At 17, when I first saw him, I'd seen a bit of stand-up of the Victoria Wood/Jasper Carrott ilk on telly, but my live comedy CV was limted. And I'd certainly never had the experience of laughing so much that it's a little bit frightening.
]]> No show has ever equalled my experience of watching his Definite Article tour in 1996 - I had literally never laughed so much in my life - and the resulting intoxicating high is why my credit card bill lists Ticketmaster as its number one cause of pain.Since then I'd seen Eddie three more times. One was brilliant, one was not very good at all, and the last (Sexie, at the Metro Radio Arena in 2003) was good-not-great. All of which meant that last Friday night I was trying not to build up my hopes too much, but had read several reviews that claimed Eddie had found his old late-nineties form and so was a teeny bit excited.
This, after all, is an icon of stand-up. He was among the first to justify filling stadiums and arenas. He is among the few English stand-ups not just to break but to shatter America. He pioneered doing gigs in second and third languages. And among his devoted followers he has inspired a whole new language.
My university friends and I, once we're two gins into a reunion, begin speaking like Eddie. "It's kind of...diddle iddle eeeep...", accompanied by an elaborate mime, will be adequate to convey the shape, size or general properties enjoyed by virtually any object.
That's before we get started rehashing his routines. My friend Emily and I, every time we cross the Forth Railway Bridge, bellow "Al-ca-traz! AL-CA-TRAZ!" as we pass the little rocky outcrop in the middle of the firth. We think this is very funny. Other passengers not in the Eddie know doubtless don't share our conviction, but what I mean to say is that there are few other stand-ups whose half-misremembered decade-old routines can reduce a group of people familiar with them in a pub to tears of laughter.
I think part of the reason I'm so fond of Eddie is memories of the happy nights we spent in his VHS tape company. I have a vivid recollection of watching Dress to Kill in my university flat, lying on my back on the sofa laughing so much I was nearly sick, while my flatmate crawled around the floor beating her fists on the carpet. Yes, we were young and carefree and probably a bit drunk but my (longwinded) point remains: when he's good, Eddie is the best.
So. Stripped is the name of the new show. Newcastle came about midway through his UK tour, following a sell-out run and a heap of critical acclaim from London. I still think the Arena doesn't work for comedy but for Eddie I was willing to make an exception. And I liked what they'd done with the big screens, which served up a Twitterfall of tweets directed @eddieizzard before the show.
No support act - always a plus when it's someone you've waited six years to see again - and then Eddie bounded on in jeans and a jacket, and sporting a festive beard.
The show takes as its theme everything that has ever happened, spanning the march of civilisation as Eddie starts by pondering how the first Stone Age pioneers got inspired to make weapons and finishes up musing on the space race. Things started slowly - as, to be fair, they often do with him - and ten minutes in I did feel a bit of a pang that I wasn't already helpless.
However, things picked up towards the end of the first half with the introduction of some absurd animal characters that will surely become legends in the Izzard lexicon. A jazz-playing chicken and a rakish velociraptor were among the highlights, but it was the exchange between two panicked giraffes struggling to communicate the presence of a predator through a combination of coughs and charades that finally got through my defences and made me roar.
He knew it was a strong set-piece as he ended the half on it, and though I went into the interval with the sense of having giggled rather than laughed a lot, I had high hopes for the second half, when past experience dictates he is often strongest.
I was right. There was a wonderfully funny piece on why the development of language was necessary to communicate the Ten Commandments. This segued into the best it-hurts moment of the show, in which the shortcomings of schoolboy Latin were exposed. Still bearing scars from an A Level in the subject, this reduced me to tears.
Another highlight was the mime of a Spartan soldier impaling himself on a Grecian spear, which reminded me of classic Izzard routines such as Achilles and the Trojan Horse for its ability to induce rising hysteria over the space of about ten minutes.
All in all, it wasn't the absolute best two hours I've spent in Eddie's company, but then a decade and a half of comedy-going hasn't seen Definite Article meet its match. So I'd heartily second those critics who've said he's regained his stride. Don't leave it so long next time, Eddie.
]]>A lot of the Northern Irish singer's versions of traditional songs describe what she called 'a pretty desperate state of affairs', which though silencingly beautiful, seemed to initially create quite a sombre silence in the Victorian concert hall. However, happily there were also enough lighter and brighter moments for the audience to latch onto later on.
]]> She opened the evening with her stunning version of the folk song 'False, False'. The sound is pretty typical of the music from her new album 'Hill of Thieves', showcasing her 'clear crystal fountain' of a voice within beautifully textured arrangement from her band, which was led by Sam Lakeman playing piano or guitar.After a few more along a similar line, she invited the audience to join in the chorus of an absolutely tragic song about the murder of two friends (one a Catholic, the other a protestant) in 1970s Northern Ireland, and I was by then ready for something more upbeat.
