At The Circus with Falling Lucid' Review

Nestled in a quaint little beer garden setting of Maidstone's Style and Winch, under decorative bunting and amidst the glow of soft candlelight, 2012's first annual Circus night began in earnest. 

With a generous crowd, all supping on well earned drinks and buzzing with Friday night excitement, The Big Tricks Circus Group made sure that the evening got off to spectacular start.
With a rag-tag collection of talented performers, they set about dazzling the onlookers with tricks and skills that took in everything from jugglers to fire breathers. If there were a more fun way to kick off a night of entertainment, then it would have to be something special indeed to top what is on offer. It’s not long, however, before the nights music is under way.

Slipping into the intimate staging area, with its mood lighting and colourful drapes, the first act of the evening to take to the stage is the duo, of guitarist Alex Evans and smooth as silk vocalist Lauren Bateman, and headline act, Falling Lucid. Re-kindling the spirit of 90's alternative stalwarts Mazzy Star, they immediately set to grabbing the attention of the small venue with their mixture of self penned, laid back, acoustic pop numbers. From the dreamy, 'I Don’t Want To Be Adored' to interesting cover versions of acts as diverse as Kate Bush (Running Up That Hill) and Daniel Johnson, (True Love Will Find You In The End) it quickly became apparent that here was an act that, although repetitive at times and in need of a little spark, took their craft very seriously and were well worth their being top of the bill.

As the headliners finished up, and the ever growing crowd awaited with eager anticipation for the next act, making their way to the bar to refresh their glasses, the circus entertainment continued to warm the spirits outside in the cold January night air. It wasn’t long, though, before the strum of a guitar beckoned the revelers back to the music.

With great musicianship and off-kilter lyrics, capturing everything from drunken nights to the Easter bunny, Medway's Chris Weller was by far and away the best act of the evening.
Showcasing a sharp, sardonic wit with a grungy, rough around the edges voice, his relatively short set was awash with songs that bounced from jazz, accompanied with the lovely touch of a little bit of mouth trumpet, to blues and straight up rock, and all encased within melodies that overtook the small venue. It takes something special to stand out from the rather over-populated located music scene, but, Weller, if he continues on this form, showed that he definitely has what it takes to rise to the very top.

The last act of the night, before the headliners took to the stage once again for the nights finalities, were Medway's folk-punkster's, Crybaby Special and the Monsters. With shades of Gogol Bordello and the Swordfishtrombones-era growl of Tom Waits, the two-piece, tonight pared down to vocalist and guitarist Jason Stafford and bassist Josh Carson, had no difficulties in getting the crowd jumping right from the off.
Bouncing around the stage, it is easy to warm the charisma and showmanship of front man Stafford and the overall tightness and musical ability of the ensemble, but, and it is a big but, the songs themselves became, all too quickly, rather tedious in their similarity. This is not to say that there isn’t a lot to like about the band and with their overall energy and likeability, it is hard to see them not go far.

After a short, second set, from Falling Lucid, once again showcasing their laid back pop, the night’s proceedings draw to a close. With the revelers moving away, to continue their drinking or warm themselves at home, it is only left to look back on an evening that has been nothing other than a resounding success.

The final mention, of course, has to go to organiser, and photographer, Zoë Sparkle, for her superb choice of venue and entertainment, and, eye for subtle, yet effective, decoration.

Here's very much looking forward to the next Circus Night. 

Voldemort and Rodney Trotter do Shakespeare's The Tempest.

My earliest recollection of delving into the world of Shakespeare was sat in the front row of third year English while my teacher at the time, Mr Nicholas, bumbled through trying to dissect Macbeth for the understanding of our thirteen year old minds. Unfortunately, for my younger self, his attempts were nothing but futile due to 1) his constantly having to reprimand my classmates, more interested in looking at girls and generally messing around 2) my, said, teacher, seemingly not having any grasp whatsoever in what he was teaching, and 3) well, there is no three, its odd as I thought there was, but I was interrupted and have now forgotten, so, for now, its just going to be two points, but points well worth mentioning I feel. While I do remember, though, I was also interested in looking at girls, but, due to the location of my seat in class, it made it much more difficult. Just wanted to clear that up.Anyway, it goes without saying, that my first foray into the work of the Bard was nothing other than baffling.
I wish that it could have been different, I really do. Obtaining knowledge and gaining insight into the English languages most prominent literary figure at an early age, I feel, is the best time for it. At a time when your mind is ripe and thirsty for learning, like a sponge, ready to soak up all that is thrown at it, and not, as I have to say now, in my (ahem) thirty-third year, a little slow and sluggish. But all this would have meant travelling back in time, passing my 11+ exams, and, therefore, giving myself a shot at attending a better school, with a higher standard of teaching, instead of the hideous feakshow that I ended up at.
This is not to say, of course, that I am, in any way, as you may be thinking, past my sell-by date, it has more to do with, oh, I don't know, a selective mind, these days. Give me a gripping crime caper or an interesting biography then I'm as happy as they come. I've even started taking steps into the world of fantasy fiction, something, not to long ago, that would have been unheard of. But, Shakespeare, well, after that disastrous start, I never came back to it.

That is, until now.

When I was asked by my Fiance if I fancied tickets for the new West-End production of The Tempest, I have to say that, due to the information pointed out in my earlier ramblings, I was, obviously, a little apprehensive. I found myself mulling it over for a few hours, forever delaying my answer, until, finally, with a 'what the heck' attitude, I said yes. So, on Saturday, off we trotted to the Theatre Royal, where the bright lights awaited us, to see Trevor Nunn’s latest.

