Nothing compares to seeing Patti Smith live. I never tire of seeing her. I never tire of listening to her. Her passion is stronger than life, her passion is stronger than time, time passing fast, pushing her over the 70-year barrier, making her seemingly fragile. She is human, I remind myself while watching her, she will not be there forever. I will miss her terribly when she will give up performing live, and she will, she will.
She started her performance reading Allen Ginsberg’s verses, “Holy, holy, holy, holy, everything is holy”, she thunders on stage. She fascinates us with her words, she enchants us with her presence, she conquers us with her musical powers. A powerful band surrounds her, including her son Jackson and the faithful Lenny Kaye. Throughout the show they stare at her, for renewed inspiration. They look at her as if something extremely precious and totally unexpected is happening in front of their eyes. She is beyond charismatic and her performances become more otherworldly with the passing of time. What are we going to do when she stops performing? Her shamanism is irreplaceable, I muse with another member of the audience. We have previously viewed Courtney Barnett’s electrifying performance. Maybe she can take a shot, I suggest? But Patti’s mystical energy is irreplaceable, my fellow audience member responds with a wonderful smile, behind her sunglasses. I know she is right. Seeing her live in the golden light of the sun going down on London moved me deeply, her performance was extremely powerful yet fragile. She gives it all. She gives more. She conquers all, even the arrogant youth pushing their way forward at all costs, determined to be part of the party.
Arrogant youth? That does not apply to Courtney Barnett, this is the first time I hear her live and she sounds fresh and fascinating and exciting. I just fell in love with Avant Gardner and Depreston – right? Preston is depressing even in Australia? The reputation follows the name… The festival format just leaves me wanting more. Pity in London everybody sells out so goddamn fast. Maybe next time.
I could not forget to mention Mr Tillman’s concert on the previous All Point East weekender. A bit of a let down by comparison, despite the special effects provided by God in the shape of lightning and thunder. Father John Misty is in and out of the festival too smoothly, He is a slick operator and his lyrics are sharp. The festival might be just a showcase, attempting to reach out a different kind of crowd – full as it is of pretty Scandinavians religiously waiting for Björk, probably the wrong crowd. All in all Misty appears a tad out of place and slightly arrogant. Though he gets most of the laughs from the crowd when he calls out the fake old London look of the shops surrounding the stage. “I keep on imagining Godzilla appearing at the horizon and crashing this amazingly fake shop front. We should have thought about recreating that, we have the budget, right?” My thoughts exactly. He ventures into his own personal eulogy of Björk, she is so high up in the music stardom, that even FJM has never met her.
Björk’s concert was definitely out of place. She concedes a couple of dance hits to the crowd but mostly she is pedalling her new age save the planet philosophy, with a stage made entirely of greeneries and 7 flute pipers, floating about – a DJ is stuck in the corner and a percussionist rarely appears at the opposite side of the stage. The stupendously hi-res pics being projected on the huge screens at the side of the stage are a show of its own, but Björk remains a mystery, hiding behind an orchid mask. It sounds like her, rolling those RRRRS but to be honest it could be anybody behind the orchid mask. Moreover, I can’t compete with the tall Scandinavians, my visual window to view the stage is really tiny and I can’t get over my tiredness after a hot and sticky festival day. The music is not taking me places.
By comparison the headliner the following weekend, the Bad Seeds, out stage all performances over the 2 weekends. Nick Cave at 60 is a power house and throughout the concert I am fascinated by his energy and by Mr Warren Ellis and his shenanigans. The show is a crowd pleaser, even fellow Australian pop superstar Kylie Minogue herself appears on stage to duet with Cave on their only collaboration, the Where the Wild Roses Grow. Minogue is all smiles, diminutive despite her golden dress, tiny against what appears to be the tallest man on earth, tonight, Nick Cave in his elegant suits and new shoes… So much so that, after the first number, Jesus Alone, Cave asks for a knife to cut through the new leather. He moves so swiftly between the stage and a platform over the crowds during the performance I do fear he will fall in the pit or over the adoring crowds in his patent leather brand new shoes. He doesn’t. He pulls it off, the consummate performer that he is.
“I sat and cried… boohoo” he mimics half serious, half exasperated, in case it is not clear, during From Her to Eternity… True, some of the songs are drawn for too long, Stagger Lee for one, but I must confess the performance is definitely worth the wait under the evening sun, amidst the suffocating pushing crowds. “Come on come on come on”, he encourages the audience to follow him on stage after dragging the security with him across the crowds to reach a platform just behind us… It took him ages to cut through the crowd, “That was fucking difficult”, he declares… Tell me about it, Nick, we’ve been fighting for space and air for hours… “Come on, come on, come on” he goes on and on and on until the crowds around us start pushing their way to the front, they climb over the fence. Amused I see the security running like headless chicken around me. Beautiful… The crowd just follows the leader, the security need not panic, the crowd just does what it is told. It sings like the children choir, sits down and jumps up on demand, just like a musician in the hands of a master conductor. Beautiful. We try to move away from the crowds, it’s getting too tight for air. My friend literally gets carried away, her bracelet stuck into somebody’s pullover… In the distance the choir accompany Cave, “You got to just keep on pushing, push the sky away…”. The man can boast magical powers.
I heard it on the grapevine that Kamasi Washington was good, but after seeing him and his band live, I can testify that he was better than good, he was magnificent. The whole collective, as he named it, was magnificent. Miles Mosley was magnificent, the wizard behind the double-bass creating sounds and vibes so diverse you would have thought elves were hard at work inside his sound box. Mosley made Les Claypool from Primus sound like an amateur. Miles-voodoo child-Mosley made Jimi Hendrix sound like an amateur. He made his double bass vibrate as tightly as a Sicilian scacciapensieri, or mouth harp, and rock as hard as a metal guitar. And the man has a voice as well. But I digress, each solo performance from each of the musicians on stage was beyond impressive. It struck me that all musicians on stage were fueled by water…
Kamasi made it clear, this is a collective and it is a collective performance of amazingly talented and inventive people. Amongst them Rickey Washington, father and mentor touring with his rising star son, humbly taking the credit for having taught the guy all that he knows. Washington is deadly serious about his music. He has rhythm, he has melody, he has powerful content. He goes beyond genres, he goes beyond cultural influences, he proudly harmonizes diversity, he gives sounds to his daydreams and takes us with him. The Latin influence is as powerful as his blues, coming from the melting pot that is LA, jazz in Washington’s world has no barriers, no borders, no limits. And I shouldnot forget to mention the only lady on stage the singer, Patrice Quinn, who, when she was not charming us with her enchantress voice, would definitely charm us with her dance moves. No embarrassed hands hanging on the side of the body here, just total joy and rapture at the beauty and power of the music. Amongst her best moments, Henrietta Our Hero, a song dedicated to Kamasi’s deceased grandmother sung by the smooth lady in gold, who also sang Fists of Fury, forcefully, beautifully, impersonating the victim who are determined not to be victims anymore, actively seeking retribution.The best collective moment? The multi-layered performance of Truth, without any doubt.
Forget the horrendous hall, which will not be named. Forget about the sound mishaps, microphones suddenly lapsing leaving us to wonder what the music coming out of that transverse flute would sound like. Forget about the light technician not realizing that both drummers, the amazing Tony Austin and Ronald Bruner Jr, were actually playing, starting a percussion dialogue between the two of them as announced by Kamasi and keeping one in total darkness. If I were left to play in the dark, I would have probably stopped and screamed for attention. No drama, the musicians on stage are just too cool and professional to play the trite part of the superstar. Starstruck was the name of the lorries parked outside the venue, probably just carrying the instruments. Well, I could not have put it better myself, I was starstruck tonight.
