Sunday, August 17, 2014

Detox Diary (Part 3): I'm still going ...!

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I know. It’s six weeks since I last checked in with a report on my athletic, health and girth progress.
Does this mean I’ve fallen off the cart. Faded out. Given up?  No. It doesn’t, although a few events in Real Life have meant that I haven’t quite done my daily dozen, during that time, with the regularity of the first days and weeks.

There was the arrival of ‘Yoshi’ the piano.


There was a rotten little flu bug. And, of course, there was a whole week out for my Whoopie-Ohio trip. And much of another week, afterwards, for recovery from the worst jetlag I‘ve ever suffered. But I had to wrench myself to life, and go down to Holmes Place to see Sascha the wonderman, because my neck and back were twisted into the vilest and most painful contortions, after 9 hours times two in an Air Berlin cattle-class seat. They are, I swear, the skinniest airplane seats and the most uncomfortable ever.

But, in between times, I’ve battled away. More of the same. New exercises, new machines. New frustrations. The right arm (the stricken one) is still noticeably the weaker. And progress doesn’t go in a straight line. Just when you think you’ve conquered that repetition of the 6kg weight, the next day its all custard.

Well, today I did conquer it. 15 good presses with each arm … and then a friendly German with a perfect body (no 6-pack) came by and picked up the 10kg one … sob! … and did a perfect arabesque while holding it. And he wasn’t even 20 years younger than I. But neither did he have a belly.

Yes, my belly is still a feature. I’m afraid it’s never going to go wholly away. But it IS better? Yes?



But what’s more: I’m better. Really. And I feel better. Especially when I don’t drink more than x cocktails or one bottle of wine an evening. Yes, I know. The boys at the gym are shocked. They’re young, healthy and teetotal. But, I’m sorry. I’ve given up every other vice ‘a gentleman never mentions’. I’ll drink less, but not nil. Doctor’s orders!

But today was a good day. Even if a solo day, for Paul was off in Hof at a wedding. Somehow, my workout stretched to 50 minutes (Nik has been teaching me all sorts), even without the painful roller, and without the machines that were busy. Then I met my new German friend at the pool, and had a nice chat. He’s got a job interview tomorrow: please! that he gets it. His wife is living and working in Berlin, while he’s boarding 400km away where his job is. Well, I guess if I meet him in the spa again, it means he got it!



I had the sauna all to myself, so I dripped for 12 minutes. An English spa nurse once said I shouldn’t do sauna, because of my heart ‘problem’. So I don’t usually go in alone. Well, that’s my excuse. I enjoy the sweating. But I do get the giggles sometimes.
Is there a sauna etiquette? I mean, there are heaps of rules round Holmes Place. Where you must and must not wear footwear, badehose necessary (sadly) in the pool. And, I think, no badehose in the sauna. It’s all right, if you’re modest you can have a towel. But …


We all go in with a towel, most of us lie on it (the shelves are hot!). Others drape it tactically, or wind it aggressively round their waist. You have about 10pc peacocks, 20pc free spirits, 40pc artistic arrangers, 25pc towlies (the girls have theirs on their hair) and 5pc illegal badehose. It is rare to speak or smile (a few of us do, though). And, I think, probably considered ‘bad manners’ to look. Yet, when they go outside, many of the ‘shy’ ones shower and rub down naked … The funniest are the Egyptians. I don’t know if they are from Egypt, but that’s what I call them: they remind me of the Egyptians in the Asterix comics. All 30-40 (?) with a North African complexion, all with gayshaven locks, all with Pierce Brosnan semi-beards, all with more or less successfully cultivated bodies, and probably a less successfully cultivated IQ, and ALL with their genitalia locked away behind tight towels or trunks, as if it were against their religion to be seen otherwise. I don’t think they go to the gym: just the pool and sauna.
Me, I just amble in, take the nearest spot, stretch out on my towel, shut my eyes (no, not for THAT reason, the sweat gets in them otherwise!), have a good drip for 10 minutes or so and then out. Grand cold shower, repeat in steamroom, shower II, and then off to the weighing room.



Today I was a world record 75.2kg.  If, in the six weeks remaining, I can lose one kilogram more, that will be 10kg shed during my time here. A stone and a half? Add to that Sascha’s revitalising of my arms and hip … I think I can say ‘mission highly successful’. 2000 euros well spent.

So, on I go. Wish me luck for those 6 weeks! This has been a grand summer project. Three cheers for Holmes Place and all who sail in her!






