I did it.

I. 

WROTE. 

 

A.

BOOK.

...over and out. 

Bright Copper Kettles

red shoes: for whenever one wants to feel their best...

1.  Red shoes

Let me tell you something: I have three pairs in my closet right now. Three...nope. Actually four. Four! --because I BOUGHT A NEW PAIR TODAY. So. There. If I hadn’t lost the sweet little Mary Jane crocs the night I sang at Sheldon Harnick’s lifetime achievement award thingy whilst running emergency Fiddler lines with Harvey Fierstein, I would have FIVE.

Red shoes rock my world. They are happiness and whimsy and light, and I have gotten into all sorts of trouble both in and with them.

An incident with a red shoe, is in fact the very first thing I ever wrote about on this site (so we have red shoes to thank.)

There is a lot of pop culture mythology about red shoes as well— and not just of the Hans Christian Andersen variety. Apparently a woman wearing red high heels indicates that she is not wearing underwear. Apparently…. 

2. Blog-stalking

Well, now: how 21st century of me. I mean, how else are you supposed to know everything about someone before you pretend not to..?


3. Badcrimedrama

This is self-evident really. Look: who doesn’t secretly feel a swish of glee when you "have" to stay home binging on Law & Order re-runs. Who hasn’t said things like “Ooo! Matlock!’or “This episode is sooo obvious, they totally did the exact same thing on the Murder, She Wrote / Magnum PI crossover episode of  in ‘83. Please. Everybody knows that. Everybody.”




4. Classic Correspondence

One word: sexy. I am certain I have mentioned my love of a good letter before, but good God. Someone selected the paper. The pen. Labored over their penmanship. The envelope selection. Someone chose that stamp and licked it. Their scent is all over it, it is soaked in their emotions, their essence. Someone’s thought moved from their brain through their arms into their fingers and onto the page! It is visceral and palpable and right there before you, reeking of that electrical experience that happens in a flash and lasts an eternity. It traveled across time and space to reach your hands in this very moment.



5. The West Wing Song

Someone once asked me in an interview if I had any "strange or unusual" talents that nobody knew about? 

Yep.
     Yep I most certainly do.
I'm not the least bit ashamed to tell you that I write amazing lyrics to television theme songs that don't have lyrics.
     The pseudo-80s rock version of Alias.
     The Phillip Glass-esque but possibly just vocalized theremin version of Lost.
     But then there is The West Wing Song. And that, my friends, is special. The West Wing Song is a thing of great great beauty, developed over many months


So… a little embarrassing— I admit that.
I’ll come clean.
Yet, comrades I am telling you: my made up theme song pseudo-lyrics are A.MA.ZING.
They are clever and well-crafted and performed in full voice at 100.

I will give credit where it is due: It all began with The West Wing Song in Glasgow, sitting across the sofa from JNF (when we were busy being 19 but living like we were 70). It was a collaborative effort, really, a true labor of love.

To clarify: in college JNF and I were like that elderly couple that would “have” to go home early because “CSI was on.” Or, “GAAAH we'd love to come to your crazy blow-up college all-nighter but we have a box set to finish.”
It was a little sad I suppose, but it saved us a fortune and actually… (And FYI: when I give you party, I give you some party— you just only get the party from me about twice a year…)

Anyway! JNF and I watched all 6 seasons of The West Wing from start to finish (at the time there were only 6 to watch) and over time, together, we developed The West Wing Song.
The one of such glory.
     And beauty.
     And outright LORE.
With harmonies.
And different versions for each season. (The best version of which is Season 4-- with appropriate apologies to Molina, McCormack, Channing, and Smits-- Seasons 5-7 got somewhat "squishy")
Yep.
…That is right. That is correct. You didn’t read a typo: The West Wing Song has a capital “S” because dammit it earned a capital letter.

Basically: It is famous. People KNOW it. I believe I was once introduced to someone and they replied “Ah! Al Silber— lyricist of The West Wing Song” and I cooly nodded and was outwardly very nonchalant but inside? Inside I was doing cartwheels, because frankly it was the most famous I had ever felt. Furthermore, dammit, the song is something so special someone should call the governor.

[*pause for possible-to-probable hyperbole*]

Is The WWS essentially the names of the actors sung in alphabetical order shoved into the instrumental theme tune?
--Sure.

Have I sung (with a little help from a glass of whiskey) The West Wing Song to people who have been on The West Wing?
--You betcha.

Have I gone on to collaborate on theme songs to Alias, Lost, and one of my favorites, Star Trek: The Next Generation?
--Hell yeah.

But The West Wing Song is the original and best and with very little encouragement… I will sing it for you too...

Words I Like

Form versus content is an important distinction with favo(u)rite words. Sometimes one can love a word for what it means (ineffable), other times one can adore it for the way it sounds (roil), feels in the mouth (delicious), rolls off the tongue (Baltic), or perhaps simply for the way it looks on paper (saffron).

1. cerulean - I love a deep blue. especially when it has a name like cerulean: my favourite blue word as well as my favourite crayola crayon.

2. lithograph - I love stamps that is no secret, but the word lithograph  The "th" "g" and "ph" are all phonetically chewy as well as somehow immensely descriptive. You can actually feel a print being made as the lithograph lifts from the page... It is just utterly delicious. And speaking of delicious...

