the divine and the offensive…

Boy do I have news…but first, the concert.  Sunday Night I had the privilege of finally seeing and hearing the wonderful Jeff Blumenkrantz sing his extraordinary songs live.  I first saw this man on a DVD of a semi-staged performance of Leonard Bernstein’s ‘Candide’, in which he plays the vain pompous Maximilian to perfection.  At that point I thought of him as a character actor/singer, end of story.  Then my brother pointed out that he is also a composer.  I thought ‘good for him’.  I didn’t actively pursue the music at that stage, coming across it by accident when I downloaded and episode of the Jeff Blumenkrantz Songbook Podcast because it featured ‘Will and Grace’s Megan Mullally as a guest star. I may have thought highly of Mr Blumenkrantz but of Ms Mullally, I thought as high as Everest.  In the meantime I looked up what the Jeff Blumenkrantz Songbook Podcast actually was.  What he had done was instead of recording a CD of his songs with either himself or other artists, every week for 20 weeks, he would either record one of the songs himself and speak for a number of minutes about the song and its background, OR he would invite one of Broadway’s Leading Ladies into his home studio to record a song and discuss their career.  I listened to the Mullally episode which was in fact the last.  She was entertaining as was expected, but the song she sang was breathtaking.  ”Wow”, I thought, “this guy can WRITE”. I quickly downloaded every past episode of the podcast and became promptly addicted to all things  Blumenkrantz.  By the way, he accompanies each podcast himself, playing the piano and singing.  Many people are not impressed by those who can do this.  I am.

I was thrilled to hear that he would be coming to London, and surprised that he would be performing at St Paul’s cathedral in Knightsbridge, given the frank way he deals with his homosexuality through music.  He was joined by three of the West End’s star performers, Alexandra Silber, Lauren Ward and Damian Humbley; each of whom was given ample space to shine.  Blumenkrantz spoke in between numbers, providing information on when the song was written, if it was written for a show, if that show was finished (it seemed surprising that such extraordinary songs were written for shows which were not completed…).  He is a delightful person to hear speak about his own work.  

Apropos the Big News of the opening for this entry, the concert on Sunday night was when I admitted to myself that the relationship I was in at the time, was over.  I was therefore a little fragile to be hearing a concert of emotional theatre music.The first big number was sung by rising star  Alexandra Silber, and was entitled “I’m Free”.  I relaxed as the song accessed every emotion in my body and explained it musically.  The concerted proceeded perfectly, a major lyric fumble by Damien Humbley notwithstanding. The other major talent, besides that of the performers and composer, was the frequent contribution of poet Edna St Vincent Millay, of whom Blumenkrantz is obviously very fond of as a source of lyrics.  Her very American choice of words work perfectly with Blumenkrantz’s virtuosic use of eclecticism.  She was the first woman to receive the Pulitzer prize for Poetry, and someone whose words I am happy to hear over and over. I am known by some as someone who has no interest whatsoever in poetry…unless it is set to music.  

 

If Sunday Night was divine, tonight was DEFINITELY offensive.   It was the Press Night of the new musical ‘All Bob’s Women’ which I had been invited to.  I asked a friend to tell me something about it.  They said it was ‘Boeing Boeing but With Songs’.  This should be amended to read ‘Boeing Boeing but With Completely Awful Songs and minus the charm, good dialogue, wit, and intention’.   I can honestly say I have never seen a worse musical, and that is saying something.  

The performances alone were cringe-worthy.  One of the five women onstage seemed determined to sing a full tone off pitch for most of the evening.  The others settled for a slight flatness throughout. The performances aside, the piece itself is irretrievably flawed.  A play about a good looking creep who deceitfully shags all five women in the cast is not a suitable protagonist for a piece of drama unless he possesses enough charm and wit to keep us if not on-side, then at least interested.  Bob did not. His routine is to go to the local beauty parlour (the locations in this piece were vague at best) disguised as a woman, befriend the women, find out what they want in a man, and then show up AS that man and successfully get them into bed.  I know in theatre we are expected to suspend disbelief but I refuse to suspend all rational thought.  Throw in an embarrassingly basic dance routine and I wanted to leave.  Given I was seated in the back row on the aisle, I could have easily, but found myself paralysed, unable to move, such was the shock I seemed to find myself in.  Avoid this show at all costs.  

