and sensory stimulation – great food, genial company, stunning scenery and an outstandingly mellow vibe (not a sniff of aggro, or a police officer to be seen, all weekend), all went a long way to ensuring that Green Man is a cut above the average festival, and I sincerely hope it stays that way for many years to come.



The Green Man: Devendra Banhart

LINKS
The Green Man Festival
Green Man - a Flickr photoset




My Brightest Diamond at Green Man - video on YouTube

Burgers & Barbituates

If Elvis and I had ever had the opportunity to meet, I would have been a small, bald toddler (I didn't grow hair until much later) and he a fat, drug-addled middle-aged man. We wouldn't have had much to say to each other. But today, on the 30th anniversary of his death, I feel inspired to pay tribute to The King in my own small way. To me, the music of Elvis evokes memories of dancing with my dad at family parties - these were rare moments of intimacy between us, which I treasure deeply. It's been a while since I've seen him up the dancefloor (my dad, not Elvis), but I'm sure he still has some rock 'n roll left in his soul, even though he's now in his 70s. I've never learned to jive myself, though that is something I plan to rectify since getting into the whole rockabilly scene at nights like Toot Sweet at Bethnal Green Working Men's Club and Born Bad down in Brighton - where I find myself totally in awe, and consequently unusually self-conscious about my own free-form dance moves.

Today the radio has been awash with Elvis - bringing back happy memories for me, though not so popular with my boss (sorry Mel), who finds him 'repulsive' - a sentiment also shared by my own better half. But whichever camp you fall into, there is no question that he is still very much alive in spirit, and apparently growing in popularity with a new generation of fans (thanks to BBC Breakfast for that gem). Personally, I find the idea that he died fat and undignified, and yet remains such a revered icon, strangely comforting... Burgers and barbituates all round, then?

Photograph: Elvis the Girl at Vavavavoom's Tiki night, Komedia, Brighton
(c) Jaded Lady - www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar

Thoughts Like Bubbles

You know those days when you just wake up feeling down for no apparent reason - at odds with the world, out of sync, anxious - and yet you don't really know why? I had one of those mornings on Saturday - perhaps the subconscious effect of a bad dream, or buried tensions from the week bubbling up through the release of the weekend. Whatever the reason, I was off-kilter. Often it can take the littlest thing to dislodge a disquieted mood – an unexpected phone call from a friend, a smile from a stranger – but there are times when I have to consciously steer myself out of it. One way I do this is to latch onto those little moments going on around me, borrowing from other people's joy to feed my own. So, as I was sat waiting my turn in Barber Blacksheep on Saturday, feeling a rising tide of unexplained melancholy washing over me, I decided to distract myself by making a list of things around me that raised a smile... A grinning dad with a newborn in a sling; reading the superman comic strip on the pants of the skinny gay hairdresser in front of me (and wondering if Superman wears gay hairdresser pants); Someone quite clearly thrilled with their new haircut and proudly prinking in the mirror before paying; a glamorous old lady on the street with a flamboyant scarf and huge retro shades... These little observations, combined with the vanity boost of my own well-needed shearing, started to put me back on track, and in turn led me to accept a last-minute party invitation on a whim, when I had intended to stay home and wallow. I was glad I did. Just as a black mood can descend without warning, so a spontaneous adventure brings unexpected mirth. Piling into the back of Nikki's car, with some of my favourite people also in tow, I began to shed the earlier gloominess and let the spirit of summer fun take over. Trying not to think about the bit where I'd have to sleep on the floor with a bunch of strangers later in the night (not something I really do these days), I embraced the opportunity that mingling with strangers can afford – the chance to reinvent oneself, with the conspiratorial collaboration of one's own 'gang' - and to observe, influence and record the interactions and dynamics of an unfamiliar social circle. Interactive People-Watching! Continuing in the observational bent, I also felt compelled to complement the usual photographic evidence with some written notes of the night's proceedings, the highlights of which I shall share here – make of them what you will...

Heard & Spoken

“You can tell you lot are from Brighton, you look...alternative.”


“You can't get a haircut like that in Maidstone...”


“There were 19 badgers trying to eat my map of Surrey”


“The Amish beard is dead to me now”

"Are you married? Because you make a great cup of tea."

“What happens to those lost thoughts that evade one mid-sentence to float away and burst like bubbles? Do they sit in a corner, depressed because no one is using them, or do they just disappear forever?”

