Robbie Robertson: Dylan, Scorsese – what a journey
After a 13-year gap, The Band’s Robbie Robertson has a new album out. He talks to Neil McCormick.
Music
Iolanthe; Angela Hewitt/Britten Sinfonia – review
Wilton’s Music Hall; Queen Elizabeth Hall, both London
Torches flash in the darkness as a party of naughty schoolboys discovers the magical interior of Wilton’s Music Hall, that secret palace of varieties hidden away down an alley in London’s East End. Amid all the backstage paraphernalia they find a Narnia-like wardrobe and a dusty copy of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Iolanthe, and in a “let’s do the show right here” moment they are neatly into the opening chorus – with an all-male cast.
“We are dainty little fairies,” sing the boys to audience guffaws, but it quickly becomes apparent that this is no mere Carry on Camping; this cast is regenerating G&S in front of our eyes. If you remember the impact of Joe Papp’s ground-breaking Pirates of Penzance 30 years ago then this is a similar moment: a tired operetta kicked into new, fizzing and funny life.
Papp’s Pirates overturned the deadening D’Oyly Carte tradition that had preserved the operettas in aspic; Sasha Regan and her rip-roaring team tried the same with an all-male Pirates last year, but that had too much of the “Hello sailor” about it really to float my boat. This Iolanthe is altogether more successful, full of imaginative direction, inventive ideas and moments of truly affecting pathos. Of all the iconoclastic operettas, Iolanthe has the most bizarre plot, so it doesn’t really matter what you do with it; when half the cast are away with the fairies and the others are dotty peers of the realm, casting men in all the female roles seems perfectly logical.
Iolanthe has been banished to the bottom of a lake for marrying a mortal, but not before she gave birth to a son, Strephon, who is in love with Phyllis, a ward in Chancery. The Lord Chancellor must decide if she is free to marry – but he loves her himself, so asks for help from his fellow peers, all of whom fall for her, too. I think I’ll stop there; I can feel your eyes glazing over.
Presenting the whole thing as an improvised school play allows endless possibilities for designer Stewart Charlesworth and his costume team: the fairies go tripping hither and thither in a crazy combination of suspenders and table-tennis nets; when the same singers become the peers (“Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes”) they don their school dressing gowns with mad hats and chains of office fashioned from stringed conkers. The Fairy Queen, splendidly sung by countertenor Alex Weatherill, is decked out in furs, knickerbockers and a corset; Matthew James Willis, a fine-voiced Lord Tolloller, in wing collar, top hat and huge specs, looks like a cross between Lord Snooty and Harry Potter. And while the ability to sing in the soprano register doesn’t make you a soprano, Christopher Finn as Iolanthe and Alan Richardson as Phyllis find some impressive top notes, even if the strain of it all must surely tell one day.
The whole thing races along at hilarious breakneck speed, with some nifty knockabout choreography from Mark Smith and excellent playing from musical director Christopher Mundy. It’s the perfect antidote to these austere times – and how pertinent it is: Tolloller and his political opposite sport blue and yellow rosettes; half-man, half-fairy Strephon is “a Tory down to my waist, but my legs are a couple of radicals” which is useful when he finally makes it into Parliament and is made leader of both parties. And Gilbert foresaw today’s coalition 130 years ago when he made Private Willis (wonderfully deadpanned by Raymond Tait) sing that everyone is either “a little Liberal or a little Conservative”. You can laugh at this timeless tale of political pomposity until 7 May. Go or I’ll send the census people round.
There can be no greater contrast between all that high-octane buffoonery at raffish Wilton’s and the cool, controlled calm of the Queen Elizabeth Hall when pianist Angela Hewitt is on the platform, though not, last week, in her more familiar role as a solo recitalist but as director of the Britten Sinfonia in scintillating Bach and Mozart keyboard concertos.
