While it’s frequently mentioned at the bottom of my posts – the “Music” that’s playing during the writing of it, along with what book I’m reading currently and whatever vague mood seems to be lurking overhead at the time but un-connected to whatever the post was about – the aural quality of my world is pretty damned important to me. I attempt to fill it with things which will provides accompaniment to a task, augment the mood I’m in, or simply provide wonderful melodic background for whatever I’m engaged in. I like it, it seems to like me, and the subjective quality of its performance is important (for instance, I’ve taken to the lossless FLAC encoding system instead of the Musepack format previously used, because the former provides a fuller tonal range to my ear).

Cover of “Aja”, by The Darcys (Jan 24 2012, Arts & Crafts Productions A&C066)

This, clearly, makes me a prime candidate for the music of Steely Dan, seen by many to be the gear-heads’ musical favourite; mostly due to their multiple studio accomplishments (although I only know of them being really fanatical to high fidelity recording processes and insanely complicated guitar lines). When I want to hear a little something intelligent, jazzy, and exceedingly tasty in its musical accomplishment, I turn to ‘The Dan’ (or Brian Eno or Jeff Beck). Thus, when hearing that the Toronto independent rock group The Darcys were covering the entire Steely Dan album Aja, I was fascinated to hear what they had accomplished.

The problem that any musician doing a ‘cover’ of another group’s work faces is that it’s a song they love, and probably love everything about the original version. However, the reason they do their own version is to bring something new to it, or at least it ought to be the reason. If all they do is duplicate the original’s arrangement, then there’s no inducement to listen to the new recording instead of the original. While this hasn’t stopped classical musicians doing the 378^th recording of Mozart’s 12^th symphony, or countless other works, there’s a difference there as we haven’t a clue what the original performance sounded like, so there is no ‘definitive interpretation’ which is tied to the composer in the same way that Dark Side of the Moon or Abbey Road have one specific version in the collective awareness of the listening public.

The original version of Aja (pronounced like ‘Asia’, by the way) is considered by some to be the “best recorded pop album in the 1970s”, which is either rejected as being of “too much intelligent content to be considered ‘pop’ music” or else “given much of the material recorded in the 1970s sounds like it was taped in a public swimming pool using a tin can, it’s hardly a tough thing to be at the top of a chart for technical achievement, is it?” Whichever, it’s often used for testing samples and recording reproduction fidelity to demonstrate the tonal range of vinyl vs. CD vs. digital file formats of various codecs; mostly due to the fact that the various editions have stayed fairly true to the original masters and haven’t been screwed around with, unlike most of the other recordings of the period. Having it get the Grammy Award for “Best Engineered Non-Classical Recording (1978)” probably helps too.

Due to the above – plus the fact this is the group’s best-selling album, having reached #3 on the U.S. charts and #5 in the United Kingdom – everyone knows the material backwards. So why even take-on the task then? Well, according to an interview with one of the band members in conjunction with THIS BLOG POST for the CBC Radio3 show Appetite for Distraction, the idea was given voice because one of the band members was both drunk and tired of answering questions posed by someone in a bar that evening, so he said the band was about to record this in order to make the guy shut up and go away. Sadly, the pestering individual was a member of the Toronto music media, and the statement was published shortly thereafter. The band member claims he is no longer permitted to drink, for fear of him doing something equally insane to the rest of the group.

Cover of “Aja”, by Steely Dan (Sept 23 1977, ABC Records)

It’s not fair to do a track-for-track comparison of the original album to the new version, as the purposes for the creation of the two are so wildly different from each other. The original was made to give voice to the muse of Walter Becker and Donald Fagan, while the new one was made to pass the original album’s contents through the collective muse of The Darcys to see what would happen. Thus, the preference of one over another isn’t either just or even relevant. No doubt the eye-balls of the members of the Toronto group are filled with a non-stop stream of words by people who are quite happy to make it painfully clear that “the original is perfect”, “why would anyone commit such sacrilege”, or the always popular “this cover album sucks goats!”

