I Believe in Love

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.

Les Bizarrables

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.

You get what you pay for

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.

But I want it NOW!

Don't Rain on My Parade!

I was browsing the weekend's newspapers when I read Amy Jenkins' column in the Independent with interest. She makes some good points about 'women's entertainment' being a separate concept from other TV shows, films and plays, but I was riled by the judgemental tone towards 'the sort of women that go and see these things'. It was all sparked by Legally Blonde (which I reviewed not long ago.) Jenkins had been irked by descriptions of the hordes of screaming fans, and started wondering why female-marketed entertainment has become so tied up in hysteria. Along the way, she lets slip that she doesn't like the concept of LB in the first place:

...the whole thing masquerades so well as a story of female empowerment... But, as with all these "girl power" franchises, there's also something not at all empowering and much more subversive in the mix. It's the "What's wrong with a bit of lipstick" mentality – by which I mean that these films and TV shows put themselves forward as "celebrating femininity" but actually reinforce feminine subjugation.

She also drives home the point that someone like Elle Woods would not get anywhere in the legal world in real life. Ok, it's not realism. But it's also not claiming to be. How many courtrooms have you been in where the witness's sexuality has been discussed by a group of singing lawyers? It's also not claiming to be at all feminist - Elle's success in law is entirely accidental, other than perhaps her foundation of confidence. The hordes of silly fans have nothing to do with the pink and fluffy content of the play. Plenty of people went to those first few shows that didn't scream, or cry, or wolf whistle. The fact is, it's a teen story and attracts a teen crowd - along with already extrovert theatrical types, gay men and Blue fans who haven't moved on. If anything, it's the tabloidy casting that's to blame. Jenkins then name-checks several examples of female bonding over TV and film that I felt rather stung by:

All this started in a small way, I seem to remember, way back in 1995 when women were reported to be gathering around their TV sets with bottles of chardonnay to watch re-runs of Colin Firth in his wet shirt in the BBC's Pride and Prejudice. Then there was Bridget Jones and the whole Sex and the City sisterhood thing. That culminated in women reportedly making the (horrible) 2008 film a party event and drinking cosmopolitans together as they watched... Finally, of course, there was Mamma Mia!, the worldwide phenomenon that traded on the dream of middle-aged women getting their mojos back and still having some kind of clout in the sexual marketplace.

What sort of sisterhood hating is this?! Yes, I enjoyed Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice (I was too young at the time for Chardonnay, but I remember reading Bridget Jones and appreciating that as a great girls' night in.) Yes, I saw Bridget Jones in a girly crowd and loved every minute - as did a lot of men, I happen to know. Yes, I went to see Sex and the City after a tribute day of shopping and cosmo drinking... I had loved the show for its six-year run and wanted to celebrate its fun, fashionable, fabulous spirit. And guilty again, I saw Mamma Mia at the cinema with my sister and mum, who is from the original Abba-loving generation, and laughed and sang along with the whole screening room. All of these brilliant memories of great times with fellow females were suddenly tarnished with disapproval. Having fun, en masse, perhaps drinking (whisper it) alcohol? What were we thinking?!

I'm not surprised Jenkins found the Sex and the City Movie 'horrible'; she probably couldn't relate to the main characters' experiences of love, friendship, heartbreak and the ultimate alien concept, having fun. Similarly, she was probably left cold by the sisterly spirit of the main girls in Legally Blonde, although she should have recognised herself in the initially snobby, humourless Harvard students. If anything, Sex and the City and Legally Blonde: The Musical are unrealistic mainly because they show women supporting and encouraging each other through mistakes and victories. Certain educated British women have been taught that manicures and girls' nights out only dumb us down, and the only true way to succeed is to see every woman around you as competition. This makes me sadder than any 'anti-feminist' plot could... As a culprit of the aforementioned "What's wrong with a bit of lipstick" mentality, I feel you can miss out on so much of life by taking your career, your gender, yourself too seriously.