ariadne at Royal Opera

Last night was one of those vaguely chaotic evenings which can only happen when completely unplanned.  At four o’clock I had coffee with the Up and Coming Lyric Soprano.  She is one of the few female singers I know who doesn’t make me want to punch her on a regular basis.  She mentioned in passing that she was tossing up whether to go to the opening night of Ariadne auf Naxos at the Royal Opera.  Straight away my ears pricked up. ‘Can you get me a ticket?!’ I asked with mounting excitement. Turns out, she could get two! So I called up The Boyfriend and told him we were going to the opera. Then I realised I was in black slacks and a blue t-shirt.  Not on, not for Royal Opera and not for opening night.  So after a seriously rushed bite at the local KFC we went to Royal Opera via FOUR clothes shops looking for a jacket/blazer which will fit my broad shoulders but not cut me off at the waist.  The only thing we found was in French Connection, an absolutely fantastic jacket which fits a dream. It also fit the price tag of £130 quid, but it is black and will go with everything and is therefore a worthwhile investment yes?

Right, the opera.  This is a revival of a 2002 production which is known to be tres chic.  It is also famous for being at the centre of the 2004 ‘little black dress scandal’ in which soprano Deborah Voigt, the leading ‘Ariadne’ of the millenium was fired from the production because it was felt she would look ridiculous in the ‘little black dress’ which serves as the main costume.  Had I been the director the answer would have been simple:

“Get another f&*king dress…this woman’s voice is a gift from God!”

 

But no.  She was fired.  For the record, this is what she looked like at the time (see left) .She then proceeded drastically and had gastric bypass surgery.  Now she looks like this (see right).

Good for her, right? So when the Royal Opera called her and asked her BACK (now that she fits into the required costume…is this as stupid as it sounds…yes!) and she said ‘yes’.  My own response to this invitation would have been unprintable, but I guess I carry more of a grudge than she does.  So the whole house was on tenderhooks, to see the dress, to hear the voice, and if it was still in the same condition as it had been prior to the weight loss.  Drastic size change can have adverse effects (see, Maria Callas) and this is very drastic.  Meanwhile all I can think about is that there’s been all this stupid fuss over a black dress and I just spent an hour running from shop to shop trying to find a black coat which I can fit into.  In H and M, I asked the skinny bitch behind the counter if there were any jackets which aren’t ’slim fit’. She smirked and said:

‘no, we don’t make them anymore’.  

This was, of course, code for:

‘Get out of our shop, you obscene hephalump’.  

Never mind, French Connection people were lovely and helpful. Particularly after I left my Visa in there and ran back to get it.   The production is deeply elegant.  The opera is one about opera. The prologue shows us a composer backstage at the premiere of his new opera ‘Ariadne’, being told that to save time, a cabaret act which was to follow his opera will be performed at the same time as his opera, so he had better do some editing.  The ‘opera’ which follows is half Grand Opera (Ariadne lamenting the abandonment of Theseus) and half commedia dell’arte clowning by the cabaret troupe.  Not a whole lot of plot, and this is the problem. The music is extraordinary, but not thrilling, the plot thin, hard to grab onto.

The Prologue (40 minutes) is far more compelling than the ‘opera’ by virtue of the fact that lots is happening, and we have the wonderfully human character of the Composer, concerned that his High Art is being sullied. The role is written for a woman (Strauss really didn’t like the male voice did he…) and Kristine Jepson sounded wonderful. She can also act and knows how to move on stage. These male roles written for women are very high, but they do insist on casting mezzo-sopranos, and she coped well (who can compete with sopranos like Teresa Stratas & Julia Varady?!) although someone should let her know that there are sections of the score which are not marked forte.

As the Music Master, veteran Thomas Allen showed up everyone in the show, his voice still (somehow) in perfect condition, his musicianship faultless and his acting mesmerising.  Is this man the Energiser-Bunny of opera?  As the cabaret-operetta sexpot, Canadian Gillian Keith got around all the (savagely difficult) notes of Zerbinetta, sounded gorgeous, looked edible and knows how to work an audience. A well deserved volley of applause and shouting followed her (interminable and nastily written) aria.  Problem is, it all sounds the same.    

