…I read the programme and was especially taken by Philip Ralph’s essay of dissent. It seemed so relevant to our troubled times. So much so that I wanted to provide space for those thoughts as a guest piece on Ogblog, if Philip was willing.
Philip indeed kindly sent me the notes with permission to present them here (thank you, Philip), together with the following message:
Mike Ward forwarded your request to use my essay from the programme for Casablanca in your blog. I’m happy to oblige. It’s attached.
I should say, for full disclosure, that the phrase ‘Who Do We Choose to Be?’ and the ideas explored in the piece are not my own but are lovingly stolen from my teacher, Margaret Wheatley, whose work, ideas and teachings I wholeheartedly recommend to you. The moment in the film seemed an entirely apposite example of what she explores and describes in her work.
The following embedded YouTube is the short section of the film Casablanca to which Philip refers in his essay. It is one of the more memorable scenes from the film and I took great pleasure in revisiting it, while also having my thoughts well and truly provoked by Philip’s excellent essay:
Your lyrics live on, Ian; we are reviving Casablanca The Musical at The Workshop in the last week of September…
Out of the blue, I received a letter from Mike Ward in early September to the above effect. As it happened, I had a couple of clear days, the Wednesday and Thursday of that week.
I felt very much motivated to see a revival of that show; I had written the lyrics for several songs. Also, to all intents and purposes, that show brought the house down at the old Actor’s Workshop in Halifax; the place was tragically razed a few weeks after Casablanca The Musical’s first production in 2001:
It had been many years since my last visit to The Workshop in Halifax; I think my previous visit was soon after the new place opened, phoenix-like from the ashes of the old place – perhaps 2004.
Anyway, I picked up the phone and called Mike, only to learn that speaking on the telephone doesn’t work very well for Mike any more:
I’m wirtually deaf phonewise, but I think you said you would like to see the wevival of Casabwanca on the Wednesday. Wonderful.
I then remembered why the Rick character is styled, in Mike’s book for Casablanca The Musical, as Wick. I also remembered some only marginally successful attempts at familiarising Mike with the use of e-mail back in the day.
Old style correspondence by post followed, mixed with some e-mails via Richard Kemp, to make the arrangements for my visit.
It was a similar itinerary, I think, to my 2001 visit for the same show, except this time I took an AirBnB apartment in town rather than a night in the Imperial Crown.
I got to the Workshop around 16:00. Mike and Richard (especially the former) looked after me and gave me a guided tour. Whereas on my previous visit the new place looked spanking new but devoid of all the props and costumes that had been lovingly accumulated at the old place…
…now, the new place reminded me of the old place; chock-a-block with stuff that might come in handy for some production or another. Cast-offs from the RSC and some smaller regional theatre companies. All sorts. Ever a theatrical magpie, is Mike Ward.
Then to the house, where Lottie had prepared a most delicious meal of fish soup. Their daughter, Olivia, was there and would join us this evening for the show. I hadn’t seen Olivia since the early days of meeting Mike, through son Adam who briefly wrote for NewsRevue, in the mid 1990s. It was lovely to see Olivia again; of course it was lovely to see all of them again.
Lottie spoke very highly of the revival production, which she had seen when it opened, the night before. In fact, she talked it up so much I think she and Mike were a bit concerned that we might be disappointed after such a build up; but they needn’t have worried.
Mike departed ahead of me and Olivia, enabling us and Lottie to chat, eat and drink some more, before Olivia and I headed off to The Workshop.
I thought the show really was excellent. Better than I remembered it from the first time – perhaps because Mike had edited the book a little – perhaps other elements of the production were just slicker and tighter this time.
Any resemblance purely coincidental?
For sure, I thought the big numbers, such as La Cage Au Wick’s…
The cast performing La Cage Au Wick’s – starting the second half of the show suitably silly
…worked especially well this time around, with more energy and poise, together with a musicality beyond my rememberings from 2001.
I was genuinely delighted and very impressed. Mike invited me to congratulate the cast backstage, which I gladly did. Several members of cast and crew stuck around to chat for quite some time after the show.
By the weekend, all the alterations were ready, so we ventured, on the Sunday, to Cavendish Square to collect the clobber, take it to the flat and clear out some of my old gear.
