Blondes definitely have more fun

Ohmygod, ohmygod you guys.

I was lucky (and well-connected) enough to go to the press night of the new West End incarnation of Legally Blonde, and I'm now ashamed to say my expectations weren't that high. This is odd for two reasons: First, I absolutely love the original 2001 movie (a total Witherspoonful of sugar) and second, I have adored the Broadway soundtrack of the musical version for well over a year now, and think it's work of genius. So why the hesitation? I sometimes feel that British producers and directors can take a good thing and overthink it. I thought so with Wicked when it first arrived (again, love it, have seen it three times, but what was with the British accents and obvious cultural tweaks?) It's not as if we can't handle a little US drawl over here; many cultural references have seeped into our consciousness from years of sitcoms and romcoms anyway. The other thing is our bizarre need to cast 'faces' rather than talent. Denise van Outen, Jon from S Club, Gareth Gates and anyone from a soap can all stick to their day jobs, as far as I'm concerned. Despite many 'faces', Legally Blonde has remained delightfully all-American, thankfully, as so much of the story is based on East- and West-coast stereotype. If anything, I felt more informed than the cast in this respect: one of the only things that bugged me throughout was Sheridan Smith's very New York-y twang, especially when her 'California girl' character came up against Emmett, supposedly from the Boston slums, but audibly more West-coast than her. But elocutionary pedantry aside, there was very little to be irked by.

Sheridan Smith is sheer dynamite*, carrying the show on her perky little shoulders without even breaking a sweat. Elle Woods leads 16 of the show's 18 numbers, and the range and movement involved make for a hardcore singathon, but she did admirably well. I just wanted to give her a hug and hand her a sports drink afterwards. Duncan FromBlue rises to the challenge and gives a smooth vocal performance, although his acting could use a little work. It is to the credit of the rest of the cast that he stands out as pronouncing each word a little unnaturally, as though learning to be human rather than American, but the superficiality of the character makes even that forgivable. A great supporting turn from Chris Ellis-Stanton as the UPS dreamhunk (with accompanying porn theme) and astounding skipping-and-belting action from How do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?'s Aoife Mulholland, transformed from demure governess to aerobics queen Brooke, all rock-hard abs and platinum hair. I was expecting to love Alex Gaumond as Emmett, one of the few unknown main cast members (which usually translates as the only musical theatre professional), but I found him a little weak and not nearly charming enough. The material serves him impassioned lyrics, high romance and lush melodies on a silver platter, but while never musically 'off', he was never exactly 'on', either. He showed a glimmer of greatness in one of my favourite numbers, Take It Like a Man, but didn't make enough of his big notes and snappy lyrics.

This by no means spoilt my fun, as Smith had more than enough chutzpah for the both of them, and another complete and utter surprise was Jill Halfpenny as trailer-trash hairstylist Paulette. The US cast featured Broadway diva Orfeh in this comedic gem of a role, and I have to say, I didn't see how a former Eastender and Strictly contestant could possibly live up to it. Yes, she's done Chicago, but who hasn't these days? It just goes to show you shouldn't judge a gal by her CV, because she was actually one of the highlights. Charming, gutsy, but not stealing the show, she made Paulette less of a caricature and more of a sweetie. She made Ireland, the show's most baffling track, funny and moving, and her bend and snap was truly brilliant. My favourite, favourite part of this show, the Delta Nu Greek Chorus girls, more than exceeded my expectations. Grease's Susan McFadden and newcomer Ibinabo Jack were a powerful pair as Serena and Pilar, but Amy Lennox as Margot was the standout performance for me - her voice and moves were flawless, and she risked out-singing Sheridan 'off-the-telly' Smith on a couple of occasions. What I love best about ensemble musicals is when the chorus really milk their small parts, and militant Enid Hoops and closeted pool boy Nikos were also a fine example of this.