This came through a medley of tunes by flute and whistle player Brian Finnegan (of the instrumental folk band Flook), whose contributions were among the highlights. Relentlessly fast flowing and as expressive as Cara's singing voice, his playing drew a big cheer.
It perhaps took this to warm up the audience- I suppose that is one benefit of having a support act- and Cara Dillon seemed to respond when she followed with her own song 'I Wish You Well' and the classic 'Spencer the Rover'.
I then sat during a boringly long interval wondering who around me had eaten garlic for their tea and not had a mint.
Cara enjoyed some relaxed banter onstage and her impromptu invitations for Sam Lakeman to come to the microphone and present facts drew some laughs. I learnt from his reluctant presentation that the reflectivity of moondust is approximately the same as for human skin.
She took up a slightly different style towards the end with a cover of Van Morrison's Crazy Love, accompanied by Ed Boyd on guitar.
Although she adds something of her own to the famous songs she performs, such as 'Black is the Colour' and 'She Moved Through the Fair', I possibly enjoyed her original songs more, especially the 'Hill of Thieves'' title track about the hills around her hometown in County Derry. On this song and the final one 'P is for Paddy' the guitar rhythms and flute and whistle playing of Cara and Brian Finnegan built up to a climactic effect.
It was all over fairly soon and she and Sam Lakeman returned for a hushed encore with 'The Parting Glass', and its apt chorus 'Good night and joy be with you all'.
]]>However, on Friday night I was getting pretty enthused about Stornoway, who were playing at Westgarth Social Club in Middlesbrough on the first night of their first ever tour, having won themselves some admirers the last time they were in town.
]]> The five-piece from Oxford played a wonderful set at Middlesbrough Music Live in June (having admitted they agreed to come without knowing Middlesbrough was so far away) and returned for this gig, organised by promoters Cosmos and The Kids are Solid Gold.In the meantime they've headlined the BBC Introducing Stage at Radio One's Big Weekend, released two singles and won themselves quite a lot of praise in the press.
I was confident enough about them being good to invite my mum to come with her friend. They're definitely a mum-friendly kind of band.
I'd not been to Westgarth Social Club before and it is a welcome addition to the venues for gigs in town- an ideal size for small to medium sized affairs. They seem to have a lot of good stuff on there.
The support came from two local acts. Andy Parmley from indie-pop band Young Rebel Set sung a mix of covers and originals, and My Pretend Orchestra breezed their way through some synth-soaked sing-alongs with plenty of commitment.
Stornoway's lilting folk-pop songs are marked by an array of instruments, woozy harmonies and soaring choruses. Their sound doesn't seem to come out of 2009, as if they learnt to sing in a choir forty years ago, and there's something both unflinchingly sincere and quite silly about them.
With the addition of a drummer this time round they also packed more of a punch, especially on the stunning Cold Harbour Road, which burst into life after an ethereal start, and latest single Unfaithful, where they've opted for an edgier sound with distorted guitar work countering a hummable tune.
Their catchiest number is brilliant first single 'Zorbing', which combines a sense of nostalgia with a picture of rolling around the streets in a bubble, as in the extreme sport made popular in New Zealand.
The lead singer started a few laughs with his awkward and serious stage manner, telling the crowd that if we wanted to dance they wouldn't watch, and rambling about how it's beneficial for humans to act like their evolutionary ancestors from time to time before playing 'We are the Battery Human'.
They did a brave thing and played this one unplugged, relying on the people watching to be quiet. People cheered for another acoustic one so they ended with gentle final song 'End of the Movie', which featured beautiful cello and violin parts, before coming on for a more upbeat encore.
They were top quality and might not be playing in little rooms for that much longer, so why not take your mum along to see them?
]]>The shows cost about a tenner and for that you get a polished MC introducing three acts of a standard high enough to be signed with the infamous Comedy Store - in short, great value for your comedy pound.
]]> Last night I was particularly excited to see Canadian headliner Tom Stade, who I'd missed at the Grinning Idiot comedy club in the summer when he pulled out late after a silly-money alternative offer came in on the strength of accolades won following his storming set on Michael McIntyre's Comedy Roadshow.The show was kicked off by a compere whose name I have shamefully forgotten, and which isn't given on the theatre's website, but who kept an easy control over proceedings with a likeable personality and some good material.
The first act was Carey Marx. I'd not heard of him before, but he was excellent. He came onstage accompanied by a very cute teddy bear, which he introduced as Parsnip but said no more about until just after a particularly filthy piece which probably tested some audience members' line in the sand (though not mine - it made me roar). He then explained that Parsnip was there to help him deliver near-the-knuckle material without seeming too offensive - the theory being, how can you deplore a man cuddling a bear?
It was a clever prop and one he used to good effect as his material got darker towards the end of his set. A set which I thoroughly enjoyed - it was a slightly odd combination of gagsmith-esque one-liners and more scripted material, but it worked and there were some killer lines. Not for the fainthearted, mind you.
