Gertsamtkunstwerk

Search request hold the front page

Quite possibly my first ever weird searcher from Guatemala has requested "he wears a kilt skirt with black tights"

Guatemala rocks!

Celebrity obsessed or just weird

I want to stress that the vast majority of my search requests are intelligent, or, at least, logical.

There's been a rash of people looking for nude pictures of Cristiano Ronaldo and Jonny Wilkinson, and of Lawrence Dallaglio's cock and Frank Lampard's penis. I can snigger, but at least they're logical. I understand Jonny absolutely refuses to pose nude. Pity. Cristiano - let's wait til he's grown up a bit. I don't enjoy kiddie pr0n.

Now for the weird, funny, or interesting Search Requests. Some of which defy comment.

• "eating squirrel"+rash
• celebrities that have crushes on other celebrities
• gary numan seen at caravan site
• swot (ie Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, Threats) analysis in fiance
• has wayne rooney got down syndrome?
• hairdressers that give sex
• manchester united condom
• bad soprano; opera; bad; sample
• coincidence Prince charles gets married liverpool win the european cup 1984: interesting theory; in actual fact it was 1981, and it was true, as it was in 2005
• Placido Domingo Affairs rumours: Good Grief! are there such rumours..?
• placido domingo angela gheorghiu affair gossip: Really? Gosh, I haven't heard that one...
• Placido Domingo Groupies: not on this site - try here, instead
• solihull jealous center uk: I often wondered where the 'Jealous Center' of the UK was
• JULIA ROBERTS CLEANING WITH RUBBER GLOVES: ooh, we like specific weird fetishes. I don't supposed this happens, though
• how can we fuck Ion Marin conductor: I would suggest - just suggest, no evidence - you could seek advice from a compatriot soprano of his...
• PEOPLE KISSING GOATS: Yuck - why do the weird fetishists insist on CAPS LOCK?
• where is my nearest humane society to ellesmere port because my cat is stuck up a tree
• cheats on how to get to fluffy the three headed dog in the game Harry potter and the philoso
• how to become a kgb agent as a kid 10 to 13/2004
• 'stars with second toe bigger than their big toe': My second toes are bigger than my big toes. Does this make me a star?
• cult suicide environmental health officers

Could you make them up?

Manity

Telegraph | Fashion | Grooming: Blair does it, generals do it, even accountants and preachers do it

Fascinating article, but bollocks.

They cite Tony Blair, Bertie Ahern and Silvio Berlusconi as metrosexuals who spend more on their appearance than the average woman. Well, definitely more than I spend on make-up etc

But they're missing the point - Tony, Bertie et al appear frequently on TV. Everyone who appears on TV wears make-up. It's really not a vanity-manity-metrosexual thing at all. If someone appears on TV without make-up they look like death warmed up, without the warmed up bit. And not just TV. Photoshoots, too. Any man who wears make-up at all frequently, for TV etc, is soon going to learn what every teenage girl learns about the need to cleanse and moisturise.

Even John Prescott wears make-up for TV. But he doesn't get a mention because he doesn't fit the thesis of Metrosexual.

It's football......

Poco a poco the new season draws closer. This season will be make or break time for Malcolm Glazer United.

I say that, but every year the prophets of doom circle. Remember Alan Hansen's "You'll win nothing with Kids"? (I bought the t-shirt...) or Gert Blog's "This season (2004-05) is the first one since the Eighties that United have failed to win a trophy for two consecutive seasons" - Gert's Manager "You won the FA Cup last season..."

August is ace. We're in everything. Anything's possible. The draw has been made for the Final Qualifying round of the Champions League. United play either Debreceni or Hajduk Split whilst Liverpool avoid Everton

I had a boyfriend who left me to live in Debrecen. (I had another one at the same time who left me to live in Brussels). Hajduk Split were big in the Eighties.

We ought to win this tie, even with the disadvantage of the home leg first. But 'ought' isn't the same as 'will'.

Oh god, here we go again, another season of 'will we, won't we', taking each game as it comes. You know I love football. but sometimes I hate it as well. I hate all the endless newspaper speculation, I hate the hysteria of Sky TV commentators, I hate the tribalism and aggression that the local Chelsea fans, in particular, display.

But get eleven men against eleven on that pitch and it really is the Beautiful Game.

Being that it's not even August yet, I confidently predict that we will do the Domestic Treble and win the European Champions League, just prior to England beating Brazil on Penalties in the World Cup Final!

Cordoned off

Michelle has posted a photograph taken just yards from my house (the pub on the left is the oft-mentioned Crown & Sceptre)

Stirling

One of my favourite annual awards has just announced its shortlist

Unusually, I am not familiar with any of the shortlisted buildings.

It's also worth taking a look at the RIBA awards - seventy one buildings across the UK and EU and a further seven worldwide.

And one of the winners is slightly familair to me.

Better photos can be seen at Under Developed/Office Move

Am I the only blogger in my organisation?

Spongers

I notice that the Public Accounts Committee have a report out about the Duchies of Lancaster and Cornwall

A spokesman for Prince Charles said

It seems that the Public Accounts Committee may have misunderstood what the Duchies of Lancaster and Cornwall are.

"They are not public bodies. They are well-run private estates, specifically created to provide private income for the sovereign and the heir to the throne."

Asked whether the NAO would be allowed to audit the books, Prince Charles' spokesman said: "This is a private estate. It's not a public estate...private estates are not looked at by the NAO."

He would say that, wouldn't he. He would not be doing his job as spokes-for-Charlie if he said anything else.

I find it anomalous that these Duchies are permitted to behave like private estates. Note the use of passive voice - (they were) "specifically created".

These are historic arrangements that go back centuries. But I cannot understand how these anomalies are permitted to perpetuate today. I am not prepared to accept that the assets were accumulated by fair means. As the monarch, and therefore the heir, are only in position because of the indulgence, or the inertia, of the public, I would argue that these estates are in fact publicly owned. I suppose they carry on because the alternative would be confiscating them and then paying the monarch a salary.

