Broken Hearts

I literally can't stop listening to these Broken Hearts covers of songs. LOVE them. i want to be in the videos, clad in neo-burlesque finery with a heart shaped bob.  

Naughtily Black XS

There is a very particular significance to my liking this video. the end. 

The Animals and Children Took to the Streets

I'm not sure what it would be like to be in a graphic novel, as in to actually see events unfold in 2D animated life, but i imagine it'd be something like 1927's production of The Animals and Children Took to the Streets at the BAC. the story concerns an insalubrious, dilapidated, cockroach and weirdo ridden tenement block staffed by a melancholic caretaker, called the Bayou Mansions. We learn that residents include "a 21 year old... granny" and "a man with a horse... as a room-mate". it's all about unexpected twists, as we learn from these statements, which are delivered with a suspenseful pause midway through so as to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary. Renegade child vagabonds terrorise the building; theft, larceny, peddling of illegal wares and prostitution are the local trade. the area is in the Mayor's blind spot. but not for long. Into this condemned malaise enter Agnes and Evie Eaves who come to help transform the fates of the children with Blue Peter-esque gung ho. They have no idea what they are getting themselves into... What unfurls is a sardonic satire on fairytales, morality, heroism, adventure, love stories and moral triumph. Here happy endings are uncertain and good may not necessarily win out. if that is to make it sound depressing at all, be sure that it isn't. it's caprivatingly magical, hilarious and pacey. but for the opposite reasons you'd expect.

The production is part animation, part cabaret, part theatre, part art creation, part silent cinema and part macabre fairytale that confounds expectation with droll chutzpah, fizzes with deadpan black humour and is brought to life through screen projections which provide scenery, supporting characters and soviet-esque printed script revelations. Its deliciously dark magic is completely enchanting, the songs are witty, funny and utterly original. i've never seen anything like it. but i hope to again.

see a teaser for what to expect here

The Animals and Children Took to the Streets by 1927 at The Battersea Arts Centre, £16, running until January 08, 2011 7.30pm & 3pm.

House of Voltaire... Miu Miu... Fistful of Mercy

Last Friday night was rather a bizarre evening as I ran around town to events which couldn't have been less connected to one another. Still, they were all wonderful in their own way.

First up was a trip to House of Voltaire, a pop up shop run by contemporary arts organisation Studio Voltaire above Rupert Sanderson's shop on Bruton Place, in Mayfair which sells affordable contemporary art by names including Ryan Gander and Linder. I've been there several times since it opened in November and there's an ever changing selection of amazing prints and print collections, plus various art objects (bags, a suit made from fabric which looks like bricks, dog bowls, tea towels - all designed by artists). Every time i've been i've loved the Richard Nicoll and Linder collaborations, including this bandanna.

Next up, I nipped just round the corner to meet the delectable Sophie de Rosee and head to the opening of the new Miu Miu shop on the corner of Bond street, a visual treat if ever there was one, and i don't just mean the juicily coloured patent bags, glittery vertiginous heels, and apple and heart print shirts, dresses, earrings and belts (as modelled below)... literally I've never seen such HOT WAITERS. it was enormously distracting. in a good way, obviously. they even took attention away from the array of stars who rocked up - from Harry Potter kids to Jessica Alba,  Chloë Grace Moretz (A.K.A Hit Girl) and the glitterati of the fashion and design worlds - Katie Grand, Tom Dixon (and pup) et al.  Prior questioning and research into the proliferation of similarly dishy waiters at glitzy fashion and art events reveals that apparently there are waitering agencies where the higher your hire fee, the hotter the hands who help. literally. Good to know.

Finally i ended up in Koko to see Fistful of Mercy, a band comprised of Dhani Harrison, Ben Harper and Joseph Arthur. Their troubled emotional rock tinged with a soulful country flavour and mellifluous, yearning vocals strangely rather makes one want to be heartbroken the intensity is so all-consuming - hardly surprising given that more often than not there are 3 acoustic guitars and 3 male harmonies thrown in to the mix.  I love the title track Fistful of Mercy as well as  Things Go Around.

Janelle Monae

I went to see Janelle Monae at the Shepherd's Bush Empire on Sunday. She's completely incredible - lungs like bellows and a natty sartorial style - she's a monochromatic, sexy, pixie-like teddyboy-tomboy, with a quiff to die for and super cute dance moves. She's playing at The Roundhouse in March. The song Tightrope rocks big time.