3. DELICIOUS this might be my new favourite word altogether. It satisfies so many of the above pre-requisites for favouritism: it is beautifully descriptive, onomatopoeic, a delight to have in the mouth, and can be used both languidly and with biting punctuation. I like to pronounce it with capital letters in my voice and a little slide into it-- it sounds like this: "nnnnnnnDELICIOUS." I use it to describe everything from food, to people, to circumstances...

4. saffron - perfect example of form versus content. Saffron the spice? Schmeh. Saffron the word... amazing. Sexy. Exotic. The length is perfect, the vowel to consonant ratio exact. The double f is like two long legs on a contrary woman who eyes you coyly before leaving your sight forever.

5. roil - this might be word perfection in that it sounds exactly like what it means (to make turbid by stirring up the sediment or dregs of;  to stir up) but it is also hugely onomatopoeic and just generally descriptive in a satisfyingly accurate way. Specifics is everything in language, and roil hits the spot.

6. tangerine - that slightly deeper shade of orange? The slightly sweeter fruit? How is this word not perfection?

7. sorted - A Briticism. While Americans may be "all set" "prepared" or "ready"-- Brits are more than that, they are "sorted." And I just think it is the best thing I picked up there... (aside from Percy Pigs a great career and lifelong friends that is...) Sorted is the kind of word that like a photograph is worth a thousand words that can be used to explain it's full meaning. It indicates a total and utter togetherness; a finality and satisfaction. It is practically word porn. I noted it's significance for the first time after two academic terms in Glasgow: mom looked at me in wonder and actually asked me to repeat myself "Sorted," she chewed it over with delight, "SOOOOOR-T-ED. That is a great term... SORTED... whoa..." And we both stood there in awe for a moment and it has had a halo around it ever since.

8. trenchant -(Etymology: Middle English trenchaunt, from Anglo-French, present participle of trencher. Date: 14th century. 1 : keen, sharp 2 : vigorously effective and articulate; also : caustic 3 a : sharply perceptive : penetrating a trenchant view of current conditions b : clear-cut, distinct) I love words that get to the point. Words that penetrate and cut through-- and that is exactly what trenchant was invented for.  As mentioned above, specific in language is everything and nothing gets to the kernel, the essence of one's meaning more than trenchant. A trenchant analysis. Trenchant remarks that may help or hurt in just the right way.  Or as Edith, Wharton put it, "the trenchant divisions between right and wrong." Perfection.

9. defenestrate - Look. This word means "to thrown someone or something out of a window." [deadpan pause] ... I mean... isn't that AMAZING? I mean, how did this word come into being? Are there words for smashing a chair into a bazillion pieces? Is there a term specific to   threaten to "kick someone's ass" when you can threaten to defenestrate them? And just when I thought it would never be used in real life (or in televisual real life)... Lost's John Locke is dramatically defenestrated by his father in season 4. (Not to mention almost every exit in Mission Impossible 3...)

10. ineffable - Unlike Supercalifragalisticexpialidocious, is actually the word you say when you don't know what to say... the adjective you use when something is too great or too extreme to be described in words. Not to be uttered. It can be everything from the ineffable beauty of the Everglades to the ineffable Hebrew name that gentiles describe as Jehovah (or the ineffable name of He Who Must Not Be Named that Muggles would describe as Voldemort...?).

11.  Baltic - I would put this in the category of a Glaswegianism... (which, though possibly invented in this very moment, is also quite a good word...) But! Back to Baltic: it is splendid-- especially when used to describe the cold-- To quote my dear friend Frances, [Glaswegian accent] "It's feckin' BalTIC!") There is something about it that just gets to the essence of what it feels like to be cold to the bone, in the guts, to be cold in. your. soul... when it is "feckin' Baltic oot", there's nothing that can save you. Nothing.

What are your favo(u)rite words...?

It's all Greek to me...

In from the Blizzard

I enter the high rise studio room in the middle of a blizzard-- fresh off the plane from the mild, sunny West.

"Alexandra!" many people cheer, and they gather toward me like enthusiastic magnets. I should be a day late more often, I think.

I am instantly greeted by the quiet, charming, disheveled director of genius proportions, who has been talking to Chita in the corner alongside a gigantic window displaying the snow coming down in vast curtains outside.

And when I say Chita? Yes, I mean the one and only Chita Rivera. The living legend.

These people could not be nicer. It feels; not at all like the first day of school, but like the first day of summer camp— or rather, the second day of summer camp and everyone has heard about the camper arriving tomorrow and let’s make sure she feels welcome. Delightful.


* * *


Why Can’t I Speak?


Five of us gather around the piano— the musical director Patrick, Justin the young actor playing Niko, myself and Jim the accompanist. Leveaux looks on, Banderas beside him, stage management organize, shuffle and arrange in the corner.

There are two trios Niko, The Leader, and The Widow sing together— we go about learning them.

Then a Ricola exchange-- Chita is kitted out with anything a performer might need and it is all there on the music stand-- balanced within an inch of its life. "Anything you need my dear!" smiles Chita, a beautiful septuagenarian of Olympic proportion. Still on it, sharp as a whip and kind far beyond necessary for her status.

The left-handed MD Patrick takes us through it slowly, the rhythms are tough— the harmonies complex. One of Kander’s great unknown and literally unsung gems. Chita makes notations (she is left-handed too).


And just then, from the bluster of the February storm, enters a dark-coated John Kander shivering from the wind and cold. He made his way to our gathering around the piano.

“Hello…” his voice was soft, his eyes incredibly kind.

