The end of the Festival has not brought theatrical life to the crushing halt that might have been expected.  Apart from the very exciting referendum, whose denouement I was able to follow on Radio Scotland from a bed in Badajoz thanks to the internet, there was the wonderful Blabbermouth, a 12 hour NTS marathon of words and music that passed like a 100 yard dash on the eve of said referendum.

Duart Castle - Mull

Before that and slightly less wonderful in my view was their In Time o' Strife and on the beautiful island of Mull the very entertaining  The Greatest Little Republic (In the World), which when it started I thought was going to be a comedic satire on Scottish independence but as the Herald review explains turned out to be a much darker piece.  There was comedy on Mull in the form of The Weepers  by Rachel Maclean but after I read the very detailed handout describing the film it was clear that my artistic sensibilities had not been finely enough attuned to see beyond the bleeding obvious.

There's a lot of bleeding and other goriness in Titus Andronicus which Grads are presenting in the Spring.  It's a play I knew nothing about until we had a read-through this month.  It has a high bodycount and I spent a lot of the time wondering which of the many deaths I might be privileged to demonstrate but came to no conclusion.  In Festen, now in rehearsal for production later this year, I'm not meant to die but I am old and the vigorous conga dancing might just finish me off.

I was in Spain for a 50th birthday celebration and hoped to go to the theatre in Madrid on my way home but Monday tends to be the day of rest in continental theatres so I missed for example seeing Duet for One that I played in years ago, so would surely have followed the Spanish version easily enough.

With the Spanish birthday girl

There's a lot to admire in Ubu and the Truth Commission; the mixture of archive footage and animation, the coordination of that with the action on stage, the puppetry, the slick stage management.  And how on earth did they manage to get that vulture squawking and flapping its wings let alone the whirling microphones?

The victim and witness statements were harrowing (were they verbatim testimony?) and the distance given by hearing them delivered, as I expect they were in fact, in translation as the witness spoke in their own language heightened the feeling of amazement at how cruel human beings can be to one another. 

A white Ubu who personifies the apartheid regime and its enforcers gives us all the grossness, selfishness and evil of the original as he scurries about trying to hide his misdeeds and make up his mind about revealing all to the commission.

I've always thought of the truth commission as a really noble concept and had the impression that it had served South Africa well.  But this play seemed to me to present an altogether bleaker vision of its effect and as Ma and Pa Ubu sailed away into the sunset of a better tomorrow I had no confidence in it being better for anyone.

Wikipedia has a very long and detailed article on the play for searchers after more and undoubtedly truer analysis.  

One of the problems of having visitors at Festival time is that even the gaps between events tend to get swallowed up being sociable.  That's my excuse for not having written anything about what I've been to in the last several days and now I can't be bothered to write very much.  But I want to have a record so here are some brief notes.

Another Kronos Quartet concert in which one piece by a former Beiruti featured recordings of bombs and gunfire made during the Lebanese civil war. At this time of WWI commemoration it was a powerful reminder that the war to end all wars didn't.

Ever since I encountered Vita Sackville-West in Harold Nicolson's diaries in the 60s I've been mildly fascinated by the Sackville-West family.  I thought her goings on were on the odd side but there are other interesting skeletons in the family cupboard and Robert Sackville-West has taken some out and given them an airing in The Disinherited. It is a sad but fascinating tale of illegitimate children and family squabbles with which he entertained a packed Book Festival tent.  It's on my Christmas list.

Another author, not so well known and whose tent was not quite so tightly packed was Phil Adams who read us his entry to the City of Literature Story Shop competition.  The engaging little tale of a salmon and a bear had to fight hard to be heard above the torrential rain beating down on the spiegel tent but we all enjoyed it as we did the Prosecco downed by friends and family in celebration afterwards.

The Royal Overseas League runs an annual music competition.  This year's gold medal winner was a saxophonist and I went to hear him in a programme called Sax before Midnight.  It was a mightily varied programme that finished with the always appealing and melodic tangos of Piazzola.  He started however with a piece by Stockhausen, renowned in my mind for his Helicopter Quartet and for his general oddness.  If I heard Im Freundschaft correctly though he had a sense of humour, as did the person who dressed in a bear suit to play it on bassoon.

When it was suggested that we go to see MacAulay and Co. being recorded for BBC Radio Scotland I reflected that I could just as well have stayed in my bed to listen to it but I went along and rather enjoyed it.
 
The Pure, the Dead and the Brilliant by Alan Bissett explores the issue of Scottish independence from the point of view of  some mythical creatures of folklore, a selkie, a banshee, a bogle and a demon. It's very funny and doesn't take itself too seriously though its conclusion that independence is the way to go comes as no surprise.  The audience are caught up in the general hilarity and from where I sat I could see only one NO vote amidst a sea of YESs as we waved our programmes, folded to show the appropriate page, at the end.

One wet evening we set off to find some folk music.  The Royal Oak was our first port of call.  We couldn't find a gap in the crowd listening to free music in the main bar so dived downstairs and parted with a very modest sum to be entertained for an hour or so by a trio of young and accomplished players.  I've forgotten their name but I'd go again.  We spent an unsatisfactory time in Sandy Bell's afterwards where I doubt if even the musicians could hear themselves then went through various musicless pubs and ended up at the tailend of a free, funny and filthy comedy gig.
 
Crammed onto the tiny stage in the Jazz Bar were eight musicians who gave us a terrific version of The Rite of Spring.  If it sounds discordant said the leader Dave Patrick talking about their work on the piece just think what it sounds like when it's not played properly.  Of course in this case it's the dissonance that gives it character and according to this piece in The Telegraph was probably a major cause of the riot at its premier.

The first play I went to at The Fringe this year was by Marivaux and I was delighted to find that another of his plays was being performed.  I was even more delighted when I saw Games of Love and Chance.  This 18th century romantic comedy in which mistress swaps place with her maid to observe the man destined to be her husband and he does likewise with his valet had been transported to the 1920s and its comedy stretched to farce.  It was terrifically well acted and I look forward to seeing another TwoSquared Productions show next year.

In a bare basement corner of Summerhall an audience of a dozen or so stood for an hour around a long low narrow table.  At one end a nurse, at the other a soldier, each only inches away from us. The play consisted of periods of action simulating men rushing forward under fire followed by periods in which letters full of love, hope and longing were exchanged.  The horror of the war was simply but powerfully shown.  At a whistle blast from the nurse the soldier began an attack.  He rocked back and forward with ever increasing urgency, willing himself to get to the wire and focussing his mind on the future he hoped for while she created the noise of war. The attack culminated in the actor throwing pieces of liver at the wall.  The attack over, the nurse collected the pieces of liver and sorted them into "dead", "blighty" and "fixed, back you go".  Eventually after one attack a letter comes from the War Office, "killed in action".  When The Flood was over there was rightly no curtain call and no applause. 

