As a youngster, in my household, early Saturday evening programming often featured the fulfillment of dreams as Jimmy Saville, the BBC Radio One disc jockey, made the wildest wishes of children come true, for the entertainment and contentment of the nation. Just imagine: an aging white-haired hipster, covered in the bling of the time, with a magical chair and a cigar smokescreen arranges for you to meet your idol or sing on stage or lift the cup. And then he gives you a medal for living out your fantasy!
Sadly, such was the popularity of the show, that it was virtually impossible to have your dreams realised. So, I never got to meet Fatima, and Richie Sambora never came to tea. In the many years since Jim'll Fix It, the hopeful "over the rainbow" notion that dreams came come true has been somewhat dulled in me. The general malaise of accepting the same old routines has surely had a bearing alongside, of course, the demise of Sir Jimmy. Yet, now, I have discovered a means of having my dreams fixed for me. There is a place, hidden in the forest, a throwback to ancient dwellings, with music and dancing and art and film and revelry. For one weekend a year in this place, the good part of humanity appears. For that weekend - no matter who you are - friendship is a given. It sounds too good to be true. Like a dream.
This dream is fulfilled not by Jimmy Saville, but by dedicated individuals whose determination, company and humour make Dragonfly Festival the magical experience it is. To the five of you responsible, I offer my most profound thanks. You Fixed It For Me. My time with you and the rest of Dragonfly makes me as happy as I've ever been.
Speaking of happy, two people at the festival experienced what I imagine is their happiest ever day, as Dragonfly hosted its first-ever wedding. Bex and Neil tied the knot in what I can only describe as the perfect setting at what I can only describe as the perfect moment. The remnants of gray morning clouds parted to light the ceremony with dappled sunshine, at precisely the right minute. Congratulations both, it was an honour to be there.
In other news, there is such a thing as a singer-songwriter. Under generalisation, the modern consciousness sees this as a person, with a guitar, on stage, singing and playing their own creations. There are a great many singer-songwriters, so distinguishing them is no easy feat.
However, at Dragonfly we have the singer-songwriter John Smith. The most unassuming of names, yet the conversations after his set were quite the opposite. People were unwavering in their conviction that John Smith is the best they have encountered. Ever. By all accounts, John Smith is singer-songwriter perfection.
I can't argue with this. His writing, his guitar-play, his vocals and his stage presence, all are individually spectacular, and combined they are something mesmerising, captivating, a thing of utter beauty. And, then, he lays his instrument skywards in his lap, and starts to drum upon its' body as he plays...
...such stuff as dreams are made on.
Sunday, 28 August 2011
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
#012: Zut alors!
I followed Indietracks with a trip to Montpellier, basically immediately. The intention was to camp near the beach and read books in the blazing sunshine for a few days. The reality was somewhat different...
The campsite with which I 'booked' online was full. Completely full. Even for my miniscule tent. And all the other campsites were full. Until September. They had sent me a confirmation for my demand for a booking, but not a confirmation whether or not my demand for a booking was going to be confirmed or not. Sometimes doing things on a whim doesn't work out as well as you'd hoped.
My fears were truly realised in conversation with a guy in the Office de Tourisme. There is something about the juxtaposition of a laugh and a "good luck" that really brings it home. The cheapest place I was going to be able to spend any of the next three nights was going to cost, at best, €160, per night; the weekend would be worse. I knew the Eurozone was in crisis, but I didn't realise it was THAT bad. So I did what any sane man would: I went to McDonalds.
They have free WiFi. After no little searching of the surrounding coastline my phone started to warm me of its diminishing battery power...it was time for some more whim! I wanted coastline but Montpellier isn't connected to too many airports without additional connections, so I jiggled around my Easyjet booking and scored a flight to Gatwick. At the very least I would be able to find a hostel in the south of England that could put me up.
I ended up in Alfriston, a small village five minutes on the bus from Seaford, near Newhaven. Okay, the beach wasn't outside the zip of my tent, but it was just as hot. And I'd only really ended up in Montpellier as it was the only place (I thought) I could manage to book a campsite within reach of a budget med-coast airport. I landed on my feet this time - the next day I found a game of cricket (real, actual cricket on a green) being played next to the beach. Sun, sea, sand, sixes, etc. Sexy, trés sexy.
