On a rare day of sun, I found myself far and away from my computer. I was across town, in the Corstorphine neighborhood. Needing a break from writing, I walked. I strolled, I looked through the gorgeous, affluent neighborhoods, admiring the gardens and the stately architecture.
(C) Bethany Wolfe 2012
This building was just a street over from the bus stop. I took a bit of a detour in my wanderings today, going down a road I had never been before. I was struck by the clear blue sky and the building’s warmth. The colours were fantastic, so very Edinburgh.
Rather than a customary visit to a friend’s (he was in another part of town), I decide to enjoy the sunshine and my solitude and wander through the Water of Leith walk. The walkway goes along the Water of Leith, a wooded path by a stream. It’s so different from the rest of the city, a taste of nature amongst the stone. It’s like being in a different place.
(C) Bethany Wolfe 2012
With the madness of the Fringe, the insanity of my dissertation, the regular hustle and bustle of every day life, it was refreshing to step aside, to walk through nature, to contemplate, to smile and to feel the sun on my (pasty, computer-sapped-all-remaining-colour) skin.
(C) Bethany Wolfe 2012
The sun reminded me of something very important. Sometimes we need to set aside the stresses of every day life. The responsibilities that we find ourselves surrounded by. I need to let go, and just be.
‘What would Edinburgh be without the rain? Who knows, but it wouldn’t be Edinburgh!’ Morrissey proclaimed during his show Monday night at Edinburgh’s Usher Hall.
If it wouldn’t be Edinburgh without the rain, it wouldn’t be a Morrissey gig without the legion of devoted fans. Amy and I got there pretty early, several hours before the gig was set to start (a note to our professors and families, we did bring work with us). Turns out that we weren’t even close to being the first people there–some had been camping out since 3 am, the hardcores, of which a few of my friends would say I belong to, but which I fervently am not. Though, if I were returning to the States this autumn, I would definitely try and get to his Boston gig and at least one of the NYC gigs.
Yes, I have been bitten by the Moz bug, and after that show it isn’t difficult to see why.
Edinburgh was the gig that Manchester should have been.
The audience was mixed. There were those who have followed Morrissey since The Smiths, hipster kids in skinny jeans and knotted hair, parents and children, everyone else imaginable. Whilst queuing, we swapped stories of the Manchester gig and discussed vegetarianism–I am not a veggie and probably couldn’t be one, I like chicken too much. I did attempt it for the weekend, though.
I ended up in the second row, which was fantastic! The floor was far more subdued than in Manchester, filled with energy but not nearly so dangerous. There were still flying arms, all grasping to reach Morrissey’s hand, but the elbows and bodies did not fly around so much.
Morrissey himself was brilliant. Witty, engaging, his voice even stronger than in Manchester. You would never have realized it was the last night of the tour. He sounded fresh (though looked a little knackered to start).
As I’ve said earlier, there is something visceral about his music. It hits me in the gut. I find that I can relate to his lyrics, perhaps more than any other musician. Seeing him sing live, with all of the emotion in his voice–there was nothing else I needed. It was the sort of show where time stood still, life was on hold. Captivating, entrancing, wholely part of something.
That’s the thing I love about fantastic gigs. The music transcends social barriers, and together, the audience, the musicians, become part of something bigger. United for a few hours by a common love–the music.
Edinburgh captured this more perfectly than any gig I had previously been to–and I’ve been to some fantastic gigs. The sound, the power, the emotion.
The encore (“How Soon is Now?”) was incredible. People launched themselves over the barriers, keen to hug Morrissey, to shake his hand, to be a more active participant in the night. The chaos, the excitement, the cheers, the voices raised to match Morrissey’s, could never be described perfectly, only experienced.
Who knows if I will ever have another weekend like this one. But I certainly will be at another Morrissey gig, standing on the floor, my hand raised to shake his.
It’s the Edinburgh Jazz Festival for the next couple of weeks. I’m not the most knowledgeable about jazz, but if its got a rhythm I can dance too, I will be out and dancing. Which, of course, is the mentality of the local lindy hoppers. A group of us congregated in Grassmarket for the Edinburgh Jazz Festival’s Mardi Gras. Tons of bands, local and international, played at raised bandstands or in the streets. I caught three acts–TJ Muller and the Dixie Six, Criterion Brass Band and The Stooges.