 

BUT it was Voigt peoplehad come to hear.  She stole the show in the Prologue, as the bitchy Prima Donna. At the moment the major domo announced that the opera (HER opera) would be performed in tandem with slapstick and sexual innuendo, she did  a double take in three sections which most people missed, but I will never forget.  She sings very little in the Prologue, the Opera is where she dominates.  

The Interval was to be 40 minutes but was 50, due to ‘technical difficulties’. For a problematic piece like this, a long interval is a bad idea ANYWAY.  Ten minutes into the Opera (70 minutes long) I thought the ‘technical difficulties’ were with her. Her first aria was atrociously sung, cringe worthy at times.  One could feel the audience’s toes curling.  High notes barely hit, middle register thing and curdled.  Then, in her second, she audibly relaxed (the low G on ‘Totenreich’ was one of the finest sounds I have ever heard in my life) , and by the second half (which is basically one long duet) she was glorious, filling the Royal Opera House with thick, rich sound.  Tenor Robert Dean Smith sang the role of Bacchus which is both unrewarding AND impossible to sing. Given these circumstances he coped brilliantly, without ever actually making music out of it. I hold Strauss responsible for most of this, as the music GIVEN this character is at best bland.  In the pit, the recently knighted Sir Mark Elder led the diminished Royal Opera Orchestra (the opera is scored for 35 players only) in a wonderful performance.  This really is a musician’s opera, and they obviously love playing it.   What I found most fun was having the role of the speaking role of Major Domo (who brings the increasingly distressing reports of bad news to the composer in the Prologue) was played by Alexander Pereira, real life director of the Zurich Opera, Zurich Festival, and various other high-end arts management positions. He was wonderful, and VERY funny.  The Boyfriend didn’t care for it much, the lack of plot being a key element in his thinking.  But the other quibble is one I also take issue with. At the end of the Prologue, the people who are about to ‘go on’ and perform the Opera/Burlesque do so, in their costumes.  After the interval, where we are supposed to SEE this Opera/Burleseque, they are all wearing completely different costumes.  In fact, the two halves seem to have little if anything to do with each other. Almost as if we saw the Opera section from a completely different production.  Aesthetically it was beyond compare, a model of stage design and elegance…just didn’t seem to have anything to do with what we had seen before the (long long long) interval.  Still, they keep reviving this production so I guess more people love it than don’t.  It will never be in the ABCs (Aida, Boheme, Carmen) category, but this piece has the potential to captivate. Maybe this production is a little too clever for its own good?

deep blue sea…take two

Tonight I took the Director and the Dramatic Soprano to see the Terrence Rattigan play ‘The Deep Blue Sea’.  I had actually seen it some weeks ago with The Boyfriend, The Tall Lady and The Producer.  I was not thrilled, but I put it down to the fact that I had been having the week from Hell and was in no mood to see a play about the end of a traumatic love affair. Turns out, I was wrong.  The problem was not that I had been having a bad week, the problem was the leading lady.  Greta Scacchi.

She’s always been a mystery to me. How can such an obviously flawed actress be as successful as she is? What is she famous for exactly? Disrobing in most of her films?  She was the only weak link in what I thought was a fine play (from what I have read, most people agree that Rattigan wrote some remarkable works) but one which I am not going to make any effort to see again.  The play rests on the question ‘is this character going to survive the next 24 hours or will she let herself die’?  With Greta in the lead role, one can easily find oneself thinking ‘who cares, she’s an idiot’.

Still, she is a name (why?) and as one, producers will insist on casting her in star roles hoping for a sold our run.  The reviews have been phenomenal.  The Telegraph reviewer called Greta’s performance: 

…shatteringly fine as the desperate, suicidal Hester, catching the agonising mixture of despair and hope in her doomed affair with the former RAF Spitfire ace Freddie Page.

The Sunday Telegraph called it:

…the finest piece of acting I have seen in a decade.

Perhaps he was watching a different play…which is also called ‘The Deep Blue Sea’…

I am my mother’s son…it seems…

It has kicked in late I admit, but the Handbag Gene has kicked in.  Last week I finally became depressed by the sight of my current bag.  See, below.

 

It is functional I agree, but it doesn’t go with anything, is ENORMOUS and therefore impossible to find anything in when you really need it.  That and lately I never take my lap-top anywhere (for which the bag was designed) and having a few small items jangling around inside a huge bag has lost its novel appeal.  