Song-wise..the surreal brilliance of Gay or European? in the second act cannot accurately be described... you will just have to go and see for yourself. It was also very refreshing to see a gay clinch or two choreographed into a mainstream musical. The comedy definitely worked better than the tragedy - while Bend and Snap, What You Want and Ohmigod You Guys were pinker and perkier than I could ever have predicted, the lone moment of sensitivity in Legally Blonde was a little lost. While Smith has all the energy and humour the role demands, her voice is a little harsh and lacks the softness needed in this one song. Light and shade is not her strong point, and as lots of her 'backup girls' seemed to have that edge on her I would be interested to see an understudy performance just for that one song. Relationship meltdown Serious was inevitably hilarious, and the only downer was Professor Callaghan's Blood in the Water, which I never really liked anyway. Stage Callaghan is creepy and smarmy enough without taking up too much of your time, which is ideal.

I could actually go on for pages about this, but I don't want to completely ruin the experience for you. This show works because it's unashamedly camp, tongue-in-cheek and escapist; the score and book are a witty romp through girl power, romance and chihuahuas (LOVED the dogs). Production magic such as Elle's 'Ohmigod' dress change, the department store scenery emerging from two plain doors, the courtroom/bathroom madness and the orange hue of the prison workout scene just make it even more of a visual feast. A note to the costume department - Sheridan's hot pink courtroom dress was beyond fabulous, but how on earth did her clashing coral pink shoes get overlooked? As Elle would say, truly heinous. Despite this fashion slip-up, you will come out tapping your toes and feeling great about the world, having laughed your mascara right off. Take your mum, take your daughter, take your hen party, safe in the knowledge that it will be money well spent. Snaps to all involved.

*My misconceptions about her musical abilities may have something to do with this:

The whole package?

After the now-standard year of top secret X Factor grooming and recording, Alexandra Burke was unleashed on the world last autumn in a glossy, choreographed whirlwind of slick R'n'B. Record execs probably hoped that in her ten month absence we'd forgotten the tear-stained, overwhelmed girl who appeared on the audition shows, but to me it seems a massive image overhaul. You could see the dollar signs in Simon Cowell's eyes as the formerly au natrel, make-up free, demurely dressed auditionee donned a sequinned minidress and scraped back ponytail to perform Toxic in the live rounds; while former winner Leona Lewis refused to play the plastic popstar game, this was a girl to be moulded and shaped from Islington clay into a world-class diva. 

She had a suitably Whitney-esque tone, luminous dark skin, and the confident, girl-next-door charm that is every PR's dream. Unlike shy Leona, with her dull vegetarian views and family values, Alex's PR mission is clear - be as loud, proud, single and fierce as you can. Her Twitter page is all interviews, gigs and 'let's partay!' optimism, communicated in a baffling flurry of exclamation marks and OMGs. Modest Management, who also represent Leona Lewis, couldn't have found a better money-spinner if they'd designed her themselves and grown her in a pod. Still, it's all a little transparent: the demographics (teens, gay men, Beyonce fans) the look (wet-look, slicked-back, high-heeled, fierce) the press persona (giggling, extrovert homegirl). Still, I'm not really being fair to Miss Burke; I enjoy her music and her performances, particularly the appearance with JLS on last year's X Factor - I just resent the image machine it takes for a decent singer to make it into the charts at the moment. 

However decent, Alex's talent isn't quite remarkable enough to give her leverage with her record label. If Leona wants to carry on wearing ethereal Vivienne Westwood frocks, she will. If she wants to stand still on a platform, letting her vocals do all the work, she can. If she wants to stay a curvilicious size 12, she damn well will, because everyone will still pause a moment to hear that voice - however tawdry the songs (excepting her cover of Run and break-out hit Bleeding Love). That girl can do things with her limitless, caramel voice that make the very laziest pop composition ipod-worthy. She is even better live, with a poise and control that makes subsequent X Factor winners look like redcoats. 

