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.]
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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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