I went hunting for a new one.  And had no luck.  I wanted something large enough to carry documents but small enough to be able to hold on my lap without obscuring my vision.  

Enter, Visconti Leather.  On Amazon I found several I liked but couldn’t decide.  I suddenly remembered my mother’s obsession with the perfect hand bag.  I remember her once saying that finding the right handbag is the equivalent of six months of really good therapy.  I always thought she was off the planet until I realised I was thinking about a bag in the same way.  I NEVER cared about my bag before this, what has changed?  Eventually I went with the Visconti Leather Messenger Bag 18548, in black (pictured above).  I ordered it online Sunday evening (62 quid, reduced from…something more expensive) and it arrived today at work, much to the surprise of my co-workers, expecting anything BUT a man-bag to show up express post on my desk at eleven.  It is, of course, divine and I have already fallen in love.  I have also put off calling Doctor Kaminsky for another six months… 

apologies to brahms…

In an earlier post I referred to myself as One of Those People who Doesn’t Like Brahms.  I was asked by someone (OK it was my Father) to expound on this a little and why certain composers (or performers for that matter) appeal and some don’t.  Had I known how handsome Brahms was before I saw the concert, who knows how I would have felt.  Should I be judging dead composers by their looks I wonder…

I wish to correct myself somewhat, Brahms deserves an apology.  He could write remarkable music.  His setting of the Paul Johann Ludwig von Heyse  poem ‘Sonntag’  is a song of such unabashed beauty and affection (as opposed to affectation, hello Schumann, we’ll get to you in a minute) that you can’t help but wish he had written more Lieder and less orchestral and chamber music.  I think my issue with SO much orchestral and instrumental music is ‘what’ the music is about.  The concert last week was the Brahms followed by the Schostakovich. About the latter, one can have no doubt what the composer is trying to get at.  If you know even a little about the history of Russia at the time and what Schostakovich was going through, it becomes clear what the piece is about.  After the piece finished, you KNOW.  

After the Brahms, I felt like saying;

‘What’s your point?’

Perhaps this is why the Lieder appeal to me, the poem’s words tell you (more or less) WHAT the music is about, and therefore, gives the audience a much needed piece of information.  Certain  composers  (Mahler, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Strauss, Zemlinsky, Berg, Schoenberg…) write in a way that one knows IMMEDIATELY  what is being said, even if there are no words to tell us what to expect, although a well thought of Symphony title doesn’t go astray (The Titan, Pathetique, Pastorale) and can provide one with a clue.

And in the Brahms Piano Concerto no. 1, I had NO idea what the piece was about. To me, it was nondescript and therefore, impossible for me to latch onto in anything other than a positive appraisal of the skill of the players.  I literally missed the point.  And with a conductor as clear and obvious as Dudamel (this is not a man who could be accused of drawing out nuance from a piece, not yet anyway), if HE can’t get the point across to me, then no one can.  Given the fact that Brahms never seemed to get around to HAVING a personal life OR experiencing any real drama in his life, I’m not surprised the art he produced occasionally lacks…body.  His ‘Deutsches Requiem’,  his most epic (and operatic) piece is not (as I had thought) an epic outpouring of national and religious fervour.  It was inspired by the death of his mother.  This is a man with not enough happening in his life!  

Is it simply that the experience of an artist’s life determines on what scale he or she’s art should be produced.  Brahms had a pretty boring life so is THAT why his songs (small scale and intimate) are wonderful and his Orchestral works are merely acceptable? Reynaldo Hahn had a relatively blessed upper middle class Parisian life (along with scoring Marcel Proust as his longtime lover) and proceeds to write some of the best chansonne ever put on paper.  His large scale work has the shelf life of Yoghurt.  Wagner, on the other hand, takes part in the Dresden revolution, spends his life running from creditors, has affair after affair, artistically seduces the King of Bavaria and proceeds to write ENORMOUS scale music, BRILLIANTLY (if a little too lengthy at times). HIS small scale music…don’t bother.    

So I will amend my former title from One of Those People who Doesn’t Like Brahms (OOTPWDLB) to One of Those People who Doesn’t Like Brahms Piano Concerto no. 1 (OOTPWDLBPCN1) until such time as someone is able to tell me what I missed, at which time I shall be all ears.  There is nothing I like better than re-hearing a piece and discovering something miraculous.