I was originally made aware of this about 2/3 of the way through the tune “Peg” which was pre-released as part of the album’s promotion. In the middle of typing something frantically on the keyboard whilst listening to Radio3, the chorus rammed itself into my awareness, my head shot-up, and I thought is that song what I think it is? The answer, obviously, was yes. In a series of events – that culminated with [ahem] ‘a well connected radio personality’ sending me an Advance Copy CD – I’ve now had a chance to listen to the entire effort. Five times. In a row. Without listening to the original version once. Yet.

However, it’s nigh-on impossible to hear any of the tracks on this without hearing the original in one’s head.

Which brings us back to the original question, why would you attempt this in the first place? Again, I submit the purpose is to bring something new to the musical work, due to it being interpreted by a different person in a different age. I’m a big fan of re-interpretations of The Beatles, The Who, and for some reason I also have about 87,000 different recordings of the Cole Porter composition “Love for Sale”.

Ultimately, the new version of the album isn’t all that successful as something which stands on its own. I wouldn’t expect it to replace the original in my mind, as that’s something a cover version has only done for me with Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s version of Joni Mitchell’s “Woodstock” (the cover is far more in keeping with the event it records in its lyrics, for one thing). To create a version of any album which is superior to the original one is arguably impossible, but it ought to stand on its own in some fashion. This one doesn’t, no matter how hard I try to really, really like it.

A few tracks do make the cut, as they work but not entirely through their lengths. The title track handles the material fairly well, with echoes of the original here and there, but an entirely new feel to the whole of the song. Likewise, “Josie” works fairly well through most of its length for the same reason. “Deacon Blues” and “Home at Last”, however, just don’t work at all, sometimes to the point of being down-right ‘broken’. Not all songs are structured in a clear enough way to make it possible for re-interpretation, and especially not easily an entire album being re-interpreted by the same group in essentially the same style (although one exception to this is Luther Wright and the Wrongs’ version of The Wall as semi-blue-grass styled music, which is brilliant).

Cover of “The Royal Scam”, by Steely Dan (May 1976, ABC Records)

The cover image chosen by The Darcys [see image, way above, right] is odd, as it harkens far more to the cover of The Royal Scam [see image, right], which Steely Dan declared in the re-mastered edition of which as “the most hideous album cover of the seventies, bar none (excepting perhaps Can’t Buy a Thrill)”. As tough as it is to make an album your own, it’s probably tougher to make the cover art yours as well.

Now, props to the group for taking this task on in the first place! To learn to play any of these songs is incredibly tough, and to do this with all seven is fantastic. To add to that the challenge to, essentially, ‘un-learn them’ and then re-learn them afresh is a hell of a steep climb for anyone, never mind an independent band attempting to fulfill a drunken promise made by one of the members in a fit of frustration. What a staggering achievement this is!

But it needs to have more than that, frankly. The sparseness of the original in large areas are too often honoured seemingly for the reason that “that’s what Steely Dan did”, instead of honouring a new approach. There are little musical frills from the original throughout that ought to have avoided entirely in favour of the songs’ cores. As well as that, there are some vocal moments which are delivered by the lead singer which were originally echoes by the back-up vocalists and ought to have been avoided for the same reason or delivered in some new way by another singer during the new recording sessions.

Basically, it’s a great idea. If they had attempted to show off their instrument chops by duplicating it perfectly, that would have gotten a pretty good reaction for the work (although not on an artistic level). Instead, they went for the far tougher assignment of re-working the music with their own style, and that’s awesome. However, the end result isn’t something which seems to have gone far enough to create a new work per se. Thus, my ultimate reaction is “meh…”

If you want to listen to ‘old music’, then you risk not evolving into a better person; or at least ‘fresher’ one. Thus, if you want to play the old music, you must do so in an entirely new way, bringing the best of the old into direct contact with the new work

If you want to check out the music for yourself, then HEAD HERE to download it for free. However, if you prefer a ‘hard copy’, I have the ‘Advance Copy’ CD in front of me, and will happily send it to someone who requests it (hit the “contact” link up there).

