La fête de la musique is a modern tradition that at midsummer celebrates music with free events all over the world.  As its name suggests its origins are French and in the little corner of France that is L'Institut Français d'Ecosse Friday night was music night.

Since I play in a wind band the visit of a rumbustious Belgian outfit who dress up in medical outfits and bust a gut with wild blowing and dancing was the main attraction.  My band is decorous to the point of anaemia in comparison.
 A band of a different stripe were my entertainment the following night.  I don't know how usual it is for a band to launch a new album with a play but that's how The Stantons placed Le Cirque de Muerta before the public.  Some of the band members are theatre friends, all the actors were known to me as were many in the audience and the author/director was a particular friend so it was a very chummy evening which continued into the early hours in licenced premises a stone's throw from the Scottish Parliament.

The play was built around the songs but fortunately it was entertaining on its own account since I find it quite difficult to pick out lyrics from most music other than very slow and quiet numbers.

Part of the story told of the disappearance of children who went off in a bus led by a circus clown and for me a masterstroke of the drama was the child at the end of the show. Thank goodness I'd stuck the programme in my pocket unread and didn't know Ian was in the cast.

Hear the music for yourself here. (And check the lyrics>)

This is not a crowd fleeing from an alien spacecraft but spectators leaving the tennis show that's in town this week.  It's the ATP Champions Tour which allows tennis stars of the past to earn a crust by fooling around with ball and racquet in front of an indulgent public.

The temporary court erected on the Accies ground is an impressive structure and gives a great view of the game but you wouldn't want to ask whoever labelled the stands for directions since the east and west stands were the wrong way round.

The tennis is supplemented, and perhaps for some people was supplanted, by the eating and drinking opportunities that were spread around the playing field.  I was quite surprised that there were almost no merchandising stalls.  You couldn't come away clutching a souvenir Henman hat or McEnroe muppet.  The most you could do was buy a racquet or a sleeve of balls or subscribe to David Lloyd's tennis clubs.  I'd spent enough on my ticket to not even buy a programme never mind buy a souvenir, so maybe that was the organisers' calculation too.  (Question - would the attendance have been better if the prices had been lower? )

As to the tennis although I greatly admired the skills on show there was a bit too much tomfoolery for my taste.  I admit to being entertained by at least one bit of comic business though.  In the Henman Ivanisevic encounter there were naturally cries of "come on Tim", "come on Goran" etc.  As Ivanisevic prepared to serve at one point one wag added "come Nadal" to the mix.  Without a moment's hesitation  Ivanisevic went into Nadal's well known ritual, adjusting the back of his shorts, tucking his hair in, wiping his nose on both sides.

It was very funny and after all there's Wimbledon soon if you want to see serious tennis.

In a round of golf where your choice of clubs is restricted (in the interests of having fun!) the choice of weapons is critical.  I blame my high score on an unwise choice which saw my ball whizz across the green and off the other side then back again just too often.

The back and forth motion was not unlike that of a typewriter carriage.  In the high speed typing competition that features in Populaire such a motion at speed was instrumental in seeing our heroine triumph.  The film is an engaging, albeit predictable, romantic comedy that jerks a few tears when it wants too and raises spirits as and when required and has the de rigeur happy ending.

It's amazing how many other dramatic forms follow a formula.  Aristotle said there were only two stories.  Later thinkers have gone for more.  Rudyard Kipling got as far sixty nine but seven is a popular number.  Could that be one for each deadly sin?

I'm not sure if we saw all seven stories in the ten films from Edinburgh College of Art that were chosen for screening at the Filmhouse last night but it was an altogether excellent and varied set.  Like the Edinburgh college students whose work I saw a couple of weeks ago the inventiveness and talent (both technical and artistic) on display was impressive.

I missed the equivalent screening from Napier but am looking forward to seeing what the Queen Margaret students have produced.  I hope the students from all four institutions manage to find a decent outlet for their abilities after graduation.

This ultra-modern framework going up to support the crowds attending the Tattoo is a far cry from the scaffolding and planks that we must have sat on decades ago but surely our bums were more securely placed within the esplanade walls.

When Rock Around The Clock hit UK screens in the mid 50s cinemagoers danced in the aisles and in some cases even ripped out seats to make room.  I don't remember anyone dancing in the cinema where I saw it and even if they did I'm sure I'd have been far too self-conscious to join in.

But not any more.  This week students from Edinburgh College (Sighthill) were showing their work and one film in the form of an interactive tutorial had me and most of the rest of the audience on our feet learning how to do a bit of Bhangra.  Our efforts weren't as good as these but if we were to join the Edinburgh Bhangra Crew who knows how far we could go.

Another form of dance that I wasn't familiar with was the subject of one of the fine documentaries shown.  Here's the whole thing - Mons Meg Rappers.  Puts the Highland Sword Dance in its place don't you think?

I've still got most of the souvenir bottle of rum that I bought in Cuba a couple of years ago (not to mention a bottle of Syrian arrack from a 1998 trip) so I resisted adding to my alcohol stocks when I visited The Rum Story  in Whitehaven.

This is the story of a local family who developed a rum business in Antigua. There's a lot to see including some grisly mementos of the slave trade that made the business possible.  The town has rather a lot of mementos of past glories compensating perhaps for the lack of present ones.  It's lost its place as a commercial harbour, as a centre of mining and as a fishing port of any importance.

Fishy Memento

Maritime Memento

Mining Memento

Military Memento

Further up the coast at Maryport there are mementos of a much earlier time in the Senhouse Roman Museum which has an extensive collection of material found in the area.  There's a Roman fort adjacent but you have to use your imagination to turn the grassy mound into an outpost of the empire or the handful of diggers straggling onto it after their lunch into a detachment of legionnaires.

After my few days exploring the Cumbrian coast I spent the weekend playing the saxophone in this stately pile turned adult education centre.  It was fun but emphasised again that I've a way to go.

 

Was it sensible then to go to the Queen's Hall immediately on my return to hear the SNJO and a saxophonist who was introduced by Tommy Smith as the greatest jazz improviser on the planet?

A quick run round the art college degree show today re-acquainted me with some of the costumes from their fashion show, introduced me to some lovely jewelery, intrigued with its graphic design and interior design projects, amazed with its voodoo inspired models, let me see the film I'm not yet in and amused me with these works filed under the heading of sculpture.

But what I didn't see were oil on canvas paintings.  Are they completely passé?