Fortunately liver wasn't on the menu of the excellent meal we had afterwards in The Royal Dick.

The last play of my Fringe going (one EIF play to go) was definitely the oddest and rivalled the cosmonaut play in its ability to fail to communicate anything to me.  Lippy started with a very nicely observed and humorous after show discussion about a play we are supposed to have just seen.  Then we see a play in which four women variously ferret about in bin bags full of shredded paper, hang over tables, squat on buckets and ultimately I believe die from starvation.  They don't say very much in the course of the action.  It seemed to me the sort of play Salvador Dali might have written.  Proper theatre critics have made some sense of it and I much appreciate Lyn Gardner's review in The Guardian for articulating much of what I felt about the show.  

A late night session at the Jazz Bar featuring the Russian trumpeter Valery Ponomarev backed by a galaxy of local jazzmen was excellent entertainment although I found Mr Ponomarev's insistence that we all applaud and clap along a degree less amusing than he did.

Eager to get the lowdown on collateral debt obligations and the like I went to hear John Lanchester on his book Money Talk: Nonsense Versus Bullshit.  It was very amusing but a serious and cautionary tale nonetheless.  What a balls-up it's all been since the smart money men started selling mortgages to people with no hope of being able to keep up the payments.

I confess to never having read anything by the great Thomas Mann although I have seen his work in the form of the opera Werther and the film Death in Venice.  His son Klaus was also a writer and according to Alan Massie while Thomas was interesting as a writer Klaus was much more interesting as a man.

So much more interesting to Massie that he has written a novella called Klaus which is a fictionalised version of his life.  So interesting was his talk on the subject that I have bought the book and placed it on my pile of unread masterpieces for later consumption.

Eagerly looked forward to have been the James plays, a trilogy by Rona Munro about James I, James II and James III who were kings of Scotland in the 15th century.  This is a joint production by the EIF, the National Theatre and the National Theatre of Scotland and all three are directed by Laurie Sansom who took over artistic direction of  the NTS quite recently.

I saw them in a oner yesterday and thought they were stunning.  Check out the broadsheets for reviews, most of which are very favourable.  My favourite of the three was James II which the critics favoured least.  So much for the critics is what I say. 

To properly enjoy a Festival day you've got to feel that you're packing a lot in.  I did my best yesterday with a day weighted on the musical side.

I kicked off with an excellent show by Shrewsbury and Severn opera.  The Lost Domain is a dramatisation of a novel by Alain Fournier who was killed early in the First World War.  It's a story of youthful love and the search, ultimately unsuccessful, for the happiness of the past.

The young cast sing, dance and act with skill and commitment.  They faithfully convey the emotional truth of the tale in a well choreographed, costumed and staged production that makes good use of projection on the cyclorama, that sweeps on and off simple but effective settings and is an object lesson in how to deploy a large cast on the Adam House stage.

Music and lyrics?  Excellent.

I must read the book thought I and lo and behold it's a school text in France freely accessible here.

Then I nipped across to the museum to enjoy a free concert by the Erskine string quartet. The Erskine in question is the sixth Earl of Kellie, an 18th century composer and they played some of his music as well as some 21st century classical stuff and rounded things of with an arrangement of two of Phil Cunningham's accordion pieces.  Nothing if not eclectic.

Down at the Book Festival I enjoyed two authors talking about their books on 21st century India.  It's 30 years since my sole visit to India and there have been such momentous changes that it would probably spoil my memories of the place to go back.  Asked why, given the not so very nice picture of many aspects of life in Delhi he paints he continues to live there, Rana Dasgupta pointed to the energy of the city.  All is change and forward movement.  It makes Europe seem effete and worn out.

John Keay's Midnight's Descendants sounded a good read too if rather more academic. 

The Kronos Quartet have long been amongst my favourites.  In a show called Beyond Zero they played rather mournful music, initially alone, and then accompanied by a film collage of First World War archival footage of troops parading, troops embarking, troops attacking, tanks lumbering over the landscape, biplanes dogfighting and suchlike nastiness.

It certainly left you in no doubt that the war was a sad and bad thing but then personally I was in no doubt about that beforehand so it was perhaps a case of preaching to the converted.

You'd expect film of that era to be jerky and spattered with little black spots and similar noise but here a great deal of artificial blemishes had been superimposed in the manner of rapidly changing semi opaque blue and sepia Rorschach tests.  The effect was no doubt wonderfully evocative of the blast of bombs and gunfire but it pained my eyes to the extent of spoiling the show for me.  The wildly enthusiastic applause proved me to be in a minority.

Before I got to Kronos I stopped off in the New Town to see a friend's art exhibition and was treated to a glass of wine.  I'm sure that was a friendly gesture rather than a marketing ploy. I left empty-handed not without regrets over a couple of the pieces.  I could have made an offer I suppose.

Theatre Alba can be relied upon to produce something worthwhile in Duddingston Kirk gardens and proved that last night with their production of Robert McLellan's Mary Stewart.

Unfortunately the climate can't be relied upon to provide pleasant conditions in which to watch an outdoor show and so it proved.  I had taken the precaution of putting thermals under my cords and wore a down ski jacket and a Helly Hansen cold weather sailing hat so I was well equipped to stay warm and to withstand the rain that drizzled periodically during the first act, poured down during the interval (we were under cover then) and drizzled continuously throughout the second act.

There were not many of us there but we all stuck it out as of course did the actors who delivered a fine performance of an interesting play.  Theatregoers are more familiar with Schiller's Maria Stuart and the Donizetti opera based on it.  Those cover Mary's imprisonment in England and her execution and include a wholly fictional meeting between her and Elizabeth I of England.

McLellan's play covers ground which I imagine is as familiar to Scottish school children today as it was in my childhood.  Essentially it deals with her struggle to maintain her authority over the quarrelsome and self-serving Scottish nobility as a Catholic monarch, a very young and inexperienced one, in the early and fervent days of the Reformation.  It opens just after the murder of Rizzio, explores Darnley's repeated efforts to be given the crown matrimonial and her resistance to that, Darnley's murder, her subsequent marriage with Bothwell and ends with her setting off to imprisonment in Loch Leven.

Her personal and political lives were both steeped in tragedy and nowhere was that better illustrated in the play than in the scene in which Bothwell enumerates all the forces that are arrayed against her from her former friends in France, her cousin Elizabeth, the protestant church in Scotland, most of the Scottish nobility and even her (half) brother James.