We continued learning. Harmonies. Chords.

He placed his satchel and battered umbrella on a nearby chair, removed his coat, and sat there listening. They are all; these lovely men—Kander, Leveaux (David NineandFiddlerRevivalsVisionaryEnglishDirector), Banderas (yes, of the Antonio variety)— in fact, listening. In exactly the same position: legs crossed, arms folded, head at rest atop the right hand brought up directly to the chin and mouth. A stance well known to the deeply contemplative. Think about the story of the butterfly… I think they are.


Suddenly we reach an impasse: Chita feels her notes “aren’t what they used to be I fear, too high too high. I’m so sorry.” She has such a sense of humor— not only about life but about herself, her self-awareness harsh but remarkable. She is struggling but so are the newbies! we have only been learning music for three-quarters of an hour! (And for what it’s worth, I disagree, I think the woman is a marvel though I don’t quite feel inclined to say so in this moment).

“May I?” Kander asks the accompanist politely.
“Of course,” Jim stands up allowing the composer to sit before the keys.
“Allow me, I’m just going to sort of the keys and modulations…”

We all watch in silence.
“Watch…” Chita whispers to me, “just watch. `When John touches a piano, it explodes with sound…”

And then it did.

He sat there a moment, brow furrowed, working out chord transpositions with the ease, vision, and elegance of a mathematician. I am in awe.

“Told you…” Chita smiled.


Meanwhile, Justin is focused and serious in the corner. I assume from every clue in his demeanor he is experiencing the not wanting to blow it sensation. I can only imagine; Alan Bates on his mind, a classic novel, a beloved film, an A to hit, Banderas to play to, the world to impress. --When I glance over he is buried in the score—for what it’s worth he’s doing just fine on all counts and I’ve known him 30 minutes.


Back at the impasse Chita looks over and smiles at me before announcing to Kander, "Yes I heard her next to me and thought 'I sound great!' but it wasn’t me after all! I’ll get it. I will get it. I just want to do your music justice darling."

Kander stood, clasping his hands together and placing them casually across the top of the upright piano. He is such a quiet man. "I promise you will be fine," he murmurs, eyes smiling.
"Yeah?"
"Have I ever broken a promise to you...? …after all these years?"
"True."

And they smile.

And it was that exchange. It was in that exchange that I could not believe the company I was keeping.

It truly was, above all others, a moment I have worked my whole life to be in the presence of. One that teleported me straight back to the dusty days of a twelve-year-old girl on a bunk-bed at Interlochen listening and learning from to and from these people making theatre history on a crappy Walkman. Banderas was great-- the real deal and a wonderful man, but these were my idols. It was the moment of a lifetime. A moment of arrival.

After the music session we packed up our things and made our way toward the smaller rehearsal space to talk things over, but I am mesmerized by Kander’s warmheartedness, his gentle face. His kind eyes.

"You wanna know why his eyes are so kind?" Chita asks me looking over at her old friend.
"Yes. Why?"
She smiled, not looking at me, “Because he’s kind…"

...she nudged my shoulder and walked slowly away, each step seemingly filled with memories...

Raindrops on Roses

These are a few of my favourite things.
Another list.
I like lists.
In fact, let that be number one...

1. Lists
The virtue of lists (versus a list of virtues...) is infinite. I could list them but then, it might all seem a bit too frightening. Like a vortex sucking us in on ourselves. But lists are a magical thing. Everyday parlance is littered with lists: laundry, grocery, honey-do. "Enough organization, enough lists and we think we can control the uncontrollable," observed one of the faceless unendurably attractive assistants on the TV show House. By now you would think there are enough lists, but still we keep jotting things down in an orderly fashion. So why do I love lists? Aside from the obvious virtues of helping us remember things, keep us from procrastination, relieving stress and freeing the mind; lists bring order to the chaos. "People are attracted to lists because we live in an era of over stimulation, especially in terms of information," says David Wallechinsky, a co-author of the fabulous Book of Lists. "And lists help us in organizing what is otherwise overwhelming." Moreover, lists are finite. They don't usually go on and on. And if they do, you can skip to the bottom of the list. The Internet Movie Database, for instance, lists its "bottom 100 movies as voted by users." (Incidentally, the winner —er, loser —is Zaat, a 1975 sci-fi fiasco). But most important of all? Lists can be meaningful. Who hasn't jotted down the pros and cons? Who hasn't listed the many ways we love someone? Or listed our favourite films, favourite songs, our favourite moments with a person, 25 random things about ourselves? The list, as they say, goes on...

2. The Tate Modern
While my love for what's inside sometimes waxes and wanes, my love for the building itself never dies (For love, my friends, does MANY things... it "changes everything", for example. But as ALW is about to show us in some spectacular of mind-blowing proportions, IT NEVER DIES...) It is so open and welcoming and embracing. The space (though, admittedly, difficult to get to on public transport) is a jewel inviting you to discover the treasures within, or lounge on it's lawn in the sunlight, or simply to enjoy the view in it's cafe with a glass of curiosity cola. Go Tate Modern. You are a thing of beauty unto yourself. And I don't care if I am the only one who can see it. (PS. Oh yes, and it is FREE... what is friendlier than free?)