Apes in Aeroplanes

Several things i like about this debut 4 track EP from Marthas & Arthurs....

It's a little bit folksy, in a way that makes you smile and want to hold someone's hand who you like very much (more than they probably know), and maybe live your life as if filmed in tea-stained super8.

If i listen to it twice it gets me from my front door to work.

I like the spelling of Aeroplanes. Airplanes makes my skin crawl.

It's 100% free to download. yes. from here.

Vintage at Goodwood

Festivals where people wear heels are my kind of festivals. the scales first fell from my eyes about the sartorial prospects and potential of festivals when I went to Lost Vagueness (the burlesque, cabaret and period fashion inspired off-shoot of Glastonbury) about 5 years ago. Heels rather than wellingtons just make everything better. the end. and if there's a tea dancing tent where you can be spun round by a dashing gentleman in vintage army uniform, so much the better.

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Vintage at Goodwood was awash with vertiginous heels, not to mention beehives, 1940s curled hair, seamed tights, billowing skirts with colourful frou frou petticoats, nipped in waists and red lipstick; men decked out in three piece suits, trilbies, canes, and twirled moustaches; teddy boy clobber or mod-ish garb. 'Vintage' being a loose term, there were quite a few looks; it was bizarre - punk-inspired mohicans bobbing up and down to the music in front of mothers in 1950s prom dresses jiggling their babes in arms. but so much fun to both watch and be a part of.

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Everyone gathered round 1950s camping vans, war-era style tents serving cream teas, queued to have a period make-over at the beauty parlour, or skated round to 1980s tunes at the roller disco. As well as about 5 music stages, there were fashion shows and make do and mend sewing classes. In truth, on a sunny Sunday, it felt like a very jolly, very big fete. NB if you are driving from London, via Guilford and Petworth, it is the most glorious drive (and thus makes for a great day trip) - reminds you of why people used to 'go for a drive'. if you had a vintage car it'd be heaven. I'm seriosly considering going down for Goodwood revival in September, for the vintage car racing.

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Highlights for me were twofold. the first was listening to The Puppini Sisters; their coquettishly zesty cover versions of songs, from Tu Vuo Fa Americano to Beyonce's Crazy in Love are both sparklingly witty, brilliant adaptations and bursting with fruit flavour (of the flirty, teasing variety). I've been a fan since they released their first album about 4 years ago and live they were a million times better. You want to tap your foot, then jig about, then dance, then dance with someone - and be spun around vigirously, and then perhaps thrown in the air and caught. One of my favourite songs has to be Kate Bush's Wuthering Heights. amazing.

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Lastly, there was the shopping. hours i could have spent trawling through the tents of vintage clothes. and i did, eventually coming away having frittered away most of my month's salary but having several jaw-dropping finds... including a floor length, strapless 1950s taffeta pale grey ballgown - the tight corseted top drops into a gorgeously flowing, twirl-me-about-on-the-dance-floor full skirt. heaven.

I love Tom. and Moustaches.

Hotter than hot lifelong crush

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I spent a not inconsiderable amount of time at Field Day, running around with a fake moustache on, thanks to a spectacular Pin-the-Moustache-on-Tom Selleck stall run by the more-than-fantastic Romy Westwood. Mmmm.

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Idiot, you may think. well, NO. from this day on i am never going to a festival WITHOUT a fake moustache glued to my upper lip (Casanova was the variety, FYI). Friends lost: 0. Friends made: 10,000. including a ridiculously high number of hot men. that's all I'm saying. cleavage on display and a fake moustache seems to tick a lot of men's boxes. who knew?

A moustachioed Romy and Laura
moustachioed moi (and on crack, clearly).

Zebra Finches

I waited exactly in the queue for exactly 2 hours and three minutes to see Céleste Boursier-Mougenot's exhibition featuring Zebra Finches at The Barbican. and spent approx 15 minutes in the exhibition, which wasn't exactly ideal. Still, i absolutely loved it. I had a feeling i would - hence my desperation see it before it came off yesterday.