One of the enjoyable things Bridget Jones, SATC and Legally Blonde had in common for me is that women became real, three-dimensonal figures of fun. When Helen Fielding wrote Bridget Jones, some people were horrified by the sight of a woman getting drunk, focusing on a man rather than work, going back to a cheating lover and, more often than not, just scribbling 'I blurry love Daniel' in her diary before passing out. Many, however, just saw themselves. We are not perfectly poised creatures, and we are sadly programmed (not just convinced by the media) to seek a mate and on the way, make ourselves look attractive in order to do so. I don't understand this idea that in order to be a powerful woman, you must eschew anything light-hearted, romantic, silly or exciting. The single woman drinking a cocktail with girl friends and objectifying the hot man on the screen is a hell of a lot more enlightened than the young married woman keeping house for her man and watching what he wants to watch while fixing him a drink. SATC and Legally Blonde both suggested that we might be a little pickier than that in our twenties and thirties, especially if we were lucky enough to have other women for companionship, laughs and conversation.

I'm not in the staunch 'Who needs a man?' camp but I can't stand this other extreme, the idea that groups of women bonding make the world a stupider place. There is something enchanting, wonderful and yes, shoot me, EMPOWERING about being in a roomful of women all having fun and being entertained. I felt it when spontaneous cheering, singing and clapping all broke out in the usually-mute cinema during Mamma Mia, I felt it in the relieved and knowing laughter at Bridget's hapless antics and I thought I would feel it at Legally Blonde, having listened to the witty lyrics and touching character friendships via the soundtrack. But it was a mixed group the night I went - and both the men and women present laughed, cheered and even booed. I think Jenkins needs to go back and read her own piece, where she describes the play in the title as 'the opium of the lasses.' While 'opium' suggests underlying danger and influence, it primarily represents a high, a boost and heady escapism. These shows may not change the world, but they've certainly lifted my mood, even just for a moment. Just as in this post, I take exception to anyone telling me that "celebrating femininity" - translation: having fun or feeling pretty - is a waste of time. There is enough crap in the world without these people draining all the colour from it.

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:

So little time...

I've been wanting to update this blog for well over a week now, and consequently have way too many topics to choose from. So I'll do sub-headlines for each to avoid the contents of my headspace spilling over you like a molten stream of consciousness.

Best bar Nun

Last week I went to see the newly-opened Sister Act musical with my two own lovely sisters. It was the younger one's birthday, and we all had a delicious meal at a little cafe/bar called Libre around the corner - highly recommended. After the nicest Thai red curry I've ever tasted and a passionfruit-champagne cocktail, I was very much ready for some singing nuns. The production was, in the words of its main character, Fabulous. You can tell it has Whoopi's Goldberg touch (I'm sorry, in an awful pun mood today), and effervescent lead Patina Miller has all of her attitude and comic timing, with the added bonus of being a lot more Beyonce-licious. There were hardly any filler songs at all in my opinion (I know some of my musical theatrey friends disagree) as they were all lyrically slick, often hilarious, with a strong theme of 70s disco, soul and funk. There were lots of genius close-to-the-mark rip offs (one VERY Dancing in the Street, one very Barry White, one very Marvin Gaye) but Alan Menken's astonishingly good score also has a few classically Disney moments, which might grate on less of a Disney-lover than myself. Katie Rowley Jones, previously a fab Nessarose in Wicked, does a great job of being the 'straight' character, and her voice lives up to the contradiction of little meek nun/huge voice, which notably had to be dubbed in the film. Overall it was a wonderful night out, with heartfelt, funny, poignant and downright camp moments, and everyone should treat themselves to it this year! In these crunchy times, you never know how long even the greatest West End show will run.