It drives some people mad that Leona has 'failed' on the PR front; audiences invariably tune out when she speaks, and who didn't cringe at the simpering  'I don't want to pick a favourite' speech when she returned to the show that made her? No one's that nice, surely. But I'm secretly rooting for team Lewis. For every time she makes her record bosses sigh in exasperation, she gains a little more power. People keep buying her albums and booking her appearances whether she's wearing Herve Leger or Topshop, whether she's bubbly or bland, and whether she's outrageous or innocuous... and that really says something in our image-obsessed music industry. 

Hate the Mayer, not the game

Just to revisit my review of John Mayer's latest album, there was an excruciating piece on him in Saturday's Times review section. In a profile which openly aims to give some background to the artist as he is so little known (musically) this side of the pond, what the writer was essentially trying to say was much the same as me. He may come across as a tabloidy, god-complexy, celebrity-shagging douche bag, but the guy has made some pretty exceptional music. Unfortunately, the feature involved an interview with Mayer (promoting his UK tour starting this month) and he couldn't have ruined that core message more perfectly if he'd just dumbly stated, 'I'm a twat, I'm a twat, I'm a twat' over and over again. The writer reveals his humble beginnings in blues bars during high school and his attendance of a Boston music college renowned for its jazz. She suggests this album is a little more mainstream...

"I don't pay as much attention to being good as to being liked. I don't know that Battle Studies is the best record I've ever made, but I think it's going to be one of the most-liked records I ever made, and that's all I care about," he says.

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but that just summed up what I said in the review. It's lazy, calculating and plays on his tabloid image. I start to gag a little as I realize that I BOUGHT THIS ALBUM. Trying to salvage the profile, the writer then brings up his brilliant Tweets, quoting a few for effect. But then he starts describing Twitter as a major threat to his human relationships:

"It's questions of, do I want to share my desires with someone else or do I want to sate them myself with my laptop and my Twitter account?"

Actually, it's not a question of that for many people. But we'll take another shot at boosting your UK image. At this point the writer gives up and asks a broad, sympathetic question about how he is portrayed in our tabloids, and the man actually has a rant about her going off subject and how he's sick of everyone's "unbelievable curiosity about what it's like to be me." All in all, total interview suicide. I could have forgiven the self-conscious ramblings, the dismissal of relationships as less real than Twitter, the stunning insincerity of his replies, but his total agreement that this fourth album is nothing more than a tactical bid to attract a mainstream audience just makes him ridiculous.

"This time I just wanted to make a pop record, and I hope there are some people who are annoyed by that... I hope there are people who say "Why wouldn't you come out swinging with the guitar and the grit?" and I'll be like, "Well, why are you humming track five?"

.... yeah. I wasn't humming track five when I first listened, and I'm not now. Try harder next time, Mayer. In a world where many brilliant, honest unknowns are out there singing and playing their guts out with nowhere near his level of financial backing, this admission of laziness is in poor taste. But nice to know my reaction to the album was so accurate.

Mayer: Put down the blonde and pick up a guitar.

Christmas is...

Things are officially getting festive. Forget the giant corporate-themed Christmas lights, switched on aeons before anyone's even thought about the holidays. Forget the Starbucks red cups (love their dark cherry mocha as I do), those bloody career-low extravaganza Iceland ads, the early bookings and menu decisions of the Christmas work do. There is a personal point in December where you quietly jump on the Christmas bandwagon and start to really look forward to it. Having spent yesterday singing in suitably frosty locations such as Somerset House, Trafalgar Square and the Royal Festival Hall with my wonderful choir, Accendo (download the Christmas single we feature on here) I was already feeling slightly sentimental in a rosy-cheeked, bobble-hatted sort of way. But this morning, somewhere between the visible breath and some festive Mariah Carey on my iPod, I really felt great about Christmas. So here is my little list of what makes this time of year sparkle for me...