3. Watermelon
Ahhhhh FOOD PERFECTION... Alright. I admit it: I am watermelon obsessed. I shamelessly gulp down this fruit in all forms. A storehouse of vitamins and minerals, watermelons keep your heart and nervous system in blooming health. It's juicy, sweet, and succulent. Rich in Vitamin A, Vitamin B6, Vitamin B1, Vitamin C, and healthy fibers, lycopene and antioxidants, I look forward to watermelon season every year, and have mastered (with the guidance and Shaman-esque teachings of my fellow watermelon obsessed mother) the art of selecting the perfect fruity specimen by "THWACKING" it (if you will) in the customary Silber manner and listening for the ever-magical CRACK of a "good one." Ohhhhhhh the CRACK of a "good one." How melodious. How intoxicating. The essence of summer.

(Note: Art related to the Mexican holiday Dia de los Muertos commonly depicts watermelons being eaten by the dead or shown in close conjunction with the dead. This theme appears regularly on ceramics and in other art from the holiday. Watermelons also appear as a subject in Mexican still life art. Weird. Love that.)

4. Breakfast for dinner
I could eat it EVERY. DAY. Why is all breakfast food so incredible? Brioche, oatmeal with fruit or raisins, cereal: the best food in the world, scrambled eggs with salmon, paaaaaaaancaaaaaakes, omelets, sausage, bacon, toast toast toast... the list is endless! Breakfast for dinner: nothing better.

5. Peanut Butter
[Details here.]

6. Owls
When I first met my friend R's kids, the oldest thought my name was not in fact Al, but OWL. It stuck. When I call R, OWL SILBER comes up. I love it. I love it because I have always loved owls. This winter Paperchase did an Owl design that I spent a FORTUNE on. I inwardly squealed when I passed the shop on The Strand and whilst shoveling owl merchandise into a basket, immediately phoned R who requested a set of Owl eggcups. It was a moment of madness...

But my love of the owl is not merely aesthetic or sentimental, it runs deeper. There is a sort of global reverence for the Owl. The witch's companion (famously accompanying the likes of Merlin and Harry Potter, as well as dwelling in the Hundred Acre Wood), the owl is deeply connected with magic, wisdom, intuition, education, messages, longevity and heightened senses throughout the ages. What's not to like? They are majestic as well as whimsical, and I like the hours they keep (us theatrical types share the same secret powers of the night...)

In some middle and far eastern cultures, the owl is a sacred guardian of the afterlife, ruler of the night, a seer and keeper of souls transitioning from one plane of existence to another. The ancient Greeks attributed the owl to Athena, goddess of wisdom and foresight. This symbol was used on Greek coins and therefore also became associated with wealth. Native Americans attributed owls with wisdom and sacred knowledge. The shaman would call upon Owl medicine for insight into the truth of ill-intent. Plains Indians wore owl feathers to protect against evil spirits. West African and Aboriginal Australian cultures also saw the owl as a messenger of secrets, and companions to medicine people. In the Celtic tradition, the owl (cailleach-oidhche), represents wisdom, clairvoyance, stealth, initiation, change and detachment. Always aware of its surroundings, the owl uses intuition courageously, with insight into hidden truth, and a guide between earth creatures and Underworld deities.

The owl’s gift of heightened senses enables it to see through deception, external appearances and illusion and to discover hidden truths. (Appparently, if you are drawn to owls or owl symbolism, you may have this same ability to uncover secrets. People may feel uneasy around you, as if you are able to see through pretence). The owl also teaches us to acknowledge the dark side of our personality, and in that darkness we may find a source for growth.

7. Leon (addicted to their organic brown rice and glorious coleslaw that accompany any hot dish. And of course, their low GI brownies with dark Valhrona chocolate and ground almonds and fruit sugar instead of ordinary flour and sugar. (They believe you can have your cake and eat it... and I love them for believing that...)

8. Guerrilla Poetry
Let me explain... I love to leave little poems written on snatches of napkin, say, in unexpected places for people to find. I love to think that perhaps it brightens some one's day to have found a napkin poem lying about waiting to be read.

9. Postcards
They are little magical gifts of beauty and sprightly correspondence. Send them! It takes but a moment to jot down a loving or whimsical message (perhaps a quote or piece of poetry?) I like to keep a few around with me at all times in my diary, in my bag, with postage pre-attached and ready to mail the second a burst of correspondence hits me! It is better than email, better than facebook, it is handwriting, it is "I-thought-of-you-and-sent-this-wrote-this-and-now-you-are-reading-it." Magic! Sometimes I make my own, and I also like to collect truly odd postcards and keep them in a little box with my art supplies or in a special wall-hanging thingy made for photographs. Sometimes for inspiration, at other times just for enjoyment.

10. Recycling
One of my objectives has always been green living and recycling has been a tricky one to crack. London doesn't make it easy, so I am one of those people who brings heaving, gigantic bags of tin cans, plastic bottles and heaps of paper to those vats provided outside the tube station. People stare at me on the bus. One time, someone stared while drinking a can of Fanta. When they were done drinking they threw it on the floor of the bus while making direct eye-contact with me. I picked up the can, shoved it in my giant earth-friendly bag and said "It's not madness, it's recycling. You're welcome."

Today: The Election

This is going to sound overly sentimental and I am aware of that.
But. Today.
Today is the beginning of a new world.
And though I missed that magic stateside, I was able to participate in an entirely different American experience: witnessing the international community rise up with overwhelming fervour for an Obama victory.
It was magic over here in an utterly different way.

