Just a little off The Fringe

London Fields # 56

First published Inpress, Melbourne on 10 September 2008

NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

For three weeks every August, Edinburgh visibly groans as patrons of the various festivals add to the already considerable weight of the tourist horde. Even though The Fringe had one of its worst years ever for ticket sales (leading to the resignation of its director Jon Morgan), rooms remained hard to find and expensive. On the Royal Mile, there’s fierce competition from leafleters to street performers for your attention and patronage.

Most striking was the way the city was tagged EVERYWHERE, with stickers, specially printed t-shirts, postcards and beer mats proclaiming This Belongs To Lionel Richie. Such inventiveness led me to see the flagship of their five show assault This Sketch Show Belongs To Lionel Richie. This seven strong team kept things brief, rattling through 25-odd sketches in an hour, meaning little overstayed its welcome. It also didn’t rely on the constant repetition of characters which seems to be the current industry standard, and it had almost TV-like speed in its switches between scenes. Special mention must go the sketch featuring the misguided attempts of using Radiohead’s Thom Yorke to advertise mini chicken kievs (Pay whatever you like, or nothing at all, or get them in a deluxe boxset for £40…No Thom! Cut!!)

There was a strong Australian presence at the Fringe as well, from small free events to Circus Oz’s 30th anniversary show. Brendan Burns, the winner of last years IF award (formerly the Perrier) was a hot ticket, as was Tim Minchin, particularly after a feature of the BBC2’s special Edinburgh edition of The Culture Show. Also featured on the same programme was The Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre, which was my personal highlight of my time there. It’s a one man two-hander (three if you count the invisible Emo sock), featuring a playful reworking of Johnny Cash’s Walk The Line with a guitar-playing sock, a five minute King Lear, a dissection of Abbott & Costello’s Who’s On First routine, and a improv song from cut-outs of Kraftwerk in a cameo appearance. Of course it’s a little naff, but knowingly so, and so good natured you can’t help but love it. And on top of that all, it’s extremely funny, even (especially?) when things go a little wrong. I hope that someone from the Melbourne Comedy Festival sees sense and brings this show out next year.
Over in The Spiegeltent, My Friend the Chocolate Cake returned for their first UK shows in over a decade. With no London shows booked, their appearance was the deciding factor making the trip north. With a short 70’ set, perhaps they didn’t pick the best material to showcase themselves, and some sound issues early on didn’t help. But then it all came together, and was over much too soon. Theirs was a relatively small crowd the night I went, and it made me a little sad to see the queue around the Spiegelgarden for the late show, La Clique, which through word-of-mouth became the must see show of the Festival.


In the Balcony Room of the Gilded Balloon, the subject of Damian Callinan’s show mmm… they’re small proved a bit much for some audience members, who walked out once it became clear that it was gonna be an hour of balls, or at least about them. Perhaps it was an error in judgement for the flyers not to explain that the show is his journey of self-discovery about infertility and relationships, both interpersonal and with his testicles. There were many ways this could have gone, and for me the mix of high and low humour, pathos, education, knob jokes, Catholic references and role playing just didn’t hang together. It felt more like a work in progress, lacking both laughs and a deeper emotional level. While Callinan remains an extremely likeable performer, this didn’t really show his best side.

Then again, it is the contrasts that make the festival so interesting. Simon Kempston and Friends, a trio of guitar, cello and bodhran, stitched through with his unique otherworldly voice, provided a lunchtime moment in St Giles Cathedral. On the street outside, David McSavage’s routine consisted of harranging passers by with very funny short musical ditties (although one day someone will twat him, as some of these were a little on the sharp side). On South Bridge Street there’s a queue outside an unassuming café called The Elephant House. Inside are more people sitting alone with their laptops than you’d think possible. For it was here that a certain Joanne Rowling sat each day to write the first Harry Potter novel, so other aspiring writers pilgrimage here hoping that a little, ahem, magic will rub off on them.

But perhaps the most surreal moment of the whole Festival occurs late on a Sunday night as I walked across The Meadows after catching some free Finnish stand-up (don’t ask). For coming from the nearby marquees was the distinctive sound of ex-Fringe favourites The Doug Anthony All Stars. Yep, The World’s Best Kisser graced the Fringe once again, this time courtesy of The Ladyboys Of Bangkok. Oh yes, I hope to be back again next year.

