Clockwork Canaries at the Theatre Royal, Plymouth - March 2nd, 2018

It was a tale of murder and moggies – or should I say, of murderous moggies.

When the young Tatiana’s act of heroism for a drowning cat is met with her father Maximillian Dressler’s insane head for inventions, the two events conspire to turn their lives in ever more bizarre directions. And I’m not just talking about the cat.

Before my viewing of Christopher William Hill’s Clockwork Canaries at the Theatre Royal had even begun, my eye couldn’t help being drawn to the homely yet unsettling nature of Natasha Jenkins’s set: a colourful couch, a cluttered desk, a simple dining table for three, all foregrounding a wall scattered with a child’s sketches of mausoleums and skulls. This should have warned me about the nature of the child who entered the set carrying a sack which held the ill-fated moggy. Played by Charlie Cameron, known most recently for her role alongside Ralph Fiennes in The Master Builder, the character of Tatiana is sweetly charming and morbid in turns, as much a result of her mother’s death as her father’s overbearing ambition. That father, played by Dominic Marsh – recent roles including Tristan in Tristan and Yseult at Shakespeare’s Globe – possesses a nervous enthusiasm which seemed to spark from Marsh’s dishevelled curls, filling the space with rage or excitement one moment, and dissipating in bleak, merciless acceptance the next.

Of course, this double act would not be complete without the cat, or Count Frederick Sebastian as he is christened. The suitably bedraggled life-sized puppet was designed by Christopher Fowkes, who has worked with The Little Angel Puppet Theatre, as well as in several episodes of The Mighty Boosh and on 2014’s Muppets Most Wanted. Puppet operator Richard Booth, associate artist of Flabbergast Theatre, moves and voices this furry black form with such an effortless feline attitude that I almost forgot at times that Booth was even there. Licking and leaping, meowing and hissing, I’m sure there must be a real moggy in Booth’s life to have warranted such behaviour. For the Dresslers, however, life would have been fine, I like to think, just the three of them, if not for the canaries of the play’s title.

Belonging to the character of Mrs. Stein-Hoffelman, an opera singer and one of four characters in the show played by Christopher Staines – most recently seen in Julius Caesar at the Storyhouse and Grosvenor Park – the feathers of these realistically blood-filled little prop birds are soon scattered across the set. As I imagine many of Staines’ costumes would have been backstage, the speed with which he often had to change between characters. The comedically intense widow-to-be Mrs Stein-Hoffelman, the suspicious detective, Tatiana’s confused idol the undertaker, and the Hoffelmans’ equally intense solicitor Agertoft – whose excitable silky terrier kept Booth on his toes and the audience chuckling. But then, almost everything about Staines was hilarious for its over the top-ness: a tongue waggle here, a painfully amusing soprano there, and an ample dose of bosom to top it off. However, it was the chemistry between Dressler and Mrs. Stein-Hoffelman which sets the cogs of this play whirring, just as director Luke Kernaghan planned, drawing it ‘like clockwork’ to its expectedly unexpected conclusion.

It is a classic plot subverted, of a broke widower finding love in a serial widow with no affection for her current soon-to-be-stiff. The only thing standing in their way is the cat and the daughter, both of whom are very suspicious of the new romance blossoming among the tombstones. But when Count Frederick Sebastian takes matters into his own paws, every convention gets thrown out the window – or, in this case, mauled to death and buried. There is the inevitable body in the closet and some in-character cross-dressing which makes for an awkward but not uncomfortable scene between Agertoft and Dressler – which I think Marsh and Staines are complete naturals at – but otherwise, almost nothing about this play is by the book. Even Tatiana’s love-interest Franz, a delivery boy played by Jeremy Ang Jones (Harry Potter and the Cursed Child) who wears multiple disguises just to see her, is not who he appears to be.

