Someone was going to have to say something. I considered taking off my jumper, realised that might alarm him, so rolled up my sleeve and thrust my naked, skinny pale arm in his direction. Ignore the freckles, ignore the moles and the scars, ignore my ugly dark hair. Ignore the lame heart tattoos and please don’t ask questions because I’ve momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

‘Will you sign our arms?’ Did I even say hello? I think he did. Things were hazy, could you ever forgive me?

My friend had a Sharpie. His fingers curled around my wrist as he drew an ‘M’.

‘Do you mind if I do it all in block?’

My childhood stutter chose this moment to return in earnest; it always does when I’m overwhelmed. The word ‘perfect’ in my reply was an obstacle which I almost overcame. So close.

I can’t stand small talk, but I made it anyway because what else do you say in situations such as these? He was gentle and patient in his replies, offering more than I ever expected. He spoke of the gorgeous theatre and of the sound being good. I stammered again over the word ‘fabulous’. (I used the word fabulous?) For a second I forgot he was writing on my arm and unexpectedly gesticulated.

‘Oh careful, you nearly smudged me,’ and there was that smile. He was wearing a tartan blazer. The entourage was watching us. Way to make me feel exposed and vulnerable. He was being too patient for me, surely. I hated myself and loved my life simultaneously.

He moved onto my friend and I took my phone out of my pocket, then put it back again, then took it out again, then put it back again. I regret deciding that a photo would be too much. I felt too nonchalant and decided to worry about my appearance; that my makeup was running, that my eyeliner had smudged and that I smelled of a hundred sweaty fans.

I tuned back in and they were talking about Newtongrange. He was bemused by my friend’s pronunciation: ‘nittengrange’. I chipped in with ‘Newton….grange’ which seemed to break the accent barrier. He was gentle and soft-spoken and wholly beautiful. I looked at him properly for the first time and allowed my brain to acknowledge who he was and thought ‘well, he’s smaller in real life’. Later I realised I’ve only ever seen him on stage, craning my neck upwards. He isn’t really ten foot tall. (Disappointing).

When he hugged me I remembered to inhale: everyone was right, he smelt divine and of reassuringly expensive cologne. I pulled away first because the whole experience had turned me overly polite.

‘We’ve got to go, goodnight girls’ said a man to my right. I backed off. I’m sure I said thank you. I’m sure he did that familiar bowing of the head to us. I’m sure he said goodnight. I’m sure he said ‘see you tomorrow?’ I wish I remembered more.

We half-laughed, half cried and I phoned my flatmate, forgetting it was past midnight (sorry, love). As I walked home, my faith in love newly devout, I noticed I had a small, barely noticeable chocolate mark on my jumper. I met Morrissey with chocolate on my jumper. Such is my scruffy, unforgiveable life.

And for the linkophobes:

A new Morrissey collection might leave Moz fans wanting

I’ve been lucky enough to write about Morrissey rather a lot. Here’s the first piece (which can be read in its original state here)

Why his 2011 UK tour of Hawick and Dunoon is in everyone’s best interests

A snapshot of any Morrissey gig at any given venue at any point in his career paints the same (vulgar?) picture. From the bequiffed to the balding, via gladioli and vegetarianism, a congregation of grasping hands reach and strain towards the stage where the Pope of Mope stands at his electronic pulpit offering up something unseen, be it confirmation or salvation – or simply a reason for his followers to keep the faith.

For an icon constantly lurking in the shadows of true superstardom, devotion follows Morrissey in a way the skinny misfit of 1982 could barely have imagined. Blurring the lines between pop icon and religious deity, a gig for many is akin to a pilgrimage. Consider an entire hall chanting his name before the curtain goes up and the climactic rush to touch the hem of his robe, not to mention the ‘do as I do’ rise in vegetarianism among young people after the release of animal lovers’ anthem ‘Meat is Murder’. However, as with any elevated figure, controversy has never strayed far from Morrissey, whose foibles reveal themselves in controversial statements, mid-gig walk outs and a facade which is tougher and more impenetrable now than ever. It’s challenging being a fan of someone so adored and hated in equal measure.

A lot of the appeal is pleasingly simple, and lies in his self-proclaimed role as the ‘outsider’s outsider’. Always attracted to the most dreary, miserable and dark of society’s nooks and crannies, his magnetism is irresistible to every misunderstood teen who never quite fitted in, the disenchanted of life’s gatecrashers and each smalltown boy or girl who ever longed for something more.

