Author: James Lark

I had ever such a good time at the Proms last night, listening to an inspired combination of Ralph Vaughan Williams (favourite of Classic FM listeners), Holst (his Planets Suite, almost certainly in Classic FM’s “top essential classic classics of all time” list), and as the filling in this Classic FM junky sandwich, Xenakis – who pretty much epitomises the phrase “plinky plonky music”. Although in this case it was more like bashy crashy music, as six very talented percussionists thrashed the hell out of an array of big bits of metal.

As the audience reviews show, the reaction was divided between those who pretended to like it because they think that’s the cultured thing to do, and a rather bigger demographic who were horrified by the affront to their senses (to somebody on a diet of smooth classics at teatime the work was basically the aural equivalent of hardcore pornography).

Anyway, I’m a real life working composer now so I can say what I like: it was bollocks. Brilliantly performed, noisy and occasionally exciting bollocks for sure, probably unbelievably clever bollocks as well knowing Xenakis – but bollocks nevertheless, and although it didn’t irritate me as much as smooth classics at teatime, I did find the whole thing rather an ordeal.

Still, I’m delighted it was in the programme and it’s just the kind of thing the Proms needs. Listener Nicholas Sayer (who needs to learn the “i before e” rule) may claim “peices like this […] will only generate polite applause”, but he couldn’t be more wrong – I don’t think I’ve ever seen a piece of music at the Proms whip up such a reaction, at least outside the Last Night. My companion (who was of the opinion that we should spend the whole section of the concert in the bar) and I entertained ourselves by counting the number of people making a dash for the exit during the work; we counted 134. That’s enough people to fill the Wigmore Hall. (Maybe that’s where they all went, desperate for a fix of Schubert or something more palatable.)

It’s a super way to spend a concert and I highly recommend trying it next time there’s a piece of Xenakis at the Proms, or maybe Stockhausen or Nono. You can decide on other things to count as well – we didn’t really start counting “number of times one piece can go up and down a xylophone” until too late in the movement, but we did count Gratuitous Lighting Changes: 4 (they’re clearly taking the previously mentioned gay clubbing approach to ambience to a new level) and Cries of Despair: 1.

That’s right, a man let out an agonised scream about five minutes into the concert (I’m sure you’ll hear it if you listen again). And that surely is another sign that it was something rather special.

I might have made a few mentions of Ambassador Property Management, the people who “look after” 2 Victoria Street in Cambridge and for the last two years have literally allowed myself, Chris and Alastair to drown in our own shit, whilst metaphorically screwing us with our pants on.

Last week the three of us finally said goodbye to Victoria Street, as I took up residence in Bedford and Chris and Alastair moved into a house less likely to spew excrement. And so we also said a sad farewell to all the lovely folk at Ambassador, in particular a man called Graham who seems to have been behind most of the screwing.

Perhaps we should have predicted that he wouldn’t be able to resist slipping out his metaphorical cock and giving us a sneaky last screw as we walked out of the door. As indeed he did. When Graham begrudgingly wrote us each a cheque for the return of our deposits (in full, because try as they might they couldn’t find anything to blame us for), he apparently decided to deduct the sum of £36.11 to cover the cost of transferring the money into their bank account.

To cover the cost of transferring the money into their bank account!!!

I mean – WHAT????? Is that legal? Does it even make sense? Is it one of the costs listed on their website? No it bloody isn’t.

The fact that it’s such a relatively piffling amount doesn’t make it any less infuriating, because it is clearly Graham saying “I can still screw you with your pants on, even if I can’t get my dick in very far this time” – and I have spend the best part of today seething with rage at this arbitary and entirely questionable charge.

Though it occurs to me that since I am no longer reliant on Ambassador for a place to live, there is nothing stopping me from popping in there when I’m next in Cambridge and, if not actually screwing them with their pants on, giving them a demonstration of how it feels to have shit sluiced all over you. So if any of the lovely folk at Ambassador are reading (as I believe some of them have taken to doing, presumably on the look out for something libellous – sorry guys, it’s all undeniably accurate), you can expect a visit from me some time in the next few weeks and you might want to bring a change of clothes to work with you.

Or alternatively write me a fricking cheque for £36.11…

A lot of people (journalists, bloggers, men in pubs) have been mouthing off about how shit Britain is, specifically in comparison to China and substantiated by our eight-minute segment in the Olympic handover – which was, let’s face it, shit to the point of being surreal.