Living in London we are spoilt for choice as far as art and museums are concerned. Just one problem, they are so terribly crowded, experiencing an exhibition is experiencing a constant fight for space, juggling for the coveted position that would allow you to see and take the creation and the creative process in. You only get a few precious seconds before your privileged position shifts under your feet like quicksand. The experience is made even more unpleasant by the presence of attendants screaming at people trying to steal a picture, a momentum of their experience. You are made to feel like a criminal for even thinking taking a lousy picture with your mobile phone is conceivable. That is why by comparison a visit at the museum in Vienna appears to be heavenly, precious, valuable. It is not a stolen, unhindered moment of a skewed view of a masterpiece, the time at one’s disposal appears to be eternal, I’ve seen people doing a full photoshoot in front of Klimt’s divine Kiss. Walking through the Belvedere museum, the upper and lower section, and the many layers of the Leopold museum where fulfilling, enriching experiences. You could absorb the beauty, you could take in the desperation, you could study each brushstroke at your leisure and most importantly take a damn picture as many times as you felt like, so that Schiele nervous, skeletal hands can stay impressed in my mind forever; so that the luxurious bodily landscapes so preciously enriched by Klimt will forever live in my picture collection; so that Kokoschka’s disturbed visions of a man at war with himself and surrounded by war can still haunt me; so that I can feel the fear and the desperation and the beauty of their human experience forever. A few enlightened institutions realize that picture taking and spontaneous posting on social media by their punters works as a very powerful advertising tool. A few embrace it, too few to mention, especially where London is concerned. I visited the last night of Modigliani’s very successful exhibition at Tate modern on Easter Monday only to be put off by the security. It felt like I was entering a ghost museum opening late at night just to maximise their income. London’s uptight attitude to art is making me fall out of love with the city 18 years on.
Klimt, Schiele and Kokoschka – Belvedere and Leopold museums in Vienna 27-30 March 2018
Going to the Donmar Warehouse is an intimate experience. The action happens so up close and personal, it is like being part of the chorus in a Greek tragedy. Moreover, throughout the performance I am extremely conscious of my laboured breath because of a bad cold, as it feels amplified to the extreme in the many moments of silence and staring, while the actors try to gauge each other’s reaction on stage. The York Realist is a very British aﬀair, a country constantly analysing itself as if on an analyst’s sofa, constantly analysing its idiosyncrasies. A country priding itself on its liberalism though still very much divided into social classes, a nation obsessed with its internal division, a country still reeling from its collective denial of LBGT+ rights, same sex relationships were only decriminalised in the UK in 1967, a nation currently intent on creating even more barriers. It is interesting to view this very British play with my foreigner’s eyes. It is a play about northerners, a country apart, a country inside a country. It is a play about a gay relationship blossoming with everybody’s tacit, embarrassed consent. A relationship collapsing not because of it unlawfulness but because of the class divide, the artistic urban type abandoning his counterpart solidly rooted in his rural environment, not out of choice, but out of duty. George, the northerner, knows that all his lovers’ middle class friends who were so nice and polite to him when they met him in London, could only keep up their polite facade for a casual visit not should he move in permanently, certainly not if he ever tried to become serious with his acting ambitions, not with that accent. In the final confrontation, there is sheer fear in his eyes, he is destroyed by the thought of losing his man, but he knows he would be even devastated by the scorn of the middle classes, if he dared even think stepping out of the spot chosen for him in society. It would be a double dare as a northerner and a gay man, stealing the spotlight from people worthier by birth and upbringing. Superficial politeness did not disguise the covert message “you don’t belong here” enough. The protagonist would have been satisfied if they were to keep up a relationship at a distance, having something to look forward to, but John, the urbanite’s approach is all or nothing, “there’s nothing casual about our relationship”, he quips and nothing it is. The end is grim with the hopeful spinster building her silent web around the only bachelor in town, spinning it closer and closer, until the victim cannot see any way out. The final sentence should have been her appropriation of the cottage, planning the removal of the AGA cooker, hard work but a symbol of the protagonist’s forbidden love, the first item admired by his Londoner’s lover. The final statement about the impossibility of finding happiness as human being rings true but is slightly redundant. All in all The York Realist is a passionate, funny, heart-wrenching, brilliantly acted anthropological study.
The York Realist by Peter Gill 14 March 2018 Donmar Warehouse, London
A joyful evening, stripped down of all the hat tricks of the music business, the show business. The location, the smallest pub in the world, without a stage, a man with a guitar followed by another man with a guitar. Daﬀodils in vases dotted all over the Alice in Wonderland themed pub. Pretty much the whole of Guildford is themed around Alice in Wonderland, as it was the chosen place of residence and burial of Lewis Carrol, its author. We catch the tail end of the performance of Hope Convention, an acoustic musician hailing from Dartford, telling us he knows he should polish his guitar tuning banter but hey, he’s got nothing to say, you know coming from Dartford and all. I was still recovering from the shock of how tiny the place is, how minimalistic, for the lyrics of Hope Convention to register but his guitar playing is fascinating. It just ends too quickly because of our late arrival, it would need further investigating. Charlie Parr is there all along with his partner, standing near the small table with his merchandising, attentive, silent. An untouched glass of red wine stares at him from the table. He jumps in immediately after Hope Convention, spending the interval tuning his steel guitar, custom-made by a man named Lee. It looks extremely shiny to us but apparently it is smudged by peanut butter somehow, Parr jokes. The guitar strikes me as the most luxurious item in the room, everything else is basic, or is it the power of the music that makes you just feel instantly transported to a wood cabin on the Appalachian mountains with the local wood chopper casually picking up a guitar in front of the log fire. Parr plays a mix of classics from the American folk tradition, Robert Thompson’s Devil stories, and his own ballads of an ordinary man living rough, living oﬀ nature, roasting opossums accompanied by imaginary dogs named Blue. Parr’s finger picking technique is not elegant, his hands have been working the land, not spent hours in parlours. His position is not elevated on a stage, he is sitting down on an ordinary chair and only the front rows and the tallest people in the room can actually catch a glance, but, the visual experience of his performance has been described as “a wet rag left to dry on the pavement, we are not missing much”, he reassures us. He is wide-eyed, genuine and hilarious, a true folk singer as they do not exist any longer. Towards the end of the show, he treats us to a Bob Dylan song, “you know, you’ve got to promote a local guy”, he jokes, as they both hail from Duluth, Minnesota. He’s been travelling up and down the UK during the only snow storm hitting the island this year. Duluth is under snow for most of the winter, you do not survive without a shovel. But he tries to cheer us up, “don’t beat yourself up about it, it happens in Georgia as well, stuck on the motorway for hours because of an inch of snow…”
No space in the pub to pretend to exit and come back for an encore, he sorts of gets up and sits down again saying: “I’ll play another couple of songs if you can spare the time”. He ends with a rendition of Claude Ely’s “Ain’t No Grave (Can Hold My Body Down)” voice only, banging his shoe on the floor. He sings it as high as he can, I sort of feel the ghost of Johnny Cash duetting with him in his grave, velvety tones.
The Keep Guildford 5 March 2018
I came across Pina Bausch’s work after her death in 2009 and thanks to Wim Wenders’ 3D tribute. Her world seems drenched in great melancholy and to date I cannot find any other art form that better depicts the absurdity of our lot in life than Bausch’s hybrid choreography. Her creations of theatrical performances created a new vocabulary crossing over between dance and theatre, allowing total freedom of expression to the performers, making each and every one of them the protagonist. Life is a choral performance, there are no solo performances. In Viktor’s case life in all its absurdity dances its way into a huge mass grave, with a gravedigger constantly trying to fill it in. The sound of the detritus falling on stage gently mixes in with the soundtrack of many traditional Italian songs along with classical pieces and Bolivian folk tunes. The eﬀect is soothing and unsettling at the same time. The infinite lines of performers on stage constantly amaze us and challenge our views, our certainties. All is fluid, roles are playfully inverted. On stage we see people being deceived, used, abused, traded. I still feel the chilling cries of the ballerina facing us up close down my spine, I still see the beautiful lines of dancers snaking down the corridors of the theatre in a human dance chain, the rocking waving arms, all movements amplified by the presence of at least 20 dancers on stage, each one at a different stage in their lives, the young alongside the middle aged, the tiny alongside the tall, a multinational lot based in Wuppertal, an industrial northern German city, all brought together by a visionary artist and performer, with a melancholy face. The old guard of performers, her historical companions are still there, carrying the torch. There may be no protagonists but luminous Julie Shanahan’s smiling, graceful performance will be fixed on my retina forever.
