The building project which my neighbours embarked on a few months ago is long since complete. As I may have mentioned back, way back, I never really worried about said project because I felt it was a chance to overhaul a corner of my dwelling which I would never have spent a red cent on in any normal turn of events. So a few weeks ago I purchased three Clematis Armandii and some trés elegant zinc pots and let them go crazy. Me, I was thinking it would be 09 before I saw anything major occur here. Gardening takes time, and all that. But how wrong was I? Everyone loves a before and after, don't they...
In the contest of 'fabulous house party' versus big night in a Soho bar, I would always choose the former. In any given context, 'fabulous birthday party held at the new pool bar at the Haymarket Hotel' wins hands down. And that's what I did on Friday night. The party was thrown by HFM, this new super-wealthy friend of mine who threw that fabulous party last Christmas that I sort of crashed. It is maddening when someone incredibly wealthy is not only good looking but charming and unpretentious too. However, this is the reality of the situation and it must be borne. Against all sensible logic, I simply cannot feel ill will towards him.
HFM had assembled quite a cast list. It was like a roll call of not only people I seemed to know somehow, but also people whose reputation preceded them. Almost immediately some super-hot guy was pointed out to me, but he was no stranger. This was the one who, solely because he is genetically blessed and imagines himself on a higher plane, elbowed me out of the way in the Shadow Lounge a couple of weeks ago. He was there with a boyfriend who looked like something out of a Bruce Weber photo shoot, with overlong, impractical curly hair and beesting lips. They stood apart, as if they knew something everyone else did not. Kind words were short in supply for them.
Our host had been sublimely generous. The free cocktail bar ran on till the small hours. Our surroundings at the Haymarket were beautiful. The huge swimming pool, the elegant stone pillars... it was the perfect venue for a party. The only trouble was... the temptation. There is probably some sort of mathematical equation that goes something like this...
... and surely enough, around 1.30, I noticed a friend of mine, somewhat the worse for wear, cross to the other side of the pool and begin removing his clothing. All the people on the other side of the pool were torn. There was the dual emotion: make him stop! he's going to regret this tomorrow! and simultaneously wow! he's got a great body! I wonder if he will go the whole way? Thankfully the latter did not come to pass. But he did end up in the drink. Then, somewhat inevitably, one of the more inebriated exhibitionist gymboys decided there was only one way to take the shame out of the lone swimmer: by joining in.
Alas, the people at the Haymarket were (perhaps understandably) keen that they didn't end up with a bunch of drowned drunken gays and put a stop to things sharpish. It was HFM's party, of course, but I can't help feeling if it had been me with the organisational clipboard I might have lined up a lifeguard and told everyone to bring their speedoes. Or at very least booked a troupe of all-male synchronised swimmers.
Standing on the steps of the Victoria and Albert Museum on Monday night, I was with a friend and a couple of people he knew who were waiting outside, smoking. We had just arrived and were talking about the exhibit that was opening inside - the collection of The Supremes' gowns and other accoutrements of glamour. The guy I didn't know said...
'It's a great exhibit! And Mary Wilson is there. In fact, she's doing a short set of classic Supremes numbers now!'
About eight seconds later, having dumped those morons (why the hell were they outside?), I clapped eyes on Mary Wilson, the original and longest-standing member of The Supremes, performing to a gleeful and enraptured crowd in the same hallway where a little over a year ago, I attended a similar party for a similar occasion - the Kylie dresses exhibit.
But, let's get to all that in a second. First, let's talk about Mary...
Yes, there is someone - a woman, unexpectedly - in a cream straw hat in the front row...
It was over all too soon, of course. I guess the, er... vogue for aging divas doing short sets is catching on like wild fire. Still, watching a legendary and iconic chanteuse for however brief (and unexpected) a moment was a treat beyond compare. She was beyond sassy and knew her moves inside out and back to front. This was a woman who had weathered every storm and practically invented the notion of the 'change the handle, change the brush, but it's still the same broom!' line-up change. She single-handedly turned the main hall of the V&A into a dancefloor as the... er... somewhat senior crowd ecstatically twirled and dipped. And, wait... was that Ronnie Wood gyrating back there?
As I watched her belt out those classics, it occurred to me that this was one more off the list - I have now seen both surviving Supremes perform in person (even more startling considering they weren't in the same room at the same time). A major personal achievement.
This caused me to make a back-of-envelope list: - the two surviving original members of The Supremes - both daughters of Judy Garland - Barbra Streisand - Kylie Minogue - Madonna - Dolly Parton - Dionne Warwick - Annie Lennox ... and Amy Winehouse. Twice.
Only Tina, Cher and Bette elude me now. And they could all be checked off with a single trip to Nevada and California this Autumn. Hmm...
