Tricky

No frills Will

Oh look, it's friendly Will Young.

I post this slightly odd image (what other famous person would be photographed at a rather serious museum opening but Will, I ask you?) because my photo of the concert I saw of his two weeks ago isn't great. To be fair, I wasn't feeling very well. Slightly feverish if I am being honest, and I just wasn't possessed of the wherewithall to snap away merrily using merely my iPhone in the way I did when I saw Coldplay on Monday. More on that shortly, by the way.

Anyway, here is the rather meaningless concert photo:

 

See what I mean?

I think that bright light is probably Will.

Anyway, the concert was at the Roundhouse in Camden. Amy Winehouse-land. I must admit to not having been there before, but despite reservations (North London always fills me with such irrational dread), and said fever, I attended. And it was a very civilised venue too. I had a huge brandy before the show to steady me in my hour of need. This may seem unremarkable, but I actually went into a half-decent gay bar a couple of weeks ago and they didn't actually have a bottle of brandy amongst an otherwise pretty decent spirits selection. Blue Aftershock, yes! Brandy, no. Rubbish!

The Roundhouse itself is also a lovely wooden thing. One part Shakespeare's Globe, one part Royal Horticultural Society shop and café. Perfect for Will. It had the most fantastic acoustics - a rich glorious sound compared to anything outdoor or barn-like.

Now, I have seen Will Young sing before a few times. These are:

• at the birthday party of a mutual friend, just after he won Pop Idol
• at Kenwood House in Hampstead in one of their Picnic Concerts
• at that BBC Proms in the Park thing last summer

So, though I have good form in terms of seeing him sing live, I can't say I have been to one of his tours or anything. And I was anxious to remedy this, not least because I love his music, again and again, and I think he's fantastic. I think he's done big production tours before. Wembley Arena type stuff, with backdrops and costumes and what-not, so I was almost a little surprised at how completely low-fi the show at the Roundhouse was. He changed outfit for the encore, but basically it was him, some good lighting, his band and a bunch of absolutely faultless songs. That's not such a bad thing really. Perhaps the hanging video screens, costumed dancers and pyrotechnics of modern big pop shows would have distracted from the rather simple minimal, almost barefoot nature of his songs these days.

Either way, his fans certainly didn't mind. Who the heck were these people, by the way? Well, there were a few gays. A few. Not many. By and large they looked like thoroughly charming well-to-do folk of a huge disparity of ages. A real (Hampstead) dentist's waiting room. In front of us were two defiantly heterosexual chaps who had come along together. One of them sang along. And, yes, he was definitely straight. Quite bizarre. There was an older lady or two there. They love Will too. I guess everyone does. Even famous people. Lily Allen, Henry Holland, Agyness Deyn and Nick Grimshaw were all present. The tres cool elite. It was all getting a bit Shoreditchy.

The songs and performance thereof were perfection though. SM who was with me hadn't heard the new record at all and was blown away. I guess they really have the wind behind them when sung live and particularly Let it go, I won't give up, Grace and Changes sounded completely up there with anything from Friday's Child or Keep On. He did quite a lot of those songs too - never missing a chance to sing a hit like Your game or Who am I. We were a little despondent that All time love wasn't on the set list, but it was a minor gripe in otherwise great evening.

And at the end, I felt much better. So it's official. Will Young: he sings, he dances, he acts, he cures all ills.

Caped crusader

Roísín Murphy is a tease. She knows what you want and she'll give it to you, eventually. But part of her surprise is that the wait for the big reveal is almost more exciting than the endgame. So much so in fact that she'll teach you a lesson: the wait is almost more fun than the revealing light.

Here she is above, wandering through her huge curtain, for a brief moment. She's naturally wearing an extraordinary hat, wrapped in a huge yellow feather boa and an is-that couture? coat. We're never sure if she's wearing 2009 Dior or something she picked up in a charity shop just before the show and it almost doesn't matter, even when she is wearing a huge houndstooth deer around her back. The singer wears the clothing, but she also seems to wear the songs. She stalks, she peeps, she gyrates, she teases. And for all the slow unraveling, the viewer is both hungry for more and secretly desiring delayed gratification. Even the venison was treated this way - it was Bambi who peeped through the curtain before our genial Irish hostess.

