The Festival begins late this year. Technically its first day is
today (Friday, I'm publishing this so late at night that I have entered
tomorrow, like a cider-fuelled Dr. Who) but in reality the Wednesday and
Thursday beforehand are full of 'preview' shows.
Nevertheless
the insanity starts even earlier for those of us who live here. Last
weekend I was out dancing until 5am, an unusual situation because : I
was dancing, I was out on a weekend (a grim thought for anyone who does
not work Mon-Fri and so doesn't actually HAVE to do that every week like
ritual flagellation) and the club I was in was open until 5am. The
latter is one of the advantages of living here - the clubs get their
August late-licence at least a few days before the Festival hordes
arrive. I think this is an attempt to placate the young and drive the
old so far into despair that they are beyond complaining.
As
always happens with the Festival Edinburgh's cultural gravitational
pull becomes unstoppable and one or another of my old friends will be
dragged in. In this case my friends who got married at the start of last
year, though as the female half of the coupling only stayed a few days
they have decided to celebrate their one year anniversary by spending a
month apart. If only all marriages were conducted at such a sensible
distance.
Disaster struck, though, when the
Powers-That-Be on his production went insane and threw his wife out onto
the street. How fortunate that myself and The Moose have forsaked
bohemian convention and do have a sofa and not just a string of
bean-bags - she found safe haven with us. This is indicitive of another
thing that always happens at the Festival - minor crises. I guarantee
that almost every show you see will have a crisis somewhere behind the
scenes. Maybe a major player is suffering from a bout of flu so bad they
might succumb to zombification at any moment, maybe someone is in the
middle of a crisis of faith while performing a show about how
great/awful God is, maybe - as is happening to a show on euthanasia -
Edinburgh City Council have taken an unreasonable dislike and are trying
to censor it. Whatever the case may be, at least 50% of the shows you
see have as much drama off the stage as they do on it. Maybe more in the
case of particularly bad but particularly chaotic actors.
Visiting
friends dispatched into the ether and embracing the chaos of the
Festival, The Moose and I went to see John Hannah in 'Titanic
Orchestra'. I can tell you that it is a wonderful show, while not
wanting to give away too much it is as though Godot turns up in 'Waiting
for Godot'. John Hannah also does some magic tricks, including a
magical ability to make an American accent sound Scottish. Or maybe the
opposite. Accents abound, in fact, in this highly entertaining piece of
knowing Fringe theatre. Also, when and where else are you going to get
to see a genuine A-list star pretend to be a drunk Harry Houdini?
Nowhere, obviously. This is what the Fringe is for and what it does it
does exceedingly well.
This post has, of necessity,
been frenetic. Leaping from drunken dancing to friends in crisis to
Holywood stars pulling eggs from their mouth (yes, yes he does). That is
what the start of the Fringe is like for those who live within its
maelstrom. From the outside, especially those outside Edinburgh, it
purrs and sputters into life like a motorbike. For us it flashes
intensely like a nuclear bomb and before you know it you're reduced to
ash. Ash and witty one-liners. This is the spirit of the Fringe, a
burning sacrifice of sanity made every year in some sort of Dionysian
fervor. I wouldn't have it any other way. I couldn't have it any other
way. I'm not allowed to have it any other way.
Fear and Loathing at the Edinburgh Festivals
Thursday 6 August 2015
Thursday 25 September 2014
See you at the Bitter End (Better Late Than Never)
It has taken a month
for me to write this final instalment, about the last weekend of the
Fringe, but better than never and distance can give some perspective.
The last weekend of the
Fringe is a particularly desperate and strange time. The successful
shows are riding the end of the crest of a wave that may never come
again while the unsuccessful shows are stumbling along, half-maimed,
fighting to reach the finish line.
On the Friday myself
and The Moose went to see Alice at The Space.