Deal Breakers

Another interesting quirk of humanity that came up over dinner on Monday night, and was in the London paper the following day, as well as popping up in July's Cosmo - those little niggles that can make or break a new romance. Various anecdotes revealed how we (not just men) find those irritations that we just can't live with in the other sex. Some were physical - who can forget Chandler's issues with oversized nostrils: 'When she leaned back, I could SEE HER BRAIN' - some etiquette-related (talking too much about themselves, name-dropping, poor hygiene) and many far more random reasons. Cosmo's Tracy Ramsden has a beady eye for bad accessorizing, citing "dodgy man jewellery" and "a friendship band screaming 'I spent my gap year in Thailand'" as bad omens on a second date. I do despise this kind of walking stereotype, the surfy haired, stoner-voiced, quite-rich-really-but-desperate-not-to-look-it guy, so that would probably be a deal-breaker for me. My own personal ones? Hardcore Daily Mail reading, rudeness to waiters, excessive vanity, drug-addled brain masquerading as 'chilled out', anyone described by their friends as a 'legend' or addicted to the word 'banter' (translation: loud, drunk exhibitionist with an inflated sense of their own brilliance), and fussiness with food. That's not such a colossal list, is it? But I am less tolerant than some; I truly believe I know in the first five minutes of the first date if the guy is a keeper.

The Glad Game

I mentioned in this post that I was coveting some gorgeous gladiator sandals for summery days. After extensive searching (and only one purchase-and-return error) I have found my perfect ancient-history-chic sandals. They're not actually classic glads, more Grecian-goddessy than Spartan-studded, but I love them. Yes, they murder my feet - all sandals do, I have oddly angular feet and ankles - but I'm determined to wear them in and enjoy my summer footwear romance.

And finally...

Funny story of the week: New Yorkers are getting a system of STI identity cards. The idea is that men register with the site, which synchs up to their sexual health history, and by acquiring their STI-dentity code (I really will stop soon), women can access their man's last two STI tests and make sure they're getting a clean slate, as it were.This is responsible, clever, and a little weird - a brilliant reflection on savvy New Yorkers. In one of the early series of Sex and the City, back in the days of the surreal vox-pops-style sequences, a guy remarks that women want a blood test before they'll even have dinner with you (or words to this effect). It seems SATC were way ahead of their time, and in the cynical, 'wise-up-and-get-a-grip' world of the Big Apple, falling in love really can be as practical as checking a bank statement.

Do comment on any or all of the above... I love comments.

West End Girl

Since I was about 16, I have been in love with the music of Jason Robert Brown. Musical-theatre-phobes look away now; this is a gushy one. All this time I have had the original cast recording of his innovative two-person show The Last Five Years, which (in thinly veiled autobiography) tells the story of a passionate, painful, beautiful five year relationship. Even in my mid-teens, knowing little of love and heartbreak, the honesty of the music grabbed my attention. No note, chord or lyric is wasted and every song perfectly encompasses a relationship scenario we can all relate to. There's no way to describe the genuinely modern, hilarious and tragic quality of JRB's work, but if you are at all interested in musicals, get hold of this and his revue Songs For a New World.

I went to see the fabulous Notes from New York production of The Last Five Years last week with such high expectations of the songs and characters I have been besotted with for so long - for five years, incidentally. It is rarely on in London, so I jumped at the chance to finally become better acquainted with the piece. Starring as Cathy was Julie Atherton, who I recently saw in the brilliant Avenue Q, and she more than delivered as an alternately sweet and sour tempest of a woman, accompanied by her usual supreme vocals. I hadn't seen Paul Spicer in anything thus far (he is the co-producer for the Notes from New York production, as well as starring) but I was completely seduced by his cocky, romantic, ambitious Jamie, a part which he made sweeter and funnier than I had envisioned it, to great effect. Being in the second row of the stalls felt both uncomfortable and hypnotic; you felt awkwardly wedged between them in the bad moments of the relationship and oddly voyeuristic during the good.

What struck me the most, especially in light of its autobiographical core, was how balanced the production was; the male protagonist is cocky, cruel at times and even unfaithful, but his love interest is also stubborn, confrontational and closed off at times. You can love and hate and totally relate to both all the way through. The minimalist set put the spotlight completely on the two actors, and the structure of the show (her songs begin at the end of the relationship and work backwards, his run vice versa and they meet in the middle) made it incredibly moving.