Continuing in the pattern of “lemme tell you what I think about this”, here’s the book that was finished earlier this week. Once you’ve read it, you probably will read newspapers more carefully; no matter how carefully you thought you read them before.

First, however, let’s have one thing clear from the outset: this is not about how some minority group or secret committee is controlling the world and/or the media. While there may be decisions made about things by groups we know nothing about (that’s why they’re ‘secret groups’ after all), it’s all too easy to shuffle off one’s responsibility for not doing anything to change things by blaming an anonymous ‘powerful individuals’. Here’s an H.L. Menken quote included in the book (p. 395) which goes some way to explain how this sort of thinking can be rubbish:

…the central belief of every moron is that he is the victim of a mysterious conspiracy against his rights and true deserts … [He] ascribes all his failures to get on in the world, all of his congenital incapacity damfoolishness, to the machinations of werewolves assembled in Wall Street or some other such den of infamy.

This book is specifically about how there are few, if any, people in control of the media. While many reporters and editors find all too frequently that they aren’t able to do the fact-checking they wish to – and are frustrated at the situation’s stasis – they aren’t the cause of it through lack of initiative; they simply haven’t the time. According to the staggeringly persuasive argument of author Nick Davies, the newspapers of the UK are essentially now all owned by people who have little interest in publishing newspapers containing journalism. What these individuals are principly concerned with is simply ‘selling copies of the paper each and every day, and the more the better.’ This ‘quantity over quality’ approach is why they are termed “the Grocers” by Mr. Davies.

Certainly, any business must be operated with an eye to profit v. loss. However, there is so much an avoidance of idealism towards the media’s content, that the readers are being under-served to the point of unconscionable delivery of falsity on the part of the various persons responsible for the media outlets’ content.

While the book focusses much of its time upon the newspapers of London – including entire chapters each devoted to the Sunday Times, the Observer, and both the Daily and Sunday Mail newspapers – the problems and trends can all be recognised as being world-wide in scope. The newspapers of North America are, thankfully, prevented from out-right lying about individuals in print, owing to a reversal of the onus of proof in legal arguments here, when compared to the UK. That said, the habit of reporting quickly and loudly, then correcting slowly and quietly, is one which no legal or regulatory procedure can effectively prevent.

The other worrisome trend is the one first identified in the book: things being simply repeated from the texts of Media Releases without any effort to confirm that there is any validity within them, or even if they contain amplified – or ‘sexed up’, to use the UK Government’s term about the Iraqi WMD reports – versions of the truth which is then responsible for a snowball effect of panic about the subject in question; which then is fed-back into (EG: Iranian Elections get dropped to cover Michael Jackson’s death) or someone is able to stop the thing by explaining that it’s simply not true in the slightest and we can all relax now (EG: the nullification of the principle of habeas corpus in the USA is only applied to the cases of those naughty terrorists).

The fact that this book doesn’t cover is the recent development of newspapers closing due to financial decisions by their owners, despite any budget restraints they may have imposed prior to the shut-down. It would be fascinating to know what Mr. Davies’s views of the ‘new media platform’ might do to return journalists to the forefront of the delivery of facts. He suggests late in the book that an over-haul of newspapers is required, with the probable method of delivery being some sort of display screen.

Read this book, not to begin seeing some Secret Star-Chamber Cabal controlling the World’s fate, but in order to see that there is an ordinary group of men frantically pulling levers behind the curtain so as to continue making the Great Oz of the Media just as impressive and seemingly required as ever before.

Flat Earth News: An Award-Winning Reporter Exposes Falsehood, Distortion and Propaganda in the Global Media by Nick Davies; PP 420 (including index), ISBN: 9780099512684; 2^nd Edition published in 2009 by Vintage, an imprint of Random House, London, SW1V

For countless years (merely because I don’t have the courage to know how many are involved) the music of The Who has enveloped me. Hours have been wasted willingly devoted to listening to the arrangements and lyrical structures of the group’s songs, most of which were the creative output of the leader of the band: Pete Townshend.