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You enter the gallery via a darkened space; film reels of fingers playing guitar strings are projected on a grand scale on the walls - the contrast is so great the film looks like chalk drawn animation - lines in pink, white and blue. but the sound is muted; all you hear instead is the whirring of the projector slides which sounds like the crackling of wind at the sea side. the space then curves and opens up into the light, where the artist has filled the final third of the gallery space with an assortment of cymbals and electric guitars and a flock of zebra finches. zebra finches turn out to be incredibly cute and inquisitive little black and white birds with electric orange beaks, who swoop and dive about with dynamism and alacrity - no fear or concern about their gawping, intrusive audience. of course the point is that their landing on the instruments means they inadvertently 'play' them, resulting in bursts of random music, if you can call it that. I'd say you can, in fact, because it definitely feels like music rather than noise - even though it's quite plinky plonky. because the musical bursts are sporadic and vary in length, some of the more punchy 'tunes' result in impromptu rounds of applause. well, at least i initiated some - hang what everyone else did during their visits.

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It's a weird experience - it's feels very dramatic and yet also elicits a childlike glee as the birds zoom about, and land on you from time to time. you can't have any expectations as there's no official performance, but it does feel like a show. crossed with feeding time at the zoo. the overall effect is magical. you'd have to be a complete android with the sensitivity of a lamppost not to like it.

Why Don't You Love Me?

It is quite impossible to say HOW MUCH I LOVE BEYONCE'S LATEST VIDEO, Why Don't You Love Me? How could you not, indeed, love her in that get up, which pretty much epitomises how I'd like to dress if i a) had a hairdresser and stylist to hand to primp, preen and curl me every morning b) had the legs. in the unfortunate absence of either, i make a not inconsiderable nod to the 1940s and 1950s (high waisted sailor trousers and scarves in my hair the latest obsession) - but clearly i have some catching up to do on the underwear front. strangely enough, Tesco, yes Tesco, are doing a range of 1950s siren-inspired underwear this summer - screamingly cheap and insanely stylish - think big pants with printed front panels (colourful leopard print, a rose motif), and bra tops which have serious support and extend down reaching somewhere between the waist and the usual body strap of a bra, with matching printed panels. sound heinous, look deliciously sexy, trust me. basically exactly like Miss Knowles is sporting here, a la Betty Page. Available from June, they promise me.

Prima Donna

I'm really pleased i went to see Rufus Wainwright's opera Prima Donna last night - although much pleasure was arguably derived from several things rather unconnected to the actual opera itself, it has to be said - Wainwright, clad in a Tartan suit was there with mustachioed boyfriend, plus the sort of famous people you might want to be friends with... Bella Freud for eg, which created a grand sense of occasion, plus the completely bonkers crowd of all ages, fashion sensibilities, and general walks of life were thoroughly over-excited, which contributed to a frenzied buzz that fizzed around the auditorium and foyer of Saddler's Wells, and finally, i had a much longed for kiss-and-make-up with a dear friend before curtain up - always guaranteed to lift one's spirits to the point of enjoying something desperately dire. This wasn't dire, but it certainly wasn't La Boheme, as aforementioned dear friend was quick to note.


The Opera, Prima Donna, tells the story of a Norma Desmond-esque opera diva, Regine Saint Laurent (Yves, no relation, je pense), who is living in faded elegance (what else?) in Paris (where else?) with her controlling, Mrs Danvers style butler and flimsy maid (who stole some of the best tunes if you ask me). the last time she sang was over six years ago, when she had a vocal breakdown, but she's set to make a triumphant comeback, in the same role she crashed and burned performing last time. But then she's visited by a young journalist (who also happened to train as a tenor, handy for duets) and who flatters her ego and encourages her to sing with him. caught up in the moment, they end up in a heady embrace. Strangely though, he's forgotten to mention he has a girlfriend (that old trick) and after Regina has been left to moon over him for a while and remember her glory days, he then returns to the apartment with girlfriend in tow to ask Regina to sign a record for him (yes, it's seems totally mad on stage too). RSL is less than happy as you might imagine and has another breakdown, at which point her long suffering, draconian butler walks out and she's left alone, bereft, with no voice, no hope, nothing.

My main problem, really, was having an opera about a singer who can't sing. she obviously has to sing even when she's supposed not to be able to. and when she finally sings her major number, it makes less of an impact as she's been, well, singing the whole time.

