A song came on my iPod this morning that I realized I always skip, but have never deleted. It was Beautiful by Christina Aguilera, now best known for being smotheringly overplayed circa 2003, and subsequently murdered by numerous talent show contestants. But when the song came out, it was a remarkable pop milestone. Not simply for Aguilera's catchy defiance, but for the haunting, controversial video that came with it (directed by Jonas Akerlund.)
A great teacher sat down my entire school year one morning, buzzing with attitude, prejudice and disrespect for their state education, and made us watch every frame. Men kissing, drag queens dressing, anorexics gazing in the mirror - you could have heard a pin drop. Uncomfortable perhaps, but it was a bold move in a school where homophobic bullying was part of the daily dialogue, and so many labels in that video were feared and targeted.
I can remember being absolutely astounded by the video myself, liberal as I was - gay kisses and diversity in general being even less visible in the media back then. I had completely forgotten about that moment until today, and am infuriated that I can't remember my peers' reactions to the video.
I guess I just want to credit Aguilera for championing love and beauty in all its forms, long before Gaga ever burst onto the scene. Ms Germanotta has done fabulous work raising awareness of issues like Don't Ask, Don't Tell and making a generation of 'little monsters' feel like they belong, but she does it with savvy lyrics and red carpet publicity stunts, rather than anything as daring as the Beautiful video.
The song was recently voted the most empowering of the last decade for gay and bisexual people in a poll by Stonewall (Born This Way came in third.) A cynical person might think that Gaga and Christina's 'people' both identified a powerful gay market to seduce and went for it, but as this type of reaching out isn't typical to Aguilera's back catalogue, I still believe her song is heartfelt. Gaga may be giving the LGBT community something to rave to, but Christina gave them an anthem.
Under the video on YouTube, the following message was posted just yesterday:
Dear Christina,
I am 18 and gay. I try to make the best of it but sometimes living in a house of homophobes can bring me down. But when ever I feel awful, I put on this song and feel stronger. I couldn't thank you more.
It is important not to become complacent, thinking the world has moved on since that video. Last week, the landlord of the John Snow pub in Soho, of all places, removed two men on a first date for kissing, reportedly calling their behaviour 'obscene.' Pink News today reported that Facebook has removed a picture of two Eastenders characters kissing (yes, fictional characters) from a blog post in support of the 'kiss in' now being organised in reaction to the incident. My home town's MP and a coalition Minister of State, Chris Grayling, was in hot water this time last year for suggesting that B&B owners should be allowed to refuse gay couples. I can't find one still online of that kiss in the Beautiful video.
Whatever people's personal squeamishness about watching same-sex couples express their affection, there has to be equality when it comes to public places and forums. Get involved, question these things. Don't sit back and let the lifestyle of more than 3 million Britons become erased from our public landscape. Words may not bring us down, but we can challenge the actions of a prejudiced few.
I didn’t know what to expect when I skipped into the West End to see Hair the musical last night. Hair is one of those unavoidable chunks of culture; you’ve heard the music (even if it’s via the Müller ads), you’ve vaguely picked up on references to the nudity and you probably know more than you think about the premise (hippies/drugs/Vietnam.) The main reason I still felt unsure, despite this psychedelic frame of reference, was that I hadn’t heard any standout songs and the synopsis itself didn’t draw me in hugely. But the iconic nature of the original late 60s production, the hit songs it produced and the buzz this year as the new Broadway revival was brought to London all made me curious about the show. I don’t particularly adore the music that I do know, but I had heard that it was such an infectiously uplifting night out that many friends were going back for more. So last night, just a few weeks before its schedule closure in September, I finally went to find out what all the fuss was about.
My verdict? It was great, but it wasn’t incredible. The music and the story didn’t blow my mind, but the vibrant vocals, colour and energy did. Audience participation is something I’m usually horrified by (my reserved Britishness finds it cringeworthy and my love of storytelling jars with the breaking of the fourth wall) but the rambly chattiness of the charismatic stoners and the weaving of the cast in and out of the audience, stroking hair and giving out flyers, was utterly charming. I would like to be able to say that this would also have been true of a British production, but I do feel the full-on Americana of the cast is what made it the solid, confident and slick spectacle it is. The quality of each singer just launches it into a different league to the rest of the West End.