The next few days were taken with riding local buses, sitting on top of cliffs and on beaches, absorbing dangerous levels of UVA and UVB radiation, working my way through a few books, listening to songs sung by friends and songs sung by me and songs sung by me and friends, and writing a fair amount. I'm enjoying the writing. Mr. Williams was always my favourite teacher in school (A-level English Lit) but circumstance, or nature, or nurture, or experience, or lack thereof, or expectation, or just one of these, or a combination, or me and me alone meant it never came top of my priorities, along with other subjects on the creative side of the art/science dividing line. I guess maths just came too easily and, as ever, I took the path of least resistance.
There are other things I am writing that haven't made it onto here. At the time of writing this, I have an amount of desire to pull together these other things into something cohesive. Time will tell...time and maturity...
I'm now off to the relative peace of the Swedish countryside. Thoughts are with those of you enduring the disquiet on your doorsteps. Here's hoping all the perpetrators are swiftly brought to justice and the powers that be appropriately address the reasons for them feeling they had nothing to lose. Take care y'all.
The campsite with which I 'booked' online was full. Completely full. Even for my miniscule tent. And all the other campsites were full. Until September. They had sent me a confirmation for my demand for a booking, but not a confirmation whether or not my demand for a booking was going to be confirmed or not. Sometimes doing things on a whim doesn't work out as well as you'd hoped.
My fears were truly realised in conversation with a guy in the Office de Tourisme. There is something about the juxtaposition of a laugh and a "good luck" that really brings it home. The cheapest place I was going to be able to spend any of the next three nights was going to cost, at best, €160, per night; the weekend would be worse. I knew the Eurozone was in crisis, but I didn't realise it was THAT bad. So I did what any sane man would: I went to McDonalds.
They have free WiFi. After no little searching of the surrounding coastline my phone started to warm me of its diminishing battery power...it was time for some more whim! I wanted coastline but Montpellier isn't connected to too many airports without additional connections, so I jiggled around my Easyjet booking and scored a flight to Gatwick. At the very least I would be able to find a hostel in the south of England that could put me up.
I ended up in Alfriston, a small village five minutes on the bus from Seaford, near Newhaven. Okay, the beach wasn't outside the zip of my tent, but it was just as hot. And I'd only really ended up in Montpellier as it was the only place (I thought) I could manage to book a campsite within reach of a budget med-coast airport. I landed on my feet this time - the next day I found a game of cricket (real, actual cricket on a green) being played next to the beach. Sun, sea, sand, sixes, etc. Sexy, trés sexy.
The next few days were taken with riding local buses, sitting on top of cliffs and on beaches, absorbing dangerous levels of UVA and UVB radiation, working my way through a few books, listening to songs sung by friends and songs sung by me and songs sung by me and friends, and writing a fair amount. I'm enjoying the writing. Mr. Williams was always my favourite teacher in school (A-level English Lit) but circumstance, or nature, or nurture, or experience, or lack thereof, or expectation, or just one of these, or a combination, or me and me alone meant it never came top of my priorities, along with other subjects on the creative side of the art/science dividing line. I guess maths just came too easily and, as ever, I took the path of least resistance.
There are other things I am writing that haven't made it onto here. At the time of writing this, I have an amount of desire to pull together these other things into something cohesive. Time will tell...time and maturity...
I'm now off to the relative peace of the Swedish countryside. Thoughts are with those of you enduring the disquiet on your doorsteps. Here's hoping all the perpetrators are swiftly brought to justice and the powers that be appropriately address the reasons for them feeling they had nothing to lose. Take care y'all.
Monday, 8 August 2011
#011: The next bit
Having given London a sizable slice of time, the question was what to do next. I'm ridiculously easily pleased, so it often takes a fair amount of inventiveness to decide how to spend my time, what with the pressures of expectation and all. Of course, I would be a massive hypocrite if I let those pressures hold sway, so I allowed the tide of time and circumstance to carry me a while instead.