This goes some way towards explaining the choice of venues for his upcoming 2011 tour, which kick off on July 15th. Of a nine-date jaunt (so far confirmed as his only UK shows this year), a surprising five shows have been awarded to Scotland. And while we might imagine a return to 2008’s Edinburgh Playhouse or 2009’s Glasgow Barrowland, true to his eccentricities, Perth, Inverness, Dunoon, Dunfermline and Hawick are deemed a sufficient round-up. Odd choices and ones that have divided a lot of the fan community, but should anyone really be surprised?

His affinity with the outskirts of society has often translated its way into a fascination with the kitchen sink domesticity and eerie normality of small town living. Whether overly romanticising bland high rise flats and iron bridges or bemoaning humdrum coastal towns, an air of begrudging familiarity with, if not affection for, the unexcitingly ordinary has left a lyrical mark on the man’s emotional landscape.

School-night gigs in the middle of nowhere would be a risk for an artist with a more laissez-faire fanbase. To travel the length of the country and worship at the feet of Saint Morrissey is just another way of demonstrating extreme loyalty. And given Morrissey’s recent professional disappointments, this arrangement could well be a mutually beneficial one. Following the ‘meek disaster’ of 2009’s b-sides collection ‘Swords’ and a two year split from management, as well as the minimal airplay which has dogged him throughout his solo career, touring is a chance for Morrissey to see first-hand that his candle has not yet burned out. Much is made of fans’ adoration to Morrissey, but of equal import is his respectful allegiance to his fans. This is no one-way street: gig footage may show a tide of hands swelling stagewards, but wait until security’s back is turned, then the fourth wall is broken, handshakes are encouraged, bodies slyly welcomed onstage.

It’s sneaky, but, funnily enough, in everyone’s best interests. To gig in such small venues in innocuous towns means Morrissey is not simply preaching to the converted, as he simultaneously reaches out to newcomers while reaffirming his status with regulars. Similarly, fans will accept the mission, fawn, moon and worship, happy in the knowledge that this is a relationship in which everyone is singing from the same hymn book.

Everyone knows the story: man meets microphone, microphone scares man, man meets speech therapist, man becomes king against his will, man triumphs over adversity, but this comes with the best swearing scene in the world as a bonus. Colin ‘King George the Somethingth’ Firth’s comic timing as he spits the word ‘tits’ leaves not a dry eye in the house. Beautiful.

Add into the mix a badass older brother: great at shirking his familial responsibilities, even better at throwing awesome parties, Helena Bonham Carter in a rare Not Tim Burton’s Wife role and that adorable girl from Outnumbered as a young Princess Margaret (mind = blown) and, seriously, this movie is complete.

It’s great, inspired, heart-wrenching, moving and other superlatives, but Geoffrey Rush as camp, sharp-tongued, unflappable speech therapist Lionel Logue steals the show a bit. Be prepared to develop an uncomfortable crush on him. And if you’re one of the few who haven’t seen the film yet, stop being a contrary fool. You won’t regret it.

A modest, but stable home life played out near the Brooklyn Bridge in New York City is disrupted with the undercover arrival of two Italian cousins looking for a better life in America. Coinciding with the slow-boiling maturing of Catherine, niece of a middle-aged couple, Rodolpho and Marco’s addition to the scene sends overly protective uncle Eddie Carbone into emotional upheaval. However, more than documenting the cousins’ adaptation to their new world, the overriding theme centres on the family and their reactions to the significant changes set into motion by the pair’s arrival, in particular Eddie, who is forced to reconsider views previously unquestioned on family, sexuality and what is right and wrong when it comes to morality vs the law.

The simple set, inside and outside of the family’s house rotated scene by scene, lends a not inconsiderable claustrophia to the set-up. By highlighting the trio’s fairly contained stomping ground, the grandiose dreams of the young Rodolpho – to revel in the bright lights of Broadway and Times Square, and simply to ‘be something wonderful here’ – are also accentuated with a sense of inevitable doom as, with Miller, it is safe to assume that happiness will not be served on a silver platter.

The cast is magnificent: Kirsty Mackay’s unfaltering wide-eyed innocence leads to an endearing Catherine and Stanley Townsend as Eddie Carbone is, at times, heart-breaking. The shock in an explosive second half as Eddie comes to terms with his feelings for Catherine is at perfect odds with his solid, bumbling form – he is a rock yielding painfully to an unexpected storm. His insistence that Rodolpho is ‘not right’ hints at unspoken undertones, whether sinister or empathetic is not discussed, but adds another intriguing layer to the man’s facade.

Swift and snappy comedic interjections ensure the performance doesn’t succumb to the dour drag such a play could become, while an eagle-eyed attention to detail in both set and costume means that John Dove’s adaptation of his fifth Miller piece has added yet another must-see notch to the Lyceum’s belt.