Sunday, August 3, 2014

A TRIP TO OHIO, a musical experience in five days

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For the last five days, I’ve been in Ohio.  Yes, Ohio, USA.  Yes, I know I said, years ago, that I’d visited America for the last time in my life, but….

Why Ohio? Well, I’ve been at a symposium and a festival. A symposium on, and a festival of, musical theatre. Yes, I know I said, years ago, that I was finished with building my life around and writing books about musical theatre, but…

Anyhow. Way back in the southern summer, I received an invitation ('Look ma’am an invitation, Here, ma’am, delivered by hand..’) to take part in the Ohio Light Opera’s season and symposium on Operetta, at the College of Wooster. Of course, I couldn’t possibly. I’m a writer, not a speaker. And, anyway, my speech is kind of indistinct since the stroke. No good for public speaking. I couldn’t possibly. And travel all that way from Berlin on my wobbly own? Ah. Kevin Clarke would be one of the speakers, and he’d be coming from Berlin …? But, I couldn’t possibly. So I said ‘yes’.

And thank goodness I did. I’ve had a most wonderful time.



The symposium turned out to be a real classy affair. Apart from Kevin (who is principal of the Operetta Research Centre) and I, Stefan Frey, the biographer of three of the most important operettic composers, came from Munich, and dearly beloved old friend Richard Norton, the chronicler of Broadway, came from New York. The world’s number one musicals record collector, Brad Bennett, came from Los Angeles, and Andrea Traubner, widow of Richard of Operetta renown, from New York. There was Victor Herbert guru Steven Ledbetter from Tanglewood, entertainer Courtenay Kenny from London, mega-operetta fan Chris Weber from Nicaragua … and, most operettically grandiose of all, Yvonne Kálmán, daughter of the famous composer, all the way from Mexico…



We all wended our way to beautiful Wooster, foregathered at the college on the Tuesday morning, and for the next four days, fifteen hours a day, with regular stops for lightning sustenance, it was all operetta and musical theatre from breakfast to bedtime. Even when the sessions of discussion and lecture were over, what did we talk about? Guess. We had Gilbert and Sullivan, we had Kálmán, we had Herbert, Kern and Berlin … my contribution was a G&S talk from the angle of the original caster, and a controversial ‘what is operetta?’. But it wasn’t all talk.



The Ohio Light Opera is a summer company, which plays a wide repertory of musical-theatre shows, staged in a respectful and historical manner, in the 400-seater Freedlander Theatre of the College of Wooster during the vacation. It’s been going and growing since 1979, and this year it presented over fifty performances of seven shows, ranging from Strauss and Sullivan to Kern and Berlin. The Pirates of Penzance and Fledermaus to Call Me Madam.

However, the bit of programming which sparked the interest of all of us present was the promised first English-language production of Imre Kálmán’s A kis király, an Operette hardly seen out since its unfortunate first performances in 1912, and the equally unlikely The Dream City/The Magic Knight, a 1906 piece of burlesque comedy with a score (some of the time) by Victor Herbert.






So after a morning spent talking about music-theatre, to an audience of over a hundred participants, at 2pm and 7.30pm we had … showtime!  I managed six shows (jetlag and over-familiarity caused me to skip what, I’m told, was a good My Fair Lady) by the end of which I was starting to be pretty familiar with the members of the company. For, yes, largely the same team played every show. Mabel from Pirates turned up in the chorus of Fledermaus, the splendid Orlofsky from Fledermaus was a dancing girl in Oh! Lady! Lady!, the rebel leader of one show was the low comic of the next, the young trio of baritenor leading men filled all sorts of rôles, large, very large and not large. But lively, and truly sung, danced and acted …




Thursday was the day of days. After a concert of ‘cutting room floor’ songs by a group of the young folk, and my last bit of ‘work’, it was time for The Little King, translated and directed by the OLO’s artistic director, Steven Daigle. What would it be like? I’m always wary of unsuccessful works by famous writers. Well, now I know. By my judgement, it certainly didn’t and doesn’t deserve to be consigned to oblivion. It is a classically proportioned and flavoured musical of the European 1910s, with a solid storyline which is allegedly based on the dethroning of King Manoel of Portugal. It actually seems more to me like a romantic Zarevitch-like take on the tale of His Official Wife and its American musical comedy metamorphosis as The Red Widow, a hit of the previous season on Broadway. But who cares?



