Anybody with friends in the theatre will have been subject to what I to call the three-step attack.

Step 1) a change in profile picture

Step 2) an invitation to join an event page

Step 3) a barrage of self congratulatory black and white pictures of your friend in rehearsal

In the last few years the theatre-marketing arsenal has developed step 4: video. Previously, video was the domain of the ultra trendy or the ultra well funded. But in the past year it seemed as if almost every show had a trailer. From the depths of the BT midweek 21:30 slot to the Elysian heights of the playhouse, video is becoming the done thing. 

This is an interesting phenomenon seen not only at Oxford. Top-drawer theatres in the UK and around the world have been embracing video by producing trailers for years now. The proliferation of filmed footage is however not only a marketing gimmick. Video and theatre are becoming increasingly symbiotic; their integration may prove to be the distinctive feature of this epoch’s dramatic endeavors. For this reason it is worth pausing to consider what impact it might have on the future of theatre and crucially whether it is a good thing.

Video has of course been around for a while now, but one important thing is entirely novel to this day and age: Accessibility. Previously, if you wanted to have footage in a production, you would find yourself spending money, time and human resources on acquiring and developing celluloid film, let alone projecting it as part of your show. With digital filmmaking this has become quite literally a one-man job.

Take the Hilary Term production of King Lear: On this show the character of the fool swanned around with a camera and filmed parts of the play. This filming was projected live onto a screen at the back of the stage so that we shared in the fool’s recorded memories in real-time on stage. Fifteen, maybe even ten years ago this would have been impossible, especially for a student production. The way digital filmmaking facilitated King Lear shows how much more accessible and consequently much more ambitious the usage of video in theatre can be. 

Wonderful though the democratization of video is, the results have nonetheless been mixed. Sometimes it has seemed as if the directors use it solely by virtue of the fact that they had not been able to use it before. In David Tennat’s Hamlet we see the footage from a video camera he commandeers during the play within a play scene. Why? I’m still not sure. Now that we know what can be done, perhaps we should start to discuss when and why it should be done.

Let’s start by when it shouldn’t be done. I once saw a production of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe in which the director made the intriguing decision of filming rather than staging Aslan’s murder. This scene was projected and shown in lieu of the actors performing it live .It became apparent that the motivation for video was to more ‘realistically’ depict the scene. But using video solely to render an action ‘believable’ is to terribly misunderstand and condescend on the nature of theatrical artifice. On-stage action is not believable because it resembles reality. Rather, what happens on stage is believable because the language of theatre has a relationship to reality which makes us believe that what is onstage is real. We should remember that film, while it also speaks a language that imitates reality, is not (as some maybe tempted to think) any more real than theatre. This is not to say that cinema does not also have value, it too has its own language that makes the fictional real. To view film as an enhancing supplement to theatrical artifice would predicate the assumption that cinema is inherently more realistic. Of course film, however, is every bit as artificial as theatre and neither is more ‘realistic’ than the other. Both are languages seeking to relate to reality, but neither is more direct or believable in representing it. Using film as supplement to theatre’s supposed ‘unrealism’ is as strange as using live actors in a cinema in order to make the film more believable.

Video can however be used to increase the sense of realism when it is integrated into theatrical language. One great example of this was the National Theatre’s production of the The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. Here floor projections were used as a sort of shifting set, representing houses or trains. This worked because the video was used as part of the reality of the play, rather than as a substitute for it. It gave the production huge versatility, as it could create almost any set instantly.

Where we see the most innovative and still ambiguous integration of video and theatre is in the productions in which the action is filmed and projected live during the performance. The filming introduces an alien cinematic idiom but paradoxically in a way that amplifies the theatrical language on stage. I am still not sure what to make of this.

Part of my uncertainty as regards the above use of video is that it goes to the heart of how video both supplements and threatens the way in which theatre invokes reality. It has always been the allure of theatre that it turns the materiality of the real world into that of a story world. Consequently, when the show convinces you, it as if fiction has been made incarnate. Video is incorporeal, it is of a different order to the materiality of theatre. As such video cannot achieve this theatrical materialization of the fictional. For this reason it will be the triumph of future productions if they can create a symbiosis by which the power of theatre remains undiluted by the easy temptations of filmic ‘realism’ while harnessing the possibilities of video, to make theatre all the more material.