Before I left London I hooked up with everyone's favourite front-woman: Helen from Shrag. She was putting up a couple of Californian friends of friends for the night so we aided them through to the early hours and their transfer to Stanstead. Added bonus of a new facebook friend on the West Coast, should I need any guidance later in the year. Helen also mentioned Indietracks festival, and proffered a spot on the guestlist thanks to her new ambassadorial role as the face of Fortuna Pop.
Given it was still a couple of weeks until Indietracks rolled around, I took to the internet and spotted a dirt cheap offer of Truck festival tickets. The line-up was reasonable and weather reported to be fair, so I snapped up a weekend pass. From what I understand, capacity had been almost doubled, with stages added but, having far from sold out, it was an easy job to get a decent view of the bands you wanted to. I fear for its' future though - it felt terribly empty. Personal highlights included The Cellar Family (part of the current Oxford pantheon of new bands, but 80's Matchbox, totally opposed to the wannabe-Yeasayer crowd), Lanterns on the Lake (who, unfortunately, are so akin to a Sigur Ros fronted by Hope Sandoval, it's basically impossible for them to ever truly 'make it') and Treefight for Sunlight (a slightly surfy slightly reverby fully Danish harmonising foursome, who were great). The recent coincidence theme continued apace, with a number of former classmates in attendance, one of whom I probably hadn't seen for almost 15 years. A scarily long time ago.
I must mention the origins of Truck: it started as a birthday party gig in a field for some bloke from Oxfordshire, and is now in its 14th year. It's got a real family feel, much like that of Dragonfly, with the Sunday headliners fronted by one of the organisers. We were treated to an unscheduled 'Truck Allstars' gig after the last band of the weekend, as they performed Rumours in its entirety, a real sing-a-long-a-thon to end the weekend.
So, from Trucks to Tracks.
Indietracks is another small boutique festival, this in its 5th year, which is dedicated to Indiepop. It is probably the most partisan of all festivals; rumours abound that everyone in attendance is in a band. You may think the coincidences would end...well, who should be there on a whim but Kate Bentley and a bunch of Altwood girls. Bizarre. Help Stamp Out Loneliness were unexpected main stage headliners after a power outage curtailed the Saturday night, and they stole the show.
The weekend was great, I had a totally awesome time hanging out with famous people, totally awesome.
[A week later and I find myself sat in the lounge of a beautiful hostel somewhere in the South Downs when a hazy vision of 'The Thong Song' materialises in my mind, but Sisqo is nowhere to be seen; in the vision the song is performed by Helen, and maybe Jervis, or Monster Bobby, in a Swedish sauna. It should be unsettling but, for some reason I can't explain, it isn't. It's actually comforting.]
Yep, the series of decisions I've taken the last few years that have led me to Indietracks are some of the best I've ever made.
-----
Number 6 on the list: Splitter van/driver for hire
Experience, clean licence recently renewed, requires investment (offers welcome), industry should be sustainable...there will always be live bands, won't there?
Before I left London I hooked up with everyone's favourite front-woman: Helen from Shrag. She was putting up a couple of Californian friends of friends for the night so we aided them through to the early hours and their transfer to Stanstead. Added bonus of a new facebook friend on the West Coast, should I need any guidance later in the year. Helen also mentioned Indietracks festival, and proffered a spot on the guestlist thanks to her new ambassadorial role as the face of Fortuna Pop.
Given it was still a couple of weeks until Indietracks rolled around, I took to the internet and spotted a dirt cheap offer of Truck festival tickets. The line-up was reasonable and weather reported to be fair, so I snapped up a weekend pass. From what I understand, capacity had been almost doubled, with stages added but, having far from sold out, it was an easy job to get a decent view of the bands you wanted to. I fear for its' future though - it felt terribly empty. Personal highlights included The Cellar Family (part of the current Oxford pantheon of new bands, but 80's Matchbox, totally opposed to the wannabe-Yeasayer crowd), Lanterns on the Lake (who, unfortunately, are so akin to a Sigur Ros fronted by Hope Sandoval, it's basically impossible for them to ever truly 'make it') and Treefight for Sunlight (a slightly surfy slightly reverby fully Danish harmonising foursome, who were great). The recent coincidence theme continued apace, with a number of former classmates in attendance, one of whom I probably hadn't seen for almost 15 years. A scarily long time ago.