Also, however the plot grabs you, it really isn't punchy enough to be eeked out over 2 1/2 hours. Pacey it ain't. by the end i was so desperate for some drama i way baying for blood and kept wishing someone would kill someone - the butler kill the diva with a spoon? (no, just putting it back on the table) murder with keys? (no, just returning them). maybe she'd kill herself? (no, just left a tragic wreck).


And so to the music... Many of the melodies I loved, and was happily swept along by the choppy passions of the alternately rumbling, haunted, wispy, melancholy and furious strains which darted throughout. What i was never really swept off my feet by, however, were the really moving, strong, passionate, heartbreaking or loving arias. where were they? please excuse the completely technically inept explanations which'll follow, but there was much singing-talking and not much singing-singing if you know what i mean. where was the OPERA? who knows. and we couldn't help thinking that the libretto was in French simply to hide the fact that not much of note was being said.

Which sound like i hated it, which i didn't. but it was a tiny bit like Rufus himself was the Prima Donna (or the main attraction, certainly), the audience were the spectacle and the opera itself was a slightly forgettable chorus girl.

Trash City

I think my favourite moment of Trash City, the aerial acrobatics-meets-rock concert-meets-freak-burlesque show that punched its way into public consciousness at Glastonbury in 2007 and whose current show is part of The Roundhouse's Circusfest, wasn't quite when the silver Lycra-clad tranny flew through the air singing Alice Cooper's Poison, nor even when a giant robotised bull charged into the crowd seemingly ridden by a lost Bon Jovi band member, nor when the sexy rock-chic angels fell from the sky on bungy-cords only to grab an audience member and simulate tearing their throats out - rising to the heavens again with bloodied mouths. No, it was when a near naked woman (modesty barely preserved by Matthew Barney-esque bloody cones on her breasts and a red sequined fig leaf on her bajingo), suspended from a giant cobweb-shrouded chandelier and twisting, flipping and contorting with acrobatic splendour, reached a crescendo by pulling a ruby necklace out of her pussy. amazing.

The Habit of Art

I don't really know why, but i sort of had this feeling i wouldn't like The Habit of Art, Alan Bennett's play about a fictional meeting between the composer Benjamen Britten, nervous about his new opera Death in Venice, and lascivious poet W.H (Wystan) Auden - living in indulgent squalor in Oxford in the early 1970s, which is currently running at the National. well, as it turned out, i was wrong, totally wrong - i really enjoyed it, so much so that i even tried not to flinch/freak out/violently bash her when next to me my mother's gaffawingly appreciative laughter rang out seemingly 75 million decibels louder than anyone else's in the auditorium - i could actually see that she had a point. and she's seen it 5 times. seriously. it's still funny apparently.

The structure is a play within a play - usually a construct that has the propensity to grate, but here it works well because there's space to mull on concepts beyond the subject of a single play about the meeting of the two men. To explain a bit better, the 'actors' are on set, together with the stage manager, playwright et al rehearsing a play about the aforementioned fictional meeting between Britten and Auden - a meeting supposedly interrupted by the entrance of Humphrey Carpenter, interviewing Auden for the BBC, and a local rent boy hired by Auden. The reunion between Auden and Britten is twenty or so years after they collaborated on several operas and films etc, the last of which was Paul Bunyan (1949). Britten has come to seek advice, solace and reassurance from Auden. During this meeting you learn as much about their personalities as the relationship between poetry and music, ageing and creative virility, differing expressions of homosexuality, maturing relationships with art, and how hard habits are to change - both in art and life. The introduction of a narrator to the play being staged, in the form of Humphrey Carpenter (who went on to write the biographies of the two men), brings the concept of biography (as art, as fiction, as fact, as history) into effect - one of the pivotal points upon which the play turns. but this concept is only something that is fully explored through the post-modernist construct - ie when the play within the play breaks off.

The presence of the stage manager (Frances de la Tour) and the play's author (Elliott Levey) plus various other stage hands on stage mean that the actors playing Auden, Britten, Carpenter and the rent boy (Richard Griffiths, Alex Jennings, Adrian Scarborough and Stephen Wright) can break away from their conversations and discuss their relationships with each other. It's in this rehearsal time that exploration of the concepts of biography, creativity, homosexuality, love, theatre and performance really develop as the actors ask questions about their characters, or the cultural, historical and political context, and each person tries to accurately inhabit and present their character. The audience are thus complicit in the theatrical exploration of the nuances, implication and significance of the dialogue between the two men, but also understand more about what it is to perform, to act, to inhabit someone who lived, to create a world that explores people, concepts etc - parallel almost to the work of a biographer, or playwright.

