Seriously, it's a wonderful age. Last night at a Spandau Ballet and Tears For Fears concert, I was almost completely surrounded by people in their forties (the bands included), and what a civilised yet fun, attractive yet dignified bunch we were.
As I watched the video footage of the Spandau boys on their tour bus in the eighties, looking ludicrously skinny and floppy-fringed, I remembered watching them the first time around at age 15 or 16, and thought, 'Jeez. What a relief I don't have to go through all that again.'
I'd never have seen them live the first time around, of course. Too young, too broke, too lacking in transport and indulgent approving parents. This time I could afford the ticket, I could afford a babysitter, I could afford the cab to get me there on time and even an exorbitantly-priced drink in the interval.
This isn't because I'm forty plus and rich, I hasten to add. It's because I go out about as often as the moon is full, as it was last night. These days, if you do get dressed up and head out to bars as a woman in your forties, you're in grave danger of being labelled a cougar. Last time I risked being in a pub late on a Saturday, I had to approach some pimply youth. (I declare, hand on heart, that I have no interest in boys of 20 who are still wet behind the ears, and probably some other places too. Shudder). He rolled his eyes as I got closer and I realised this must have happened before - some saddo old enough to be his mother must have made a move on him. Except in this case, it was only because his bony behind was on my coat. I told him so, too, as I yanked it out from under him (and I can do that because I'm over 40).
That wouldn't be sufficient reason to keep me at home, of course. But honestly, why would I put myself through that kind of horror when I can stay in and catch up with the entire season of Lie To Me on My Sky. I have My Sky. I love My Sky! That's a definite advantage of being over forty. I can have my own My Sky. Plus I don't need permission, I don't need approval, and I feel like I've earned the right to do what the heck I like, and if that's spending a whole day catching up on House then so be it. But I've also learned that it's only good to indulge yourself if you're not hurting anyone else in the process. In my forties I slowly became aware that I don't have to put up with any rubbish in my life, but by the same token, I don't have to be the cause of it in anyone else's life either.
I can't wait for the foursome who were in front of us at the concert to figure this out. There were two women in their late twenties who stumbled drunkenly to their seats, next to two guys who were old enough to know better but clearly thought all their birthdays (their 18ths?) had come at once. They were in and out of their seats getting more alcohol, standing on their chairs, and acting out their whole four-way flirtation for anyone who might perchance be bored with the fantastic concert they'd paid to see. One of the women seemed inordinately proud of her large and unfettered breasts, and swung them about like an executive toy until they practically took up the seats either side of her. God, they were unpleasant. The people, not the boobs - but oh well, yes, the boobs too. She could have had someone's eye out, and only two people in the entire arena might have been pleased about it.
And it's not like everyone else looked old and past it, either. There were some very beautiful people around, both in the audience and on the stage. Steve Norman, Spandau's saxophonist, looked fantastic, and he's 50. In fact, he looked younger on stage than he did in the eighties footage they played as a backdrop. He didn't seem to have aged one bit; there must be a Steve portrait in his attic in which he resembles Keith Richards.
But that's when it occurred to me. They still look good, it's True. Back in the eighties, though, that's all I would have cared about. They were pretty, and I had a vague awareness that Tony Hadley could really sing. Oh, and he was pretty. So tall, and with that fringe, and pretty ...
Last night, what came across more than anything was that they are fabulous musicians. That voice hasn't lost an atom of its power and brilliance, and the musicality of these eighties fops just radiated around the arena (same with Tears For Fears, incidentally). In their forties and beyond, they showcased their not insignificant skills, and that's what made them gorgeous to behold. Maybe that's what this age is about - being able to be proud of what you've achieved, even if it's only that you've learnt a few life lessons and know what not to do again in the future.
Oh, sure, there are less appealling aspects to your forties. I have a twingey knee. I'm dancing and exercising three or four times a week and it spikes me regularly with pain. When I explained to my 25 year old Pilates teacher that I had a twingey knee, she asked me how I'd injured it. 'I turned 40,' I said.
