Trying to organise this for Sheffield. Who, is up for this.
(Source: runwalk)
I can't really explain why I'm writing on this blog without making it sound pretentious, self-indulgent, irrelevant, or just down right lame. Probably because all blogs have a tendency to be any or all of those things.
So for want of an official line, we'll just say I'm writing this to pass the time. Seen by Peruvian Eyes
So for want of an official line, we'll just say I'm writing this to pass the time. Seen by Peruvian Eyes
MANCHESTER INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL BLOG - Premature End: The Cop-Out
I’ve reached the end of my festival experience, in that I’m actually now back in Sheffield. I’ve updated, belatedly I admit (the last 4 days of the festival I was without the internet, or the time to do any kind of worthwhile updating), to the point at which I still had time to do any blogging or pausing.
However, what I consequently worked I had no time to blog, and with the festival having come to its end and with it my experience of it, I don’t really feel it would be honest to retrospectively blog from this far down the line (three days). Also, the two shows were some of the biggest of the festival, and resultantly there are plenty of accounts of them out there, which most of you will have read no doubt.
They were of course Bjork’s new project Biophilia, and Amadou & Mariam’s long-awaited “sensuary experience”, Eclipse.
Both were completely fantastic and wholly stimulating, staggering, impressive and highly unique experiences for me, and I can’t be bothered to try and do either of them justice in the written word, as well as the above reasons for not writing them up. I mean, everyone’s read about Bjork (I know this from me trying to disseminate my experience of the show to others and being told “Right yeah I read that. Yep.”), and I reviewed Amadou and Mariam on BBC Manchester Radio, which a lot of you have listened to I know (for those that haven’t, here’s the link, it’s still got a couple of days: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p00hvxbt - I’m on around 11 minutes in).
And so I leave you with this Culture Show overview of the festival, featuring interviews with Marina Abramovich, Damn Albarn, Victoria Wood and more. It’s great, really informative.
I also saw the free stuff in the Whittworth Gallery, along with blagging a seat for Shakespeare’s As You Like It, which was hilarious and a really good version. Anyway, like I said, I just can’t be bothered to write about any of this shit any more.
Never wanted to anyway.
MANCHESTER INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL BLOG
Day 8: The Crash of the Elusyum.
I worked as a scientist and have no idea what happens in this adventure because it’s all a top secret and no-one’s revealing anything so I didn’t ask but I was robed in a white onezy and massive white boots clad in a breathing mask and pushing into a tent that was dimly lit and very atmospheric sinister and ominous told I had secret information apparently the number 54 is secret information and stood bent double while speechless kids rattled by their military team leaders stood mouths gaping looking at us scientists wondering what to say and then throwing up a spew of words strung together by verbal spit from which ‘latest information on the ship’ was just about decipherable.
54, we said.
Then Dr Who tore through the screens of a pile of 70s TV sets warning man kind of an alien vessel that had crashed to earth and to which the kids must react with urgency and efficiency lest humankind go down like this very ship that had crumpled on the surface of the earth we watched as a man then a woman then a man then a man pretended to hack into the vessel sending sparks everywhere and causing a drama before storming the place and screaming at the children to hurry the hell up.
Then it all happened again.
And again.
MANCHESTER INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL BLOG
Day 7: 11 Rooms & The Influence Machine
There is definitely a ‘generic MIF-goer’, and he wears tight fitting denim ‘skinnies’, a light grey suit jacket, winkle-pickers and a casual-formal salmon coloured shirt. Despite this however, the festival is going out of its way this year to be accessible to the broader public, and involve as much of the Mancunian masses as possible, and thus compliment the international following the MIF has accrued to create a socially holistic fan-base that will provide the springboard for its attack on the Edinburgh Festival.
Today I worked at two of the flagship ‘free and accessible to the public’ shows; the ‘performance art’ (or in the words of one of one German, “it’s NOT performance art, it is simply ART!”) group show 11 Rooms, and the night-time projection-bombardment The Influence Machine. The former in the day and filling the top floor of the Manchester City Gallery; the latter during the dark side of the evening and taking over Whittworth Park.