But would that be so awful? Republics pay their Presidents salaries. When they leave office they - like Prime Ministers in Britain in other countries, monarchies and republics - put themselves at the disposal of market forces and generally make a significant fortune.

Is it really acceptable that such National Assets do not generate income for the Nation? Not being a tax-expert, I will accept the taxation arguments, although I think it's a liberty that we are constantly told that Prince Charles 'voluntarily' pays Income Tax.

I cannot understand how something created to provide an income for public office-holders can be deemed to be privately owned.

Evelyn Glennie

Not surprisingly, one of my  heroes! And one of, if not the, greatest percussionists ever. I'm a bit surprised that I don't have more than a couple of albums by her.  I do like this Rhythm Song album, one of only fifteen classical vinyl LPs I own. Reading the sleeve notes, I am surprised that she only actually emerged after I stopped being a percussionist. But, obviously, in my heart and soul, I am still a percussionist.

Some people are very dismissive of percussion, saying "Oh it can't be that hard to play a triangle" but they totally miss the point. For a start, if you get your cymbal clash wrong, everyone notices, unlike the odd missed note from one violin amidst the sea of strings. Secondly, people don't play the triangle. Percussionists have about 250 instruments at their disposal in the orchestral repertoire. A roll on the timps is easy (IMO), but on a tambourine...no way...

Evelyn Glennie meets the Black Dyke Band is for me the glorious epitome of 'crossover' or fusion. I love the sound of percussion and I adore the sound of a traditional brass band. To combine the two is genius.

That having been said, there really is no standout tune. Some of the tunes I don't otherwise know, others I have in other versions. I would prefer to hear the other versions. However, this album is worth listening to for the virtuoso percussion and the pleasant sound of a top brass band.

What strikes me in listening to both of these albums is the extent to which I prefer untuned percussion to tuned percussion. Each sort has its place, of course, and probably my favourite of all is timpani, which is tuned but often - usually - not scored to play actual tunes. It's interesting to hear tunes played on glockenspiels, marimbas etc, but what I really really like is drums and other things that need to be beaten or shaken. I really must search out more beating/shaking music - and that is where the 'transcending genre' comes into its own.

Tindersticks

This is the only 'signed' CD I own. Don't laugh.

The album includes a strings section two dozen strong. Including a chap I worked with at the time this was recorded and released. He was a freelancer, subbing from time to time with professional orchestras and doing session work. Not enough to earn a living but getting paid for his hobby. So having missed him on Later with Jools Holland, I bought the album, and, to his acute embarassment, I asked him to sign it..!

I don't play it very often, and I don't really understand why. I suspect that Tindersticks are an acquired taste, but it didn't take me long to acquire the taste. Yet, I have never bought any other of their albums.

There used to be a dreadful phrase 'Adult Oriented Rock'. I hated the phrase and I hated the genre, and it seems to have died a death. However, there are certain types of rock music which will be lost on the average teeny bopper, requiring a certain amount of maturity to fully appreciate them. And I would thus describe Tindersticks.

Despite my erstwhile slight connection with this band, I really don't know anything about them, and the CD liner isn't exactly informative.  Googling reveals that they've been recording since the early 90s and haven't split up, although they've been working on 'side projects'. They have quite a long discography that seems to include six studio albums.

There is very little information about them on the web, really. And it's quite difficult to describe their music. If you want safe and bland don't listen to the Tindersticks. Yet, in its melodic mellowness it can hardly be described as brash and inyerface. It is predominantly acoustic, on the whole tuneful or deliberately atonal. They don't so much have a lead singer as a lead recitalist. This guy does not sing. Yet it is more than talking. He has a voice rich with overtones. Haunting. As I say, I am surprised that I haven't played it more often and am not more familiar with it.

Standout tracks include 'Ballad of Tindersticks' and 'Let's Pretend'  but I emphasise that this is not a Singles Album. I actually don't think it's even one that ought to be played on 'random' or 'shuffle'. It has to be taken as a whole, and one has to savour the contrasts in soundworlds.

Die Walküre photos

I've got some published, but another dozen or so to come, probably tomorrow...

Update, Wednesday lunchtime: The full set is now published at Under Developed

Interview with Alice Coote

Alice Coote: Against all odds

The mezzo-soprano Alice Coote is determined to make it to the Proms, even though she is standing on sticks after being injured in a fall. It's not her first setback...

...As for the more physical pain of those two slipped discs, she says: "I've just been singing Octavian in Der Rosenkavalier in Los Angeles. The company's general director, Placido Domingo, made a very flattering speech after the opening night and asked me to step forward. I misjudged the edge of the stage and tripped, falling face first into his trousers. Not long after that my back went."

Pointless but fun poll

Over at Mr Scary's That Duck is preparing for a poll on the Best Person Ever. I was severely miffed at Alan Titchmarsh being omitted from the Worst Person Ever shortlist, so I refuse to take the Best Person Ever Poll seriously. My waters tell me that Michael Palin will get it.

Devoid of imagination, I have decided to try and run an alternate poll. I know it won't work, this post will sit here forlorn and commentless.

Which celebrity would you shag, given the chance?

Pink Floyd

As my crazy fortnight-and-a-bit trails off in to a return to my version of normality, I take up again with The Rod for My Own Back Project ie playing - and blogging - all my record collection before I hit forty. (I am 37½ in a couple of weeks).

By some gorgeous serendipity I realise that apropos rock/pop cassettes I have alphabetically arrived at Pink Floyd. Pink Floyd, whom I have seen live, in a powerful and memorable performance, one of my top four from Live8.

Not that my record collection is massively endowed with Floyd. I am 99.99% certain that I taped these two albums from my brother-in-law. Since then I have always liked them, but not loved. I have an inherent prejudice against a certain type of 70s Rock, ponderous longwinded guitars. But, on the other hand, they are mellow and atmospheric, musical and easy on the ear. And excel at everything that I loathe so much in bands of a similar genre. I don't want to be one of those people who rave at the genius of The Floyd, they are, after all, desperately uncool people, and mainly men. But, what can I say, Pink Floyd - Genius...! Putting (almost) all those young arrogant bands to shame, most of whom, if they were play to a massive gig in twenty-five years would have most people shrugging and saying "Who?"