Much of the need of discussion of the group’s ‘final tour’, followed startlingly quickly by a ‘re-union tour’, and then recently by simply ‘a tour’ followed by ‘another tour’ has been handled by many people before – including a lyrical jab by Joe Jackson in his song “Nineteen Forever”; he was one of the supporting acts on the ‘farewell tour’ – so permit me to speak specifically to the pair of remaining members regarding matters of their continuance of creative efforts.

Stop. Please, for the sake of yourselves and any respect I have for you, just stop.

When news of the album Endless Wire reached me, the thought that occurred was ‘it may be the first original album since 1982’s It’s Hard, but Pete’s always been the creative driving force for the band and he’s been hard at it in the intermediate period. You never know…’

In fact, the album is pretty good. Perhaps not perfect – there’s only so much recorded perfection people in their 60s can attain when in the middle of a cross-continental performing tour (most of the mixing was done during the day by Pete Townshend on the 2006 – 2007 tour) – and at least they were willing to ‘give it a go’. Somehow, something was lacking, however…

Something like 50% of the band, actually.

In 1978, Keith Moon, the band’s drummer, was found dead. Then in 2002, John Entwistle, who played bass, was found dead by the stripper who had shared cocaine and his bed during the preceding night. In effect, the four-man group is now half-dead, with only the original singer, Roger Daltrey, and guitarist / songwriter / leader, Mr. Townshend, making up the surviving 50% of the original line-up.

Oddly, this is the same amount of surviving members of The Beatles, and we don’t see Ringo and The Big Macca touring and recording… but I digress…

My point here is that the excitement and original joi de vivre of the band isn’t there anymore. The whole of The Who was greater by far than the sum of its parts. As excellent as the drumming of Zak Starkey is, as well as the playing of bass guitar by Pino Palladino (the man tours with Jeff Beck, for Pete’s sake!), there was a certain energy created between the original members which cannot be matched with simple attention to timing and faithful reproduction of original recordings.

I’ve often thought that what needed to be done was the retiring of the name “The Who” when applied to Pete and Rog’. Perhaps they could call themselves “The Survivors”, or possibly “The Wholigans”, or even return to their original earlier name “The High Numbers” as a way of ‘starting afresh’. Sadly, I think even this is more than ought to be done.

Along with the CD of Endless Wire, you see, came a DVD of a portion of the group’s concert at Lyon, France. I’d not bothered to listen to it until a week or so ago.

Now I wish I hadn’t.

Oh. My. God.

Daltrey’s voice has never been one which has been described as being ‘too smooth’, or of having a bel canto delivery style; rough, raw, angry singing is his, reflecting the vox populi which was in short supply in popular music at the start of the 1960s. He has, however, been able to deliver both accurate notes and a full tone which has distinguished songs by The Who above others’ efforts in my list of “music what I does love, I does”.

Until now.

His voice on this recording is thin, scratchy, hesitant with entry notes, and at times is down-right out of tune. The demands of the road may be to blame – he’s in his mid-60s, and I can’t imagine my Father keeping up Daltrey’s schedule with any ease – but that’s no excuse for releasing the material.

So… here’s my plea to the two remaining boys in that very nice Rock & Roll band from Shepherd’s Bush: please stop touring, and please stop calling yourselves ‘The Who’. the work you’ve both already done is admirable for a career. Tremendous music has been recorded (and re-mastered for superior sound, thankfully), and you’ve shared it with us; we all thank you sincerely for it.

If albums are created in the studio under the moniker “Peter & Rodger’s Music Project”, they’ll be bought by many people, myself included. If you want to do a special evening of songs in an intimate setting – much like Pete’s Live > Sadler’s Wells 2000 event – then people will buy tickets to the event and copies of the recording; again, I’ll be there if possible, and will slap on the headphones when the CD is available. Pete’s writing and guitar-playing sits as the finest part of my vast musical collection, and Roger’s voice – until recently – only enhances the emotion of the songs.

