Glastonbury - I'm So Over It

Glastonbury may be considered the apogee of the UK music festival circuit, but personally I find the whole set-up all rather too intimidating these days. Even when I last went in 1998, it had become self-consciously commercial, boringly mainstream and knackeringly vast to negotiate (especially in the mud). This year's prohibitively convoluted ticket-buying process then served to drain any remaining dregs of enthusiasm and sentimentality I may have had for Mr. Eavis's legendary West-Country shin-dig. Happily, there is no shortage of alternatives now on offer, with new festivals popping up all over the place every year – so many in fact that it's becoming increasingly difficult to choose. So here are own humble suggestions – an entirely subjective selection, based on personal taste and anecdotal evidence, and as always open to further recommendations from fellow festy enthusiasts...

Great Escape, 14^th-17^th May, Brighton
As Brighton resident, Great Escape offers me the chance to take in 3 days of top bands in my home town, get a good night's sleep in my own bed, take a hot shower every morning, and even pop home to use the loo without having to wade through muddy fields to do so... ah, bliss! So I had to include this civilised urban festival option which, even if you don't live in Brighton, has much to recommend it. You could stay in one of hundreds of cool, kitsch or traditional hotels, B&Bs or hostels, and enjoy the general buzz of the city-by-the-sea in May, when the now massive Brighton Festival is in full swing. This year I'm particularly excited about seeing Nouvelle Vague, CSS, Archie Bronson Outfit, Hafdis Huld - and of course will be on a mission to discover new bands amongst the diverse line-up.

Latitude, 12^th-15^th July, Henham Park, Suffolk
Billing itself as 'More Than Just a Music Festival', Latitude started in 2006 and was widely praised for its alternative take on the usual festival set-up - offering a variety of activities beyond the standard music and stalls combo. Set in the bucolic surroundings of the historic Henham Park in Suffolk, Latitude promises a relaxing rural vibe in which to take in these eclectic diversions, which include literature, comedy, theatre, cabaret and children's activities as well as an impressive bands line-up – this year topped by the hottest hipsters of the musical moment, Arcade Fire. Having been bowled over by their performance in London last month, their presence alone would be enough to tempt me Suffolk for a second sampling, but I have a feeling that ‘The Fire’ will just be the icing on what looks to be a very tasty cake of a festival. And if AF is the icing, then Dylan Moran, who I have just heard will be playing the comedy arena on the Saturday, will be the shambolically sharp Irish cherry on top.

The comedy tent at Latitude 2006

The Green Man, 17^th - 19th August, Glanusk Park, Brecon Beacons
Also set in a beautiful countryside location, Green Man is essentially a folk festival, but stretches the boundaries of this genre in its eclectic line-up - with everything from folkatronica to folk-rock on offer. Last year I discovered Archie Bronson Outfit (who are now one of my favourite contemporary bands), and with 3 stages - all within easy walking distance - there is no excuse for not expanding one's musical horizons by taking a chance on new and unfamiliar bands. The general vibe is chilled and respectful, with lots of families - and children running about happily amongst the friendly, un-threatening crowd. A myriad of global culinary treats on offer puts the usual festival burger and noodle bars to shame, and the condition of the conveniences remained refreshingly salubrious in comparison to my distressing Glastonbury experiences. Reason enough to make the trek to Wales in my opinion…

Marshmellow, 24^th-26^th August, Somewhere in Sussex
I only just came across this low-key local festival, when a flyer was thrust into my hand whilst at a Rock Karaoke/Can Can night (don't ask) in Brighton last weekend. I have no idea what it will be like, or even where it is as yet, but from what I gather so far, it seems to be aspiring to a Lost Vagueness type set-up - with burlesque cabaret acts appearing alongside local unsigned bands, as well as alternative therapies and other such hippy-stoner malarkey. Watch this space for further info if, like me, you are intrigued…

Bestival, 7-9^th September, Robin Hill Country Park, Isle of Wight
The first thing that attracted me to Bestival was the massive fancy dress procession which takes place on the Saturday night, that and the fact that it has to be more appealing than the island's other uninspiringly mainstream festival earlier in the summer, which, frankly, left me cold last year. I've only heard positive things about Bestival from friends who’ve been, and I’m hoping to judge for myself this year. So far the line-up doesn't particularly appeal, but this will only force me to be more adventurous in my choices of bands, and hopefully come away with some new gems - always a big plus of festival-going in my experience.

