Saint Cecile

We arrived sweaty from the over priced omelets of Saint Mont Michele and sad throngs of people pushing the sand along the hourglass. The cast assembled whilst the shirt stuck to my back, amongst the small country surroundings of Saint Cecile.

The cider shop door left ajar, and a note said they’d be back after lunch, the hotel was closed till two. A few more cars arrived during the interval, foreign number plates with smiles like a cricket crease and voices we’d later recall at dinner. I tried to feign French with them, whispering hellos and goodbyes and hoping they wouldn’t hear me speak English.

We checked in with a cleaner who finished the hoovering before she spoke with us. The whole place revolved around dinner, served between seven and eight and in the garden were some sheep searching for their lambs we’d later eat.

The evening would play out like a murder mystery. Middle aged women with seductive eyes crave bacchanalia whilst their husbands gave up sex in favour of instant personal gratification. The few staff moved with hidden intent.

The old man in the linen room shifting through white sheets with his moustache and I saw a few cooks open a back door somewhere. Frost expired from the frame and they dragged out a carcass and a dying bonfire outside gave wind of a gardener, although I didn’t see one.

At dinner the only waitress was short tempered. German marching music blasted from the small Ghetto-Blaster and a well dressed Dutch family began to laugh. The waitress proudly offered her coffee specialties, although I wondered where the other staff went and why the cider shop outside still had its door wide open.

A coffee protected by the batak people

Returning from holiday I am to discover the latest in the line of special club Nespresso varieties. Although this time the ‘exclusive’ coffee company has gone completely mental with an ancient civilisation of the Batak people. There’s enough marketing guile to give the impression a‘coffee expert’ (picture Mick ‘Crocodile’ Dundee with a travel espresso machine) climbed the highest mountains and swarm through leech infested jungles to bring you this intense flavour. Rather than the more obvious truth of a middle aged balding golfer liaising in glass fronted offices with a big-shot from the Batak coffee company looking to expand their business.

Merry-Go-Round

It was the first time I’d driven abroad, and before you get any ideas the car returned in mint condition with just a cool thousand or so more miles on the clock. If I’m honest it was surprisingly easy. As soon as we hit French soil I found myself on more roundabouts than the Romford circular, and although the French are still getting used to the phenomenon, I found myself slipping into all the right lanes. I loved the nonchalance of the drivers. They’d all pile straight onto the merry-go-round, happy to sit there for a minute or two, quietly puffing on a cigarette whist more cars poured from the estuaries into the turbine.

I quickly found that being a pedestrian in northern France is a little peculiar though. For some reason no one stops at ‘zebra’ crossings, and when I’d pull up beside one and let the fishes past, I’d be treated with the scornful expression only the French can pull off; as if I’d drank red wine with fish, or demanded an English menu.

Tindersticks 1st July Hyde Park

I finally got to see Tindersticks perform at Hyde Park's Serpentine Sessions this summer. Having shamefully missed 2007's Barbican show of the second record in its entirety, the band, originally hailing from Sheffield have seemingly left touring behind them to focus a wealth of side projects. Staples with his French home and studio 'Le Chien Chaneux' (The Lucky Dog) and original core member Dickon Hinchliffe escaping to score films, the battered line was left only three deep for last years release, 'The Hungry Saw.'

The 1st July saw the three warriors of sorrow backed by a full cast of musicians to crack into sleazy classic 'Rented Rooms.' Next the sticks pulled tracks from almost all their releases from the past 15+ years, that developed into the halftime paranoia of 'Another Night In' followed by the mid-show heart attack with 'Say Goodbye To The City' bursting the audience with a 'Tribute to Jack Johnson' esque smashing trumpet solo.

Highlight of the night though had to be the surprise inclusion of old favourite, 'City Sickness' with it's wise words of city life warning 'so this is where I ran to for freedom, where I may not be free' ringing true throughout the audience of tube trapped photo takers viewing life through the dusty lens of an IPhone. Makes me want a taste of that French escape Staples has found himself.

Journey to work

First in a series with Rashbre of 'cammuting'

Engine Parts

I've been constructing a couple of scripts amongst other bits and bobs. Going to shows, conferences, clubs, having a peanut butter binge and generally doing lots of things. The end of last year was awash with spending money and now I'm considering budgeting.

I'm thinking blog minded again, and need to flex the old muscles to get this engine operational.

This has to be a well oiled machine if it wants to keep going. So I'm swapping out the oil pressure spring, cracking in a new gland nut and washer, replacing the head gasket, taking the spark plugs to town for a wash, and airing the carpets from flood damage.

I'm also thinking about getting one of those flux capacitors? Time travel is inevitable.

Movember

Last chance to support Movember!

