FESTIVAL - PROLOGUE

F E S T I V A L

A Novel by M.H.Allner

Prologue : The Queen of Cups

If cards could tell him anything, it was that his life was wasted. Wasted telling inconsequential people inconsequential things that might make inconsequential changes to their desperately banal and pathetic lives. Eminently average, everyone who pulled apart the beads of his tent tended towards the eminently average. Mediocre looks, regular build, middling intelligence – yet these were the people he interacted with – the gullible, the anxious, the new age curiousity kids. His was a stall that people giggled at, snickering at their inquisitiveness even as they murmured to their friends about whether or not they were ‘believers’. His trade was trickery. His art remained the delivery of verbalised fantasies to those determined to find meaning in the meaningless.

From his fingers cards twisted and fell, pouring from the tips of his right hand onto the palm of his left, then riding an invisible string back to his right. Every movement pretended to act against the laws of physics. Springing back to return, cards popping up and down and up and down, in poetic monotony. Twisting his hand, a snake, a twirl...

The bell tinkled between the veil of beads that opened and closed with a swoosh of air. Between them came a breath of cool grassy air, stirring the heavily incensed interior and his hair so it blew away from his eyes. He looked up, eyes glowering in the gloom.

When she stepped forward, with magazine brond hair and thick black liner around her purple eyes, he instantly hated her. He hated her waist high shorts with their rounded cuts that left half of her quibbling arse hanging out. He hated her black and white polkadot shirt and the way it just tucked into the bright red belt that dented her middle below her braline. He hated that her lipstick didn’t match the belt. He hated that she wanted a Hagall spread – because she was going through a difficult time and felt that here, in this place, she could begin her spiritual growth. He tried not to sneer. No one’s lives began here.

Cutting an eye with the deck in his hands, he indicated that she should sit on the garish orange cushion on the opposite side of his obsequious, purple table. With a giggle and a plum cheeked smile, she did as bidden.

Ten cards face up. The central card staring up at him in reverse.

The Queen of Cups.

Her face was serious and he noticed how she’d misdrawn the shape of her eyebrow, straggling hairs sticking out from a pencilled line. As she waited in the silence, peering at the cards as if they might speak to her, he started to speak.

As a central card the Queen of Cups meant everything. He smiled. She relaxed. Decorating his explanations with delicate words and soft suggestions, he reeled her in. She was lonely in the crowd because she was here with her sister, that’s what that card meant and this one, that could apply to her lack of interest in the music here, in fact paired with this one – did she come here mainly to fit in? Tearily, she met his dollish eyes, sniffling and letting him guide her. Perhaps she’d like to meet him later, he could introduce her to some of the performers and give her a story or two to tell her sister. Maybe that’s what this card meant, to take a chance.

When she left, her face was lit in a smile. His was alight with something else entirely.

*

Eight Weeks Prior

“What would you rather do? Pretend to have a desk job for eight weeks, when really all you’re doing is running around fetching coffee and making photocopies? Or, go to Glastonbury?”

Harper Lensing-Hayes stood squarely before her best friend; hand on hips, green eyes flashing with determination, “This really shouldn’t even be a choice. Seriously.”

On the other hand, Jess Fatcher wasn’t so convinced. Pale eyed with pale skin and pale blond hair, Jess could only pull an impatient face at Harper’s antics. Sitting at her desk, chair unwillingly swivelled to face the tyrannical redhead, she rolled her eyes, “Some of us need these internships.”

“But you don’t.”

“What on earth makes you think that?”

“The fact that we’ve just finished third year and you’ve had summer internships with newspapers and magazines and blogs and pretty much anything literary since we were fifteen.” Harper already looked triumphant, “What good will another year as some writer-hacks lacky do you now?”

“We’ve only one more year before we graduate-”

“But you could write about the festival-”

“About what? The fashionistas in their retro sunglasses and wellingtons?”

“Or the music? You could write about the different acts – the bigs ones the littles ones. You might find the next big thing?”

“Do I need to remind you that I know nothing about music?”

Harper’s face creased up in concentration, lips beginning to pout at the first sign of defeat, “What about... about...”

Feeling like success was imminent, Jess began to smile, “You see, I’m –”

“But there are plenty of famous faces at these things. Fern Cotton, Taylor Swift, Wayne Rooney.”

“Do I look like I want to write for a tabloid?”

“But lots of them go. Ian Rankin was at Edinburgh Festival last year-”

“He lives in Edinburgh! And it’s not a music festival-”

“Come on, Jess. It’s our last summer as students. Then it’s real world and work and salaries and taxes and grown up newspapers. Why can’t you just say no to a job for once and come and have fun with me like we used to?”