All this festy talk is making me come over all giddy with anticipation – still, at least I’ve only got 3 weeks to go until the first one on my hitlist, and I don't even have to dust off the wellies for it... result!

Complicated Lives Seem Less So By Candlelight

“She knitted a jumper, it was child abuse…”

Nick Sheldon, 2007

If only I had been carrying a notepad with me in which to record the many inspired, insane and occasionally profound utterances of my friends over the last few days, I would have enough material for my own (admittedly, surreal) stand-up show. Not that there’s ever a shortage of witty banter amongst my social group, but this weekend’s spontaneous assemblage afforded some of the most quotable yet. I discovered Nick’s immortal words scribbled in my barely legible handwriting on a piece of paper in the garden this morning, having no recollection of writing them or indeed of the context in which they were spoken (perhaps Nick or Harry can help me out?).

It all kicked off on Thursday, when a quick drink after work resulted in accidental tipsiness and the drowning of sorrows between a few emotionally fragile friends, or as we’re now calling ourselves “The Fuckest-Uppest Club”. Then on Friday, Mat arrived back in Brighton with Erika, his visiting Californian friend - who shares with me a penchant for showtunes and sarcasm - and soon there was singing in the street and bonding over chocolate martinis. After a suitably robust hangover brunch in the garden on Saturday morning, the three of us spent the day soaking up the sun on the beach, catching up with other friends, and consciously staying sober (on my part, in an attempt to avoid a repeat of last weekend’s beer-bender-fuelled antagonisms). A highlight of the day was a tour of Embassy Court - the recently refurbished art-deco building on the seafront (previously referred to as ‘Sarajevo Heights’ - before its restoration) in which Mat’s friends Sue and Paul own a flat with the most amazing view over Brighton. Then I discovered that Erika had never tried (or even heard of) Pimms, and my desire to provide the complete British seaside town experience outweighed my not-drinking-until-after-7pm resolve. We sat out in the garden back at home, joined by Damien - who kindly brought with him the essential Pimms accoutrements – and so began another evening of jollity and inebriation.

A quick pint at the Barley Mow was followed by a session at the (not nearly so nice) Sidewinder, at which virtually everyone I know in Brighton, plus a generous supply of non-native weekend visitors, appeared at some point. Being such a balmy night, we took over the beer garden and sat bantering by candlelight until we were forced back inside (the perils of pubs in residential areas). I did feel for Erika, being parachuted into a melange of random strangers - a significant percentage of whom are currently sporting the emotional scars of recent romantic vexations (although one or two embody the exact opposite – you know who you are, lovebirds!). But in typically laid-back Californian style, she charmed her way around the assortment of casualties, distracting us from our complicated lives (thanks love!). An abortive mission to go dancing (we’d left it too late to get in anywhere) was substituted by a brief session on the beach, during which Matty Mo was on one of his bonfire missions. I’m still chuckling to myself at the mental image of him walking towards us with a 12 foot scaffolding plank, then enlisting the help of passing strangers in finding further kindling, including an entire tree – roots and all. Further hilarity ensued when one of these conscripts compared Matty’s fire-building determination to that of Frodo the Hobbit, taking the ring to Mordor (it’s not the first time Matty’s likeness to a Hobbit has been pointed out). Feeling chilly, and slightly nauseous thanks to the toxic fumes from melting tetrapaks, Erika, Mat and I left Matty/Frodo with his new-found friends and made our way back up Freshfield Road. In his intoxicated state, Mat rather endearingly described the sensation of walking uphill as “like walking along a flat surface, but with your head inclined at an angle”, or words to that effect. Also feeling pleasantly altered, I found myself physically attached to Erika the entire way, but luckily she was cool about it.

Sunday entailed the inevitable after-effects of over-indulgence, but was much improved by a decent brunch at Café 32, followed by paper-reading in Queen’s Park all afternoon - during which we were joined by Damien and his current (rather lovely) squeeze, Gavin. Mat & Erika deferred their reluctant return to London and stayed to partake of the roast dinner that I’d drunkenly promised Nick and Harry the night before - and a civilised start to the evening (vomit anecdotes notwithstanding - thanks Harry) descended into the expected rum-swigging session, and further noteworthy sound-bites (see above). My sorry physical state today is more than compensated for by an underlying sense of wellbeing brought about by the love, humour and kindness of those beautiful people that I feel honoured to call my friends. Photographic evidence of this lovely weekend, and those gorgeous folk who absolutely made it, is online at: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar.