She appeared to be waiting for a more detailed explanation, but that's really all there is to it. My knee's just a bit old, like the rest of me. But not so old that I can't dance on it. I've had 20/20 vision for my whole life - so what if I now have to stretch my arm out full-length to read the label on a bottle? I think glasses can look very foxy. I drove around this morning in such a dream that I committed three traffic violations on the trot. To cut a long story short, I'd lost my mind. But I survived, and so did everyone else, and I now have a new chapter for my book which I was struggling with.
Anyway, who cares if my knee and my eyes and my ability to concentrate give out occasionally? If I don't, why should anyone else? Other people's opinions matter so much less to me these days, and that gives me such a sense of freedom that I wouldn't trade it for the world, even to get back a twinge-free and well-oiled knee .
Tonight, I'm off to see Ironman 2. It wll be very silly and completely unedifying and I will absolutely love it. I won't take any notice of any reviews because I will make up my own mind about it, and I won't be at all bothered if nobody else concurs. Furthermore, I'm going to see it in Gold Class where I can stretch out my shonky knee in my fully-reclining seat, and have a drink and something very slightly gourmet to eat. I can do that, see, because I'm in my forties.
And if you don't agree and think your twenties or thirties have to be your best-ever decade? Well, I don't really care ... It's not my job to convince you. Anyway, all in good time. You'll see, my friend. You'll see.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
This is not about Rent.
Oh, all right, it is a bit. But I'm aware that this blog is in danger of becoming more like a review column, so I will only mention briefly that I saw Rent today, and it was excellent, although I really wished Paul Fagamalo could have seen his way to belting out 'Old Man River' from the scaffolding as he did such a fine job of it in Showboat. Made me cry, he did.
This time around, Michael Murphy made me cry, and not because he was bad as I was secretly half-expecting him to be. I thought he was marvellous, with a raw quality to his singing that fitted the role extremely well, and some very poignant acting. Well. What a turn-up that was.
We met him once, Me and My Girl, at one of my rare appearances on Good Morning. I suspect I was there reviewing other people's books as I don't believe I had any out myself at the time. Michael, meanwhile, had very recently not won NZ Idol, and seemed to be doing quite nicely out of his it - better than the winner, at any rate. My daughter, who was only about seven at the time, was completely overwhelmed; Michael was really lovely and called her 'Gorgeous' which incapacitated her still further, while fluffing his hair in the mirror in the Green Room rather a lot. He posed for a photo which we still have somewhere, Michael looking ludicrously young and fluffy-haired and my girl completely fan-faced, frozen to his side in a thrilled-yet-terrified pose. Then we picked up our new car in Christchurch, drove it all the way back to Auckland, and sang his song 'All We Are' for ten days straight in our open-topped Nissan Figaro. Ah, memories.
As for Rent itself - well, I do have to mention it just a little. For a start, I've now sung Seasons of Love in two different miniscule productions, and realised anew how appalling we were (or I was, at least) by comparison. Or perhaps not even by comparison.
Today, however, I spent a large part of the production reminiscing about when I first saw Rent, which was in about 1998, off-Broadway. I'd gone to New York for a hen weekend of all things (living in the UK and flush with money at the time, this was the sort of thing I could do. This was obviously before I became a writer). Being unable to get into any of the shows we'd heard of and actually wanted to see, we ended up with ragged seats in a crumbly theatre with vagrants in the doorway, wondering what on earth we'd let ourselves in for. And then the magic began ... Christmas bells are ringing!
Despite the near-constant screaming of fans, and the crowds waiting to mob the cast out on the street, we had no idea that we were there during the infancy of something very special, in the place where it belonged, at a time when the show's contents still had a potent and immediate resonance. When I went back to NY just a couple of years later, all the vagrants were all gone; I've no idea where Rent had got to.
That night, full of song and bonhomie and cheap wine, with at least one of us wearing a veil and waving a blow-up penis, we blew our budgets a little and travelled to the top of the World Trade Center for cocktails. Now that's gone too. Hard to imagine. Aids and drug abuse have apparently disappeared, too, cleared off the streets by the Mayor's road-sweepers, only to be replaced by other ills - although people are still being squeezed out of their homes by profiteering property nasties like Benny.