The part I found baffling in such a hit was how hard it was to follow; I’m pretty clued up on the Vietnam war period, but the speed of the lyrics and the lack of diction (perhaps a conscious decision, but it didn’t work for me) meant I spent much of the first few character ‘snippets’ feeling completely lost, if very entertained. I hadn’t appreciated how much it had clearly influenced Rent, one of my favourite musicals, with its scenes of anarchic camaraderie, shock factor and loveable characters. But the tribe, whilst charismatic as a dancing, chanting, belting whole, did not have as much individual appeal as the bohemians of Rent. Caissie Levy really stood out for me with her honeyed vocals and subtlety of performance, but the limitless riffs of Aquarius soloist Dionne and the soaring optimism of leading man Gavin Creel also took my breath away. The group songs are the lifeblood of the show and the ensemble, most of whom have been together since the beginning of the Broadway revival last year, create a gloriously unified sound.
By the end I was certainly feeling the Love, the twin ideas of Peace and Love being a central part of the show. The air was fragrant with incense, the set lit with rainbow colours, the cast (on a bog-standard Tuesday night performance) seemed fresh as a daisy and high on life. I wasn’t as moved as I thought I’d be by the Vietnam war theme, perhaps due to the surreal ‘bad trip’ sequence that once again entertained and baffled me at the same time. This baffletainment sort of manages to work though, and there are quite a few laugh-out-loud moments. Most of all you just want to be part of the gang, and even as someone who loves a power shower and loathes tie-dye, I had never found hippie life so seductively portrayed. For something less gripping than Wicked and less moving than Les Miserables, however, it is a shame that there is no option for cheap tickets. For £29.50 though, you can get into the Dress Circle, which we soon realised was prime hippie-partying ground. I didn’t have anyone dance along the back of my seat, but a tribe member did take a sip of my coke. So if you’re wandering the cloudy streets of London in the next couple of weeks and feel a bit bleak about life, I suggest you Let the Sun Shine In and bask in the transcendental aural trip that is the cast of Hair.
The first musical theatre I can ever remember hearing is the 80s classic Les Misérables by Boublil and Schönberg. We used to have the tape of the soundtrack in the car, and on long car journeys and driving holidays we sang merrily along (no Tweenies for us, oh no – death, prostitution and revolution galore.) And we loved it, along with our well-worn cassettes of Miss Saigon and The Phantom of the Opera. When I went to see the blockbuster adaptation of the latter, I was shocked to realise I know every trilled word of the score. But Les Mis was our favourite by far. Cruising along the M1 back in the early Nineties, you might have caught a glimpse of three cute little girls chirping along to the rousing Lovely Ladies:
Lovely ladies Waiting for the call Standing up or lying down or any way at all Bargain prices up against the wall
Yes, we were worldly children. But we didn’t need to fully understand the complex social tragedies of Victor Hugo’s plot (although mummy spent much time patiently explaining: ‘Yes, she’s selling her hair… Because she needs money to pay for her illegitimate child. It means she wasn’t married to the child’s daddy. No, she hasn’t made enough money from being a Lovely Lady.’ Dad, helpfully: ‘In the original text, she actually sells her teeth.’) The music spoke volumes: the exhilarating melodies of the student uprising, the über-romantic strains of first love and unrequited love, the swansongs, the feuds and the hopeless waste of young life.
It is a connection that has never faltered – while I have ‘grown out’ of some scores and showtunes, the recitative, the melodrama and the romance of Les Mis are timeless. Which is probably why this year it celebrates its 25th anniversary. In honour of its sage longevity, there are a number of tributes – a touring production which will climax at the Barbican and an anniversary concert at the O2, with tickets like gold dust (actually I hear gold dust is probably less likely to bankrupt you.) I browsed the shiny Flash-tastic website for some info today, and this page made me very sad. All of the plum female roles seem to have gone to TV ‘faces’ - and not even hugely impressive ones at that. Samantha ‘Isle of Sam’ Barks was only third favourite to play Nancy – a much less emotionally fragile and charismatic role – in a TV casting show, and Lucie bloody Jones is X Factor alumni. She shouldn’t be allowed NEAR a West End stage (although we know the folks down at Chicago and Legally Blonde would have pretty much anyone from prime time at this point.) But I expected better from you, Cameron Mackintosh; Les Mis deserves exceptional, breathtaking, once-in-a-generation actors and singers, and happily has a range of playing ages and vocal ranges to cast, which should make it easier to get the very best for each. I was a little sick in my mouth when Kimberley from Girls Aloud was allowed to ‘join in’ with the show on the band's Passions reality show, but as she was merely Ensemble/Whore (great billing) for a short time I let that one pass. Then Jodie ‘actually Nancy’ Prenger joined the cast to get some work experience before her leading lady engagement. Now, don’t get me wrong – the Prenger was the best thing in Oliver - but Les Miserables is no-one’s West End test drive.
