Valentine's Day Performance

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!

When you gotta go...

I was merrily strolling along the pavement lately when I noticed a neat geometric pattern on the tarmac. It was along the low walls at the front of the houses, and lasted for ten feet or so with systematic regularity. I stopped to ponder its origin. It appeared to be made from water, as though someone carrying a water bottle had made a continuous line by squirting it as they went. But there were no gaps or pauses in the line, and the repetitiveness of the pattern suggested something more organised. It reminded me slightly of that wonderful preserve of children's summer holidays - Spirograph. People of a certain age will have shared many a dull day spirographing away to their heart's content, becoming only mildly frustrated when the clips came loose and the pattern was ruined. Anyhow, the evidence suggested a trail of water, somehow with a regularity to it, that lasted for just a handful of seconds, and I couldn't help but wonder whether some poor dog had tried to relieve itself in the time-honoured fashion, only to be hauled along by an impatient owner, spraying concentric circles of urine as it went. A four-legged beast such as this walks with a regular gait, and no doubt the poor hound was forced to trot along behind its master, simultaneously manufacturing the greatest show of territoriality ever seen in the animal kingdom; something of which Tracey Emin would be proud. This revelation led me to wonder whether other canines in the locality were left in awe of this particular pooch, or gave it a wide birth. Surely the artist in question is top dog in my neighbourhood.

Ice Ice Baby

Regular readers of the blog may have noticed that I have a tendency towards cynicism. I enjoy a good moan. I like being a grumpy old man before my time. One of my particular passions is bemoaning the pace of technology. Even though I grew up alongside the developing internet, have owned a mobile phone for years and can navigate my way around a computer with reasonable ease, I am flummoxed by relatively minor technological wizardry such as apps, projectors, replacement phones, passwords, and Bulgarian shower fittings (see here!). One thing that I am dubious about is social media. I use Facebook but not Twitter. I write a blog but don't send texts in text-speak. Part of me is willing but part of me longs for simpler times. And so it is with Facebook.

Facebook has become unstoppable. Part of me resents that, because it forces us into using it by it's sheer domination. If I want to catch up with friends, I'm as likely to do so on Facebook than on the phone or email. I can see photos from their lives and people expect mine to be posted shortly after each event - events which I've probably been invited to on Facebook! Everything is instant; accessible anywhere, anytime. There's probably now a stat for the amount of time the average teenager spends on Facebook each year. 

But for all my ranting, it's addictive. And every now and then something happens through social media that simply wouldn't have been possible previously. I'm talking about Ice. When in the past has any single charity received so much publicity, free of charge, reaching such a huge global audience? The only thing that springs to my mind is when Barcelona FC wear the Unicef logo on their shirts. Presumably this reaches a sizeable global audience, but how many of them then look up the charity or make a donation? The Ice Bucket Challenge has gone global, and sparked debate from all quarters. 

First and foremost, I think an initiative that encourages charitable giving is generally a good thing. ALS is a worthy cause, and the challenge has, apparently, brought in over £50 million for the ALS Association or Motor Neurone Disease Association so far. I have read comments from some people suggesting that people carrying out the challenge have lost site of the original aims - raising awareness of a terrible disease. But if these people are simultaneously donating, how important is that? In some cases people have, apparently, donated to the wrong charity having misunderstood who the challenge was supporting. Again, if somebody benefits, how much does that matter? In fact, more people benefit!

I'm a firm believer that giving to charity should be a personal choice, but I can't knock the fact that many more people are giving money as a result of the challenge. I chose to give to a different cause, and to adapt my challenge to fit my ethics. And I was interested to see that some other people have used their challenges to highlight other charities, and Matt Damon challenged people's criticisms of wasting water by doing his with toilet water! Fair play!

So in this case I applaud Facebook and social media, and the genuine impact it might have for people suffering from ALS. I salute those who do not normally give to charity but have been inspired to do so in this case. I admire those who have used the opportunity to support their own choice of charity or highlight another important issue. And I even feel a tinge of pride that I, momentarily, managed to put my grumpiness aside for a worthy cause.

If you haven't done it yet, I can recommend it. Or take on my alternative challenge - there's still money up for grabs for your chosen charity. Get involved and get donating!

Face Time

A couple of weeks ago our house living room clock stopped working. The batteries were fine, but the hands couldn't turn because the circular card which listed the numbers 1-12 in a clockwise direction around the clock edge, as is customary, had warped and cracked and now blocked the second hand from continuing on it's never-ending quest towards the end of time.

I managed to find a way to remove the front cover and then poke out the card, but it was flaky and looked odd missing just a 2, so I took the whole thing out. The clock was now a shadow of it's former self. Without numbers, it's surprising how difficult it can be to tell the time, despite the hands still being in exactly the same place. Confusion reigned. I started turning up late, overcooking my dinner, missing the headlines - all because of the faceless clock. After a week or two it was getting to me, so I did this:

It didn't help to tell the time much, but I found it very amusing. My housemate was, of course, delighted to be the new face of the clock. For a week or so she peered down at us while we dashed through the living room, trying to avoid her beady eye. Then after a week or so, this appeared:

I suspect I know who the culprit is. Her mug shot was plastered to the clock just days earlier. I am at least pleased that she captured my best side. I sense the clock war is not over. Time to go back on the offensive!

Get Inspired

I've just spent a weekend catching up with some old friends. The friend's themselves aren't that old, but I've known them a while and have seen far too little of them in recent years. One thing that I enjoy when running over several year's worth of news is hearing about all the amazing things people have done in that time. Oddly it seems to be the one things that Facebook is good for. People don't tend to post statements or photos of mundane days in the office or food shopping trips, but instead reserve their home page space for travel, seeing friends and amazing adventures. It is possible to imagine, therefore, that all of your friends (or at least Facebook friends) are living adrenaline fuelled, adventurous lives of continual travel, excitement and intrigue. Whilst our own lives seem dominated by the dull, uninteresting tedium of everyday life. So it's no wonder that, from time to time, it feels good to be inspired by those around you. For no other reason than that I thought I would share a couple of videos with you. This one brings out the feel good factor and this one will make you want to pack a bag and head off into the unknown. If that's not enough for you, watch Walter Mitty.

Creative Genius

There are times when I get an overwhelming urge to be creative. I blame that urge for the videos I post on here, for the unsuccessful tricks I try at hockey, for the fact that I have a blog. But every now and then I see something so utterly inspirational that I feel both humbled in the world of creativity and encouraged to go further, be bolder and try harder than I had before. This man deserves great credit. Click here to be amused and inspired.