The cast were mostly Theatre Alba regulars and worked well together.  Andrea Mckenzie made an excellent Mary, exceptional given that she took on the part at very short notice.  Of the others I particularly enjoyed Robin Thomson's devious Maitland whose surface humour concealed an ice-cold calculating interior.  His chuckled "hoots, toots mon" could well find a happy home with me in future.

There was so much communicating going on behind me between two young women at Mercy, Mercy, Mercy that I eventually lost patience and suggested that they delay their conversation till the music was over.  Nobody expects to listen to jazz in a sepulchral silence but continuous chatter seems to me to defeat the object of going to a concert in the first place.  And as far as I could judge they were the only people in the Jazz Bar behaving in that way.

That was the only blemish on an hour and a half of music associated with Cannonball Adderley and his band.  Most of it from the 50s and 60s, much of it composed by his brother Nat and other members of the band.  In this line-up Nat's place was taken by Colin Steele and Cannonball's by Martin Kershaw.  It was excellent.

The Middle East could do with a little bit of mercy, mercy, mercy at the moment but none of the speakers at the Book Festival event on the middle east that I went to offered much prospect of that.  It was an interesting but sobering hour.

Mercifully there has been more music on hand to keep festival goers cheerful and I much enjoyed a late night show by the colourful Caribbean tenor saxophonist Arturo Tappin whose uninhibited and vigorous set was something of a contrast to the more restrained afternoon presentation by a sax quartet from Glasgow.  Who ever thought Weegies could be restrained?

My own show finished yesterday.  We got quite reasonable houses, quite a reasonable review and the show got better as the week went on.  It seems possible also that our efforts may be the talk of the cabinet table when they reassemble and swop holiday experiences if the Foreign Secretary enjoyed himself on Friday.  Of course if he didn't (the play has a few unkind words to say about politicians after all) he might point to it as the sort of crap you encounter on the Fringe.

Rumours by Neil Simon was our stablemate in the Royal Scots Club and I saw their last show last night.  It's a cracking comedy of a farcical nature and the cast made a great job of it.  A nice note to leave the venue on.

One strategy when looking for the silver threepenny bits hidden in the plum pudding that is the Fringe is to look for authors whose work you like or admire.

That worked well for me with David Mamet but I came a cropper with David Greig.  I really found The Cosmonaut's Last Message To The Woman He Once Loved In The Former Soviet Union difficult to enjoy.  The staging of it in Riddle's Court didn't help.  The rule there should be don't let your actors sit down because no-one beyond the front row will be able to see them, and above all don't let them lie down.  In this production they sat down a lot and lay down now and then.  To be fair the cosmonauts themselves were clearly visible throughout on an elevated platform but it would all have worked better if the audience had been elevated.  Raked seating next time please.

Now as to the play itself I didn't have much of a clue about what was going on so turned to the internet when I got home.  The Guardian's review of a 2005 production says "....it is pretty hard work for the audience...".  I agree.  But what's it about?

Well it seems communication and in particular the failure to communicate is the theme.  So I must congratulate Mr Greig on his success in failing to communicate with me.

A two hour ukulele workshop in the hands of cabaret diva Tricity Vogue was a tempting proposition at the weekend but I plumpted for Madeleine Smith and Seamus Heaney instead.

I Promise I Shall Not Play Billiards opened with three women circling a seated fourth.  All were dressed in similar mid Victorian costumes of crinoline skirt and voluminous blouse.  The similarity didn't end there because each of them took the part by turns of Madeleine Smith, accused of murder in mid 19th century Glasgow.

It was an interesting presentation but failed to tell me much more than I already knew about the case, which was damn little.  So even now I am scurrying to Wikipedia to find out more including I hope the significance of the title.

In A While with Seamus Heaney we were led gently through the poet's life and works by an Irish actor whose mellifluous voice had an unfortunate soporific effect on me so that I am unable to properly report on the show.

No-one could have dozed off during David Mamet's highly charged and loudly argued Race.  This 2009 play is set in a lawyer's office where the multi-racial partnership is approached by a rich white man seeking to be defended against an accusation of raping a black girl.

It has all of Mamet's clever plotting and linguistic virtuosity as the characters collide against one another at high velocity and the story twists and turns.  The complexity of race relations, of how to deal honestly and fairly with one another without prejudice, special pleading or special treatment from one side or the other is expertly, humanely and wittily explored.

The context is the post civil rights America of today but this South African company no doubt seized upon the play as a vehicle with which to reflect on relationships within their own post apartheid  society.

Back in Britain meanwhile the European debate goes on and Anthony Giddens at the Book Festival gave an interesting talk that got away from our perennial preoccupation with perfidious Brussels laying down anti-British rules about straight bananas and the like, to reflect on Europe's place in the  context of today's highly connected and highly interdependent world.

He has of course written a book putting forward his ideas and it seems to me that it would be a good idea to have a copy of Turbulent and Mighty Continent delivered to every home in the land in time for the citizens of the UK (or perhaps by then it will be just the rUK) to reflect on the bigger picture before they cast their votes in favour of or against straight bananas.

No mikes were in evidence in Blackwells bookshop where Trinity College presented a selection of pieces from their latest syllabuses.  Piano, recorder, clarinet and saxophone were all played by Trinity staff and a local music teacher treated us to a set of traditional Scottish fiddle tunes.

Introduced as having achieved unbelievably high marks in her grade 6 exam a sweet little girl from Heriot's delighted the audience with a haunting harp melody.

The concert was free and I even came away with a goodie bag.  The contents were not wildly exciting but I always have need of a biro that hasn't yet run out of ink.

On the way home from FOH duties for the Grads  I popped into a free standup comedy show.  At most standup shows it's blindingly obvious that the Fringe exercises no quality control over participants and this show was no exception.

Thanks to the couple of glasses of wine I'd had earlier in the evening though I found it mildly enjoyable and eagerly seized the opportunity given to me to grunt fiercely into a microphone as one comic drew his audience into his act.

On the Fringe a full house at any time is a consummation devoutly to be wished but to sell out at 10.30 in the morning is such stuff as dreams are made on.

Yet there we were yesterday, around fifty of us, crammed into Valvona and Crolla's little back room for Larkin About where we spent a delightful hour in the company of two actors and two musicians sharing Philip Larkin's passions for poetry, jazz and women. 

You could call it the secret life of a librarian only it doesn't seem to have been very secret even in his lifetime judging by the letters he wrote to his various women and to male friends, let alone what he revealed in his poems.  Randy isn't the word for it. Hard to tell from this show whether he was a likeable person or not but certainly interesting and I'll be off to the library in the fullness of time for a volume of his poetry and a biography.