But please, limit yourselves to the studio and ‘one-off gigs’. You’re starting to be put in the same category as the Rolling Stones: “when are they going to call it quits once and for all?”

All of the above is delivered with the utmost of respect for the musical body of work crafted over nearly a half-century.

It’s not often that a review appears here, but as this book seems unlikely to appear in a North American edition, or any other, in the foreseeable future, let’s have give it the exposure and analysis it deserves, for the sake of “The Future Generations” if nothing else.

While not entirely linear, Paperboy follows Christopher Fowler through his formative years, beginning with mid-1960 to less than a decade later when he moved into his own flat, at the insistence of his Mother. The years between then and the present are concertina-ed into a few pages mostly focusing on Mr. Fowler’s development as a writer of tales, a self-described “mid-lister” – entirely skipping over his efforts as pop-singer/song-writer, cinema promoter, James Bond stand-in, and artist’s model for a Batman villain – as well as interaction with the Father whose emotional turmoil caused those he loved so very much grief; emotional turmoil which was itself caused by the inevitable conflict between human nature’s need for expression and a societal repression of those same expressions.

Bill Fowler, the author’s father, is chief among those within the pages whom one can view incorrectly as ‘uncaring’ or even ‘destructive’ toward those around him. One must remember that Bill was part of the last group of people for whom instincts were something to be not just ignored, but repressed and eliminated. This was the only option provided by ‘Civilized Society’ as behaviour deemed acceptable. Trouble was something to be avoided, rather than viewed as a challenge to overcome or deal with. ‘Have a scotch, sit by the fire, and keep your mouth shut’ was the nearest thing to therapy available at that time (which would have been fine had the individual not been sitting by the fire alone). Were things particularly bad, you were declared ‘too far gone’ and then sent to Bedlam until you died, probably more of shame than any other malady.

During the 1960s, people ‘did the best they could’ to get though their day with whatever financial or occupational position they had; and mutual support was far more prevalent, likely due to understanding that if everyone helped each other get through a rough patch, things were better for everyone. Something which is important to remember is that ‘community’ was something more highly valued then than it is now. Dinner with relatives on holidays, constant contact with one’s neighbours, each day brought news and fellowship with people and was more therapeutic than any number of appointments with either a doctor or priest. This difference in society, and the way that individuals interacted, is best expressed by the author:

Everyone tries the best they can, some people don’t fit together, but generally it gets sorted out in the end – I’m always amazed by people who need a third party (therapists) to sort out their lives for them. It never really happened in England. Everyone just went to the pub or had a cup of tea to forget about their problems. There’s a very good support system here in the sense that people like to get involved – although I think it’s getting less as I get older (friends dropping off one by one).

It is altogether simple to read about Mr. Fowler’s paternal grandmother and dismiss her as “a crotchety, old, perfectionist, control freak” and entirely miss the fact that not only was she able to raise children through a depression, then a devastating war, and then the equally devastating post-war condition of at least a decade of rationing on all but a few items. To do this at all is considerable. To do so successfully requires the skills of an accountant who is both infinitely patient and in full command of ESP. Certainly, her approach to social interaction left a bit to be desired by her relatives, but no one can really understand what influences others’ behaviour patterns, even if they happen to have grown-up at the same time in the same street. That said, the extreme behaviour of individuals such as Mr. Fowler’s Grandmother is bound to both affect and effect those with whom she came in contact, and the spreading of hatred – hatred of others or selves – is forgiveable only after time and distance; usually accompanied with an appreciation of their gifts, however small or infrequent they might have been experienced.