So, that being said, I decided to purchase a copy of The Times for my children.
I don't know if I will have any, or if I do, how many I might have.
But I wanted to freeze this moment of hope, joy and almost unendurable pride I felt for the country I walked away from so many years ago, traveling the world in an attempt to discover a place that would match my ideals, ethics and deepest desires.
I thought I had turned my back on these ideals, but to refer to a passage I wrote earlier this year:

"A traveller. Perhaps that's it. Though my travels hardly feel worthy of comparison to those of the greats-- Rosalind's full circle to and from Arden, Bilbo Baggins' There and Back Again. I am no explorer like Vespucci, not romantic enough for a gypsy nor pious enough for a pilgrim. Ahh America. How I had forgotten you, and how I longed to remember. Was blind but now I see, (as they say). And though I know I am no great traveller of Shakespearean or Historical proportion, I share with them and with us all, a cardinal desire: all I have ever wanted is what we all long for-- a place in the world. A home."

The thing is, I wanted to be able to say to those children  
I was there that day, 
     I remember it. 
I was so proud to be alive to witness it. 
This copy of The Times marks it; 
     it was very very special 
and you are holding a piece of that day in your little hands.

The cover of The Times is a photograph of Barack Obama and the title reads "A New Dawn," and I bought it because it symbolises for me the thought that anything is possible, that the pursuit of a dream is not just a futile notion instilled in us to get us through the difficult hours of our days. That, to quote President Elect Obama himself,  

"we've proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth; but from the enduring nature of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope."

... and as I thumbed through the edition, I came across another image that moved me.
It was an advertisement for Carousel, containing a photograph of me from the production.
Right there,
     in the same edition of The Times.
The very paper I had saved for my future children to show them that anything is possible contains a photo of their mother;
who, with tremendous, unutterable gratitude, pursues her individual goals and dreams,
     and will someday teach them that
YES, THEY CAN.

They really can.

Today: The Election

This is going to sound overly sentimental and I am aware of that.
But. Today.
Today is the beginning of a new world.
And though I missed that magic stateside, I was able to participate in an entirely different American experience: witnessing the international community rise up with overwhelming fervour for an Obama victory.
It was magic over here in an utterly different way.

So, that being said, I decided to purchase a copy of The Times for my children.
I don't know if I will have any, or if I do, how many I might have.
But I wanted to freeze this moment of hope, joy and almost unendurable pride I felt for the country I walked away from so many years ago, traveling the world in an attempt to discover a place that would match my ideals, ethics and deepest desires.
I thought I had turned my back on these ideals, but to refer to a passage I wrote earlier this year:

"A traveller. Perhaps that's it. Though my travels hardly feel worthy of comparison to those of the greats-- Rosalind's full circle to and from Arden, Bilbo Baggins' There and Back Again. I am no explorer like Vespucci, not romantic enough for a gypsy nor pious enough for a pilgrim. Ahh America. How I had forgotten you, and how I longed to remember. Was blind but now I see, (as they say). And though I know I am no great traveller of Shakespearean or Historical proportion, I share with them and with us all, a cardinal desire: all I have ever wanted is what we all long for-- a place in the world. A home."

The thing is, I wanted to be able to say to those children  
I was there that day, 
     I remember it. 
I was so proud to be alive to witness it. 
This copy of The Times marks it; 
     it was very very special 
and you are holding a piece of that day in your little hands.

The cover of The Times is a photograph of Barack Obama and the title reads "A New Dawn," and I bought it because it symbolises for me the thought that anything is possible, that the pursuit of a dream is not just a futile notion instilled in us to get us through the difficult hours of our days. That, to quote President Elect Obama himself,  

"we've proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth; but from the enduring nature of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope."

... and as I thumbed through the edition, I came across another image that moved me.
It was an advertisement for Carousel, containing a photograph of me from the production.
Right there,
     in the same edition of The Times.
The very paper I had saved for my future children to show them that anything is possible contains a photo of their mother;
who, with tremendous, unutterable gratitude, pursues her individual goals and dreams,
     and will someday teach them that
YES, THEY CAN.

They really can.

Detroit, lift up your weary head

Ever heard of Sufjan Stevens? He wrote an incredible album about Michigan; the expansive and sometimes epic "Greetings from Michigan the Great Lake State", and it includes odes to cities including Detroit and Flint, the Upper Peninsula, and vacation areas such as Tahquamenon Falls and the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes. It's a collection of eloquent "folky" songs and instrumentals inspired by his home state. But, lying below the surface of his melodies, are scenic descriptions and characters, as well as his own declarations of faith in God, of sorrow, love and his passion for the regeneration of Michigan. If Philip Glass wrote pop songs, they might sound something like these. And I love them. They describe and evoke the feelings I experience for this tragic and beautiful place. As Brandon Stosuy said: "The record is stacked with impressive space for Stevens' shimmering geography, and it manages a melancholy beauty; Michigan is a frost-bound tone poem in which average people live out their victories and defeats with a shadowy, dignified grace."

Melancholy beauty. Yeeeees Brandon Stosuy, well put. It is an excellent description for this desolate place. It walks with sorrow. But it carries that sorrow with dignity and pride... perhaps that is why it feels familiar. I know what it is to walk with sorrow; and I attempt, though I do not always succeed, in carrying it with dignity. (No. Let's face it. Sometimes my sorrow is lugged around awkwardly like something out of Weekend at Bernie's Just with more snot. And less extraneous physical comedy). But what is it that draws us to ruination? What is the exact affinity? Why do we find it so compelling?