One minor criticism.  What was the point in such a small room only three rows deep of miking the performers?

Is this a typically botched photo from my phone or is it the world being smothered by a dark cloud of evil?

I maintain it's the latter since I snapped it while watching In Search of Vanished Blood, a video presentation on the walls of the National Gallery of Scotland late on Monday night that was part of the Lights Out commemoration of the outbreak of the First World War in 1914.

The video was accompanied by a soundtrack of whining shells, air raid sirens and exploding armaments rivalled briefly by the Tattoo fireworks until not long after it started there was a very loud bang and all went dark.

I hung about for a bit but had had enough by 11 so don't know whether they got the show back on the road or not.

There was blood, albeit in the shape of red fairy dust, on show in the Grads production of The Duchess of Malfi that I saw earlier in the evening.

Now I know this play is regarded as a Jacobean masterpiece but frankly I think it's a load of cobblers not redeemed by poetic language as can be fairly claimed for some of Shakespeare's more nonsensical work.  So that tends to colour my view of any production including this one.

In the director's notes she says that she sees the play as a Hammer horror movie and with blood and gore splattered over the screen, wolves howling in the moonlight, madmen stumbling along the dimly lit corridors of Transylvanian castles to the sound of clanking chains and distant screams the show has a chance.  But not, for me at any rate, in the well lit and comfortable auditorium of the Royal Scots Club.

More to my taste was the other Grads show on view at the same venue this week.  The Wonderful World of Dissocia presents itself initially as a gleefully anarchic and absurdist romp, beautifully lit and energetically performed by a team of actors on top of their game. 

The sting comes in the second act. Fortunately the lights went down before I had properly read the programme because the director's note on the play gives away what to my mind should be the shock of realising what it's all about.  So if you go, and I thoroughly recommend that you should, don't read the programme until afterwards.

For tickets https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/duchess-of-malfi and https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/wonderful-world-of-dissocia

Festival going kicked off for me on Friday with a production of  Marivaux's The Dispute at the ever interesting Summerhall.

The story concerns an experiment to find out which of the sexes is the more fickle.  Four children, two male and two female are raised in isolation and at around 18 years of age are released, find one another and social interaction begins.

Lo and behold la donna e mobile, but the lads are just as bad.  This was a very nice production with good use of video and sound and fine acting.  I was intrigued though by the male bonding activities of the two boys.  Play fighting and general horsing around seemed authentic though I can't say I was much into that myself.  But they also jump and bang their chests together.  That's something I've never done nor seen done, except in another production of The Dispute that I saw at the Traverse not that long ago.

This coincidence sent me scurrying first to my own copy of the play then to a facsimile of the original text to see whether Marivaux's stage directions include chest banging.  No they don't. Ils sautent is all he says.

Somebody is copying somebody.  No harm in that.  I've done it myself.  

Showing the way

Like synchronised swimming, rhythmic gymnastics strikes me as utterly daft but you have to recognise and admire the skill of the people doing it and the huge effort it must take to achieve proficiency.

The bits I saw of it in the wonderful SSE Hydro on the first day of the Commonwealth Games could be described as hell of a hard hula hooping and cleverly complicated keepie uppie.  Even at the height of the hula hoop craze of the 50s I couldn't manage more than a few simple rotations round my midriff so I did appreciate what these girls were doing (it's a girls only event) but I still think it's daft. 

Scottish number one in action

Glasgow was enjoying tropical weather that day and I lunched in the open air by the banks of the Clyde before heading for the squash at Scotstoun. This was terrific and caused me to regret that I ever stopped playing.  I suppose I wouldn't last five minutes if I started again but they say racketball is a game kinder to the more mature.  Looking at that video I'm not so sure.

Doubles in the glass

I've often wondered how on earth you could ever play doubles at squash and now I know.  The first rather obvious point is that you need a bigger court.  At Scotstoun three singles courts became two doubles courts by sliding the walls of the middle court towards one another and the glass box show court expanded sideways.  The players keep mostly to one side of the court and the game seems even faster and furiouser than singles.

When I played the scoring system used required a player to win serve before he could score a point but that is now an alternative to the standard system in which a point is scored on change of serve as well as during service.  That should reduce the length of matches and most of those I saw on my two visits took less than 30 minutes but one very exciting singles (won by Scotland) went on for an hour and a half.  That match plus a ladies doubles between Malaysia and New Zealand were more than enough value for the ticket money.

Scotland beating Malaysia

Another energetic racquets game that I used to enjoy playing is badminton.  The Commonwealth Games badminton is being played in the Emirates Arena, again a splendid venue.  It's just across the road from Celtic Park.

I was a bit disconcerted when I went in.  Four courts were simultaneously in action.  Four umpires were shouting out scores.  The public address was urging us to applaud teams as they left on completion of their matches and welcome new teams coming in.  The answer seemed to be to concentrate on one court and allow your attention to wander now and then.  Fortunately Scottish players were in action which gave me a focus and although they were outclassed in a couple of cases the mixed doubles match was a closely fought and exciting game in which we beat Malaysia.

Unbelievably he saved this

In addition to all of those I went to men's hockey and saw Australia drub Wales and India beat Scotland by a similar score although it was a much more closely contested game.

Guess the sport

The sport I originally set out to see was Artistic Gymnastics.  I only got a ticket in the second sale when unrequired reserved seats were released and although all the seats in the Hydro have a great view some are greater than others and for this event mine was one of those.

Just a blur

Up off the floor

Like the badminton an awful lot was going on at the same time.  Vaulting, parallel bars, high bar, beam and floor exercises. I used to be proud of my cartwheel and my handstand but how anyone can do a back somersault and land on a 4 inch wide beam defies explanation.  This was a great morning's entertainment for everyone except the poor English vaulter who despite all the soft landing mats did something nasty to himself and was carried out with his leg in a splint.

No doubt about which team this youngster is supporting

I got to another gig featuring young musicians.  These, from a school down south, were even younger than the Porty lot and there were many more of them.  With two enthusiastic teachers, one conducting and the other bashing the piano they romped through a set of big band numbers with commendable skill and presence.  I've only vague memories of musical activities at KHS but I'm sure we had nothing like this.

Billed as Woody Allen's piano player Conal Fowkes played and sang a range of numbers from the twenties by different American composers and players, some well known and some obscure.  It was a delightfully relaxing morning concert in the Tron Kirk that deserved a bigger audience.  Woody got a mention only once when for his final number Conal played a piece from the soundtrack of  Magic in the Moonlight, Allen's latest film.

I've just had a look at Conal's bio and see that the Jazz Festival organisers' Woody name dropping does him a disservice.  I also see that he was born in Zambia.  If I'd known that I'd have spoken to him at the gig.