11 Rooms is a divisive one, with each room truly offering something unique, thus detracting from generalisability. The only blanket observation you can really make is that each room is white, blank, and wholly non-descript, while also containing a person (or people) playing out defined roles continuously. Some push vague, ambiguous and shallow (whilst pretending to be penetrative and profound) ‘meaning’ within their human exhibitions to astoundingly hard to value levels, while some genuinely prompt interesting questions. Examples:
Ambiguously pretentious bullshit:
- - Mirror Check: originally envisioned by Joan Johns, this naked woman gradually examining herself through use of a pocket-mirror is meant to question ‘how we see ourselves and what mirrors REALLY represent: a fragmented sense of self?’ In a word, no.
- - Can’t remember the name, but essentially, a man with a personality disorder in a bed wearing nothing but boxers and reading from a book with most of the text whited out and replaced by statements about wanking. Leads to him wanking amid pondering over the topic of ‘saints’. After so many runs, the word ‘masturbation’ looses all meaning, along with the piece itself.
Everything else had something to it, but my favourites were the room in which you were confronted by a girl of about nine years looking glazed and talking to everyone/no-one about topics such as dark matter and sense of self. It’s actually chilling, and when you’re asked questions as the audience, all of sudden you have no idea what she’s talking about or where you are and are completely caught in her icy glare. She seems mechanical and cold. It’s truly an amazing performance. Another particularly good one is that featured as the photo in the Guardian’s coverage of the show. Under a severely lowered ceiling, a crippled man lies, motionless and staring into a lamp that dimly glows in the centre of the room. The artist behind it comes from Rio, and thus this piece throws up questions of poverty, glass ceilings, social disability and much else.
Another room that was completely interesting is the room reserved for John Baldessari, for which he wanted a dead body in order to recreate a live version of Mantegna’s ‘Dead Christ’. This wasn’t able to be completed in time for the festival, but the room contains a narrative of documents that outline the philosophical and legal practicalities involved in attaining a corpse for live public exhibition, and how the MIF went about the task. Insightful.
And so we move on to Tony Oursler’s The Influence Machine.
Imagine Whittworth Park (the park beside the gallery). Now imagine in with floating, talking heads projected onto trees, smoke being pumped into the air and projected upon, the side of the gallery hosting a holographic fist smashing against the brickwork, and a man head butting a tree. Is was psychedelic, surreal and a bit up-it’s-own-arse, but the underlying idea of projecting film-reels and images onto natural surfaces and public spaces simultaneously to throw up combinations and collisions of ideas and words is a brilliant one, and it shows huge potential. But the majority of the people I spoke to about the show thought it alienating and confusing, as any common theme was abstracted, and purposefully ‘difficult’.
Both worth investigating and both with good and not-so-good bits: that is my lifeless and written-at-1am conclusion to this update.
We’re in the Tramlines festival programme as a “must see” act along with The Ghost Of A Thousand and Ms. Dynamite HAA. Please come along and help us make it special- it’s our only festival show this year. We’re on at The West End at 10:30 on the friday.
MANCHESTER INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL BLOG:
Days 5 & 6: Qari Syed Sadaqat Ali
People were crying in the audience; the Imam swayed, shaking his head in disbelief; and the Muslims that had crowded in make-shift semi-circles round Qari gradually responded to what became every line of the Qu’ran with rippling “..Mohammed..”s and “insha’Allah”s, with chants finally erupting throughout the room at the peak of the performance. It was an intense affair, and I didn’t even understand what was being said.
This was a recital of the Qu’ran followed by Sufi poetry from one of the leading reciters in the Islamic world, being a pupil of the man that defines performative Qu’ran reciting, the Egyptian Abdul Basit ‘Abd us-Samad. Moreover, he is the first person to record the recital of the entire Qu’ran with visual accompaniment and make it publicly available. His voice coated in delay, and reverberating round the room, his singing took on a total feel, and it truly seemed as though he was possessed by devine insight. It also meant that any grunt or between-lines throat clearing was given the same cascading effect, which was pretty funny (though obviously of little relevance to the performance.)