Incidentally, X Factor’s Lucie (who memorably sang a song from Disney’s Camp Rock, not well, on the show) follows Camilla Kerslake in the role of Cossette. Who? Exactly. She happens to be the latest moderately-talented classical hottie whose bland album deal was entirely based and plugged on the fact that she was discovered by Gary Barlow. Are there really no elegant young sopranos on the musical theatre circuit wishing to audition for this part? Or could it be that the Les Mis hall of fame (boasting Ruthie Henshall, Kerry Ellis, Lea Salonga, Judy Kuhn, Frances Ruffelle and Michael Ball among others) is now set to be cluttered with people having their five minutes of TV-whored fame? I dislike this notion and it almost makes me wish the show had gone out quietly before ticket sales, PR pushes or plain vanity brought it to this.
Talking of Michael Ball, the role he originated is currently filled by the irritatingly pure teenage face of Nick Jonas (and the stage door area subsequently filled with a tsunami of hormones and Charlie Girl perfume) which offends me even more. I don’t care if Nick Jonas and Lucie Jones’ true love finds a way amongst political turmoil and danger. I know their smug, airbrushed faces too well to get caught up in the moment, and I’ll probably end up hoping a stray bullet rebounds off the barricades and right into one of their skulls. Producers of Les Mis, I implore you: go back to casting from the thousands of individual, raw, talented nobodies who have loved the music for years and been inspired to act and sing because of it, or close the show if it really can’t last without casting integrity. Every time one of those beautiful refrains is sung by someone whose generic face I have been battered to death with in Now magazine, I die a little inside. Thanks.
A man walks into a bar and orders a pint. The barman carefully pours it, puts it on the bar and walks to the till to ring it up. While he does this, the customer downs the pint and casually strolls out of the bar, refreshed and happy.
Where's the punchline, you ask? Nowhere to be seen - it's not a joke, it's stealing. Stealing liquid, mind, of which there are thousands more barrels, and which the innocent barman did not create, brew and transport all by himself. But a service and a product were provided, and not paid for. Most people wouldn't dream of doing this (although my friend did see someone steal a 6-inch Subway the other day) but thieving isn't such a crisply defined concept anymore. Partly because people feel so disillusioned by prices, recessions and authority in general, but mainly because of the big playground of freebies that is the internet. Young people were the first to hop on the cyber bandwagon in the naughties, and they quickly learnt about the joys of file-sharing, downloading and online trading, before the elders who had established businesses and copyrights had figured out how to stop them. In print media, publishers were delighted at the prospect of reaching a wider audience and providing up-to-the-minute news reporting, and soon most publications were available, gratis, online.