There was a time when it was normal to see Grayson Perry cycling around east London in a frock, turning heads, stopping the traffic. He is so busy and in such demand these days that even being in the audience at one of his talks today is quite a steep order, sold out even before it is advertised. Perry is such a master of ceremonies, stunning presence, allergic to stereotypes, he arrives on stage the grand dame of the pantomime, he jokes, this is me. The pretext for the comment is an exchange with the audience, you can always count on the participation of the audience as a member of the cast in the UK. Grayson warns the organizers that he might need some water at some point as he will be talking nonstop for over one hour and the audience goes Behind You!, referencing the pantomime season just over and pointing to the water bottle and glasses on a ledge behind the tall figure cut by Grayson Perry, even taller because of his high heels. He paces the stage gracefully in his grayish miniskirt frock throughout the talk, perfectly at ease in his stage persona, the successful, hard working artist, sharing his knowledge and wit with an audience of supporters of the Art Fund, art fanatics whose presumably impeccably furnished homes full of framed art Perry mocks from minute one. What is good taste, what is art, what is the perfect formula? Hard work transpires as his ethics, not a desire to shock. He is well aware of the public’s need to recognise what we see to be able to empathise and favour an artist or a work of art over another in a world that is flooded with so-called works of art and is run by business people. He has chosen a difficult path, both choosing to appear as he does, perfectly at ease in heavy makeup and frocks while being surrounded by gentlemen in coats and ties is a spectacle in its own right. He has also chosen a difficult path by scorning the traditional medium of art, as a student in the seventies he started challenging the traditional view that canvas is the only accepted and acceptable medium, He started with pottery with critics pigeonholing him as a craftsman.
He has managed to breakthrough with his disturbing political pots and he has moved on to tapestries painstakingly drawing every single detail on huge surfaces himself, mocking the perfect formula dominating the art world today: a half-baked idea, pushed by a greedy dealer, multiplied by a studio full of hundreds of crafts person actually creating the artwork, equals a big catch for investment bankers and nouveau riches… Playful and deadly serious at the same time, having an insight into Grayson Perry’s world was a very enriching experience.
Ondatje Theatre February 2018
I’m mad as hell and I cannot take it anymore! The stage becomes a screen where hundreds of faces are projected while screaming into their mobile phone, I’m mad as hell and I cannot take it anymore! This is the most powerful scene in a perfectly choreographed and perfectly acted play, a spin off from a cinematic release from the seventies. In Sidney Lumet’s film, Peter Finch landed the role of the anchor-man/ newsreader going mad live on tv, announcing his suicide live on TV. He becomes the news because, in his words, he could not handle the bullshit anymore, the bullshit he was reading while doing his duty as a news reader. On stage Bryan Cranston takes over the role. His performance is up close and personal, he is seeking contact with his audience, literally sitting next to a young member of the audience “I see you have dressed up for the theatre” he quips coming out of character, breaking the barrier between reality and narrated story. Wow, he gets in and out of character in a split second, never loosing his concentration for one second. I am impressed, his performance is powerful and flawless. Having a Hollywood star and such a professional as your lead helps but the play works perfectly because Dutch director Ivo Van Hove has created a perfect mechanism, moving from video to live performance smoothly, conjuring the chaos of the TV world, its cynicism, perfectly telling the story of the divide between old style journalists and the new sensationalist approach to all that is shown on TV, including the news, in the name of ratings, share and eventually profit. The message is powerful, the performance is pyrotechnic, full of surprises and fun visual effects. Moreover Cranston’s presence is a sure hit and such a joy to witness. I can’t help but notice that his mocking eyes are still teaching a lesson to the youngster in t- shirt and baseball cap while bowing for the final applause, as if to say, this is the theatre man, make an effort.
Network, National Theatre, London 23 January 2018
13 November 2017
A very musical week full of inspiring musicians, starting with the London Jazz festival and ending in Bristol, at the Colston Hall, a historical venue celebrating 150 years of service. We start with the elderly Italian poet and jazz enthusiast Paolo Conte conducting his full band in front of a full house at London’s South Bank Centre. This is not the first time I see Conte live. It is remarkable he still feels the urge to entertain despite his getting weaker with age. The concert is slick and observing his musicians move between instruments onstage is like witnessing a well-choreographed ballet. The music slides smoothly on our tired limbs after a busy working day. Conte’s understated but steadily influential music and rough but velvety voice and rhymes lull us into a sense of false security, transporting us into a world of glamorous, cool musical cats. One just hopes reality never sets in and we can be transported forever in music paradise where the only fight worth having is with a green milonga… where we can dance our way around dreariness, sipping martinis under the jazz stars… yes.
16 November 2017
The change of scene is sudden when by Thursday we find ourselves sat in the plush red seats of the Wigmore Hall for a totally instrumental treat: Justin Kauflin jazz trio bridging the gap between Virginia Beach and Denmark, where the bassist, Thomas Fonnesbæk, hails from. A mixture of jazz classics cleverly executed, original compositions and a couple of unexpected covers brighten our dreary November evening. Amazingly reinvented, the Beatles’ Strawberry Fields Forever sounds as if it was always meant to be played by a jazz pianist and we also witnessed possibly the most moving rendition of a Sufjan Stevens’ song, Johnny My Beloved. Musical genius.
17 November 2017
The time to blink and we are speeding on the motorway westbound to catch Robert Plant’s latest tour, as a few tickets become suddenly available – the whole tour is obviously sold out. I’m panicking that we might miss it for some stupid reason, Friday the 17th is the worst day in the calendar for people like us hailing from Italy. We don’t miss it, of course, we are well on time, bags of time before Seth Lakeman takes to the stage. A man and a violin/acoustic guitar and percussions under his feet. Powerful, full of life and drenched in the history of the British west coast. Lakeman inscribes himself in the folk tradition and is a terrific fit when he later joins Robert Plant and the Sensational Space Shifters on stage.
Plant is funny, still a very imposing figure, his red locks steadily turning to white. On stage he starts by presenting his latest creation, Carry Fire. Of the new songs he says: “we are not ashamed of them”, making no excuses for concentrating on the new compositions. His voice at times betrays his age but at times shines with the power of his inimitable style, so widely influential. Pigeonholed in the Led Zeppelin as a heavy metal band, despite half of their productions being acoustic, he has had to prove time and again his song writing skills are as powerful, not just wishy washy hippy escapism but poetical and at times political. “I don’t think a solution can come from any political leader”, he quips, “but hey here we are, we have all the answers” he jokes in his introduction to Misty Mountain Hop. The most moving moment is the rendition of Please Read the Letter, written in desperation in London, he says, recorded by chance in Nashville with Alison Krauss. Baby I’m Gonna Leave You is also monumental, showcasing the skills of his lead guitarist Liam Skin Tyson. Credited to Joan Baez, but originally written by Anne Bredon, this version alone is worth the price of the ticket. The energy and the passion of the performance, the fun you could read in the musician’s faces is more than one can ask really, it is a source of continuous inspiration.
18 December 2017
Finally hailing from Greensboro in North Carolina, Rihannon Giddens a powerful voice and a mean banjo and violin player, reinterpreting the history of black musical America and rewriting it with her own ebullient personality. Surrounded by a tightly-knit set of musicians their concert was sheer joy, in the midst of suffering, pearls in the desert, sheer foot stomping joyful release.
Was Basquiat just a meteor in the modern art world? He just kept on pushing boundaries by breaking into the modern, contemporary art world scene, a scene dominated by white western males. Breaking the rules was this tiny, elfish being whose inquisitive eyes were crowned by rebellious dreadlocks, questioning the rules of society, questioning the fabric of our civilization. From his puzzling messages tagged SAMO (same old, same old) on the dangerous, dirty streets of New York in the 70ies to becoming Andy Warhol’s protégé, painting ferociously in haute couture suits, his pattern has been meteoric, but his star was only crashed by a heroin overdose, aged just 27. A self-made, very political rock-n-roll star painter shaking the art world at its core. His paintings are uncomfortable statements, starting from his minimalist, painted diploma declaring his qualifications were not gained in conventional schools but on the streets of NY and devouring everything around him, the culture and the trash around him, along seminal books like the illustrated Gray’s Anatomy or Leonardo Da Vinci’s drawings. Underestimated, the school of life explodes in his paintings, its injustices towards black artists exposed at every turn on canvases as large as life.