She’s such a great communicator that her renowned sense of line found its way through to the players immediately, making the first and second movements of Bach’s keyboard concerto No 5 (BWV 1056) sound like long, delicious single phrases. And no wonder: she is a violinist, too, and explained in the programme that all the articulation she chooses at the piano imitates string bowing. That sense of line appeared again in Mozart’s piano concerto No 9 in E flat major, played with the utmost delicacy and finesse, with her poised and intelligent direction from the keyboard wrapping the whole thing in an elegant sheen.
The Sinfonia’s leader Thomas Gould directed in Stravinsky’s concerto in D for string orchestra, his ravishing exploration of the tonal possibilities of a string ensemble played here with precision and panache, complete with fabulous eerie harmonics from the cellos and double basses. Section principals Miranda Dale, Martin Outram, Caroline Dearnley and Stephen Williams shone in what turned out to be the chief delight of the evening, Bach’s Goldberg Variations, arranged for strings by Dmitry Sitkovetsky. It’s a tightrope walk for the players – one weak link, one muffed entry and the whole thing would fall apart, but in these hands there was never any danger of disaster; a masterclass in ensemble sensibility.
Grammys to Have Fewer Categories Next Year
The Recording Academy announced today that next year’s 54th annual Grammy Awards will have 78 categories 31 fewer than the ceremony held in February The Academy has consolidated several categories most notably by doing away with gender-based categories in pop R&B country and rock Several instrumental categories have also been…
Piccard in Space; Intermezzo; Fidelio – review
Queen Elizabeth Hall, London; Theatre Royal, Glasgow; Royal Opera House, London
Relativity: the opera? It’s been done. Philip Glass put Einstein on a beach, and a German opera, C – the speed of light (2005), swirled us around multimedia universes to mark his anniversary year. But there’s always another angle, especially when you cast the physicist not as the mad boffin of later years but as a hip-swivelling, woman-ogling celebrity scientist, as he became (a celebrity, that is; I can’t verify the hips) so spectacularly, overnight, in 1919.
Will Gregory, who as half of the duo Goldfrapp released a song called “Rocket“, of which the last line is “We have lift off”, has launched into relative space for his first opera, premiered at the QEH, commissioned by the BBC Concert Orchestra and directed by Jude Kelly. Some may think Piccard in Space remains grounded. One tweeter has called it “catastrophically dreadful” and the worst opera ever seen. To that I would say: you haven’t lived. A long list of contenders for this title is available on request.
Piccard relates the epic attempt of a Swiss-Belgian aeronaut-polymath, Auguste Piccard, to test Einstein’s theory by going up in a balloon through the earth’s atmosphere. Piccard inspired Hergé’s cartoon scientist Professor Calculus. He also has a Virgin train named after him – but as “Picard” (sic), presumably for reasons of C-economy. Once you treat the whole enterprise as surreal – think, staying Belgian, of the besuited men floating above rooftops in Magritte’s Golconda – it becomes bizarre and quirky, if also a good third too long and dramatically topsy-turvy. A short comic opera, with serious intent and much charm, is trying to get out.
The Newton-Einstein split which transformed physics is played out via a bewigged, arch countertenor – Nicholas Clapton as Newton – who mimics baroque recitative and haunts the action like Mozart’s Commendatore. We are given a pukka tutorial on relativity using the two-trains-struck-by-lightning example. We singalong-a-”Time dilation factor” – yes, we the audience; that should be scrapped instantly – and on video projections watch two fat putti write out Newton’s second law of motion up above the clouds.
Gregory, who was classically trained and whose mother, the dedicatee, was a Covent Garden opera chorus member, has a fluent style – luscious, tonal and Moog-rich – and a gentle wit about the tics and tropes of opera. A cosmic choir in white overalls (expertly sung) has some Eric Whitacre-like set pieces. Andrew Shore, Robin Tritschler, Leigh Melrose and Mary Plazas gave strong performances to an unexpectedly small audience. No Wainwright Prima Donna red carpet stuff here, though give me Piccard in Space any day. Charles Hazlewood conducted and Michael Vale set it all, simply and cleanly, in Piccard’s capsule, which eventually landed in Switzerland.