A shorter set from Bolton stand-up Mike Wilkinson followed. I enjoyed this too, though it was gentler than Marx's so should perhaps have come first. His style is very much borrowed from Peter Kay and Paddy McGuinness, an issue which is cemented by the accent, but although he got long-winded and repetitive in places, telling us no fewer than three times that he used to be a primary school teacher, it was generally solid stuff.
Tom Stade's headline set followed an interval, and it was worth the long wait since July. I had a feeling he'd be good because the ten minutes he did on Michael McIntyre's programme left me gasping, and this was more of the same. Pleasingly he didn't repeat the TV material, and while again the show was not for the easily offended, the crowd seemed to love him.
I adored his gruff delivery and the bizarrely wide range of topics he covered, from obesity in America to the wedding at Cana. The latter was easily his best routine, with an unrepeatable-in-polite-company line which raised the roof.
There was great variety between slamming one-liners and slightly twisted and obscure observations. Some of these were brilliantly dark, and while it wasn't consistently hilarious in the way that Rhod Gilbert recently was, several of his more ramblingly surreal moments made me giggle helplessly.
An added treat was Stade's presence in the foyer to sign CDs after the show. His rather fetching appearance meant there was a distinctly female bias to the amassed crowd and the man certainly knows how to flirt - he wrote something on my CD jacket which nearly caused an argument with my husband en route home, but it was worth it!
This certainly won't be my last trip to the Gala's Comedy Store showcase, and I'd recommend them as a very enjoyable way to spend a chilly autumnal Sunday.
]]>
I am of course refering to St Therese of Lisieux, affectionately known as 'the little flower', whose casket of relics arrives in the North East on Wednesday afternoon. She's one of the world's most popular saints - Edith Piaf was known to have a strong devotion to St Terese, and so earns a well-deserved place on today's music monday list.
I've very bravely resisted the temptation to go for Saint Etienne, Orbital's 'The Saint' theme tune, blah blah blah, although All Saints have managed to sneak in towards the end (pushing out Depeche Mode's Blasphemous Rumours). This is the Saints & Sinners playlist:
Joan Osborne/ Saint Teresa
Aretha Franklin/ I Say A Little Prayer
Franz Ferdinand/ The Fallen
Johnny Cash/ God's Gonna Cut You Down
The Killers/ When You Were Young
All Saints/ Saints & Sinners
Edith Piaf/ Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Add to that a Shahid Kapoor in top form and a bright and bubbly Rani Mukherjee and you have Bollywood's new offering, Dil Bole Hadippa.
The match in question is an annual friendly fixture played between Lahore, in Pakistan, and Amritsar, in India, to celebrate the independence of both countries.
So she pretends to be a man and gets selected in the squad. She walks in with a beard, moustache and turban, and fools everyone including Rohan (Shahid Kapoor), a county cricket player from England brought in to coach the Amritsar players and reverse their nine-year losing streak.
The graceful and pint-sized Rani looks nothing like a man of course and at first you might feel she was the wrong person to pick for this part.
But as the tale unfolds, you forgive the flaw, thanks largely to her acting prowess which overshadows her short stature.
Rani becomes the life and soul of the film, and knocks you for six.
Shahid is equally good, although his role isn't as pivotal as Rani's.
The movie itself is largely predictable and cliched. We get an unimaginative love story when Rohan falls in love with Veera, and you pretty much know what will happen in the end.
The comedy scenes are below average and the dialogues lack spark.
The main point of interest is the cricket match and, even though you know the outcome, you want to watch how it happens.
It might not be the cleverest film in the world, but it's good clean family entertainment with top performances from the main stars and foot-tapping music with songs like Dil Bole Hadippa and Disco Waale Khisko.
In short, it won't bowl you over but will keep you hooked till the end.
]]>But this year's Edinburgh offering got the kind of rave reviews that make a hardened comedy connoisseur like me take a slightly combative stance. Talk of audiences being rendered "almost silent" by any comic's material tend to make me fold my arms and think, "OK. Go on, then. Make me laugh like that."
Oh, did he. He hadn't been on twenty minutes when it started to hurt. Not all of Rhod's recent reviews have been glowing - several snivelling critics have panned his material for being focused around inconsequential and trivial matters. I say to them: who hasn't been incensed by a washing machine?
]]> Maybe I like Rhod's rants so much because I am a deeply angry and unreasonable person myself.But the sight of a man acting out the same raging insanity I too have experienced when my washer door won't open to release my clothes, despite having audibly clicked minutes earlier, struck enough of a chord to leave me (and much of tonight's Tyne Theatre crowd) aching with laughter.
This was a wonderful two-hour masterclass in the art of the rant. He knows the show is angry - it takes as its theme a rubbish year in Rhod's life, in which his uncontrollable fury at things like washing machines, vacuum cleaners and smoothies result in him being referred for anger management therapy.