And now, gorgeously, everytime I hear these albums I shall recall that one wonderful day three weeks ago in Hyde Park.

My favourite tracks are Shine On You Crazy Diamond,Wish You Were Here and Speak to Me/Breathe but I think the albums have to be taken as an overall, er, concept, chilling, laying back. I kind of feeling they are a perfect soundtrack for a mellow joint, except that joints make me feel sick.

Confusion

Jimmy normally comes about three-ish. I am a lazy cow. So I rang him up to say I had run out of cigarettes, and he remembered milk was low. He absolutely promised he would be home by 2.30, but he was having a drink with Bobby. I thought it a bit strange, but I knew it was a big day for Bobby because he rescued a woman from the sea five years ago and she has spent those five years trying to track him down.

I wasn't best pleased when Jimmy came home somewhat the worse for wear. Rather than get involved in an argument, I thought I would have a bath, then I fell asleep on the bed.

I went downstairs and he was nowhere to be seen. To say I was angry was an understatement - after he had been saying yesterday he wanted to spend the afternoon with me. I rang him. No reply.

Next minute, my phone rings. I answer it. It's him, he's upstairs, in the spare room.

Feeling extremely stupid I go upstairs to the spare room, and he starts going on about it being his birthday. I'm thinking, it's not. If it was I would have bought him stuff. Actually, I was thinking, if it's Jimmy's birthday today, it means Tristan und Isolde is released today, and I think I might have noticed. But instead I said "It's definitely not your birthday; the BBC News website says 25 July, I would have got paid last Friday." Besides, if it were his birthday today we would have missed the Sevitz Braai and his great-nephew's christening.

He's managed to persuade everyone it's his birthday, not least his brother. He's had people buying him drinks. He's even had his son rob his till to buy him a birthday card.

I've told him he's had it now and not to even think about having a drink next week when it really is his birthday...

Update: I 've just realised that it's the fifth anniversary of Concorde crashing. Which means it's our fifth anniversary today...

The World's Worst Stalker...

I don't think I really mean Stalker. That's a negative word, with connotations of obsession.

You read about them in the papers sometime, restraining orders and ASBOs, that sort of thing. Sometimes it's people stalking their exes or their unrequited lust-object, often it's celebrities who attract stalkers. Indeed, a few months ago on holiday, we kept going to the hotel restaurant moments after another couple, I said to them "You're celebrities now you've got stalkers..."

I tried a bit of celebrity stalking recently.

I was fairly half-hearted about it. I just don't like the concept.

I am not really sure that I like the idea of being the sort of person who hangs around Stage Doors and seeks autographs. I don't seek autographs, myself, preferring the taking-a-photo approach. But it boils down to the same.

It would really scare me to be the sort of person who pursues a celebrity incessantly. I'm not talking about repeated attendances at concerts or whatever, I mean pursuing the person as a person, not as an entertainer.

So, I indulged in my own brand of celebrity stalking, which is half-hearted and, frankly, rubbish.

His last performance before London was in Vienna on 30th June. So I figured out he would arrive sometime between then and the 8th July. During that time I learnt which hotel he was staying at. I learnt when he had been in rehearsal (not frightfully useful info to have after the event). I even found out some gossip...

On the Friday, I allowed plenty of time to get to Covent Garden because of transport disruptions, and I wandered up Floral Street past the Stage Door before figuring it was far too early to go into the Opera House, so I went elsewhere for a coffee and a croissant.

During one of the intervals Simon told me that he had seen my hero arrive, at 3.30 (approximately 15 or 20 minutes before I had walked past the Stage Door) and was surrounded by middle-aged women. Plácido, that is, not Simon.

After the performance I again walked along Floral Street, mainly because it was the best way to get to Leicester Square or Charing Cross to get a Tube home. Quite a crowd was gathered outside. Even though I had to be up the next morning, I decided to linger, more out of curiosity than anything. Eventually, Security said that the cast were inside having a first night party, and there was no predicting when they would be out. In the meantime I had heard that Plácido had appeared at the Stage Door in the Second Interval to sign autographs etc, so I made a mental note. I also worked out which was his car, and noted the registration number.

The following Tuesday I remembered my mental note, and when I had finished work I decided to go along to Covent Garden to be in time for the Second Interval. Now, TfL maintains it takes forty minutes from my office to the Royal Opera House. It actually takes twenty minutes, especially the Gert-lazy way,

Nevertheless, I allowed extra time because of transport disruption, and ended up spending ages browsing in Books Etc. Feeling very sorely tempted to spend money I haven't got on loads of books I'll never get round to reading I decided to make my way to the Stage Door, hopelessly early for the Second Interval. And wait. Feeling a complete and utter total lemon, thinking 'this isn't me, this isn't what I do'.

And then it was obviously Interval time, because of loads of people, mainly but not exclusively, women went into the Stage Door entrance area, so I joined the queue. Feeling even more stupid. Actually feeling really rather uncomfortable. There was a good mix of people, I have to say. I sort of had to laugh at two women behind me muttering and chunnering about "oh look, all the familiar faces at the front of the queue mutter chunner moan moan"

And then he arrived and I was happy. I think everybody else was, too! And I met him and I was delighted. Very delighted. Utterly delighted, in fact.

The only problem I have with meeting celebrities, especially ones that one really admires to an extreme is the fleeting and superficial nature of the encounter. He's someone who puts himself out for his fans because he's a really nice person.

Ultimately unsatisfied by the fleeting superficial nature of the encounter the fan has two options. The first, the one I choose, is to savour the memory of that encounter, and to hope, but not expect, that it will happen again. To continue to admire that person, indeed to increase one's admiration, but based mainly on enjoying their performances, live or recorded, plus the knowledge of them being an exceptionally lovely person, something already known, anyway, prior to the fan-meets-hero encounter.