I must mention the origins of Truck: it started as a birthday party gig in a field for some bloke from Oxfordshire, and is now in its 14th year. It's got a real family feel, much like that of Dragonfly, with the Sunday headliners fronted by one of the organisers. We were treated to an unscheduled 'Truck Allstars' gig after the last band of the weekend, as they performed Rumours in its entirety, a real sing-a-long-a-thon to end the weekend.
So, from Trucks to Tracks.
Indietracks is another small boutique festival, this in its 5th year, which is dedicated to Indiepop. It is probably the most partisan of all festivals; rumours abound that everyone in attendance is in a band. You may think the coincidences would end...well, who should be there on a whim but Kate Bentley and a bunch of Altwood girls. Bizarre. Help Stamp Out Loneliness were unexpected main stage headliners after a power outage curtailed the Saturday night, and they stole the show.
The weekend was great, I had a totally awesome time hanging out with famous people, totally awesome.
[A week later and I find myself sat in the lounge of a beautiful hostel somewhere in the South Downs when a hazy vision of 'The Thong Song' materialises in my mind, but Sisqo is nowhere to be seen; in the vision the song is performed by Helen, and maybe Jervis, or Monster Bobby, in a Swedish sauna. It should be unsettling but, for some reason I can't explain, it isn't. It's actually comforting.]
Yep, the series of decisions I've taken the last few years that have led me to Indietracks are some of the best I've ever made.
-----
Number 6 on the list: Splitter van/driver for hire
Experience, clean licence recently renewed, requires investment (offers welcome), industry should be sustainable...there will always be live bands, won't there?
Friday, 5 August 2011
#010: Coincidence(s)
It's been some time since I last posted, partly to give you some respite from the last epic installment, partly because I've been largely occupied with things other than pen and paper, and partly because I'm still as inherently lazy as I was four months ago.
Andrew and Helen very kindly agreed to put me up in their spare room, a stones throw from the Goldhawk Road, and I've been slowly ingraining my musk into its walls during July. The reason behind apportioning a section of sabbatical to a city but 25 miles from my life-long hearth was down to having booked a couple of gigs prior to my sabbatical being awarded the green light: Arcade Fire would play Hyde Park on 30th June, followed by Flaming Lips performing The Soft Bulletin in its entirety at Ally Pally on 1st July. That said, I've never been averse to London and its' myriad entertainments. Indeed manys the time I've toyed with relocating there, so why not, in the year I am required to determine my destiny, give it the once over - up close - for the sake of the future.
I moved up to London a couple of days before the Arcade Fire gig and met up with my Dad for a relaxing day at the cricket. Despite a healthy covering of cloud, I managed to singe myself pretty well and was thankful for Helen's aloe vera come the evening. I also took the opportunity to see Destroyer play live. They are one of the Montreal bands in my collection - part of the reason for that city marking the start of the international leg of the trip. Unfortunately I haven't kept up with their output, so was a little miffed at the amount of saxophone employed. Lead guitars were sacrificed in favour of overblown sax gyration - most disappointing - a distinctive psychedelic indie folk pop sound given over to wailing. [Sax lovers out there, there are occasions where it works; see Love Is All. This, however, didn't.]
I've been to a few concerts in Hyde Park in recent times, but nothing could prepare me for the hoards who attended Arcade Fire. It felt there was perhaps twice as many punters compared to past experience. Scary. And a little annoying when you are 800 yards from the stage with no discernable way of getting closer. Despite the vast crowds, it seems that coincidence still finds a way to work its magic. As I initially queued to enter the site, there was Ros and her friend Lauren in the line next to me. After some surreptitious multi-lining, we made a rather daunting-looking wait go relatively quickly. Later, as Dave sought a urinal without a 30-strong queue, he bumped into Richie Howard and Becca. I don't recall seeing them since their wedding, seven years ago. We reminisced about falling off mountains or, to be more precise, Andrew falling off mountains. Finally, long into the night, a tap on my shoulder and there stood Rachael (Helen's cousin) and her boyfriend Dave. They had been in Llandudno just after me as well.