The washer routine was a first-half highlight. I haven't laughed so hard since Jason Byrne. You get a brilliant cumulative effect with Rhod's rants; he gets angrier and angrier and the routine gathers pace, starting slow with minor irritations but building cleverly and quickly around variations on the theme until he's bellowing and you're howling.
The washing machine set piece started with mild vexation at confusion over washing powder varieties, then moved through the idiocy of random settings such as pre-wash and rinse-hold until it reached the crest of the door not opening, by which point I - and this so rarely happens - was thinking, "Please, stop for a second, while I ingest some air, and relocate my jaw". A woman behind me was actually squealing. It's everyday stuff, sure, but it's done with skill and relentless momentum.
At the interval I didn't think he'd top the washer bit. I was wrong. His encounter with a well-known brand of fruit smoothies left the place in disarray, and spoiled my make-up. What I also liked about the second half was the brilliant call-back to earlier ravings with which he closed the show.
After a ninety-minute set I didn't expect Rhod to reappear following a piece of footage he showed as a nicely conclusive ending. However, he did bound back onto the stage and then stayed for an impressive half-hour, and it's the best comedy encore I've seen.
Most comics save a piece of polished material for their final minutes, and leave you with the sense that they specifically saved this for the encore. Rhod openly admitted he was back just to see what happened, and clearly had nothing planned.
An open and talkative audience - populated with an unexpectedly high concentration of Welsh ex-pats - plus his skill in dealing with hecklers meant this resulted in an unusually good final segment with plenty of huge laughs. The bit on Phineas Gage (Wikipedia him) surely wasn't planned, but it joined the washer and smoothie routines by making me cry.
I read recently that Rhod's next tour, thanks to the popularity he's gained through appearances on TV panel shows and stand-up showcases, will likely be in arenas.
I sort of hope it isn't. I think it'd be a shame for him to go down the Michael McIntyre route of radio mics in huge aircraft hangar venues, and lose the potential for intimate banter he seemed to enjoy as much as we did tonight. But if anyone deserves stratospheric success it's this guy. Loved it. The world's a better place now.
]]>The occasion for this scenario was the visit of Quantic and his Combo Bárbaro to the North East.
DJ, producer and multi-instrumentalist Quantic, otherwise known as Will Holland, has spent the last two years based in Cali, Columbia, recording with local musicians and searching out hidden musical gems.
]]> The Combo Bárbaro is the result, a troupe of Columbian, Panamanian, Cuban, Peruvian and British collaborators, touring on the back of recent album Traditions in Transition. The title suggests what the music is like, with funk and soul elements seamlessly blending into and bolstering traditional Latin American styles to make what Radio 1 DJ Gilles Peterson has said is "at the forefront of a new global sound".Being a Sunday night, the room wasn't full, and the atmosphere was appreciative but slightly tepid to start with. However before long it had been brought to boiling point by the jubilant playing of the ten people on stage.
The fun really began in the third song when singer Kabir Malik from Panama was introduced. With long dreadlocked hair and what looked like a set of regal satin pyjamas, he had a wonderful soulful voice and engaged well with the crowd, also pulling off us some nice struts on stage as he got into the other musicians' solos.
The second singer, Nidia Gongora, was just as good despite the language barrier between her and the audience, captivating the band and the audience as she waved around the folds of her big traditional dress in Latin American style.
Kabir Malik singing Ray Charles' Hit the Road Jack was one of my highlights, if only because of familiarity.
There was plenty of chances for us to join in through the band directing the crowd in chanting, clapping, waving and whistling along, although we said afterwards that with no Spanish the call and response is difficult and you end up singing back garbled phrases like "ffwawa mntanga!".
The conga was started by the conga man, who came forward for a solo to release some of his plentiful store of energy onto the drum, then jumped down from the stage to start the chain.
Quantic led the bouncing and swaying members of rhythm section on guitar, there was a vibrant horn section of a saxophone and trumpet, and Peruvian pianist Alfredo Linares added some extra shards of rhythm and melody with his virtuoso solos that sometimes seemed to cut across the rest of the music.
It was a performance to make you smile as well as dance, but it was a good job that they had taken the chairs away in Hall Two, because the way they played their irresistible South American grooves it would have been hard not to move.
I was appreciative that Will Holland is introducing us to these musicians and their amazing music, and was glad that I'd been invited along by my friends as it wasn't something I would have thought of going to otherwise.
Tradition in Transition is out now on the Tru Throughts record label.
There's more about Quantic's various musical projects at www.quantic.org
My 30th was in February and since then I've ticked a few lifelong goals off the list, including watching England play at Wembley and visiting Paris. Another list item was to go to a music festival.