The Times has taken a lot of flack over the past month for deciding to put a paywall up (a week's subscription working out to around 28p per day), with experts predicting the venture will fail and the Guardian in particular taking the opportunity to filch their unimpressed readers. My favourite Times columnist (and general legend) Caitlin Moran wrote a wonderful article a couple of days before the wall went up, defending their decision against a lot of very public outrage and Murdoch-bashing. Of course, if you don't believe in paying for online news, you won't be able to access the article. But she made a good case for the change, which perhaps I am more sensitive to as a would-be journalist, as well as driving home the basic and excellent point that 'Bitch gotta make rent.' The perks of creative jobs are falling fast with the rise of the net, as people can access music, literature, journalism, film and photography without paying a penny to their creator. Moran simply stated, amongst other rational business reasons, that it is hard enough to be a working journalist without your pay diminishing even further. It is a hard business to get into, not at all well paid and almost impossible to live on as a freelancer, and thus more and more financially privileged young writers who can afford to do the job as a hobby are seeping into the industry. No more feisty lasses like Caitlin, who hails from a Wolverhampton council estate and the comprehensive system, writing in one of Britain's oldest and most prestigious rags. An exclusively privileged comment and editorial team would make for a much more conservative and monotonous tone, undoing all the good work the paper has done in recent years in becoming more balanced with diverse comment writers and a wider perspective than, say, the Mail or the Telegraph. Also, I agree with Caitlin that writers deserve to get paid - we read their work most days, they work challenging hours and with tough deadlines, and get nothing like the salaries of the ankers and politicians whose deviance they so often expose. Many would argue that it's too late to start putting up paywalls; the internet has been free to read for years now. But the Times does have a certain caché, and as such many rely on it for firm facts and expert analysis. So I think they'll keep some audience, but more liberal fence sitters and those likely to list the Guardian as 'their' paper (myself included) will just stop reading online, perhaps grabbing the paper itself once in a while. I'm just saying I don't think it's that controversial to put a price on something a lot of people work hard on, especially when that price is under 30p per day.
This discussion had gone on for a while when I followed a link on Twitter that led to the website of the great musical theatre composer & lyricist Jason Robert Brown, where he had posted a very similar discussion about sheet music. Brown, who is a bit of a hero in the niche world of musical theatre, decided enough was enough and went online to try and stem the tide of sheet music 'trading' online and defend his work and copyright. So he sent maybe 400 people advertising the sheet music for his songs online a polite message asking them to take their ad down, including his email address in case they had any questions. Many did, but one tenacious teen emailed back demanding to know what his problem was and questioning his identity and motives. What followed is a very interesting back-and-forth between two generations; the older artist that has worked hard for many years to build his reputation and career, and the young, confident teenager with a strong feeling of entitlement. The teen who argued with him, Eleanor, is fairly articulate and makes a very forceful case that many teens 'can't afford' sheet music, mp3 files and movies legally, and the big 'jerks' who created them shouldn't make a fuss about what is surely a drop in the ocean to them. The thing is, why should they let it go? JRB spent years writing beautiful, witty, perceptive songs that are sung in most musical theatre cabarets here and in the US. They are popular for a reason; his genius and effort. The fact that he is successful shouldn't mean he deserves to lose a massive cut of his potential salary from sneaky sharing and illegal downloads.
Perhaps because money has become less tangible over the years, with plastic, paypal, online banking and standing orders, it’s harder to teach your kids about value and saving. I remember having a solid concept of pocket money; if you saved it up for a few weeks you could hit Woolworths and splurge on that coveted toy (or later, Tammy Girl for that lusted-after shiny lycra top), and at school fetes and bring’n’buy sales myself and my sisters had a couple of pounds to spend wisely on treats. I remember clubbing together with my sister to the tune of £1.50 each for a Barbie Dream House and feeling the first high of a business partnership. Later, we would spend our hard-saved, if not earned, cash on CD singles and albums (back when the CD was still a futuristic novelty.) Jointly we bought All Saints’ first album, and I eyed her Britney Spears Baby One More Time single with envy, knowing instinctively that it was a landmark musical moment. Even now, I find loans, credit cards and overdrafts hugely daunting; not being fiscally minded, I don’t understand and therefore fear laying down money I don’t have. I am saving to self-fund a postgraduate course and money is on my mind most days. I do hope that is not the case my whole life, but with the media nosediving and people refusing to pay, who knows?
The point with Brown and Moran’s defence of their work is, while it may be a bit of a hassle or a dent in your pocket to fork out for their writing or composing skills, tough luck – they provided a product and completed a task which you are now reading/learning from/playing/singing. Cough up. The paywall will continue to be controversial (largely because of Rupert Murdoch’s unpopularity rather than the paper itself) as there are other strong print media options, but I do think at the very least people should buy their music, films and sheet music legally - and come on, an iTunes mp3 is around 79p, sometimes Amazon’s are as little as 29p. Those singles we scraped together for as starstruck teens were £1.99 including packaging – now we can whisk them on to our laptops seconds after they are released for less than a pound. If everyone stopped supporting musicians and writers, only the wealthy self-funders or the Katie Price-style overexposed could afford or would bother to put out their work. The message from the creative industries is clear – we’ve had enough, pay for your stuff.