Next night and Jon, Jake and I convened at Paddington and made our way vaguely north towards Ally Pally. The trains out of Kings Cross were up the swanny, so we got the tube to Wood Green. We subsequently missed Deerhoof and Dinosaur Jr, but The Soft Bulletin was a gloriously upbeat sing-a-long-a-thon, the whole crowd joining in and sharing their favourite stanzas. Jon got a job offer during the gig, asking him to be in Hammersmith (coincidentally 10mins walk from Andrew and Helen's) at 10am to do sound for a boyband act requiring 5 mics and a backing track. The act had recently played in Glasgow and would be doing an in-store followed by a slot at G-A-Y.
After an epic quest across the night bus network we arrived at Andrew's and speculated on the identity of the mystery band. The biggest clue came from the G-A-Y website who, on Gay Pride Saturday, claimed to be hosting an act "even bigger than Kylie and Lady Gaga". There was only one conclusion we could come to, and it included Robbie.
It won't surprise many to hear I'm planning on going back to Sweden, and Dragonfly festival, during August. Having hooked up with Crispin in Glasgow, there was the chance I'd be able to ship a second-hand car out there for them, so I hoped to meet up with Joe - Crispin's brother - whilst in London. Unfortunately he was in Leicester; his sound engineering work at the Scala dried up due to festival season. I therefore spent the next couple of weeks overdosing on all the culture an' that. One afternoon, towards the end of my fortnight of cultural excursions, I left Andrew's flat to head eastwards, and was met on the doorstep by the sight of Joe in a van, completely out of the blue. Now, as coincidences go, meeting the person you are in London to meet up with, even though he is in Leicester, outside the flat you are staying in, on a backstreet somewhere in West London, even though he has no idea you are there, ranks pretty high. Sadly there were no second-hand cars in the offing so we'd take run the usual Ryanair gauntlet to Gothenburg.
Back to the culture...the audiences of gigs, films, stage, show, museum and gallery were all graced with my presence at one time or another. The inclusion of 'show' in that list may come as something of a surprise. Many a family Sunday dinner down the years was soundtracked by 'songs from the shows'. I, wrongly or otherwise, generally resented this - my choice of CD would have been from my dad's collection or, more latterly, Super Furry Animals or early Sigur Ros. 'Songs from the shows', I believe, formed the foundations of my musical snobbery. Quite why dad's music rather than mum's formed the basis of my early taste I'm not sure. I suppose it could come down to simple maths. Dad's record collection was larger than mum's, so I was simply exposed to more of it. As with many battles, weight in numbers won through.
Having said all that, I'd like to think my tastes have matured a little now. The likes of Sufjan Stevens are near the top of my preferred artists. Indeed, his recent Manchester gig more closely resembled a stage show than any 'rock' concert I've ever attended. My own expectations of 'what I like' has changed; will probably continue to change. I've seen 'Wicked' - one of the most acclaimed stage shows running at this moment in time. For me, it felt a little flat, didn't live up to the book and only really had one memorable song. For me, it is comprehensively trumped by 'Legally Blonde - the musical'. Yes, it is effectively a love story. Yes, it is a collecting ground for former Hollyoaks stars. And yes, it features ballads the likes of Cowell and Waterman would kill for. But it contains a number of great songs that stay with you. It is written with a self-referential wit that generates a number of genuine belly-laugh moments. And - how could I forget - it features not one, but TWO performing dogs. I'm not sure entertainment gets any better...
So...I've kind of admitted that I went to see 'Legally Blonde - the musical'...
It struck me as I took my place in the audience that the only other males not accompanied by females were extravagantly homosexual or, at the very least, trying to give that impression. Could the skewed demographic of the audience be down to the common expectations of the supposedly modern world? Would a self-respecting hetrosexual male even consider attending such a production alone, let alone actually going, because of the expectations of the world in which we live?