We just had Sunday tickets, partly for financial reasons and partly because I doubted the ability of my 30-year-old self to cope with camping amid a crowd of stoned students. The line-up on Sunday was also very appealing: Kaiser Chiefs, then a headline set from Kings of Leon, who I'd missed at the Arena last winter.
We arrived on Sunday morning to fairly baking - for Yorkshire - August sunshine, and as we strolled towards the park through the campsite and saw all the happy, if dazed, people breakfasting in the sun amid the smell of bacon and sausage sizzling on disposable barbecues, it occurred to me that we'd missed a trick by not participating in the full weekend experience.
But it was still pleasant to wander around Bramham Park soaking up the festive atmosphere. It was great fun to sit at a picnic table with cans of lager before noon perusing the programme and planning our day.
There's music everywhere, all the time, plus a general dedication to merrymaking wherever you turn. We were in full holiday mode by early afternoon, browsing stalls with hilariously rude T-shirts, munching on fresh-fried, still-warm sugary doughnuts, or simply kicking back on the grass listening to bands on the main stage.
The weather turned chilly at about 3pm so we headed for the comedy tent, as I wanted to catch US stand-up Doug Stanhope at 4.15. The ubiquitous Sarah Millican was doing her thing when we arrived and getting a warm reception, and the tent was busy enough to mean we struggled to find spots on the grassy floor.
After Sarah's set the capable and likeable compere - Sunderland's own Matt Reed - introduced Neil Delamere, an Irish comic with an observational style who immediately won the crowd over. I recognised significant chunks of his material from a recent performance on Michael McIntyre's Comedy Roadshow, but it was still enjoyable.
After Neil we had Gary Delaney, a gagsmith similar to Jimmy Carr but perhaps even filthier, if that's possible. It seemed odd to be watching such post-watershed material in the middle of the afternoon, but the crowd lapped it up. It wasn't really my bag - as with Jimmy, I'm rarely won over by the stilted effect you get from continual one-liners - but he got a decent response and seemed to have the majority of the crowd on-side.
Which was an achievement in itself, based on what happened next. Matt Reed introduced Doug Stanhope with more than a little excitement, and I felt my own thrill of anticipation given the great things I've heard about his Edinburgh work, not least a comparison with my hero Bill Hicks.
But it was terrible. Stanhope seemed rattled by what he described as a poor performance at Reading the day before, and launched into a lengthy and not amusing explanation of why he'd been off form due to a long flight from Tucson. It was a bad start but I didn't really mind, confident he'd get into his swing after a few minutes.
However, he wasn't given the chance. The crowd turned on him less than ten minutes in, and turned in as nasty a way as I've seen. Stanhope is renowned for his crowd-baiting, difficult-to-watch material anyway, and the stand-off between him and the audience here was not just uncomfortable, it was unpleasant.
Crucially, too, he didn't get laughs. I wanted to like him - I was sure I would - but he never really got into any solid material because he spent all his time fending off boos, and later missiles, from an increasingly angry mob. I remember the awful moment I glanced at my fellow stand-up aficionado friend and shared the mutual thought: "Argh. He's actually dying."
To his credit, Stanhope persisted with the set where lesser comics would have fled. He was determined, as he put it, to fulfil his "contractual obligation", and wasn't going to let drunk teenagers bellowing "Get off" stop him. Towards the end he did start to find a bit of a stride, but it was uncertain and he'd already lost a lot of people to walking out or, awfully, turning to face the other way by that point.
I kept glancing at Matt Reed and a few other acts who were watching in astonishment from the sidelines. After Doug left the stage, Matt retook the mic, giggled nervously, and announced a ten-minute break for the crowd to "think about what you've done". All in all, one of the oddest live comedy experiences I've had.
We felt like some music after that, so made our way back to the main stage to find a prime spot from which to take in the evening's entertainment. But first we had to visit the toilets, having delayed this part of the festival experience for as long as humanly possible.
All I can say is I no longer fear hell. It was like a horrible gameshow, cruising the rows of little cabins and investigating their viability. What's behind door number two? Oh, good: spattered vomit and unflushed excrement.
I had stupidly forgotten to bring toilet roll (my shopping list for my next festival includes that, wet wipes, warmer attire, a cagool and a torch - about which more later). Obviously none of the toilet cubicles had any paper left: this was Sunday and the festival began on Thursday evening. I shan't go into more detail than that, but it wasn't nice.
Shuddering with self-loathing and crawling with disease, my friends and I attempted to block out the memories as we shuffled into the growing crowd before the main stage. We didn't make a beeline for the front pit, as we had at Oasis, as we feared for our lives having watched the spectacle of a "circle run" earlier in the day. Basically this involves most of the crowd at the immediate front forming a ring and running round and round at high speed, in the manner of a dog chasing its tail. Unusual behaviour, I'm sure you'll agree.