Another delightful piano player, also at the Tron, was Paolo Alderighi who played a similar set but perhaps ranged over a longer timescale.  He finished off by playing a piece for four hands with his wife, Stephanie Trick.  It was a high speed, high octane performance and as he said beforehand, the improvisational nature of jazz adds an extra degree of danger to theundertaking.

Despite the rain the Grassmarket thronged with music lovers yesterday.  I don't know why these guys had to play in the open when others had the benefit of covered stages.  They are not the Salvation Army by the way.

There was more open air revelry today but I got hooked on the golf and shamefully stayed indoors and missed the Carnival Parade, the bands in Princes Street and a sun-drenched Grassmarket.

I felt a bit short-changed at the first Jazz Festival show I went to.  I was drawn to it by a wish to hear Abdullah Ibrahim, the grand old man of South African jazz.  I enjoyed his set but it only lasted 30 minutes.  The rest of the evening was not to my taste and although jazz is a pretty wide and elastic term none of it qualified in my view.  The second half was also too noisy and although I moved to the back of the theatre and stuck my fingers in my ears I decided to leave after 15 minutes or so. 

The Portobello High School musicians were much more to my taste at one tenth of the price.  They appeared in various combinations as a jazz combo, a blues band and the two girls sang individually and together with piano accompaniment.  They were very good and a lot of people had turned out to hear them at 10.30 on Saturday morning.

They were followed by a great fun Italian outfit called Bandakadabra.  They were keener on  audience participation than suits me but luckily I was far enough away to get off with clapping and swaying on the spot rather than being drawn into more extreme antics.

Another gig was a game of two halves in which a group led by Martin Kershaw played beautifully more than making up for the challenging free jazz style of  the Roby Glod Trio.  They were allegedly both playing music by or inspired by the same man (Lennie Tristano) but you could have fooled me.

After decades of blotting the landscape this unlovely building is on its way out thus improving the view from our flats.  Too much to hope that the adjacent high rise block will go the same way?

Opening my curtains on the last morning of the jazz course this was the scene.  A pretty red balloon floating over the Perthshire countryside at 7am.  Why and where was it going?  Maybe making its way to T In The Park where if this lovely weather persists the punters should have a great time.

We had a great time with our own little sub-division of the musical universe.  There was a brilliant concert given by the tutors last night and then we all performed in our various groups this afternoon to tumultuous applause from one another and from friends and family.  Maybe about a half of the players were youngsters so mums and dads picking them up were a large part of the audience, but I spotted George Duncan, described by The Herald as "jazz advocate, dapper emcee and board member with the Scottish National Jazz Orchestra".  Looking for up and coming talent perhaps.

My own talent is more on the down and going side.  The week highlighted my many deficiencies as a saxophonist but my enthusiasm is undiminished.

Upun my word if I weren't rehearsing tomorrow night I'd be heading west.

My recording device isn't clever enough to cope with a channel change so I didn't manage to see much of Murray's third round match but it seems to have been another confident and well controlled victory so the omens are set fair for next week.

I'll be sampling the delights of a Catholic girls boarding school on finals day so if Murray makes it I'll be reliant on recording but we can be pretty sure the entire match will be broadcast on one channel.  The girls have been sent home on holiday so will be spared the noisy efforts of the aspiring musicians attending Richard Michael's Summer Jazz School and vice versa.    

One well known Catholic girl (that's my assumption given her origins) made a surprise appearance with the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra in a packed Usher Hall last night.  Nicola Benedetti came on to play one number with the band (part of Wynton Marsalis's Blood on the Fields).  That meant that in the absence of Joe Temperley from the line-up we still had a Scottish element.  I was disappointed that Temperley wasn't there but at 84 a twenty gig tour even though it included his native Scotland is maybe a bit daunting and for all I know he's not too well.

Big band music is not really top of my pops so although I enjoyed the concert I liked best the encore when Marsalis came back on with the rhythm section and played absolutely divinely for ten or fifteen minutes putting his trumpet through all possible shades from squawk to lullaby. And isn't the Queen's Hall a much better fit for that style of music?  Yes, though it clearly couldn't have satisfied the demand for places.  

Adam House lends itself to many activities and currently houses a wonderful exhibition, The Poster Art of Modern China.  The material comes from the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Center.  You can see it all on their site but it's much more impressive in the flesh as it were.

Here's Mao the culmination of the Marxist Leninist ideal.  We can see his forebears Stalin, Lenin and Marx.  It looks as though Marx is there twice but I think one of them must be Engels.  Their ideas were the same but their noses are slightly different.

 I love this one of the infamous Gang of Four being done to death by a terribly young set of communist heroes.

This one, which celebrates the founding of communist China is fascinating.  It was first printed in 1952 and revised several times as political tides ebbed and flowed.  Gao Gang who was to the left of the bearded chap at the extreme right of the front row disappeared in this post 1956 version and during the Cultural Revolution Dong Biwn's face replaced Liu Shoaqui's (dark suit third from the left).  Then after the Cultural Revolution Gao and Liu were reinstated (both were dead by that time).  All this before Photoshop had been invented.

It would be a bit hyperbolic to call the tram route in from the airport scenic but it's very pleasant and the journey struck me as a good way for a visitor to arrive in the city.  It's not the fastest mode of transport, especially going round corners when you might call its progress stately if you were being kind but it's comfortable and there's plenty room for luggage.  What a pity the rails don't stretch that last 0.6 miles (says Google) to McDonald Road.

I suppose that yesterday's weather helped.  Edinburgh looked at her best in the warm sunshine.  I always think it's a bit of a bummer when coming back from holiday to find good weather.  Why did I spend all that money to go to the Mediterranean when I could have sunbathed happily at home?

Unfair I know and of course I wouldn't have seen this

Mount Etna was having a little eruption when we were in the area.  Indeed the airport at Catania was closed for a bit because of ash the day before we were due to fly out.  Thanks to the roof of a parked car I was able to keep the shutter open for a while without the fuzzing that would have resulted if I'd been holding the camera.  The picture was taken in Acireale which is about 25 miles away.

Some years ago I was playing golf somewhere with the Seniors des Quatres Ligues during the French Open Tennis tournament.  The TV in the clubhouse was showing the tennis and one of my fellow golfers was standing at the bar gesturing at the TV and sounding off about mon fils this and mon fils the other.

I was quite impressed at the thought that I was in the company of the father of a tennis ace.  It was some time, maybe even a few days, till I discovered he had not been saying mon fils but Monfils.