A year ago I saw Roísín at the Koko in Camden. It was a good show, but rather different to the one I saw just recently. For one, she played mainly songs from Overpowered back then, while she relied on a broader mixture of material from both her solo albums this time around. Last time she seemed to reinvent and stretch the new songs to longer versions, this time they were punchier and more true to the recording, albeit with the occasional twist. This approach made me happier than when last time particularly Let me know seemed to be deconstructed and twisted a step too far, almost as if she was trying to make it less obvious. That was a mistake: this time her finest song was total perfection.

Just a few days before, I had been to see Goldfrapp and funnily enough the two shows were quite comparable. That's not to do either down, but there was something about these two fashion-conscious yet epically musical women that meant one inevitably compared. Alison I have my issues with. Roísín I do not. She didn't talk a lot, just the occasional bit of light banter but she was warm and likeable - we knew she was engaging with us. Plus the fashion was artful and always worn with such humour there was no other way but to smile and admire her for doing it in such a unique way. Goldfrapp felt like cheerless paganism by contrast. Of course her album has had much longer to seep into the collective cerebelli of the audience than a year ago. Dear Miami with its burning palm tree projections was a major highlight. You know me better another. Overpowered was perfection to begin the show.

Maybe her album didn't sell by the shedload, but her songs sounded like Greatest Hits, and the show was a sell-out. That's no small matter

Stag do

I've been to two concerts in the last couple of weeks, and it struck me as I stepped out of Brixton Academy on Saturday night that they were actually quite comparable. For starters, both featured blonde leading ladies with a bold, almost aggressively singular sense of style. The music was largely electronic and decidedly avant garde, but with a strong sense of p-o-p. And in both performances, at least one person wore faux-antlers. Yes, it's as clear as day to me now: venison-chic is in. You read it here last.

The first was Goldfrapp. Embracing all things pastoral, English and yet also clown-related, the band did a left (or is that U)-turn on their last album and made this rather lovely, quiet, jangly record. Initially I wasn't sure what to make of it, but I seem to listen to it again and again, and in fact the lead single, A&E, might be my favourite song of this year. Prior to the more recent material, I quite liked the glam-rock stuff they were doing, but wasn't passionate about it. Marc Bolan never spoke to me on any level and I have a real genuine antipathy towards what I can only describe as sweaty, angrogynous, have-some-grease-tea-with-me, cold-Sunday morning British music of the 1970s. So I was quite excited to see Goldfrapp re-invented, dying to hear A&E and curious to see how their new music gelled with the old in live performance. Very well, it turned out, rather unexpectedly.

At a live show, I always look around and try and work out who's who. Why are they there and what do they want to hear. It must be said that since Marc Bolan died, few have gone down his glittery road musically, so I suspect the guys near me with their single painted eye and uncomfortable-looking glittery lurex outerwear weren't here to scream wildly for Cologne Cerrone Houdini. They were waiting for Ooh la la, Number 1 and Ride a white horse. And they became hysterical when they finally got their moment (though surprisingly not that last one, which I thought was a bit of a shame, really).

She looked great. The glittery clown number was perfect and I was amused to note the two dancers performing with her had been given rather more low-cut outfits than Alison dared sport. For them it was bikini-bottoms and hand-stands. AG demurred to show us her undercarriage, for shame. In fact, the overall staging was great. Gigantic bunting, everyone in white apart from Alison, the backing singers in their stag headgear, the eight-piece orchestra barefoot. That was beautifully done. The dancers inter-changed costumes, changed Maypole for go-go-pole, energised the crowd, showed some sass. The tension of what kit they would be coming on next in - head to toe in dancing rags, even! - was fantastic

And the voice! The voice! Immaculate. Clear, high, pure and faultless every time. And I loved the song I came to hear, in fact everything that was performed from Seventh Tree.

If only I had felt the slightest shimmer of charm or pleasantness from the woman. A genuine undoubted musical innovator and well of artistry and inspiration, she left me utterly cold. Her bell-like voice glanced off the grubby walls of the Academy but when it came time to find out how the audience were doing, or -perish the thought!- thank the crowd, it was as though she smoked forty Lambert & Butler a day and was speaking through a, er, felt mountain. craaannnnn-roooo, she seemed to say. Those were her only words. The audience were inversely wild to shower her and the band with unceasing gratitude and admiration. Alison seemed disinterested to show it back.

I'm afraid I look for a modicum of charm and eloquence from the artists I support. For someone with so much to say, I was unsure how to take the show: be wowed by her faultless musicality, or left cold by her mute indifference?

 

Photos by Gorgeous Rob (who's small digicam is much better than mine these days) with many thanks.