Basquiat Boom for Real, Barbican Art Gallery 28 October 2017
The set up is sparse, a DJ in one corner spinning old Bob Dylan’s songs on a turntable, a dancer in the centre of a stage, her immaculate white shirt the centre of attention surrounded by almost complete darkness. Ms Gruwez moves pulsate with the rhythm, they start minimal, they become ferocious, obsessive, tailored to the music and to our state of mind. Dylan’s voice and acoustic guitar are given life in a minimalistic setting, no need for anything else really, just the expressive, suffering face of the dancer tells many storie The only other visual input is the casual coolness of her DJ, Maarten Van Cauwenberghe, a composer and musician in his own right. He only joins Gruwez on the dance floor for an unusual, poetic pas de deux, he just discreetly follows Gruwez’s body with a soft light, old style spotlight, enhancing the reflection of her body moving in impossible yoga poses on the shiny black surface. Gruwez jokes that her partner is not much of a dancer and that was the only way to have a duet. Visually this was the most captivating moment of the performance, so much so I cannot recall which song was playing in the background. While very vivid in my mind is Dylan’s It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) providing the most complete fusion between music, lyrics and dance. Forever impressed in my mind is the dancer’s tour de force, her moving to the rhythmically challenging guitar, suddenly interrupted in a frozen pose while Bob sings: “Even the president of the United States sometimes must have to stand naked”.
Lisbeth Gruwez dances Bob Dylan, Shoreditch Takeover, Shoreditch Town Hall 27 October 2017
I usually avoid large venues for any performance of any kind, venues like the Electric Halle in Düsseldorf are designed for sporting events, not music but the urge to finally see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds live again is too strong and I surrender to it. The location is so wrong for so many reasons, on so many levels. The current tour is promoting one of the most intimate recordings ever issued by the Bad Seeds, Skeleton Tree. It is raw, painful and anything but loud while, in stark contrast to the music being performed, the venue is so terrifyingly huge. Hard-core fans have been queuing since the morning to get the best positions… I find myself relegated to a terrible spot behind many very tall German people. There is only one choice, that is viewing the concert from the sides in what would be the equivalent of a balcony in a theatre but our position is so angled and remote that basically our vision is restricted to Nick Cave’s restless singing and a possessed Warren Ellis dancing around his violin. I miss the rest of the band entirely, though Cave and Ellis are the prime movers and seeing Cave’s interaction with his audience is a show in its own right. Before the concert I was unsure about the performance, listening to Cave’s shattered vocals in the documentary One More Time With Feeling was heart breaking, but I am relieved to see he has found a new powerful voice for his live performances and a renewed sense of humour. While performing, he endlessly jumps from the main stage to a detached slither running along the full length of the stage, where he can be in close proximity to his audience, often totally relying on their support to hold him up, their hands outstretched, in a continuous adoring embrace. I live the concert in fear, I imagine him disappearing in the gap, missing his step, tripped up by one hand too many stretched out at the last moment in the hope to even brush his legs for a brief nanosecond.
The acoustic is magnificent, despite the venue, despite the angled position which would only allow us to imagine the sound of the acoustic guitar played at times by George Vjestica, positioned at the extreme left side of the stage, the sound carried out in the opposite direction by the huge speakers. I can only imagine the percussions producing the sound I can hear, I can only imagine the presence of another multi-layered keyboard apart from the grand piano centre stage, the piano where Nick Cave at times joins in the playing and where he sits to play and sing Into My Arms accompanied only by the audience. Earlier on I mentioned his renewed sense of humour, apparent while he mocks a member of the audience for the lousy smart phone they were using to take his close-up picture, or again teasing the audience to “behave yourselves” when their hands got too close for comfort. I couldn’t even dream I would be smiling at a Bad Seeds concert.
Darkness has permeated the whole history of the Bad Seeds and the gruesome stories of Stagger Lee, the dead man walking in the Mercy Seat receive a new even gloomier lease of life in their elongated live version tonight. Red Right Hand, ever-present in the Bad Seeds’ set list, is updated for the 21st century with a topical reference to the obsessed tweeting of the sleazy red right hands in power right now. The Bad Seeds finish with a chorus of members of the audience led on stage by Nick Cave the piped piper, everybody singing “you got to keep on pushing, push the sky away”, in total enchanted respect of the physical boundaries. It ends up with loads of hugs, mainly for Warren Ellis after Nick Cave leaves the stage. He is not the only one able to hug Ellis, as he had boasted earlier in the concert, a few members of the audience in the chorus share the privilege tonight.
The whole evening is musically, lyrically and emotionally powerful and inspiring, a fully immersive and enriching experience. I am just looking forward to my next Bad Seeds experience. Just making sure I will not have to wait that long, this time around.
Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds – Düsseldorf Electric Halle 12 October 2017
Nothing is more inspiring than beautifully crafted cinema or as inspiring as meaningful music. Jim Jarmusch and his quirky, quiet, poetic films have put a spell on me. The music he chooses for his films are equally spellbinding and his soundtracks are works of art in their own right. I could not possibly miss an evening dedicated to the music in his films. It must have been hard for David Coulter, the artistic director to make a choice when preparing a set list for these 2 evenings at the Barbican theatre in London. Where would you start? I guess the choice of available talents to impersonate the music eventually dictated what to do next.
The performance was quite a treat starting with the band hidden by a gauze-like material onto which moving images taken from Jarmusch’s films were projected. Jarmusch has used a lot of black and white in his visually stunning creations and gigantic black and white images dominate the screen tonight: smoke drifts by and a deck of cards, high rises and fire escapes. Eventually Camille O’Sullivan’s golden, gigantic silhouette is briefly projected on the makeshift screen while she sings Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ I Put A Spell On You. Her voice both metaphorically and literally brings the screen down and it feels like a veil has been removed from my eyes and a silencer /cotton from my ears, I can finally see the band on stage and live the music to the full. O’Sullivan is impressive with her effortless singing, the perfect voice for the evening. The singers and the soundtracks smoothly change in front of our eyes with the core band remaining on stage throughout the evening. Terry Edwards on sax, percussions and trumpet and Dave Okumu at the guitar create both the backbone for this evening’s performance and a series of electrifying solos, though the biggest applause goes to the Ethiopian maestro Mulatu Astatke and his xylophone while playing Yekermo Sew from the gentle Broken Flowers. My personal favourite of the evening was Kirin J Callinan playing Mystery Train. His aggressive look, sunglasses, kilt and Stetson hat and super cocky performance were impressive both in the vocals and in his guitar playing, transmuting into the sound of a spaceship taking off in front of our eyes. He apparently personifies the crazy Australian bravado but exudes shedloads of talent. Impressive. I catch a glimpse of him while driving by at the end of the concert, he is walking out of the stage door in is stage persona, amongst Franz Ferdinand fans probably waiting for Kapranos, too shell shocked to react. Perfect.
Kapranos’ presence on stage is also a hit, bleached hair, immaculate shirt and complexion. He has all the well-known numbers to sing, starting with an understated Memphis Train taken from Jarmusch’s Mystery Train, of course. Understated is also the presence of Jolie Holland, ex Be Good Tanyas. Beautiful voice, duetting on acoustic guitar with Okumu for the soundtrack to the magical, dazed Dead Man. The images from the films drift at the back of my mind, and I am sure it is a similar experience for all Jarmusch’s fans but tonight the visual side of his cinematic oeuvre is irrelevant, this is all about the music and we have witnessed some seriously impressive performances tonight. Camille O’Sullivan proves that she would have been a wicked front woman in a rock/grunge/psychedelic band while performing Black Angels’ You on the Run. Okunu dazzles the audience while taking on Neil Young’s beautiful Dead Man theme song. Kapranos’ whispered rendition of Tom Wait’s Jockey Full of Bourbon proves as scary as the original, “the house is on fire, the kids are all alone…”
Jim Jarmusch Revisited Barbican Theatre, London 20 September 2017
I have been in the crowd witnessing PJ Harvey on stage through many years. I have been playing her music in my headphones for even longer. I have seen her changing from her angry rock guitar persona to a gentle, brooding piano player, moving on to a plethora of musical instruments both ancient and new and a diversity of collaborators throughout the years. There is an urgency, a passion to her music that is so totally unlike any music written by any other woman in the musical world, she is so very English and so very atypical, she is tiny and powerful, classy and minimalist.