I'm not sure if i'm making it seem complicated, but multitasking isn't my forte and i have my father watching TV on one side of me, my mother listening to the radio on the other and i've also been trying to chat to my sister in Argentina on skype, and i've also quaffed half a bottle or so of wine over lunch, so over-complication seems likely... still, in the main, it's very easy to watch, and very funny and sharp, and so interesting on so many levels - the import and intrigue of which which slowly sink in as you watch, but continue to play on your mind long after the curtain's dropped.

I completely recommend booking tickets to watch a live broadcast at cinemas across the country on April 22 as the (extended) run has completely sold out.

London roller girls

The obsession grows:

I finally went to the much anticipated match of The London Roller Girls up in Seven Sisters and it was more amazing than i could have hoped for. Two teams, the Ultraviolent Femmes and the Suffrajets stepped up to the skate ring to battle it out, clad in sexy outfits, adorned with tatoos, smoky eyes, colourful hair, fishnets and of course roller skates, knee pads, elbow pads and helmets. the rules, in short, are as follows: in each game (of 5 minutes or so), 5 or so members from each team make a pack, who skate round together. one jammer from each team follows behind at about 20 paces. the jammers have to catch up and fight their way through the jostling pack, and get round the ring and through the pack a second time - racking up a point for each member of the opposite team they pass. that's the simple version - not allowing for wolves, gazelles, penalties and some serious violence and wipe outs. it's exhilarating to watch - so exciting. funky retro pop plays throughout, the numerous referees are real characters, as are the announcers and two sexy scoregirls. everyone has rocking names - Duncan Disorderly and Vin Dictive as referees, Bette Noir as announcer, the Bexorcist, Vagablonde and Rose Hypnol amongst the roller girls. Girl of the match for me was Grievous Bodily Charm - Suffra Jets team captain, a feisty red head who took something of a a calamitous tumble but braved it onto the court for the final team high fiving of the crowd.

I have subsequently totally been fantasising about what my name would be were i to take it up... am thinking Fever Bitch, Annabelle Lecter, Harm Her Sutra or Gossip Hurl. Tricky.

Marthas and Arthurs

Obviously I'm completely biased because i love Mary (singer, accordion player and general musical starlet) but seeing her play with the Marthas and Arthurs on Wednesday was total heaven. Folksy, heart-warming, can't-help-but-make-you-smile, sweetly tingling, hold-hands-with-someone-you-love, skip inducing, heaven. and actually, even though I'm biased, that actually doesn't mean much because I'm not one to wax hyperbolic about something i don't actually like. (In public I'd stay quiet, in private I'd bitch like someone was about to cut off my supply of nasty turns of phrase. but best not to dwell upon that unsavory side of my character). Anyway, seems like I'm not the only one who thinks they are a bit fantastic; with Daily Candy's editorial on their dinner date proposal (invite them to your dinner party and they'll play for free in exchange for some food and interesting conversation - and sometimes not even the latter) they have been inundated with offers to perform - and rightly so. snap them up pronto, i say. In the mean time, follow their blog. It also rocks.

The XX - double kiss

I've been listening to The XX's album a lot and all i can think when i listen to it is that it's made for kissing. a sort of innocent kissing - standing up kissing. kissing by the bus stop saying goodbye after the night before, but not wanting to leave. kissing for the love of kissing, just for the sake of kissing - the sort of beautiful kissing that won't lead to sex - gorgeously soft, sensitive kissing, where you're thinking that you could just kiss this person for ever, that you can't believe that you are kissing them, but you are kissing them and you've got butterflies and you feel sick but happy and you want to smile and kiss and curve into their body and hold them tight and gently run your fingers up their spine. the secret teenage kiss at a party kissing the person you've had a crush on for weeks. a sort of gingerly fearful kiss that's excited but also slightly terrified - because it'll have to end, and then what?

Royal Mail Stamps

I'm a MAJOR fan of thank you letters. They are such an easy way to make someone feel special. quite frankly a thank you letter is SO much better than an email. Anyway, last week Hannah posted a whole handful of thank you letters which each had one of these stamps on. i think they totally rock: the cherry on the cake.