He's Murray's opponent today and I hope that the rain in Paris lets up sufficiently for the match to take place.  I've suffered from rain myself recently.  I went to play golf a couple of weeks ago not only for the first time this season, not only for the first time this calendar year but for the first time since Lothianburn went bust last Autumn.

I got as far as the 7th when I had to leave the course because of lightning.  The storm had clearly set in for a while so that was that.  This week the rain started when I reached the second tee, no lightning thank goodness.  It rained with increasing intensity till about the 9th then eased to a drizzle, taking up the attack again the 16th and holding its own until I came off.

I hope Murray and Monfils have better luck this afternoon or rather this evening since it doesn't look as though they'll get started before 6.30 French time.  That probably means we won't see all of the match today.

I should have been at the theatre tonight but I was unwilling to hit the record button and leave watching the conclusion of Murray's match until I'd come home.  In the event I wouldn't have seen the end because the match was suspended at seven all in the fifth set.  Murray should really have finished it off in the fourth but he served two double faults in a row and his game collapsed.

It was a great match though with almost as many ups and downs as that fascinating 19th century French cause célebre, the Dreyfus affair.  Robert Harris's fictionalised account, An Officer and a Spy, which I bought at the recent Historical Fiction Festival is a cracking read that has kept me up late a couple of nights.

Apart from giving us an insight into the prevailing anti-Semitism of the time and the strain put on the French  army's self-respect by its defeat at the hands of the Prussians in 1870 the story of the unravelling of the case is quite gripping.  I suppose it added to my enjoyment that while I lived in Paris I was in a show that featured Dreyfus's degradation and that I've seen with my own eyes Devil's Island where he was incarcerated.

Here it is, seen from Isle Royale the main island in the little group it belongs to off the coast of French  Guiana.

This may look like a souvenir of my holiday in Austria last month but it is in fact a snap from the recent Keswick Mountain Festival where amongst other treats there was a Tyrolean evening.  We were serenaded by these young chaps while munching our way through goulash soup, wienersnitzel and various Austrian puds.

While beer of the country was available there was a complete absence of Austrian wines.  A very acceptable French Muscadet stepped into the breach and proved an excellent lubricant for communal yodelling. 

My first day on a golf course since Lothianburn went bust last autumn.  It was a lovely afternoon - at first.  Then the sky started to darken and as I came off the seventh green the thunder rumbled, the lightning flashed, the rain pelted down and I left the course in a hurry.

Much to my surprise I got there and even more surprisingly I was able to buy a ticket for the very session that I failed to get when I first applied.

My only gripe now is that having been charged £4.50 postage for the first lot of 5 tickets (which haven't been sent out yet) I'm being charged another £4.50 postage for this 1 ticket.

I left my computer in the queue when I went out.  When I got back there was no sign that it had got to the front and then been bumped for doing nothing or that it had fallen asleep and made no progress.

So I started again.  After two and a half hours of telling me that I had less than half an hour to wait the reducing time bar was tantalizingly close to disappearing when I had to go out again.

Once more on my return there is no sign of anything having happened.  I'm making one more attempt and goodness me but the system says I'll be there in less than half an hour.

The last remaining tranche of Commonwealth Games tickets went on sale at 10 this morning. I was there in the hope of getting a ticket for the gymnastics event that was the one out of six events that I failed to get a ticket for first time round.

I logged on before 10 and as expected went into a queue. The reported wait slowly went down from over an hour to between 30 and 60 minutes, then to between 0 and 30, ha! ha!

Over thirty minutes later at approximately 12.20 my internet connection, which since I upgraded to BT Infinity has been 99.9% flawless went down.

Panic stations followed by ineffective fiddling followed by it's self-righting followed by my getting back onto the ticket site placed me as you have no doubt guessed further back in the queue.  I have to go out before the forecast puts me at the front and I suspect it's an optimistic forecast and there's no guarantee of a ticket being available if and when I do get there so I am not holding my breath in anticipation of success.

You wouldn't think a weather forecast could keep you gripped and entertained for over two hours on a Saturday night but Pressure does just that, as is so well explained by Claire here.  Only the snooker final comes near it.

I took up playing jazz saxophone about 50 years too late to profit from this research finding.

When I came out of The Forbidden Experiment I dallied over some Ivor Cutler CDs and agreed with the Traverse chap manning the stall that The Beautiful Cosmos of Ivor Cutler was well worth seeing.  "What about the show I'd just seen?" he asked.  "Unbearable" was my reply.  Mark Fisher in the Guardian was more sympathetic but certainly puts his finger on one of the main reasons why I found it so unsatisfactory when he  says  "...but its real problem is that it's not fully integrated into a coherent whole."  I'm not sure that it's even integrated into an incoherent whole.

 I can't say I was ever particularly an Ivor Cutler fan but I did find that his deadpan humour generally made me smile, and then shake my head at its absurdity.  My favourite piece is "Who tore your trousers James?" but I can't find a freely available recording of that so try this one as a taster.  

It's been a heavy concert going few days, four on the trot.  There was Nicola Benedetti looking great in a swanky black and gold number while elegantly and sinuously playing Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 5.  Then a very retiring little chap in what looked like a Romanian hand me down suit thundering his way through the dramatic and romantic Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto No. 1.  He followed it up with a short contrasting encore that had more rests than notes in it.  On Sunday Donald Runnicles looking every inch the musical maestro with his long white hair (pity about the growing bald patch) steered his band through the peaks and troughs of Mahler's 9th Symphony.  How can so many violinists play at the same time and yet there be such quietness?

All very enjoyable but the best was undoubtedly the SNJO.  They played Tommy Smith's arrangement of Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue which he had tweeked a bit, reducing the tenor sax's contribution in favour of featuring a wonderful Japanese pianist called Makoto Ozone.  I was sitting about three feet from the grand piano experiencing shock and awe at how his hands danced around.

There was even more shock and awe at Ozone's arrangement of Mozart's 9th Piano Concerto.  Some of what the band played was clearly kosher Mozart albeit with different colours (how he'd have loved a sax section), some was clearly pure invention.  But much of the piece was I assume a subtle blend.

In standard jazz band style there were solos from various players.  I particularly enjoyed a gentle and lyrical soprano sax solo.  There was an extraordinarily vigorous drum solo that seemed as though it could only end in the death of the drummer but which was gracefully brought to a conclusion by gentle encouragement from the piano.

It was altogether a brilliant evening.

Only one concert to look forward to this week unless I decide to squeeze in a piping evening but three plays in compensation.
 

Goodness knows how many productions of Midsummer Night's Dream I have seen. It must be well into double figures but until now I had not seen an all male version.