The exhibit itself was really well done. Maybe because it was set in a different, more explosive era than the one Kylie occupied in the nineties, and that a black all-girl group were faced with a far more challenging prospect to achieve success in 1959 when they started out, the whole show packed a far harder punch. It may have been all about the sequins and beading, but those girls had to work hard for their money - even when pregnant (special gowns were cut to allow and conceal). In addition, they made these outfits with far more care and precision back then. Bob Mackie never designed for Kylie, more's the pity. These (surely incredibly heavy) gowns were serious works of art really worth studying. I particularly enjoyed the two sets of three outfits which rotated with mirrorball above.
My only gripe - the mannequins never once held three co-ordinated arms horizontal with palms facing outwards to beseech us to Stop!
At the weekend I was out in the garden - the sun was shining and it was incredibly hot. I needed a working song. As I scrolled through iTunes figuring out what to blast through my speakers, an obvious choice would have been Björk's last album. Loud, stomping, energetic. But (deep sigh) it's such a discordant, perhaps even challenging work. I know it would have been the bolder choice, but sometimes bold choices are not a good fit with sunny days. So of course I didn't bother with the banging and crashing and played the inevitable Pet Shop Boys for some hi-NRG (providing high energy) with the spadework.
As I was digging, I couldn't help but think of another contrast between the two - their shows at the Hammersmith Apollo. The PSB rejoiced in performing their recent songs of course, but struck a careful balance between the fact that they were still producing new music and have a staggering back catalogue. So they gave the people what they wanted - the hits. Björk, (who I saw a couple of weeks ago) most decisively, did not. The (very alt) audience would probably have given her great admiration as a fabulous artist (which she is) and agreed she has every right to create an avant garde, brilliant performance (which she did), but the truth is, they wanted to hear the hits just as much as I did. The reaction when she threw in Hyperballad or Jóga told its own story.
My photos of the show are not noted for their greatness. The reason for this was not lack of proximity or good skillz but because Björk had the camera Nazis at the front. The bulldoggish, ghastly woman standing in front of us barked and shone a torch at anyone using a digital. Lighten up, chick! There were a whole bunch of people with cameras far more effective and highly powered than mine shooting YouTube videos by the dozen... so quite what the point was I have absolutely no idea. It ended up fostering resentment among the people down the front who (presumably) were her biggest fans - not only could they not shoot pictures, the barking woman kept yelling 'no photos!' over the music.
Here are my notes the day after:
- she came on in multi-coloured rabbit-fur pom-pom head dress that covered everything except the front of her face. She was also wearing a metalicised 3-D chiffon extravaganza. Leggings then bare feet. It was superb, but her only outfit - I think I wanted a change of garb. Or two.
- she was accompanied by a 24-piece Icelandic brass section wearing Bjork-ified heavily patterned gospel choir type-gowns
- highlights were Earth intruders, Jóga and Hyperballad. Army of Me also amazing and very heavily vocoder-ised. Crowd went *bonkers* at these three numbers. I loved it when she sang 'car parts, bottles and cuttttttlereeeeeee' and counted 'one! two! three!' on her hands
- was standing right at the front (of course!) next to a speaker. Not my greatest idea. Ears ringing hours later
- very good lasers which bounced off strategically placed mirrors and criss-crossed. Gold stars for that. I oohed and aahed
- voice amazing. A force of nature.
- crowd was arthouse-film-lovers, Guardian readers, people who were students 10 years ago (many are still doing PhDs I am thinking), people who wear 'statement' reading glasses, only have black in their wardrobe, etc etc
One final note: Björk may not realise this but the shiny tickertape (see above) was the same stuff used at the end of the MIKA show I saw in February. Which got me thinking that the two of them should team up - MIKA to add some desperately needed bubblegum to the discordancy and Björk to give MIKA some edge and art cred. Just a thought.
Björk Hyperballad (live at Hammersmith - take that camera Nazis!) Naturally, terrible quality - go to 1.30 to begin
Nigella only lives up the road, but that chick needs to watch her back - I am after her crown.
I let my birthday pass without ceremony (blog-wise, anyway) but the reality round my place was one of my most unexpectedly and yet startlingly brilliant (he says!) inventions yet: the Bloody Mary and cupcake afternoon tea party. Yes: I baked, then fed people lethal cocktails in Waitrose wine glasses. Above you can see my deluxe cupcakes, wrapped in squares of greaseproof paper and decorated with pale, babydoll eat-your-heart-out-Paris Hilton pink icing and finalement crystalised rose petals. Was there anything more camp, I ask you?
On that day, possibly.
A friend had sent me a text asking if he could bring a friend. Of course, I said, by all means. The more the merrier. Anyway, he turned up with the strangest of creatures. An artful gay, of uncertain years. All eyebrows and hand gestures. I worried for my more delicate ornaments. He was one of those people who waited for the pricey good booze to come out and sucked down that stuff like your Auntie Mabel at a wedding party. A little later, once the party had thinned out, I did crack open a couple of bottles of good champagne (and by that I mean ten years old, that people had been good enough to bring) and his eyes popped out on stalks: 'any more champagne?!' the old lush requested seductively and with an unexpected coarse greed.
'that's your lot, Dolly,' I whispered under my breath... 'let's not forget whose birthday this is!'
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