So it is only fitting that Dressler should eat the dead animals, that Count Frederick Sebastian catches, from a bowl on the floor. That Tatiana should sing about having maggots in her brain and fantasise about her own death with unnerving innocence. That, having chomped his way through almost every one of Staines’s incarnations off-stage, Count Frederick Sebastian should emerge in a moment reminiscent of Snowball in Rick and Morty – for those who haven’t seen it, just imagine a robotically bipedal cat. And by the close…? Let’s just say, the image of Dominic Marsh crawling around in a bondage style harness won’t leave me any time soon.

There were moments of sadness, acknowledging the loss of a mother which I can sympathise with, and moments where perhaps Kernaghan was trying too hard to be ironic or comedic, but the overwhelming feeling was one of pleasure in witnessing two opposing genres meld so well on stage. If happiness is, as Dressler says, ‘the vessel into which all dark things are poured’, then I can safely say I was happy watching Clockwork Canaries.

For those of you who have been thoroughly convinced, I recommend you catch this performance at the Theatre Royal Plymouth before March 10^th.

Davey Suicide (with Griever, Abandon the Weak, and KillyVarder) at Plymouth Underground - January 26, 2018

You feel like you're the only human in an undead crowd, waiting until you learn to die, to join the masses, because we came to the underground alone, and though you're comfortable here, you’re not ‘one of them’.

This is how I felt having entered The Underground in Plymouth on Friday night to see Davey Suicide, a band that, surprisingly, escaped my radar in all the years I have been listening to metal music. I’d been here before, no problem, but I was meeting some friends, and without a clue when they would arrive, I simply had to do my best to blend in. Only when local support band KillyVarder stepped up to the stage could I finally turn my attention away from pretending to be engrossed in my phone. The thing which immediately struck me was the way the bass made my heart literally feel like lead as its heavy chords pressed into my chest to fill the small room. The second thing was how similar in sound they were to Metallica and Bullet for my Valentine with their driving guitar riffs and heavily percussive drum work. It made me feel a little more at home as these were familiar bands to me. The vocalist, Tony Jackson, meanwhile, exhibited another of KillyVarder’s influences with a voice which combined the gruff guts of James Hetfield with the height of Iron Maiden’s Bruce Dickinson. Unable to see the stage too well through the sizable crowd, however, I had to make do with brief glimpses of whirling hair – that of bassist Jack Salmon – and the strangely serene pose of guitarist Cieran Goodhall, nodding along beside his more energetic brethren. By the end of their set, my friends had arrived, bearing the news that they would be the most enviable hostesses of tonight’s headliner, providing a place for them to crash before they took on Bridgwater the next day. I could hardly believe my ears. As much as I envied them, I wouldn’t know what to do if it were me, opening my house to metal monarchy (excuse the alliteration, I couldn’t help myself). Fortunately, the second local support band, Abandon the Weak, were able to shake me out of my daydream.

Taking their cues from the likes of Meshuggah and Pantera, they delivered a crushing volley of guitar and headbanging drums which meant it was the floor this time which was vibrating beneath my one-inch thick boot soles. I needn’t have worried about not being able to see, however, as vocalist Garf Davies seemed content to spend most of his time atop the speakers at the front of the stage, despite what appeared to be a knee injury. From this position, his line ‘I am your god, you will obey me’, growled in the gritty cadences of Phil Anselmo and Devildriver's Dev Fafara, was made that much more domineering, convincing me that the weak would indeed have to be abandoned. Getting a little closer to the stage, hair windmills started to fly and a simmering boogie was starting in the imminent mosh pit, but by the end, this failed to reach boiling point. In the short break, my brain, trying to unscramble the possible influential overtones, convinced me to buy something alcoholic – not that I needed it – and I began to feel the task of reviewing the night wouldn’t that difficult. That was until Bournemouth metalcore band Griever arrived.