We know that in Shakespeare's day women's parts were played by men or by boys so Propellor's female free productions are I suppose akin to the original instrument movement in music. I wouldn't claim to be an ace at distinguishing a modern instrument from one of its ancestors but I can generally tell the difference between a man and a woman. Not always as my momentary assumption at a recent party that a closely cropped hairstyle atop a tall slim frame should be included in a greeting of hello chaps proved.

But I had no trouble in this show and that's one of its faults I think.  I'm sure that 16th and 17th century theatres strove to make their audiences believe in the femininity of the characters.  They weren't presenting drag acts or pantomime queens.  Here they seemed too obviously male.   

However this is unnecessary carping, and indeed a female with whom I talked about it had no such reservations.  The show was very enjoyable.  Staging and costumes were excellent.  The disposition of actors in every scene and the finely choreographed group movement of the fairies made me weep at the inadequacies of our productions.  The rude mechanicals did the business though they couldn't compete with those I saw at The Globe last summer.

I thought I was going to another all male show tonight at Mathew Bourne's version of Swan Lake so I blinked when the second person on stage was clearly a woman.  But I had got hold of the wrong end of the chromosome. It's the swans that are all male in contrast to the traditional band of birds.  Other cast members are appropriately sexed for their roles.

What can you say about this version of the ballet except that it's wonderful and you just can't believe that anyone else will ever come along to re-imagine it so excitingly.

I saw this on a tee shirt while I was on holiday.  I imagine it was designed to make the mathematically literate feel good about themselves while posing a puzzle to the rest of humanity.

Thankfully I was able to dredge from my memory the name for the square root of minus one otherwise I should have remained outside the self satisfied coterie.  Imagine the disgrace.

There were a couple of interesting concerts last week.  The SCO featured Macmillan's percussion concerto Veni, Veni Emmanuel.  This is a fascinating piece to watch.  There are drums, bongos, tam-tams, xylophones, vibraphones, cowbells, wood blocks and sundry other instruments spread across the stage in front of the orchestra and although the soloist doesn't have to run he certainly has to walk briskly from one side to the other past the conductor every so often to get to the appropriate instrument.

You can find various performances on Youtube but this BBC Proms one of the premiere in 1992 gives lovely shots from various points within the orchestra and a little bit of introductory information.

In the final moments of the piece every player becomes a percussionist.  Each has a little steel bar either attached to their music stand or in their hand and they play on these with I suppose another little steel bar to make a light, tinkling, shimmering field of sound.  The soloist then joins in on a set of tubular bells.  When all dies away to nothing you are left with only the reverberations of the bells in the air.  It's a spellbinding moment that fortunately was not spoilt by premature clapping.

The clapping came in one movement too soon at the RSNO performance of Ravi Shankar's Raga Mala (Sitar Concerto No2).  It did sound awfully like it might be the end and I don't suppose anyone in the hall had heard the piece before so forgiveable.

Shankar's daughter Anoushka was the sitar soloist sitting cross-legged on a little platform beside the conductor.  It was full of interesting sounds and I enjoyed it but the best bit of the evening for me was when the concerto was over.  Anoushka came on again and played an encore.  Those few minutes of unaccompanied sitar were delicious.

I'd never heard of Casablanca: The Gin Joint Cut but it sounded fun from the Evening News puff and so it proved last night.  Three very able actors take on all the main roles in a distilled version of the movie Casablanca.  They play it with tongues firmly in cheeks and milk the melodramatic possibilities.  The production whizzes along with loads of clever business and lots of gags.

It was here for one night only but you can catch it by treating yourself to April in Paris.   

For a very long time my bellwether of cinematic incomprehensibility has been Last Year at Marienbad.  Its position has been threatened from time to time, by Mullholland Drive for example, but it may now have been overtaken for ever by Under the Skin.

There's a certain hypnotic fascination to it but dearie me what a lot of nonsense.  If it was trying to tell me something it failed.

Verdi's Macbeth didn't grab me either although it was perfectly comprehensible.  I found it dull and lacking in tension.  I don't think that can be entirely because of familiarity with the story.  Maybe it's because of the scaled down musical forces as mentioned in the Guardian review or maybe the second back row in The King's was too far away from the action or maybe I just wasn't in the mood.

Whatever the reason I was disappointed.

I should have incorporated this in my postcard.  It was on my table at dinner on the 29th.  Thoughtful, no?

One can't be sure where they got "presented" from but possibilities present themselves.  In certain contexts "put forward" is a synonym of "present", as in "she presented her idea to the committee".  Clocks are also often presented on retiring but generally on retiring for good rather than for the night.  Or were they thinking of changing the clock to the present time?  It's a puzzle.

The phone by my bedside erupted into noisy life at 3 this morning and eventually drove me into going through to the lounge and disconnecting the line.

It may have been the BT engineers working hard through the night to fix the phone or more likely a repeat of the manic ringing that had followed my reporting of a fault earlier in the evening.  In either case it was to say the least a pain in the neck when I was still feeling ready for a good rest after a week's ski-ing.

Obertauern was lovely although extremely short of anything to do if you don't ski or if the weather is bad but fortunately the weather was great and the hotel had a smart little pool to relax in after coming off the slopes.

Some scenes from the Beatles film Help were filmed here and they've got a shop window of memorabilia that you can see in my homemade postcard.  The autobahn isn't a real one of course but a nice long wide comfortable slide down the hill.  Very much appreciated at the end of the day. 

 

I am not a gambler but I couldn't resist hazarding all the sterling I had in my pocket, which wasn't much, on buying a ticket to win a shiny red JAG as I passed through Edinburgh airport.

This car and ten grand to fill the tank with all for nine quid.  What a bargain - but I thought it was a straightforward raffle and instead there turned out to be a spot the ball element.  Given my history of locating the ball a million miles from its proper place in the Evening News my hopes are effectively dashed.

Some pictures from a weekend in Wester Ross 

I had the pleasure of hearing myself namechecked on French radio yesterday.

I'm a relatively frequent listener to their weekday programme Open Jazz.  They often run little competitions related to the theme of  the broadcast and you are invited to email in an answer.  Thanks to the wonder of the www the answers to questions about which you haven't a clue can be found and then it's down to getting your email in quickly enough.

A biopic about the Swedish jazz singer Monica Zetterlund opens in France today and she was the theme of yesterday's programme.  There were in fact two competitions.  Since the prize for the first one was tickets for the film I ignored it but I was all organised for the second.  I had the email set up with only the answer to stick in.  I had Wikipedia's entry for Monica open.  I had the IMDB page for the film open.

Came the question...where was the man who plays the pianist Bill Evans in the film born?  Quick as a flash I got the actor's name from IMDB, googled him, found a biog and bingo, plugged Anchorage into my email and hit send.

I can't claim to have awaited the result on tenterhooks.  In fact I was busy on the computer paying more or less no attention to the programme when I heard "nell".  That's me à la française.  Checking on the podcast I found I was the tenth of ten winners of the CD Sky/Lift by Randy Ingram, the actor who not only played Bill Evans but played the piano as well.

Isn't that great?

The theatre has offered up something of a variable feast for me recently.  Some shows that did well in the Fringe are doing the rounds as you might expect and I saw two of them at the Traverse.  I didn't like either of them and turned to the reviews of their successful beginnings to try to see what I'd missed.

In Gym Party we the audience are asked to vote for one of three contestants on the basis of their performance in games of a sort.  The three are dedicated to winning at any cost and losing results in nasty treatment.  The Guardian whose review gives it four stars compares it favourably to Fight Night, another show in which the audience decide who wins through.  For my money Gym Party was Punch and Judy knock about compared to the subtle manipulation displayed in Fight Night.  It was juvenile and brutish.  I didn't like it.

The eponymous protagonist of The Confessions of Gordon Brown didn't get enough votes to keep him in office and the show didn't get my vote either.  The Telegraph gave it four stars which is more praise than it ever gave its subject and they were wrong in both cases in my opinion.

I was looking forward to vigorous political satire along the trail blazed by That Was The Week That Was, Yes Minister, In The Thick Of It and the like.  But this was weak humour stretched thinly over an hour and forty minutes without respite.  It's tough for one man to move around a stage for that length of time without a degree of repetition but I screamed internally as he prowled pointlessly for the nth time upstage right almost but not quite leaving the set only to turn on his heel and come back.

My third outing was to another play that took TV talent shows as its model.  In Mama, quiero ser famoso the audience are the audience in a TV studio and vote on who should be proclaimed famous.  Strangely enough the people whose antics on stage we were treated to were not those who were subject to the audience's vote.  We were asked to choose between three audience members selected apparently at random by their ticket numbers on the basis of their response to the question why do you deserve to be famous.   They were plants of course but remarkably ill prepared.  Is that because this was a Spanish play presented by the Hispanic Studies department of the university and they were roped in on the night?

A student production it may have been but it was very well put together and hugely enjoyable despite the fact that a fair bit of the dialogue passed me by.  The cast acted with great energy and commitment especially one girl who sang about churros and strutted her stuff with aplomb.  She struck me as definitely talented.  And no company could have wished for a more enthusiastic audience.

Eternal Love is a play in which theological discourse and sexual passion play equal parts.  Abelard and Heloise are renowned as archetypal lovers and the play tells both their story and the story of the  struggle between faith and scientific enquiry that continues to this day.

An excellent production which was well received with an especial appreciation from both cast and audience for the understudy Kevin Leslie who came on for the indisposed Sam Crane.

Now it's the turn of Danish womanhood.

Outside the library this morning three Danish schoolgirls canvassed my opinion on Scottish independence. They told me they had come over to do this as part of a school project.

When we studied the economic geography of Fife at secondary school I think it was up to us individually to suss out whether the sugar beet fields described to us actually existed or not.  To be fair the school organised some trips.  We went to the Rothes Colliery which must have been all of ten miles away.  We went further afield one Easter holiday to spend a week near Abingdon studying (sort of) West Side Story and Salad Days.  

But this Scandinavian venture seems much more ambitious.

Sipping a coffee quietly between events at Stanza I was accosted by two young American girls who asked if I'd like to hear some poetry.  Following my acquiescence one treated me to poems by Emily Dickinson and Christina Rossetti while the second girl recited a piece of her own.  It was a good piece I think but can't remember a word of it.

I thought this must be some form of busking especially as one girl was clutching a paper cup that could have been a collecting cup.  She didn't thrust it at me but held it close to her body.  Assuming this to be from maidenly reticence I asked what was expected of me in return for their efforts. "Why! A poem" they said. 

Now I could have mustered a verse or two of Ode to a Haggis or made up a wee limerick on the lines of - There was a young girl at Stanza/who promised the boys a bonanza...

You get the idea.  But fortuitously I had just purchased a book of poetry by a poet I'd heard earlier so I whipped it out, leafed through and found something that seemed quite appropriate at the time though I'm not sure now that "Ululate my angels..." was entirely suitable.

Of course this turned out not to be busking but an integral part of the festival and I was recited to on two further occasions.

Of the half dozen events I went to I most enjoyed a session on World War I poets.  Kitted out in plastic replicas of tin helmets the young Dundee student members of Joot Theatre and a definitely more mature member of the company with flowing beard and khaki beret performed poems of the war.  A girl in period costume did all the lovelorn lass at home, weeping widow and encourager to take up arms bits. 

All the poets you might expect were featured; Sassoon, Owen, Brooke and so on.  But new to me and not featuring in this list of 25 poets of the First World War was Joseph Lee.  A Dundee man he was apparently well regarded in his time but the voices of others have drowned his out since.  He's well worth looking out for.  Here's a tiny but striking sample.

Every bullet has its billet;

Many bullets more than one:

God! Perhaps I killed a mother

When I killed a mother's son.

The loud bits of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique would have covered some of the throat clearing, coughing and snifling that beset me a few days ago but I decided at the last minute to give the concertgoing public a break and stayed at home with a hot toddy.

You could have cleared a hundred throats during Glasgow Girls at The Citizens the following day such was the amplified volume of what were already pretty loud numbers.

Half a dozen talented young women acted, sang and danced their way through this story of schoolgirls banding together in support of asylum seekers housed in Glasgow and whose children they were at school with.  Their special target was the so called dawn raids in which families were turfed out of their beds without warning in the early morning and hustled off south to detention and subsequent deportation.  

A serious subject but it made a great show not at all devoid of humour.  The two actors who played all the adult characters in the tale slipped from one personality into its polar opposite and back again within a heartbeat and with terrific skill.

Rain never seems to me to be in short supply by the banks of the Clyde but the Glasgow Girls umbrella twisting dance number relied on the rainy impression given by lighting in stark contrast to the real water cascading down on a similar number in Singin' in the Rain. That's a light and frothy show but had excellent singing and dancing and well....you have to admire all that water business.

Dick Lee and David Vernon on clarinet and accordion respectively were a pretty loud but enjoyable accompaniment to dinner at Vincaffe where a number of Sunday night events are scheduled. I was there with one of my U3A jazzmen and a group of his friends.  It was a foot-tapping evening in which delicious pasta was washed down with a nice Montepulciano.  I nobly foreswore dessert in anticipation of Austrian puddings to come.