Hey, I know what I'll do - I'm going to write the New Millenium version of Rent. Picture this: four people meet on death row. One has had to sell his wife and children into the Philippino sex trade; another has robbed a bank and gunned down the teller; the other two were in a race to murder their broker from Goldman Sachs and ending up taking down the whole Futures floor. It'll feature anguish and loss and destitution, and, naturally, many many great songs like: 'Will you charge my I-Pad?' and 'Christmas Bells are Outlawed'. I'll call it (cue jazz hands) ... "MORTGAGE!"
Plus, I can start writing the first review straight away ... featuring brilliant performances from Michael Murphy, Paul Fagamalo, John Barrowman and the newly-trained and frankly fantastic Jill Marshall, this is a searing comment on corporate capitalist America that blah de blah de blah ...
Ah, yes, I can hear it all now. New plays, me in the plays, reviews, blogs about reviews. So, so many ways to listen to the sound of my own voice ...
This time around, Michael Murphy made me cry, and not because he was bad as I was secretly half-expecting him to be. I thought he was marvellous, with a raw quality to his singing that fitted the role extremely well, and some very poignant acting. Well. What a turn-up that was.
We met him once, Me and My Girl, at one of my rare appearances on Good Morning. I suspect I was there reviewing other people's books as I don't believe I had any out myself at the time. Michael, meanwhile, had very recently not won NZ Idol, and seemed to be doing quite nicely out of his it - better than the winner, at any rate. My daughter, who was only about seven at the time, was completely overwhelmed; Michael was really lovely and called her 'Gorgeous' which incapacitated her still further, while fluffing his hair in the mirror in the Green Room rather a lot. He posed for a photo which we still have somewhere, Michael looking ludicrously young and fluffy-haired and my girl completely fan-faced, frozen to his side in a thrilled-yet-terrified pose. Then we picked up our new car in Christchurch, drove it all the way back to Auckland, and sang his song 'All We Are' for ten days straight in our open-topped Nissan Figaro. Ah, memories.
As for Rent itself - well, I do have to mention it just a little. For a start, I've now sung Seasons of Love in two different miniscule productions, and realised anew how appalling we were (or I was, at least) by comparison. Or perhaps not even by comparison.
Today, however, I spent a large part of the production reminiscing about when I first saw Rent, which was in about 1998, off-Broadway. I'd gone to New York for a hen weekend of all things (living in the UK and flush with money at the time, this was the sort of thing I could do. This was obviously before I became a writer). Being unable to get into any of the shows we'd heard of and actually wanted to see, we ended up with ragged seats in a crumbly theatre with vagrants in the doorway, wondering what on earth we'd let ourselves in for. And then the magic began ... Christmas bells are ringing!
Despite the near-constant screaming of fans, and the crowds waiting to mob the cast out on the street, we had no idea that we were there during the infancy of something very special, in the place where it belonged, at a time when the show's contents still had a potent and immediate resonance. When I went back to NY just a couple of years later, all the vagrants were all gone; I've no idea where Rent had got to.
That night, full of song and bonhomie and cheap wine, with at least one of us wearing a veil and waving a blow-up penis, we blew our budgets a little and travelled to the top of the World Trade Center for cocktails. Now that's gone too. Hard to imagine. Aids and drug abuse have apparently disappeared, too, cleared off the streets by the Mayor's road-sweepers, only to be replaced by other ills - although people are still being squeezed out of their homes by profiteering property nasties like Benny.
Hey, I know what I'll do - I'm going to write the New Millenium version of Rent. Picture this: four people meet on death row. One has had to sell his wife and children into the Philippino sex trade; another has robbed a bank and gunned down the teller; the other two were in a race to murder their broker from Goldman Sachs and ending up taking down the whole Futures floor. It'll feature anguish and loss and destitution, and, naturally, many many great songs like: 'Will you charge my I-Pad?' and 'Christmas Bells are Outlawed'. I'll call it (cue jazz hands) ... "MORTGAGE!"
Plus, I can start writing the first review straight away ... featuring brilliant performances from Michael Murphy, Paul Fagamalo, John Barrowman and the newly-trained and frankly fantastic Jill Marshall, this is a searing comment on corporate capitalist America that blah de blah de blah ...