It is the standard Operette combination of a romantic and a dramatic tale, with soubrette accompaniment, which Kálmán and his librettists used regularly in his most successful works. I reckon that, here – and especially in the music -- the romantic and dramatic side comes off the more strongly and successfully. Once, that is, you have accepted the premise of a prima donna who is a suicide bomber (see The Red Widow). 



The musical highlights of the piece were the rebels’ ‘Freedom Song’ and the succession of numbers for the King and his prima donna, which bring the second act to its very splendid abdication climax.



Barely had we time to take in all this new and hugely interesting material (plus a delightful picnic on the immaculate green lawns by the theatre) than it was time for Chapter Two. And it was rather a contrast. Victor Herbert is known for ‘Ah Sweet Mystery of Life’ and ‘Kiss Me, Again’ rather than for burlesque music, but that is what we had here. Dream City is a burlesque sketch, written for the low ‘Dutch’ comic, Joe Weber, and the inserted The Magic Knight is a broad parody of Wagner’s Lohengrin. It’s a sort of musical theatre which doesn’t exist today. Well, more’s the pity.



It’s topical – all about property developers and their victims – full of the stock comic characters of the turn-of-the-century German-American stage, one joey-joey after another, one ‘pop’ song after another – with titles such as ‘Nancy, I Fancy You’ and ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be a Lady’ – it has vaudeville acts and parodies pasted into its programme, and the central burlesque of grand opera is simply a hoot.
Staged, directed and played with enormous vigour and no end of fun, it went down a treat with the packed house (and with me!) … how did this kind of musical theatre ever fade away? This should be standard repertoire, above all in its native America.




Six shows in four days. If they weren’t all from different parts of the musical theatre canon, you’ld get them muddled up in your memories. Sitting on the plane, on the long trip back to Berlin, I pulled out my personal favourite performances and moments of the week. In sort of chronological order.

Pirates. The most sprightly, lively Mabel Stanley (Chelsea Friedlander) I’ve ever seen. No pale and wandering prima donna, but a jolly, naughty opéra-bouffe leading lady with a searing soprano that soared over the ensemble. I’d just lectured on G&S casting, and pointed out Sullivan’s preference for Jewish leading ladies (Alice May, Helene Crosmond, Marion Hood, Leonora Braham): Miss Friedlander joins the club. Sullivan would have loved her. In fact, he’d probably have loved the whole female chorus with their flowing ringlets and ditsy frocks.




Fledermaus. In another splendidly comical and lively performance, my favourite moments came in perhaps unexpected places: the delightfully limber Frank of Jayson Lebaron and, above all, the exceptional Orlofsky of Olivia Maughan. A delicious mezzo voice, a sense of fun and – the reason the Prince is played by a girl, is because he’s a teenager – Ms Maughan made him a real character: not a middle-aged contralto in drag.




Little King. Not a show to find your favourites amongst the supporting roles. Here, all the spotlight is on, and all the starlight comes from, the two leading characters. Clark Sturdevant, in the title role, was believeably royal and believeably dramatic, and sang with grand tenorious energy, and Natalie Ballenger as the lady with the bomb was … explosive!  But I did have a special weakness for Anthony Maida in the Ernst Tautenhayn comedy and dance role.


Call Me Madam is a pure and simple star vehicle, and Alexa Devlin took every advantage of its opportunities, but my golden moments came from the juveniles. Stephen Faulk and Tara Sperry were quite enchanting in acting, singing and dancing … perfect casting, alongside the powerhouse Mrs Sally Adams.

Oh! Lady!! Lady!!! is a piece of period froth which needs a special light and bubbling touch in its playing. Nathan Brian in the central role of Bill Finch had that touch down to a ‘T’ and his Mollie (Wendy Marck) was an ideal partner who gave the wisely-restored ‘Bill’ in such a way as to make it seem a new song, and not a chestnut.

And Dream City? Everyone. Just everyone. The company had the (Joe) Weberian style right at their fingertips. Daniel Neer, hilarious in the low ‘Dutch’ Joe Weber role, Nathan Brian as his sleazy song-and-dance protaganist, Alexa Devlin as the raucous comedy maid, Julie Wright Costa in one of several triumphant character roles as the battleaxe wife  … and I’m still laughing at Sturdevant’s pure, parfait and poncy Knight.




But, if I were giving out my ‘Kurt’ awards in Ohio, I would have to award the golden statue to Natalie Ballenger. 