So it had come to the puppy-dog eyes. Green, sad, perfectly almond shaped eyes widening and begging miserably. Jess sighed, those eyes hadn’t worked on her for years but when it was something like this... when she secretly really wanted to say no to the Buckinghamshire Standard and say yes to her over-demanding sister-from-another-mister...

Harper was good at sensing when she was winning though, it was the gift gained from a spoilt childhood.

“Come on. I’ll book us podpads and everything. No tents, posh wash, young professionals and press abound...”

With a sigh, “Fine,” Jess caved, “But you’re paying for petrol.”

The ridiculous wriggle of excitement that rippled through her then made her laugh, “I can’t believe I’m saying yes.”

Grinning, Harper nodded, elated, “I can.”

They began to chat about dates, about the fact that the tickets were already bought and the podpad already paid for (Jess glared at Harper for that even though the latter insisted it hadn’t been presumptuous), about what to pack, what to expect, who was playing... The lineup was meant to be one of the best of the festival season this year, eclectic but brilliant artists almost putting prior British Summers to shame. Looking over the list, Jess made a mental note over several, promising herself that if nothing else she’d see them only for Harper to then point them out as well. Just as Jess was settling into the fizz of enthusiasm, she caught the words that doomed her summer entirely:

“And then when Glasto finishes we can take the car up to ...”

***

N E X T

To watch my progress through NaNoWriMo: http://nanowrimo.org/en/participants/dragoon362/novels/festival-230383

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
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The Blueswater : A Belated Review

THE BLUESWATER
A Belated Fringe Review

This review was originally written for Fringe Guru as a response to 'Blues', the sell-out, award-winning show put on by The Blueswater at the Edinburgh Fringe 2012. As it happens, the review was never published (nobody can say why) and yet it's been sitting here, unedited on my computer ever since. I kind of feel that I even want to write a new one in lieu of their performance on Friday 21st September at the Jazz Bar, but you'll probably have to wait a bit longer for that. The tweaking process has now been finished and only a month too late you have it, you heard it here last: The History of Blues!

* 

There are a few things that a different about a city like Edinburgh and one like New Orleans. Born between piracy and prostitution, the Crescent City seems hardly comparable to the Athens of the North. It’s a city where the languorous Louisiana drawl lilts along its story like flotsam drifting on the Bay whereas Edinburgh’s brogue rambles with purpose. New Orleans is loud and effulgent, burning with the promise of hundreds of deadly cocktails in takeaway cups and glittering plastic beads whilst Edinburgh’s shadow looms over us, buzzing with voices and vitality and all the secret places that are waiting to be discovered. But both cities contain a little bit of magic, histories steeped in myth and folklore, music that beats the same rhythm as your battering heart. It’s true, maybe you haven’t discovered it yet, but if you think that you need to cross the Atlantic to hear some of that ole fashion'd Nawlins sound, you might want to think again.

You don't need to buy that $800 ticket with American Airlines. You don't have to spend fourteen hours sitting around an airport, cramped into economy class seats or battling through more drunken tourists than you've ever wanted to know existed on the ever-buzzing Bourbon Street. Instead, if you can survive the crush of the Royal Mile, fit through the doors of the Space on Niddry Street and leave all liquids over 100ml outside the theatre, you can taste the Creole spice as the Blueswater practice their own brand of voodoo-hoodoo. For a measly £7 you can stop sniffing round the door after the faint scent of a sazarac and experience a 12-piece band performing a synopsis of blues music across the decades, spanning from B.B. King to Screamin' Jay Hawkins, Jimi Hendrix to Muddy Waters.

It’s an iconic opening – the simplicity of this first performance, completed by the luxurious trips of the harmonica (Gordon Jones) and guitar, keeps the crowd rolling into their seats, murmuring, wondering whether they should be silent or if this relaxed atmosphere is what they can expect. With eyes that follow his audience, Felipe Schrieberg’s rendition of R.Johnson’s Me & the Devil transforms the black, expressionless stage into a space full of anticipatory welcome. When the tune comes to a close a satisfied smirk tugs at his lips, the tension rises as he launches into the origins of the song and the style and the singer. Here is a man that can captivate an audience and keep them, spellbound even before he brings out his inner witch-doctor for a wild-eyed version of I Put A Spell On You.