The other choice is to keep pursuing them, in an increasingly obsessive style. And I could have done that. Armed as I was with info about hotel, car registration number, times of arrival, another appearance at the ROH etc etc. A part of me would have enjoyed that. Another part of me would have loathed myself for doing that. Anyway, one has to ask, what is the ultimate objective of this obsessive pursuit? Friendship? A shag? Ain't going to happen.

And you know, it really wouldn't be a smart move

Women kind of build their shadows around me...Some of them move around with me. I see them in London, Paris, Milan, Vienna... Probably it is very easy to get carried away when they think about the passionate characters that I play. Some write me the story of their lives. They make open declarations that they, er, like me. I can understand. When I am young, I have this big crush on an actress. It is normal, so long as they know it is only in their minds.

But some of the fans are unbelievable. They write, 'Today, you don't smile at me. You were angry with me'. Sometimes I have some problems in my head and I don't sign autographs after a concert. They think it is because of them, but it is all in their imagination. Every day in rehearsal I find a pile of letters. I read them, but I never answer them. It would be a story never ending. If these women spent a day with me they would realise it is not fun. I have so much to do, they would get fed up.

On the Wednesday I had a ticket for the wonderful Rigoletto at the Royal Opera House. I had seen it the previous week, and had found that Rolando Villazón had exceeded my very high expectations, and that Dimitri Hvorostovsky had met my fairly high expectations (but confirmed that although I admire him he doesn't quite do it for me...). I had been utterly delighted by Ekaterina Siurina as a most gorgeous Gilda, so I was looking forward immensely to that evening's performance. I knew that my hero himself would be in the Linbury that evening talking to the Wagner Society. Of course I would have loved to have been there, but I was also very pleased with my maturity in that I knew I couldn't, and I was immensely looking forward to that evening's Rigoletto.

I got off the bus on the Strand and walked along, feeling a few raindrops. I realised I was walking past the Savoy. I'd never noticed it before. It was a warm evening, hot even, despite the five raindrops that fell on me, and I needed some water. Not at CG's inflated price but at a more reasonable shop price. There's a corner shop on Bow Street. There's a zebra crossing by the corner shop. I started to cross and realised that I was about to be run over by a car. I just hate it when that happens and I have a range of obscene hand gestures that I instinctively access in such circumstances. I glanced at the car, read the registration number and started trembling. Sadly, it was coming away from the Opera House, or else I would have had a far better story to tell...

Friday. I considered getting to the Opera House by three-thirty, transport disruptions permitting. However, as I explained to Jimmy, I wanted to wait for him to come home before I went out. "Balderdash!" he exclaimed (or something that sounded vaguely like it). "When I got home you were sitting naked, waving around your nails to dry them."

I got to the Stage Door at 3.40 pm and asked someone - who later turned out to be Faye (Hello MrsT) - whether 'anyone interesting had arrived'. "Oh yes," she replied, "Dmitri Hvorostovsky's just popped in; Erik Halfvarson, Antonio Pappano, Lisa Gasteen. Plácido Domingo arrived about ten minutes ago," she added, as an afterthought. She was waiting for Bryn, who had the luxury of arriving later, because he's not in Act I.

During the second interval I thought hard about going down to the Stage Door. I knew he would be there. Everyone knew he'd be there. Indeed, the interval was extended to eighty minutes because so many people were waiting for him (sometimes I think the Royal Opera House are capable of being exceptionally cool). But I didn't go down. To be honest, I was a bit of an emotional wreck having blubbed uncontrollably through most of Act II. Plus, I needed to phone the erstwhile guestbloggers before they set off on holiday - and I ended up getting a blow-by-blow commentary on that evening's televised Prom Second Half.

I did hang around the Stage Door afterwards although I was soon told that Plácido had gone.

On the Monday I briefly considered going early to the Albert Hall, then remembered that Proms have rehearsals in the afternoon, so I didn't (I later learnt that he arrived at 1 pm). I think there were probably hoards of people hanging around - the BBC said the Promming queue started at 8 am. It didn't - the first person arrived at midnight and the stalwarts were there soon after dawn.

I knew he was going to be interviewed on the TV and I briefly considered going up to hang around outside the TV box on the off-chance. But I knew that there would be hundreds, if not thousands, of people there. So I didn't; instead I went outside, had a smoke and a gin, took loads of pictures of the Wagnerian picnickers and the Albert Memorial and chatted to a couple of my local LibDem councillors whom I chancely encountered (I later saw them on TV very near the front of the arena).

At the end of the evening I again found myself at the Stage Door, only to learn that he had gone and that he had been signing autographs in the Grand Tier in the Second Interval.

As I previously posted I almost went to Mitridate on the Sunday but didn't. I subsequently found out that he had been there (Actually, I'd had a premonition). I'm seriously not bothered, but I am going to brief my neplings on how to run a serious guilt trip on my cousin, with whom they'll be staying in a couple of weeks.

Meantime, in the same time period I have been successfully and entirely inadvertently stalking Lord Larry Whitty. I have seen him in the street three times - Great Peter Street (twice) and Marsham Street, in a coffee shop on Horseferry Road, and on a bus from Marsham Street to Pimlico Tube. I smile at him; he smiles at me. I'll say hello the next time.

Hopelessly inappropriate post

Terrorism is bad. It's a given.

People dying prematurely and violently is bad. That's a given.

People being injured in or frightened by explosions is bad. That's a given.

I really CBATG but I would wager a very large amount that over my lifetime, more people in Britain have been respectively killed, injured or frightened by fireworks than by terrorists.

We don't have much of a war on fireworks.

Readers who joined the mmofm experience since November 2003 might like to read this but won't want to see this photo

I still haven't submitted my CICA claim because I am convinced that my subsequent health problems have been as an indirect result of this incident. No doctor actually specifically agrees with me but not one is prepared categorically to rule it out.

Update from the frontline of the war against terrorism

There was a respite in sirens during the afternoon, but they seem to have started up again. No doubt it's just paranoia. I live on the junction of the A23 and the South Circular, sirens are an integral part of life, so much so that I normally blank them out.

