Archive for February 28th, 2010
This is the first part of the Valkeapää Narratives and it is probably best if I just quote from the press release:
Nord Rute is a surround sound narrative by Ross Adams inspired by the Sámi artist Nils Aslak Valkeapää’s poem ‘No:272′. The poem is about a reindeer herd on the move. Nord Rute travels into the underworld of the indigenous Sámi people of northern Norway and their age old spring migration 450Km across the arctic tundra with thousands of reindeer. Field recording artist Adams travelled with a Siida – collective of Sámi herders – and sonically documented it using location surround sound recording techniques.
It took place in the Chainhouse at Trinity Buoy Wharf, an outpost of civilisation in the wasteland of East India Dock. I happen to know it pretty well since my wife used to work there, you may know it as the original Container City or home of the Longplayer. Anyway, when we arrived the floor of the Chainhouse was covered with straw and liberally strewn with reindeer pelts. We made ourselves comfortable. Cosy in our nest of blankets with mulled wine in hand it was then a bit of a surprise to be confronted by Eardrum as the support. It wasn’t that they were bad – I rather enjoyed them, despite being strongly adverse to the trumpet – but their percussion-heavy mix of jazz and afro beat was a bit incongruous. However, soon I was lying on my back, transported to Norway by the recordings of Adams, the voice of Persen and the beats of Plaid. All gigs should be experienced like this.
Although not really Bellowhead at all.
When I bought tickets for The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner I wasn’t paying any attention. I knew it was at the Queen Elizabeth Hall and I knew it was a production for kids but that was it. In fact, I thought it was a piece of physical theatre until several weeks later when my wife pointed out that no, British folk flag-fliers Bellowhead were responsible and I had completely got the wrong end of the stick. As it turned out, we both had.
The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner was actually directed by Jude Kelly, boss of the Southbank Centre, from an idea by Shân Maclennan and Keith Shadwick. Kelly has then co-opted her resident artists – Bellowhead and Lemn Sissay – into what is essentially a half-arsed school production, presumably solely on the grounds that they were under contract and she wants to squeeze as much out of them as possible. So right at the back of the stage are the eleven members of Bellowhead, in front of them half a dozen Pulse students and the rest of the space is taken up by scores of kids from local primary schools (guaranteeing a sell out crowd). The lights dim. There is an expectant hush. Then, spotlit in the darkness, Jan Blake begins an interminable Ladybird version of ‘The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner’. It goes on and on and on. After twenty minutes of this piss poor mauling of the poem – which contains the phrase “catapulted as if from a catapult” – half the audience of children and adults are bored out of their skulls and the other half are asleep.
But finally it is over; the Ancient Mariner (Sissay) takes the stage and the production itself can begin. Now, I’m not an actor or a spoken word artist but it seems to me that if I was going to stand up on stage and read a poem, I might familiarise myself with it beforehand. But what do I know. Sissay reads it in a ridiculous, barely intelligible “ancient” quaver which is bad enough but worse he has no idea where the emphasis in any of the sentences go. To add to this, he manages to get lost, despite constantly referring to the text which is on a stand in front of him. From time to time, the kids would stand and provide a chorus but these moments were all too rare and by the time the mariner had shot the albatross they were completely disengaged, playing with their socks and hair and waiting for it to finish. This meant that the stage was dominated by a tide of blankness.
The only quality of any type was provided by Bellowhead’s live score but even that was constrained by the horrible format. Once it was finally over and the kids had taken their bow, they were finally allowed to actually sing and it obliterated everything in the tedious, static production which had preceded this single moment. Afterwards, battered by the wind on Waterloo Bridge, I discovered my wife hated it even more than me and where I had thought the backing projection merely inoffensively bland, she was enraged by how generic, non-specific and misplaced the images were, particularly since there was nothing worth looking at on the stage. It could have replaced Blake’s awful preamble with a visual guide to the poem, which would have rendered Coleridge’s language less obscure to a young, modern audience; instead it was wallpaper. Horrendously ill-conceived all round.