Schrieberg and Jones are quickly joined by a roguish brass section, their wry-smiling guitar duo, a cheeky looking drummer, nodding bassist and three enchanting ladies on keys and backing vocals. Among this motley selection of characters you have the charismatic Luc Klein on trumpet, whose ability to just-keep-on-playing-that-one-note has you breathless (when he’s perfectly fine); you have Rebecca Sneddon whose saxophone makes sounds I didn’t know could be made on a saxophone; you have the stick-twirling drummer (Paul Archibald) whose arms go so fast you wonder if they might fall off and you have Charlie Wild whose ‘guitar-hero’ status moves the show out of the realm of the delta blues and into rock’n’roll. All of the group bring something intrinsically theirs to the mix, nurturing the music as if they’re playing it for the first time but with so much skill and togetherness that it belies their dedication. Even when they lose that tightness, they remain organic, rolling with shifts in tempo and catching up when additional verses appear. They are skilled and obviously passionate about what they do.

It’s impossible to stop that enthusiasm from catching. Feet tap out the beat, secretly jiving along to the rhythm whilst the lady in front lets her shoulders roll and sway. One couple actually jumped up, moved to the side and broke out the swing dance. Despite the show being partly educational, the energy never drops. The ‘history’ itself, this fifty-five minute synopsis of the blues is humorous and quick and for the layman their coverage is ideal. Including names and songs and references that appeal to those with only a rudimentary background in the genre, they explain chords and reveal facts then open up the next tune and invite you to get your mojo working.

You don’t need to know much about the blues. You don’t need to be craving gator-on-a-stick or have a penchant for a mint julep. You don’t even need to be oblivious to the rest of Edinburgh’s musical scene. This is a show that you will be able to claim as your Fringe highlight at the end of the night. You’ll probably also leave singing and bemoaning the lack of a proper dance floor, ready to spill out into the revelry and head down the Cowgate. You won’t find anything quite like the Bluewsater though, so luckily for you, you can acquire their cd and sign up for their mailing list and rest assured that they’re playing in Edinburgh again soon.  

You’re a fool if you don’t see this show.

*

Listen to them here: http://soundcloud.com/blueswater-collective

Buy their CD on iTunes!

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
SCRIBBLER

Life of a Lunatic - Edinburgh Fringe 2012

Life of a Lunatic - Edinburgh Fringe 2012

Music, Words and P.A.R.T.Y.

Its taken almost three whole weeks to piece together everything that makes up the Edinburgh Fringe and turn it into coherent words. It's not quite like any other experience I've ever had and I have the feeling that it would never be quite like this year ever again either. As a Fringe Virgin, descending into the colourful, crazy furore of the city was a little bit like living in the mind of a video game designer strung out on amphetamines whilst watching One Day and listening to the Trainspotting soundtrack. There are so many adjectives that could be applied to this hotchpotch month but I have the feeling that relating all the performances and shows and street acts and flyerers and all the rest would likely be rendered meaningless. Instead, there are certain moments that stand out, nights and days whirled round and remembered in retrospective nostalgic delight. 

Just a warning. This is kind of long. 

This was the Awesome Space on Niddry Street 

The story actually begins weeks before August, with job applications and interviews, but you can read about that in my Summer Summary. I could then tell you about introductions and inductions and training days but those aren't all that interesting. The only thing that genuinely is important at this point is this: this is where I worked, The Space on the Mile  / @ Niddry Street. 

Everyone loved Niddry. It was a chilly, single venue that sat an audience of 102 and took up the back of the Raddison Hotel. It had no space to queue arriving ticket-holders, except outside (as you see in the rain) and we had one man who saw one of our longest lines, decided it must be a night club and ambled in to see a musical called The Last Five Years. Admittedly, our beloved space did sit opposite 'alternative' nightclub Hive, but still we had a giggle or two at his bewildered expense. The most important part of all this though, was the team. 

This summer, between the bus across America and working in London and now the Fringe, has been a summer of new friends. The difference is that when turning up to hop on the bus, you're meeting the people you're going to be spending the next 28 days with, there's a part of you that automatically wants to make nice with everyone. Similarly, on a predominantly male bus, it's best to muck in, there's an element of convenience and underneath that convenience is where you find the genuine people. Sure, you end up closer to one set of people than another - I don't think that Jon or Liam could ever be replaced and if there's anyone as cool as Janice (shiny or otherwise), I'd love to meet them. But in Edinburgh, you don't have to play with the kids that break your toys or only want to beat you at monopoly. There are so many eccentric, wonderful and bizarre and brilliant people that if you don't like someone, you don't have to pretend that you do. For me, the people you meet during the Fringe are the people you always dreamt of meeting but always assumed belonged in books and films. 

This is probably epitomised by TEAM NID-RAD-2012. 