The music
Nothing too 'novelty' or overplayed, but the classics: White Christmas, Sleigh Ride, The Christmas Song etc. There's always room for a bit of Wham and even some Shakin' Stevens in my household though. My abiding memory of Christmas music will always be my parents dancing around the living room to that oddest of Christmas songs, Jona Lewie's Stop the Cavalry. Also carols: while far from religious, I do love the sacred sound of beautifully sung traditional pieces.

The Food
Turkey feast, naturally, but all of the food surrounding the Christmas period delights my tastebuds... smoked salmon served simply on buttered brown bread with a little lemon and pepper, classic champagne, my mum's freshly baked cheese straws (heavenly) and freshly made, creamy chestnut soup (nirvana-ly). A cold meats, cheeses and salads banquet at my Grandparents on boxing day, party food of all descriptions paired with a glass of spicy, sweet mulled wine, and of course those late night cheese and wine moments. I couldn't even begin to go into my love of all things cheese, suffice to say a nice mature cheddar, Welsh Teifi cheese, dolcelatte and an indulgent goats cheese will be on my dairy wishlist this year.

The Traditions
Every Christmas Eve since I can remember, my family have cosied up to watch It's a Wonderful Life before going out for a celebratory, no-one-wants-to-cook-at-this-point curry. If you haven't seen the former, buy and watch NOW: it will give you a much needed laugh and weep and remind you what life is all about in an extraordinary way. Boxing Day, as I have mentioned, usually means a post-feast feast with the family, a quiz and maybe a board game. It also means a rousing chorus of the Twelve Days of Christmas, for which we are all given an individual line in the hope of singing them back in perfect order, but which inevitably collapses into Christmas carol mayhem with confusion over how many maids/geese/drummers and whose line it was in the first place.

The Nesting
Much as I love donning a chunky scarf, jaunty hat and layers and layers of cosy woolies, it's the staying in that really makes Christmas for me. It means drinking at any conceivable time of day, playing music loudly while preparing food, collapsing on the sofa just after a meal with no thought to other plans. Having the tree, the lights, and the cards strung up means you wouldn't wish to be anywhere else. I might break my lazing streak and actually go on this year's 'Christmas day walk' - perhaps this is a sign of maturity? I doubt it will be enough to warrant a promotion from the Kiddie Table on Boxing Day, where I suspect I will remain into my 30s. It's that put down the diary, turn off the BlackBerry, put on your slippers and pick up a gin and tonic feeling that I am looking forward to the most this year.

Feeling even more glowing with Christmas cheer after writing that. You may just feel slightly nauseous - I will probably feel the same reading this back in a few weeks time. But for now I am happy to bask in my Yueltide coma.

Too much information?

Two articles from the weekend caught my eye today; the first, a culture piece from the Observer (where I am currently working) started off as a piece about the possibility of books becoming extinct, something I'm very interested in, as a bit of a bookworm-romantic, but became something deeper and more culturally probing as it went on. Read it and you'll see what I mean, it's somewhat of an epic that touches on everything from the popularity of Nintendo DS and the Kindle to novelist Don DeLillo's typing preferences. But the main issue the writer seems to want to explore is the complex subject of internet identity. Why blog, why facebook, why tweet, why leave your mark on one of the innumerable comment sections on the web? Tim Adams looks at the history of this sort of DIY opinion writing, and attributes the attraction to a sort of 'risk-free interactivity' that becomes addictive. As he points out, 'Any writer who has never come up against an editor, or a reader, can always feel himself a genius.'

As a blogger this is a bit of a lightning bolt. It's true, I use this medium to keep writing and putting my ideas out there, but could it also be a sort of safe haven of vanity, mainly accessed by friends and family, hardly ever questioned or criticized? There's certainly at least a grain of truth in that. Adams describes the boredom with the constant internet oversharing of the noughties, citing Lily Allen as an example after her recent departure from blogging and Twitter. Are we getting over ourselves? Do comment if you're a blogger or have any thoughts on this.