I finally caught up on last week's Jonathan Ross last night; amazing Glee cast interview, especially Amber Riley's acapella singing, but Alan Carr kicked Wossy's ass with his Chatty Man one by breaking into I've Had The Time of My Life with Matthew Morrison. Among other guests, JR also had Al Green - the Reverend Al Green, I should say. The soul sensation who brought us Let's Stay Together came across as totally bonkers, truly talented and above all, really, really happy. Like, prozac happy. Living a rock'n'roll lifestyle in his 70s heyday, Green 'found God' after his girlfriend committed suicide in 1974, subsequently becoming a pastor in 1976. After being injured while performing in 1979, he took it as a sign from God and stopped making his patented seduction music for many years, sticking instead to gospel. In the late 80s he saw sense (in his own words, he realised that without the 'good times' none of us would be here) and returned to performing his soul catalogue, even releasing an album in 2008 featuring duets with Corinne Bailey Rae and John Legend.
As you know, I am an atheist and feel a little uncomfortable with the oversharing, preachy aspect of evangelist Christianity. Green's crediting of everything to God and the navigation of his life and career according to whatever he suspects this elusive being wants for him still grated a little, but it got me thinking. The music industry is a surreal place - so many legends are taken down by the sudden wealth, travel, access to drink and drugs, and a general elevation from the real world to the cloud nine of fame. Green's wide smile, still-soulful voice and his connection of his faith to spreading love, joy and great music was actually quite inspiring. He suggested that he would not be here without his faith, with a nod to late greats like Barry White and Marvin Gaye, but refused to say outright that he thought they should have chosen religion. On the year anniversary of Michael Jackson's death - perhaps the ultimate case of wealth and worship transporting an artist to their own disconnected realm of behaviour and habit - Al's fervour made me think, 'Good for him.' He found something that he felt to be real and worthwhile, and eventually found a way to reconcile his talent with doing good. As a pastor he baptises children, sings, preaches and entertains, in a way, but is happier in his church than on the path he had started down in the early 70s.
I've never particularly felt before that celebs 'finding God' or 'being saved' was anything other than annoying (not to mention cliched) but Reverend Al changed my mind a bit yesterday. If lost souls like Michael Jackson, Elvis and Janis Joplin had found something they felt to be a purpose, other than living up to their own iconic reputations, they might have stuck around a little longer. I browsed the web a bit to look into music legends that died young, and a couple of commenters & message boards have hinted that people are glad that we aren't watching Kurt Cobain or Jimi Hendrix get a beer gut, go bald and swap heroin for Earl Grey. I think that's the problem; fans feel like they own a person if they're high profile enough, and if their image belongs to the public, what do they have left? Michael Jackson obviously wanted a family even though he couldn't seem to form or sustain a normal relationship to do so, but his money meant he could strike a deal and essentially have someone breed for him. That's the kind of too much money, not enough reality I'm talking about here. Jacko was definitely into spreading the love and promoting kindness, but he was also caught up in his own image, the headiness of his millions and the extravagance of his lifestyle.
I suppose religion gives someone like this a sort of monastic perspective which means their hype and their bank balance don't matter, or if they do, not as much as God and the church and spreading the word. Looking at Al Green, smiley, relaxed, loving his music, enjoying his age, I felt a new positivity towards the abstract concept of God; it causes so much conflict all over the world but it also gives a lot of hope on a very small, personal scale. Maybe this omnipresent prozac is merely a placebo effect, but I think Al Green (about to embark on a UK tour with a healthy mind and still-sultry voice) is living proof that for some souls, it's worth being saved.
Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life ~Berthold Auerbach
After my iPod recently passed away (an unfortunate incident with a sports-cap bottle of mineral water in my bag) I was iPodless for about a week. After plenty of iMourning and just a little iRage, I decided I couldn't live without my choons and purchased a new model nano - I was replacing one of those little square flat ones, my fourth mp3 player - and set about putting the music back in my life.