Is Binge-Drinking a Sin?: An Experiment in Unholy Immoderation

“Did you ever take drugs, stay up late, just to see what you would see?”
Boo Hewerdine, from 16 Miles

During one of the Holy Week services at my mother’s church, members of the congregation were encouraged to publicly acknowledge and purge their ‘sins’ by writing down a particular personal failing on a piece of paper for all to see. Predictably, these vices ranged from ‘vanity’ to ‘intolerance’ to ‘arrogance’, but also apparently included, much to mother’s amusement, that most modern of transgressions, ‘binge-drinking’. This story was relayed to me at the annual Hot Cross Bun fest at the family home in Eastbourne on Good Friday, at which I invariably arrive hungover from my own traditional ‘Last Supper’ dinner party on Maundy Thursday (This year being no exception). In keeping with my recent rebellious tendencies, I chose to ignore the possibly pointed subtext of this anecdote, and instead continued to embrace an ‘unholy’ weekend punctuated by excess. This ‘sinful’ behaviour included an all-day drinking session on Saturday, during which the phrase “someone’s tired” was rather acerbically aimed at my belligerently over-inebriated other half. Needless to say, he was suitably contrite and satisfyingly crapulent the next day, as I left him wallowing in his own shame, to pursue further inebriation and indulgence with friends in London.

The final chapter of this immoderate Easter weekend was rather less excessive, despite taking place in the pub. Almost exactly one year ago, I blogged enthusiastically (http://rowstar.blogspot.com/2006/04/lovely-boo.html) about seeing of my musical heroes, Boo Hewerdine, live at Komedia. So imagine my excitement at having tickets to an even more intimate gig at which he was accompanying Irish folk singer Heidi Talbot in one of my local pubs, The Greys. A tiny, rustic watering hole in the heart of the drinkers’ haven that is Hanover, The Greys has a reputation for hosting quality live music (mostly of a folky nature) as well as excellent food and an impressive array of Belgian beer. It is also one of the only venues in Brighton in which I can feel young and trendy, amidst a clientele that is largely bearded and balding. So, with self-esteem thoroughly restored, and a rather elegant glass of Kriek in my hand, I was ripe for some soothing folk music to conclude my holiday weekend. The combination of Heidi’s ethereal vocals, Boo’s gracefully impassioned finger-picking, and some spell-binding fiddle-playing from the esteemed Tola Custy had an immediate spine-tingling effect. Their set comprised a pleasing blend of traditional Celtic ballads, folksy covers of jazz standards, and several of Boo’s own distinctive compositions. I had a tearful moment when Boo sang ‘Patience of Angels’ during a solo spot – his voice never fails to affect me, and on this occasion the lyrics were particularly poignant. This also gave me the opportunity to show off a little, when the audience was encouraged to join in with the chorus of “There’s a door, in a house, in a street, in a town etc…”. Since I was sat right at the front, my contribution was duly noted and later acknowledged - at which point I was forced to feign complete mortification of course!

As if this feast of musical delights wasn’t enough, the evening also proffered some diverting entertainment of the conversational variety. During the interval I found myself accosted by one of the enthusiastic beardies, who had overheard me (jokingly) refer to the local 9-piece folk band The Copper Family as Rottingdean’s answer to Arcade Fire. Evidently oblivious to the concept of sarcasm, he proceeded to enlighten me as to the illustrious history of this esteemed musical clan, who, it transpires, have been performing since 1898. My jesting continued to go undetected as he then earnestly informed me that no, it wouldn't be the original line up performing at the upcoming (and sadly sold-out) gig at The Greys next week. After the gig, Boo & co stuck around for a drink with the punters, and I was honoured to buy the man himself a glass of wine, in return for which he indulged me in a little (hopefully not too cringe-making on my part) fan-banter. Pleasantly beer-fuelled, and more than a little giddy at having hung out with one of my musical heroes, I bounced back up Southover Street and then sat up ‘til 1am adding Boo tracks to Project Playlist, so that he can have his rightful share of my myspace jukebox. Tired, but still buzzing, I’m sat at my desk having lunch, listening to 16 Miles – an appropriate anthem for my weekend of unholy immoderation…

Saturdays are Made of This

Today has been a fairly average Saturday. But the very fact that it's been Saturday makes it automatically pretty damn good. For so many years, as a student, and in my bookshop days, I worked on Saturdays, and sometimes even Sundays, so now that I inhabit the grown-up world of 'Mon-Fri, 9-5 work', weekends are always something of a celebration. Sundays are great too, but right now I'm feeling the Saturday love, and am inspired to share some of the things that define my own personal Saturday utopia...