The other piece I read with interest was Lynn Barber's Times interview with Lady Gaga. I am a Gaga fan (not hardcore) and I think she proves every time she is given a stage and a mic that she is much more than your average pop puppet. But a combination of lateness and that sort of Hilton-esque blonde insincerity she displays in interviews - it is infuriating when you can tell she does have a decent and creative brain in there - resulted in a rather scathing write-up. I can appreciate that journalists are busy and stars need the publicity, but she is a pop phenomenon in the eye of the cultural storm right now - surely we can give the Gaga slightly more leeway than, say, an X Factor contestant or Hollywood socialite?

I felt Barber was grasping for negative things to mention (the colour of the hairs on her arms and quality of her 'undernourished breasts' are hardly the personal revelations I was hoping for) in a petty reaction to her PR machine and diva image. She didn't mention the new single, was dismissive of her interesting background and was 'bored' by sneak preview images of the upcoming tour. Why become a celebrity journalist if their quirks and creative plans are tedious to you?

This interview links to the other article in that the comments it provoked were neither restrained nor mature. Some defended La Gaga, some dwelled on the layers of artifice she hides behind and some, as always, scrapped amongst themselves by pointing out comment mistakes and arguing with former posts. A couple bothered to make really lame song title jokes. It made me think about Adams's analysis of people's chronic need to comment online. We can't help ourselves; too many years of witty and bitchy thoughts have been repressed and now we have the perfect way to let them out, we can't stop. I thought the very last post on the Gaga page was a fair comment on journalism:

Quite why the author chose this poorly crafted, snide description of the interview process escapes me, as I'm sure it does most other readers; we don't care if you didn't like her or her arm hairs - ask the questions, observe her and her answers and write it down. If we want to know what YOU like and what YOU think we'll buy a newspaper in which YOU are interviewed.

Still, you don't get to where Barber is without putting your stamp on your interviews. I like to see what seems like people of all ages and backgrounds rising to the Gaga's defence though, it shows her cultural potency. I'm very interested in the idea of everyone becoming a writer and critic; while a bit scary for those actually considering it their job, great in the sense of more than a small section of upper-middle class writers having the monopoly on comment and opinion writing. I think in the big web world of comment boards and blogging, it's striking a balance between mean-spirited, letting-off-steam rants and thoughtful participation in the debate.

Feel free to join this debate with the comment facility below, but perhaps skip any musings on the nature of my arm hair.

Despite her undernourished bosom, Gaga managed to blast the X Factor finalists and even Janet Jackson off the stage with her bizarrely wonderful bath escapades. Although it did sort of look like she might eat Dermot at one point.

What's Occuring?

SERIES THREE OF GAVIN AND STACEY, that's what.

I love Gav'n'Stace. I love the menagerie of characters as if they were my own eccentric kin, I love the witty script, the spot-on regional stereotyping and most of all I love the fact that underneath the bizarre comedy there is real, unmistakable heart.

I got into series one quite late, only this year, and it took me a couple of episodes to get into it. I read an interview with Alison Steadman the other day where she described reading the script for the pilot and being won over by a moment where Pam has been upset by badgers crying on the TV. When Gavin questions whether they were really crying, she simply says 'I know what I saw.' I think we all know that woman.

If you've ever lived in Wales or even popped over for a rugby match, you'll also know a Nessa. And a Stacey. And definitely, definitely a Bryn. Bryn is possibly the purest amount of Welshness you could vacuum-pack into one character. I love his slightly-behind-the-zeitgeist jokes that quickly back up into seriousness (today, the Apprentice: 'Gav - you're fired! I'm only joking I am, I don't have that kind of power.') James Corden as the kind of bloke I'd hate in real life still manages to make Smithy loveable, an unbelievable feat.