We worked together. We had your mum lines. We ate late-cake and we told in-jokes that mostly rode on Chris's 'banter bus'. We had late nights. We had early mornings. We lay on the floor after the last show went in and listened to Power Ballads. We went to parties and danced like idiots and sang until our voices were lost.We ate together and drank together and very nearly died together. 

I don't think there's anyone that I don't think of fondly. 

Rhiannon

There was Rhiannon, our lovely manager and one of the sweetest, funniest people I've met. She has a squinting eye for the idiots who come into our box office and a quip or two up her sleeve for when her team acts like morons. And there was supervisory special agent Stella who might be one of the weirdest people on the planet. She's quirkier than the word quirky and has phenomenally bad taste. With a wicked sense of humour and a severe haircut, I'm wondering if I can persuade her to move in next month. She also pulls off a wonderful one-eyed panda. 

Jenny, Rosalind, Leyla, Stella & HC
(left to right)

Then there's Jenny. One of the two sparkling characters that came to live with me throughout the Fringe (the other is the effervescent  Leyla who is named after the song and is a definite Berrocca addict). Jenny's probably the girl you want to go to for recommendations on what to see at the Fringe, nothing she chose to see seemed to be anything less than fantastic and her obsessive radio loveage meant some awesome conversations. Hunter Claire, resident American and artiste makes the yin to Stella's yang with her deadpan jokes and enviable telephone manner. Clare, a bouncy Durham student and Zoe, the token Scot, make up the rest before you have the TECHIES. 

The Niddry Team was three: Chris, Jim and Pavel. If there are three other men with a dirtier, more deviant jokes in their repertoire, I don't want to meet them. These three do quite nicely. 

But do you know what made the team even more awesome and amazing? In fact, more awesome than the Awesome Show (possibly the worst show I've ever seen. Ever.) It was the ease of everything. We worked on caffeine and we lived on laughter. So that's very nice. And then we had shows that really were awesome at our venue too and there are even more people that I think I need to mention.

Let's start with one of the groups that we housed during the Fringe. The Fourth Monkey were one of my highlights during the festival. With six shows, some original, some interpretations, some straight performances, they had a dark, magical repertoire behind them. 

4.48 Psychosis

They had Sarah Kane's 4.48 Psychosis (that I reviewed here) and Elephant Man (a play that was nominated for the Freedom of Speech Prize by Amnesty International). The company is run by a fellow called Steven Green, one of the most interesting men I met. His team is brilliant and his troupe are supremely talented actors and actresses. If you ever have the chance to see them I would highly recommend that you do. 

The other group (I don't think any account of the Fringe would be complete without them) is the Blueswater Collective. With the charismatic Felipe centre stage and the twelve-piece band completing the sound, they're well worth a listen, if not £8 for their fish-eyed, professionally produced and mastered CD. Of course, by this point, I'm an avid fan and so if you follow that link you'll end up in soundcloud and you can listen to a selection of their live performances and judge them for yourself. 

Blueswater Collective - Review Coming Soon

Two of them, Luc (trumpet) and Charlie (lead guitar) came to stay at the Magical Flat 82 in the last weeks of the festival, having been turfed out of the place they'd been squatting in. Complete with bag (yes, singular) and trumpet, the two made a nest out of our living room which was rather fun.  They're both uniquely talented in the sense that they carry themselves with that particular level of ingenuity that lends itself to their performance. I don't know if that makes sense. Charlie's late-night pop songs were epic - I still miss my rustlers every time I walk/trot/scamper past scotmid - and Luc's pretty good at giving us a twirl in the kitchen to make us feel special. The two of them are incredibly similar and totally different at the same time and quite unlike anyone I've known from home or school or the US or anywhere really and as with Team Raddry, I'm so unbelievably glad that I know them. Actually, both of the boys are trying to move to Edinburgh (which would be amazing musically and generally) so fingers-crossed on that one and if any of you readers see any staff wanted signs....?

But I think this is the end of this post.

An Empty Niddry two days after the Fringe Ended

We've gone through people, we've touched on the shows... there's just too much to cram into this kind of medium and I don't know what to say next or what not to say next. There were parties. There were tears. There were unstoppable giggles and stupid mistakes. There were miscounted coins and misread signals. There were late night conversations that made my heart skip because it's been so long since I've wanted to talk or listen that long. There were yellow submarines. There were bags of food hung from trees, tantalisingly out of reach. There were glowing, incandescent, marvellous people - too many to illustrate here.

And that was the Fringe for me - all the people, all the life and vitality and possibility and inspiration and everything, everything just seeming so exciting that you could burst. The desperate tiredness at the end is forgotten behind effulgent days that stretch out, burning and wondrous. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
SCRIBBLER