Skylon won the Best Design Award at the 2007 Time Out Eating & Drinking Awards. No surprise as it is utterly gorgeous, everything works from its integration into the Royal Festival Hall itself, down to the brilliant attention taken with the crockery and cutlery. If the food didn’t quite match the setting then there can still be few nicer places to sit and watch the Southbank, even when the sky is grey and the river muddy. Especially with a kir royale in your hand.
Lunch started with a thimble of tomato soup, although I’m probably not allowed to call it soup, am I? This seems to be de rigueur these days because, although I forgot to mention it, the same happened at Vanila Black. Skylon won with regards to both the soup and the glasswear. Plus it was served from a flask. Having allowed them their fun, I started with heart of globe artichoke with antibes salad, extra fine french beans, nicoise olives, confit tomatoes and barrel aged feta which was a decent enough salad but didn’t fully integrate the boldness vinegariness of the artichoke. Whilst I has eating this I noticed a flask of mushroom velouté being borne to other table. They do like their flasks. N managed to order a dish that contained had most of her favourite ingredients on one plate: pan fried fillet of red mullet, crisp fennel with shaved mature pecorino, bouillabaisse vinaigrette. The combinations of flavours – not immediately obvious pairings – worked as well in the mouth and these the delicate arrangement, set off with some unmentioned spots of vivid saffron butter, worked on the plate.
Whilst we were eating these starters the restaurant started to fill up until, by the time we left, it was packed. The service never dipped; unfortunately, with the mains, the quality of the food did. My poached ox cheeks were a beautiful colour and texture but lacking in any depth of flavour. Out came a flask again, this time to pour over a beef consomme which added little to the plate apart from meaning that there was no dry space to seat the almost ludicrously decadent truffle pomme puree. Instead a snooze-inducing quantity sat to one side in a small saucepan. Elsewhere I would probably have loved this but together it made for heavy, unbalanced meal. The only flavours which stood out were the wonderful pot au feu vegetables but when the veg is the best bit of the meal something has gone wrong. N’s ballotine of hake had a lovely graduation of colour as it moved from melty to crispy and, despite only minimal seasoning, this was all that was needed to bring out its flavour. Alas, this was served with a white bean stew that was less a stew and more a flavourless clump of what looked unappetisingly like baked beans and three pieces of broccoli, the stalks of which were inedible and the heads drenched in butter. It was a plate lacking any of the subtlety and care of the starter, except in the cooking of the fish. A missed opportunity.
Luckily desserts saved the meal. I’m not really one for table cooking, it seems like excessive ostentation and faff, but crêpes Suzette deserve it. Due to my position I didn’t get to witness their creation, only see the light in N’s eyes and feel the heat of the Grand Marnier on the back of my neck. N, who had always wanted to try the dish, was entranced by the ritual and eat the crêpes with a huge smile on her face in total silence, apart from one small, barely audible “nom” of pure contentment. For me it was roast fig stuffed with butterscotch ice cream, berry compote, black olive tuile. Frankly you could have jettisoned the compote, the tuile, the unadvertised biscuit the fig sat on and the fussy foams and emulsions that dotted the plate because the fig on its own was everything I could have possibly wanted. I very nearly ordered another.
Despite telling me I was strictly limited to two hours when I made the booking, the excellent if slightly over-specialised staff had no desire to rush us so we continued to admire the now much busier view over coffee. Although I don’t actually drink coffee. A place like Skylon is never going to be competitively priced but I did wince a little at £3.60 for a “herbal infusion” AKA a mint tea that could have stood rather more infusing. If you want to see how mint tea should be served, go to Ottolenghi. However, since it was served with unannounced petit fours it is hard to complain too much (despite the inherent contradiction of sipping mint tea whilst dropping nougat into your gob).
Forty two pounds a head, excluding service, of which the three course set menu was twenty seven fifty. The majority of this was paid for by Third Row Fandom as a wedding gift. Cheers! They had also previously stumped up for a rather better meal in the rather more anonymous Almeida.