Those who donned crochet crop tops had evidently missed the geographical memo – Tramlines Festival 2015 was held beyond Sheffield’s Crookesmoor, not Coachella. Members of the Forever 21 tribe were however, few and far between with the more common sight at this year’s Tramlines being local families and anorak-clad thirty-somethings. I am an ardent supporter of the lesser-known festival; it all feels so much more relaxed. With the sole aim of fun to be had, there is neither the desire nor the need to impress. This is true for artists and audience alike. So, from 24th-26th July, with no hope of starring roles on BBC coverage, all crochet-anklet fantasies were ditched.

Tramlines, now in its seventh year, used to be free, but £30 was really a bargain considering the sheer number of venues and the promising line-up over the weekend. The Charlatans, Basement Jaxx and Buzzcocks headlined, but Ezra Furman and Wu-Tang Clan cancelled last minute. They were swiftly replaced by De La Soul however – heroes considering the panic prompted by this tragic twist in line-up.

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The Charlatans, the first act I saw on Friday, obviously need a mention. These relics of the ‘Madchester’ scene rocked out all the classics, and with the hypnotic hair-swishing of Tim Burgess, the anthemic ‘The Only One I Know’ had a mesmerising effect. It was charming to see kids on their dad’s shoulders, blissfully unaware of the resonance the band – with their psychedelic guitars and Britpop whine – continues to hold for many. Other legendary acts lingered on the horizon and the Queen of Motown herself, Martha Reeves, took to the main stage with her Vandellas on the Saturday.

My summer officially commenced with the jingling bells of ‘Heatwave’, but the real wave was one of pseudo-nostalgia for the sixties I’ll never know. Martha’s god-sent lungs flooded the heart of Sheffield with pure joy. The reverberations of her rich voice and the jubilation of the brass section had the whole park groovin’; it was hard for the residents of nearby blocks of flats not to poke out of windows. An invitation across the nation indeed. Whilst we all shimmied, I realised that Martha makes it all ok; I want her to sit on the UN Security Council and hold my hand during finals. ‘Dancing in the Street’ was even more fantastic than you’d imagine and had me calculating, between soul-boosting verses, on what planet I could fund either tickets to New Orleans or the construction of a time-machine.

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Basement Jaxx were up next and the energy radiating from the stage was nothing short of thrilling. A trippy display of ballet dancers, gorillas and gymnasts fuelled the already high crowd. ‘Red Alert’ and ‘Where’s Your Head At?’ were insane, but to complete the throw-back binge, I wished they’d played ‘Raindrops’. At one point, we were told to sit on the ground, and in defiance of all physical laws, the entire park was able to jump to their feet once more for the drop. Felix Buxton’s DJ set later at Sheffield O2 was far less entertaining, I suppose because I’d had an intense Basement Jaxx session only hours before and visually, the O2 was never going to rival the carnival of the main stage. Buxton followed Mike Skinner’s set which was pretty damn good, but I found this ‘chirpy chappy’ of The Streets had got a bit too cool for my liking. Then again, biting ordinariness and candid colloquialisms have no place in pounding club remixes. He did play ‘Fit But You Know It’ though, which provided silly relief, albeit briefly. I always find DJ sets very weird. You want to be dancing like you’re in a club, in groups, but everyone rigidly faces forward, staring at a rather dull technical show and a shadowy DJ bobbing about in the gloom.

Speaking of gloom, the evening before played host to the most bizarre band I’ve ever seen. One of Sheffield’s favourite night-bars, West Street Live, a magical place of 50p shots and toilet graffiti by people called ‘Bryony’, was hijacked by the blaring uniqueness of Def Goldblum. I’m normally fairly laid-back with the whole tinnitus thing, but Def Goldblum struck a chord, or more likely, an auditory nerve. An alarming fusion of metal and hip-hop (deemed an historical, “inconceivable and never-before attempted” feat by the band) tore through the crowded, unprepared bar. Front man Duke01’s bulging eyes and his band’s SlipKnot-esque masks are still seared across my memory. Duke01 asked the pub how much we’d paid for entry. We yelled back -almost in unison and rather smugly- that it was ‘FREE!’ Def Goldblum then declared they were going to give us our money’s worth. Bemused by thoughts of Duke01 and Martha Reeves performing duo, I was surprised to hear Duke01 champion similar community-spirit vibes. Denouncing “all the shit and war on Facebook”, Duke01 declared West Street Live a strictly ‘good news and good vibes’ zone, so long as he reigned on stage. That, however, signals the end of my comprehension.  I couldn’t tell you a single lyric beyond the bellowed “FILTAR DAH SPECTRUMMM” – not that you’d be able to hear me even if I could. Just listen to them…you’ll get what I mean. 

