Skin of the Moon

Skin of the Moon
Originally uploaded by jovike.

I was fortunate to catch this show at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. I bought the t-shirt just because I liked the Voodoo Vaudeville artwork and the woman who sold it to me recommended Skin of the Moon as very funny and "random" - well, I loved it. It all made perfect sense to me being a gentleman of a certain age; anyone who can dance the Timewarp and likes vampires, time machines and St. Trinians will love it too.

While queuing for the aptly-named Wildman Room, the Evil Master himself appeared before us in full makeup - I did a double take. (I felt sheepish to have been shocked, since I once shocked people in Canterbury when I wore a Robot of Death costume from Doctor Who.)

The beginning of the preformance in the darkened theatre was weird and scary and I hoped Espe would not run out screaming. Luckily we were in the back row behind two burly chaps which meant we did not share the fate of those foolish enough to sit in the front row.

Chris Cresswell has a sure comic touch and works well with Colin who is probably a woman. He has assembled a fine company and they should be given their own TV channel.

A highlight of the show is the 'notorious puppet oracle' Baby Warhol - have a question ready. I thought of a really good one the next day. Oh yes, and they played a bit of a Hawkwind song too so that's most of my buttons pushed.

If you are going to Edinburgh you must see this! *****

And the bar upstairs is still open after midnight, what more can one ask.

Voodoo Vaudeville.

(This text is also on my Flickr Stream with the tags: "Voodoo Vaudeville" "Chris Cresswell" burlesque weird wacky sexy saucy kinky twisted cabaret spanking vaudeville theatre comedy wicked puppet maid apeman dominatrices Warhol charming outrageous witty surreal romp "Edinburgh Festival" Fringe Edinburgh Hawkwind "time machine".)

Save Water!

The Mayor of London floats his solution to England's drought: Ken Livingstone says "if it's yellow, let it mellow".

Call this a drought?

Plants love it, says Ken.

Conserve water.

Water Company Hypocrisy! or is it? Unfortunate, more like.

No drought order yet. Phew.

I've made a poster to celebrate Ken's advice. To print it in various sizes, get over to Flickr by clicking on the picture then find the 'All Sizes' button. You'll need a recent version of Flash. Please print it and post it inside the door of the nearest thunderbox.

Update: It's August and the water is holding out. July's heatwave is fading away. The water companies are using emergency supplies. The government is talking about a national grid for water. We've had a few downpours but they have been the "wrong sort of rain": storms that mostly run off into the sea rather than wet weeks, so Ken's advice still holds!

Update: 1st November and the temperature in London drops below 10ºC for the first time this autumn. The trees are still green.

A Literary Quiz for Easter

This Eastertide my task for you is simple: match the opening paragraphs with the six books and give your answers in the comments in the form 1A 2B etc. (If you enjoy this, here's another one I did earlier.) Cheers!

Book 1: Louisa M. Alcott: Little Women (1868)
Book 2: R. D. Blackmore: Lorna Doone
Book 3: John Bunyan: The Pilgrim's Progress (1678)
Book 4: Alexandre Dumas: The Three Musketeers
Book 5: Charles Lamb: The Essays of Elia
Book 6: Charles Reade: The Cloister and the Hearth

Excerpt A:

As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place where was a den; and I laid me down in that place to sleep: and as I slept I dreamed a dream. I dreamed, and behold I saw a man clothed with rags, standing in a certain place, with his face from his own house, a book in his hand, and a great burden upon his back. I looked, and saw him open the book and read therein; and as he read he wept and trembled: and, not being able longer to contain he brake out with a lamentable cry, saying, What shall I do?

Excerpt B:

"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.
"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.
"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have lots of pretty things and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
"We've got father and mother, and each other, anyhow," said Beth, contentedly, from her corner.
The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly —
"We haven't got father, and shall not have him for a long time." She didn't say "perhaps never" but each silently added it, thinking of father far away, where the fighting was.

