That's Entertainment!

Apparently it's World Poetry Day, so without further ado here's a poem:

Why have a girl who can play her guitar

When you could have a stick in a push-up bra?

She can't sing a note, but that's just fine,

She looks so pretty, and she can mime.

Why have an author who can actually write

Getting plots, characterisation and apostrophes right?

Celebrity biographies, that's where it's at

Or mommy porn, Dan Brown or ghostwritten tat.

Why have a pint of the nice local brew

When there's fizzy lager that'll make you spew?

And there's no point trying an unusual wine

When Blossom Hill is going for £3.99.

Why see a thought-provoking play?

No one wants to think after working all day.

There's a musical on with that guy off tv -

Mindless sing-a-long? Suits us perfectly!

So sit back, relax, turn brain to off,

Consume whatever gumpf comes up on the box,

Be a good citizen, conforming and quiet,

We don't want you going and starting a riot.

The Coffee House Players present ‘Prime’

The Coffee House Players are an amateur theatre group based in Exeter. ‘Prime’ is the third production of theirs that I’ve seen, and it is far and away the most professional. The play, by turns comic and creepy, is based heavily on Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s film Delicatessen. In fact the resemblance is so strong that I was subconsciously expecting the actors to speak in French rather than English.

The plot is simple but weird. We are plunged into a post-apocalyptic city where everyone is starving except the family of Auger, the butcher who, somewhat suspiciously, always has a plentiful supply of meat for his sausages. No explanation is given as to why the world is in such a state, but none is really needed: it simply a plot device. Accompanied by his partner in crime, the buxom prostitute Madame Offelle, Auger rules over his daughter Sanguine and a collection of other misfits with an iron fist.

However, the feeling that all is not as it seems has spread and a band of terrorists under the command of the mysterious Baroness are out on a quest to destroy the butcher once and for all. It’s a suicide mission, but the fear of death is tempered by the promise of Utopia, a promise that the well-meaning but intellectually-challenged bunch have fallen for hook, line and sinker.

The butchery and terrorist elements of the play complement each other well; without the light comic relief of the latter the whole piece would risk getting rather heavy. Indeed, the parts were even written by different playwrights, namely Jules Gill and Rosen Trevithick, but this isn’t in any way detrimental. My one criticism would be that the first half at times feels like a collection of scenes rather than a coherent whole. However, any perception of disjointedness dissipates as the momentum mounts in the second half, building towards a satisfying, bloody conclusion.

The acting ranges from fine to excellent. Especially good was Matt Roberts, who plays the butcher himself, and seems born for the role. His expressive face is full of menace, and he wields a knife with disconcerting ease. Also worth mentioning are Dan Thomas as the old man Mr Sustan, who initially appears to be completely sane (an illusion that is brought crashing down to hilarious effect), and Laura Garnier as Aristotle, who is definitely mad but delightfully and believably so.

The performance takes place in the cellar bar of the City Gate Hotel. This has both advantages and disadvantages. On the plus side, the atmosphere is perfect: a dark and dingy subterranean cavern with old stone walls, a solid wooden bar and copious pillars and arches provides plenty of character, and allows the scene to be set with little extra decoration. On the negative side, it is rather small, and so only fifteen audience members fit in each night. This is a shame, as the play deserves a wider audience. If the group revive it, it will be well worth seeking out.

The Coffee House Players

Richard Thompson at the Colston Hall, Bristol

Richard Thompson is generally regarded by those in the know as one of the finest guitarists and songwriters the world has ever produced. He plays what can best be described as angst-filled folk-rock, with more upbeat-sounding tunes interspersed with pared-down tales of failure and bitter heartbreak. He’s hardly a household name however, instead having a small but devout following, some of whom were at the Colston Hall in Bristol on Saturday night.