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 Now, after researching the Nottingham-based band, I realise I missed a lot in their performance. When the Jeff Goldblum pun clicked, shortly before I unearthed an Annie Hall reference in one of their interviews, I suddenly realised this witty Public Enemy-inspired band thrives on popular culture.  “How would sir like his mistakes this evening?” in ‘Eat your Mistakes’ is just one of the many examples of pun-rich lyrics. The tribute, of the band’s name and album title, to the queasy horror sci-fi 1986 remake of The Fly is also apparent in their cover art. And yet, thinking of the performance, there was very little in the way of metamorphoses. The noise was relentless. I can only describe the experience as being wedged beneath the underground tracks while the Morden-bound train storms over you for all eternity. Then again, a stultified Kafka has never been so therapeutic. Those who attempted to dance (all 6 of us) really let off some steam with the 50p shots proving superfluous in loosening inhibitions – Duke01 took care of that. In retrospect, Def Goldblum succeeded: I got the queasiness, the horror, and the sci-fi sense of impending doom and Duke01’s premonition was realised when I stepped out onto the Friday night Sheffield streets. I was met by apocalyptic scenes of strewn polyester chip containers as far my scorched eyeballs could see.

We soon sought refuge in another bar – Bears and Bungalows. It was absolutely rammed full, with this pealing but tingling music playing; the sort used on the soundtrack in arty movies for the bedroom scenes. After Def Goldblum, it was the equivalent of an iced jug of Evian water following the cinnamon challenge. Edging nearer to the bar, I was taken-aback to discover the powerful voice was being produced live by a very petite woman. What I caught of Butterclock’s performance was glittery, like her elbow-long gloves. With the titillating combo of experimental electro baseline and stridently seductive vocals, Laura Clock’s stage name makes perfect sense. There is the regular beating of the clock with the soft echoes of her voice melting like butter into the strong synth beats. There are wisps of Lana Del Rey’s second album ‘Ultraviolence’ with that cute, Lolita-like caterwauling and a lurking darkness behind the sweetness. None of it is very distinctive, but like I said, great background music.

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I was gutted that I had to get home and miss the Sunday line up but I’m comforted to hear that the queue for Billy Bragg was impossible, and I saw the Buzzcocks the weekend after anyway. I’m also miffed that The Sugarhill Gang somehow escaped my radar. Then again, with countless venues (including the city’s cathedral) and my hell-bent mission to sample some new sounds, I’m not too disappointed. A great place to discover fresh acts or long-forgotten ones, I’ll be returning to Tramlines next year when I become tired of my playlists once more. 

Does it matter if Drake wrote his own lyrics?

Let’s face it: he probably doesn’t write them. Despite some impressive ether aimed at Meek Mill over the last week culminating in a brutal, meme-laden OVO Fest, and an almost unanimous reaction in the hip-hop community that he has been winning this beef so far, he has yet to deny the claims the Philly rapper laid at his door. Drake’s producer 40 spoke out but didn’t outright deny them. What’s more, supposed true lyricist Quentin Miller is uncredited on Meek’s “RICO”, the track that started the whole beef, so his supposed title of “co-writer” seems not to carry much weight.

Assuming, on the balance of probability, that Drake doesn’t write his lyrics, we’re forced to address the question of the extent to which we can take an artist and their art separately. If we admire a painting by someone, or enjoy the music or writing of an individual, then find out that they didn’t create their work then does it lessen our enjoyment?

In art, the same sort of dilemma has applied when it emerged that many of the most prominent names in Abstract Expressionism, including such titans as Rothko and Pollock, were sponsored by the CIA to promote their art and its inherently capitalist nature as the Cold War got underway. Like hip-hop, Expressionist art relies on the premise that only one person could have made a work – that it is an extension of them, and their character, and of the truth. What, then, to do when this is thrown into question?

There are two ways of dealing with the murky relationship between an artist and their creations.

One is a matter of extremity, in either direction. An attitude can be taken that it doesn’t matter – we can still imagine the imagery Drake evokes in his lyrics, still admire his flow and delivery, still enjoy 40’s production and still sing or dance (or do whatever else people like to do) to his music. Or we can reject him as fake, make comparisons to Milli Vanilli, claim we always thought he was soft and not “real” hip-hop.

The other option is more nuanced. Why not accept that Drake uses a ghostwriter, but that his music still has an intensely personal edge? The possibility that some, but not all his songs are ghostwritten leaves more space for him to remain a credible artist in the eyes of purists. After all, Michelangelo didn’t paint the Sistine Chapel – he had a team of helpers and did the important bits himself. Kanye uses ghostwriters and doesn’t give a shit. So did Dre. It’s a tactic that increases output and ultimately allows us to enjoy more art created by these inspired people.