The thing about music is, if I'm having a bad day, a little iPod fix can turn it all around. I never realise how much I use this little device for inspiration, motivation, therapy and escape until I am without one for a while. I realised it more than ever as my camera and phone were also taken out by the mini-flood, and I missed my mobile soundtrack the most. I am a total playlist freak and am always making those 'On the Go' ones on the way to things. Today I made a workout one as I resolved to start using my work gym; I have chillout lists and glamming up lists and tidying lists galore. Many would just put their iPod on shuffle, but I feel the few minutes it takes to put together a playlist mean you have exactly the right ambience to promote energy, efficiency, happiness or relaxation. A misplaced track can be jarring, jolting you out of whatever state you have carefully lured yourself into. A playlist means old and new music and genres of every kind all coming together with only their attitude to connect them.
Here are some excerpts from the playlists that rock my world - I've had to use the third more times than I care to mention...
Workout (Think pop remixes, angry pop/rock & club collaborations) Starry Eyed - Ellie Goulding My Favourite Game - The Cardigans Pump It - Black Eyed Peas Sex on Fire - Kings of Leon When Love Takes Over - David Guetta ft. Kelly Rowland Hounds of Love - Kate Bush Telephone - Lady Gaga The Creeps - The Freaks Untouched - The Veronicas In Your Eyes - Kylie Minogue
House Party (Blasts from the past, seductive riffs, a general sense of mayhem) Stripper - Sohodolls Daft Punk is Playing at My House - LCD Soundsystem Butterfly - Crazytown No, No, No - Destiny's Child Love Sex Magic - Justin Timberlake/Ciara Let me Think About It - Fedde Le Grande Higher Ground - Red Hot Chilli Peppers Why Don't You - Gramophonedzie Run This Town - Jay Z ft. Rihanna Ooh La La - Goldfrapp
Getting Mad/Even (Anti-man rage - I generally sing along loudly and clean things) Never Again - Kelly Clarkson You Oughta Know - Alanis Morrissette Fly Away - Lenny Kravitz Cry Me a River - Justin Timberlake Harder to Breathe - Maroon 5 If I Were a Boy - Beyonce It's My Life - Bon Jovi Paint it Black - Rolling Stone Fighter - Christina Aguilera Speechless - Lady Gaga
So whether you're thinking 'I'm superwoman', 'Let's party', or simply 'Screw you', there's a playlist for every occasion. Get creative!
Ok... I'm often peturbed by how people with miniscule talent and giant bleached teeth take good airtime from truly amazing talents, but on this occasion it's just silly.
So how on earth is Cheryl 'struggling to sing my own song' Cole MURDERING this on Live Lounge, and they haven't booked the lovely Tori Allen-Martin a spot? This is what we call singing, Live Lounge producers. Note how she's emitting pleasant sounds, whilst simultaneously being able to produce more than three words in one breath.
Just saying.
The worst bit, if you can pick one, is at 1:39. Ouch.
I've been in a bit of a Disney haze this week - not only because I'm involved in an uber-romantic musical made famous by the superbrand, but because on Thursday I went to see their new feature, The Princess and the Frog. It's the first in years to return to good old-fashioned 2D animation, and while I loved Nemo, Sully and Woody, for me it was a glimpse of the captivating magic I loved as a child. I've never met anyone who didn't love Disney films; they're the perfect combination of escapism, romance, music and humour. But in the cold reality of things, they have some serious delusions to answer for.
Everyone is taught through the magic of Disney that you get a happy ending. Not several stabs at a happy ending - the 'kissing several frogs before you meet your prince' theory isn't even integral to this froggy-themed tale - but one Prince Charming you will meet and just know is the one for you. Obviously this has been ripped apart in recent years by the Shrek trilogy, Enchanted and every feminist critic that could grip a pen, but something about those original 'damsel seeks hero' Disneys has endured - they are still the favourites.
If you watch the progression of their features, they go from zero-irony schmaltz (Snow White, Sleeping Beauty) to fairytales with a fun twist (Aladdin, The Little Mermaid) and then distance themselves from the royal love story with animals, toys and monsters taking over from these prettier and luckier versions of us. I wonder how much of this shift came from audience and sales figures - the last human-based Disney before this one was the not wildly successful Hercules back in 1997. They then got a little siller with The Emperor's New Groove in 2000 (one of my personal cult favourites) and then the freakishness of humans in CGI basically drove us out their Noughties releases entirely.