Go west(field)

 

In retrospect it seems like utter madness, but in its opening days, amid the driving November rain and teeming crowds, I have made a visit to the new 'super-mall', this biggest shopping centre in Europe thing, a monolith to days of boom and carefree spending, Westfield, in sexy Shepherd's Bush.

Wow, that's almost certainly the first time the word 'sexy' and Shepherd's Bush have been used in a sentence when not in reference to a hooker.

So, yes, I went to have a little cultural excursion to find out what £1.2 billion worth of retail outlet buys you these days. And it seems the answer to that question is - really quite a lot. There is a very great deal of roof for instance, which naturally undulates in the most modern and impressive way. There are wide open spaces and lots of lovely signs telling you where to go and where you are. There are stages where Leona Lewis or, in the case of my visit, the London Community Gospel Choir, trill merrily to passing shoppers.

But what startled me somewhat is that the shops themselves were actually rather... small. A gay of my casual passing acquaintance works in one of the rather chic stores and I stopped in to say hello. He paused to talk to me with a very impressive blow-dried bouffant and black rimmed spectacles and mentioned that he was expecting some giant expansive space allowing endless browsing and a more, shall we say, take-it-easy type of shopping experience. In particular you couldn't have swung a digital SLR, never mind a cat, in the branch of Jessops.

I wasn't sure how gay it was going to be. Would screaming moxen throngs be filling the aisles? Not exactly. But I certainly saw quite a few. Maybe the wider number had heard that the super chi-chi boutiques (Ferragamo, Prada, Vuitton, Gucci et al) have yet to open and are keeping their powder dry. What struck me was a glaring, glaring, obvious-if-you-think-about-it gap in the planning. There was a huge branch of Nandos. A Wagamama, untold other grazing spaces. What the place was missing was a branch of Bar Code (or similar). Somewhere to act as a honeypot for thirsty gays to parade around their designer shopping bags. Someone must act on this. Something must be done.

Black ties that bind

It's been ages since I have had to wear black tie, tux and the whole shebang, then lately I have been deluged with events where it's necessary. Well, deluged is a slight exaggeration. But certainly a few times in recent months. One of them was on Wednesday, the opening of the London Film Festival. I bought a fitted suit about a year ago figuring it was something I really should own. And so, given that, I wore it happily, but annoyingly I was one of the few. I confess I felt a little like serving staff or a doorman. Everyone seemed to take their own interpretation of the dress code, even to the extent that some considered that a suit and tie of any kind was enough. No! Most irritating.

Not a big deal, really. Anyhow, the event was a great thing. The above was taken from the bar at the Empire Casino overlooking Leicester Square, one of the great armpits of London (in my opinion) which is perhaps one reason I have rendered it in black and white. An upper vantage point was much appreciated. The Odeon is all lit up in the middle of the shot, and that's where the main event, red carpet, camera flashbulbs, all that stuff, was occurring. I did quite enjoy walking the carpet, not least because Kevin Bacon was giving an interview behind me as I went into the cinema. And the movie - Frost/Nixon - was fantastic, which does help on the opening night of an event celebrating cinema.

Naturellement, I got to go to the afterparty, at the Hilton on Park Lane. This I had not got high hopes for. Maybe the friend who invited me had been a little down on it, suggesting that the nibbles were likely to be deep-fried and ghastly. Not so as it turned out! That said, my strict rule at those things, even the fanciest, is that any kind of seafood circulating on a platter in a warm room is utterly verboten for obvious reasons. Indeed, I am thinking that waiting by the door the food leaves on its way to the crowd is probably the way to go, to ensure it's the freshest. Thinking about it, if I was really that hygiene-sensitive, given that I and the waiters were wearing the same kit and nobody else was, I could have just slipped into the kitchen and helped myself.

Only happy when it rains

So it wasn't all lashing rain and thick cloud. On Sunday the clouds parted and we got a blast of sunshine which was all well and good, but by that point, I had begun to relish the idea of the set-in bleakness which had become my friend. On Saturday night I curled up in my top-floor boudoir as buckets of rain pelted the windows and wind whirled around the house, I was utterly thrilled by the noise and tumult. This even led to a rare but thrilling Daphne du Maurier moment with the coastal bleakness of it all. However, I was relieved. The sunshine and consequent slight warmth did not linger. Can you see that thick and peturbing darkness on the horizon of the photograph above? Yes, it came to play. And so as it drew near, I retreated to the comfort and warmth of the house and promptly started baking. Saturday had seen the creation of a Nigella flour-less brownie. Sunday lead to a much-raved-about apple and blackberry crumble. Served with local clotted cream.