It’s probably obvious that I subscribe to this line of thought. For an artist as successful as Drake to be as prolific as he is, it would be disingenuous to kid oneself into believing there was no-one else behind him. Drake’s doing bigger numbers than the Beatles in the USA – of course he didn’t sit there for an hour writing the lyrics to that B-side about sexing women and body lotion and late-night self-doubt.

But. There are some songs that I can’t believe he didn’t write himself. Namely, the ones that are so closely linked to his past and his life before fame that no-one could know about the subject matter except him. In “You and the Six”, Drake recounts talking to his mother, worrying about what she thinks of his lifestyle and mulling her separation from his father. He refers to visiting his dad in Memphis as a kid. In “Club Paradise”, Drake name drops specific figures from the past from whom he had grown apart, regretting the passage of time and his gradual alienation from his old circles in Toronto.

All that needs to be said about these lines is that it would be indescribably cynical if someone else wrote them, not to mention the fact it’d be almost impossible to do so. Would a ghostwriter really write about “Rosemary” or “Leanne Sealy”? Did Drake simply tell Quentin Miller to name-drop these women? Does he really not know them at all? Again, I can’t bring myself to believe that they are anything other than real people from Drake’s past, about whom he is writing honestly.

So no, even if some of Drake’s songs are ghostwritten, if it means we get to experience more music from a hugely prolific artist of great talent and even greater influence, then long may it continue. Just so long as that core element of truth remains.

★★★☆☆
Three stars

Much of the critical reception of Tame Impala’s third album Currents has focused on setting it apart as something totally fresh for Kevin Parker. Listening to the album, it becomes clear that the transition is present but exaggerated. While the album has an undeniably new electronic gleam, in many ways it simply carries on Parker’s obvious fascination with melody and rhythm, psychedelia and isolation from earlier albums. Thematically, the album’s opener, ‘Let it Happen’ has a lot in common with Innerspeaker’s ‘Desire Be Desire Go’ and Lonerism’s ‘Nothing That Has Happened So Far Has Been Anything We Could Control’. The lengthy, meandering track, one of the strongest on a strong album, illustrates that ‘go with the flow’ mentality that Parker’s music has become known for; its melody shifts and trips over itself as though literally caught in a groove. Perhaps, then, Tame Impala’s electric makeover is not such a sharp departure after all.

As time has gone on, Parker has become less and less bothered about passing off Tame Impala as anything other than a solo project, and Currents is his most personal and direct album to date. The album’s aural shifts reflect his lyrical obsession with moments of change, anticipation, regret and a sense of self that fluctuates in strength. The subject matter isn’t always subtle- one track is titled ‘Yes I’m Changing’- but it doesn’t need to be. Parker’s personal and revealing lyrics are part of what allows Tame Impala to retain a sense of intimacy even within stadium-ready power ballads. It’s what makes Tame Impala’s music so equally suited to gloom and celebration.

Throughout the album, Parker relies on that pleasantly jarring combination of lyrics that reflect melancholy isolation, and melodies that have a bright, summery simplicity. His falsetto is as emotive and slightly saccharine as ever. Currents feels new partly because it takes elements that have always worked for Tame Impala and dials them up to saturation point. It’s this maximalism that makes the album absorbing, satisfying, but also a little over-ripe in places (the self-parodying silliness of ‘Past Life’ just feels out of place). It also means that anyone coming to the album in the hope of anything startlingly experimental will almost certainly be disappointed. Currents, despite what several critics have implied, is not the Kid A to Lonerism’s OK Computer. Parker has simply traded his psych-rock vibe for a different kind of nostalgia, his own version of smooth 70’s radio hits. It’s a sound that suits him. The most enjoyable elements of the album are in its addictive simplicity; the immediately memorable bass line that launches ‘Eventually’ and the tuneful riffs of ‘’Cause I’m a Man’.

From Talking Heads to Arcade Fire, Tame Impala is hardly the first rock band to turn to, in Parker’s own words, ‘dorky, white disco funk’, and in 2015 genre labels like ‘rock band’ feel increasingly unstable anyway. Parker’s guitar was always so heavily doused in reverb and skilfully refracted through studio manipulation, that the shift to synth hardly comes as a shock, particularly when it is delivered with the pure melodic ease that Tame Impala fans have come to expect. Currents may not be a shocking or an extraordinary album, but it’s a highly enjoyable one, and that’s more than enough.