He’s touring to promote his latest album, concisely called ‘Electric’, and indeed the acoustic guitar stays mostly in its case. Often found performing alone, he is here accompanied by drummer Michael Jerome and bassist Taras Prodaniuk, who together manage to produce far more noise than should be possible from a mere three men on a stage. Jerome is hugely entertaining to watch, tending towards ‘Animal from the Muppets’ levels of enthusiasm as he bashes hell out of his minimalist drum kit. Prodaniuk has the air of a mildly deranged chemistry teacher with his tall, skinny frame, narrow-rimmed circular glasses and mop of unruly greying frizz. Judging by the ever-present grin on his face, he is also rather enjoying himself.

At 63 years old Thompson is no spring chicken, but he is certainly no decrepit grandad either. His lined face is full of character and often breaks out into a rather cheeky grin as he engages in sarcasm-laced audience interaction between songs. Atop his head sits an ever-present black beret; I should imagine few if any people are aware of the state of the hair (or absence of) that lies beneath it. For most of the time he stands fairly rigid on the stage; any movements seem a little jerky apart from his hands, which run lightning fast but effortlessly up and down the guitar.

The gig opens with ‘Stuck On The Treadmill’, a moan about the slog of working life incorporating a firm beat and a cracking riff. The next few tracks are similarly up-tempo until the audience is brought crashing down by ‘My Enemy’, which floods the hall with beautiful melancholy. ‘I’ll Never Give It Up’ can only be described as rollicking, ‘When Love Whispers Your Name’ is heart-wrenchingly painful (in a good way), the murder ballad ‘Sidney Wells’ seems very cheery if no attention is paid to the lyrics. Many of the songs are from the new album, for which Thompson very insincerely apologises, but towards the end the proportion of crowd-pleasing older tracks increases. In encore one of two he even breaks out a bit of Hendrix with an extremely popular rendition of ‘Hey Joe’.

The faster songs showcase Thompson’s intricate guitar work. His solos are long without being self-indulgent, and the skill involved is incredible. Most musicians would need to play four or five guitars simultaneously to get the sound he gets out of one. In contrast, the slower numbers highlight his stunning voice: deep and smooth, with a rich timbre that resonates throughout the hall, caressing the audiences’ eardrums. This voice, alas, is woefully reproduced on recordings. It seems a trifle unfair that one man should be so doubly talented. Perhaps he made a pact with the devil.

Blizzard

Blizzard.

It’s winter in the mountains.
There’s snow, wind and ice.
There’s danger.
But that’s ok, we know what we’re doing,
we’ve done the training, we’re prepared,
we’ve got the equipment, we know how to use it.

But the weather’s coming in,
it’s changing.
It’s changing fast. Too fast.

Whiteout.

Where did everyone go? Hello? Hello? (louder)
Hello?
It’s cold. It’s freezing.
Hands are stiff, thoughts are slowing.
Maybe someone will come to help.

Wait.

Wait more.

Ok, maybe they won’t.

Try alone.

But can’t see to take a step
can’t see to read the map
can’t think to read the map

Panic?

No, too cold to panic. Just wait some more.
Go numb. Go number. Then? Nothing.

And everyone says
“Take comfort in the fact they died doing something they loved.”

Drabbles

Two pieces of 100 word fiction, one light-hearted, one miserable, originally published on Indie Book Bargains back in December. Have a look at the site if you'd like recommendations for cheap, independently-published books.

 The question

 We stood there in silence for a few moments, staring at the grey, dirty water of the river. Each deep in thought, wondering if it was time to ask the question. If it was too soon, too outrageous. If it would cause excitement and delight, or discomfort and uncertainty. Did we really know each other well enough? The tension became unbearable. I took a deep breath, turned, and just as I was about to open my mouth he said “Do you want to hire a pedalo?” I smiled, nodded, and off we went.

What will we do when all the engineers have gone and we are left with a country full of advertising executives?

A man named Rodney, in a flat cap and boiler suit, with a bulbous nose. Old, rugged and calloused, face crossed with a gentle smile. Grease under his fingernails, creases around his eyes. Joints swollen with arthritis, but still moving skilfully over levers, pushing and pulling with practised not-quite-ease. He works the crane. Like his father before him. He used to unload cargo; now he just shows it off to tourists. He doesn’t mind though, he simply enjoys the work, the being one with the machine. He’ll be dead soon. And the crane will turn to rust.