Every Good Boy Deserves Favour

Quite frankly, piano lessons when i was a child were traumatic to say the least, so the phrase Every Good Boy Deserves Favour (a reference to the mnemonic to remember the notes of the treble clef) makes me think of shirking practice, witches teaching me music theory, draconian lesbian piano teachers and sitting on piano stools in too short school uniform skirts so that my thighs stuck to the stool's leather and my skin made a terrible ripping sound as i stood up to leave when the final bell rang. still, the play was great - and at £10, and 1hr length, just my kind of production. with a script by Tom Stoppard and a score for full, on-stage orchestra by Andre Previn, it concerns itself with the fate of two men incarcerated in a Russian madhouse. one because he is mad, and imagines that an orchestra is constantly playing the theme tune to his life, and the other because he is a political dissident whose anti-establishment views make him 'insane' in that they are the opposite of the 'norm'. The sane and mad worlds of each inmate collide, and the doctor in charge of both is equally diffident about the condition of each - he insouciantly pleads with them to admit they are wrong about their opinions with the incentive of freedom as a reward. it's like Catch 22 crossed with Her Naked Skin (Rebecca Lenkiewicz's play staged in same theatre last year about suffragettes who were also imprisoned for their opinions). if i've made it sound at all pompous and pretentious, that's my fault, and it's not. it's funny and physical and totally unlike anything i've ever seen. the action takes place in and around the orchestra, initially in neatly sectioned off areas, but increasingly more haphazardly in amongst the continuously playing orchestra, whose music exacerbates the mood. the lines between sanity and insanity, music and reality, conversation and dissonance become blurred and eventually there's a crazily choreographed balletic scene where members of the orchestra start to riot. it's incredible to watch, the slow unleashing of madness through music. very strange, but very witty and very powerful. with £10 seats, it's a no brainer if you ask me.

The Broken Hearts

Somewhat uncharacteristically for me, i decided to fuck 'sacred and relaxing' Sunday evening this week and instead went to a 'Pink' party at the Met bar - part of fashion week celebrations. in the main reception area was a vintage circus, while upstairs various suites were given over to showcasing the a/w 09 collections of young designers. it all sounded so promising, but... one candyfloss machine, some bunting, and a big board with a strong man painted on and the head cut out (for poking your own head through) does not a circus make. still, there were rather delicious fruity vodka cocktails and champagne, and lots of extraordinarily dressed people to gawp at, so i wasn't complaining too much. also, after a while, there was a very cute-but-cool performance act in the shape of Skip Theatre, three gamine girls with cropped hair, big smiles and eyelashes with white beads on the ends, wearing navy vintage swimming costumes, navy lycra leggings, small boaters and rubber rings round their waists, who skipped to the music in a kind of on-land synchronised swim. simple, and more than a little strange, but such fun and completely charming! and they got the crowd skipping too - jumping with them by running in and out of the rope. Genuis. what i loved loved loved even more than that, though, were the DJs, The Broken Hearts. two petite girls both in dressed in short, sexy harlequin Pierrot dresses, vertiginous heels and conical clown hats perched on top of perfect heart shaped bobs which framed their doll-like, porcelain faces with their long, long eye lashes and ruby red lips. but it certainly wasn't all pomp and show - the music was relentlessly brilliant, skipping from 1920s shimmies to jolly tea room dance music to jiving, to 1960s bopping to The Cure and back to swing - i had to keep breaking off my conversation and into song. I basically have an enormous girl crush on them and want them around me all the time to bring extra burlesquey glamour to my life and create a permanent, evolving playlist so i am forever perky and always singing. the end.

Going GaGa

Lady GaGa is everywhere? EVERYEWHERE? do her PR people know nothing about overexposure? since i was introduced to her actual song 'Just Dance' on GMTV (i'd seen her moody face all over the shop for a while before actually hearing the admitedly-quite-catchy-but-nothing-to-get-your-knickers-in-a-twist-about song) that was the end of the beginning really. it was the beginning, but it was also the end. it's morning TV. and then, after the cheesetastic GMTV i saw her on a 'win a trip to NY to see Lady GaGa competition' on the music channel in my gym. which sealed her fate really. it's too much, it really it.