Sleep... The all-important signifier that the weekend has landed... being woken by one's biological timeclock at 7am, opening one eye to look at the clock, then blissfully realising that you don't have to get up for work, and returning into a smug, mellow doze for several more hours. On finally rising at one's own pace, two cups of tea are essential to reinforce that feeling of weekendly indulgence.

Pampering...This could involve anything from a long hot bath, to a massage or facial, but today took the form of a well-needed haircut at my funky local unisex barber in Kemptown - Barber Blacksheep. In the lovely Sonja, I have finally discovered someone who understands my unruly mop, and so getting a trim has become a pleasure rather than a trial. As I sat waiting my turn, enjoying the mellow ska being played on the salon stereo, I also indulged one of my other weekend pleasures - reading the paper. I admit to deferring the intake of serious news in favour of heading straight for Jon Ronson's column in the Guardian magazine. His witty, informal style of writing is the sort of journalism to which I aspire. The lady next to me, with whom I happily shared my supplements, was also a big fan.

Shopping... The art of weekend shopping (as opposed to pressured lunchtime missions in Lewes) falls into three distinct camps - cultural (books, music, films), aesthetic (clothes, shoes, accessories) and food (from anywhere other than the supermarket). I am pleased to report that I successfully pursued two out of these three whilst out and about today. Hanging out in the outstanding Rounder Records is almost a hobby in itself - chatting to (and out-geeking) the knowledgeable and ever so-slightly snobby staff, and coming away with way more CDs than I intended to buy - typically a few bargain 'classics' and one or two current/chart albums. But I must confess to a rare infidelity on this particular outing, as I was sucked into Fopp, which seems to be the music shop equivalent of Ikea - tempting you with endless bargains that seem too cheap to resist, causing you to splurge unintentionally. Today I was tempted by: Amy Winehouse - Frank (I've been loving the new album, and it was only a fiver - see! SEE! that's how they get you!), LCD Soundsystem - Of Silver (a 6Music favourite that's got under my skin) and Bright Eyes - Digital Ash in a Digital Urn. I still love you Rounder, please don't be cross.

Food... Obviously eating is an integral part of every day, but Saturdays afford the opportunity to indulge a little more than usual in the art of culinary appreciation. My home-cooked veggie breakfasts are rather fine, if I do say so myself, and there is nothing nicer than lunching out at one of Brighton's many excellent cafes (regular favourites include Food for Friends, 32, Bill's, The Sanctuary). Rather unusually though, today's foodie moment didn't happen until this evening, when I concocted home-made stuffed vine leaves, a first-attempt and a personal triumph!

Drink... Not exclusively a weekend pursuit, but usually commenced in earnest on a Friday, the vino-moment is somehow more special on a Saturday, when the aforementioned activities have induced a different kind of thirst to the slumped-on-the-sofa-swigging-at-end-of-working-day kind you get on a Friday. The Saturday glass of wine is to be sipped and savoured, usually as a precursor to further drinking of the spirit variety, and often a means of warming up before heading out on the town. In anticipation of a home-based weekend, my wine rack is currently satisfyingly well-stocked, and in between typing I'm sipping a cheeky Rioja from one of my over-sized wine glasses. I really want a set of those whole-bottle sized ones, but am aware that this may not be a particularly sensible idea... just one glass... hmmmm....

Dancing... Sadly this is the one pleasure in which I shall not be indulging today. But then I am still recovering from a few hectic weekends in which there was much drunken flailing, and am consciously conserving my energy for some planned party excursions to come...