The Princess and the Frog is a brilliant return to form - funny, clever, charming and sad - but it is acutely aware of all its Disney baggage. In jazz-age New Orleans, heroine Tiana is told that wishing for her dreams on the evening star will only get her part of the way there, and the rest will only happen with hard work and determination. This is a big dose of reality for cartoonland, where previously all a pretty girl had to be equipped with was a chirpy singing voice and a great figure, and she had 'happy ending' stamped all over her. A work ethic seems a funny addition to the list this late in the game. Still, it avoids being too preachy and fits into the formula; Tiana is more lovable than many of their early leading ladies as she scrubs, dusts, waitresses and cooks her way to the top. They couldn't completely ditch their 'All you need is love' mantra, however - Tiana is reminded by her father that while being successful is wonderful, if you don't have the man and the kids, it all means very little.
I think it's almost unfortunate that Disney chose to bring out their first black heroine at the same time as removing her fast-track ticket to dreams coming true. While you could argue that the reality factor comes with her not being a princess, it's also true that non-royal Cinderella had very little to do but sing and look pretty to find love and a crown, while Tiana seems to have an epic struggle before she finds her prince. There are hints of racial tension as her seamstress mother finishes making finery for a local plantation heiress and they subtly move to the back of the bus home. It would all be a little too political were it not for a trumpet-playing alligator, a toothless cajun firefly and a spectacular voodoo conjuror baddie. And fantastic songs. I almost choked on my popcorn as the credits informed me that the music was by Randy 'You got a friiiend in me' Newman, but the setting of the film in the roaring twenties means a jazzy southern score that is as stylish as any of the 2D classics.
As well as the toe-tapping songs, the hilarious playboy prince and spooky voodoo aspect, the performances are amazing - along with Anika Noni Rose's gutsy attitude and beautiful voice, they even got Oprah to appear as Tiana's mother. While there is one soul-crushingly sad moment (I won't ruin it for you) where you will literally feel like a five-year-old who just dropped their ice cream, The Princess and the Frog is a hugely uplifting couple of hours. I think it's safe to say that Disney's got its groove back.
I flicked over to the Grammy Awards on Wednesday night and I couldn't stop watching. The award presentations felt like dull delays between each epic performance, and it must be said that the fabulous females of the music industry totally stole the show. Every time I thought I had been wowed by one pop princess, another came out and completely eclipsed them.
Lady Gaga was her usual level of extra-strength crazy, with an explosive hint at her upcoming tour in her performance of Poker Face and Speechless. They've taken the video off of YouTube now, but it was absolutely phenomenal. The girl has boundless energy and can really sing live, not to mention another geometric hit on the costume front. I loved the creepy ringleader guy and the faceless Gaga-esque dancers, and adored the Terence Koh-designed double grand piano, with sinister clawed hands reaching out of it. Mud-covered Elton John seemed like a genuine Gaga fan and let her outshine him as they duetted on a mix of Speechless and Your Song, even changing his lyrics to say 'how wonderful life is while Gaga's in the world.' Amazing.
Beyoncé came out in killer heels, leather dress and heavy eyeliner and blasted out If I Were a Boy in the theatrical style she uses on tour. I would have preferred the hair to be a little bigger than the ironed-flat look she went for, but I loved the ghetto-fabulous gold armour dress and hoop earrings she wore to pick up her (count 'em) SIX awards. She also slipped into her performance a version of You Oughta Know by Alanis Morrissette, a song I have loved since my angry teenage years, and an ingenious choice which was a perfect match for her huge voice. More power to the girls.
Just when I thought my popstar dreams had all come true, out walked Pink. I always forget how much I love Pink's sultry voice, as she's not a such a strong cultural presence as G and B, but her stunning performance of 'Glitter in the Air' was spellbinding. It was the first time that night that I put down all other distractions and just stopped to watch and listen. She twirled from the ceiling on with acrobatic ease and managed to keep her voice smooth and serene while spinning upside down with water cascading over her. If the 2010 Grammys was like the Diva Olympics, Pink definitely stole the gold. Unknown song, daring performance and understated vocals, but utterly beautiful to behold.