Having spent three years in Cardiff, their shift of location from Essex to Wales actually made me long for that easy Welsh charm; London with all its buzz and glitz is still a very isolated place at times. Nothing is more important than a commuter getting that train on time, no time for pleasantries. I loved the un-PC endearment 'lovely', although it took some getting used to. Working in a bar with brassy, loud Welsh girls who gave as good as they got with the rowdier customers made me feel like the most uptight Surrey specimen in the world, but I really enjoyed it.

I adored the nightlife and the lack of posing - cheesy music and body con dresses are as important a part of a Cardiff night out as chips on the way home. There is no underdone, relaxed boho chic; Welsh girls go all out with big hair, big heels and fake lashes. Absolutely fine by me, why should we agonise over whether our look is too much? If you want to wear a sparkly dress, wear it.

If you haven't got into Gavin and Stacey yet, beg borrow or steal series one to get a feel for it. It seems like small snapshots of unremarkable lives in some ways, but it's the real things in life - relationships, arguments, humour, human eccentricity - that make this golden, heartwarming, must-see TV.

Into Battle

Love him or hate him, John Mayer is good entertainment. His sultry guitar-led tunes are at odds with his tabloid presence, cemented by years of high-profile womanizing, and post Aniston he sadly seems to be known only for their on/off amour. He courts the press while trying to remain credible, and is famous for filling them in on his love life and generally oversharing, a trait that doesn't usually go with great songwriting and performance. I actually got into some of his older tracks before he hit the glossy pages of Look and Grazia, and I'm glad because Mayer deserves to be on your cultural radar for his soulful voice and masterful guitar skills, or at the very least, his tweeting (he recently reacted to outrage at Britney's miming on Twitter by posting "If you're shocked that Britney was lip-synching at her concert and want your money back, life may continue to be hard for you.") Follow him on Twitter now (@JohnCMayer) for some hilarious 140-character sparring between him and Perez Hilton.

A cocktail of tracks from his 2002 debut album Room for Squares, 2007's Continuum and his live album Where the Light Is add a range of chilled acoustic sounds and witty lyrics to my iPod which soothe my soul and tingle my spine in equal parts. Which is why I was so eager to download his latest effort, Battle Studies (released 16 November). At the height of his notoriety for all the wrong headlines, Mayer's people have obviously pushed for a suitably heartbroken and chastened album in the wake of the Jennifer Aniston affair, hence the title and slightly overstretched metaphor of love as battlefield. Expecting a feast of sensual pop-rock with real depth and honesty, I was sad to discover that Battle Studies is actually a little dull. Scrap that, 80% of the tracks are unbelievably skippable, with cliched lyrics, forgettable melodies and unremarkable riffs.

Mayer has really taken his eye off the ball here; in an effort to channel his gossip-column status he goes for the sympathy vote on Heartbreak Warfare, All We Ever Do is Say Goodbye and Friends, Lovers or Nothing, but they are so interchangeable it suggests a rushed album made to hit the shelves before the magazine pages cool. Half of My Heart featuring Taylor Swift (WHY?) only layers bland on bland, while attempting a cheeky nod at his womanizing ways.

There are a couple of lifelines; the funky Robert Johnson cover Crossroads adds some much needed tempo with its gospel-spiritual flavour and showcases the soul in his distinctive voice, while the jaunty 'Who Says' is mellow and folky with a witty edge. It harks back to some of the old John Mayer magic as he asks 'Who says I can’t get stoned / Call up a girl that I used to know / Fake love for an hour or so / Who says I can’t get stoned?' You can't help wishing he'd hit the ganja a little harder during recording, because the rest of this sober retrospective of his relationship scars is pretty banal.


Download: Who Says, Crossroads, Perfectly Lonely

From Mayer's back catalogue - Waiting on the World to Change, My Stupid Mouth, Your Body is a Wonderland, Stop This Train, Dreaming with a Broken Heart, Gravity, Slow Dancing in a Burning Room