To be fair, considering the four years that have passed since Ta Dah, there’s certainly been enough time for the band to mature, growing into an edgier sound without losing touch with the kitsch and the quirks that keep the band unique. But with critics hailing Night Work as their new sophisticated album, that’s a lot of pressure on the poor dears. I imagine it feels, ooh, I dunno, perhaps like graduating and getting a ‘real’ job and trying to convince the world you’re a grown up when all you really want to do is lie in bed and eat cereal straight from the packet, but you can’t cause there are people who actually rely on you to get shit done.  Except with more glitter.

‘Harder You Get’ is definitely all grown-up, growling guitar and there’s a military drum thang going on there, which is all complemented superbly by Ana Matronic’s dancing; half rag-doll, half robot, brought to life by pulsing purple and green lasers (LASERS! Inspired, right?) bouncing and reflecting from band to audience and back again.  ‘Running Out’  is pure eighties loveliness, a bit Pet Shop Boys with dance moves. Jake Shears can still bring it vocal-wise – his range is astounding, even during Paul McCartney - high-pitched and fast-paced from the last album – he doesn’t miss a beat.  There’s more focus on riff-meister extraordinaire, Del Marquis, who doesn’t disappoint; he’s retained his slightly jerky trademark movements, but perhaps that’s just cos such awkwardness makes what comes out of his guitar all the more wonderful – what with the pretty face and all, you I find it easy to forget he’s there for anything more than decoration.

But guys, there’s something missing. The sparkle is still there, the zing, the pizazz, the razzle dazzle – they’re all still there. The fun is definitely still there. But there’s something a bit stilted; something forced. The audience is good, but not great; the band are great, but not spectacular.

And then it happens. Jake Shears starts taking his clothes off. And all is well with the world. The crowd goes a bit mad, the band relaxes and suddenly Ana is less robotic, more her usual burlesque and sensual, flowing self. Jake – now giddy in that way only getting a bit naked can leave you – remembers how to work the crowd, even Del loosens up. And it’s back to crude jokes, innuendo and suddenly – finally – there it is, the reason I adore the band as much as I do: the bouncy, smutty, tongue-in-cheek unadulterated fun that epitomises their attitude towards music.

The encore is a sensational assault on the ear – two of their oldest songs, their disco-ed-up cover of Comfortably Numb and an elongated version of dirty, cheesy, summer favourite Filthy/Gorgeous.  Close your eyes and you could be in a field somewhere, surrounded by E-d up teenagers blowing whistles (that’s what a rave is like, right? /squareness). Open your eyes and you’re in a room somewhere surrounded by E-ed up teenagers.  Perhaps. It’s all pretty glorious either way.

Am I perhaps reducing them to poppy, bubbly stereotypes? Does it really have to take a grown man showing off his skinny chest for things to really kick off? Truthfully – kinda. But, BUT, this is what the good Scissor Sister name is founded on. Their new stuff is truly very good, they have obviously been exploring their sound and maturing – that’s all fine.  And once the album is released (28th June), it’ll be great to listen to it at home alone, or in a car with friends or even on a girls’ night out. But if you’re looking for the real Scissor Sisters experience – and that’s what ‘gig’ should be renamed cos it’s always an experience and a half - a bloody great party with your gay BFFs is pretty much always the way to go.  Even if they didn’t do I Can’t Decide.

Much as I would love to stop there, it is hard not to mention the fact that almost everything about the film is utterly ridiculous to the point of offense. It’s difficult to even know where to start.

The whole thing is, in itself, superfluous, as I can only presume that this film picks up more or less where the last one left off. However, from what I can recall of the forgettable original, those particular unoriginal situations got resolved and tied up with a neat little bow (which Sarah Jessica Parker then presumably wore on her head and started one of her ‘let’s dress like we’re five years old’ trends).

But apparently the general public are still interested in these middle-aged harpies and their ker-azy antics, so round two is upon us and this time, the action is mainly set in Abu Dhabi. This adds nothing to the film except, perhaps, a dull coating of tired glamour. It would be pointless to overview the plot as I must have blinked halfway through and missed it. The whole thing is a series of disparate incidents held together by a precarious ‘friendship’ motif.

In a sense it is a bit of a buddy movie, designed to promote girl power and sisterhood in the face of all life’s obstacles. However, I can’t understand the redeeming features which would make anyone want to be friends with these people.