However, the event seemed to be opportunistically used to demonstrate the enduring power of the Qu’ran, and to almost attempt to convert, or ‘educate’ the audience. The Imam seemed quite aggressive in this respect, dismissing scientific revelations as emblematic of a greater, atheist/agnostic understanding of life for having been taught about in the Qu’ran for “1,400 years”. Where the Sikhs had been reiterating their intension to “lower the fences” that divide all of us, and between religions; to talk as equals; for the wider audience to “just have some spiritual fun” (obviously the performance took on deeper spiritual meaning for those playing it and comprehending its lyrics), the approach taken at this event was more religiously assertive. This is not to make any generalisation about the approaches of different religions, merely the events in question.
Perhaps this difference in approach is symptomatic of the youth of the Sacred Sites programme. It is the first festival at which this has been attempted, and thus a pan-religious attitude to how these shows are conducted, or an over-arching set of goals for these performances has not been clarified. Regardless, both performances I saw were illuminating insights into the respective religions. Roll on Sacred Sites.
MANCHESTER INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL BLOG
Day 4: The Life & Death of Marina Abramovic
I don’t know how I would go about writing anything of any interpretive or reflective capacity as I’m still interpreting and reflecting, and I think everyone who’s seen it will be for a long time. Also, I think doing a ‘write up’ for this would take away from the scattered, surreal yet magisterial mystery and aesthetic magic of the whole thing.
Instead I’ll briefly describe one of my favourite scenes. The second half essentially saw an underlying, tonal narrative brought together through a series of gradual, immersive, ambient ‘scenes’, in which Dafoe seemed to overtly step into Marina’s life portrayal from his primary role as narrator. In one scene, Dafoe (in his somewhat disheveled military green, unbuttoned apparel) swept on stage to sit down in a far corner of the stage, diagonally opposite Ambramovic, cooly strewn out facing away from the audience, her face out of sight. Dafoe held a gun.
It was a comical scene, in so far as Dafoe desperately pretended to understand and empathise with Abramovic’s subsequent explanation of the manner in which her and her then partner parted (incidentally, by walking towards each other from opposite ends of the Great Wall of China to meet in the middle - a “nice” way to end it); yet the scene carried the transcendent, ethereal and sinister ambience typical of the second half. It was generated through an amazingly powerful combination of ambient minimalism (of the William Basinski kind) and an unusual, but in this case prominent, theatric device. Swathes of surreal, undeveloped characters, clad in costumes ranging from glittering dinosaur suits to live snakes; and featuring a twisted burlesque dancer alongside a hunch-backed, greyed Jew walked as if in slow-motion, gradually, eerily making their way, unblinking from the right to the left of the stage. They seemed weighed down the enveloping ambience and vast aire pressing into their pours. They seemed haunted.
Inescapably, at every other migration across the stage, a man clad in a sharp green suit reached a certain point and burst into a terrified sprint to the other curtain; his pattering footsteps piercing the unstable calm surrounding him, and the audience. The atmospheric impact of this combination of devices is hard to convey. It was harrowing, sinister, and also pervasive, encompassing.
And in the midst of this haze, Abramovic explained her reasoning to a rattled and desperate Dafoe, unphased, a fixture in the tangled atmosphere. Suddenly, Dafoe raised the gun, shaking. Abramovic continued, unphased. Dafoe shook, shouted. Abramovic lay in her position. The curtain came down on the scene, and silmultaneously an explosive, resounding gun shot burst through the air.
In their place, a projected trio of video portraits came to life, displaying three men shaving. The sight of razor of skin made my skin crawl.