Something wonderful about composer-lyricists is that often the melody and lyrics become completely inextricable, and Brown is the best example of this. Many themes appear instrumentally in the show before words are put to them, and when they are, the emotion of the melody immediately makes sense. I feel I could see this show a hundred times over a hundred years and recognise something different in myself every time; maybe this is the product of someone with real life experience. Either way, my talent-crush on Jason Robert Brown is bigger than ever.

In life news, my second week at Elle is going great, I feel like I'm on top of things and like I'm making an impression, and there has been talk of possibly getting to go to film screenings and review books for their wonderful Preview section, which I'm ridiculously excited about. I'm also going to see the other Notes from New York show this Saturday, Jonathan Larson's Tick, Tick... Boom! I know nothing about this musical so it will be a contrast to how emotionally invested I was in last week's show. I'm hoping to have a bit of a theatre-going year, so any show recommendations are very welcome.

Sunshine and schadenfreude

After a surreal start to the year involving 10 inches of powdery snow in February, Spring has finally sprung. Last week was dreamily bright and daffodil-filled, and I continued with my employment offensive in between bursts of rug relaxation in the garden. On Friday I had my interview to go back to Elle as their features assistant (something I've wanted to ever since my first work experience stint there last Autumn), and I headed up in the sunshine, full of anticipation.

The interview went as well as it possibly could, with lots of lighthearted chat and laughter, I felt really lucky to know the office and staff fairly well. As I left, fingers firmly crossed, I resolved to have a lovely day minus interview dissecting and obsessing. Luckily I had a lovely man on hand to share sunny London with, and we set about a day of eating and drinking by the Thames, wandering around Theatreland, and eventually grabbed some bargain tickets for Avenue Q.

I have wanted to drop by the Avenue ever since the hit Broadway show transferred to the UK, and the residents didn't disappoint. It is a witty, pacy, bareback ride of a musical, with such hilarious themes as 'The Internet is for Porn' and the brilliant look at 'Schadenfreude'. The cast is insanely talented, with soaring vocals, incredible puppeteering skills and many voicing several characters at once. It was a very uplifting way to spend an evening, especially as it involved so many themes of entering the real world of work, love and life, although naturally caricatured.

Speaking of which, I am entering a new chapter: I got the Elle job and start in a month. This means I will get to scour the news for features ideas, attend and contribute to weekly meetings and eventually get to interview people and write up small pieces myself. I am totally thrilled as it feels like things are finally getting started for me; I know in such a bleak time for employment that I'm very lucky to have broken through even a little into journalism, but on the other hand I also know the time I've put in, the unpaid hours of going the extra mile and the effort I've put into networking and persistent follow-ups are a huge part of it.

In the news this week: Two high-profile mothers sadly died, both in tragic circumstances. Natasha Richardson's sudden and unnecessary passing was honoured in a quietly dignified dimming of the lights on Broadway and in the West End. Jade Goody's death in the early hours of Mother's Day has sparked a volatile debate as to whether she deserves such press reverence, which seems ongoing on every social networking site and round every watercooler. Far from questioning the level of 'deserved' press attention, I feel both responses are a direct result of their actions and public personas during their lives. Jade courted attention from the day she auditioned for the entertainment demon that is Big Brother, and lived her entire life in a reality TV bubble. Natasha Richardson contributed some celebrated performances on film and in the theatre, protected her boys from the paparazzi (despite their having two extremely talented and high-profile parents) and lived a quietly happy life in suburban New York.

Yes, Jade's memorial has been public and gaudy, undignified and glaring - but it is all the press can do with the memory of someone who got fully naked, shouted ignorant slurs at another woman, got a death-sentence diagnosis, got married, got chemo, got christened... all in front of the cameras. Her choice. I didn't harbour admiration for Jade at any stage of her life, but only a monster would ever wish an early death on a young mother. Two sets of two little brothers will have had a heartbreaking Mother's Day, and all those nobody vultures publicly criticizing either case seriously need to get back to their own lives.