The only lame duck of the night was the unbearably bland Taylor Swift, who not only stole four epic awards from competitors like Beyoncé and Gaga, but quacked out irritating 'OhmyGod' speeches and gave a seriously below-par performance of her already forgettable songs. Organisers even had the gall to ask Fleetwood Mac legend Stevie Nicks to sing with her, who looked completely thrown at having to take part in this shoddy karaoke performance of the teen wonder's hits. I'm with Kanye, she must be stopped.*
The Michael Jackson tribute was a little cringey - Earth Song isn't even good when it's him doing it, who thought adding Celine Dion to the mix was the solution?! - and his kids looked horribly uncomfortable, as well as like little sedated zombies who have as much biological connection to him as cat food. Still, RIP and all that. Generally the live stuff was genius (the Dave Matthews band and Green Day with guests were also highlights), Jay-Z and Beyoncé's support of each other warmed my frosty heart and it just reminded me how slick and powerful the US music industry is. With Pixie Lott, JLS and Cheryl Cole topping the nomination list, I'm not holding my breath for the Brits to top it.
*Edit: After writing this, it popped up on Jezebel.com that after poor wittle Taylor got a lot of flack for her 'singing' at the Grammys, the CEO of her record label decided to wade in with this defence:
"This is not American Idol. This is not a competition of getting up and seeing who can sing the highest note... This is about a true artist and writer and communicator. It's not about that technically perfect performance."
To my great amusement, original Idol Kelly Clarkson retaliated on her blog by writing:
"Thank you for that ‘Captain Obvious', because you know what, we not only hit the high notes, you forgot to mention we generally hit the ‘right' notes as well." She signed the post, "One of those contestants from American Idol who only made it because of her high notes."
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:
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.
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.
No matter how hard we try to escape her, the Colester is everywhere. I can't help but love Cheryl. I actually think she's become a bit sanitised and Beckham-bland styling wise lately, but you've got to admit that she always looks flawless. I love her Geordie scrappiness, her genuine judging style on the X Factor and while I still feel the girl could use a cheeseburger once in a while, I do love the combo of big hair and tiny cinched waist.
I think TV is where she seems to make the most sense - I do have a guilty-pleasure love of Girls Aloud but she's got the least va va voom in her vocals by far... so I really didnt expect to like her first real shot at a solo single. But actually, Fight For this Love is not just inoffensive, it's got real playlist potential. You can tell it's had Will.i.am's magic touch (I love that a bigtime US producer is a such a fan of a Geordie girlbander) but she sounds good and someone very smart has told her to stick to what she does best: looking slick and sticking to a fairly mid to low range. It could have been more of a club track, I reckon, but we'll blame Will for that - I think the melody lends itself to bigger beats and more production than this sort of Mariah/Ciara clicky thing going on - but I'm sure there will be loads of great remixes before long. It sounds a bit Fergie actually, but slightly falls short because Fergie's main selling point is that she's got this massive powerhouse voice that cuts through all the background stuff. But nevertheless, she's definitely upped her game since the supremely rubbish Heartbreaker.
The only real puzzle for me is the styling... I know from various news stories and The Passions of Girls Aloud that she claims to love hip-hop dance, and the hoods, baggy trousers and fingerless gloves certainly reflect that, but then what's she been doing every other day of the year? This ghetto-fabulous look seems out of place when we see her papped or on TV constantly in demure shifts, waist belts, floral skirts, vests and peep toes. Either her stylist rules her life (there was a distinct point in Mrs Beckham's career where all originality and personality seemed to depart from her wardrobe too) or she's leading some sort of Beyonce/Sasha double life. I suppose you can't record a sultry r'n'b single and perform it in a twinset, but it just seems a completely different image than she's been carefully putting out there the last couple of years.
My overall thoughts on the new single? Surprisingly good, a definite grower, but probably won't set the world alight. I bet she'll be played (albeit remixed) in many a club over the next few months, and I'm quite looking forward to hearing more. But i'm still hoping for a Cheryl chat show more than anything. She's made for TV.
They say you should write what you know - but what do I know?
At the dawn of my twenties, I find myself starting out in the capital, armed only with my laptop and and an inquisitive brain. This blog is about me finding my feet (in skyscraper Louboutins, I hope)
Join me while I peruse the news, delve into the epicurean and generally overthink the world...
Dear Christina,
I am 18 and gay. I try to make the best of it but sometimes living in a house of homophobes can bring me down. But when ever I feel awful, I put on this song and feel stronger. I couldn't thank you more.
-Chris