Maybe I'm wrong, and the pressures of expectation are not as prevailent as they appeared to be in the theatres. I mean, it is probably just me who harbours some regret at having spent nine whole years from the age of 22 working behind a desk in an office mainly because that was what I felt I was expected to do after three years at university and thirteen more at school. For everyone else I guess the decision to do the same is fully conscious, lucid; a positive 'life choice'. With no begrudging embrace of the situation in which you find yourself.
Perhaps, sometimes, it is better to do not what is expected of you, but whatever makes you happy. And 'Legally Blonde - the musical' certainly made me happy.
['Les Miserables' didn't though. 'Les Miserables' was soul-destroyingly depressing.]
-----
Number 5 on the list: Cricket Scorer
Six months on, six months off, 11am starts, write a number or two every minute, someone brings you your lunch at 1pm, then your tea at 3:40pm, and its all done by 6 - home in time for dinner! Plus you are far enough away that you don't get scarred.
Andrew and Helen very kindly agreed to put me up in their spare room, a stones throw from the Goldhawk Road, and I've been slowly ingraining my musk into its walls during July. The reason behind apportioning a section of sabbatical to a city but 25 miles from my life-long hearth was down to having booked a couple of gigs prior to my sabbatical being awarded the green light: Arcade Fire would play Hyde Park on 30th June, followed by Flaming Lips performing The Soft Bulletin in its entirety at Ally Pally on 1st July. That said, I've never been averse to London and its' myriad entertainments. Indeed manys the time I've toyed with relocating there, so why not, in the year I am required to determine my destiny, give it the once over - up close - for the sake of the future.
I moved up to London a couple of days before the Arcade Fire gig and met up with my Dad for a relaxing day at the cricket. Despite a healthy covering of cloud, I managed to singe myself pretty well and was thankful for Helen's aloe vera come the evening. I also took the opportunity to see Destroyer play live. They are one of the Montreal bands in my collection - part of the reason for that city marking the start of the international leg of the trip. Unfortunately I haven't kept up with their output, so was a little miffed at the amount of saxophone employed. Lead guitars were sacrificed in favour of overblown sax gyration - most disappointing - a distinctive psychedelic indie folk pop sound given over to wailing. [Sax lovers out there, there are occasions where it works; see Love Is All. This, however, didn't.]
I've been to a few concerts in Hyde Park in recent times, but nothing could prepare me for the hoards who attended Arcade Fire. It felt there was perhaps twice as many punters compared to past experience. Scary. And a little annoying when you are 800 yards from the stage with no discernable way of getting closer. Despite the vast crowds, it seems that coincidence still finds a way to work its magic. As I initially queued to enter the site, there was Ros and her friend Lauren in the line next to me. After some surreptitious multi-lining, we made a rather daunting-looking wait go relatively quickly. Later, as Dave sought a urinal without a 30-strong queue, he bumped into Richie Howard and Becca. I don't recall seeing them since their wedding, seven years ago. We reminisced about falling off mountains or, to be more precise, Andrew falling off mountains. Finally, long into the night, a tap on my shoulder and there stood Rachael (Helen's cousin) and her boyfriend Dave. They had been in Llandudno just after me as well.
Next night and Jon, Jake and I convened at Paddington and made our way vaguely north towards Ally Pally. The trains out of Kings Cross were up the swanny, so we got the tube to Wood Green. We subsequently missed Deerhoof and Dinosaur Jr, but The Soft Bulletin was a gloriously upbeat sing-a-long-a-thon, the whole crowd joining in and sharing their favourite stanzas. Jon got a job offer during the gig, asking him to be in Hammersmith (coincidentally 10mins walk from Andrew and Helen's) at 10am to do sound for a boyband act requiring 5 mics and a backing track. The act had recently played in Glasgow and would be doing an in-store followed by a slot at G-A-Y.