Mysteriously cloaked in fog and blue lights, I was already intrigued – and more than a little blinded – but as the lights dimmed, something reminiscent of Cancer Bats and Crossfaith tore its way through the gloom with unrelenting force, much like a sports car. The metallic rumble of Duncan Callaghan on bass idled smoothly in the background, but it was the speed and raw power of Johnny Halpin’s guitar and lead vocalist David Seymour’s bittersweet marriage of Liam Cormier and Oli Sykes, which threatened to give me road rash. My salvation came from the poignancy of guitarist and vocalist Luke Davis’ melodic choruses, weaving throughout with a nod to fellow Innersound Studios band, Asking Alexandria. I don’t know what I had been expecting from any of the support acts that night, but Griever most definitely made their mark, and by the love they feel for their fans, it almost seemed as if they knew it. Despite always making a fool of myself talking to bands after their gig, I managed to chat comfortably with David, hoping my road rash metaphor wasn’t too weird, and didn’t spontaneously combust when given a hug by Johnny. For a band as fiery onstage as the whiskey company endorsing them, they didn’t half leave me with a warm glow. At least until the main act started their engines.

Davey Suicide. The aesthetic of this band was as much a deciding factor in me buying a ticket to the gig as the name itself. Having no prior knowledge, aside from the promise delivered by ‘Torture Me’ and the influence of Marilyn Manson, I was not entirely prepared for the red-eyed scarecrow that was vocalist Davey Suicide swaying like a snake behind his mic. Manson’s characteristic guttural purr came through in his voice, as did his love for costume, appearing with devil horns and a ringleader’s striped coattails throughout the night, as well as an army helmet labelled ‘War’ for ‘End of the War’. (Does that make it the literal suicide of Davey Suicide?) Meanwhile, his undead bandmates, black eyes gazing from pale white faces, thrashed in homage to another influential band, Pennsylvanian mod rockers Motionless in White. From the energy of their music, rising and falling like a broken love song, and the way they filled the stage, nearly braining themselves on the low ceiling, it became clear they were made for bigger venues. Yet the intimacy of the room somehow felt right, as if we had been invited in, leaving our exes, our troubles – and, in my case, my entire degree – at the door, as if these songs were made for us. At least, it felt that way when I heard ‘No Angel’ was about that girl ‘you thought was a prude’ – for a moment, I

Niko Gemini

almost recognised myself. But the surprises didn’t end there as the call went up for a solo, which guitarist Niko Gemini supplied. As I tried (but failed) to artfully express to him after the show, guitar solos have always been one of my major draws when it comes to rock/metal music, just as much for the way they sound as the technique of their execution, so it was a privilege to see as well as hear Niko playing his instrument like an extension of himself. I must have said something right last night though, because I got another Famous Hug (as I would like to call them). Towards the end of the show, that simmering energy leftover from Abandon the Weak boiled up into a small mosh pit for the band’s debut song, ‘Generation Fuck Star’ – and with a heavy jumping beat and infectious tune, who could blame them? I, however, decided to duck out of the way of the slamming and flying limbs, having been caught in a much bigger mosh pit at a recent Korn gig in London. All the same, I didn’t want it to end. My ears were ringing, my neck ached from head-banging, and my boots were starting to hurt, but I knew that tomorrow, I had to go back to reality.

I said to their drummer, Decker, that I couldn’t say anything bad about the gig, even though I do an English degree which requires me to be critical. He said, treat it like a piece of fiction, and to be fair, this feels like I’ve written a Grimm’s fairy tale (probably took me as long too). Maybe some day, I’ll have the guts or the skill to look deeper; for now, I just want to put my own unique spin on how music makes me feel.

Imperfect Orchestra's scoring of Sergei Eisenstein's 'Battleship Potemkin' at Plymouth University

Never been so unnerved, disturbed, and frightened by a piece of music or cinema before so this is definitely a first - and I loved it!

By definition, a silent movie is just that: silent. This makes whatever happens, especially if it’s a horror film, all the more surprising. Sergei Eisenstein’s Soviet Kinema piece, “Battleship Potemkin” did not, initially, strike me as having the potential to be horrifying, set as it was on a battleship. So, when faced with Imperfect Orchestra’s scoring of the film, I felt secure in the knowledge that what surprises there might be could be anticipated with the appropriate musical warnings. Oh, how wrong I was. Each turn of events in the film was so sudden, and at times violent, that without the music I would’ve been suitably surprised, but with it, the entire mood did a complete 180 turn, the tone of the music switching in the same instant.