She is touring a few festivals during the summer and I witnessed her gig at the Route du Rock at the Fort St Père near Saint Malo, in France. There are hundreds, thousands of festivals during the summer, it has become big business, huge business. Most festival goers are not even interested in the music, it is just an excuse to party, an expensive excuse to party. But I do care about the music and PJ’s concert, totally well-rehearsed, goes like clockwork. She is accompanied by a band of 9 arriving in a procession all playing a percussion instrument, drums of all shapes and forms. Mainly the music on show is part of her recent musical past, The Hope Six Demolition Project, White Chalk, Let England Shake. She mainly sings but occasionally blows a sax, the same she has been holding in the recent promotional photo shoots. She is elegantly dressed in black, the cold wind blows her infinite sleeves and trademark long hair. She sings at us dramatically, theatrical, constantly posing for the cameras, very much camera conscious. She does not waste her time speaking to the audience, her focus is on her music, war and violence the main themes of her funeral band. We are only allowed a couple of tracks from her younger musical past, Down by the Water, the mantra-like, violin-droning fish swimming in the water, and Bring you my Love, with the loyal John Parish prominently featured on guitar and her vocal prowess displayed at her best. During her concert the sun sets, the cold sets in. At the end, we wait in vain for the next act, there is a big gap with no music on stage, typical French lunch-dinner time emptiness. We can’t be bothered to stay for the rest, cold, tired and with PJ’s music in our ears, we leave the festival.
We leave the festival after a long walk toward the parking lot, a walk lined with trees and very young army men armed with machine guns ready to shoot. When we arrived, we were welcomed by a gendarme with his drug sniffer dog. We leave as if we are in Belfast or Sarajevo in the 90ies…
PJ Harvey at Route du Rock Festival 18 August 2017
The musical genre does not sit well with me. It feels utterly uncomfortable the way actors all of a sudden start singing on stage at the end of a perfectly conventional conversation with other characters. It feels awkward and most of the times it feels like the plot is an excuse to introduce the music. It is like opera gone wrong. And the singing style is all strutting and showing off of some starlet’s vocal range. Though I find it utterly boring, the audience just love it. I am not sure what I expected from the Girl from the Northern Country, for sure not a musical, but a play featuring Bob Dylan’s songs, I did not realise that it would feature some of Dylan’s best-known songs, including Like a Rolling Stones alongside some more obscure ones all taken from his back catalogue. I resented that at times the play was overly sentimental, I was not impressed to say the least that at times Bob Dylan’s music was given the Disney-style musical treatment, making it utterly unrecognisable, but again Dylan’s rendition of his own music over the years has made the songs utterly unrecognisable, you would think he has kind of rewritten them every time he performs them anew. So, all things considered, the Girl from the North Country is not as mind blowing or revolutionary as I hoped it would be, nevertheless it is an interesting rendition of a story probably told too many times: a story of poverty, debt and rape set in Duluth, the city Bob Dylan himself hails from. It felt as if Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Man had been turned into a musical, moreover gender and race issues are treated with kid’s gloves, simplified or pre-digested for the sensitive minds of the new millennium. Good but not excellent, well sung, if you like the style, well choreographed, well-acted, Girl from the North Country ticks all the boxes of polite social analyses but it is stuck in the politically correct comfort zone, we are all in this together sort of feeling, pigeon hole. It is just so unlike Dylan’s music, so unreal and uncomfortably so.
Girl from the North Country – Old Vic Theatre London 21 July 2017
We are mainly inspired by fusion, by artists crossing boundaries, moving the goalpost further and further. We are inspired by artists like Devendra Banhart. Proud of his Venezuelan roots, perfectly bilingual, totally at ease with both his inner yin and yang side. We are in awe of his musical and visual talent, we are inspired by his quirky, deceptively simple creations. Live on stage at the Hackney Empire in East London, I was expecting Banhart to be somewhat aloof and distant, instead from the very first notes he was gregarious, inclusive, joyous, funny, a pleasure to watch. At some point he even lamented the physical distance from his audience, which was in reality minimal. He cuts a very tall figure on stage, his tall, slim body and body language reminded me of the Italian director Nanny Moretti, his beard more Latin American hero than hipster cool and I could see some of Beck’s naivety in his moves. At times when not playing the guitar, he would assume yoga-like stances, his hand movements spontaneous and well-choreographed to match the quirkiness of his music, this all meant that I had a smile on my face from start to finish. Visually the stage was bare, apart from the musicians and a small blue round circle projected at their back. The blue circle was getting larger and larger during the performance, in an almost imperceptible way, until the full screen was blue in the background, the perfect setting for the wonderful dancer joining the band behind the screen for the funky rhythms of Fancy Man creating an electric blue Chinese Shadows puppetry effect. Mostly playing his music from Ape in Pink Marble, his latest creation, Banhart symbolically started with a homage to a spiritual, visionary woman from the middle ages, Hildegard von Bingen and ended with a homage to David Bowie through Sound and Vision, once again the colour blue, or azul while singing in Spanish, as the main protagonist.
Devendra Banhart – Hackney Empire London 18 July 2017
I only recently saw Angels in America, A Gay Fantasia on National Themes, in its star-studded, HBO miniseries version (Meryl Streep, Al Pacino and Emma Thompson come to mind) and approaching the theatrical version in the knowledge that I would sit through a marathon 9-hour performance, my biggest question was, how would they portray the angels on stage? The staging is actually magical, thanks to master puppeteers playing the angel’s shadow and wings. Tony Kushner’s writing is excellent, engaging and engaged, the jokes are funny, the Pulitzer winning plot digs dip into the recent history of the US and its idiosyncrasies, the domineering force is what in the eighties was considered a new plague, the red plague, Aids. The play was written in 1993 but has not aged one iota. The comparison with the TV series actors was impossible to avoid (i.e. Nathan Lane v. Al Pacino portraying historical lawyer and hate figure Roy Cohn, Andrew Garfield v. Justin Kirk as the wonderfully camp Prior Walter, Denise Gough v. Mary-Louise Parker as the troubled but gloriously funny Harper Pitt) but nothing can beat a live performance when the collective acting is that good.
Angels in America by Tony Kushner – National Theatre London 28 June 2017
Owner of the most powerful voice and provocative personality in the music business, Diamanda Galás can be scary. She can be ice cold and sinister, her scathing voice is made to dig inside our deepest, inner self, a part of ourselves we would never confess existed not even to ourselves. Black is her state of mind and her attire, a grand piano her only accompaniment, nothing else is needed. Above all that voice reaching deeply into our soul and lifting us up to the highest, vertiginous grounds, nothing is safe during a performance by Galás. I seem to remember her previous performances might have been slightly more sober as far as the lights and effects on her voice were concerned, though the extreme whiteness of her facial make up, vertiginously high shoes and infinite nails can always be relied on. She fascinates and terrorizes us as she incarnates our primordial instincts buried under centuries of indoctrination in what we consider our civil societies. But we recognize the agony, we relive the pain with every single note she plays and every single scream she utters. Intensely loved by her fans, at the Barbican on the 19th of June you really felt the sense of occasion, we, the audience have dressed up for her as she has dressed up for us and I suddenly realize that I have not seen such a beautiful audience for years, probably since her previous performance, still in London, still at the Barbican exactly 10 years ago.
My picture taken on the 19th of June is inspired by the artwork on Diamanda Galás’s latest releases: All the Way and At Saint Thomas the Apostle Harlem.
Diamanda Galás – Barbican, London 19 June 2017
A trip along the Cotentin peninsula in Normandy, an area well known for oysters, radioactive power and Jazz sous les pommiers, a Jazz festival named after one of the biggest resources in the area, apple trees. So while sipping locally brewed cider and savouring oysters produced along the infamous WWII landing beaches, we skip in between venues and performances in Coutances, a smallish French town still quiet despite the musical circus hitting it for over 30 years now. It all feels odd, in a French way, during what appears to be the hottest and humid day ever. Extremely hot, and amazingly ugly appears to be the Salle Marcel-Hallé that hosts the main events of the festival, including the concert that sees Norwegian saxophonist, composer and all-round jazz legend Garbarek and India’s most talented and inventive percussionist Trilok Gurtu. I had dreamt of a performance under beautiful apple trees in full bloom, festival goers relaxing on the grass and fields of bluebells, whereas we are crammed on uncomfortable sits, gasping for air as no window or door in the venue is open to bring us some oxygen. But despite the hazy, uncomfortable heat, the music is divine, soothing, at times playful, often spiritual. We were all entranced by the performance of Mr Gurtu, with his ragas and myriads of sounds, featuring gongs, bells and a bucket full of water. It was an uplifting, inspirational performance. These gentlemen brought a smile to our faces and serenity to our minds. Hopefully it will also inspire the organizers to move the festival to a more apt location next time around.