The thing, I have to say, that helped sway my decision, was the cast. Ralph Fiennes as Prospero? Yes please. James Simmons as Alonso? Why not. Nicholas Lyndhurst as Trinculo? Oh go on then. Having notable and established actors, who you would otherwise associate with mediums such as Television and film, helps, to me anyway, and whether silly or not, to bring a familiarity, which, to this uneducated boy, is a huge bonus.

Despite the ridiculously uncomfortable seats, that caused me to fidget for the nigh on three hour duration, my initial opinions, I'm happy to report, were good. Certainly with respect to Fiennes, who, perhaps unsurprisingly, makes the production shine. Speaking verse like it is his natural tongue, he is completely believable, portraying a commanding Prospero, a man to be feared and obeyed, yet, tender with it. 

Elisabeth Hopper makes an innocent, childlike Miranda. A tiny bit annoying and whiney at times, with a little too much teary-eyed hand-wringing. Nevertheless, she is quite charming, with a winning smile so full of unbridled joy, it’s hard not to warm to her and her character.

One thing I wasn't warned of, however, is that there is a fair bit of singing involved. Something that, and I'm hoping that I'm not alone in this, I hate! The need to chuck in a few songs, seemingly, just for the hell of it, to possibly jazz things up a bit, is totally and utterly pointless, and makes no sense. 

While the odd song might get your feet tapping, most of them are pretty dire. Ariel’s spooky, flat, falsetto warblings are enough to haunt my dreams, and Stephano and Trinculo's bland and tuneless ramblings should have been left, as it were, on the cutting room floor.
The rest of the production is, in equal parts, dark and brooding and a tad twee. In one scene, a fairy actually slides down a rainbow, slides down a rainbow! The spirits, who rarely appear on the stage unaccompanied by the light tinkling of bells, as though to signal the approach of Father Christmas, are actually quite ungainly in their attempts at grace. On more than one occasion I was on the edge of my uncomfortable seat, as they dangled, awkwardly, mid-air, swaying slightly on wires, like in a bad school play
While Ariel’s, and the rest of the fairies, aerial feats were a little farcical, some of the circus-style rope-work was far more effective. In the storm scene, that opened the show, actors were seen tumbling slowly, head over heels, down ropes, as though being plunged into a swirling sea, an illusion aided by Paul Pyant’s beautifully evocative lighting design.
Though, for the greater part, the production was technically polished, I found it somewhat lacking in passion at times. It’s far longer than it needed to be, at three hours, despite the fact that this is, as I'm lead to believe, one of Shakespeare’s shorter plays.
But, despite this, and cynicism aside, I found the whole thing to be rather good, and, despite the seats, I will definitely be keeping my eyes open for some more Shakespeare

The Death Factor, in glorious HD

I had an idea over the weekend. An idea how to spice up Saturday night TV, more specifically, the inane, mind numbing drivel that is X-Factor/Britain's Got Talent.

Those of you over a certain age, say, 30, will remember a great film from the 1980's called 'The Running Man.' Based on Stephen King novel, and set in a futuristic totalitarian police state, the premise of the story centres around convicted criminals fighting for their lives in a twisted game show involving their attempts to evade ruthless killers, or 'stalkers' for a chance to be pardoned and set free. Now, if this idea wouldn't be a welcome edition to the glorified karaoke contests that has become the scourge of the weekend's television schedule, then I don’t know what would.

Picture the scene. The X Factor tour rolls into one of this country’s great cities; we'll say London, for arguments sake. Lining the streets are thousands upon thousands of fake-tanned chavs and middle-aged imbeciles, all with a sob story of broken homes, drug problems or growing up without a brain, and all deluded to the fact that they, for one of the reasons just stated, have (said while annoyingly crossing their arms in an Adam Ant 'Prince Charming' way) the 'X Factor' and deserve to be 'the next big thing.'

Ok, admittedly, and it pains me to say, some of them, a very small percentage, mind, can actually hold a tune and bash out a mildly enjoyable cover version. 

However, the majority of these idiots, who, if singing were the only way to a good meal, would waste away to the sound of a Whitney Houston or Boyzone backing track, and die, hideously, in the gutter, wouldn't even be missed by their own families, hence, saving them from any future embarrassment. It's for these people that the new premise will be brought in.

Like John Hurt, riding in from the horizon in Lawrence of Arabia, and, amidst a cloud of dry ice and the clash of loud, dramatic, drums, appears the burly, rough-hewn figures of five crazed killers, all brandishing weapons of torture, and all ready to slay any of the wannabies that stand in their way. Cue the carnage.

Those deemed not good enough, of which there will be more than a few, and, after their unsuccessful stint on stage in front of hundreds of disgruntled people baying for their blood, will be thrown, like a piece of meat to a wild animal, into a grueling assault course, in which they will be pursued, hopefully, to their death by the aforementioned psychopaths.

Those lucky enough, or, unlucky, depending on which side of the fence you fall on, to escape the maniacs claws will be successfully, and sickeningly, al-la 'Surprise Surprise' but minus old mattress face herself, Cilla Black, re-united with their loved ones, and, hopefully, and for the good of mankind and their remaining limbs, be put off from ever applying for the contest in future, or sullying anyone with their awful voices again.

The penalty for those, sadly (I'm in tears just typing this) failing in their bid for freedom, of which every second will be televised in glorious HD, will be to have their mauled carcasses strung up onto the side of ITV headquarters as a gentle reminder of the consequences to any other talentless degenerate thinking of applying in the future, and hopefully spelling the death, not only to themselves, but to the sad sham of X Factor.