Oh I never got around to Schumann…later perhaps…

Golda’s balcony at the shaw…

Tonight I took the Tall Lady to the theatre.  The Shaw is an off-West End Theatre located between Euston and St Pancras stations.  Its a  400 seat one level semi-circular affair, obviously a renovation on what was once a corporate/lecture hall/conference type venue.  They seem to be hosting short run high class cabaret/one person show affairs (Elaine Stritch, Ute Lemper, Chita Rivera), in between somewhat questionable material (Boy George, Gloria Gaynor, Amateur productions of The Marriage of Figaro).  At the moment they are hosting ‘Golda’s Balcony’, a 2003 play by William Gibson in which a single actress (Tovah Feldshuh created the role on Broadway [and did almost 500 performances!] and is appearing in the London Run) portrays Israeli Prime-Minister Golda Meir (and half the cabinet!) looking back on the Yom Kippur war of 1973, the near destruction of Israel, and the nuclear war which was almost started.

 

From what I’ve read. Gibson first wrote a piece called ‘Golda’ in 1977, a multi-character piece with one actor per part, with Anne Bancroft as Meir.  Unsatisfied, he tackled it again, reconceiving it as a one-woman show.  Given it had a 500 performance run at the Helen Hayes Theatre on Broadway, one can assume it was a wise decision.  

The set is a cheap looking series of ancient (temple?) walls with Hebraic writing, and a screen onto which relevant images and footage can be projected.  Feldshuh playes Meir at all stages of her life, in essentially one costume. It is a magical performance and each of the various accolades and awards thrown in Feldshuh’s direction is utterly deserved.  The writing is careful without sounding clinical.  It jumps deftly from timeframe to timeframe without sounding forced.

One thing the Tall Lady and I noticed was what at first appeared to people talking incessantly and loudly.  THEN we realised it was the sound/lighting operator and the stage manager who are above the audience (why?) and VERY AUDIBLE.  In a one woman show with lots of quiet moments this seems like a potentially disastrous geographical choice.  Regardless, the audience received Feldshuh with a standing ovation and repeated curtain calls. I will be seeing the Press Night  again on Tuesday (did I mention I am promoting the show?) and on Wednesday I expect to read a seriesof raves.  At least I hope to.  Too often in London do I see strong work be punished by the critics for being what they are.  In my book you don’t pour scorn on a blue wall for being blue.  But what do I know, I’m just someone who loves theatre and goes to each event wanting it to be good, unlike some London critics who thrill at the chance to write those scathing  diatribes which can effectively end careers.  If I ever become one of those critics, I want one of you to hit me upside the head…

Rosenkavalier at ENO…

OK…last night was my first Rosenkavalier, kind of.  I saw a production in Melbourne in 1999 (?) and left after act one because Anke Hoeppner’s Octavian was so unforgiveably badly sung I couldn’t bear it. Everything above an F wobbled out of control, and in a role which is mostly written above F, this is not a good thing. THEN In Berlin I had a ticket to see it at the Deutsche Oper and got the start times confused and missed act one.  A month later I had a ticket to see it at the Komische Oper and left after act II as the staging was so ‘Eurotrashy’ I couldn’t take it seriously.  So having seen acts I and III once, act II twice, this was my first time seeing the whole thing, in order, on the same night, in the same theatre.

What relief that last night The Boyfriend and I got a uniformally well sung performance staged more or less traditionally.  The Coliseum on St Martin’s Lane was packed to the rafters (this was closing night) and within a few bars we knew Maestro Gardner knew what he was doing.  The introduction to this opera is one of the more frank depictions of good sex ever put on (sheet music) paper and when the curtain comes up on the Feldmarschallin and her 17 year old lover Octavian in post-coital bliss, its difficult not to be a little tickled. That Octavian is played by a woman makes it all the more delicious, particularly when the staging is as sexually frank as director/genius David McVicar has decided to make it.  The production was set firmly in the second half of the 18th century but curiously, the Feldmarschallin’s palace, indeed all three of the opera’s locations, appeared in sometimes considerable disrepair, possibly war damage.  This confused me at times but I let it pass.  