Strange blogging silence from these parts about the shooting at Stockwell station. Other than to say that sometimes it is necessary for the ordinary citizen to hold two opposing and conflicting views simultaneously. It's easier to be opinionated and unassailably convinced. But there are complex issues, requiring the wisdom of Solomon.

There is a tradition round here for riots to follow deaths in custody.

Last time, it was mainly arseholes without a consciousness, without a political thought or motivation in their heads seizing an opportunity to go on an alcohol-and-testosterone-fuelled rampage, targeting and intimidating small businesses - shops and pubs in the main.

There have been two since I've lived here, I don't want a third thank you. December 1995 was truly frightening; July 2001 was just louts whipped up by extremist political agitators. On the former occasion I was given a lift home from a Christmas party in Oval by a most circuitous route, as rumours flew of untold damage. I passed a building blazing fiercely on Acre Lane; overnight six fire engines were parked outside my house. I was on an adrenaline rush, but not a nice one, unable to sleep for much of the night, and I was supposed to be in Southampton at half nine the next morning. When I eventually arrived closer to eleven my apologies and excuse "There was a riot in my neighbourhood last night" were met with disbelief.

There were times I was wholly inadequate as a councillor for Brixton.

Update update: And since I forgot to change draft to publish I have received an email from the Trotskyites masquerading as Brixton Stop the War advertising a vigil outside Stockwell Tube tomorrow at 6.

Prom 11

Last night we went to the Albert Hall, pausing en route for a delightful meal at Hugo's. I have just one criticism - if I order a Real Organic Lemonade I don't really expect to find it including ice-cubes made - presumably - from tap water. Otherwise, really good quality food - I had crayfish and ginger wrapped in smoked salmon served on an enticing bed of diced-tiny beetroot-and-red-pepper and strips of cucumber; followed by halloumi and roasted veg with couscous, perhaps a little overmuch enormous mushrooms; finished with the most scrumilicious Blueberry Creme Brulee. A good 8/10 overall. The house red is very nice. If you want to combine with a trip to the Albert Hall booking is a must.

The music was

Mendelssohn
Overture - The Hebrides ('Fingal's Cave') (10 mins)
Bruch
Violin Concerto No.1 in G minor (25 mins)
interval
Vaughan Williams
A Sea Symphony* (65 mins)

Leila Josefowicz (violin)

Janice Watson (soprano)*
Dwayne Croft (baritone)*

Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Choir*
Chester Festival Chorus*

Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra
Gerard Schwarz conductor

The piece that lingers in my mind is Fingal's Cave, beautiful music. It was beautifully played but it didn't really fill the Albert Hall.

Next was Bruch's fabulous violin concerto. Again, technically excellent playing of a beautiful piece of music, but not one that moved me to rapture. Leila Josefowicz produced a beautiful sound.

The second half, Vaughan Williams Sea Symphony was merely mediocre. I have a much better performance on CD. It was magnificent to see such a large choir who made such a beautiful sound, the Ladies in particular, especially the sopranos. I found my attention wavering during much of the performance despite my close studying of Whitman's poems. Janice Watson made a very nice sound; Dwayne Croft I can take or leave. An adequate serviceable sound, but, ultimately, generic.

And I suppose 'generic' would sum up the overall performance from the orchestra. 6/10 or 3 stars, possibly, but no more. My summary of the V-W was 'Wagnerian in its ambitions but not in its intensity'. And Jimmy got very hot, wearing good trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, despite me telling him he was overdressed.

Tonight, The Dream of Gerontius with Mr Halle's Band and Choir. The last time I heard them perform this was May 1984. My insightful review at the time: "In places the music was really powerful." I am very much looking forward to hearing the much-raved about Alice Coote, whom I have never heard live.

Wagnermania

The return of the original Ring lord

My name is Gert and I am a Wagnermaniac...

The scene at the Royal Albert Hall on Monday was unforgettable...it was a symptom of a wave of Wagnermania that has mounted steadily in the UK over the past couple of years... Vladimir Jurowski suggests that Wagner is filling a cultural void. "I think it's symptomatic of our times that we want to seek out something that takes place on a massive scale, while our lives are reduced to the size of a microchip. People have an unconscious need to experience something larger than life, something of huge emotional force, when it's not possible in daily existence...Wagner is also extremely erotic - and again people can find in his music a substitute for what they miss in their own lives...As Bryn Terfel says: "Wagner seems to have a quality that draws people in; and once you've encountered it, it's very difficult to let it go again."...

...What remains is Wagner's power. Attended with an open mind and open ears, he takes no prisoners. Once you enter his musical world, he's got you for ever. And as more people succumb to the Wagner magic, perhaps it's true that he provides the antithesis of modern life: a universe of meaning and beauty and intellect, so absent from the world around us. Like him or loathe him, we seem to need him.

And by beautifuly synchronicity and serendipity I have just discovered the blog of the author of this piece Jessica Duchen's classical music blog

Her entry regarding Monday night's Prom...

I regret to say I didn't hear it - because I was backstage, interviewing Domingo during Act III once his role was over!!!! :-)))

He's LOVELY...

I am green with envy because everyone I know who was at that Prom says that it was the best thing they have EVER heard - and we're talking record company people and professional musicians here...

What's happening to my city?

Apparently there was a raid in Streatham Hill. I only found this out when looking through my site referral stats. Nothing mentioned in the Crown and Sceptre; the BBC makes passing reference.

We went into London today. The Tube was fairly quiet. I tried to rationalise it - school holidays have begun. We left home at 4.30 and got to South Ken just after five, too early for people to come home for the day or go out for the evening. Only one person got on Stockwell - clearly because there hadn't been a Northern Line train since the previous Victoria Line. District Line was packed - I got the last seat, a young Italian man offered Jimmy his seat on age grounds (I'm asserting anyway). The Prom was 98 or 99% full.

The District Line was packed coming back. Of course, it would be. No Circle Line, no Piccadilly Line into Central London. Only one empty seat, next to an Asian bearded gentleman with a suitcase. I'm trying to rationalise this one - I would have taken the seat if three tourists hadn't been stood in the way, if I wasn't with Jimmy, if I hadn't been sitting all evening, if I was going more than two stops.