Working with the director’s wish that the film should be rescored every generation, contemporary electrical instruments like synthesisers, found sounds, and electric guitars were permitted to join the orchestra, creating a much more surreal, unsettling, and energetic vibe. This worked well with the cultural background against which the film was set, namingly the era of Russian Constructivism and Italian Futurism, which sought the artistic freedom and experimentation of ‘making it new’. Thus, electric guitars were made to sound as if they screamed, violins mourned death, pianos crept by in the background in anticipation of death, drums pounded ominously, cymbals rattled jarringly, and voices chanted or shouted through a distorted megaphone. Every musical choice served to intensify the action seen in black and white on the screen behind the orchestra, to the point that, at times, I felt genuine fear. As the civilians reacted to the Soviet attack, so too did the orchestra, in a fashion which unnerved me until I was glued to the screen in uneasy anticipation of the first death. Of course, what made this a truly shocking film was the momentary emphasis it placed on the female and infant casualties of the Russian Revolution as a young boy was trampled in the panic, a young mother was shot as she clutched her baby’s pram, her falling body pushing the child down the steps, and an elderly woman was wounded in the eye. This series of events was montaged and alternated with shots of the advancing Soviets, and civilians fighting below, escalating the tension still further. Only when the final raising of the big guns, pointed directly at the screen, is called off, can the bubble of fear finally burst, the music become jubilant, and the monster of war slink back into the shadows.

I can’t say I have ever been a particularly big fan of silent theatre – or politics, for that matter – but while the latter remains a reluctant subject for me, if all silent movies were scored in such a way, I might be inclined to seek more out. The applause lasted for a considerable time once the credits rolled, and rightly so, as the collective passion and effort of Imperfect Orchestra had produced one of the finest collaborations of cinema and music I have ever had the good fortune to experience.

The Anjali Dance Company presents Genius at The House, Plymouth, 25th October 2017

Frisson: a sudden, passing sensation of excitement; a shudder of emotion; thrill – something I was not expecting when I sat down to the Anjali Dance Company’s production of ‘Genius’. The company comprised of performers with various learning disabilities whose goal it is to break the stereotypes and perceptions of people with such disabilities through performance. Given the opportunity, their creativity and talent was allowed to shine through in the most amazing ways, and created the aforementioned ‘frisson’. Their unique and, often times, haunting use of sound, staging, and bodily interaction in ‘Genius’ created a professional performance that gave me chills.

In the brief first half, the six performers, all pale-faced, dressed in black, and gloved in blood, performed an amusing rendition of the big screen’s Nosferatu. Each would enter a small section of the stage, surrounded by iridescent tinsel curtains, to an eerily rising note, and perform their simple sketch (often involving bloodsucking) before exiting as the sound cut out. The repetition of the sketches felt very much like film takes, the pattern only broken when part of the curtain was accidentally pulled down, creating a break in the wall of indistinct silhouettes that stood on the other side.

For the second half, however, a contemporary rendition of the life of Beethoven was performed. This utilised stage lighting, voiceover, and the music of Mozart (and, of course, Beethoven himself) for dramatic effect. Since none of the performers ever spoke, all their emotion had to be conveyed through body language, thus the music became their conductor: reaching, holding one another, falling, and crawling across the floor. Scenes of performance and death featured heavily, the one slowly bleeding into the other, so that a celebratory effusion of white roses became a delicate cascade of red petals onto a fallen body. It was such poetry in motion that I felt myself tearing up a little. The grandeur of Beethoven’s music which made me realise just how perfect this story was for the stage – as well as why the protagonist of Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange got such a kick out of the music. I had those beautifully intense and melancholic compositions to thank for several moments of frisson.

Of course, this whole thing would not have been possible without the co-ordinated efforts of the six performers. True to the company’s aim, they danced with a grace and dedication which belied any previously held beliefs one might have had about those with Down’s syndrome, autism, or other learning disability. They exuded an energy which never seemed to fail, a personality which engaged with their characters and struck a balance between humour and solemnity which kept the pacing fresh. Knowing this was a life story, it undoubtedly had to end. However, the final laying to rest of Ludwig van Beethoven, clutching a small bouquet of white flowers, was no less desired than the fact that it signalled the end of the show.