I admit I am always struck by the sadness Detroit evokes in people. Yes, there are abandoned buildings, yes there is extreme poverty; and OH yes, it is very, very cold. But the "ruins" of Detroit are as real as the ruins of Rome or Troy, and yet those are celebrated as the remains of pinnacles of civilization.

Perhaps Detroit's ruins are the symbols of what might have been, and that is why it strikes a chord with those of us who fear the presence of own own missed grasps at actualization? Our unfulfilled dreams? Our unrealized potential? Or worse, (and perhaps more accurate), we do not only experience the doubts. No. We feel and see our shortcomings as fully as anything. And Detroit embodies this fear. It forces us to confront the reality of disappointment. The snowblinding vision of what could have been. If only things had been different.

And yet, despite it all, out of nowhere and completely unexpectedly, Detroit has nuzzled it's dreary way into my reluctant heart. It says to the broken travelers of this world, Come, add your sorrow to my heavy load. I will carry it for you. I will lighten your burden. I will give it shape so you won't have to. Come. Lighten. Accept. Live. Ah Detroit. How I love you. And how I never thought I would yet here we are. Your voiceless character. Your will. Your tenacity. You have allowed yourself to be destroyed by lost, desperate, and clutching men and women. And this historic education is fixed in your throat like a snake, and spoken through a voiceless windpipe.

Detroit, lift up your weary head. There are those of us that will always love you.

"Ever will we conquer grief
and find it faster to resolve
the dead, to be absolved
and fed, to restore.
If the advantageous
reprimand misgivings,
We wont grow.
We will not ever know.
We will not!
(Lift my life in healthy places!)"

- Sufjan Stevens, Michigan

Linus Says it Best.

"That's what Christmas is all about Charlie Brown..."

Injured Bad...

I don't even know how to begin to articulate the joy and pleasure I and so many others have received from this brilliant clip.



Yep. Well I just got out the shower, have 20 minutes to get readyl, and I've now watched it 7 times! It's the look of death on his face as he says it... beautiful...

Meeting Sheldon Harnick... again...

Sunday.

I just returned home from a The Jerry Herman Gala Concert at The Prince Edward Theatre in Soho. Larry Blank was conducting (he did the orchestrations for Fiddler, and my new friend).

I love Jerry Herman's music. I actually cannot think of a song that moves me more than Ribbons Down My Back. In fact, the beauty of Hello, Dolly! rings so true, and I cannot help but see the beauty of a show that for me is about people choosing to live-- some chosing to start living, others starting to live again. A young man and his best friend who are worried life may pass then by before they experience the joys of life and the world. Two vivacious widows, totally gripped by the loss of their remarkable husbands, and how they decide to live again. It's about begining; and beginning again, and the remarkable courage it sometimes takes to simply "join the human race."

I have a personal affinity for Hello, Dolly! but naturally Mack and Mabel and La Cage Aux Folles are triumphant pieces of theatre as well, and arguably some of the most influential of the 20th Century.

It was also a nice way for Damian and I to "join the human race" as well. We get so few opportunities to have civilized nights out. We enjoyed a lovely Japanese meal before heading to the theatre.

That said, the concert was a very disappointing (terribly under rehearsed, with some very disappointing performances from some rather famous tele-visual personalities and west enders), but the orchestra and Larry were astounding, and the after-show party was worth the entire evening.

The room was filled with lovely familiar faces, and low and behold there were Sheldon Harnick and his wife Margie, and they remembered us from the previous Tuesday evening! They came right over and we spent the whole evening chatting with them. What a treat. What a pleasure and honor.

Margie is a brilliant woman. Vivacious, exuberant, curious, endlessly interesting, and endlessly interested in everything. She is one of those people that makes you feel important. Leaves you warm with her wisdom, her stories, and her interest in yours. She asked about everything. Adventures, Glasgow, London, living and working with Damian.

"That's a hard one. It's all about balance and communication. You have to... share things, be passionate about, love, the same things..."

She looked away. At first off in to the distance, and then her thoughts led her to Sheldon's laughter across the room. Her eyes twinkled. He was talking with a group of people, and when he caught her eye he smiled and raised his glass a little. Margie nodded and looked back at me,

"He is my best friend."

* * *

We talked about the Midwest and about creativity. I asked him if he every felt a need to restructure any of his words, ever felt a desire to update them, improve them.
"Yes and No," he replied. "Sometimes I know that a lyric will never be 'just right' and I know I will have to live with it forever, always niggling at me. But other times, a lyric 'LOCKS IN.' I just know that it is the perfect description, the perfect expression. And I know that I was meant to find it, and that I have achieved something, however small."

He was so kind and interesting, and very sentimental. I told him about the importance of She Loves Me, and it's unparalleled significance to my life. And I mentioned the memory I have of my father's face at Interlochen, sitting in the back row of The Harvey Theatre, watching him sway and smile to during Days Gone By. I will never forget the look on his face, the pure childlike joy, and the pleasure I knew all of it was bringing him.

"Is your father no longer with us?" he asked softly.

"No," I said "... a few years ago."

"I find that very moving..." he put both hands on his chest and became very quiet. "You know, my father never got to see Fiddler either... and he never knew his father. He came over from Austria-Hungary when at just fifteen to find his dad, and he never found him..." he trailed off and looked down for a moment. And then,
"How difficult the train station scene must be for you..."

I nodded. I shifted. I really didn't know what to say.