Of course, there was dancing. There was laughter.
TJ Mueller and two of the the Six
There was TJ Muller and the Dixie Six in the audience, playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” in the audience.
TJ Muller and the Dixie Six is my favourite local band. The swing dancers do a lot with them–they’ve played one of our events, and we go to their gigs. They’re a really fun band to watch/listen/dance to. So high energy! By the end of the afternoon, I was knackered.
The last few weeks haven’t been all fun and games. I haven’t been out enjoying the sun as frequently as I should. No, instead I’ve been working on my dissertation.
What am I doing? I’m writing an essay on the construction of narrative through surveillance and making a short film based on Nineteen Eighty-Four. Which reminds me, I need to think of a good title for it. At the moment, it’s “She Loved Big Brother” but I’m not particularly fond of it.
So, I’m editing the footage that I’ve filmed. I’m sure I’ll get a lot more over the next day. Film’s got to be complete by 31 July, that’s when I’m premiering it!
I’ve always been the sort of person to prefer cold weather to hot. As my fellow New Hampshirites complain about the snow, the wind, and the negative temperatures, I laugh and damn the summer. I would rather be cold than too warm–putting on another jumper, hobo gloves and wrapping up in a blanket with a cuppa and a good book is my idea of the perfect relaxing winter’s day.
Notice that I said “winter.”
Edinburgh’s summers are apparently very short. Like, a week in May. Absolutely gorgeous weather, then nothing but rain and cold. I’ve been very happy that I haven’t packed away my jumpers, and that I didn’t listen to my mother and continue to wear my winter boots.
Yesterday, the first day of summer, was cold. I wore jeans, sheepskin lined slippers, drank hot tea, reorganized my workspace. Which, believe you me, was a lot more work than I initially anticipated.
I return from my digression. I’ve never been one to complain about the cold–until now. I don’t want weather to be too warm, but I would like to wear my dresses. And maybe, just maybe, my sandals. And my new sunglasses. So my reasons for disliking the cold are vain.
It isn’t just that. It’s the rain that keeps you from wanting to venture out, that keeps me from going to the library (as in this weather, I’d rather be cold in my own home, where I can get as much tea as my heart desires, thanks very much). Even trips to the neighborhood Tesco become daunting affairs. “I ventured out to do the laundry, that’s enough,” I said.
Though, I’m pretty fortunate compared to New England. Temperatures in the high 90s to low 100s? No thank you. I’d rather freeze.
Promo portrait of Alan Cumming in Macbeth, yanked from scotsman.com
On Sunday, I had the privilege of attending The National Theatre of Scotland’s production of Macbeth, starring Alan Cumming. It was an incredibly powerful, poignant show–not only for its reimagining of the Bard’s play, but for its comments on the madness of grief. Alan Cumming tackles all of the roles but two–the porter and the doctor. He, as the patient, slips between characters mostly smoothly (it took a few moments to differentiate between characters at times).
The set design was incredible. As a former techie, sets are one of the first things I notice. Glasgow’s Tramway 1, where the show is being performed until 30 June, is a small, intimate venue. There is no curtain, and the audience is free to look at the set, that of a mental institution, in its cold, mint green splendour. There is a tub, several beds, and CCTV cameras, which are used to great effect, especially with the Weird Sisters.
The sound design is great. It is subtle, effective, and is not obvious, which is as it should be. It, like the lighting, highlights various points of the performance without being overbearing.
Now, to the performance.
One may initially think that Cumming is the titular Macbeth, but as the character is seen outside of his mad recitation of Macbeth, the audience realizes he is Macduff. With him, he carries a child’s woolen jumper. He takes it from the paper bag holding his personal effects; he looks at it sadly, with love; and then the Macduff murders occur. Whether or not this is what the directors intended, I’m not sure, but it’s what I got out of it. Through this staging, Macbeth became more than a tale of a power-mad couple who bring about their own demises through greed. It’s the story of a man undergoing deep grief, who loses more than the rest. Whilst Macbeth, Duncan and Banquo may lose their lives (and Macbeth his wife), it is Macduff who suffers worst of all. He loses his family, those who he cares for and loves best of all.
Macbeth runs until 30 June before it moves to the Lincoln Center in New York.
Ned Wolfe 