Bonding, Boozing and Bantering

Having been left to my own devices for two weeks while Ant's away walking in Spain, I've been keeping myself busy, reaffirming old friendships and cementing new ones. Several of my close comrades have recently split from their partners, and so are back on the party circuit, and in need of the comfort of old friends - and whilst I'm sad for them that their relationships didn't work out, I'm delighted to be seeing more of them again as a result. The wonders of the www have also facilitated the renewal of regular contact with another, rather less gregarious chum, with whom I've been chatting online most days in the last couple of weeks. I don't make friends all that easily (probably due to a combination of my intolerance and perceived stand-offishness), but recently I've been pleasantly surprised at the surge of kindred spirits to have crossed my path. On Friday I spent a drunken night in the pub with two of these new mates - Harry and Nick. I'd met Harry down in Exeter at Brian's 30th a few weeks ago, and we'd stayed in touch via myspace, so I was pleased when she said she was planning a visit (her first) to sunny Brighton. I knew she'd love it here, being a self-confessed eco-warrior/hippy chick, and felt honoured to toast her first pint in my beloved home town. Nick joined us later in the evening, and so the hardcore banter began. I've known Nick for a while through mutual friends, but we never really hit it off until recently, possibly because we are in fact rather too similar - both scathing loud show-offs! But we'd finally clicked during our recent West Country jaunt, and established a playful repartee (in between rum-swigging and improvised 12-bar blues) which was re-ignited in the Park Crescent on Friday, much to Harry's amusement. After four pints of rather nice German beer, I bounced back home up Southover Street, listening to Kasabian, and smiling at fellow revellers falling out of pubs along the way.

On Saturday, after a much-needed lie-in, Harry and I met up again for lunch, both mildly jaded from the night before, but soon revived by the wholesome fare on offer at the legendary Terre a Terre. After a little retail therapy, during which I purchased some cute disco-pirate-esque shoes and a floaty summer dress, I hopped on the train up to London for a long overdue reunion with some old friends from my first publishing job. Molly -who escaped the underpaid world of books in favour of a career in law - was celebrating her 30th birthday, and I hadn't seen her since my own big three-zero, 18 months ago. It had been even longer since I'd seen Michael (who still works at Frances Lincoln), and so I was chuffed that he made it along too. Having warmed up with a couple of beers (Belgian this time) and some nostalgic chitchat, I hooked up with Mat, who was heading down to Brighton for a big house party, to which half of Brighton had apparently been invited. He and I only met properly at Christmas, despite having several mutual friends in common. Our friendship was born during the mayhem of Matty's 30th party, at which a shared sense of humour and mutual horror at the various goings-on kept each other sane (almost). After a jovial, rum-fuelled train journey, we alighted at Preston Park and found ourselves once again in a den of hedonistic frivolity - a typical Brighton house-party in other words. I was surprised to see a couple of work colleagues there, as well as several good friends, but not so impressed when the police rolled up and arrested two party-goers. This pretty much killed the atmosphere for me, and it felt like a good point to escape the madness, whilst also saving myself the embarrassment of becoming completely out of control and possibly telling the police officer that I loved her. I reckon this was about 3am - quite respectable for me really. Sunday was spent sleeping, eating and generally basking in the pleasant glow of amity. To any of my friends (old or new) who may be reading this - thank you for being so very lovely and keeping an old bird happy! Let's do it again soon...

The Arcade Fire, Brixton Academy 2007

Somewhere behind the blurry neon lights in this picture stands one of the most hyped and lauded bands of the moment, giving it their all at Brixton Academy on the last London date of their current tour last Saturday. As a relatively recent convert to Arcade Fire, my introduction to them - from a friend's enthusiastic recommendation a few months ago, to the last minute purchase on ebay of a ticket to see them live - has been something of a whirlwind experience. The new album, Neon Bible, was released a couple of weeks ago, and I had only had a chance to listen to it once on a decent stereo before the gig, but that was sufficient to thoroughly whet my appetite. Arcade Fire is a band that really should be seen live to be fully appreciated. The sheer scale of them (8 members, including a 6'5” lead singer) made an immediate impact, as they stormed onto the stage, sporting an impressive array of instruments, and a collective attitude that seemed to infect and inflame an already excitable audience. Then comes the noise... The Independent recently described their sound as “an aural assault”, and as I can't think of an adequate summary of my own, I have decided to run with this theory. Hijacking an eclectic assortment of musical influences - then perverting, distorting and entirely reinventing them - these aggressively passionate musicians have created a unique sound that defies expectation. As a willing victim of this auditory onslaught, I was compelled to jump up and down in fevered appreciation of my re-education, so much so that my shins are still throbbing two days later.

Hooray, It's Monday!