As a saxophonist, Gregory played in John Adams’s Nixon in China, and his score owes much to American minimalism. It’s in the Doctor Atomic- lite vein, though the physics (libretto by Hattie Naylor) is more accurate. Courtesy of an elite escort agency my companion was a top theoretical physicist who, as it were, danced with a man who danced with a girl who danced with Albert Einstein. His verdict? Einstein, who had a sense of hilarity, would have loved it. Decide for yourself: it’s on Radio 3 on 13 April.
Strauss’s Intermezzo (1924), in a new staging by Scottish Opera, brings us crashing back to earth. Its subject is a marital misunderstanding, based on an event in the composer’s own happy if tempestuous wedlock. His wife Pauline once opened a love letter sent by a young woman – some bimbo, she – to the wrong man. In the opera, “Christine” files for divorce, while enjoying her own minor dalliance. After detours to a toboggan run and other easy operatic venues, all is forgiven. Anita Bader was a nicely truculent if underpowered Christine, Roland Wood her convincingly dyspeptic husband. Sarah Redgwick’s Anna has charm and Nicky Spence shone as a louche young Baron. Wolfgang Quetes directed an amiable, Klimt-styled production. The orchestra, under Francesco Corti, had narrow escapes but saved their fire for the interludes, so turbulent and grand you wonder about Strauss’s odd intention. His wife knew nothing until first night. Dinner afterwards must have been memorable.
While Intermezzo rues the habits of marriage, Beethoven’s Fidelio celebrates fidelity in the face of peril. The Royal Opera House has revived Jürgen Flimm’s staging, not alas a good advert in a week when the company’s budget was cut 15%. It looks fine in a dour, rusty-iron way, but is lumbered by props and business, with an uneven cast. But there were glories: Endrik Wottrich’s Florestan mustered blood-curdling anguish for his Act 2 dungeon cry. Nina Stemme, not an ideal Leonora but compelling, sang with hallmark ardour. The orchestra, conducted with brisk momentum by Mark Elder, excelled. Beethoven’s bachelor dream of married love, squabble-free and transcendent, may contrast with Strauss’s brittle actuality. Both work, even if the pure flame only burns brightest when the husband is in solitary confinement.
Willie Nelson Won’t Have to Sing in Court to Avoid Jail
As it turns out Willie Nelson will not have to sing his song “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” in a Texas court to resolve his marijuana possession charges Judge Becky Dean-Walker told the Associated Press that the idea – presented by Hudspeth County Attorney Kit Bramblett – was just…
Arts cuts: winners and losers
A round-up of big winners and losers after the Arts Council’s announcement.
Music
Elbow – review
Cardiff International Arena
Tonight, Cardiff’s premier gig-shed has turned into a family parlour. Five picture frames hang from the stage, gold and old-fashioned, each of them holding a member of Elbow. Every now and then, each portrait breaks its composure – to scratch a nose, brush a sleeve, or, in Guy Garvey’s case, exhale like Henry VIII after a particularly heavy supper. Eventually the lights lower, the frames empty, and the band arrive for real, raising half-empty pint glasses like welcome flags. The gesture is returned by 7,500 people – and before a note has been played, the audience is theirs.
If any British band belongs to the people in 2011, it’s Elbow. By now, we all know their rags-to-riches story: forming in Bury 20 years ago, getting dropped twice, throwing everything into their fourth album, The Seldom Seen Kid (revived romances, personal bereavements and tons of orchestral experiment) before winning the 2008 Mercury prize. Their new album Build a Rocket Boys! is all about hearth and home – a canny move for a band that set life’s little intimacies to a stadium-sized soundtrack.
And in the middle of the mêlée we find renaissance man Garvey – 6 Music DJ, thinking woman’s crumpet, national treasure. Tonight he is dressed in a three-piece suit and black tie, like a local undertaker or hearty pub landlord. His presence on stage remains refreshingly unshowy, too – he rocks from heel to toe as if he’s trying to keep balance on starboard as the band open up with “The Birds”, their new album’s opening track. Then he realises he’s got a catwalk, which he starts pounding up and down like a bear, his voice switching from smoky growl to high tenor as he rambles – a voice that has never sounded better than it does tonight. The band beam at him broadly as he does so, happy to make honey, while they let their queen parade. “What we going to do with you?” go the backing vocals; we hear the warmth, and the years, in those words.