As Octavian, Sarah Connolly both sang and acted the way we wish they would all the time, but never do.  With her tall lean shape and clean clear mezzo-soprano, she is an Octavian sent from the Gods.  She is also a brilliant comic when needed, particularly in the scenes where Octavian disguises himself as a young girl (girl plays boy who plays girl…).  

As the Feldmarschallin, Janice Watson managed to make the character both unlikeable and sympathetic. You knew straight away that Octavian is not this woman’s first affair (her husband seems permanently away hunting) and he certainly isn’t going to be her last.  Her concerns about ageing and becoming ‘the old Marschallin’ are understandeable but when one thinks that EVERYONE goes through this, and most of us without palaces and footsoldiers, its hard to feel sympathy.  But when she gives up Octavian because she knows she can’t compete with a 15 year old, one’s heart breaks a little for her.  

As that 15 yr old (Sophie), Sarah Tynan managed to sing this savagely tricky part VERY well while actually managing to act like a 15 year old, ie stupid and hormonally explosive.  The Presentation of the Rose scene was a delight, and she managed the famous ‘Wie himmlich…’ phrase with its B-flats in what sounded like 2 breaths (I have heard other sopranos take as many as five).  Its such a mean role, and dramatically rather thankless.  Not as mean or thankless as the ‘villain’ Ochs.  It is supposedly the longest role in any opera, and at no point does the singer/actor get anything approaching a beautiful vocal line.  Its all bluster and boorishness.  What it IS is a brilliant acting role, and John Tomlinson was stunning.  All singers received huge applause, but his was exceptional, they adore him at ENO.  I have tickets to his Boris Gudonov later in the year and my expectations are high.  

Rosenkavalier is a long opera.  We went into the theatre at 1730 and left at 2150. The second half of act II and the first half of act III could do with an edit.  Operas about the sex lives of the Viennese aristocracy shouldn’t really interest me given my disinterest and general condemning of the aristocracy/upper classes in general, but with music like this, they almost come across as real people.  And the decision to play it ‘traditionally’, ie not update it to the 1960s in NYC is wise. This is a piece which is ABOUT social manners and the (undeserved) respects paid the aristocracy. 18th and 19th century work for this, any later and it simply makes no sense.  Given the recent disasters ENO had with foolish updatings of Carmen (to present day UK) and The Coronation of Poppea (inside a fish tank from what I could tell), this production is proof that sometimes, it pays for the director to do as the script says and simply put on a good show.

 

sex and the slutty…

Sex and the City has  LOT to answer for.  I didn’t actually consider this to be an issue until I moved to a Power City like London. Once you get more than five million people into one place, thinks are bound to get toxic.  Melbourne, Berlin, Vienna, these are small enough to remain ‘normal’.  Now that it has warmed (slightly) with the summer months, London feels like a sexual serengeti.  At work yesterday, The Clever One wore shorts which would better be described as glorified underwear.  That The Clever One has the most beautiful legs I have ever seen on a woman makes this acceptable.   But I was still surprised to see that much of them in the workplace.  And on the street, one can hear Stravinsky’s ‘Rite of Spring’, underscoring a palpable en-masse ‘going into heat’ which allows a fellow-commuter’s accidental touch to send confusing signals to all the wrong places.  

I can’t wait for Autumn.

Yesterday, with The Boyfriend,  went to Rex Bar  a members only club I have managed to get friendly with after doing a co-promotion with them some weeks back.  It has an ideal location in Rupert Street, a cocktail list which goes on and on, a pretty good food menu, bar staff of what appears to be Swedish Extraction…oh and a cinema.  Full size screen, comfy chairs, every night a different film and you can take food and drink in.  The Boyfriend and I were to be joined by The Designer and her new(ish) boyfriend The Banker.  At the designated meeting point, The Designer met us, but minus The Banker, who was busy bailing out a work colleague, much to the dismay of The Designer who was, as she put it, ‘VERY fucked off’. The Boyfriend and I went into full comedy mode and between the jokes and the cocktails, in 15 minutes, The Designer was laughing.  Then I went to pick up The Banker who was now available.  I left the two emotionally extrovert people at the Rex while I went to pick up the other man.  Suddenly the group seemed to split, The Banker and I, cool, rational and emotionally controlled.  On the other side, The Designer and The Boyfriend, unpredictable, emotionally explosive and utterly irrational about conflict and the resolution of it.  Will an apology please them? No…it needs to be ‘truly felt’.  Problem is for men (who actually act like men) is that to us, apologising IS the only thing we know how to do.  When girls (or the men who act like them) choose to be upset about something (and BOY is it ever a choice), there is no way to make it better. Asking what the problem is does NOT work. The answer is generally a version of the ultimate in nonsensical insanity:

‘well if you don’t KNOW what the problem is, there’s no point in my telling you’.  