It's Monday... Traditionally the day in which we mourn the passing of the weekend and dread the return to the office. But today I feel happy to be back at my desk after a week off sick and bored at home. It helps that it is a glorious Spring day here in Lewes, and that I am still buzzing after an invigorating cycle in the sunshine - my first two-wheeled commute since November, when it got too dark to brave the unlit cycle path between Lewes and Falmer (note to East Sussex County Council - please rectify this before next winter).

On Saturday I went to see Wicked again, this time with Damien, who has just split with his long-term partner and had a ticket going begging - well, who else would he take?! It had been six months since I first saw this 'thrillifying' new musical (see previous blog 'Green is the New Black'), and I was intrigued to see for myself how well the new Elphaba, Kerry Ellis, was doing at filling Idina Menzel's now legendary shoes in the leading role. Damien's excitement at seeing it for the first time was contagious, and we both sat breathless as the dramatic opening chords blasted out. I'm not sure if she really is any shorter than her predecessor, but what struck me first-off about Ellis was her lack of physical presence in comparison to Menzel. This compounded with an immediate irritation at her Americanised singing (she is English, and delivers her speaking lines in an English accent, so why sing with an American one, especially when none of the rest of the cast do? Argh!), meant she was off to a bad start with me. In a way, I think it's a shame that they ever brought Menzel to the West End (although I am glad I got the chance to see her), as whoever followed her was bound to feel somewhat intimidated, and tempted to immitate her rendition of the part rather than making it fully their own. Having said all that, Ellis is obvoiusly not without talent, and carried the challenging role with spirited enthusiam. Removing the iconic Menzel from the equation has also given the rest of the cast more of a chance to shine, and makes it more of an ensemble piece than a one-woman show! I particularly appreciated Helen Dallimore's performance as Glinda this time round - her transition from air-headed bimbo to forceful good fairy is wonderfully executed, and emphasised by a notable change in singing style. Overall, the production seems to have settled nicely, complete with a few tweaks here and there, and it's still a mind-blowingly good show.

As if my weekend wasn't camp enough already (West End show with GBF), on Sunday I came face-to-face with gay-icon and pop princess Kylie Minogue! I was enjoying a yummy veggie breakfast (the poached eggs were a bit over-done mind) at Bill's cafe, pondering over my disappointing lack of purchases at the vintage fashion fair I'd just been to, when there she was in all her diminuitive glory - smiling sweetly at me as she walked right past our table! OhMyGod! Of course I immediately Twittered my celeb-spot, and eagerly texted all my gay friends - including the couple who had just blown me out for lunch... that'll teach them! The rest of the weekend was spent baking, twittering and trying to stay awake whilst watching the disappointingly tedious Superman Returns.

23:23

It's 23.23 and I'm in my front room listening to the new Do Make Say Think album, You, You're a History in Rust, for the first time. I probably shouldn't have it up so loud, considering the time of night, but I feel I'm educating my neighbours, who have previously shown no reservations about "sharing" Rod Stewart and other such soft rock abhorrences at more ungodly hours than this. Besides, this is an album that deserves to be listened to at full volume - both stirring and soothing, it is proving the ideal Friday night combination.

Earlier this evening I partook of some culture by way of a trip to the theatre - to see Harold Pinter's Old Times at the Theatre Royal. It was an odd play. And disconcertingly short. I find Pinter's dialogue, whilst compellingly naturalistic in intent (awkward pauses, unfinished sentences etc.), somewhat flat in execution. This three-hander concerns a reunion after 20 years between two girlfriends, in the presence of one of their husbands, who, it transpires, has a hitherto unknown connection to his wife's old friend. Each character reminisces aloud, but also very much in their own little world, so that the backstory becomes confused and one is unable to piece together any kind of coherent picture of the past. It concludes with the husband sobbing into his wife's lap while she stares coldly into the middle distance. The impetus for his outburst remained unclear to me, but perhaps that was the point. In confusing the audience Pinter demonstrates the weakness of the human mind, how easily memories are bent according to the will or subsequent experiences of their owner, and how people have different recollections of the same event years later. An interesting concept, and commendably undertaken by an undeniably talented cast and director in this production. But overall, it left me cold. Just as well I had the superb aforementioned album waiting at home to revive and soothe me. It's now 23:58, the CD is finished, and whilst I'm tempted to listen to it all over again (ideally under the influence of a large Godfather*) my eyelids are beginning to droop and my bed is calling...

*Whiskey & Amaretto cocktail