We found a spot just behind the barrier that segregated the lunatic front pit from everyone else, right in the centre of the stage, and settled in. Inevitably, it started to rain. But we had come prepared for this eventuality: we had hoods. After a storming set from Fall Out Boy, the crowd shifted and we were able to install ourselves right up against the barrier - useful for leaning weary limbs on later in the evening.
Generally the atmosphere in our part of the crowd was great, although I did, as I tend to do at gigs, have two incidents. The first was with a man standing next to me, who borrowed my lighter a couple of times and then proceeded to have a pee right there on the ground where we were standing. He executed the manoeuvre in a surreptitious fashion - presumably so as not to be thrown out - but it didn't escape my notice. (It did escape the notice of the gentleman in front of him whose trouser legs received a significant proportion of the splashback, mind you.) You can imagine my response when he asked to borrow my lighter again.
Placebo followed Fall Out Boy and it was during their set that the second incident occurred. It had started to pour with rain and we were feeling a bit glum knowing there were still hours to go before the Kings of Leon made an appearance. There were several stewards positioned in front of us to watch for trouble in the front pit, and they opened a cardboard box and began to don plastic rain ponchos.
I smiled beguilingly yet woefully at the friendliest-looking steward and was told I couldn't have one because everyone would then demand one and there'd be a ruckus. But my friends and I persisted with pitiful looks cast in his direction and eventually, as we'd known he would, he caved.
He'd been dead right though, and once the girl behind me spotted our bounty there began a five-minute interlude in which the word "poncho" was bellowed directly into my ear canal with more frequency and vitriol than I'd imagined possible. "Why have you got a poncho?", "Excuse me, give me a poncho" and "It's so unfair that these girls have ponchos and I haven't got a poncho" were three of the more publishable refrains.
However, there were no more ponchos to give, the small supply having been exhausted among the stewards, me and my friends, and a couple of other lucky front rowers. The steward shrugged empty hands and in doing so inflamed the girl's yearning for a poncho beyond control. At one point she jabbed me in the lower back and demanded "Give me your poncho, you get the next one" - as if more would be along presently, like buses.
Responding to this with "Sorry, you snooze, you lose" was probably ill-advised but I was annoyed - it's hard to put on a plastic poncho in monsoon conditions with an angry teenager yapping around your heels like a terrier. In any event she slinked off to the front pit shortly afterwards, saying "Maybe I'll get a poncho there without having to grapple with this *****", which I felt was harsh.
Our ponchos, once in place, created a pleasing greenhouse/wetsuit effect that meant we were soon damp but warm - and vitally, not getting wetter. Thus it was we readied ourselves for the Kaiser Chiefs.
I've reviewed this band with gusto before so I won't repeat myself, except to say that Ricky Wilson is an outstanding frontman and clearly had a ball in front of his home crowd. I Predict a Riot was as riotous as it should be, and we genuinely did feel like part of an angry mob.
Then ancipation built to fever pitch as the crowd awaited the Kings of Leon. I always think it's a thrill seeing big American bands perform in the UK - though to be fair, it was here this particular outfit made their name, as frontman Caleb Followhill was keen to point out while praising the band's fanbase. You only have to listen to the lyrics of their big hit Fans to see how much they value their British following:
"All of London sing, 'cause England swings and they sure love the tales I bring/Those rainy days they ain't so bad when you're the King, the King they wanna see"
They entered to Mozart's Lacrimosa and I knew it was going to be memorable. Launching straight into the spooky but sexy intro to Closer - a bassline which brings to mind sirens dashing through US cities - they had me spellbound from the start. It was clear this performance would have none of the frustration the band - Caleb in particular - had expressed with the rather more sedate crowd at Reading on Friday night.
Instead, a jumping throng lapped up every song on a varied setlist that took in the majority of their most recent smash hit album Only By The Night, along with the best of previous offering Because Of The Times.
Although Caleb voiced his gratitude that the crowd hadn't "just turned up for two songs" - the implication being that those at Reading had - it would be a lie to say the highlights didn't include the brilliant Fans as well as their best-known hit Sex On Fire, a song whose opening bars elicit the screaming recognition of a true festival anthem.
What else rocked? I enjoyed the whole set, but let me try: Use Somebody - which I like for the same reason I like Killers songs, for its soaring guitars and Springsteen-esque American Dream melodies. On Call, with its wonderfully rocky bass and a guitar solo that would drive even the staid music lover to air action. And the restless, sad and lovely Cold Desert.
In short, they ruled. They left me feeling I'd experienced a real treat. And then it was time to go home.
Exiting the stage area was less of a headache than I'd imagined. We three held hands, partly to avoid getting separated by the madding crowd and partly to minimise the risk of slipping on what had been grass but was now a mudslide - or at the very least to ensure that if one of us went down, the others would surely follow.
We headed campsite-wards along with tens of thousands of happy people, and it was all fine until we got away from the stage lights and realised that in the country, it gets pretty dark. And like city slicker imbeciles, we hadn't brought a torch.