Then it hit me on the Victoria Line. Nothing can explain why my carriage at 10.15 pm on a Saturday had less than half its seats taken, and no one standing. Ooh, look activity at Vauxhall. Oh wait, that's obviously the Big Gay Out moving onto the RVT.

Maybe a dozen people got off my Tube at Brixton. I have never ever ever seen Brixton Tube so empty. Brixton is the busiest Tube outside Zone 1. So where the fuck was everybody?

I keep seeing people with rucksacks with wires protruding; then I realise that they're iPods. I reckon we ought to ban iPods. Not because they're a terrorist threat but because people who wear them think they are cool for listening to music compressed to the equivalent of listening to an AM radio placed in the bedroom with almost-run-down-batteries whilst taking a shower at the other end of the house (oh heck I shall get Irate of Trendy Land flaming me now...!)

I don't like my attitude. I didn't go to last night's Prom - couldn't face the transport difficulties. I don't suppose we would have gone into London today if we didn't have tickets. Something feels not right. If this goes on I shall have to end my blogging hiatus and start posting again.

Sigh

Update: They're saying the raid was in Tulse Hill. I don't know the road, it's not on my A-Z, so I looked it up on Streetmap.com and realised where it is - must be among a lot of newbuilds that have gone up since my A-Z was published. It's only about five minutes walk from Gert Cottage, and will explain the umarked (but bues-and-twos'ed) police car that was speeding up and down Brixton Hill when we went out.

There is relentless sirens this morning. Unusual for a Sunday morning.

My week: Plácido Domingo, opera singer

Plácido Domingo tells The Telegraph about his busy schedule

Also, the LA Times reports

Tenor Plácido Domingo will create the role of Chilean Nobel Prize-winning poet Pablo Neruda in a new opera, "Il Postino," by Mexican composer Daniel Catán... The premiere will be in Los Angeles in 2009

2009? Right, we really believed him when he said he was going to retire from singing in 2008...!

That will be something worth seeing, with him and Rolando Villazón. Tenor heaven!

And a review of a couple of DVDs to add to my 'wishlist'

these DG sets gloriously support the proposition that Plácido Domingo has been the greatest singing actor of our age. Domingo is more than a supremely gifted tenor. He brings the characters to life on stage in a uniquely dedicated fashion.

Na'ama Bay

 

I was deeply upset to hear about the bombings in Sharm el-Sheikh. Close to where we bought my engagement ring.

Thinking about all those people on holiday, but even more about those people who spend long times away from their families in Cairo, Alexandria or elsewhere to seek prosperity. Tourism is vital for Egypt's economy.

Terrorists in Stockwell

Man shot dead by police on Tube

My god, that's getting close to home. Sort of expect terrorism in Central London. But Stockwell...

Yesterday evening (at past my bedtime) I was pottering round the house, no music no telly and I could hear constant sirens. It's not unusual to hear sirens (there goes another) round here, being that I'm at the junction of two major A roads. It seemed more than usual, but I told myself to stop being ridiculous. I was probably being ridiculous. (Here goes another).

There is absolutely no reason to assume that I heard more sirens than normal last night; if I did the explanations could be manifold. But I'm feeling more jumpy isolated at home in semi-surburbia than I would ever feel amongst colleagues and strangers in Central London.

I got a bit jittery last night. Jimmy reckons that they're focuaing on tubes and buses now and then when everyone's paranoid about travelling they're going to hit a building. And all I can think is 'the building where I work is an obvious target'.

It's stupid; I've worked in a target building before, for an organisation whose head was an IRA target. The actual chances are remote. I'm not changing my job - I like it way too much, on balance...

Careful blogging

The BBC is currently reporting minor explosions at 3 Tube stations and on a bus in Hackney.

I am currently working at home and relieved that I don't have to battle going home with the Victoria Line and Northern Line closed and Oval cordoned off.

I do hope this post doesn't turn out to be massively off-key and out of kilter.

I've rung my mother...

Lunchtime

I gasped in amazement as not one, not two, not three, but six lifts sailed past the floor on which I was awaiting a lift.

I used bad words at the tiger trap that refused to grant me entrance in order for me to seek exit from building.

I stumbled out of the building simultaneously entertaining many different thoughts of an essentially trivial and lunchtime-ish nature, and even simulataneously diving into my handbag to extricate cigarettes and lighter which I magically combined in a functional manner whilst marvelling at my failure to set alight my hair which was waving madly in the swirly but not unpleasant breeze; my hair which has been having a bad day all day.

I looked up and realised I was walking directly into the path of a TV News camera which was recording a reporter's 'to-camera' piece.

I turned and scurried away, determined not even to work out which news organisation it was...

(Short, fat, dark preposterously blustery hair, blue-and-white speckled trouser suit, pale blue top, sunglasses, cigarette...)

Reviews

(don't worry, I'm about to go on blogging hiatus - £6 bn of expenditure to audit, and a zillion photos to edit...!)

Audience hits fever pitch for Domingo's Prom debut, and Standing room only at the Proms for Domingo and Wagner

Die Walküre (only four bloody stars, do me a favour...!)

Die Walküre

The Independent had another go at another review.

I'm so scared of disappearing links that I have decided to copy-and-paste every review of one utterly unforgettable night...With my favourite phrases highlighted in bold, for easy skim-reading...

Die Walküre, my definitive review

Having done the impressionist reaction and the girlie squealie bit, it's time to do a proper serious review of the Royal Opera House's Die Walküre. Just to recap, I saw it twice at Covent Garden and once at the Albert Hall. Unless indicated the remarks apply to all performances, except that specific references to the production - sets, costumes, lighting, action - refer specifically to the staged productions at Covent Garden rather than the concert performance at The Proms.

I have been procrastinating about writing this. I am nervous that I lack the words to do it justice, and convinced that no words can convey my emotional, physical, visceral, spiritual reaction. I am scared that my review will take on Wagnerian proportions and will require 16 hours to get through!