MANCHESTER INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL BLOG
Day 3: Dya Singh
Food and music, so Dya Singh says, are the at the heart of his Sikh faith, and are the reason he loves his religion so. Accordingly, the most holy way to read the teachings of the Gurū Granth Sāhib is to sing them. Thus the contribution to the Manchester International Festival’s ‘Sacred Sites’ weekend by the Sikhs of Manchester was a performance by Dya and his band of religious passages in the Gurdwara Sri Guru Harkrishan Sahib Ji. The Sacred Sites events aim to represent and provide insight into all the religious minority groups living in Manchester, through the free, open-to-all, religious musical performances, and thus include performances from Auradha Paudwal (Hinduism), Mor Karbasi (Judaism), Qari Syed Sadaqat Ali (Islam) and Candi Staton (Christianity).
I was pretty naive about Sikhism on signing up to this shift, but I learnt much through the course of the performance and the religious procedure that book-ended the musical performance; the crux of it being that Sikhs are incredibly generous. Every day in Indian Gurdwaras, I was told by my Indian friend that was giving a kind of live narration towards the beginning before we were summoned to work, industrial quantities of food (emphasis on the simple, balanced, tasty variety) are cooked three times a day and are available to anyone around, be they or any religion, caste, etc. Moreover, as individuals they were constantly offering us volunteers tea and these savory biscuits that were OK.
A selflessness is also displayed in their attitude towards their religious music. No clapping after songs (we were advised to store up and save the feeling of thanks and empowerment generated within us through the music for ‘when you may need it in the future’), no standing (as you must maintain the cross-legged position you adopt in the prayer room out of humility), and words to God inhabited the space surrounding the songs. The music itself was played on traditional and ‘Western’ instruments (tabla, synth, guitar, mandolin, vocals, and Dya was playing this ‘Indian’ (?) analog small organ thing which was prettay funkay), and Dya Singh drew attention to the inclusive and multi-cultural nature of his band, as to his right sat a white Australian guitar player while on his left sat a white American synth player (which, incidentally, was Craig Pruess, who has provided arrangements for Massive Attack and Def Leppard and crafted the soundtrack for ‘Bend It Like Beckham’). The whole event was meant to showcase the inclusive and accepting nature of Sikhism and their want of everyone to converse as equals.
This went slightly against the voilent content of some of the lyrics, advocating death to the infidels on the battlefield, and elimination of enemies (obviously lyircs ‘from another time’), which were projected onto the walls of the prayer room so that all could sing along and join in. Though inevitably these were the minority with the music taking on a spiritual, fluid, transcendent feel. It felt like every track could go on indefinitely, with harmless, harmonic solos and cascading vocal virtuosity channeling what certainly sounded like pure spiritual inspiration. The tabla playing at times took on a complexity and audacity that almost made Craig Pruess laugh in admiration. It was pretty ‘marvellous’.
A feast of typically moreish, eat-until-you’re-in-pain Indian cuisine followed, after the Gurū Granth Sāhib was delivered away and concluding prayers were undertaken. It certainly felt as though this Gurdwara was seizing the opportunity to educate broadly about their practices and involve everyone in them in an attempt to demonstrate the benevolence and relevance of their faith. But more than that, and as Dya pointed out several times, that the band were there primarily to have “spiritual fun” and turn peoples’ plug-holes the right way round. AND BOY DID THEY.
MANCHESTER INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL BLOG
Day 2 (evening): Dr. Dee
Well that was completely mental.
I think one moment summarised Damon Albarn’s latest wildly ambitious work, and it came after an hour and a half of overwhelming, relentless musical and visual invention. As Dr. John Dee re-entered the stage - miraculously without musical backing - he proceeded to explain his position in the narrative in a rare few minutes of dialogue from the ‘protagonist’ (though Albarn’s post-modern narrational role threw the meaningful existence of a traditional protagonist into question). He vented about how his contemporaries and foes thought ill of his trans-world communication (late in life he engrossed himself in attempts to talk to ghosts and spirits, having established himself as a mathematical genius/alchemist/supreme navigator, thus landing himself in some ‘trouble’) and unorthodox approaches to understanding the world, while defending his cause and duty to the country he lived in. This was a sweet sweet clarification of the central struggle in the opera - between the doctor and his foes over acceptable methods through which to understand the world and attain knowledge.