Anyone who can play and sing as she did, as the prima donna bomber in The Little King, so as to give me a genuine quivery lip, and then come out a few hours later, as the Belle of Malaria Centre, and do Cissie Loftus impersonations of Hattie Williams and Lillian Russell in such a way as to have the house (especially me!) in fits of laughter, is a rather special artist. Not to say the ideal leading lady for a repertory company. A leading lady who played in the chorus in Oh! Lady!! Lady!!!. That’s what this company is all about. And I love them for it.



PS Kevin and I both picked our favourite chorus member. Tricky when you have a chorus that includes last night’s leading lady! But, guess what? we both picked the same person. Hannah Kurth, take a bow!



The company is, of course, not only players. The team includes a vast back and front-stage staff and a fine orchestra which almost bulges from its pit. I liked very much their accompaniment to Sullivan and to Strauss, I loved their burleycue Victor Herbert, and only felt that the Kálmán could have had a bit more oomph, especially in its dance numbers, and the Kern a little more bubble.


And now, I’ve just rolled in to Berlin on the milk-train flight.  Wooster, Ohio, with its lovely green lawns and its treat of musical theatre seems a world away. Well, I suppose it is. But I sha’n’t forget it. The music-theatre conversation and camaraderie, the shows and the singers, the new friends … all in five days!




And to think I might have missed it!

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Detox Diary: two months in...

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It’s the first of July. Not the fourth or the fourteenth. My fête nationale is the first. It’s the end of the second month of my Personal Improvement Project. My second month in the hands of Holmes Place, Potsdamer Place, Berlin, and all who work there.

So, what have I done, and what is the result feeling and looking like?



Well, I’ve worked pretty hard, in much the same manner as I did in month one. Nik has introduced me to a heap more exercises, some of which have become part of my daily routine, some of which have been consigned to the ‘too hard’ box. I don’t mean ‘too hard’ as in work ‘hard’, but I don’t feel comfortable or safe doing prone barbell work alone, or floor roller exercises without supervision, and oh! having to re-learn the rules of a lifetime! No fourth position, don’t point your feet, don’t over-extend and, worst of all, ‘arch your back’. I’ve been trying to NOT arch my back for 60 years! That’s worse than ‘stomach in, butt in’! But the lurking lads in red shirts will always tell you if you are doing it wrongly.

Anyway, I promise, I really am trying. I trot down to Holmes Place nearly every day, I do my forty-ish minute full-on routine (a bit more these last days), with increasing weights, then my water exercises, and finally I take my dip-n-sauna. Paul was with his Aussie family, over in Europe for a holiday, for ten days, and my stickability was tested. But I did the voyage alone (one rainy day missed), did my stuff and enjoyed it, had a plate of yummy soup in the wee canteen, and felt quite a cavalier. Especially when, one day, just for one day, the scales announced: 77.4kg. Mostly now its just over 78.0kg.

That’s six kilos gone. Six kilos. That’s the weight of the dumbbell which I still can’t manage to stand-press five times consecutively with the bad arm. My body has lost THAT!



Of course, size, or rather weight, isn’t everything. Shape is what I’m after. Balance. Steadiness. And, needless to say, general fitness. I’d like to be able to walk freely and surely. And, here, I’ve made a discovery…

I’ve been back to Sascha the masseur. This time I told him, ‘hit it’. ‘It’ being the right hip and groin which have given me trouble off and on for forty years, and wholly ‘trouble on’ since the stroke. Well, not everyone wants to massage that area of a chap, but Sascha is a pro, and he ‘hit it’. Bloody Hell. ‘Hasn’t anybody dealt with this?’, he asked. I had to admit ‘no’. Not because of MY modesty (I haven’t any), but because of theirs.

Sascha has been on holiday since then. He’s back this week and I’m booked in. I’m walking better than I have for years, and with almost no pain, since his ministrations. Zeus bless him.

This weekend, Paul returned, having tasted the delights of the Parisian Disneyland and Berlin in the company of Ella (9), James (7) and Josie (4).


He said: ‘your belly’s shrunk’? Hmmm … the mirror tells me that a lot of it is still there! We did another photo session. I don’t know. Is it better? The belly, I mean. All that weight must have gone from somewhere. Well, I’ll just carry on! I’ve got aches and pains in places where muscles (?) are being awakened from their Sleeping Beauty hundred years’ sleep, though the bags under my eyes and down-creases from my mouth (ugh!) haven’t budged (they are difficult to exercise) … but folks still say ‘you look a different man’…. I only notice that spare flaps of flesh under my arms seems to have gone …

So, on into month three …

And we’ll see.



Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Piano Salon Christophori: Raves for Ravel!