The items identified for the chop included, among many other things, a pink stripped shirt which was showing signs of wear and a pair of green corduroy trousers of seriously discernible vintage and wear. The charity shop seemed grateful for all.
Sartorially Antiquated?
Point is, I realised that those items, when combined with my purple Massimo Dutti jumper (not for the chop – there must be decades of use left in that garment)…
…were the very togs I wore on one of my last visits to see mum before she died – a visit that yielded one of my favourite anecdotes about that difficult time.
It was late December 2014. Mum had pretty much been unconscious throughout my previous couple of visits, including Christmas Day, when I visited together with Janie.
I was working at home between Christmas and New Year. One morning, I think the 28th or 29th December, when I called the hospital for my daily update, the nurse, rather surprisingly, said that mum seemed much better that morning and was sitting up and talking.
I asked if I could come and visit, despite the fact that it was not visiting hours, as she had been unconscious on my previous visits and I would like to catch a conscious phase if I could. The nurse asked how far away I was and, when i told her, said that I should set off straight away, to get there and have some time with mum ahead of the lunchtime rounds.
So I hurriedly threw on the purple jumper over my “schlock around working at home” pink shirt and green chords, then sped off in Dumbo towards St Georges.
When I got to the ward, mum was indeed sitting up and conscious. “Hello darling,” she said – immediate recognition although she had adopted terms like “darling” and “honey” about a year earlier, once the dementia had eaten away at her memory for names.
Then she looked me up and down, frowning.
“Oh dear, that jumper does not go with that shirt and those trousers. And couldn’t you even have brushed your hair before coming to see me? Oh dear.”
Yes, even on her death bed, with dementia ravaging her mind, my mum could still form a judgment on my appearance and dole out a tongue-lashing if she so desired.
It might sound strange, but it is one of my most abiding memories of mum; that exchange was quintessentially her.
A slightly strange chain of events and connections led to me being invited to give a video interview at the London School of Economics (LSE) for the LSE100 course, which is an interdisciplinary course for all undergraduates. The theme of the course this year is quite “Price of Fishy”.
Ahead of that 20 September interview, I thought I owed it to myself and to 1,600 new LSE undergraduates, to mug up a bit on The Price Of Fish – not least because it is a good few years since we last promoted it and longer still since we wrote it.
The interviewers also wanted to talk about predictive analytics and data visualisation. I felt on top of the stuff we’ve been doing lately on that topic, but also thought about the pitfalls of analytics and the graphical representation of statistics, which took my mind back to the wonderful little book How To Lie With Statistics, which I also decided to skim by way of revision.
And if you are going to skim-read books on sunny afternoons during the last home Middlesex match of the season, one might as well do that skimming at Lord’s.
Tuesday 18 September 2018
I got my other work bits and pieces out of the way, but at a slightly slower pace than I had intended, while keeping half an eye on the cricket score.
When I left home, Sam Robson was in the eighties. When I arrived at Lord’s he was on 96. I ran into Richard Goatley and Rob Lynch, who were in the Harris (no relation) Garden. They soon came and joined me in the Allen Stand gap to watch Sam clock up his first century for a while.
Feeling a bit sheepish about reading my own book in public, I decided to sit in the sort-of sun trap end of the Grandstand, where that stand meets the Compo, which is always very sparsely populated and does not seem to attract the usual suspects.
I wrote up this surreptitious Price Of Fish experience in a King Cricket stylee, which was eventually published by KC in February 2019 – click here for a link.
By the time I had delved through those bits of The Price Of Fish that I needed to recall, it was getting very cold so I took sanctuary in the Pavilion Writing Room, where I chatted with a gentleman who looked mightily familiar to me although not in a Lord’s context. Turns out he lives around my way.
Wednesday 19 September 2018
I played tennis at The Queen’s Club that morning and had been asked to return that evening. The Lord’s tennis court is being refurbished this October so we have very kindly been granted real tennis refugee status at other nearby courts, including Queen’s.
I worked out that, between those real tennis gigs, I could get a few hours of cricket watching and book skimming done.