Time to hit that treadmill.

Devon knows how they make it so screamy

This morning the cloud is so low-lying that I can scarcely see the headland opposite the bay. Still, the waves are fantastic and the sea is dotted with surfers who have made it into the sea and onto boards, and it's only around eight o'clock in the morning. They can keep their relentless fresh air and I'll keep my pyjamas and cup of tea. Thanks.

Yes, you will have surmised that I am not in London but North Devon where a friend of mine has a family home. A group of gays have descended on Croyde bay to celebrate the birthday of one of our number. But whilst usually my entourage has a mix of ages and demographics, this is (largely) a relentlessly young batch. One of the guys is twenty-two years old which frankly gave me pause last night. Until he took his shirt off to dance to Rihanna around eleven thirty. Given that, and the volume those Summer of '08 dance tracks were being jacked out on a B&O system (that's quite some oomph, trust me) while the storm to end all storms lashed the large screen windows with high winds and thick rain, it's just as well the house is a little way out of the main village. Angered locals would be pumelling the door down if we were any closer to civilisation.

Much earlier, some hours before the dancing began, while the young ones complained bitterly about the whole concept of the thing, I absolutely loved getting onto the beach for a walk amid the swirling drizzle and crashing waves. Yes, I got my feet wet, which is where I usually hit my tipping point into the realm of 'wouldn't it be much better viewing this from a comfortable armchair' but despite my arriving at the pub with hair blown inside out and back to front like a Rita Sullivan shampoo and set, it was worth every second. Those youthful gays I mentioned earlier peeled off for alcohol and warmth fairly quickly, leaving the stalwart over-30s to pick up the slack. One of us even brought down a wetsuit and considered putting it on, but I left him to it. Even for me, that's a bridge too far.

MGMT Kids

Staying mainly in the plane

It has been oh-so gently pointed out to me (thank you, DB) that I did actually promise to post a series of photos from Majorca here. So, I remedy that now. It was actually such a pleasure looking over the wider selection, particularly as the trip was so idyllically work-free, in distinctly sharp contrast to now. Not that I am complaining, rather things are as they should be, which is wonderful. Still, the blue skies and warm oceans feel a world away as brown leaves sweep along the Fulham pavements I inhabit at this moment in time...

So here are a few memories - a blast of Summer on an Autumn day - some are cheeky shots taken of handsome strangers - particularly number three, which I just could not resist - others are just funny moments. The one that is all sparkly and white and pink is of a place where they harvest salt for cookery. In fact it's quite well known and fancy. Sold in Fortnums, dontchaknow.

The penultimate one is actually me, staring out to sea. Feels rather odd looking at that again, clad in knitwear.

Richard Grey Thriller (Pacha Dub Mix)

May fair

That's the door to the bar at the Connaught Hotel in thrillingly expensive Mayfair. I was wandering round that part of town on Saturday morning ogling stilettoes in Louboutin... and doing a bit of weekend work for a client of mine who just opened a store in that neighbourhood (true story!). A domain of the super-rich, it is the land the credit crunch cannot touch - if the fully-booked tables at Scotts were anything to go by.

The weekend work I was doing involved taking photos of the new store and rolling round on the pavement to try and get the perfect angle to flatter the comparatively small space. Given the high polish of the glass and other fittings, obviously the reflection was almost as important as the objects in the window. However, given the buildings and stores on the other side of the street were so totally beautiful, this was more help than hindrance. The best part? I was paid not in dreary money but by picking something from the store - a divine thrill. It did mean I got to wander through the new Dunhill concept with the ultimate accessory - a freshly filled designer shopping bag. Those store bitches treat you a whole different way if they think you're not just a browser.

Proving our love

That Madonna, she'll work hard for you, but she wants a little something in return. It's give and take with her - and the concert she gave at Wembley Stadium last Thursday was true to form. I had seen that Kylie extravaganza at the beginning of last month which was bigger, brassier and bolder than anything the pint-size Aussie had attempted before and wondered - post-Confessions Tour, post-Hard Candy, was Madonna going to match up? Had Kylie's fun factor taken a hop, skip and a jump ahead and stolen a march on the Queen? They would seem to be on a level playing field in many ways since the over-riding theme of Madonna's last two albums has been to go back to the beginning and insist she just wants to have a good time to a disco beat. Would Madonna's ticket prices feel worth the cash?