And it was followed by John Dee’s young lover (?) being set up about by a scryer on a rotating bed, as pillows were ritualistically ripped, feathers filled the air, and a piercing orchestral crescendo swamped the scene, with the aid of no dialogue.
It was moments like this, among many others, that led me to conclude that this show was more thematic and centred on analogies, rather than it adopting a more linear narrative (though I’m sure there was a loose one somewhere). Or maybe I was just slow; or maybe the narrative development was crystalised evocatively in the lyrics (which were intensely hard to decipher continuously/though the many vocal lines I captured displayed the ‘commentator’ role Damon seemed to be filling rather than those of a narrator); or perhaps the plot was consciously dislocated, veiled and then put in metaphor. Either way, the dominant forces in this production were inarguably the music and the visuals, and boy were they dominant.
From start to finish, a relentless score was juggled between the orchestra (situated below the stage) and Damon Albarn’s imperial bandstand (situated above the stage on a ‘floating’ platform). This duality certainly opened up creative doors and allowed for a fluctuating, multi-genre soundtrack. At times Albarn’s band would delve into militant african drumming layered in ominous keys; at others folk-pop; at others ethereal kora-led fluttering (these African instruments/players presumably referencing the empire Dee helped envisage for Britain); at others music supposedly influenced by the time the play was set in. In between any given gap in the playing of the above, insert an orchestra and you can see how this could become slightly overwhelming, and get in the way of there being any room to breath in the play, or any room for a narrative to be explained.
However, it was hard to get annoyed, seeing as how visually involving it all was. As I briefly mentioned, the stage was set in three parts: a floating, higher stage, on the edge of which Damon perched in a somewhat godlike pose, the main stage on which the play unfolded, and a lower chamber in which the orchestra set to work. As intriguing as this set was, the way in which they made use of minimal props and projections was pretty *awesome*: white, large-scale paper concertinas shuffled about the stage to be morphed into objects and walls, while also being utilized in the conjuring scenes to mask and create magical illusions (very convincingly, might I add). Indeed, in was the scenes in which spells and rituals were performed that were the most hold-your-breath dramatic. Onto the stage, moreover, were projected ritual symbols, runes and all manner of medieval mystical imagery. One memorable scene in which the two were combined involved a white concertina wall being pulled back and forward across the stage by a black-beaked, Jamie Hewlett-esque character, each time unveiling Dee in a new setting, while onto the concertina was projected a digital illustration of the Dee-involving situation shattering into light fragments. Pretty.
I mentioned analogies/suggestive imagery earlier, and nothing seemed to represent this approach more than the innocent young, England-flag-balloon-clutching blonde girl that wandered round the stage at random intervals. Was she symbolic of a humble, innocent, pre-Imperial Britain? Was she lost from a different production? Was she a character in the play? (Though I dare say they didn’t have balloons back in the 16th Century.) The end also represented the height of theatric, pretentious symbolism, when Albarn climbed atop the cabin in which him and his band had been caged, and announced that we should ‘ne’er forget John, DEE!’ (or something to that effect) before staring unfocused into the space in front of his face and toppling off the back of the stage.
As incoherent, overwhelming, relentless, and void of an understandable narrative as this was, musically it displayed the ambition and scope of 21st century Damon Albarn, and Dr. Dee was undoubtedly a visual feast. However, having heard so much about the undocumented acheivements and significance of John Dee in the build up to this production (to fill in a largely unknowing public on the play’s subject), and having taken away the themes of the Spanish Armada, Empire, Magic, Science, Navigation, Maths, etc., it would have been nice to have come away with a picture of how they all pieced together, or were pieced together by Dr. John Dee. Having seen the theatrical documentation of his life, I still feel as if really I know nothing of the man.