Alice was, of course,
based on Alice in Wonderland
which is the perfect show for Edinburgh in August - nowhere does the
line, "You must be mad, or you wouldn't be here," resonate
so clearly. Alice
began at midnight and was a two-hour long promenade piece, which
makes it sound like more of an endurance test than it was - most of
the time we just moved from one room to another and then sat down
rather than remained standing.
It
was, if you'll pardon the pun, an excellent use of the space. As we
passed from room to room in what seemed to be a labyrinthine location
we were guided by the cats, two women dressed as cats one of whom
asked me how long I had been a hedgehog. I replied that I had been
for several years which is nothing but the truth, hedgehogging has
run in my family for generations. She then later asked me how long I
had been a rabbit, I reminded her I was a hedgehog. I will not be
slurred in such a manner.
The
show itself was a surreal melding of the fictional Alice in
Wonderland and the story of the
lives behind it (though that itself was a fictionalised version of
that story). It was wonderfully performed and at times deeply
disturbing, the scene in which they torture a baby with pepper was
particularly grim. The whole play did an excellent job of plunging
into a world much like that of the rabbit hole - a world where you
didn't quite understand the rules anymore. Near the end I was
kidnapped by one of the cats, led down a secret passage and told to
'follow Alice'. However, it was never clear when I was supposed to
follow her so I ended up doing nothing. It didn't seem to affect the
performance any, though, and it certainly reinforced my impression
that this was a world in which I did not understand the rules.
Alice was
one of those shows the Fringe is really for. Experimental, requiring
a large ensemble cast and a unique space - I'm not sure there is any
other place or time in the world that it would work quite so well. It
drew a large audience on the day The Moose and I saw it and I believe
it was one of the most successful pieces in the Fringe.
The
fact it was so successful made my final meeting with cat doubly
strange. I encountered the cat that kidnapped me on the street the
next day, no longer dressed as a cat, handing out leaflets for
another show in order to make money. Presumably that particular show
needed a last surge in advertising as it had not been so successful.
It is part of the perverse economy of the Fringe that someone from a
successful show made extra money by handing out leaflets for an
unsuccessful show.
*
* *
That
Saturday was given over to the day job for the entire day but
afterwards I went with a fellow guide to the Captain's Bar. There I
encountered a multitude of people I knew, Mike Daviot of the
wonderful Hyde&Seek whom I had performed with, people involved in
the making of the Speakeasy in which I have performed, someone I had
performed with last year in the Fringe... all there separately. Half
the bar was filled with people I knew in some theatrical capacity.
This
sort of serendipity happens often in the Fringe and during the
Festival in general but I doubt it is something people who neither
local nor performers experience - how could they? Nevertheless the
coincidental meetings that would be considered far-fetched if they
occurred in fiction are part of the process - the neurons of the
Festival firing at random and conceiving new combinations of old
acquaintances.
After
the Captain's Bar I went to Whistle Binkies to dance and drink until
I had drunk so much the bouncers threw me out... or, rather, told me
it was time to go and I drunkenly acquiesced. Working all day on the
street during a Saturday in the Fringe might not drive every person
to drink until they go mad, but it certainly does the trick for
me.
* * *
* * *
That
Sunday was the day to finally see two shows I had been dying to see
through all or most of the Fringe. Firstly I went to see my friend
Wild Card Kitty, who had also performed with me in the Fringe last
year.
The
venue she was performing at was an odd spot. Obviously a sports bar
for most of the year, it was a bit out of the way to be offering free
shows in the Fringe but on the plus side it did serve good hot-dogs
at a very cheap price. I believe it was called the Phoenix Bar and if
you're ever looking for a good, cheap hot-dog near Leith Walk I
recommend it.
Wild
Card Kitty's show is a comedy burlesque involving a succession of
increasingly wild characters compared by Wild Card Kitty herself. It
was amusing and entertaining (and educational, about the backstage
world of burlesque) and for that last show drew a fair crowd for a
free Fringe show (apparently the average crowd for such a show is six
people). Having a quick drink with her afterwards I learnt that my
favourite character, the retired 50s burlesque dancer, was generally
the one people liked least. I still say it is the character with the
most legs. I'd give her her own show.