I beg to differ. As a letter to the Telegraph pointed out earlier this week, in Edinburgh during the summer months they manage to pull off a spectacular Tattoo on a daily basis which wows even the Chinese. I would go even further – step outside Edinburgh castle in the month of August and the city is full of similarly spectacular achievements, although many people miss them for all the surrounding shit.

All over the country there are awesome – I’m not being sarcastic – awesome displays of jousting, morris dancing, Anglo-Catholic ceremony, the occasional royal jubilee spectacular (I’m thinking of the fireworks rather than the rock concert). We can do a damn fine state funeral, we can stage mock battles on a huge scale, and a group of amateurs can rescue a real live steam railway and make it run again – yes, it all sounds a bit odd and English, but it’s still impressive, so why on earth do people think we haven’t got anything of value to show the world? We can do spectacular, and moreover we can do it at a fraction of the cost of the Chinese opening ceremony.

All that our eight-minute segment in the handover demonstrates is that the decision about what ought to represent Britain should not NOT NOT be left in the hands of an Olympic committee with no experience of staging a spectacular. Give it to the people who run the Tattoo, give it to Cameron Mackintosh, give it to an amateur railway society for God’s sake, anything to avoid another brainstorming session with some enthusiastic intern saying “hey, how about Jimmy Page and Leona Lewis! On top of a red bus!”

Sadly, I suspect our own opening ceremony will be very much the work of the kind of committee that came up with the eight-minute handover show, or indeed the 2012 logo. If it is then it will at least sum up exactly why Britain so often looks shit in public these days.

I went to one of Henry Wood’s famous Promenade concerts on Tuesday, for the first time in three years. That sounds a little disgraceful for someone who is not only a music-lover but also a professional composer, but what with doing musicals and one-man shows and occasional choir tours this seems to be genuinely the first summer in three years that I’m actually able to make it to the Albert Hall for what is, after all, a mere two months of concerts. Also I had a bad experience with a Shostakovich symphony the last time I went, which left quite deep scars.

Anyway – so delightful was the experience on Tuesday that I even went round and queued again for a second ride, which turned out to be even better than the first (the Tallis scholars on blistering form).

What struck me, not for the first time, is how the Proms manage such an odd combination of high culture and unashamedly tacky. Obviously the high culture comes in the form of world-class musicians singing in a nice (if acoustically-challenged) London concert venue, and it’s marvellous that impoverished freelancers such as myself can, thanks to Sir Henry, get to experience them for a fiver. Obviously at such prices it’s no wonder that some of the people who manage to sneak in bring with them a level of tackiness, but almost as if they feel the need to pander to such people the organisers of the Proms have obviously thought, “hang on, we should probably stretch some blue LED rope lights along the back of the stage in case these common people feel out of their depth in a genuine concert hall”. So suddenly the Albert Hall looks like it’s trying to simultaneously pull off culture and gay bar chique.

It’s also worth mentioning that the conductor’s stand is shaped like a coffin. I suspect that Henry Wood himself is inside.

Still – it’s a shame that they’ve got rid of the water feature. Obviously I don’t know at what stage in the last three years that disappeared, but when I last visited the Proms, a trickling fountain sat in the middle of the auditorium. (They turned it off during the music, but if you got to the front of their queue you could often bag a place to sit on the edge if you didn’t feel inclined to stand through The Dream of Gerontius.) And in case that started to look almost tasteful, the organisers would always ensure that there was a fine collection of inflatable sea life on display as well. Plus, as I remember, a snake coiling round the fountain itself.

I can’t help feeling that the Tallis scholars would have been even more magical with it still there.

Well, isn’t that typical – Joss Whedon puts a musical online for FREE out of the goodness of his own heart and Aylett gets all critical.

But since we’re in the mood I’ll add the observation that, actually, the songs are not all that great. Oh, I’ve heard much less inspired songs in “real” musicals, but Dr Horrible doesn’t display the versatility and sheer brilliance of the music in Once More With Feeling, and that’s mildly disappointing.

Never mind. I loved it from start to finish and only wish that there was going to be another act every two days for the rest of my life.

The KLF were well-known for asking “What time is love?” – but it is a question which they generously answered after a couple of years with their follow-up single “3a.m. Eternal”.

I’m usually a bit too sleepy for love by then, but I’m sure the KLF knew what they were talking about. And I certainly think it’s commendable of them not to leave their original question hanging like a pseudo-philosophical mystery that they hadn’t really thought through. No, dammit – they asked the question, it was their responsibility to answer it, and answer it they did!