There was a question mark in my diary for last night. Piano salon? One of the ‘possibles’ that I’d marked in back in April, I guess …  Morgenstern Trio: piano, fiddle and ‘cello … Ravel, Mendelssohn, Boulanger (Nadia or Pierre?) … better ask Paul.
Paul said an enthusiastic ‘yes’. I would really love the Ravel, he assured me. Well, he should know. He played it himself, in concert, a year or three back. So, book us in. A night at the Piano salon Christophori is always enjoyable. And sometimes special.

Tonight was one of the special ones.

The evening at the Piano salon doesn’t start till 8.30, so we had time for a visit to the gym, some shopping, a photo-session (my latest slimming pix), and we even got to miss France scoring two goals, sometime during our walk from Humboldthaim to the Uferstrasse. But at least they scored them!

Arrive at the concert room, half empty (oh! the football), a nice glass of red wine in my hand (‘vive la France!’), and I’m ready for a first half of suitably French music.



The warm-up act at the Piano Salon is traditionally a gentleman with a grey ponytail tuning the pianoforte. Tonight he was tuning two. Steinway and Erard. Interesting. But the tuning sounded like Mr Reich again. Bring on Ravel, I thought. However, when you have two pianos, they have to be moved, and when the elderly Erard was asked to budge … its back wheel fell off. So it had to play its part sitting on a block of wood! Maybe talking to the wobbly violin-stool. But hey, they couldn’t be in a better place: right in the middle of a piano workshop!



The Morgenstern Trio are Catherine Klipfel (piano), Stefan Hempel (violin) and Emanuel Wehse (‘cello) … aided by a valiant if under-dressed young page turner … and all I can say of them is ‘I love you, guys’. I’m not going to try to be analytic, for I don’t have the technical expertise (that’s Paul’s department): I just say ‘I love you’. The three players all performed with the most amazing warmth, feeling and, in turn, tenderness and temperament. The piano flowed. Even in the most voluminous passages, it was strong and firm rather than loud and showy. Just the sort of playing I prefer. The fiddle never cried out: it sang. Mezzo-soprano. Some of the time, I felt I was listening to a viola. Beautiful. And the ‘cello! Such glorious soft playing – actually, that goes for the trio as a whole (for it’s very much a whole) – the pianissimo bits of the Ravel, the delicate bits of the Mendelssohn … a true treat.



I have but one complaint. The shaping of the programme. Well, it wasn’t shaped. Is it wise to start the evening with … well, I think, one of the most amazing bits of chamber music I have ever heard?  Yes, Ravel’s trio, discovered by yours truly this very night, is very, very special. The first movement was my favourite, but that may have just been the joy of discovery and the pianissimi. Anyway, whatever, it was one of my best (go on, THE best?) chamber music moments ever.

The Boulanger (which turned out to be Lili), which followed, was a pleasant, lightweight filler, but it meant we came to half-time on a frivolous note rather than floating on Ravel. Pity.

Part two, the Mendelssohn second trio. Another lovely work, played beautifully. Interesting to hear it with the taste of the Ravel still around. A demonstration of how musical styles changed in those 19th-to-20th century years. In Mendelssohn’s time, I guess, the ‘Thalberg-style’ of virtuosity was more in favour than it was in 1914: and there was plenty of florid playing to go with the flowing, tuneful and skittish melody. The skittish bits were great fun (watching the ‘cellist was almost as good as listening to him!) … and the whole was utterly enjoyable.

The ‘encore’ of the night was one movement of a Schumann trio. I actually have to admit to liking it even more than the Mendelssohn, but, really, it wasn’t a traditional ‘encore’, and it rather destablised the evening. Lili Boulanger would have made a good encore. But a whole movement of a major work?



Well, who cares? Stable or unstable, conventional or unconventional, every bit of the evening was a joy. Players and music. I happily emptied my wallet into the tube at the door – held this time by the agreeable, hands-on boss of the lieux – and walked out into the night, and the … rain. The pub screens showed us that it was Germany 0 Algeria 0, as my espadrilles sank uncaringly into irretrievable ruin in the sludge on the road to Humboldthaim.

Back at the Piano salon, I guess they were re-shoeing Monsieur Erard for the next night’s concert. Me, I didn’t even make it to Germany’s and Algeria’s goals. I had to get up at 2am to find out who had won. For I was very soon sleeping happily on my bed of beautiful music.

Sigh.

PS The 14 euro minimum ‘donation’ does seem to have become policy. So maybe it wasn’t only the football which shrank last night’s audience.