WHAT?!?!

Over the course of the evening, The Designer and The Banker returned to their accustomed lovey-dovey-ness, or something approximating it.  We all watched the film (Where in the World is Osama bin Laden, a ‘preaching to the choir’ piece explaining that most Muslims are perfectly nice moderates who want peace) the couples paired up as God intended it (or didn’t according to certain deeply boring people) and then, as the bar turned into a nightclub, we left, with myself feeling far too old for a late night out on a Friday.  Then, as we all went up to the street (the bar is two floors underground) a bizarre split occurred. The emotionally irrational, fiery female (The Designer) and I and I started conspiratorially complaining about our boyfriends, while the emotionally controlled, calm guy (The Banker) and the emotionally irrational unpredictable gay guy (The Boyfriend) started talking about The Golden Girls.  When did gender and its predelictions become so interchangeable?

I could have sworn that before Sex and the City, we weren’t like this? Am I wrong? Of course, before Sex and the City I was 17…

and on the eighth day, God created the Shostakovich #5…

First blog should be funny and moving and provoke raised expectations from the reader.  Given my day and the way it is progressing I’m going to go for vaguely comprehensive grammar and quit whilst even slightly ahead.  Am faced today with the prospective goal of organising 24 competitions in regional newspapers in the Derbyshire area.  Given I can’t pronounce half of the place names in the vicinity (Uttoxeter…anyone?) and frankly hate speaking to people I don’t know, this is the rough equivalent of getting Schwartzenneger to organise a Press Conference at the Simon Wiesenthal Centre.

But I digress from the blog title.  Last night i was lucky enough to go to my first ever concert at the Royal Festival Hall on London’s Southbank. Boyfriend in tow, we arrived at the recently renovated venue and proceeded to waste 10 minutes trying to find the cloakroom, and took our seats in the rear of the stalls. We had paid roughly the price of a cinema ticket for central seats with excellent acoustics and an unimpeded view of the stage. The concert was almost sold out, which I always find surprising given I come from a country (Aus) where most people’s idea of classical music is when they use the Sleeping Beauty theme in a coffee commercial.  

The orchestra with pianist Piotr Anderszewski played Brahm’s Piano concerto 1 as the first half.  I was enthralled by the sound they made and stupefied by the music.  I consider my attempts to like Brahms to be both valiant and generous and having given my time and now my money to the experience I can safely call myself One of those People who doesn’t like Brahms (hereafter to be shortened to OOTPWDLB).  Nothing personal you understand, but when me AND the boyf both fell asleep countless times in the space of 44 ENDLESS minutes, something’s wrong.Second half was the aforementioned Schostakovitch 5.  This was different territory altogether.  Conductor Gustavo Dudamel, an indecently attractive Bolivian a little younger than me (argh!), visibly got his act together and lead the orchestra as one possessed by some demon.  

I sat forward in my seat the entire time and time after time the hair on my back of my neck stood on end while (what is left of) the hair on my head was blown back by the (at times) alarming volume of sound being hurled at us. The finale of this incalcuably moving piece (full of rejoicing, but the kind which is enforced on you by someone holding a large iron rod saying ‘rejoice or you’re dead’) has to be one of the most phenomenal things I have ever heard live and as it ended, the house leapt to its feet, shouting, whistling, applauding.  I couldn’t move at first.  In retrospect it was cruel to programme something as relatively insipid as the Brahms immediately before something like the Schostakovitch 5, but then, what CAN you put before that?  Almost anything will inevitably be dwarfed by the scale and quality.  Any suggestions?  

Today am looking through the Philarmonia’s next season and marking any Schostakovitch or Mahler and putting the dates in the diary…so much for controlled spending…