So he touched my shoulder, and nodded back.

...

We walked them back to their hotel.
I hope they travel safely.
I hope they somehow know what this evening meant...

That thing

That thing. That feeling.
The one where you are so unutterably happy, your inner glow so far beyond description, and all because you have just witnessed someone you love succeed, and you love them so much, it feels like the good thing happened to you... yeah. It's nice. It seems so basic but it absolutlely fills me with wonder.

Damian performed in a concert in Kensington last night. When he sings, your heart swells. I'm not alone with the swelling heart thing; he makes music soar.
He's made of magic.
...Just had to get it down.

The Red Shoe

So.
What I think is really great after a bad day at the office, where The Ghost of Jerome Robbins is giving our poor little company a lot of grief, is making fun of Jerome Robbins by (flawlessly?) executing THE West Side Story kick on the Aldgate East underground platform...

... ONLY to watch in total horror as my brand new adorable red pump FLIES off my foot, over the crowd and on to the TRACKS...

All hundred or so people on the platform stare. They stare and shift slightly. Will anyone do something? Shall we all just glance away? And I am frozen. Frozen, staring at my shoe in a "THAT DIDN'T JUST HAPPEN... OP! YES IT DID" way.

What to do???!

Damian goes to fetch help. A wooden broom handle, someone's cane, anything...

The only reason I got it back was because a steaming drunk guy (named Chris) singing "Happy Birthday To MEEEE! I'm 18 TODAAAAAY!!!!!" -- was too drunk to remember the tracks are in fact ELECTRIFIED. He jumped down on to the tracks, the crowd gasped (possibly because Chris might DIE on his 18th birthday...)

He jumped right down on the tracks, stumbled horribly, caught his balance, knelt down, grabbed the shoe...
... then jumped right back up.

"There you go!" he says, "Woo hoo! I'm 18 today!!!"

...and the crowd applauded! Victory.

So. Chris not dead.
Shoe retrieved.
...Absolutely fine that one.

Damian's First Snow

London.
January.
Freezing.
7:00 am.
There are things to do, sleep to catch up on. Places to sing tonight.

On a quick, stumbly sleepy trip to the bathroom I notice an overly bright morning...
It couldn't be.
It doesn't DO that here.
I haven't seen this since Detroit.
This is the real deal. Serious stuff.
Incredible!
It IS!

Al: (whisper) Damian... Daaaaaamian...?

Damian: QSndkjX%*ehliruw@##en....

Al: ... I am so sorry to wake you... but something VERY SPECIAL has happened... and I don't want you to miss it...

Damian: Huh? What it is?

Al: It's snowing. And the snow has stuck.

Damian: What?!

Al: I know. I think you need to see it.

We get dressed. We shuffle to the doorway.

Al: Ready?

He nods.
I open the door onto Carlingford Road. And there before us is a virginal, untouched blanket of pure white snow. It is exquisetly beautiful. Every little branch, every little crevice has been touched and decorated. There are at least six inches on the ground. His eyes twinkle and fill with wonder and emotion. He looks like a little boy. I remember this feeling so well. It seems so far away now.

Damian: Can we go out in it? Can we play in it?

Al: Of course! Let's get properly dressed!

We do. Coats, scarves, mittens, big boots! And cameras of course. Hardly anyone is even awake.

I teach him how to make snowballs. And then we decide to make a snowman. Of course. The secret is a good central snowball and patience in the rolling technique. No respectable snowman was ever made in haste.

A young woman and her son appear in the window of a flat across the street. We wave to them, they wave back. This would never happen on a normal day, people are very reserved and cautious here. But today, on snow day, that is different.

We find pebbles for the Snowman's eyes. Sticks for a mouth and a scarf and mittens of course.

Damian: Let's get a picture.

We do.
We've been out an hour. It's cold.
A morning made of magic.


Oh BOY.

Filming 1408

The scene is actually completely improvised, as is much of the movie, but was terrifying because you're thinking "Not only do I have to be in the presence of John CUSACK, but I also have to try to be unassuming, um, good and on top of everything else I have to MAKE UP THE LINES?!!".

So I was trying to seem very nonchlant and all, and my cool skills utterly failed me.
Utterly.

Example:
John Cusack: So.... have you made a lot of films?

Al: Um, well, no, this is my first film. My only other professional
job was in musical theatre.

John Cusack: are you serious? what musical? one in the west end?

Al: um yeah, the woman in white, the andrew lloyd webber thing?
i played the [bad self deprecating hand gestures that MAY have
included the quotation thing people do with their fingers]
"damsel in distress."

John Cusack: Right. That's great. Anyway, your first film.
well you are doing great, you really seem like you've
been doing this forever.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...

[this is where i just don't know what to say. I SCRAMBLE for coolness, for nonchalance, for anything other than total akward silence... and it doesn't come. So out flies the lamest thing I've ever said.. and it is falling out in slow motion...]

Al: Thanks... YOOOOOOOU TOOOOOOOOOOO.

[WHAT?!!! really awkward pause. I AM AN ASSHOLE.]

John Cusack: Well... you know... I have....

[I know this. I saw him in The Journey of Naddy Gan. I AM AN ASSHOLE!!!]

Al: ... I know. I was... you know. it was supposed to
sort of be a joke...

John Cusack: uh huh...

Condensed Film Scripts: The Last Samurai

In case any of you missed this uh, AWESOME film, I thought I would save you the trouble of having to endure it. Life is too short. (This might have to made a serial...)