“The word 'jaded' sounds far more beautiful than the thing it describes"

“I tell you what is the great anomaly – the duck-billed platypus”

Mis-heard, Mis-spoken

“Drugs are SO Tacky”

“I was reberellious once”


“There's a cruel space between the walls”

“The friendly gay with a guinea pig”

Losing Myself

I'm stir crazy, stuck indoors - staring mindlessly out of rain-streaked windows on another waterlogged weekend. It should be summer, but the rain just keeps on coming... I'm thinking back to 3 weeks ago when I was in Brazil. It seems longer, but the memories are still fresh... I've been keeping them safely stored away for a rainy day... A depressing, grey-hair inducing, soggy, nothingy rainy day, just like today... I'm closing my eyes just for a moment, reaching for that far-away place...

...I'm sitting in the trendy Ritz cafe on my first day out in Sao Paulo. I'm eagerly awaiting my lunch - the much-hyped Ritz quiche. Ezinda's having a berry caipirinha, but I'm still jet-lagged and am sticking to coke for the time being. We're joined by Ezinda's charming Brazilian friend Decio, and a giggly, gossipy lunch lingers on well into the afternoon. The quiche is delicious, and deserving of Ezinda's praise. I'm feeling excited, and full of anticipation about the coming weeks, wondering what this adventure will hold in store...

...I'm on the beach in Maresias, the first stop on our magical mystery tour. We've got pretty much the whole beach, and an excessive number of attentive waiters, to ourselves. Working our way through goodness know how many bottles of Bohemia weiss beer, we sit - reading, contemplating, zoning out, until the sun begins to set, and the waiters are packing up the chairs around us. Feeling all my stresses and worries drain away, I soak up the sound of the sea, the sensation of sand between my toes. I'm blissed-out, relaxed, and restored...

...I'm on the back seat of a jeep, on the island of Ilhabela, bumping along on the way back from another beach-slumming, inebriated afternoon. We're both listening to our own music, lost in the magic of the mata, and marveling at the lush greenery all around us, not to mention the handsome waiter in the front passenger seat, with whom we are too shy to make conversation...

...I'm wandering the historical, cobbled streets of Paraty, popping into little galleries, craft shops, cafés and cachacarias. Back at our charmingly quirky and wonderfully atmospheric pousada, I stop to fuss one of the many handsome cats belonging to its eccentric landlady. There are humming birds around the trees in the courtyard. It is evening now - Paraty is even more beautiful at night - and we're getting rather tipsy on an excellent bottle of Chilean wine at Banana da Terra, the best restaurant in town, according to the Rough Guide...

Pousada Gerainos

....I'm looking out of the bus window on the way to Rio. It's a never-ending postcard scene - a feast for the eyes. Filled with fluttery expectation as my arrival in this revered and notorious city looms, trees and mountains finally turn to buildings, traffic and bustling streets, and the occasional glimpse of Jesus looking down from his famous perch. Sampling Rio's legendary nightlife, we're knocking back caipirinhas in Lapa - a lively suburb with a vibrant music scene. Tom Do Brasil are up on stage, and we're doing our best to keep pace with the locals on the dancefloor, impressed and a little intimidated by the seemingly effortless samba and salsa going on around us...

...I'm people-watching on Copacabana, walking barefoot along the sand, all the way to Ipanema...

...I'm being watched by cheeky little macaque monkeys, their inquisitive faces looking down from the trees in a nature reserve in Espirito Santo. Inside the forest, I'm overwhelmed by the density, size and variety of trees and lianas (wooded climbers). Ezinda is translating admirably as our guide takes us through the woodland trail, pointing out interesting plants and trees, and telling us not to worry about the family of leopards that live here, as they only emerge at night...

...I'm sitting on a sand dune on a grey, windy day in Itaunas - a tiny, quirky place in the middle of nowhere. We're both feeling peaky from a bout of sickness the night before. But the bleak weather and my fragile state seem to enhance the experience somehow, as if the dunes demand an element of drama to be fully appreciated. I have the urge to walk and walk, to be lost here in this strange and exhilarating place, but instead we hobble back to our creaky treehouse-like pousada, hypnotised by the presence of dozens of eagles circling about above us...

...It's my last night in Brazil, and back at Ezinda's apartment, I'm drinking one of Peter's passionfruit caipirinhas. Looking out of the window at Sao Paulo at night – a seemingly endless metropolis - I'm floating between all kinds of longing. Soon I'll be home and all this will just be a memory...

...I open my eyes and I'm back in Brighton. It's still raining outside, but behind my eyelids there is a place I can go....

www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar