Despite Julius Caesar taking up a lot of time I've managed to get to a few concerts in the last couple of weeks.  The RSNO did Britten's War Requiem which was a pretty impressive undertaking, needing a chamber orchestra, a full symphony orchestra, the organ, two choirs and three soloists.  You can imagine the amount of sound they were able to produce.

Another RSNO concert that I enjoyed very much featured the alto saxophone in a lovely melody played early in Rachmaninov's Symphonic Dances, after which the player had nothing to do except listen to the music.  Much better that way round than waiting for half an hour before blowing your first note.

On St Cecilia's Day there was a lunchtime concert in her very own hall in the Cowgate.  An eclectic selection of pieces played on acoustic guitar by Edinburgh born Adam Brown.

It was a small crowd at the first night of Julius Caesar but a good few more were in last night and both audiences seemed to enjoy the show.  There's a review here which I think is quite a fair one.  From my own point of view it was nice to have a complimentary comment on my performance especially since I haven't been so much as mentioned in a review since 2007, even though I've appeared in more than half a dozen since then.

Road to Perdition is a film I remember for two reasons.  One is that it looked superb.  Indeed it won an Oscar for cinematography.  The other is less complimentary.  I couldn't believe how much money, effort and talent had been applied to not very much at all.

Although most critics liked Feral on the Fringe its revival at The Traverse evoked much the same reaction in me as RtoP.  Planning and executing the show called for a great deal of thought, inventiveness, ingenuity and dedication.  But to what end?  To illustrate in a toytown fashion the dubious thesis that shopping centres lead to the destruction of civilization?

Running alongside Feral was Ciphers.  It wasn't Shakespeare but it was cleverly constructed, well written, well staged and well acted entertainment set in the world of spying. The actors did a great job, having in some cases to converse in Russian and Japanese.  I don't speak either of those languages but it sounded pretty kosher.  It would be straining credulity to say that an hour or two in GCHQ and a brush with a strange Foreign Office department gives me any insight into espionage but the story didn't appear too far-fetched.  Entertainment aside there was food for thought in how pressure might be exerted by "the authorities" on the man in the street in furtherance of so-called national security.

The second tranche of my salsa course is now over and I still can't dance it with any degree of confidence or skill but that's never stopped me enjoying the Gay Gordons so look out you Latin ladies. 
    

I've jigged around from time to time to salsa music and Claire managed to get me more or less doing some proper steps in this wonderful place, but I'm now launched on an intensive salsa beginners course.

The first tranche of three hours was on Saturday morning in Broughton High School.  It was a brand new building when I was last in it to play badminton circa 1973 and it's been rebuilt since.  So it's doing better than my alma mater of KHS whose "new school" dates from the 50s and looked pretty seedy the last time I passed it.

Like Drummond where I do another adult education class Broughton was a hive of activity and I'm sure presented a much livelier and friendlier atmosphere than prevailed in the schools of my time.

That corner of Edinburgh shelters Fettes College and the playing fields of various schools.  They were all in action and it was jolly hard to find a place to park.  When I go back for the second tranche, for there is more, I'll take the bus.

In the meantime I have a wee CD with a man shouting out instructions to practice with.

I also enjoyed a quite different musical experience over the weekend, two actually, or even two and bit if we count the little radio play about Philip Glass and Steve Reich's two men and a van post Julliard experience.  I don't know just how true that was but it was an interesting insight into their different characters.

The RSNO did one of their Naked Classics concerts in which before hearing a piece time is spend telling you something about the composer and the work, illustrating points by playing extracts and so on.  I actually enjoyed that more than I did listening to the performance of Vaughan Williams' 5th Symphony that followed.

The SCO's concert on the other hand was super.  A brand new piece by Peter Maxwell Davis (who was present) was followed by an exhilarating piano concerto by Bartok.

I've been a Bartok fan ever since as a teenager I lay in bed and heard his weird and wonderful  Music for strings, percussion and celesta coming out of a radio just like this powered by batteries just like these.  I'd no idea what a celesta was then and am not much clearer now but the music doesn't sound nearly so weird and it's still a favourite.

Stravinsky is always associated for me with the jagged, even dissonant tones of The Rite of Spring but his Symphony in C which closed the concert was sweet and tuneful, in fact a bit bland for my taste.

There was a degree of upheaval in our production of Julius Caesar when it became clear that Mr Caesar was not going to be able to learn the lines in time.  So he got the bum's rush; Lepidus had his lines wiped out and became Cicero; Cicero (that was me) became Decius (that's now me); and Decius became Caesar.

Opening night two weeks tomorrow will see us word perfect - no sweat.

And finally here's Connor in the Scottish Amateur Poker Championship in which he came a thoroughly respectable 14th out of 140.

I am indebted to Classic FM for the reminder that today is World Saxophone Day, being the anniversary of the birth of its inventor, but their schedule is unforthcoming about how they intend to celebrate.

I imagine they'll choose a tune that's a little more cheery than this melancholy étude.

This is a cause close to my heart and sometimes it seems that all that litter is close to my house. Go to Clean Up Britain and help the country save money and look better.

I slept through most of Monkey Bars and given what little I did see have no regrets.

A glimpse of a smashing weekend in Spain

The Colombians, whether innocently or duplicitously, didn't put a best before date on this sachet so I don't know how old it was.  It must be some time since Ewan was last in Colombia though.

I used it anyway and it wasn't too bad.  However, on the whole I prefer non instant coffee.

The way the Richard Alston Dance Company swing themselves joyously around to Scott Joplin in the final piece of their current show, having already expended lots of energy in the almost obligatory nod to Britten in this his centenary year, they must have refuelled on coffee as the show progressed. 

Lots of energy went into Crime and Punishment but it was pretend vodka (I assume pretend) fuelling that one.  This is an excellent production that brings to vibrant life Dostoyevsky's novel about the destitute student who posits the idea that any crime is justified if it is for the greater good.  Not a few dictators have thought along those lines.

I like Quentin Lett's review in the Mail and am pleased to see that my reaction to the Brechtian presentation makes me less of an old fogey than him.  Rush to see it at The Lyceum.  Judging by the attendance the day I went you'll have no trouble getting a seat.  Shameful.

I may not be an old fogey but I fear I am more the gullible old fool than the wordly-wise sceptic if my reaction to Paul Bright's Confessions of a Justified Sinner is any guide.  This is another absolutely excellent piece of theatre but when you get the programme at the end of the show you realise all is not what it seemed. How could I have been so blind?  I'll be helping Nigerian bankers free up their millions next.  Get to Summerhall by the end of the week and see how you get on.

It could have been better attended too, as could last night's SCO concert.

There was some Britten and a wee bit of his teacher Frank Bridge but it was probably the brand new Sally Beamish piece for soprano and chamber orchestra, Flodden, that kept the crowds away.  I find that I rather like contemporary music and Sally Beamish for one keeps turning out stuff that I enjoy.  Both her Saxophone Concerto that I heard at the Sax Congress last year and her Percussion Concerto played at The Queen's Hall last season were great.  I think if more people came to hear work like hers they would find that they can enjoy it.

Flodden was of course commemorating the great battle of 500 years ago and started off with a gut wrenching wave of sound from the singer interspersed with the ringing tones of a bell or a triangle.  This was described as a wordless lament in my neighbour's programme notes at which I cast a cheeky eye.  When words did come for the most part I couldn't make them out.  Whether the band were too loud or the singer not loud enough or the music too heavily scored I don't know.

Nonetheless I enjoyed the music but it would have been nice to know what was being sung.

The conductor abandoned his baton in favour of a violin to lead the orchestra in the final piece.  Metamorphosen by Richard Strauss.  It's powerful and tragic tones fitted like a glove the concert's billing as The Pity of War.   

I was sent a survey the other day, about what is not important, and was intrigued by the very first question.

It was "Do you identify as A) male or B) female?"

This I assume is the politically correct way to ask who wears the trousers.  It would make more sense to me grammatically if it said "Do others identify you as A) male or B) female?" 

Ewan was here recently preparing his flat for renting out and from the debris being thrown away I acquired various foodstuffs including some of this

Despite its best before date of December 2006 I prepared a cup in the hopes of recapturing the taste of bygone days when it was our instant coffee of choice, the choice being this or nothing.

I may well have recaptured the taste but it wasn't very pleasant. Let's be charitable and say it was stale with age.

The same could not be said about Ian Rankin's début play Dark Road. It was brand new after all but I found it pretty stale and old-fashioned.  Maybe the legions of admirers of his detective fiction had a great night.

Most reviews tried charitably to find good in the play.  The FT found a lot of good and gave it four stars and the Daily Record enthused.

Others were more restrained.  Thom Dibdin thought it "intriguing but imperfect". Mark Fisher in The Guardian talks about "implausible corners of the plot" and "clunkier passages of exposition".  The Independent quite likes it but finds a lot of the script stuck in novel mode that doesn't work when spoken.

Finding less to like was the Telegraph's Mark Brown who found the play "a criminally misjudged experiment".  Rivalling Mark Brown in dislike for the play is Joyce Macmillan who concludes in The Scotsman that after this "silly, sensational mess with nothing to say" it is "time to lower the curtain and move on."

Moving on to The Traverse later in the week Couldn't Care Less was a touching little two-hander about a daughter coping with her mother in the early stages of dementia and Translunar Paradise was a superb piece about memory and love.  It dispensed with words and was played by two actors who used masks, movement and mime.  They were supported by an accordionist whose music was integral to the action of the play.  

When I bought tickets for Cedar Lake Contemporary Ballet's appearance in Edinburgh I was advised that the show contained scenes of a sexual nature and semi-nudity.  The tickets bore the same message printed in capitals just as modern fag packets tell you that they will kill you one day.

Well we can only conclude that New York audiences are significantly more easily upset than Edinburgers.  There was nothing in this show that I would not have been content for my maiden aunt (were she not deceased) nor my servants (had I any) to have seen.

It was indeed a super show and since I am unable to provide a knowledgeable analysis I refer you to the Guardian's review.

You wouldn't have thought that Greek tragedy was much of a laugh unless you had seen Spymonkey's Oedipussy at the Traverse this week.  It's a fast and furious slapstick version with the cast of four constantly involved in inventive antics and lightning costume changes.  I particularly admired the change from Corinthian shepherd to Theban shepherd performed as the actor ran from one side of the stage to the other. The show is full of gags and even a modicum of audience participation.  I enjoyed singing along to "leprosy isn't fun at all" as disaster struck Thebes.

But despite the knockabout, as Joyce Macmillan points out in her review, the tragedy is not lost to sight nor is the show devoid of emotion.

Emotion in spades was on view as Sol Gabetta bestrode her cello and gave an intensely powerful performance of Shostakovich's Cello Concerto No. 1 with the RSNO last night.  I'm a big fan of Shostakovitch and have listened to this piece frequently on record but was absolutely mesmerised hearing it live.  If I were not already committed to the delights of modern dance this evening I'd be on my way to Glasgow to hear her play it again. 

The rest of the programme consisted of another nod to Britten with his jolly Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra and Dvorak's 7th Symphony which the sleeve notes on my recording dub "sombre and austere".  That may be but who wants to be jolly all the time.

I thought on Saturday it was really nice to have a quiet evening at home, a little something to eat, a glass of wine, listen to the radio etc.

I discovered today that I should have been at the Traverse.  There was a ticket magneted (a handy neologism?) to my fridge but the event had not made its way into my diary.  I can't even blag my way into another performance because Saturday was the last night of the run. 

What a pain.  It was a show with a Fringe First too.

There's a little table in the corridor outside my front door that I put there to act as a stand on which to display beautiful houseplants.  So far it has proved something of a challenging spot, inimical to flourishing growth.  Indeed it seems to be a deathspot for plants.

This is just the latest drooping its way to oblivion.  I watered it regularly and even fed it.  Though decades old Baby Bio could have turned toxic I suppose.  I've thrown it out now and installed a new plant.  Floreat! 

I enjoyed three very different but excellent musical events this week.

I heard Branford Marsalis play a modern classical piece at the sax congress in St Andrews last year but at the Queen's Hall he was back to his jazz roots with the SNJO for a celebration of Wayne Shorter's music.  The highlight for me was the encore in which Tommy Smith and Marsalis soloed together, first one then the other in a call and response manner. They kept it up for ages getting more and more inventive and more and more hectic till the final shared climactic chords.

In principle the four bar exchanges I do from time to time with my teacher should build up to that but the world will end before I get that far.

Fiddler on the Roof was a show in which many cast members acted, danced and played an instrument all at the same time.  One poor girl even had to play the clarinet while lying on her back.  That made fiddling on a roof look straightforward.  It's terrific entertainment although you could sneer a little at its sentimentality if you were feeling out of sorts, for even though the harsh context of Tsarist rule and anti-Semitism adds a little salt it is a sugary confection.  Perhaps the stories on which the musical is based are more acidic.

The RSNO opened their season with a little bit of Britten, the first of several to come, in honour of the centenary of his birth and for the main dish The Planets. I like The Planets and most of all in the suite I like Mars.  I first heard that when on holiday at my aunt's house in Liverpool in the 50s, not as a concert piece but as theme music to Quatermass.  It was great then and even without alien invaders still great at the Usher Hall on Friday.

The UK premier of James Macmillan's Third Piano Concerto was the jam in that sandwich and rich and tasty jam it was.  I loved it and was delighted to hear it a second time thanks to the following night's Glasgow concert being broadcast.  The Herald says it is a masterpiece and who am I to disagree. It can be heard here for the next few days. I'm listening now.

From my Commonwealth Games application for six sessions I was allocated five.  That you would think is pretty good.  And so it is but I started off by deciding I'd like to see a couple of gymnastics sessions.  The rest were in a sense just make-weights and of course the one I didn't get was a gymnastics event.

But all is not over.  I understand that the tickets of those who applied for more than their bank accounts can cope with will be re-offered shortly. 

This has been the first thing to meet my eyes in the morning for the past few days. One of those colours is destined to cover my bedroom walls. If only I can make up my mind which.

Filth is quite fun.  It's a pretty nasty story in many ways but a wonderfully exuberant film and it has a moral centre.

It was a relief to enjoy an outing after disappointment two weeks running at the Traverse.  The Collection was a mildly promising drama about loan sharks that lost its way after the interval.  The Baroness, about a relationship between Karen Blixen of Out of Africa fame and a young poet, went on and on in a seemingly endless repetition of her saying what magnificent promise he had if he would only shape up and him asking what she wanted of him.  It was Denmark's play of the year in 2011 so their boredom threshold is clearly higher than mine.

For the sake of exposing myself to Italian (I'm doing a course to brush mine up) I went to see La Grande Belleza.   This was a yawn inducing excursion into the boringly decadent lives of rich Romans.  Luckily I found a few moments of entertainment and the Italian sounded lovely so it was not a complete waste of time.

I took in a case of wine for a neighbour who was out.  After ten days she turned up to claim it and gave me a bottle for my non trouble.  That's what I call neighbourly.

Neighbourliness cropped up earlier in the month when I was re-elected nem con as secretary of DORA (nobody wants to relieve me of the post) and when I went to Stirling to attend the AGM of Neighbourhood Watch Scotland.

That was quite fun in its way.  I learnt for example that there is such a thing as a Deliberate Fires Reduction Officer and picked up a free loan shark highlighter pen from Trading Standards, having lost out on their giveaway pink piggy banks.

That's one festival free week over and it's back to normality.

In my case that has involved the DORA AGM, my first rehearsal as Cicero in the Grads' production of Julius Caesar due to be presented in late November, a day in Glasgow and a birthday party(not mine).

In Glasgow I paid my first visit to their botanic gardens.  The gardens were neither as extensive nor as attractive as their Edinburgh counterpart but the hothouses were brilliant. Apart from wonderful plants one building shelters a number of statues including this intriguing one of King Robert of Sicily with a monkey on his lap.  There's a story there that I'll leave you to find out about on your own.

 A degree of normality has been restored to Edinburgh's buses too with the re-opening of York Place.  We will have to get used to going to stops we haven't frequented for yonks and whilst it means that progress is being made on the trams there's always a little downside.  My choice of six buses to get me home from Waverley has been reduced to two.