An example which I can’t help feeling ought to be followed by The Automatic.

“What’s that coming over the hill? Is it a monster? Is it a monster?” they muse.

Well? Is it a monster? I mean, you’ve been pondering this question for the duration of an entire song, surely you can at least make an informed guess? I mean, how fast is this thing coming over the hill anyway? It clearly isn’t moving very fast or you’d have a better idea of what it is, so permit me to suggest that even if it’s a monster it’s going to be pretty easy to outrun.

Since it’s not a particularly threatening monster, your song is not a warning so much as an observation, so can’t you just commit to an answer for crying out loud? Is it a monster? Is it??? I’m starting to wonder whether I really care any more!

I feel rather proud that I’ve managed to sneak in a blog entry about Dr Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog before Mr Aylett got there…

Anyway, the point is, you have to watch Act I now. Do it while you can still watch it for free, because you’ll only be really cross with yourself if you don’t.

It’s not Joss Whedon’s greatest work ever, but it’s a good reminder of how every line of script he touches turns to gold. And when was the last time something this good-humoured turned up on TV? If this is what happens when a group of actors get together during a writers’ strike to make something fun simply for the love of their art, then I think writers should strike more often.

Catherine Tate: she’s a genius as well. Thanks Doctor Who Confidential for setting us straight on that one.

Pity her Doctor Who swansong was such a big pile of wank.

One of my more sophisticated friends is celebrating his birthday with a Doctor Who-themed party on Saturday. A better dessert to the oncoming season finale I can not imagine. Naturally, one is expected to dress up appropriately, and this has caused numerous problems. Not just for me – I know that said friend has spent most of 2008 searching for a pair of stripey trousers a little bit like Peter Davison’s – and I think it’s fair to say that you don’t generally come by Doctor Who costumes that easily.

Oh, I have to go as a Doctor, naturally. I did toy briefly with the idea of going as the Master, but I can’t be doing with all the facial hair involved (I wasn’t considering the John Simm incarnation, obviously, and I felt to go as Derek Jacobi would only be to invite unfavourable comparisons). No, it has to be a Doctor, so the first question was which Doctor.

The last thing I wanted was to be a duplicate Doctor – not only would it break the first law of time, but it would be hugely embarrassing turn see somebody across the room with a better version of the same costume – so I steered clear of the current regeneration, easy though it would have been to stick on my brown suit and a mockney accent.

Tom Baker? Not in the heat of summer. Patrick Troughton? I’m too tall. It would be immensely fun to go as Colin Baker, but that would be to set myself an impossible costuming challenge.

And so I arrived at Sylvester McCoy, part of the appeal of whom is I don’t think anyone else will want to go as him. And although I’ve failed to get hold of the requisite tank top, I don’t think it really matters as nobody ever liked it anyway. The rest – checked trousers, panama hat, umbrella with a question mark handle, are all readily available from Primark. It also looked like being a simple enough costume to throw together.

Until I got to the paisley. McCoy’s Doctor clearly had a penchant for the stuff, as it featured on his hatband, scarf, handkerchief and all the other random bits of material that seemed to flow from his pockets along with pages of script. But could I find so much as a paisley tie? Not a single one.

I recall that I once had a paisley tie. But I threw it away, as I rightly saw that it was irredeemably ugly and unfashionable. A similar attitude clearly prevails in every clothes store in the country. And not just clothes stores! Not even will charity shops stoop to a paisley tie these days – it seems that when your Granddad dies you might as well incinerate his paisley ties, because Oxfam sure as hell won’t stock them.

I’ve got a day to go and I’m hoping I can still track the requisite neckwear down, perhaps if I can locate a deeply unfashionable charity shop in the heart of Cornwall or somewhere. It’s a desperate situation though, because without the paisley OR the tank top, I frankly might be just about anyone and not a Doctor at all.

This evening 2 Victoria Street had a lads’ night out. Which mostly consisted of sitting in a pub playing a card game called “Shithead”. In the version of the game that I know, one is only required to bear the title of Shithead when one has lost the most recent game; the mantle then passes to the next loser, and one can regain one’s self-respect.

However, after the first game, Chris decided it would be better of the loser bore the stigma of the title for the rest of his life, and instead elected to play a round of “Flangeface”.

So, just for the record, I am now officially Shithead Flangeface Wanksock. Whilst Chris is Syphilis Cheeks. And Alastair is The Bishop of Southwark.