With plenty of leave left to use before April, I decided to take an extended Valentine's Weekend off work to accommodate the many varied and assorted offers that I felt certain to receive. As the weekend drew nearer, and the expected flood of invites and romantic sorties unexpectedly failing to materialise, I was delighted to be given the opportunity to see a gig with a friend in Bristol. Many years ago, a friend had introduced me to the eclectic and mysterious musical talents of Patrick Wolf. I had in turn introduced these to another friend, and that friend had now managed to procure tickets to see the aforementioned Mr Wolf in Bristol on Sunday evening. Better than that, she even invited me along to join her. (She would also, I'm sure, like me to point out at this point that this was in no way connected to Valentine's Day in any way, except by some unfortunate quirk of timing).
Having enthusiastically accepted the offer to go, I searched online for the details of the gig. It was being performed at the National Trust's Tyntesfield House, on the outskirts of the city. This imposing gothic mansion seemed like an intriguing venue for a gig, so I delved further. There were several supporting artists, none of whom I had ever heard of. With a quick visit to YouTube I was able to ascertain why: they were all performance artists rather than musicians. Now I'm generally not inclined towards performance art, being at the relatively ignorant end of artistic spectrum. I just don't get it. I don't understand what it is trying to say, I don't have life affirmations from watching it, and I have no comprehension of what is good, bad, or plain ugly (though in my cynical state I would tend to categorise most of what I've seen in either of the last two definitions).
However, being of an open mind, and possibly inclined towards the fact that this experience might form the basis for this blog piece, I was keen to sling off the trappings of comfort and hurl myself headlong towards an artistic education of sorts. And if all else failed, I would at least be keen to see Patrick Wolf, in what was described as an 'intimate setting'. It appears that my friend had also failed to notice the interpretive leaning of this event when booking the tickets, and we nervously made our way to the house to find out more.
Arriving slightly late at the venue (intentionally - we were making a statement) we first had to navigate several miles of winding, barely lit footpath in the dark, wondering if at any moment the lights would go on and we would find ourselves thrust centre stage on a performance entitled 'And he saw what he had done...'. Approaching the house we finally heard the appreciative murmurings of pensive art-lovers already gathered. Outside the house we encountered our first performance. For me to describe it to you would perhaps be unfair as my Neanderthal explanation would no doubt miss the point of a multi-layered, in-depth analysis of gender, sexuality and modern culture that is blighted by industry and commerce. It was five women in black dresses sawing the legs of chairs bit by bit. For anyone who wishes to judge for themselves, please have a look.
The second performance involved four people stood motionless around a stairwell. We didn't notice this 'act' straight away, as there were lots of other people milling around the stairwell. I don't actually know for certain if it was an act, or maybe four protestors against modern art, or some visitors who had just got bored or were trying to avoid having to see the other performances. There was a brief moment of interest when we went into a room to find it devoid of performance art, but instead a friendly guide told us about the history of the room and the library it contained. I'm pretty sure this wasn't part of the event, but it was interesting nonetheless, or perhaps despite.
The staff then informed us that we would shortly be lead to the chapel for the main performance. This was a beautiful gothic building set apart from the house and beautifully lit up against the stars. During the minutes between entering the chapel, finding a seat and the performance beginning, we were treated to a spot of people watching (and listening). It was a diverse audience, including aging couples, transvestites, thick set gothic boots and black eye-liner, bright dyed hair with strategically shaven patches and emo teens. From the conversations overheard, we also shared the chapel with American luvvies for whom the whole experience was overwhelmingly beautiful, and young British hippies who found all the performances inspirational and left them continually on the verge of bursting into tears. I was reminded of an excellent song that Bill Bailey performed called Oblivion, which is ironic as Patrick Wolf actually has a song of the same name.
The lights dimmed and the headline act made his way up the aisle to the chancel, where his instruments awaited. For anyone unfamiliar with Patrick Wolf, he is clearly a scholar of music and musical history, playing a wide range of instruments, and with influences as varied as electronica, folk and baroque. His songs are largely based around piano or organ and strings, especially viola and harp, and many draw on traditional themes like his Cornish ancestry. He launched into a set that rarely paused for breath or applause, veering relentlessly from melodic piano and voice to electronic beats and a wall of metallic sound that made it feel like we were being attacked by a thousand small children all armed with kitchen utensils. Familiar lyrics were mashed together in unrecognisable formats, and there was a constant hiss of high-pitched background whining that came from the 'organic' organ - an instrument apparently fashioned from drift wood. It grated the ears and was sufficiently off-putting that at one point Patrick himself turned it off. A beautiful piece on the harp turned into a quagmire of sound during which he massacred a viola. He has a haunting voice that works at high or low ranges, adding to the darkness of the songs, but the low range can sound like someone attempting to frighten a small child with a story about monsters. At the end of the show he simply left all the instruments playing and ran offstage, so that nobody knew if it had ended and we all sound there for several minutes looking awkwardly at one another and wondering whether to applaud or simply leave. To that end he captured the atmosphere of the event perfectly.
It was interesting to see him perform, but it felt a little bit like he was just carrying out an experiment that we were all part of. I had to listen to some of his better stuff on the way home to remind myself why I like him, but that did restore my faith and, if you want to check out his varied musical abilities I would recommend listening to songs like 'To The Lighthouse', 'This Weather', 'Blackdown' and 'The Sun Is Often Out'.
The evening was entirely unique and I am genuinely glad to have gone, despite my less than glowing descriptions of it. To see these acts in that setting was the highlight, and I would love to revisit the place during the day. I suspect it would be a disappointment compared to seeing it lit up at night, highlighting it's menacing qualities and the gothic architecture. I still don't understand performance art - I'm no clearer on what, if anything, it is trying to tell me, although I won't be inviting the ladies with their saws to dinner. That really would be a bad way to spend Valentine's Day!
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