Well, we went the wrong way, didn't we? I knew something wasn't right when we began picking our way through actual tents, when I was sure we'd been on a track en route in. Fair enough the track had been replaced by acres of mud, but I knew we hadn't stepped among mooring lines and campfire wreckage. The best bit was literally sliding down a hill - I have never been so grateful to possess a pair of wellies.
Inevitably we emerged at the wrong end of the park and had to hike back around its perimeter to get to the sensibly named brown car park - brown for no other reason, as there was no colour-coordinated signage like you get in the MetroCentre, than because it was muddy.
The landscape of the field in which we'd parked had changed somewhat since 11am. For one thing, there were roughly 50,000 more cars than there'd been at that time. The thick, almost tangible darkness complicated matters further, as did our woeful sense of direction. All I remembered was we'd parked on the end of a row, sort of near a fence. There were no rows. There were a lot of fences.
It was one of those situations that's almost funny, but not quite, and almost upsetting. I did wonder briefly if we'd be forced to wander the field like lost sprites till dawn broke. (That's an in-joke, as the friend I was with is named Dawn.) We were ultimately reduced to prowling the length of every fence, peering at the licence plates of cars that were vaguely the right shape.
We found it eventually and then the real fun began. I am not so naive as to have imagined the process of evacuating thousands of cars from a field would be painless. In my head, I had envisaged about an hour's wait. I had based this on my experiences of leaving Times Square and Dean Street car parks in Newcastle following gigs at the Arena and Academy respectively. With hindsight, this was optimistic.
For the first 90 minutes we didn't actually move. Again I wondered if dawn would break - in both senses - before we made our escape. We switched off the engine. We joked around and reminisced about the gig until exhaustion crept in, the dampness of our clothes began to rankle and we fell silent.
We could see similarly stationary vehicles in an adjacent field, and could hear horns starting to blare as frustration mounted. I remembered the lackadaisical students who'd been sunbathing and gesturing vaguely in the direction of the parking fields when we arrived, and realised with dismay that these same people were now in charge of getting us out again.
A slow crawl towards the field gate began some two hours after we got in the car. It took nearly another hour to reach the A1, a short few hundred yards away. The end result was that we didn't crawl gratefully into our beds until the clock had long struck four.
The point at which my head hit soft, clean, dry pillow was the moment when I realised I was glad I hadn't camped. There's nothing like a rock concert. But I'm 30 now, and there's also no place like home.
]]>Indian film Apni Boli Apna Des, which means Our Language Our Country, has hit the big screen.
It stars veteran actor Raj Babbar, actress Shweta Tiwari and singer Sarabjit Cheema.
It was shot in our region last summer, featuring various landmarks like Tynemouth's Priory Castle, Alnwick Garden, Leazes Park in Newcastle, and Lemington Hall in Northumberland.
Among them was my dad, Prabhu Dyal Sharma, who ended up on the sets in Lemington Hall.
In the trailers being shown on Asian TV channels, he can be seen celebrating an election victory alongside Raj Babbar while Sarabjit Cheema sings a lively foot-tapping song.
Sharma senior is only there for a few seconds but he spends hours telling everyone about it.
I must say it is exciting to see him in the film, and we've watched the adverts over and over again.
I want to watch the film just to see if he's got a longer role. And ofcourse to admire the North East landscape.
Alas, no cinema in the region is showing the movie as yet. But there are talks to have it screened here in the future.
Watch this space.
]]>It compares how different generations deal with love and relationships. The story jumps between modern-day couple Jai and Meera, and yesteryear pair Veer and Harleen.
Despite being incredibly fond of each other, Jai (Saif Ali Khan) and Meera (Deepika Padukone) are breaking up.
Their jobs take them to opposite ends of the globe and they don't think a long-distance relationship will work.
The film goes in flashback, with Saif playing Veer's younger self, complete with turban and Punjabi accent.
We see a stark contrast between the seemingly emotionless and practical modern relationship and the pure but restrained romance of the olden days.
Saif is fantastic to watch. He pulls off the confused commitment-fearing cool urban guy as well as the lovelorn youth of the 60s very well.
Deepika is confident and matches Saif in every sequence.
The story is snappy and runs smoothly. It does not jar when it leaps between past and present. There is no time-wasting, it gets to the point straight away.
The film works because the characters are ordinary people and the situations real.
Our parents probably knew a Veer or Harleen. And there are plenty of Jais and Meeras around now.
On top of that, the music is catchy and memorable, Twist, Chor Bazaari and Aahun Aahun being my favourites.
It's been a long time since I've enjoyed a new film so much. I recommend it to all. It's everyone's cup of tea.
]]>Sylvester Stallone, Denise Richards and Brandon Routh make cameo appearances alongside Akshay Kumar and Kareena Kapoor.
In this so-called comedy, Kumar plays a stuntman in Hollywood. His character, Viraj, is a playboy who does not believe in love or marriage.