Ah, yes, I can hear it all now. New plays, me in the plays, reviews, blogs about reviews. So, so many ways to listen to the sound of my own voice ...
Sunday, April 18, 2010
It's not you, it's me.
I couldn't believe I'd actually uttered those awful, cliched words. I meant them, though. It was me who'd had enough. I was the one who wasn't prepared to try any more, the one who wanted out.
It had been coming for a long time, I'm sure, but it wasn't until I got some distance, literally putting the miles between us when I headed back to the UK for Christmas, that I realised the truth. It was over. It couldn't go on any more. I just had to say something.
I've never been very good at ending relationships. Somehow I always seem to take the cowardly way out, waiting until the next person's firmly in my sights, or just absenting myself until the other party has no choice but to end it for me. At least this time I was pretty honourable. Direct and honourable, with nobody else lined up and waiting in the wings.
Well, hardly, anyway. And I honestly did not go to the UK intending to ... well, look for someone new. God knows, if I'm bad at ending relationships, I'm even worse at starting them, becoming either tongue-tied and teenage or a blathering fool whenever I have a spark of interest in someone. This time, though, I handled it as well as I know how. Just an email. A simple, 'Hi, I think we should meet. How about a coffee?'
It really was just a coffee. Okay, there may have been scones involved, but beyond that, nothing actually happened. It was a great meeting though, and I really hoped it would lead to more.
So I came home and ended something that was probably crawling to a natural death anyway. Ended it without knowing where I would go next. Without being certain that there would be someone new. Without rancour and bitterness and accusations too. 'We've just grown apart. It's time to go our separate ways.' If only I'd known how to say that on a few previous occasions, I could have saved several people a chasm of heartache - myself included.
It was a good couple of weeks before I heard from Coffee and Scones. I really didn't know what to expect, but the outcome was good. Great, in fact ...
So now it's official: I have a new agent. I sense exciting times ahead, and I can't wait to see where this new relationship leads. Oh, I know right now it's new and mysterious and thrilling, but I also feel that it's really workable. Mutually beneficial. The Author and the Agent - a winning combination. Long may it continue.
It had been coming for a long time, I'm sure, but it wasn't until I got some distance, literally putting the miles between us when I headed back to the UK for Christmas, that I realised the truth. It was over. It couldn't go on any more. I just had to say something.
I've never been very good at ending relationships. Somehow I always seem to take the cowardly way out, waiting until the next person's firmly in my sights, or just absenting myself until the other party has no choice but to end it for me. At least this time I was pretty honourable. Direct and honourable, with nobody else lined up and waiting in the wings.
Well, hardly, anyway. And I honestly did not go to the UK intending to ... well, look for someone new. God knows, if I'm bad at ending relationships, I'm even worse at starting them, becoming either tongue-tied and teenage or a blathering fool whenever I have a spark of interest in someone. This time, though, I handled it as well as I know how. Just an email. A simple, 'Hi, I think we should meet. How about a coffee?'
It really was just a coffee. Okay, there may have been scones involved, but beyond that, nothing actually happened. It was a great meeting though, and I really hoped it would lead to more.
So I came home and ended something that was probably crawling to a natural death anyway. Ended it without knowing where I would go next. Without being certain that there would be someone new. Without rancour and bitterness and accusations too. 'We've just grown apart. It's time to go our separate ways.' If only I'd known how to say that on a few previous occasions, I could have saved several people a chasm of heartache - myself included.
It was a good couple of weeks before I heard from Coffee and Scones. I really didn't know what to expect, but the outcome was good. Great, in fact ...
So now it's official: I have a new agent. I sense exciting times ahead, and I can't wait to see where this new relationship leads. Oh, I know right now it's new and mysterious and thrilling, but I also feel that it's really workable. Mutually beneficial. The Author and the Agent - a winning combination. Long may it continue.