NB: This column does NOT belong to Lionel Richie!


© James McGalliard 2008

A Seasonal Catch-Up

London Fields # 48
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 30 January 2008
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

The end of the year is always a rush when you’re writing about music. There are writers’ polls to complete, the need to summarise the year just gone, and to make tips for 2008. And in the UK, the period prior to Christmas is a mad time for gigs. Along with pantomime season come tours from The Pogues, and from Madness. It would be a shame to let some of the great performances in this period get lost in the constraints of obligation and deadlines. So now that 2007 is finished, and 2008 previewed, it’s time to look back at some of the wonderful acts I saw as the year ended, but had no time to write about until now.

Just as Christmas comes but once a year, recent years have seen The Blue Aeroplanes gather in Bristol in December for annual shindig. Who you ask? Along with James they were the great English live act of the early 90’s that never toured Australia. They were creating literate artrock before Pulp had got their act together. They had a dancer before Bez had dropped an E. There were never keyboards – they’d add another guitarist - but you could always hear their separate playing. There have probably been forty members in the band’s history, but through it all Gerard Langley, a poet more than a vocalist, has declaimed thought-provoking ideas over the whole joyous maelstrom. This gig managed to recapture that special spark that made me an instant covert from the first time I saw them live. For much of tonight’s gig there were four guitarists on stage, jumping to six for the encore. Being a long term ‘Planes fan can be a bit like taking part in a veterans day parade, as each time there are fewer and fewer of us who swing our arms over our heads to the lyric 'let those arms rotate like helicopter blades'. Sadly, unlike those parades, there is no younger generation taking the medals and replacing those who have fallen. On the basis of their live glory tonight, that’s a loss for all of us.

Coming back to London, I caught Spiritualized Acoustic Mainline for the third time in the year. It’s a real shame that this version of Jason Spaceman’s act is about to be retired, especially as it never got to Australia. Each time I’ve seen them and loved it more, and in the candlelit environs of the Union Chapel, it found its perfect setting; the cross between hedonistic and religious was simply divine. Jason was joined by three gospel singers, a string quartet and long-term collaborator Doggen on keyboards. There was a Daniel Johnson cover, some Spaceman 3 material and even Oh Happy Day all reworked for the strings and the singers, and lead by Jason’s acoustic guitar. I lost count of the magical moments, but as Goodnight Goodnight segued into a beautiful, traditional reading of Silent Night, the spirit of the season descended. Or when Ladies And Gentlemen… melted into Elvis’ Can’t Help Falling In Love, the gospel harmonies complementing and lifting hearts. It’s so rare to come away so stunned and elated – it was a special night indeed.

The Union Chapel has always been one of my favourite places in London to see certain bands. On one occasion Mark Almond performed here in a cassock; on another John Cale played the best of the many shows I’ve seen him play – the natural resonance of the church adding a special edge to a spine tingling take on Hallelujah. But it is a functioning church, and a few years ago the governors decided that there was a conflict of interest between the sacred and the profane, and the gigs stopped. It’s so great that they reconsidered, and now it’s reopened to live music, with the proviso that alcohol is only consumed in the bar outside.

But it was doubly special in December, as it was the chosen venue for the first public performances in over ten years for the Penguin Café Orchestra. In fact, the night I went marked the tenth anniversary of the sudden death of PCO founder Simon Jeffes. Yet this was no wake, but a celebration of the music he had created. PCO had its own particular dynamism and rhythm – I’ve always thought of it as being a little like a bicycle with slightly square wheels – it rolls along and its speed varies, but the tempo it keeps is all its own. The setlist was based on the Concert Programme CD, so was effectively a greatest hits live. Most of the musicians were the same people I’d seen perform on numerous occasions through the ‘90’s – the big differences were slightly less regimented playing, and that they were speaking between the songs. You’ll have heard PCO, perhaps without knowing it – on ads, or the film Malcolm; even My Friend The Chocolate Cake's style owes much to them. But it was great to hear these tunes have the chance to live again – the audience was unfeasible warm on a bitter night. But there was a sense of elegy too; that that maybe this would be the last time that these songs would be played live by these people. But then again, is there a better place to contemplate transience than in a church?


© James McGalliard 2008