Jazz sous le pommiers – Jan Garbarek and Trilok Gurtu 27 May 2017
I am finding it harder and harder to enjoy exhibitions. The way they have been traditionally organized for years, they are static, crowded, uncomfortable, expensive experiences in dire need for a revolutionary change. I am talking mostly about the large popular museums in the big cities.
Though the exhibition celebrating 50 years of partial decriminalization for homosexual relationship at the Tate Britain was quiet enough in terms of attendees, it felt as if the curators wanted to cover too much in too small a space. Homosexuality or in any case a sexuality that is different from heterosexual, has always puzzled the rest of the world, when lucky, it has become cause for oppression and repression in many societies that would otherwise have been considered civilized in many respects, including the British society up to 1967, the time boundary set by the title of the exhibition.
The subject matter is interesting and visually heterogeneous, it engages our senses and our brain in equal measure thanks to the extensive background information accompanying most of the artwork and items on display. But at one point I have stopped reading and just tried to enjoy the visuals: I imagined the stories behind the faces and for many of the artists depicted, their history of oppression was just brought back to my mind by an object, a detail. In that respect, the most moving object on display was the door to the cell where Oscar Wilde was incarcerated in Reading Gaol. The most striking thought in my mind? Ironically the beauty and the perfection of that prison door, the thought that nowadays many of us would consider the door to a Victorian jail a beautifully crafted object to seek out in expensive antique shops, in stark contrast to the clinical plasticity of the world that surrounds us these days, but also a testimony to the shallowness of our times.
I could only manage a taster of Saatchi’s Selfie exhibition as I was running against the clock, closing time being 5 pm, while I was hoping it would be at least 6. My bad. I often stroll around the Saatchi Gallery as it showcases the work of many contemporary artists from all over the world. Still vivid in my mind Sun Yuan and Peng Yu’s artwork during an exhibition dedicated to China, 10 years ago. Their work Old Persons Home displayed life-sized statues of elderly and fragile people, closely resembling famous, or rather infamous, world leaders on wheelchairs set on a collision course in a large clinical room in the gallery. World leaders battling it out on wheelchairs despite themselves despite their infirmities, the irony of it all, just brilliant. And the selfie exhibition appears to be just as revolutionary and playful. I particularly enjoyed the interactive room displaying on video selfies painted in the past, or self-portraits as they used to be called, to demonstrate the obsession with oneself is nothing new. Exhibiting on large screens instead of the originals, made the experience more vivid. Similarly as impressive the gallery where a huge number of video conversations, the way we would view our friends and family when having a video conversation, where being projected on 3 sides of the room, wall to ceiling. The experience was exhilarating.
From Selfie to Self-Expression – Saatchi Gallery April 2017
What pushes Toneelgroep, a Dutch theatre company, to revive the story behind the neorealist cinematographic debut for Italian director Luchino Visconti in 1943? The story is originally taken from The Postman Always Rings Twice, a novel by James M. Cain, written in 1934, therefore US origins, Italian transposition, a version plagued with censorship and lack of distribution during the fall of the Italian fascist regime. The premises are melodramatic, the story itself and some of the dialogue during the performance feels dated, though the feelings are universal: lust and ambition and the feeling of entrapment that a woman feels, the narrow options at her disposal to get out of poverty, hence marriage to an older man running a restaurant and annexed garage. A dreary life till the arrival of a drifter changes it all. The drifter on stage has the looks of Jude Law, getting closer in his features to Michael Caine in is mature days. The play directed by internationally acclaimed, Belgian director Ivo van Hove seems to boil down to how every person getting in contact with Gino, the sensitive drifter, man or woman alike, can hardly keep their hands off him. the theatrical devices used to express the feeling of entrapment, the remorse, the guilt, the drifter’s realization of having being used, his disgust at being required to step into the shoes of a murdered man, feel trite. After the murder, I kept on visualizing the presence of the ghost of Giuseppe, the murdered husband on stage, following in their footsteps, oppressing their every step. It wasn’t to be. It provides intense viewing, especially at close range, but somehow it feels restrained and disconnected. It could have been updated for the 21st century, it should have been bolder.
Obsession Barbican Theatre 27 April 2017
Veloso is a superstar and his London concerts attract large crowds, I’m surprised I’m able to grab return tickets the night before the actual concert. It is a double-bill with Veloso introducing Brazilian Samba star Teresa Cristina. The latter is touring her new album, Canta Cartola, where she pays homage to the great poet Cartola from the Mangueira Samba school. She hits the stage accompanied by Carlinhos Sete Cordas on guitar. The performance is velvety, elegant, theatrical. Cristina’s performance becomes smoother with each song, with each sip in between songs from a glass containing a golden liquid. We are all hoping she is feeding her voice a good, stiff Rum but it is only tea, she reassures the audience. I am not sure we believe her, though. Visually and musically, the whole performance is stunning. Her colourful dress perfectly fits Cristina. her deep, smooth voice, caresses our soul and I feel as if I am in the presence of an old fashioned grand dame of the musical biz, the type that does not really exist anymore. I just wish the size of the venue was suddenly reduced to an intimate setting and we were partaking in the sipping of a glass of refreshing coconut water spiked with barrel-aged, honey sweet Rum.
Cristina’s solemn performance feels far too short but we have been warned she will be back to accompany Veloso towards the end of the evening and we are not disappointed, their duet is magical.
Veloso is adored by his audience. During the performance, they dare not sing along though they know all the lyrics to every song he plays by heart. They are waiting for his permission and generouosly he will encourage his audience to singalong, but only after having exhausted his musical vein for the night. His guitar playing is delicate, he uses his velvety voice expertly and dramatically. He knows the power of a strategic pause and uses it to great effect. Veloso has been through a lot during his long career. He might be revered now, but his music and his lyrics have caused him huge problems with the powers that be. I do feel I am short-changed by the fact that I can hardly understand any of the Portuguese lyrics. Mea culpa. The highlights of his performance: a poetic rendition of the Brazilian classic Cucurrucucú Paloma, triggering moving memories in my mind (including the gorgeous scenes from Moonlight featuring Veloso’s version and Franco Battiato’s homage featured in La Voce del Padrone) and Cole Porter’s Love for Sale, a cappella, without his trusted guitar. Beautiful.
Caetano Veloso introducing Teresa Cristina, 21 April Barbican Hall
I was not aware of the existence of I Am Not Your Negro, when I saw the poster advertising it at the Carolina Theatre in Durham at the beginning of the year. It somehow looked all wrong: a picture depicting James Baldwin, an old b&w picture, his eyes magnified to gigantic proportions. My curiosity was tickled: I learned about the participation of Samuel L. Jackson lending his voice to the documentary, credited in the poster. Somehow, there and then, I had a feeling this was an old production, from the nineties maybe? An old documentary being replayed in this old-fashioned theatre. Then I realised that IANYN was actually nominated for the 2017 Oscars in the documentary category and eventually I caught up with it a couple of days before its London release at the Barbican main cinema, bundled with a Q&A session with the director, Haitian filmmaker Raoul Peck.
During the screening, I see James Baldwyn for the first time, lecturing students, defending his points in TV discussions against ancient professors poorly defending the status quo. He is elegantly dressed and I can only admire him while he quickly disentangles complexities in front of our eyes like quicksilver. His troubled, brooding, intensely worried eyes were piercing me.
The pace of the documentary follows Baldwin’s troubled appearance, the montage work must have been of mammoth proportions: viewing and choosing historical footage, interspersed with current footage of unrest, the same unrest that sparked the civil rights movement, with footage of the Obamas in power in the White House, a historical landmark, unimaginable during Baldwin’s time. Voiced by S. L. Jackson, Baldwin recalls Bobby Kennedy’s horror at the sheer thought… his attitude: “yes, wouldn’t it be nice, but we are not ready for it, neither am I going to do anything about it.” BK’s disgusted expression at the thought of having black people in power, was more eloquent than thousands of deceptively progressive promises.
I paraphrase Baldwin’s thoughts in the film here: “we were being fed the same dream, we all wanted to be like John Wayne, but then we grew up and we woke up to the streets surrounding us, the people surrounding us and their perception of us, their hatred of our appearance.” He escaped to France, at the time less superficially racist and since how quickly the whole world has forgotten his legacy. Raoul Peck’s work is not only a celebration, but a testimony to the importance of remembrance.