When the House was too Crowded
I will preface this blog by stating that this is not a complaint about Crowded House. Not at all. They were as gorgeous as ever, with Neil whirling his way across the stage between heart-aching vocals (a Spinning Finn, no less), and fabulous effects and backing and tune choice and all those things that make a gig great. Okay, they should really, REALLY have sung Better Be Home Soon, so I could have been transported back to the Manchester Apollo fifteen or more years ago when I first fell inexorably in love with them. But other than that, it was wonderful. Crowded House on their home turf. Who could ask for more?
But the crowd?! Who let them in? What is wrong with audiences these days, that they come to a sold-out concert and barely make it out of the bar, and then stand at the back in knots and talk at the top of their voices so that Spinny Finn and his cohorts are inaudible?
I experienced the same thing on Christmas Eve a few months ago, only that was at a pantomime in the suburbs of Manchester. The audience was mainly kids, and their parents who were hardly more than kids. Their mass ADHD inability to concentrate for more than two seconds without beating each other with a glow-stick appalled me (and that was the parents), but then at least the pantomime was badly-acted and poorly-scripted and probably didn't warrant much more attention.
But this was Crowded House, people - NZ legends and icons and all those other words we overuse so regularly these days. They performed with poise and elegance and gusto, while twenty rows of 'fans' at the back yelled into each other's faces, spitting beer phlegm, and would have been more suited to the Manchester scene. Manchester United. On Derby day.
Of course, the only time they weren't all making a racket was the one moment when I appeared to be the only person in the room who knew what was coming. The lights broke during Don't Dream It's Over (when I was actually wishing it was), and a lone light bulb swung out over the audience. Okay. Seen this before at the many CH concerts I've attended. Neil will strum, then it's over to the audience. Sure enough, next second, he strummed, and I opened my mouth wide as taught at my many TAPAC courses and belted out: 'Hey now, HEY no--ow ...'
Not another soul was singing. Well, actually - one other soul was singing: Neil Finn. But he was right down the front. The whole footy crowd in the back third of the room turned around and stared at me. 'Oh, that's right,' I thought. 'NOW you're quiet.'
Anyway, soon the rest of the audience caught on, and the crowd around me turned back to their beer-swilling and ignoring the music. And then it was over and we ran out. Better be home soon, I thought with menace. I was. And seeing as Neil and co didn't do it, I got out my guitar and slaughtered the whole song all by myself.
Next time (if there is a next time) I'm paying for the Royal Box.
But the crowd?! Who let them in? What is wrong with audiences these days, that they come to a sold-out concert and barely make it out of the bar, and then stand at the back in knots and talk at the top of their voices so that Spinny Finn and his cohorts are inaudible?
I experienced the same thing on Christmas Eve a few months ago, only that was at a pantomime in the suburbs of Manchester. The audience was mainly kids, and their parents who were hardly more than kids. Their mass ADHD inability to concentrate for more than two seconds without beating each other with a glow-stick appalled me (and that was the parents), but then at least the pantomime was badly-acted and poorly-scripted and probably didn't warrant much more attention.
But this was Crowded House, people - NZ legends and icons and all those other words we overuse so regularly these days. They performed with poise and elegance and gusto, while twenty rows of 'fans' at the back yelled into each other's faces, spitting beer phlegm, and would have been more suited to the Manchester scene. Manchester United. On Derby day.
Of course, the only time they weren't all making a racket was the one moment when I appeared to be the only person in the room who knew what was coming. The lights broke during Don't Dream It's Over (when I was actually wishing it was), and a lone light bulb swung out over the audience. Okay. Seen this before at the many CH concerts I've attended. Neil will strum, then it's over to the audience. Sure enough, next second, he strummed, and I opened my mouth wide as taught at my many TAPAC courses and belted out: 'Hey now, HEY no--ow ...'
Not another soul was singing. Well, actually - one other soul was singing: Neil Finn. But he was right down the front. The whole footy crowd in the back third of the room turned around and stared at me. 'Oh, that's right,' I thought. 'NOW you're quiet.'
Anyway, soon the rest of the audience caught on, and the crowd around me turned back to their beer-swilling and ignoring the music. And then it was over and we ran out. Better be home soon, I thought with menace. I was. And seeing as Neil and co didn't do it, I got out my guitar and slaughtered the whole song all by myself.
Next time (if there is a next time) I'm paying for the Royal Box.
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