I felt a similar queasiness about being seen reading How To Lie With Statistics as I did about being seen reading my own book. Of course, I am drawing attention to the pitfalls and the ways that bad people might deliberately lie or mislead…not advocating the use of deceit, but that might take a bit of explaining.
So I returned to the Grandstand/Compo corner and again saw/was seen by hardly anybody – certainly no-one I know.
Horrific traffic the last few hundred yards of the journey back to Queen’s, but I got there just in time…which is a little more than can be said for my opponent.
Thursday 20 September 2018
I did my LSE interview in the morning, which seemed to go well.
In fact I could have gone to Lord’s that afternoon for a while, as my afternoon client meeting had to be postponed. But it was well cold on the Thursday and in any case I could think of a zillion things I ought to get done with the unexpected few hours, so I went home and did those things instead, keeping at least one eye on the cricket score.
But back to the here and now – this 2018 lunchtime concert. This is one of those BBC lunchtime jobbies, so we were in the extremely capable hands of Sara Mohr-Pietsch. Sara stewards these lunchtime concerts with such gentle, kind authority and efficiency, it makes one wonder whether she should be running the country. I suppose the country is a slightly tougher gig, but it could sure use some of the positive characteristics I have just described.
I have previously introduced Trio Mediæval as the Bananarama of mediaeval girl groups. Much like that 1980s pop trio, Trio Mediæval (a product of the 1990s as it happens) seems to have two stable members plus one newbie each time we see them.
The consistent pair are Anna Maria Friman (from Sweden) and Linn Andrea Fuglseth (from Norway), whereas the newbie this time was Jorunn Lovise Husan.
If Anna Maria and Linn Andrea were to pair up with a couple of Swedish blokes, I could start describing them as the Abba of mediaeval vocal music, which might be an even more marketing-friendly epithet. A thought for the girls to ponder, no doubt.
And thoughtful they are. They sing with smiles on their faces. They sing like people who absolutely know and love what they are doing. You sense that there is deep scholarship about mediaeval music in their work, yet also the willingness to adapt, experiment and make the music accessible to modern audiences.
This concert was a mixture of early English chants and motets, plus traditional folk songs from Norway and Sweden. It reads like an odd mix but actually worked very well. It has, each previous time, been a joy to attend their concerts and this one was certainly no exception.
Lulled into a blissful sense of security, Janie lulled me into a gentleman’s outfitters afterwards, helping me to spend far too much money upgrading my rather tired wardrobe. Anyone fancy some second hand jackets and trousers from the Bananarama and/or Abba era?
Well ahead of time, DJ invited us to lunch at The Orange in Belgravia/Pimlico. We had been looking forward to the day for much of the summer.
We weren’t disappointed for sure. It is always good to see DJ, Kim & Micky. As it turned out, it was a beautiful late-summer’s day, sitting in a very airy, well-spaced restaurant upstairs.
None of us had eaten in the restaurant there before, although Micky had previously been to the pub. We were all most impressed by the food the wines and the service. Janie and I both majored on the Sunday roast beef with all the trimmings, as did DJ.
Kim and Micky furnished me with a thoughtful bespoke birthday card and gifts, one of which was a tee-shirt emblazoned with the same legend as the card:
DJ, Kim and Micky told us about the Dalmatian coast, which they had recently been exploring. We pondered the lack of Dalmatian dogs in Dalmatia and wondered whether a themed boutique hotel, Villa De Vil, might be a winner. I expect Dodie Smith’s estate might have a question or three to ask about that one.
We didn’t realise that there is a glorious upstairs terrace at the back of The Orange, acting as a sun trap in the late afternoon. But under the guidance of excellent, interesting and kind waiter Gareth, we took up residence out there for after dinner drinks and to carry on chatting.
On learning that there is no house guitar, we tried some a capella singing…very badly.
Gareth was not only a maestro at serving food & drink, he is also a selfie maestro. The photograph below, achieved without a selfie-stick, is clearly the act of an experienced, steady hand.
Gareth also took a few pictures in a more regular or old-fashioned style, with the photographer excluded. A couple of those are shown below.
Many hours passed. It got dark. Eventually (at 21:00), the terrace had to close for regulatory/licensing reasons. Janie and I decided to call it quits at that juncture, leaving DJ, Kim & Micky to have “one for the road” by relocating to the pub’s outdoor seating, by the road.