Many of those under fifty have had similar experiences to Mr. Fowler’s as they grew-up, especially those of WASP origin: conversation and references to anyone ‘different’ were filled with euphemisms. I recall someone in a local restaurant suffering from severe autism being referred to as ‘in a bad way’; even after Prime Minister Trudeau declared that “the Government has no place in the bedrooms of the nation”, certain males were described as ‘a confirmed bachelor’; and mental health wasn’t at all discussed, beyond some occasionally being termed ‘withdrawn’ instead of ‘living with depression’, or a very shame-filled declaration that someone had “suffered a Nervous Breakdown”. This attitude toward any personal state, or mental health in general, thankfully improved over the most recent three decades as self-awareness, medication, therapeutic techniques, and realistic approaches to life and love’s many forms became better understood. Those of us who have benefited greatest from these advances can only guess at what life might be like had their individual character traits been either un-treated, not respected or blasted out of existence by ‘cultural re-programming’. The path taken through life by anyone of an artistic nature is difficult enough without adding ‘shame’, isolation, or intolerance to the matter.

As incomprehensible as it seems to us now, people hugging their children – never mind telling them that they were loved — was not something which was done. It’s no wonder then, than when concern for one’s offspring turned to worry, then to fretting, then frustration, that the logical conclusion would be violence as a manifestation of that original interest in the well-being of others. It’s this predicament that Mr. Fowler witnessed, not just in the behaviour of his father, but also the effect it had upon himself, his Mother, and his Brother. All of the family – Bill Fowler included – coped admirably using nothing more than their own mental resources.

The book is not filled with tear-stained examples of ‘this is why we don’t act like that any more’, however; as helpful as that illustrative material is when taken as such. When in the midst of it, no child will think to themselves ‘goodness, if only we had socialised mental health programmes, my parents would be so much better!’ Well, granted, the teen-agers of the 1990s probably did…

Right from the outset, the reader is immersed in wonderfully humour-filled descriptions of a life filled with Hancock’s Half-Hour (wherein the GLBT community was given the stereotypical voice of “I’m Julian and this is ‘my friend’ Sandy”), the importance of comic book heroes being true to their character forms, an improving sense of others his own age accepting and supporting others no matter who they happened to be, the sensuous frisson of fear delivered by the horror films of Hammer Productions, the increasingly racially desegregated populace, a number of musical influences, and the author’s joyful discover of libraries (the first of which surely formed the base for one appearing late-on in the “Bryant & May” series of mysteries). All of this contributes directly to the inevitable conclusion of selecting ‘writing’ as the last to which Mr. Fowler has chained himself to so successfully. We know it must end this way — his vast output as an author makes this abundantly clear – but the manner in which he arrived at his ultimate destination is none the less fascinating in the examination of it.

Yet, more than anything, one acquires an understanding of what it takes to create a writer from whole cloth. Simply to say ‘it’s hard work’ or ‘you just feel the need to write’ is hardly enough to put the matter into words, albeit entirely correct. Page 295 of Paperboy finds the following explanation of how the drive to be a writer – a really good writer – creates a yearning in someone in order to accomplish it; whatever the cost may be:

The author, as photographed by Mr. Martin Butterworth

Novels, I was told by one publisher who had rejected my work, were commodities sold like tins of biscuits, and the sweeter the taste, the more you could sell. But to me, the most important thing was that they had to contain fresh ingredients, not recycled ideas from other people. I realized now that my mother had been trying to tell me this for years; I had simply not been listening to her.¹

Still, I had delayed. I had been afraid to try, and risk failure. I remembered my father angrily snapping off the volume dial on his transistor radio while listening to Movie-Go-Round because an actor had said that performing required an act of courage. Courage, said Bill, was still working on the roads at sixty-five, spreading tar even though you knew it was giving you lung cancer, as his own father had done. Courage wasn’t mincing about on a stage or fiddling with a pen.

But in a way that Bill could never understand, it was. For years I was sure that if I failed as a writer, there would be nothing else left for me. If I could not achieve the one thing in life I tried hardest to do, it would be tough living with the loss of my dreams. How many people set out to change their worlds, only to find themselves in a state of perpetual downward revision and disappointment?