After
that I went back to Whistle Binkies to pick up my diary, which I had
lost during my drunken escapades the previous night, and sat drinking
a pint while listening to the 'comedy' going on there. I say 'comedy'
because that particular act, from what I could hear, was little more
than a run of comedy clichés so old Bruce Forsythe's grandfather
would have been embarrassed to tell them. Nevertheless the crowd
dutifully laughed at every one and he seemed, for what I could hear,
to have a better crowd than Wild Card Kitty. What a difference a
central location makes.
That
evening I summoned The Evil Scotsman. There was a show I had been
hearing rumours of since the Fringe began, a show called What
The Fuck Is This? During this
show, so I had heard, the man performing it - Richard Tyrone Jones -
said no words other than, "What the fuck is this?" for the
entire hour performance.
It
turns out this is not strictly true; he did occasionally change the
order and frequency but he never used any words other than 'what',
'the', 'fuck', 'is' and 'this'. I found the show hilarious, though I
did accidentally sabotage it by spilling most of a pint on the floor
right where Jones later crawled about in what I think was a sleeping
bag. He took his revenge, though, by coming towards me and cutting
off a piece of my hair, holding it aloft and shouting, "What the
fuck is this?" I genuinely had no answer. (I later had The Moose
even up my hair, she had been imploring me to get a haircut for some
time so had no problems with my new, slightly more shorn, look.)
Alice,
Wild Card Kitty and What The Fuck Is This?
all have something in common, despite being on the face of it quite
different shows. That is that they are the essence of what the Fringe
is really for. Forget innumerable interchangeable comedians, some
funny and some dire, it's the experimental stuff that matters. We can
throw in Rebranding Beezlebub
and Hyde&Seek into
that category as well - shows that the Fringe is really about, shows
that would struggle to exist without it even if, sometimes, they
struggle to exist within it as well.
*
* *
Monday
was technically the last day of the Fringe, although many shows made
Sunday their last day. It was truly the dying of the light, I didn't
plan on seeing any shows but I had work during the day and as such I
walked the streets of a city that had just had the shit beaten out of
it by theatre and comedy.
Frank
Skinner stood resplendent in his suit for his show Man in a
Suit but it appeared as though
someone had bitten a massive chunk out of him. Somebody else had
stuck a Yes sticker on the nose of pug Russell Kane was holding in
his posters and (presumably) somebody else had scratched his eyes
out. In my view a reasonable reaction to a man taking up several
prominent boards around the city to advertise a show that was only on
for three days.
The
crowds were dispersing and the city was subdued. The Festival was
gone for another year. In a week there would be the Festival
Fireworks, something that happens every year a week after it
finishes, presumably to give frustrated locals something to look
forward to. For a short time the city was calm and pageantry done
with.
Only
for a short time, though, the referendum on independence was upon us
and the fear and loathing was about to really ramp up...
Friday 22 August 2014
Ruby Dolls, Hawksley Workman and the triumph of Dionysus until the end.
The Festival is dying
now but it does not go with a whimper. Yesterday I saw three shows as
well as performing the day job. This is not uncommon, several of my
friends who have been performing all Festival are now planning to fit
in as many shows as they can in the last weekend and so a frenetic
whirl of performers-seeing-performers begins as the last weekend run
of tourists surge in.
The first show I saw
involved an old friend of mine from Youth Theatre back in the Black
Country (those of you imagining me with a Black Country accent now
couldn't be more wrong, let's get that clear right now). She's not
the only old friend of mine to appear in Edinburgh thanks to the
festival but this year she is the only out-of-towner I know.
This show was the Ruby
Dolls : Fabulous Creatures, a show which defies classification - a
phrase whose cliché status is ironic since it is used to describe
shows which have abandoned cliché. There is no other way to describe
a show which combines singing, dancing, magic tricks, feminism,
classical references, Jane Austen, Mary Poppins and a puppet goat
though. If you find that description enticing you should, the Ruby
Dolls are fast establishing themselves as an act par excellence.