And then we’re off. Garvey gets a sweat on; his jacket comes off to womanly wolf-whistles. “Hardly, but thank you,” he deadpans. The gig becomes a mixture of proggy musical adventure and Phoenix Nights turn. “Join me in worshipping the orb,” says Garvey, introducing “Mirrorball”, as a glittery sphere descends from the ceiling. He asks if anyone is standing next to someone they love but haven’t told yet; later, he gets the crowd to applaud the audience member furthest from the stage. This is one of several antics tonight that veers dangerously towards excessive schmaltz. Elbow just about get away with it, as there is grit behind their pearls.
It helps that they have become a momentous live band, their rockier tracks sounding like juddering juggernauts. “Grounds for Divorce”, for example, keens, yearns and growls, Garvey smashing a snare drum as the crowd whoa-oh along. Recent single “Neat Little Rows” also gains extra backbone, the despair and death in its lyrics becoming much more apparent here (“lay my bones on cobblestones, lay my bones in neat little rows”). Even in Elbow’s softer songs, however, these shadows linger darkly, most impressively tonight in “The Loneliness of the Tower Crane Driver” – the song Elbow campaigned to play at the 2008 Mercury prize ceremony, a song about the crushed dreams of a manual worker, rather than one of their album’s more conventional ballads. “Send up a prayer in my name,” Garvey begs tonight, as the band build the song into a huge, drenching climax. “They say I’m on top of my game,” he exhales – and hands across the crowd rise to dab at eyelashes.
As the night draws on, Garvey returns to the catwalk, this time with a piano and his bandmate, Craig Potter, the man who also produced The Seldom Seen Kid. They play one of only three songs tonight from Elbow’s pre-Mercury days, 2005′s “Puncture Repair”, a song about leaning on a friend who “patches you up”, and the rest of the band join them soon after.
The band finish with the expected flourish – “One Day Like This”, their perennial wave-a-lighter number, which will soundtrack emotional TV moments for ever more. As Garvey sings, however, we’re reminded it’s a song about being hung over, feeling desperate and clinging on to hope, and how we feel better when we pull together. It also becomes clear that Elbow are still part of the crowd’s real world, and not the world of rock worship – a real rarity on a stage of this size. Long may these five ordinary men keep on doing this extraordinary thing.
Band to Watch: Cold Cave Merge Synthpop and Hardcore Punk
Click to listen to Cold Cave’s “The Great Pan Is Dead” Who An electronic band led by Wesley Eisold a veteran of hardcore and noise rock bands such as Give Up the Ghost Some Girls and Ye Olde Maids Whereas previous Cold Cave releases have had a dark synthpop sound the…
Justin Bieber; Katy Perry – review
O2 Arena; Hammersmith Apollo, both London
It’s been a strange week for pop music. The deeply unconvincing Ke$ha was reduced to drinking fake blood from a heart onstage in Australia in a bid for some edge. A 13-year-old girl called Rebecca Black became an ironic internet meme when “Friday”, her cheesy pop video made courtesy of a bespoke service called Ark Music Factory, went viral and clocked up 10m YouTube hits.
Meanwhile, Justin Bieber – the most followed pop pup de nos jours – wasn’t really the star of his own show. As the teen idol kicked off the first of three nights at London’s O2 Arena, the eye of at least one over-12 kept wandering to the majestic sight of umpteen coloured devices – glow sticks, mobile phones – lighting up the audience, like a mass of bioluminescent plankton moving on the night sea.
That’s not to suggest that Bieber is dreadful. Mostly he is just fine – all shiny himself in a series of blinged-out urban-lite tracksuits. He’s not a bad dancer either, even if he executes his moves with drilled skill rather than natural elan. It’s in contrast with his opening act, Willow “Daughter of Will” Smith, a gangling 11-year-old who resembles a streetwise string bean in bright green and black. She’s only on for 14 minutes – due, you suspect, as much to the UK’s strict child performance licence laws as her dearth of material thus far – but she fizzes with physicality. “Whip My Hair” – a sensational novelty single – is wonderfully manic; its overcooked sequel, “21st Century Girl“, less so.