It's pretty easy to answer: like it or not, Madonna has history on her side both in terms of her own musical back catalogue and age - she gives a performance of substance. There's a seriousness there, both in intent and theme. Would Kylie ever give a rallying environmental, political or religious call to arms as Madonna did? No. Maybe it's a personal preference, but wrapping her songs around this has given her shows a backbone that Miss Minogue probably wisely shies away from. The one thing they do have in common is that their performances are great lumbering roadshows. There exists precious little scope for improvisation with the choreography, vast video extravaganzas, tightly rehearsed band and dancers. Even Madge's 'request' section was a toss-up between a carefully planned Like a virgin and Express yourself. That's not to do either show down, just an observation.

My gays and I were in the Golden Circle at Wembley Stadium. We had come by tickets via a carefully trodden path of preparation and inside knowledge. We knew what tickets we wanted and how to get them. And we were very fortunate. The Golden Circle was a free-wheeling, easy-going, chilled-out front-and centre semi circle of Madge obsession. The people behind the barriers were crushed like battery hens around Gwyneth, Fergie and Kate Hudson. We were not - even when the great diva arrived, forty minutes late, we weren't uncomfortable. Incidentally, yes she was late, no I didn't really notice. Once you've waited for Amy Winehouse, anything else seems like a idle dawdle. But the ramifications of this small delay set in motion events which ended up ultimately spoiling the evening - but more of that in a moment.

What of her performance? The show? Well, it was blistering. I'll say up front I preferred the Confessions Tour, but then that album is much better than 'Hard Candy'. Overall I felt the set list would have done with a light tinker. It would not have hurt to have skipped 'The beat goes on', 'Human nature' and 'Spanish lesson' and dropped in 'Get together' and perhaps a couple of hits like 'Secret' and 'Keep it together' to fit with the R&B theme of the recent record. But oddly enough, even the songs I was not so keen on from the new album came across incredibly well. A combination of bold staging, great choreography (though we felt Madge was keeping her own powder a little drier than in the last couple of outings, she is a venerable age these days, after all) meant they had an oomph and presence lacking on record. And if that could be achieved for the likes of 'She's not me', the welly and wow-factor it gave the better new songs, particularly 'Devil wouldn't recognize you' was startling.

Highlights were 'Devil', a synthy, singalong 'Into the groove', the gritty, guitar-driven 'Borderline', the flame-swirled, remixed 'Like a prayer', a faultless 'Ray of light', the gypsy re-upped 'La Isla Bonita' and the barnstorming finale of 'Give it 2 me'. Wait, that's quite a few highlights. And I've not even mentioned the wonderful stab at 'Miles away', the stunning visuals of intertwining, self-weaving lace behind 'Vogue' and bouncy 'Heartbeat'. Gripes? 'Vogue' did sound a bit like it was being done by numbers - plus, I didn't like the 'tick tock's from '4 minutes' jabbed in there. 'Hung up' with guitar and precious little Abba was ruined and miserable... and though beautifully sung, 'You must love me' stuck out like a sore thumb. But I am grabbing at straws.

She was gone very suddenly. But that's her way these days and she has earned the right to do whatever she pleases. It only remained to head for the tube and home. But! Not so fast! In fact, not at all! Remember that 40-minute delay? It put the kibosh on my trip down the Metropolitan line. Together with another seven thousand (that's an official figure!) people, my coach turned into a pumpkin and the tube was closed at the stroke of midnight leaving me and some Grand Gays stranded in hateful late-night Middlesex. It was vile. Girls in you-regret-those-now stilletoes teetered around in circles. Desperate gays, drowning in the deep end of their comfort zones, looked pale and miserable. Police men on horseback, in a part of London they neither knew of nor cared to, looked on nervously lest a riot erupt. One of our party speed-dialed a car company who, scenting blood on the wind, quoted the first number that came into their heads. Eighty pounds to get to Clapham - that is US$130 or so - but there was no other way out, with bus stops clogged and roads jammed to prevent any kind of route anyway. There may be shivering Madge fans still there as far as I know. But guiding him in using iPhone GPS - every technology at our disposal was ruthlessly deployed - our car turned up, we paid the money and got home - eventually. Somehow we made it through the wilderness, somehow we made it through.

Madonna Devil wouldn't recognize you (live in Cardiff)