A cult following and poor imitators cannot be far away but they are
the original and the best, catch them now before they shakes hands
with Midas and turn to gold.
I
had a drink with my friend afterwards in the venue. The venue itself
is a sign of the bohemian world and the business world clashing the
bohemian world winning. Previously the venue - Assembly Checkpoint -
was a café known as The Forest. The Forest was a place which served
vege food and put on, all year, the kind of stuff the Fringe is known
for - smaller acts as well as internationally renowned people like
Jason Webley.
Then
the owners of the premises went bust and PriceWaterhouseCoopers came
in to take over. They immediately gave The Forest notice, saying the
place would be easier to sell without current occupation. The Forest
fought hard, raised a lot of money in order to try and keep the place
but it was to no immediate avail - they were kicked out. They found
other premises elsewhere, though, and to the relief of the Edinburgh
arts set The Forest lives on (though I admit that their new location
is not as close to my own stomping grounds).
However,
the building remains empty used only for one month in August now
taken over by Assembly. So the only thing they have found to do with
it is the same thing it used to do all year round but now only in
August. Alas the toilets no longer have trans-friendly notices on
them but despite that the forces of Bohemia have won an unexpected
victory over the men in grey suits. Heartening to anyone with a soul
but not to PWC. The forces of Dionysus defeat the forces of order and
oppression through the twisting of fate and irony, a story at least
as old as time. Which brings me neatly to...
The
next show I saw, The God That Comes. A musical narrative by Hawksley
Workman whom a friend of mine, HFO, swears is incredibly famous in
Canada. It was HFO's fault that the Moose and I were there - I knew
nothing about it other than its title and that she recommended it. I
trust her recommendations and I was not disappointed. Hawksley
deserves to be incredibly famous everywhere.
The
God That Comes is about the God Dionysus and his ultimate victory
over the forces of the oppressive and the ordinary via the embrace of
carnal power as opposed to military power. Passion trumps order and
the king is torn apart. (I'm giving away little by telling you the
end, by the way, as Hawksley himself gives you the entire story right
at the start of the show.)
The
word that comes to mind when describing the show is 'primal'. From
the very start to the very end it evokes a cave in the mountains
where passions rule, a place of darkness and beauty - wine, sex and
poetry away from civilisation and given pure form. An impressive
evocation considering Hawksley uses a mess of wires and technology to
achieve it all on his own, creating melodies and duets with himself
(maybe there's a little bit of Narcissus in Dionysus).
Afterwards
I went for a drink with HFO and her partner - in life and music - RFH
and, unusually for HFO she was giddy with happiness. Turns out that
after meeting Hawksley after the show he invited them both to lunch
on Saturday. One can be so cynical about showbusiness but can you say
anything but, "What a nice guy," when he's so willing to
reach out to his fans and fellow musicians like that. Excellent show,
excellent guy and I've seen another show I'd recommend to anyone.
By
now the regular readers of this blog, if such creatures exist, must
be wondering when I will see an awful show. Well, after sunset comes
the darkness.
After
my day job myself and the Ghost Gang went to the City Café. As the
night was winding up there and we were wondering where to move on to
a woman approached us and told us that we were going to see the show
downstairs. I told that was a bit fascist and after a brief talk
about fascism I decided that a show recommended and compared by a
drunk woman might be entertaining.
It
was entertaining... in a way. The comparing was drunken but of the
four comedians introduced three of them died on their arses. It is a
strange thing to watch joke after joke, if any of them could be
called jokes, fall utterly flat. Alright, if the last one was
deliberately terrible just so the line, "Pause for laughter,"
would get a laugh then kudos, it worked, still it was quite the
build-up for one gag. The only funny one was the one at the end
talking about how he doesn't have real testicles anymore owing to
cancer. Sounds dreadful but somehow he made it funny, especially
after the other acts just stood up and died.