Excerpt C:

If anybody cares to read a simple tale told simply, I, John Ridd, of the parish of Oare, in the county of Somerset, yeoman and churchwarden, have seen and had a share in some doings of this neighbourhood, which I will try to set down in order, God sparing my life and memory. And they who light upon this book should bear in mind, not only that I write for the clearing of our parish from ill-fame and calumny, but also a thing which will, I trow, appear too often in it, to wit — that I am nothing more than a plain unlettered man, not read in foreign languages, as a gentleman might be, nor gifted with long words (even in mine own tongue) save what I may have won from the Bible, or Master William Shakespeare, whom, in the face of common opinion, I do value highly. In short, I am an ignoramus, but pretty well for a yeoman.

Excerpt D:

Not a day passes over the earth, but men and women of no note do great deeds, speak great words, and suffer noble sorrows. Of these obscure heroes, philosophers, and martyrs, the greater part will never be known till that hour, when many that are great shall be small, and the small great; but of others the world's knowledge may be said to sleep: their lives and characters lie hidden from nations in the annals that record them. The general reader cannot feel them, they are presented so curtly and coldly: they are not like breathing stories appealing to his heart, but little historic hail-stones striking him but to glance off his bosom: nor can he understand them; for epitomes are not narratives, as skeletons are not human figures.

Excerpt E:

On the first Monday of the month of April 1625, the bourg of Meung, in which the author of the Romance of the Rose was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second Rochelle of it. Many citizens, seeing the women flying towards the street, leaving their children crying at the open doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and supporting their somewhat uncertain courage with a musket or a partisan, directed their steps towards the hostelry of the Jolly Miller, before which was gathered, increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of curiosity.

Excerpt F:

Reader, in thy passage from the Bank — where thou hast been receiving thy half-yearly dividends (supposing thou art a lean annultant like myself) — to the Flower Pot, to secure a place for Dalston, or Shacklewell or some other thy suburban retreat northerly — didst thou never observe a melancholy-looking, handsome, brick and stone edifice, to the left, where Threadneedle Street abuts upon Bishopsgate? I dare say one hast often admired its magnificent portals ever gaping wide, and disclosing to view a grave court, with cloisters and pillars, with few or no traces of goers-in or comers-out — a desolation something like Balclutha's.

Bye bye, Ivor

ivor
Originally uploaded by jovike.

Comic genius Ivor Cutler died on Friday. John Junkin died today. Oh no, and Linda Smith has gone too.

Ivor's sessions on the John Peel show were a joy. His honesty and economy of language remain refreshing, as does his careful pronunciation. I would always be there with my cassette recorder, possibly missing a night in the pub to catch his latest radio session in the 1970s. I knew where he lived in Camden Town but I never visited.

On my desk is a plastic bird on a spring, labelled with dymo: 'Fremsley' named after one of his poems.

Ivor's entry on Wikipedia is a bit thin. That will probably change in a few days. (Update: it did.)

Ivor on Flickr: the beautiful kindnesses.

Hawkwind Christmas Party

Hawkwind Christmas Party ticket
Originally uploaded by jovike.

You'll never guess where I was last night! Hawkwind's Christmas party was a special gig at the Astoria in Charing Cross Road. Support was Spacehead, whom I missed by spending too long chatting in Borders over the road, and Man, the "Welsh Wizards". Man and Hawkwind did a US tour together in 1974. Yes, a long time ago, and now Martin Ace's son Josh is in the band on rhythm guitar with his father on bass, and someone called Richards on lead: very good. Richards also sounds a bit like Deke Leonard singing, it's the Welsh accent you see. They stomped through faithful high-energy versions of C'mon, Romain and Spunk Rock.

Hawkwind did a lot of crowd-pleasers as it was a party with only a couple of tracks from the new album, maybe because Lene Lovich and Arthur Brown were not present. Following a poll on hawkwind.com, the set included 7 by 7 and Upside Down (which I have never heard live before) with vocals from Mr. Dibs, also Brainbox Pollution and Psychedelic Warlords. Amazing! Robotic dancers in neon paint came on for Angela Android and reappeared, gambolling or capering as appropriate throughout. Hawkwind's lightshow has at last gone half digital, remaining an analogue hybrid. I've long thought they should use something like G-Force as a backdrop: well now they are, but still combined with glimpses of the the space art, film and graphics accumulated over the decades. Magic.

Really great music with Dave Brock playing a lot of guitar instead of noodling with the synthesiser. Alan Davey energetic as ever, Richard Chadwick on good form. (Who the saxophonist or keyboard player were I know not.) When the double live CD comes out, buy it.