Visually, I found the drone footage of the bayou being projected à propos of nothing in particular, quite spectacular. The Q&A after the projection of the documentary enlightened us about how complex the actual work was and how long it actually took to handle it as the production has kept independent from external hands and influences. The result is complex, mature, philosophical, informative though difficult to process. An inspiring evening.
I Am Not Your Negro, dir. Raoul Peck, Barbican cinema 4 April 2017
A quietly intriguing “pas de deux” featuring the Canadian pianist, composer and all round bon viveur Chilly Gonzalez and very British Pulp frontman and now broadcaster Jarvis Cocker. The idea for this evening and cooperation between the two men came from a navel gazing stay in a luxurious hotel based in Hollywood, the Chateau Marmont Hotel. It is quite a place to feel sorry for oneself and try to piece one’s thoughts together and finding inspiration from, reconnecting with oneself and the perception of that self at the end of a relationship while at the same time reconnecting with the ghosts of a glorious past, mainly associated with the star-making machine that was the film industry in the thirties. It could have been self-indulgent and decadent and trite, but Cocker’s self-deprecating sarcasm and Chilly Gonzales’s bohemian world-weariness make it funny and likeable while the presence of the dancer Maya Orchin bringing to life the Time Lapse Dance with flowing robes and strobe lights is the highlight of the evening proving once more that the fusion of different art forms is the only possible way forward.
Room 29, Barbican Theatre 24 March 2017
An evening at the theatre in Copenhagen seeking refuge from the bitter easterly wind sweeping the city. The square where the theatre is located is a working site, our first impression is not as dramatic as it should have been. When inside, it is very clear that the tired looking Royal Theatre itself is in desperate need of tender loving care, moreover the remaining seats, leftovers after the locals have chosen the best, are not exactly spectacular… they are spectacularly steep though, but despite it all the dancers work their magic over us accompanied by modern, classical and tribal music. If only the music had been played live, the experience would have been perfect. The program includes three separate choreographic pieces created by 3 very different professionals. The performance of the three pieces is mind blowing in many ways, starting from the monochromatic, visually minimalist, pitch perfect, soothing Infra conceived by Wayne McGregor; followed by the burst of life, joyous and ironic performance by eight female dancers strutting their stuff spurred on by Steve Reich’s Drumming; ending with the powerful, visceral, tribal, remarkable Vertical Road infused with geometric choral figures moving frantically to the pulsating, throbbing, dreamy music created by Nitin Sawney. The names, royalty from the dance, visual and music world, are fully credited below, the picture courtesy of the KGL website, depicts the last and most impressive Vertical Road.
Choreographer: Wayne McGregor
Music: Max Richter
Design: Julian Opie
Costumes: Moritz Junge
Lighting designer: Lucy Carter
Choreographer: Jiří Kylián
Music: Steve Reich
Costume designer: Joke Visser
Lighting designer: Jiři Kylián and Joop Caboort
Choreographer: Akram Khan
Music: Nitin Sawhney
Costume designer: Kimie Nakano
Lighting designer: Jesper Kongshaug
18 March 2017: Giant Steps KGL-Teater Copenhagen
I was watching Moonlight just a few hours before it won the Oscar for best film, in an almost totally empty Barbican main cinema room. During the winners’ ceremony, because of an amateur’s blunder, the award was mistakenly given to La La Land and their producer’s acceptance speech was already half way when the mix up was revealed and the real winner, Moonlight, was proclaimed. It is terrible in my mind that Moonlight will be remembered just because of this awkward, dramatic moment, for their momentarily taking the glitz away from the over celebrated La La Land, more than for its own merits. And the merits are many, a wonderful ensemble cast giving their all in a coy story describing bullying and abuse, breaking stereotypes, electrifying.
26 February 2017: Moonlight dir. Barry Jenkins
Acoustic guitar and, in his words, his finest dungarees for a solo concert in the Elgar room at the historical Royal Albert Hall. This is Grant Lee Phillips in 2017: back to basics, full of life and melodies, travelling by train in between a handful of European cities with his guitar as his only travel companion, entertaining an amused chat with his audience and singing his music, digging deep into his Cherokee roots from his new base in musical, folksy Nashville, Tennessee, producing root music at its best. Phillips was the front man of Grant Lee Buffalo and inevitably the room is full of his loyal fan base.
Stripped down, the Buffalo’s cinematic music, and in particular Mighty Joe Moon, sends some shivers down my spine, with Phillips’ voice moving beautifully and painfully between octaves despite a seasonal cold – it must be all the waiting in the cold at train stations, he quips. Amongst the oldies goldies, Fuzzy is an obvious must, and given the reaction, I feel that most in the audience tonight are here because of Fuzzy.
GLP’s performance is measured, intense and moving. Most of the sadness comes from his latest numbers like Cry, Cry, based on the displacement and onslaught of American first nations, or the very personal Smoke and Sparks, a tribute to his dying father, both extracts from his latest production, The Narrows. Phillips is sweet and funny, trying to live healthily: he even politely declines the offer of a pint of beer from a member of the audience. He is an amazing troubadour, a balladeer, a born performer with many songs in his heart.
20 February 2017: Grant Lee Phillips, Elgar Room, London
A trendy pub in Hackney with a room upstairs set up for concerts: it is not small, it is not huge, just perfect for Garwood and his music. Duke Garwood describes himself as a hermit, a musical hermit finding music in the meanders of his soul. He has recently traded London for the British seaside and his music has become even more subtle and dark, while the pace has slowed down, as if following the rhythm of the tides. On stage he is accompanied by his trusted, shaman drummer Paul May, the versatile Jonathan Lovecall, who doubled as his opening act, on bass and atmospheric guitarist John J. Presley, while two choristers would make their intermittent appearance on stage sounding like sirens trying to crash a ship against the rocks, in a positive way. Garwood himself is as brooding and mysterious as his music, an atypical bluesman, an Englishman making honest, complex, poetic music to be peacefully savoured while cradling a shot of cold whisky sweetened by a touch of honey.
16 February 2017: Duke Garwood, Oslo, Hackney
After successfully funding the publishing of Lanterna di Luce (A New Light) with our first crowdfunding campaign, Stillarte author Francesca Patton and illustrator Elisa Algarotti are hard at work to complete the project on schedule and deliver copies to all supporters by September 2018. Below you can find the full content of our successfull crowdfunding campaign and should you feel inspired by this very touching project, you can preorder a copy of the book now by contacting us on email@example.com Please note that Lanterna di Luce is currently available only in the original Italian version. Do state your interest if you wish to purchase the English version and we will update you as soon as this becomes available.
Here is what Lanterna di Luce is all about:
My name is Francesca Patton.
I am a writer and journalist and I also teach Italian and history.
I have always liked reading and writing stories since I was a child and, so far, I have published a number of books of fantasy and a few collections of poems and essays.
What prompted me to write this book was a very tragic event that happened in my life in 2014. Following a complicated pregnancy, I was admitted to Santa Chiara hospital in Trento, Italy. After 30 days of hospitalisation, I gave birth to premature twins, Leonardo Domenico and Massimiliano Domenico, who, unfortunately, only survived one month.
Somehow, I knew that the only thing that could help me overcome this devastating experience was to put pen to paper. The book, Lanterna di Luce (A New Light) is the result of this endeavour. The book is part sci-fi, part sentimental, with a huge dose of personal experience weaved into it. However – and this is not a spoiler – it has a positive outcome. A New Light uses a variety of narrative techniques based on the STUDY OF DESIRES.
With Professor Thierry Bonfanti, I am currently undergoing a two-year training course in a new approach to philosophy and psychology focusing on DESIRE and the French psychologist, Michel Lobrot.
I offer courses on creative writing and writing therapy using a variety of writing techniques to create a feeling of well-being in the reader.
In my creative writing course, I often meet people that have lost the ability to dream or who are unable to set a distance between themselves and external events. To such people, I offer a series of activities to help fire their thoughts. Results obtained so far have been extraordinary; I have been able to restore some degree of reality in their lives, at the end of the course my students feel revitalized and full of energy. This is because they have regained the courage to reach deep down and liberate their desires.