After
the act I made my way to Banshee to try and find the Ghost Gang but
they were nowhere to be seen so I had a beer, read my Fortean Times
magazine and left in time for the night bus. I had seen two excellent
shows but finally I had seen something awful.
Dwarfs Disappear and Ghost Cops go down a storm...
Two days ago I was
awake before noon. This is not a normal circumstance for me, my day
job is more of a night job and then there's watching entire TV series
on Netflix when I get home afterwards. Mornings are something I only
normally see from the wrong side. This is the perfect sleep cycle to
experience a festival that wakes at around noon and goes until 5am.
Sometimes, however, a
famous dwarf insists that you get up in the morning. As I was
supposed to be at 10am the next day to terrify a famous dwarf I got
up relatively early to try and set my body clock to something which
approximates that of an actual human being. As soon as I got into
town I learnt that the famous dwarf had cancelled. This happens.
Never work with famous people, no matter their height.
I had another reason
for being in town at such a godly hour, though. I wanted to see my
friend and colleague (a man who is so tall he is the opposite of a
dwarf, not a giant as he has not the girth of stomach for that, but a
man of great height) in a show called Ghost Cop in the Free Festival
at the Three Sisters (which calls itself the 'Free Sisters' - not the
sharpest of name changes perhaps but its a lot bloody better than
'Unboring').
Ghost Cop was
hilarious, a pastiche of 80s cop movies with a cavalcade of sexual
innuendo. Perhaps most impressive was the sound use, for an amateur
show the sound effects were very... well... effective. There is no
better word and if there's anything effects are supposed to be it
must be effective. I would very much recommend seeing it, if you can
drag yourself out of bed by noon in the last weekend of the Festival.
Ghost Cop is the
perfect example of what the Fringe can do. Although it was made by an
Edinburgh troupe the Fringe gives people the impetus to create and to
be on stage. Some are eaten alive, some are remarkably successful,
some launch careers and some just empty bank balances... oftentimes
both but as we reach the tail end we can be sure that people have
been made and broken as they are every year.
Monday 18 August 2014
The third week and the culling of the weak.
We have entered week 3
of the Festival and the Fringe (those wondering how that is so should
check out a previous blog, lazy bastards). Things are, as I promised
they would, turning baleful. The Director posted on her facebook page
that she had seen a performer standing on a bollard and handing out
leaflets being kicked in the back of the knees. This is the darkness
that engulfs us after two weeks of trying to be cool.
Trying to be cool is
always a mistake. Do you remember your teenage years, when the
coolest boys in school had - for some reason - dyed their fringe
blonde and shaved the rest of their head? If you don't you probably
remember something equally asinine. That is why you should never try
to be cool.
Tonight I finished the
day job at 10:30pm. I attempted to meet a friend at a place called
Sneaky Pete's. I quite like Sneaky Pete's in that it gives a very
good impression of what solitary confinement with all the demons you
dreamt about in your childhood years would be like. Sadly, they were
changing shows and had shut down for an hour. Again, eerily similar
to childhood dreaming.
So I ambled back up the
Cowgate. I chatted with The-self-employed-manic-tour-guide for a
while. The Fringe/Festival is hard on those of us who live here and
especially those who make their money from tourists. Everyone assumes
we will all be busy but the truth is with so much competition it is
difficult to be noticed... so he was giving out cards which allowed
free entry and £1 shots to a nightclub I would never consider
visiting.
Then I contacted The
Evil Scotsman. He and I are alike in three ways : We like to drink,
we love politics and we like to torture tourists. This is enough to
make a drinking partner you can always rely on. We went to see comedy
from Estonia at the Banshee Labyrinth, we didn't realise it would be
from Estonia but it was... although it was compared by a man who
looked like Jesus/Conchita.