The Last Samurai

MAN: Please go to Japan and show them your awesome ways!
[wields sword with awesomeness]

TOM CRUISE: I will be better than all the stupid Japanese Samurai 'cos I am awesome.

SAMURAI: You fight so awesomely well that we will train you to be the best Samurai!

TOM CRUISE: Yes, I am that friggin' awesome.

[later...]

TOM CRUISE: I have become the best Samurai ever, and am totally more Samurai than the rest.

GIRL: I love you whitey Samurai.

The End.

Simon Callow's note

When Simon took over in the role of Count Fosco, there was a big ballyhoo. In an attempt to make the role "his own" he requested a few changes to the previous Fosco track, and called actors individually to his company to discuss ideas. These invites were presented on (not IN) posh white envelopes and placed at the entrance of our dressing room doors. Imagine the following in huge calligraphic scrawl:


"Al DEAR. I don't want to disturb you when you might
be snoozing/ winning the all-england soduko
championship/ writing a memoir of your Glasgow youth
BUT... Sir T Nunn asked me to "free up" A GIFT FOR
LIVING WELL [his song] and I have one idea which would
include you. I am in the [makeup] chair from 7 and
can't possibly move. Could you BEAR to pop down and
discuss it?
x Simon"

... that is fine.

"We are the victims of an absurd disease..."

Victims of an Absurd Disease:
Jeux de Massacre and Ionesco's Theatre of the Absurd

by Alexandra Silber & Justin Flagg

(these consequentially became the programme notes for Here Comes A Chopper, Glasgow, May 2005)




1


Man: We are the victims of an absurd disease.
- Eugene Ionesco, ‘Here Comes a Chopper’, 1970

Paris, 1968. The French establishment is rocked to its centre as the country is brought near to civil war by student and worker protests. The times are rife with civil unrest: in America, the Vietnam War has caused a massive popular backlash; in Eastern Europe, the Prague Spring provided a glimmer of hope for those struggling under the yoke of Soviet domination, before being brutally crushed by Russian tanks. To this maelstrom of clashing mobs of humanity, Ionesco offered a ridiculous reply.

Born in Romania in 1909 and raised in France, Ionesco toiled variously under Romanian monarchy, German fascism, Russian communism, and French socialism. He watched his father blindly (or perhaps deftly) switch allegiances at the drop of a hat, believing power to be the only true virtue. Over the course of his life, Ionesco saw the people of his Europe arbitrarily slaughtered in two world-wars, abandoning their ancient religions in droves, and living under the constant threat of nuclear annihilation. They were the victims of the most absurd disease of all: their own society.





2

“Two fundamental states of consciousness are at the root of all of my plays. … These two basic feelings are those of
evanescence on the one hand, and heaviness on the other; of emptiness and of an overabundance of presence; of the
unreal transparency of the world, and of its opaqueness. … The sensation of evanescence results in a feeling of anguish, a
sort of dizziness. But all this can just as well become euphoric; anguish is suddenly transformed into liberty. … This state
of conciousness is very rare, to be sure. … I am most often under the dominion of the opposite feeling…”
- Eugene Ionesco, 'Le point du départ’, 1955

This play is about death: how each of us will face it for ourselves. Do we gracefully surrender to the inevitable end, or do we fight until our bodies collapse beneath us? Who will bury us? Who will inherit? Who will weep for us? Who won’t?
It is also about loss: how we face the death of our friends, our family, our lovers; parents losing children, husbands losing wives; losing control of our daily life, our food, our water; losing the sense of our responsibilities and our place in the universe.
Finally, it is about society: does it really have the power to save us from the scourge, or is it in itself the secret cause of our disease?
The allegory of a town seized by plague, and ultimately destroyed in spite of the best efforts of the council and the populace has clear connections to the world we know. One need only consider the unavoidable headlines that assault our senses on a daily basis: The endless debates over the cause and response to global terrorism; epidemics, poverty and starvation in Africa; AIDS, Cancer, MRSA and an ageing society; and the scientific and religious quarrels over the beginning and ending of life, to name just a few. Reflecting on our own predicament, the absurd behaviour of Ionesco’s fictional townspeople becomes hauntingly recognisable.



3

“Laughter alone does not respect any taboo, laugher alone inhibits the creation of new anti-taboo taboos; the comic alone
is capable of giving us the strength to bear the tragedy of existence. The true nature of things, truth itself, can be
revealed to us only by fantasy, which is more realistic than all the realisms.”
- Eugene Ionesco, ‘La démystification par l’humour noir’, 1959

Throughout our creative process we have, to use Ionesco’s own words, attempted “to communicate the uncommunicable”. We have employed many different genres, toyed with notions of gender, incorporated multimedia elements, and pushed the limits of popular taboos (perhaps exceeded them), all within a stark and grimly disturbing landscape. And we have tried never to forget our sense of humour in an attempt to present an absurd existence that allows us to realise how close to absurdity our own existence really is.
It was Ionesco’s hope that through confrontation with the harsh and terrifying truth of our condition, we can learn to accept it. Only then will we be liberated from our overwhelming despair. Of course, Ionesco would be the first to suggest that the whole exercise may be doomed to failure from its inception. But that’s for you to decide.

Mme Martin: Quelle est la morale?
Le Pompier: C’est à vous de la trouver.
- Eugene Ionesco, ‘La Cantatrice Chauve’, 1948