WHERE DID THE IDEA OF LANTERNA DI LUCE (A NEW LIGHT) COME FROM?
A New Light came from observing that we humans are becoming more and more bogged down by our problems and thoughts. We find it hard to relax and find time for ourselves. We act frenetically and impulsively. By the time we get to the evening, we are worn out. All we want to do is to flop in front of the TV or catch up on the social network. Then we drag ourselves to bed without speaking with anyone. And the next day is just like the previous one, only even more nerve-racking.
That’s why I decided to create a book to help readers bring out their most intimate desires. A book that takes the reader to an ALTERNATIVE WORLD; one that is extraordinary, where you can find the energy and strength to confront your own reality: in short, a book that fulfils your own desires.
This is how A New Light was conceived; it is a book written in such a way as to help bring out your most intimate desires and find the key to achieve them.
To get this book published, I have decided to by-pass the editor and appeal directly to the those who share my same interests. I believe this will enable me to reach more people and I hope that the public is ready to appreciate a project aimed at promoting well-being in the form of a book, a book that can act as a catalyst for one’s own desires.
I don’t want to reveal any spoilers about the book, however, I will say that the story starts aboard a ship. A young lady, a physicist, reveals her scientific discovery to a complete stranger. The book itself is a series of unexpected events that eventually reveal the connection between the two main characters. A set of twins, a magic lamp and a Kingdom made of light and pure magic soon find their way into the story. I can’t say any more but you certainly won’t be disappointed.
To create the kingdom of light, I did some research into the world of colours and light and borrowed a lot from the scientific and philosophical works of Isaac Newton, Goethe and Schopenhauer. The key word in this section of the book is, indeed, LIGHT. A light that leaps out of the pages of the book and into to the heart of the reader.
It’s a special book; it’s a book that was conceived from the desire to bridge the gap between dreams and reality.
COLLABORATION WITH ELISA ALGAROTTI
Ten watercolour and oil illustrations were also commissioned to complement the book. Elisa, the illustrator, and I hit it off together immediately. Elisa was particularly intrigued by the letters featured in the book. “I was fascinated by the letters because they felt so real!”, she said. I was introduced to Elisa through a close friend of mine and we met up in spring, when she showed me the sort of work she did. I just loved her style. On the surface, her pictures appear to be so simple, yet complex. You are inevitably drawn into them, as if in a sort of trance…
For A New Light we spent a long time studying how to create images that the reader could immediately identify with. As I said before, the pictures are so complex and yet simple. Understanding her images relies on unveiling a hidden detail in each illustration. The illustrations themselves were inspired by images created for the book, The Little Prince, by Saint-Exupéry, only that these have more COLOUR, to help highlight the real protagonist of the picture and, indeed, the main theme of the book, i.e., LIGHT. In hardback copies, the illustrations will be printed on 130 gsm, high-quality, matte paper.
My dream is to complete the book with all its illustrations and to get it translated into a number of languages and distributed worldwide. This is more than just a book; it is a source of energy and strength and helps you to face up to your everyday challenges. I really believe in this project and wish to bring A New Light into everyone’s heart and I really hope I can count on you to help me achieve this dream.
The full crowdfunding campaign is available in Italian and you can support it by clicking on the following link: Lanterna di Luce
Here you can find the full list of the perks currently available for you to support the project:
Our heart-felt thanks for your interest and support. Please let your friends and followers know about our crowdfunding campaign. Thanks.
Digital version (eBook) of A New Light created by Francesca Patton and illustrated by Elisa Algarotti and our heart-felt thanks for your interest and support.
28 Euros inclusive of postage and packaging
Hardback copy and digital version (eBook) of The Magic Lantern created by Francesca Patton and illustrated by Elisa Algarotti and our heart-felt thanks for your interest and support.
40 Euros inclusive of postage and packaging
Hardback copy and digital version (eBook) of A New Light created by Francesca Patton and illustrated by Elisa Algarotti, signed by the authors and our heart-felt thanks for your interest and support.
150 Euros inclusive of postage and packaging (10 available)
Hardback copy and digital version (eBook) of A New Light created by Francesca Patton and illustrated by Elisa Algarotti, signed by the authors, our heart-felt thanks for your interest and support and the first 10 subscribers will be offered the right to become characters in the final illustration of the book. They will be required to send a recent photo of themselves to: firstname.lastname@example.org.
150 Euros inclusive of postage and packaging (10 available)
Hardback copy and digital version (eBook) of A New Light created by Francesca Patton and illustrated by Elisa Algarotti, signed by the authors, our heart-felt thanks for your interest and support and the first 20 subscribers will be able to add a comment to an illustration in the book, by sending a message to: email@example.com.
150 Euros (10 available)
One-hour creative writing introductory lesson + one-hour of creative writing consultancy via Skype (in Italian) with the author Francesca Patton.
WRITEMOTION CREATIVE WRITING COURSE (14 July 2018 – 10 available) + Hardback copy and digital version (eBook) of A New Light created by Francesca Patton and illustrated by Elisa Algarotti.
The course is only available in Italian and is divided into two 3-hour parts. The first part starts with a session focusing on observing and listening to nature and one’s inner self before immersing into the world of literature through selected passages by past, modern and contemporary authors. The aim is to record one’s own experience and share it freely with the rest of the group.
Details of the course:
– Saturday 14 July, 09.00 – 12.00 workshop focusing on oneself and creativity
– Saturday 14 July, 15.00 – 18.00 workshop on creative writing with feedback on work.
ARTEMOTION COURSE (15 July 2018 – 10 available) + Hardback copy and digital version (eBook) of A New Light created by Francesca Patton and illustrated by Elisa Algarotti.
This expressive painting course is divided into two 3-hour parts and is only available in Italian. The aim is to focus on freely expressing one’s emotions through fantasy and colours and on revealing oneself on canvas. The image part of the course will be complemented by a musical element: the brush strokes of the artist will be guided by sounds to help reveal one’s passion.
Details of the course:
– Sunday 15 July, 09.00 – 12.00 and 15.00 – 18.00
WRITE&ARTEMOTION COURSE (14-15 July 2018 –10 available) + Hardback copy and digital version (eBook) of A New Light created by Francesca Patton and illustrated by Elisa Algarotti.
The content of the course is identical to what’s covered in the individual courses and are available in Italian only.
Details of the course:
– Saturday 14 July, 09.00 – 12.00 and 15.00 – 18.00 painting workshop
– Sunday 15 July, 09.00 – 12.00 workshop focusing on oneself and creativity
– Sunday 15 July, 15.00 – 18.00 creative writing workshop with feedback on work.
TOUR OF THE SETTING of A New Light (28-29 July 2018 –10 available) + Hardback copy and digital version (eBook) of A New Light created by Francesca Patton and illustrated by Elisa Algarotti.
The level of difficulty of the tour is medium, i.e., it is aimed at experienced walkers, as it involves a good deal of walking up and down hill. Therefore, participants are expected to be in good physical and mental health.
The duration of the course is approximately 5 hours. Participants will be expected to bring along their own packed lunch and liquids to last them for the entire duration of the walk.
– Saturday 28 July, departure 09.00. Locations: Quaras, Piramidi di Segonzano, Cascata del Lupo and Bedollo. Return in the afternoon. (10 kilometres)
– Sunday 29 July, departure 09.00. Car to Malga Stramaiolo and then on foot to Tonini refuge; packed lunch at refuge and return on foot. Stopover at Malga Pontare and Inferno Waterfall. Return in the afternoon. (10 kilometres approx.).
New: Acquire an original and unique work of art! Only four available at 350 Euros each.
Original illustration measuring 30 x 30 cm, mounted on a white background, in an off-white, wooden frame (measurement including frame: 46×46 cm). Technique: Watercolour and oil, grammage 200g/m2. Price includes packaging and delivery by courier.
Choose an Illustration:
This illustration depicts the passage from the book: “It was like being surrounded by all my philosopher friends, with their long beards, as we engaged in long conversations…”
This illustration depicts the passage from the book: “I just couldn’t get Monet’s paintings out of my head… I was the boatman of tomorrow…”
This illustration depicts the passage from the book: “They were so tightly joined together like two cards. I couldn’t see their faces. They just emitted such a pure light…”
Occhi castani (Brown Eyes)
This illustration depicts the passage from the book: “He had a roaring tiger firing out from his brown eyes”.