I read this play “back in the day” – when I was in my twenties – and had long wanted to see this Cocteau classic performed.
So when the Gate Theatre, one of our favourite places, announced that it would be producing this play, I was one of the first in metaphorical line to snap up tickets.
When this play was first written, the telephone was a relatively novel medium, so the piece will have been seen as exploratory – what might it sound like to be a fly on the wall hearing one side of a telephone conversation between lovers whose relationship has very recently broken down?
Of course, these days you only have to travel on public transport or sit in a cafe to eavesdrop on one side of such conversations all the time. Perhaps with that contemporary reality in mind, this production is performed with a mobile phone, bringing in additional opportunities for call interruption business while eliminating the potential for existential telephone chord business.
Also, to accentuate the theatrical “fly on the wall” sensation, the action took place inside a room-like windowed booth which we, the audience, observed from two sides. The photos below illustrate how that looked, from our seats, before the actress appeared. We all wore headphones to hear the actress as she might sound talking into a telephone. For this play, done this way, I think these touches worked.
Leanne Best did a grand job as the grief and panic-stricken woman who is the only visible and audible character in this play.
Janie concluded that the man was a piece of shit who was trying to drive the woman to suicide. That was not my reading of the play back then nor of this production of it.
We both thought this was a cracking good piece of drama- perhaps too good for us on a Friday evening when we were both tired and not really desirous of being gripped by the emotional throat.
I have been playing real tennis at The Queen’s Club this September, as the Lord’s court is closed for refurbishment and a few other clubs, such as Queen’s, have, very kindly, offered us MCC tennis types refugee status for the month.
It’s been a somewhat sobering experience at times.
My first gig as a refugee was a singles friendly match against a 12-year-old…
…who absolutely took me to pieces.
To be fair, he is the champion player at his age group and, if “the book” is to be believed, he is even capable of beating the U15 champion now. Here is some film of him winning the French Open:
I’m pretty sure he’ll be an exceptionally good player. Remember where you first heard the name: Bertie Vallat…
…I know, you couldn’t make up a more Wodehouseian name than that…
…he’s the boy in the foreground at the start of the filum.
Anyway, point is, after that ego-bruising episode, I decided that I needed a lesson in technique, so arranged to play an hour-long friendly match with one of my Lord’s chums, then an hour of coaching, ahead of meeting up with Simon in Hammersmith.
I did well in my friendly match – reclaiming the handicap points I had lost to Bertie. Then I enjoyed my lesson too, which I think will help my lawners as well as my realers…am I starting to spend to much time hanging around the arcane language of this game?
Then, after killing some time in a couple of coffee bars along the way, I met up with Simon Jacobs for a relatively early dinner at Brasserie Blanc.
I explained my difficult hour at the hands of a twelve-year-old the previous week, which led Simon to suggest that I might have “done a Serena” and/or resorted to corporal punishment. Neither of these suggestions seemed, to me, worthy of Simon.
But then Simon might well have had other things on his mind. He was very kindly taking time out to have dinner with me just a couple of days ahead of the launch of his latest single; Top Of The Pops. How cool is that?
Well, you can judge for youreselves by listening to and watching the following YouTube:
We discussed without irony the increasingly ghastly political landscape. The absence of irony is not because we have lost our senses of humour – heaven forbid. No, it appears that we never did have a sense of irony, due to ethnic accidents of birth. No point mocking us (we wouldn’t get it), simply pity us.
The food was very good indeed. The wine was also very good. The service was excellent, until we asked our waiter to leave us alone for a short while to consider what to have for, or indeed if to have, desert. Then we complained when the waiter returned because he had neglected us for so long.
The waiter laughed and told us that we were his favourite table of the evening. Poor chap, he clearly thought we were being ironic…he didn’t realise that we really meant it – he didn’t realise that we don’t do irony.
We talked a fair bit about music; not only Simon’s new single but his plans for the album and also the stuff that I am fiddling around with at the moment. Simon set me some homework around “I Only Have Eyes For You” and also “Nothing Rhymed”, the latter of which has yielded faster results than the somewhat tricky former.