Let's quickly deal with the bits I didn't like.  The single worst aspect was the lighting. I tried to rationalise that my reaction to the lighting was an aspect of my squealing girlie self, sat in a not-great seat, I would have preferred  less noir so that I could see my Plácido better. But then the intelligent, educated, mature me also thought that it was too noir. Yes, a bit of darkness for contrast, but stage lighting exists largely so that the paying customers in the darkened auditorium could see what was going on.

Production wise, I thought it much better than the ENO's version - I am now firmly convinced that their Valkyrie was their weakest link, and not merely a casualty of me being at the depth of CFS when I saw it. Although ENO’s ride was better staged.

There were aspects of each Act I really hated. In Act I the worst aspect was the set. I don't really know why it started with Sieglinde in gentle repose halfway up the wall: surely as the victim of forced marriage and domestic violence she would have been in domestic slavery, not apparently watching Daytime TV. I was indifferent to the metal helix ash tree that dominated the set the first time, but I totally resented it the second time, especially because from where I was sitting, it more or less obscured Plácido for much of Winterstürme. I also thought the showering with Rose Petals was particularly lame.

The helix remained in the second Act set in Valhalla. I took this to be symbolic, showing the connection between the ash tree at Sieglinde's place and the tree from which Wotan fashioned his staff. But this also troubled me dramaturgically. I am not convinced that Valhalla was built round the tree; besides, why did Valhalla look so like the place the gods had assembled, and received the giants, and brought Alberich and the gold, before crossing the Rainbow bridge to Valhalla. I also disliked the fact that in the Second Act it was quite easy to see the conductor reflected off the rear wall. I thought this effect worked well in the mirrored ballroom in Un ballo in maschera; I felt it was unintended in Walküre, and as much as I love Tony  Pappano, I did find this distracting during Wotan's confrontations with first Fricka and then Brunnhilde, and his monologue.

I found much of Act 3 irritating. I did not care for the Valkyries being propped with horse's skulls, and I found the actual Ride to be a bit symbolic. The single worst aspect was the revolving stage aspect, which Wotan pushed round and various Valkyries darted around.

But overall, the production was nothing like as bad as the critics had maintained (although I feel it looked better on the TV than in the theatre. Is that right? I don't know, but I guess it's the future with DVD being such a perfect  medium for opera). As I said, I found it far preferable to ENO's - modern dress - version and also much preferable to the Met's version, available on DVD, and resembling a rather indifferent late-70s children's fantasy/adventure TV programme, exactly the sort of programming which caused me to detest fantasy/adventure stuff.

I loved the fact that this gave Siegmund ample opportunity for rolling around on the floor, on the kitchen table, on the ash tree...I do like rolling around, especially when done well. I will also concede that the furniture tossing was par excellence. But in my opinion a bit of tenorial rolling round tops baritonal furniture tossing. And of course, Wotan tossing the chaise-longue conveniently provided a sort of wind-break for the twins to have a bit more, er hum, intimacy.

I felt all the gentlemen handled their weapons magnificently. Hunding's melodramatic arrival, banging his axe into the table caused an amused reaction from the audience both times, and I missed it at the Prom. Wotan's spear, of course, wielded with macho  godliness. And best of all, Siegmund's sword, won and named "Nothung" heroically and presented so nobly to Sieglinde as a bridal gift, and then shattered by that nasty Wotan. I just adored Siegmund's death, even though I was struggling to see it through my tears and my tear-streaked glasses.

And the Magic Fire was a masterful coup de theatre, finally justifying the silly helix thing as actual fire crept down the slide - reminiscent of Alberich's dinghy-powered slide into the Rhine at the beginning of Das Rheingold; then Wotan took the flame in his hand, and sent it shooting round Brunnhilde's rock, to that oh so beautiful music.

Ah, the music...! What a genius! Every picture tells a story, but every note every chord every leitmotif. From the opening strings of the storm to the final chords. Nearly four hours of glorious orchestration and evocation. Each act over an hour long, and each act through composed, no pauses for breath or applause. Absolutely marvellously well done to the sterling orchestra of the Royal Opera House. And a resounding Bravo to the magnificent Antonio Pappano. Some reviewers would take pride in pointing out the odd flubbed note here, the strange dischord there. And in twelve hours, yes, there were one or two. But overall, splendid!

There's part of me that would like to listen to an entire Ring in merely the orchestral version, and, certainly, recordings exist, at least in highlights forms. But then, how could one live without the fabulous singing, and the amazing story. Many years ago some silly fool announced pompously that Wagner is for the immature mind only. What nonsense! Every time I hear this piece - I hear something new.  I got very excited when certain leitmotifs leaped out at me and I was able to say "Hey that's Wotan" or "That's Siegfried" or the Magic Fire Music. But if it was just a series of leitmotifs strung together it wouldn't be what it is.  It's more than that; I can't explain it.

And then there's the singing. And the acting. How can the two be separated? On the phone to my nephew in Friday's second interval, he expressed surprise at this concept of singing and acting going together and almost stopped winding me up (ha! I jest, that will never stop...!)

We were blessed with a magnificent cast (in order of appearance):

Siegmund: Plácido Domingo
Sieglinde: Waltraud Meier
Hunding: Eric Halfvarson
Wotan: Bryn Terfel
Brünnhilde: Lisa Gasteen
Fricka: Rosalind Plowright
Gerhilde: Geraldine McGreevy
Ortlinde: Elaine McKrill
Waltraute: Claire Powell
Schwertleite: Rebecca de Pont Davies
Helmwige: Irene Theorin
Siegrune: Sarah Castle
Grimgerde: Claire Shearer
Rossweisse: Elizabeth Sikora

How can I single any one of them out?