After an epic quest across the night bus network we arrived at Andrew's and speculated on the identity of the mystery band. The biggest clue came from the G-A-Y website who, on Gay Pride Saturday, claimed to be hosting an act "even bigger than Kylie and Lady Gaga". There was only one conclusion we could come to, and it included Robbie.
It won't surprise many to hear I'm planning on going back to Sweden, and Dragonfly festival, during August. Having hooked up with Crispin in Glasgow, there was the chance I'd be able to ship a second-hand car out there for them, so I hoped to meet up with Joe - Crispin's brother - whilst in London. Unfortunately he was in Leicester; his sound engineering work at the Scala dried up due to festival season. I therefore spent the next couple of weeks overdosing on all the culture an' that. One afternoon, towards the end of my fortnight of cultural excursions, I left Andrew's flat to head eastwards, and was met on the doorstep by the sight of Joe in a van, completely out of the blue. Now, as coincidences go, meeting the person you are in London to meet up with, even though he is in Leicester, outside the flat you are staying in, on a backstreet somewhere in West London, even though he has no idea you are there, ranks pretty high. Sadly there were no second-hand cars in the offing so we'd take run the usual Ryanair gauntlet to Gothenburg.
Back to the culture...the audiences of gigs, films, stage, show, museum and gallery were all graced with my presence at one time or another. The inclusion of 'show' in that list may come as something of a surprise. Many a family Sunday dinner down the years was soundtracked by 'songs from the shows'. I, wrongly or otherwise, generally resented this - my choice of CD would have been from my dad's collection or, more latterly, Super Furry Animals or early Sigur Ros. 'Songs from the shows', I believe, formed the foundations of my musical snobbery. Quite why dad's music rather than mum's formed the basis of my early taste I'm not sure. I suppose it could come down to simple maths. Dad's record collection was larger than mum's, so I was simply exposed to more of it. As with many battles, weight in numbers won through.
Having said all that, I'd like to think my tastes have matured a little now. The likes of Sufjan Stevens are near the top of my preferred artists. Indeed, his recent Manchester gig more closely resembled a stage show than any 'rock' concert I've ever attended. My own expectations of 'what I like' has changed; will probably continue to change. I've seen 'Wicked' - one of the most acclaimed stage shows running at this moment in time. For me, it felt a little flat, didn't live up to the book and only really had one memorable song. For me, it is comprehensively trumped by 'Legally Blonde - the musical'. Yes, it is effectively a love story. Yes, it is a collecting ground for former Hollyoaks stars. And yes, it features ballads the likes of Cowell and Waterman would kill for. But it contains a number of great songs that stay with you. It is written with a self-referential wit that generates a number of genuine belly-laugh moments. And - how could I forget - it features not one, but TWO performing dogs. I'm not sure entertainment gets any better...
So...I've kind of admitted that I went to see 'Legally Blonde - the musical'...
It struck me as I took my place in the audience that the only other males not accompanied by females were extravagantly homosexual or, at the very least, trying to give that impression. Could the skewed demographic of the audience be down to the common expectations of the supposedly modern world? Would a self-respecting hetrosexual male even consider attending such a production alone, let alone actually going, because of the expectations of the world in which we live?
Maybe I'm wrong, and the pressures of expectation are not as prevailent as they appeared to be in the theatres. I mean, it is probably just me who harbours some regret at having spent nine whole years from the age of 22 working behind a desk in an office mainly because that was what I felt I was expected to do after three years at university and thirteen more at school. For everyone else I guess the decision to do the same is fully conscious, lucid; a positive 'life choice'. With no begrudging embrace of the situation in which you find yourself.
Perhaps, sometimes, it is better to do not what is expected of you, but whatever makes you happy. And 'Legally Blonde - the musical' certainly made me happy.
['Les Miserables' didn't though. 'Les Miserables' was soul-destroyingly depressing.]
-----
Number 5 on the list: Cricket Scorer
Six months on, six months off, 11am starts, write a number or two every minute, someone brings you your lunch at 1pm, then your tea at 3:40pm, and its all done by 6 - home in time for dinner! Plus you are far enough away that you don't get scarred.
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