I wish Anjali Dance Company all the best with their future performances! 

In Bed with my Brother presents We Are Ian at The House, Plymouth - 3/10/17

The advertisements for this show were already crazy enough, but little did I know just how much crazier things could get. Not one for the epileptic, gluten-intolerant, or shy, We Are Ian took audience participation to a whole other level. A genuine 'you had to be there to believe it' experience, which I am glad I didn't miss. I hope I can give you at least a taste....imagine the taste of Maria or Rich Tea biscuits, it's the best I can do - besides this review, of course.

If you follow the trail of biscuit crumbs back across campus, past the raucous group of golfers with limp inflatable clubs, duct-taping each other’s legs together, down past the library, and into The House, you will find their source: a catastrophic biscuit massacre scattered across the main stage. But why such a bizarre scene, you might ask? Well, because We Are Ian was there, of course. 

In a bid to discover a better youth, the youth that Ian had, Nora, Dora, and Kat (the three ladies of performance group In Bed with my Brother) transported the audience back to 1989 in a trippy cocktail of lights, 80’s beats, clowning and chaotic dancing, and lip syncing; back to the last real era of youth culture. With attentive ears, they listened to Ian’s cynical yet nostalgic voice pulse through a single lightbulb suspended within reach of the stage. He told them about the illegal raves and acid parties which, only five minutes into the performance, got not just Ian’s protégés bombastically dancing their LED high-tops off, but the audience too, the immortal ‘hot potato’ and ‘cold spaghetti’ slowly infecting everyone present. However, this was only one level of crazy, as Ian went on to introduce them to the wonder of ‘getting wankered on brown biscuit’. Even if you aren’t fluent in street terms for ecstasy, the world you were presented with made the drug reference very clear. Taking the name literally, the ladies apprehensively wield a packet of biscuits, first rejecting the proffered novelty before individually succumbing to temptation, stuffing their faces, dancing with euphoric frenzy, and showering the front rows in partially-chewed biscuit crumbs. Again, audience participation was required. Although initially possessive of their newfound diversion, they coerced only a few people into eating with them, but were soon depravedly forcing handfuls of biscuits upon us as they raved in the strobe lighting. It was the most bizarre performance I had ever seen as Nora, Dora, and Kat paraded and bounced about the room, grinning inanely and miming for us to eat; having had at least ten biscuits forced upon us, my friend and I modestly obliged before trying to pass the rest along: no one was interested. Had the biscuit’s metaphorical significance sunk in already? Were they afraid of getting addicted? When the small pile on my knee reached its final two, I started to think maybe I was.

Unfortunately, all good things, they say, must come to an end, and soon Ian was reminiscing about the slip into club culture and football hooliganism and how things just weren’t the same. Frantically, the ladies began prodding at the lightbulb as if to change the channel back, but it was too late. This slip was mirrored in the seemingly interminable dancing which began to take its toll, their once ecstatic and inane grins slipping into pained and exhausted grimaces as the projected images in the background took on a familiar and contemporary tone: Theresa May, Donald Trump, Brexit. They eventually sank to the biscuit-strewn floor, silent once more except for their tired breaths. And then, just when we thought the whole thing would start over, we found ourselves prompted to dance for them, as if to symbolise a refusal to let modern society drag us down. One by one, we were compelled to take to the stage, ‘hot potato-ing’ and ‘cold spaghetti-ing’ to rainbow lights, mad beats, and Margaret Thatcher’s face plastered across the projected screen. And when the ‘party’ was finally over, we found ourselves looking out to our seats. We were at first observers, we were now participants. The three ladies looked back at us as if to say, ‘You are the future; don’t let it get you down.’ And you know what, despite the struggles of university life, when the rambunctious beat kicks off again in my head, I can’t help but smile and think ‘Don’t worry – I won’t.’   

