Marcus Brigstocke at Soho Theatre. From my review [£] in today’s Times:
It isn’t easy to warm to Marcus Brigstocke. There’s the problem, first of all, that he’s one of those overexposed comics who are the first call for TV and radio producers desperate to fill a gap in the airwaves. Call it Sue Perkins Syndrome, if you like. Then, like Ben Elton — another posh boy with a geezerish accent — he has a habit of displaying his political opinions like Scout badges. If I were a woman, I would want to slap any self-flagellating white male who flourished the word “patriarchy” quite so smugly… One moment he is clutching us close for emotional support, the next he is keeping his distance, taking cover behind the sardonic exterior. It’s a sign of the financial times, incidentally, that a stand-up can be cheerfully booed for announcing that the true mark of his status in life is that he owns a house in London. A new front has opened up in the class war.
An entertaining, mischief-making list in the Guardian. I particularly liked Number 24, “Error 53”:
How many corporations possess and wield the power to criminally damage their products – your products – after they’ve sold them to you? Apple’s notorious “Error 53”punished users for the offence of going to “unauthorised” repairers by effectively shutting down their iPhone 6 handsets – a practice known as “bricking”. When a class-action lawsuit threatened, Apple got scared and backed down – a practice known as “bricking it”.
“This is why chin-stroking critics worshipped him…” James Delingpole begs to differ, as usual.
Stanley Spencer’s gravestone, Cookham.
My review [£] of the folkies’ final London concert:
Some purists may have their misgivings, but there’s no question that in their dozen years together, the quirky, irreverent supergroup have brought traditional music to a fresh new demographic. Eager to dust down venerable material, they are Vaughan Williams with amps and attitude.There is a drawback to that barnstorming spirit though. Apart from the pensive opening version of Jacques Brel’s “Amsterdam” and the melancholy strains of “Captain Wedderburn”, there were no moments of respite in this set. And those brash, primary colour arrangements, full of bustling brass and anchored by Pete Flood’s thunderclap drumming can be the concert equivalent of the relentless Dolby Surround Sound ads that pin you to your seat in the cinema. Bellowhead overflows with unconventional talent, but there isn’t always room for subtlety when the dial is turned up to eleven.
I spent most of last weekend walking and cycling around central London. A chance to get reacquainted. Strolling along the Embankment was a joy, but only as long as I didn’t let my eyes linger on the anonymous towers that have sprung up east and west. Edwin Heathcote, the FT’s architecture critic, seems to feel much the same way:
London’s departing mayor Boris Johnson came to office in 2008 on a promise not to let London turn into “Dubai on Thames”, in contrast to his predecessor Ken Livingstone, who had been pro-development and pro-tower. Yet Johnson’s record has been precisely the opposite of his sloganeering, an execrable legacy of ill-planned developments and poorly-designed towers scattered incoherently across the city. The impression is of a capital in thrall to capital, property as asset class — what the former City planner Peter Rees termed “safe-deposit boxes in the sky”… London continues to attract people from all over the world — even if the young, the creative and the unsure are increasingly pushed to the margins. There was never a perfect moment. Yet walking through its fast-changing streets there is a sense that the new is inevitably bigger than the old; glassier, shinier, but rarely better. “The chief function of the city,” wrote the urban historian Lewis Mumford in 1961, “is to convert power into form, energy into culture, dead matter into the living symbols of art, biological reproduction into social creativity.” The chief function of London, today, it would seem, is to convert space into money. Is that ambition enough?
My Times feature [£] on “Miles Ahead”. I can’t say I enjoyed the film, although I can see why Don Cheadle wanted to avoid making the usual dull, reverential kind of biopic. His performance as “The Prince of Darkness” really is mesmerising. It’s the plot that leaves you feeling queasy:
How accurate is the film? Did Davis really go around firing guns in record company offices or swooping around New York like the lead in a blaxploitation caper? Much of the storyline — the journalist, the tape, the guns — belongs in the realm of fiction. Faced with the problem of how to present Davis’s life to a modern audience for whom jazz is as alien as a baroque concerto, Cheadle has taken the sensationalist route.
In his defence, the Davis who appears on screen isn’t a million miles from the image he liked to present of himself. He did after all pose as a gun-toting wiseguy on the cover of one of his 1980s albums, You’re Under Arrest. And in his brash, often crass, expletive-spattered autobiography — published a couple of years before his death in 1991 — he proudly recounts how he made a guest appearance in the crime series Miami Vice, playing a pimp and dope dealer. (Aware that he was open to charges of entrenching a racial stereotype, he tried to head off critics, somewhat unconvincingly, by claiming that he played his character as “a kind of businessman.”)
At The Wallace Collection yesterday. My first-ever visit. I had no idea there was so much more to the place than “The Laughing Cavalier”
People think his face and his voice just don’t go together. I’ve met John McWhorter and I’ve never been away of any mismatch at all, which just goes to show, I guess, how non-Americans can miss the subtleties:
I have lost count of how many times callers-in to radio shows I appeared on have assumed I was white (including plenty of black ones) or asked whether I was. Radio hosts often gently advise me to, when commenting on racial issues, mention my race on air—which indicates that it’s not evident from my voice that I’m black… Once, answering the phone for a white roommate, I listened as an old man drifted, when a news event came up, into a diatribe about “niggers” coming over the horizon; clearly, he did not hear blackness in my voice…
My noting that I don’t have a black-sounding voice has, on a couple of occasions, seemed to peeve the black person I was talking to. I think they were wondering whether I was claiming that, unlike other black people, I speak “properly.” I mean no such thing… There has also been the occasional white person who has sincerely suggested that I just take on a black sound if I feel so uncomfortable. But they were unclear as to what I meant when I referred to “sounding black.” One white woman said, while making vaguely vernacular street gestures, “Can’t you just, like, ‘Heyyy…’?”