The events told in this book ring all the right bells to provide both an entertaining read, as well as a view of the life of a gifted writer. One reads about the encountering of an obstacle with a feeling of sorrow for the boy, and then a resultant triumphal cheer as the same obstacle is overcome. To not only be interested by an autobiography, but to care about its events and those experiencing them, is something altogether too rarely seen. While avoiding the easy choice of only including the happy sort of ‘and then I read…’ events, this memoir stands as both a microcosm of London in the last century both holy and profane, as well as a damned good way to have the reader appreciate just what ‘being a writer’ is all about.

It is unreservedly that Paperboy is set upon the shelf with both reverence and an intention to re-read it at some point soon. Equally unreservedly I shall state that this book was well-written, readable, and very enjoyable. You’ll do well to locate a copy in the library, or perhaps order a copy directly from an English book dealer.

Paperboy (A Memoir) by Christopher Fowler; PP 304, ISBN: 978−0−385615−5−70; published in 2009 by Doubleday, a imprint of Transworld Publishers, London, W5; a Random House Group Company.

I know I ought to be saying things about how things in general are with the trip (weather, driving, culture, how many times I’ve heard the word “toilet” and screamed…) but all I’ve got for you right now is a review of the RSC’s production of Twelfth Night. In a word: BRILLIANT!

Stratford After Dark [#2265] Taken outside the church where Shakespeare is buried, using tiny tripod and insanely wide lens.

I’ve seen Twelfth Night only once, as far as I know, but the difficulties inherent to the script were not entirely overcome. A very fine production it was, I quickly add, but the play is a tough one to present completely realized. It takes a very careful approach to story-telling that is both completely controlling and at the same time able to be loose enough to let the tale breathe (for a plot summation, go here).

I’d love to show you a photo of the inside of the space, but the taking of it was met with a cry akin to the WWII one of ‘put out that light!’ After being told that “there’s no photographs to be taken inside the theatre”, I pointed out that it was the interval and the performers weren’t on stage, but the reply was “there’s no photographs to…” yeah yeah yeah, shut up you ‘job’s worth’; clearly you’re neither listening to me nor brooking any logic from some up-start, long-haired Yankee (who’s actually a Canuck but you can’t tell the difference and that would send you into a real tizzie of confusion) with some flash digital camera, and so on. So, have a look at the photo of the street there on the right. Nice, eh? Yeah… Not a patch on the theatre, though, is it (if you’re really interested, head here for a gallery of the Courtyard Theatre’s construction and interior)??

What’s key to the play working — to my mind, anyway; others will probably disagree — is the scene late in the 3^rd act where Malvolio discovers the letter planted by the three sneaky bastards who wish to shame him. Malvolio has, until now, been only seen as a po-faced ice-boy who has more than a few books on etiquette and decorum shoved up his back passage sideways. Suddenly, we see that he’s been harbouring a secret passion for his mistress and would love nothing more than to give her a bit of the old ‘extra servant attention’. Suddenly he’s a steaming pile of emotional jelly as his long-crushed fires leap to the rafters and his little footman comes to attention after years of neglect. Not only so we see the other side of him, we realise how restrained the world of his household is, with his mistress still mourning her brother’s death some years ago and also still in mourning so deep she’s still wearing nothing but black (at least in this production)) and refuses to reveal her un-veiled face to anyone but the most trusted servants. He’s supported that, the entire house at the very least observes the official mourning by wearing an arm-band (ibid). The other home in the area — of the Duke Orsinio — is in a similar state of reduced joy, as the Duke is yearning for the Lady across the way and sends his new servant to woo her.

I’ll skip the long explanation about who the servant actually is and who the Lady thinks the servant is… it’s a farce, so everyone falls in love with the wrong people for the wrong reasons, but everything’s right in the end (oddly, no-one runs off into the forest at any time, though… I’m pretty sure it’s Shakespeare…).

Anyway… Read the rest of this entry »