The evening whizzed by and I had no idea how late it was until we got to Hammersmith Station. Still, not so late that the tubes get tricky.
As always, it had been a very enjoyable evening with Simon.
The plan was to show James Pitcher around the pavilion late afternoon, possibly having met up with Edwardian (one of King Cricket‘s correspondents) earlier.
End of season has been a bit like this, this season. Chas was unable to join me as planned for Day One of the Sussex match a couple of weeks ago, so I only got to see a few hours of that match in the afternoon of Day Two, while showing Bikash and Shivangee around the pavilion, ahead of the Members’ Forum that evening.
Anyway, for this Kent match, I decided instead to go straight from the house to Lord’s in Dumbo and pay to park in St John’s Wood for a few hours rather than stop off at the flat to drop of Dumbo and get suited & booted – Edwardian is a Warner Stand chap rather than a Pavilion person.
Edwardian and I spent about an hour together chatting and watching – he is knowledgeable about cricket and very pleasant company at a game. I shared with him my master plan – shredded by James’s inability to get away from work in time for cricket, which was to get Edwardian to pretend that James is a famous cricketing meme on the back of his one piece of cricketing heroics back in 2004:
I had left my thirst extinguisher in Dumbo, so when Edwardian had to leave, I escorted him off the premises – introduced him to Dumbo (who was majestically parked by the Bicentenary Gate) – rescued my thirst extinguisher and returned to the fray, taking up residency at the front of the Tavern Stand.
I also realised that Daisy’s Darren Stevens interrogation incident and James Pitcher’s single moment of cricketing glory incident had occurred within a few weeks of each other.
When Ethan Bamber then bowled at Darren Stevens, I thought I should take a picture of the scene from that seat:
Deserves a poetic caption…the new guard taking on the old guard…or something
Then a strange-looking fellow, with two beers in his hands and the word “chef” painted in white paint on his face in two different places, said, “excuse me, young man” to me in an effort to get past me.
My “young man” moniker years, even at Lord’s, are drawing/have drawn to an end now, so I was pleased to be thus addressed.
He then plonked himself at a polite distance from me. The beers were clearly both for him and he was, equally clearly, far beyond the early stages of his boozy afternoon.
He then formed a one-man chanting troupe – blaring out unfunny, inappropriate and rhythmically-challenged chants in support of his team, Kent. Some people in the crowd tried to shush him. One or two younger folk answered him back. He was in a world of his own.
One of the strange things about him was that his chants came out in very well-spoken tones and had an educated wordiness about them, despite their utter banality and foolishness.
When he left, one or two younger people in the crowd cheered…
…then he came back with more beer.
I got plenty of reading done and even extended my parking to the full four hour maximum permitted, before leaving for home when it started to get a bit chilly, shortly before stumps.
I can’t really explain why this concert didn’t really float our boat – it just didn’t. Janie and I were both feeling unusually tired that early evening – both short of energy for venturing out. We had been enjoying following the cricket and tennis over the weekend, the latter until reasonably late I suppose, but that wouldn’t normally put us off.
La Serenissima is an unusually large troupe for the Wigmore Hall – there as a lot of juggling and jiggling to fit everyone on the stage, so it all felt a bit busy.
The chorus missed their cue to enter right at the start of the performance, which led to more jiggling for stage space after the orchestra had prepared themselves spatially and tuned their instruments.
The concert was all music from the Imperial Court of Charles VI
I wanted to hear Caldara live as I had never heard any before. I rather liked his arias, actually. Quite beautiful.
But I knew the Conti comic opera material would not please Janie – nor did it much please me. In truth, the whole concert was a bit busy and noisy for us that night.
Come the interval, when we realised that the only substantially different piece on the schedule was a Vivaldi concerto, lovely though the RV171 undoubtedly is, we decided to make an early exit. Here is Europa Gallant’s delightful recording, with Fabio Biondi on the fiddle:
The following is La Serenissima playing Caldara, but a sinfonia, not an aria – beautiful it is, though:
…and finally here is a Caldara aria, performed by Concerto Köln under Emmanuelle Haïm with the superb Philippe Jaroussky singing the aria.