Kareena is a model-cum-doctor who thinks men are good for nothing. And so begins a battle of the sexes.
]]> While the premise is interesting, the film is so badly made you feel confused and cheated by the end, and after two-and-a-half hours, I'm still not sure what the film is about.The sad part is Stallone is the best part of the movie and he's only in it for two minutes.
Oh, and the title song, we've been watching on Asian music channels for weeks, is also excellent. The beat is catchy and the choreography top notch.
I daresay audiences were packing the cinemas just for these, but a Hollywood star and one great song do not make a good film.
What I don't understand is how filmmakers manage to spend so much on publicity and making sure the actors and sets look stylish, yet fail to create a decent storyline and script.
All the efforts seem to have gone into telling us they've got Rocky and Superman. We kept seeing them in adverts and were deluded into believing it must be a marvellous film.
Hence, viewers feel cheated when they realise nothing actually happens in the movie. As a fan I was embarrassed to see that both Akshay and Kareena over-acted. The comedy wasn't funny enough and parts were quite vulgar.
Kambakkht Ishq was a bad experience. I hope Sly and his pals are not put off Bollywood because of it.
]]>Starring John Abraham, Neil Nitin Mukesh, Katrina Kaif and Irrfan Khan, it is a gripping thriller that keeps you captivated right to the end.
It starts by showing how the three main characters, Omar (Neil), Sam (John) and Maya (Katrina), become friends at New York State University.
The end of their studies coincides with the September 11 strikes. After this, their lives are turned upside down.
]]> Seven years on, FBI agent Roshan (Irrfan) picks up Omar and blackmails him into working as an undercover agent to help expose Sam as a terrorist.By this time Sam and Maya are married and have a son, and Omar sets out to prove the FBI wrong.
He finds out Sam has been through a harrowing ordeal. After 9/11 he was arrested as a terror suspect, detained without access to a lawyer and tortured for months.
The film leads to a powerful climax, leaving viewers disturbed by events. It shows innocent civilians being locked up in detention centres and suffering abuse.
The most appalling abuses, however, are not graphically depicted but recounted verbally and they still manage to send a shiver down your spine. The expressions and emotions of the characters are enough to move viewers.
John's performance is one of his best to date. We see just how much he has grown as an actor.
And Neil is remarkable. He makes a big impact in the first half and continues to shine in the second part, despite John's strong presence.
For once, I even liked Katrina. I've never been a huge fan of her and have always felt she falls short of what is required. But in this case, she delivers the goods.
The film is not without flaws. Parts of it are predictable and the end was somewhat hasty, but it is well written and expertly directed by Kabir Khan.
Without a doubt, New York has raised the bar for filmmakers in Bollywood.
]]>I watch a lot of live stand-up. Looking back over the past few years, I probably average a show a month. And while there are performers I return to again and again - Jason being one of them, along with Ross Noble, Daniel Kitson, Dylan Moran - confident I'll enjoy the show, I'm a fairly tough crowd.
It is rare indeed for me to be completely helpless with laughter, even rarer for this to happen several times in an hour. However, nobody, but nobody, makes me laugh like Jason Byrne.
]]> Joyous is right. This is a man who was put on the earth to do stand-up comedy. He's capable of making audiences hysterical to an extent I've seen few comics achieve. He makes me laugh like a kid - un-self-consciously, hugely and often painfully. To reiterate: not many people can do that.This was my fourth consecutive year watching Jason in Edinburgh - I fervently wish he'd tour elsewhere in the UK - and his 13th of performing at the Fringe. It may be a cliche to say it, but it's no less true for that: he gets better every time.
This year's show has a lot more of him in it, and it's the better for it. That's not to say he doesn't still excel at madcap audience banter - I've wept before at his totally random exchanges with people who wander in late. But his stand-up material is getting stronger every year, and he knows it.
This year's show features interludes from his childhood for the first time - previously his material has centred around his marriage and own kids - coupled with cripplingly funny descriptions of two incidents from the past year. One involved his knee and the other his shoulder, which explained the presence of X-ray photographs hanging on either side of the stage.
The show ends with what Jason's loyal followers have come to expect - a set piece involving a hapless bloke from the front row and a magic trick that goes horribly wrong. It's all extremely silly but funny enough that it still - on Monday evening, after a Saturday night show - hurts a bit.
So if you haven't heard of Jason (which you might not have, given he's rarely on British TV and doesn't tour outside the bigger comedy festivals), do anything to see him. Go to Edinburgh, go to Dublin (where he's a regular at Vicar Street), buy his DVDs, wear loose-fitting clothing and waterproof mascara, and thank me later.
]]>There are some great space-age inspired songs, and some not-so-great. Here is my lunar list, but one song I really wanted to include, Field Music's 'If Only The Moon Were Up', isn't on WE7 yet. Do look it up.