Samantha (the slutty one) is just hideous; a vile old lady with clear deep-seated commitment issues for which I believe she should seek counselling. Portraying her, Kim Cattrall speaks every phrase as though desperate for a sound bite, which begins to grate after the first few head tosses and knowing looks to camera. And – while I am a fan of a well-placed double entendre – must everything she says be an innuendo? I almost vomited when she twittered on about meeting ‘Lawrence of My Labia’. Woman – you are fifty two years old, please act your age. (I blame Madonna for this kind of behaviour). The character is so desperately meant to show that women are just fine without men and can behave in the same adolescent ways men can without being judged that it becomes an empty shell of a stereotype and Samantha knows this. You can see it in her soulless eyes.

Charlotte (the goody two-shoes) is almost as bad although she is meant to portray the opposite of everything Samantha stands for. Her two kids are driving her mad and she is finding it hard to deal with their constant demands. I’m sure this is a situation familiar to all mothers except for one glaring addition – Charlotte has full-time help. This brings into play another of the teeth-grindingly annoying aspects of the movie – the overwhelming wealth and unquestioned privilege that surrounds everyone. Charlotte spends her life bitching and moaning about her children, yet doesn’t seem to spend any real time with them. When they cry, she fobs them off to the nanny and she can usually be found either hiding in a cupboard to avoid the poor things or getting smashed on cocktails with her friends. She then has the nerve to complain that her husband is becoming friendly with the nanny, leaving the audience unsurprised because at least the nanny is talking to him. And instead of staying at home to resolve her pressing marital and familial issues, she decides to swan off on holiday. Is it any wonder her youngest child clearly hates her?

Poor Cynthia Nixon’s character is pretty forgettable, although she should see this as a blessing, as at least I have no bile reserved for her.

And then there’s Carrie, our can-do-no-wrong heroine. She is a journalist, but, despite this, can not only afford a luxury, open-plan, designer-coated apartment (shared with the ever-smug, always-punchable ‘Big’), but has another similar yet fun-sized version on the side.

Okay, I understand that the pervading oppulence is intentional and that it represents what every girl is told she should desire: luxury and glamour and as lazy a life as possible, yet this unrealism is completely pointless as it doesn’t really serve to teach anything. Apparently a lawyer can walk away from her job on a whim without worrying where the next pay-check will come from, or whether she should do some job hunting instead of holidaying. A menopausal fifty-something can behave inappropriately at work and not get slapped by a harassment suit. And our beloved Carrie can get away with having a bit of a holiday fling, but I guess that’s okay because didn’t Big do something similar in the last movie? Girls – don’t you understand? If you are fabulous, you can do anything!

The only thing it does teach is that - despite the attempts at feminism (loathe as I am to associate the term with this movie) and the constant assertions that your friends are all you need and even – pass the mind bleach – Liza Minnelli’s interpretation of Single Ladies – apparently you do need a man. And if you don’t, you will end up like Samantha. Both of these thoughts are terrifying.

I reviewed ardentjohn‘s debut album – good stuff.

Check it out…here!

And buy the magazine – pages 65 and 66 are the ones you’re looking for.

All the while, Baldwin perfects his pervert face, completely ruining the only really romantic scene in which Jane hooks up with Steve Martin’s rather pathetic, but far preferable character, Adam.  They kiss sweetly at her workplace, but while the camera pans along and we watch them from outside, I honestly thought that Baldwin would, yet again, be there, staring, drooling and humping the window.

The “complicated” set-up reads thus:  Jane and Jake were once married, now divorced for ten years, Jane happily moved on and leading a fairly pleasant life, Jake, predictably having traded her in for a younger model, now unhappy and realising that he was insane to leave what he had with Jane.  As the viewer thinks “why’d it take you a decade to figure this out, moron?”, she sets feminism back a few years by attending to his every sexual beck and call, when it’s plain to everyone else that obvious good guy Adam is lovely and that nobody wants to see Baldwin’s exceptionally hairy chest and stomach as many times as we are treated to it.

A predictable climax eventually comes along, but by that time, I don’t know that you’ll care, as Jane will have reminded you of that friend you have who always gets into on/off relationships with Jake-type guys, and you will be wondering whether this is a sign that you should give her a call, take her to see this film, warn her that it’s her future, and hope that the sight of Baldwin naked will be enough to make her change her ways.

Courtesy of ThreeWeeks, read it here.  Here!

Or read it here.  Here:

Musical of Musicals (The Musical!)

American High School Theatre Festival

It’s so clichéd to describe a musical as toe-tapping, but I defy you to keep your feet still here. Seven extraordinarily talented youngsters gambol through a melange of countless musicals over the course of five acts, each act in the style of a different composer. Musicals can be soft and cheesy, and it is this aspect that the cast satirises so well, from Oklahoma to Phantom of the Opera, with a Rent motif running throughout. It’s nearly impossible to fault the cast, alarmingly talented as they are, and it’s clear that they are having a lot of fun. A witty, talent-infused musical all other musicals want to be.