I am sitting here trying to write a cold dispassionate objective review of the singers. And I simply cannot do it. there just wasn't a weak link. Of course, more experienced and expert listeners than me have made comparisons with great singers of the past, and found that this cast fell short. And so be it. They may be right; they may be influenced by the mists of nostalgia; they may be picking an ideal cast from a recording here and a recording there. None of that matters to me. This was the cast I heard and to me they were simply magnificent. I doubt I shall ever hear another cast this good. Certainly not in this opera. If I do, I shall have to count my blessings as manifold. I feel a bit like I did on 2 May 1997, when I was delirious with emotion at the knowledge of that magnificent General Election win, and simultaneously in mourning at the knowledge of never again in my lifetime. Just look at the comment that Chris left at Geraldine's blog

I think for weeks, months, years to come, I will keep having flashback memories of all those favourite moments. And oh so many. But it wasn't about the moments. It was about the overall effect. I feel a bit like Pavlov's Dog, almost as if I'm crying on order -  a particular phrase comes and I'm blubbing. I have just watched Act 1 from what I recorded off the TV. I was utterly spellbound. Sitting on my sofa. Mesmerised as it moved inexorably to a fantastic climax. (Although I have to say that I did think Plácido looked a bit rough. Still cute, though...!)

I feel so privileged to have been to this at Covent Garden twice, to have seen it staged, and then to have been to that amazing night last night at the Albert Hall. And then to have it captured on my Sky+, soon to be transferred to video*

I have thought long and hard and I have decided that my absolute highlight was Winterstürme. Either from 8th July, or as performed on TV. I've now heard him sing this four times this year, and assume that he will again in Berlin on 6 August. I have a sneaking feeling that for the rest of my life I might just single this out as my  favourite aria that he sings...!

And if there is one word to sum up this memorable and beautiful run, it has to be legato. Or bel canto.

*don't be entirely surprised if I buy a DVD-R very very very soon. Not that I can actually afford one, I'm pretty near broke, but the what the fuck, it's only money! And it's pay day a week on Friday - anyone got any advice on DVD-Rs?

Simon Boccanegra

We interrupt this Walküre fest to bring news of a rumour that's circulating on the opera newsgroups that Plácido will take on the role of Simon Boccanegra - a baritone role - at the Royal Opera House. When I don't know...If it's true, I don't know.

A little bit of silliness

When I went to the first performance a week ago Friday I was - eventually - very excited. I had been so looking forward to it for well over a year, then the events of the previous day rather affected my perspective etc.

But by the time I reached the ROH I had a palpable sense of excitement, and with anxiety about whether my expectations would be met. I've already talked about the music, the performances etc.

Start of Act 1, and Plácido came on stage, I was thrilled, and I could sense a thrill around the Amphitheatre, the almost choreographed raising of binoculars. And I thoroughly enjoyed him, but there was a little part of me that wondered why I wasn't more tremblingly excited and hysterical.

Start of Act 2 and I'm suddenly startled - gosh, it's Bryn Terfel! I had been so excited about seeing Plácido, I hadn't really considered that I would be seeing another Big Star, who, normally, would be the Big Star I would pinpoint as being the star attraction.

Start of Act 3 and I suddenly realise it's that music, and I'm startled. I know there's a clue, the opera is called Di Walküre, so it shouldn't be a surprise to hear Ride of the Valkyries. Intellectually, it wasn't a surprise - I have seen the opera live before, on TV and DVD, and countless times over the years on radio and record. But it was an unexpected thrill, nevertheless.

And my reactions this past Friday were almost identical.

In between times I met Plácido, who is just totally lovely, and I was so pleased to meet him, so excited. I mean, I could go on; I just want to savour my memories.

Last night, I got unbelievably excited. I do so love the Royal Opera House, but there is something very special about the Albert Hall, in particular the Proms. There's a lot peripheral I hate about the Albert Hall - there's a grottiness about the milling areas, not enough milling room, I hate the walk down Exhibition Road when far too many people leaving the museums fail to grasp the concept of not spreading out across the entire pavement. I could go on, and probably will between now and 10 September.

But walk into the auditorium and what a wow! feeling. I had a seat in the Stalls, on the 7th row, behind the arena, if the conductor's podium is 12 o'clock, I was at 5 o'clock. Good view. Not the best view I've had in the Albert Hall, but good. It was fabulous watching the place fill up. And I mean fill up. Not just the fact that every seat was full, and all Promming places, but there was a buzz, an excitement. I flicked through the programme and began to tremble with sheer utter excitement. I wanted to turn to my neighbours and tell them how excited I was, I wanted to hug random strangers.

The orchestra walked on to warm applause. Then, more applause. "Here comes Tony" I thought. Then the applause started going a bit mad, and into my view came Tony Pappano, Waltraud Meier, and Plácido Domingo. So I was applauding madly, too, and never taking my eyes off Plácido, who looked actually really quite taken aback. He's sung just about everywhere, and all sorts of venues - opera houses of various sizes, concert halls, arenas, stadiums, historic sites, and more, in a long and very successful career. But when he was interviewed in the interval (what? You surprised I watched it as soon as I got home?) he said he was really really nervous - he looked it!

Start of Act 2, and I had that feeling again - oh my god, it's Bryn Terfel! Not just because I had confidently predicted that he would cancel - there are rumours he can't hack the pressure of live telly - but because he's a superstar.

Halfway through Act 2, after that wonderful exchange between Wotan and Brunnhilde, and Wotan's monologue, we see the return of Siegmund and Sieglinde.

And suddenly, I had a completely totally girly adolescent attack of trembling hysteria. Oh. my. god!!!!! That is Plácido Domingo, my hero, on stage, and I am sat here listening to him sing, and watching him. I was nearly beside myself with trembling awe-inspired hero-worship!

My crazy fortnight and a bit is over, and nothing good is ever going to happen again - well, I'm off to see Plácido in Berlin in less than three weeks.

And there's the rest of the Proms, and some other eagerly anticipated events, too.

But my crazy 17 days in July are over, never to be forgotten. Although Live 8 seems a long time ago...

Damn camera shake...

He's on there somewhere, you know...! But he has that affect on me.

I took nearly sixty photos this evening, and I might possibly have got one half-okay one of Plácido.

But I got four good ones close up of the man* I've been accidentally stalking (whom I also made laugh...!)

* A Mr Terfel