Funnily enough a friend
of a friend, Jo Clifford, is doing a kind of female-Jesus show in the
Fringe. I haven't seen it yet, I may not get a chance. You should
probably see it, though, because I saw a pre-Fringe show of hers and
it was moving and funny, like Bugs Bunny in a camper van.
After the comedy The
Evil Scotsman and I got chatting with Jesus and friends. As I, too,
look a bit like Jesus we compared notes until finally I decided to go
home... hopefully The Evil Scotsman encountered the Estonian comedian
woman and got her number. It's about time he slept with an Estonian,
a right of passage for all good young evil Scotsmen.
Sunday 17 August 2014
Unboring is a Dreadful Slogan
The slogan for the
Edinburgh Fringe this year is 'unboring'. This is technically true,
the festival is never boring. Frustrating, yes. Irritating? Yes. On
the plus side it is entertaining, invigorating and unique but never
boring.
However, to advertise
it as unboring is immediately suspicious. Don't believe me? How would
you consider a restaurant that advertised its food as 'unpoisonous'.
It probably wouldn't be the first place you chose to eat at. Besides
which it is horrible ungrammatical (though, oddly enough, you can get
away with 'ungrammatical').
Its unboring nature,
though, is inherent in how long the bars stay open. You can never
claim a bar is dull when it stays open until 5am... at least, if it
seems so, it probably isn't the bar's fault. Re the previous blog
post it is the Fringe we have to thank for the nights that go on
forever - while the tattoo may be more auspicious and the
International Festival have more pedigree neither bring in the crowds
that make the city council extend drinking hours - is the Fringe that
commands such power.
I was out until 5am on
Thursday night, preparing for a similar night on the 'day' job. Like
any such night it expanded from people having their faces drawn on
with make-up to a bizarre drunken argument I still don't understand
and finally just quiet drinks. While sitting quietly drinking a
friend of mine was given tequila by some stranger. Fearing it was
spiked she refused to drink it. With the expectation of free drugs I
drank it anyway. There was something deadly in it... tequila. I
vomited just late enough that I managed to get to the toilets.
Never drink spiked
tequila, if the drugs don't get you the fact that tequila is
unbearable with salt and citrus fruit will!
The Many Names of the Edinburgh Festival
As promised, an
explanation of terms...
August in Edinburgh has
many names but the primary two are The Festival and The Fringe. There
are actually several festivals that happen in August in Edinburgh.
Perhaps the most august is the Tattoo. The military tattoo is the
last that happens in Britain and it happens at Edinburgh castle
throughout August. It is to blame for the fireworks which explode
every night and twice on Saturdays. I quite enjoy fireworks -
explosions, pretty lights, what's not to love? Those with sensitive
pets in the city, especially in the centre, are not so keen.
Other minor festivals
include the jazz festival (which has started earlier than August in
recent years in order to re-energise) and the book festival (minor
only in comparison to the other festivals - George RR Martin was at
the latest one).
Then there is the
International Festival. Nowadays this is not what draws people to the
city but it is where the Festival became the behemoth it is now,
because it is the festival the Fringe grew out of. The International
Festival drew people from across the world to perform officially in
Edinburgh. On the back of the crowd drawn by the combination of the
International Festival and the Tattoo other performers began to come
into Edinburgh and hire out their own venues to play to those crowds,
this became the Fringe.
While the Fringe was
originally about fringe theatre performers as the medium of stand-up
comedy grew it became more about that and nowadays, while theatre
etc. still thrives, the vast majority of acts are stand-up comedy.
That brings us to the
present day. The Festival is how locals refer to all of the festivals
at once, essentially it is another word for August and if, somehow,
the months of the year were to be named by an empire based in
Edinburgh rather than Rome then August would be Festivus. The Fringe
is the part of The Festival that most (if not all) of the shows I
have seen and will see are a part of - more exciting, if truth be
known, than The International Festival that spawned them and the part
of The Festival that truly attracts the misfits and lunatics that
inspire this blog.
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