Quit while you're ahead

I’m not a fan but this feels strangely subliminal, like Bart’s boy band in ‘The Simpsons’. I’ve grown up with the threat of another terrible Guns ‘n’ Roses record and this proves the point. Utter trash. Even better is the story of bucket head, the lead guitarist who refused to record the album unless he could play in his very own bespoke chicken coup constructed in the studio itself. We know he got his way, and when he performs he wears a stupid KFC bucket on his head – hence the ridiculous moniker. If you though James Bond was soaked in product placement, this is worse.

The best part is that Dr Pepper pledged to supply every US citizen with a can of said drink if Chinese Democracy was released in 2008. Let’s see if they keep up their side of the bargain.

If you like the Tygers of Pan Tang, you’ll enjoy this.

Behind us the storm

Late weekdays, several novels, and an Eric Gregory submission have kept me away these past weeks. It’s all a matter of how you choose to fill your time. Except things aren’t always that simple, and sometimes it seems the way we spend time is chosen for us. Like the time spent sitting in a flood during a recent trip to Scotland:

Behind us the manure flood water
squeezed out through Lucozade bottles,
at the Gateway Inn car park.

Behind us no room at four inns,
and the A591s muddy middle bank,
separating separate rivers on
both sides of the dual carriage way.

Behind us wheel spin on slick grass,
horizontal rain, and mud splat on
bodywork dried like scratch marks.

Behind us the unlucky green car
twice at risk on the same road,
in the same town and
waterlogged, like the grass beneath
a Sunday paddling pool in June.

Behind us foot cramp on pedals
and trainers soaked to soaks.
The white lines lost in the dark,
and only cats eyes to save us.

The tide is high as Scotland welcomes.
The radio recalling last nights lost -
forty four still missing,
and the clouds move faster
than the car can outrun.

The weather turns like a playing card.

Down The Rabbit Hole

What always amazes me about London is the multitude of interlocking events happening at any given moment. It’s a great asset to know there’s always something to do, but at the same time it’s terrifying; at the southbank, I never want to go home. I could listen to the buskers all day, walking the length of the Jubilee Bridge taking in classical violin, steaming hot sax jazz, tropical steel drums, or the sad penny whistle of the homeless hunched in a corner by the stairs. There’s all the live theatre jazz, the ‘Watch this Space’ motifs, publicity stunts, extreme skateboarders, and a full programme of all kinds of theatre.

Yesterday, it was hard not to notice the hundreds of participants of the Urban Rat Race that came darting through the crowds, pausing to consult their maps and stare pensively in all directions. This UK initiative takes adventure sports to the streets of cities. Only learning the course hours before the event, teams face multi-disciplined challenges including, biking, climbing, running & kayaking.

As for my adventure, I went ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’ at the Oxo Tower Bargehouse; a new production by ‘Let’s Paint the Town Red,’ whose mission statement is to explore spaces for performance in & around London and bring them to life. The Bargehouse was a fantastic location for just this. An old Victorian warehouse, all decrepit and rusty and often used as a gallery space for various art colleges. The concept for the show was loosely based on Alice & Wonderland, taking the audience down the rabbit hole and into the strange world Alice confronts in Caroll’s famous novel. Somehow, however the show didn’t quite live up to the copy on the back of the flyer which promised ‘alternative puppetry’ and ‘absurd encounters,’ and what we were faced with was a disjointed journey, part through darkness & tunnels, and part through underused white washed rooms with tiny and pointless art installations.

What I felt was needed was far more acting. Site specific theatre can sometime run amok by losing its audience through selling far too many tickets and one of the great benefits of Punchdrunk’s ‘Faust’ was its intimacy and the chance of more encounters with the actors. Something with they continued with ‘Masque of the Red Death’ that saw myself dragged off to a broom cupboard to hold a skull and listen to Latin whispers from a woman doing headstands in the corner. These are moments of a true twisted imagination – the ones that catch you off-guard and leave the back of your neck tingling as if you’ve had a good massage.

Although not trying to be exactly like Punchdrunk, and have more focus on art & installation pieces, ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’ felt lazy; the actual art was underused, and hastily put together, and a partnership with cinematic illustration innovators, ‘Paper Cinema’ felt more a showcase for their work than anything to do with Lewis Caroll’s twisted world. The performance I saw also integrated a heavy rock band that had little relevance with anything Alice related, and left me disorientated at what seemed to be the shows most pivotal room, the Mad Hatters Tea Party.

Overall I do love these type of events, that blend together an array of artistic ventures, however with only three days of performance time, I wonder if this was a last minute, rushed affair in order to use such a fantastic space. When shows like this are so set dependant, any company attempting such would ideally need a few weeks of preparation to decorate & get inspired by the space. Perhaps this time ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’ was a victim of its own hype, with Time Out & London bloggers claiming this would be the next ‘Punchdrunk,’ the next must see experience, to feed the London trend-setters hunger for more alternative Monday morning news at the coffee machine.