The most whizz-bang thing about Bieber’s over-scripted and slightly workaday show is the hydraulics. A series of flying contraptions ensures that anyone here with even the most germinal of mothering instincts (and there are probably 23,000 of us, give or take a few dads and brothers) forgets to breathe as Bieber is repeatedly lofted high into the air and dangled over the crowd like bait. One contraption is a heart made of bits of scaffolding, in which Bieber plays surprisingly competent acoustic guitar for “Favorite Girl” – the kind of emotionally explicit swoon-fodder in which teen idols have long specialised. Bieber’s slightly punchier R&B numbers are a little more fun.
Throughout it all, Bieber remains stoic, gazing out at his public with a kind of neutral professionalism that could just be a suppressed fear of heights. Disappointingly, there is little mischief to Bieber, no spin, precious little flirtatiousness, and zero winks. Is he enjoying himself up there? It’s probably the only few minutes’ peace he gets on his own all day.
Smaller details of his performance intrigue. Who would have thought that Bieber’s backing singers would resemble a barbershop quartet recruited from the yakuza? The mystery of the finger-snapping far eastern hard men stage left is solved when Bieber reveals that he discovered Legaci – for that is their name – on YouTube. “Like I was discovered on YouTube!” he points out.
And what is Craig David doing here? The urban crooner comes on in the encore, introduced unenticingly by Bieber as “someone your parents might like”. He performs his hit “7 Days” –, the very first time the notion of sex is broached tonight. “We were making love by Wednesday/ And on Thursday and Friday and Saturday/ We chilled on Sunday,” it goes. Bieber eventually joins David, singing along to the chorus. If you watch his lips closely, though, he misses out the line about Wednesday entirely.
It all ends with the infernally catchy “Baby“, a song that takes the most clichéd romantic pop trope to the limits of sense. “Like baby, baby, baby, ohhh,” croon the Beliebers. There are those who would argue that tween girl fandom is active, creative and rewarding rather than passive and supine (all those hand-lettered posters, all that bonding). But you can’t help but wonder what a musical world would sound like, in which all the inchoate longing of preteen girl lust was channelled into learning how to play guitar.
Or, alternatively, into creating an alternative, blue-haired, sugar-crazed, proto-vegetarian Wonderland. Katy Perry‘s California Dreams world tour is everything that Bieber’s is not – silly, brightly coloured, theatrical, fun and very down on butchers. Even though her audience is only slightly older than Bieber’s, Perry’s Pierre et Gilles-in-a-sweet-shop theme has a lysergic edge to it, made plain when Perry bites into a “special” brownie proffered by a couple of mimes. She starts having funny dreams about following her Kitty (no relation) and fancying gingerbread men, all relayed on screens that progress the show’s notional plot during her frequent dazzling costume changes.
I’ve never been a fan of Katy Perry, balking at the shock-tactic fake queerness of “I Kissed a Girl” and seething at “Ur So Gay“. “California Gurls” remains a rotten song. But for all her gimlet-eyed calculation, Perry packs more wit and charisma into her eyelash extensions than most pop stars manage in a career. Tonight, “I Kissed a Girl” has a dramatic 60s torch song makeover; even “Ur So Gay” is forgiven.
Bieber’s broadcast home videos make it clear he was a born show-off; Perry is a born entertainer, gabbing lucidly all the way through a bravura two-hour performance. The beautifully-lit Beliebers were the real stars of Bieber’s show, but Katy Perry makes you actually believe in the ridiculous transformative spangle of pop music all over again.
Pearl Jam to Begin Work on 10th Studio Album
Pearl Jam bassist Jeff Ament has told Billboard that the band have written 25 songs for a new album to be recorded later this year “April will be the time where we get together and learn to play all these demos and figure out which 12-15 of them float to…