A Review of 'Beans and Other Poems' by Mark Jones

I was given this quirky little collection of poetry to read by my friend and fellow Plymouth poet, Mark Jones, to whom I promised I would write a review. I hope I can do it justice.

Before even passing the cover, any reader can take a guess at what they're in for: a bizarre blend of poems which refuses to take mundane topics seriously, and having been labelled 'surrealist', it's little wonder why. Perusing through this pick 'n' mix of poetry, you are greeted with something different with every turn of the page, from the comically blunt and witty to the absurdly self-expository. It is, admittedly, a bit hit-and-miss as to whether you get Jones's obscure concepts - 'Love in the form of croquet balls' may be something we'll never quite understand - but his word choices are often some of the most fitting you'll ever encounter. 'Terror at 10:27pm' provides you with 'nasal ambulance calls', while the titular 'Beans' recreates the humble can of beans as erupting with 'volcano juice'. 

He deals with things we, as humble humans, encounter on an almost everyday basis - aside from sultana siblings and robot tomatoes, maybe. Food, if you couldn't already guess by the title, is a notably dominant theme in this volume, presented in often spasmodically rhymed stanzas. This does let down a few of the poems by interrupting the apparently uniform rhyme scheme, while other times a cheeky forced rhyme pushes things back into recognisable form, evident in poems like 'Seagull' and the unexpectedly witty 'Power Danger' ('Ranger Danger' maybe?) 

One thing a reader will soon become aware of, however, is that Mark Jones has instated himself as the King of the deprecatingly terse sentence, reducing the versatile burger to an 'Artery clogging/Weight gainer' and the loathsome seagull to a 'High flying shitter'. He's certainly not messing around. With wit-laced gems like 'Save the Eggs for Later' and 'Spoonsmith', this man's unexpected humour is one to look out for. A little awkward, but full of confidence – and certainly better received than the flatulence one might expect from consuming this volume’s namesake.

To anyone wishing to check out more from Mark Jones, you can follow this link to his Facebook page, Jonesthepoet.

James Wilton Dance: Leviathan at The House, Plymouth University

I am unsure what drew me to want to watch Leviathan. Most likely it was the title, or the promise of a progressive rock soundtrack by an artist called Lunatic Soul, or maybe I just fancied another dramatic slice of entertainment. Whatever the case, Leviathan delivered on all counts. Choreographed by James Wilton, the cast of 6 performers re-enacted scenes inspired by Herman Melville’s Moby Dick through the medium of capoeira-esque dancing, while simultaneously examining the relationship between man and nature. It was a performance with a narrative of blind obsession and conflict, a desire to conquer the unconquerable. The five men portraying Ahab and his crew (or man and civilisation) danced in a symbiotic fashion, at times animalistic or violent in their moves, struggling against one another, lifting and throwing effortlessly. In one scene, they began to form a magnetic chain, hypnotically weaving and leaping around each other, yet not once did they break contact for more than a few seconds or become tangled, even with all five men linked together. Their only prop was a large quantity of rope which was used to excellent effect, pulled across the floor, wound round the dancers, and lifted in intricate patterns in an attempt to catch the whale. The singular woman of the company (Sarah Jane Taylor) played the part of the whale (or nature), her movements lithe and fluid, yet also contorted and spasmodic, never rising far from the floor. After a certain point, the crew dancers became whale dancers, no longer fighting but moving in sync with one another, helping to emphasize the scale of the whale, and tease Ahab with their elusiveness in scenes reminiscent of a tormenting nightmare. Their movements were always more gentle than the crew’s until the finale when they became more violent, chasing Ahab back again and again. All the while, the music built and dissipated with the energy of the story, a mix of pulsating tribal electronica, indie-style rock, and unsettling sound effects such as what I felt sounded like the hollow cries of a dying whale, or the ominous beat of its heart. It all contributed to building tension and enhancing an already taut atmosphere – made so by the bare stage and minimal lighting. Even the weather went towards setting the mood: a raging rain-storm at night. Returning home, I definitely felt the force of Nature at work as the roads were turned to rivers and Niagara might as well have been falling from the sky.