This week, Ben Lafferty and Rob Morgan interview Chanya Button, director of Angels in America at the Union, and review Angels in America and Small Change (Keble O'Reilly).
Part One: Interview with Chanya Button
Part Two: Angels in America
Part Three: Small Change
Check back weekly for new episodes!

by Emma WhipdayPicture the scene. Paris, 1912. Hundreds of spectators are seated in the Théâtre du Châtelet to watch a new Russian ballet scored by Debussy. Onstage, a beautiful Russian boy of twenty-two, dressed as a faun, masturbates through his golden tights. He presses up against a silken scarf, stolen from a ballerina dressed as a nymph. Applause is intermingled with boos, hisses and gasps, as the management hurriedly drop the curtain. Vaslav Nijinsky’s unforgettable performance changed the face of ballet forever. He was publicly denounced for obscenity, but defended by foremost artists of the day, from Rodin to Proust, in a scandal that shook Paris.Sadly, this occurrence has been largely forgotten. The image of ballet in the popular press is epitomised by Darcy Bussel; that of pretty girls prancing about in tutus. Billy Elliot is another name that springs to mind, but the portrait of northern-boy-made-good fails to challenge the stereotypes that the word ‘ballet’ evokes. The most radical element of ballet portrayed in the film is (gasp) the all-male cast of Swan Lake.Which is not to say that Billy Elliot got it wrong. It’s simply that the film showed so small a part of the picture. Every art has its mould-breakers, from James Joyce and Virginia Woolf, to Picasso, Dali and, more recently, Tracey Emin. The scandal surrounding Emin’s condom-strewn installation My Bed was nothing compared to that prompted by Nijinsky’s on-stage masturbation in L’après-Midi d’un Faune: why then do innovations in all other arts remain prominent in the public consciousness, whilst those in the ballet world are largely forgotten? The above example might suggest that this scandal in the ballet world was due to its gratuitous sexual element; many would say the same of Emin’s My Bed. Yet the incident was in fact just one small part in a movement which was revolutionary in its effect on the way ballet was perceived. It involved not just ballet itself but music, art and costume design; it was to influence areas as diverse as film, fashion and the culture of celebrity. Any account of those involved reads like a Who’s Who of the foremost artists, composers and dancers of the period, including Picasso, Bakst, Debussy, Ravel, Stravinsky, Nijinsky and Pavlova. The movement itself was entirely orchestrated by one man: a Russian exile called Diaghilev.When Serge Diaghilev arrived at the University of St. Petersburg, his fellow students found him ‘provincial’. Not for long, however; the eighteen-year-old soon found himself at the centre of a group of artists and composers, all striving to establish themselves in the arts world, and all dreaming of greatness. Perhaps surprisingly, ballet was not Diaghilev’s principal interest. His first ambition was to be a composer, but he lacked the talent. Instead, he turned to art, editing the magazine Mir Iskusstva from 1889 until 1904. It was during these years that he developed the traits which were to bring him such cataclysmic success: a flair for public relations, the ability to surround himself with an entourage of like-minded individuals, a perfectionist eye for detail and a talent for discovering unknowns. His next project involved exhibiting a collection of Russian art, firstly in St. Petersburg, then later in Paris. This prompted something of a Russian revival; Russia had largely gone out of fashion. Diaghilev’s next step was to organize a season of Russian opera and ballet, to keep the public interested. The Ballet Russes was born, and proved so popular that the opera was soon dropped from the repertoire.For the next few years, the Ballet Russes was the height of fashion, and Diaghilev discovered such huge talents as composer Stravinsky and dancer/choreographer Nijinsky. He also pioneered huge advances in set and costume design. Bakst, who collaborated with Diaghilev on Mir Iskusstva, designed costumes for Cléopâtre, Scheherazade and Le Spectre de la Rose which influenced the fashions that appeared in the windows of Harvey Nichols; after a tendency towards monochrome, clashing, jewel-like colours suddenly became the vogue. Meanwhile, Picasso was introduced to Diaghilev by his friend Jean Cocteau, who wanted Diaghilev to stage a ballet representing ‘the best in Parisian modernism’. Any of the ballets which Picasso designed the sets for, from Parade to Le Train Bleu, could hold claim to that title. Each part of the meticulously planned performances was ‘modern’ to the extreme.It wouldn’t be an over-exaggeration to say that, to all intents and purposes, Diaghilev was the Ballet Russes. So much so, that when Diaghilev died, the company immediately fell apart, consumed by its creditors. This was in part due to Diaghilev’s close relationships with the stars. He not only mentored Nijinsky, persuading him to choreograph; he was also his lover, from their first meeting until Nijinsky’s secret marriage to one of the touring dancers. When Diaghilev learned of the marriage, he fired him from the company, and Nijinsky gradually disintegrated into mental illness. Some blame Diaghilev, believing it was his jealousy and possessiveness that drove his lover away. Others blame Nijinsky’s wife for seducing him in the first place. Whatever the truth of it, Nijinsky spent the remainder of his life in mental hospitals, and never danced again.Diaghilev also adored the dancer Massine, who became the principal, and replaced Nijinsky as choreographer. When Diaghilev suspected Massine of loving a woman, he had the woman followed, and even briefly kidnapped her. Yet despite his jealousy and possessiveness, Diaghilev had a charisma that inspired huge loyalty in those around him. His vision was so powerful that, even after his death and the dispersion of his company, the Ballet Russes was reformed in Monte Carlo, with the help of Massine. The company employed a new generation of dancers, many of them the daughters of Russian immigrants, whilst resurrecting the set and costume designs used by the original Ballet Russes, and performing many of the ballets from their repertoire. Strangely enough, the aspects of the movement most widely remembered are those that would make the tabloids today. On YouTube, you can find a clip from the 1980 Hebert Ross film Nijinsky, depicting a reconstruction of the dance which ends in Nijinsky’s onstage masturbation. The clip ends with a sentence worthy of any headline: ‘You’ve just masturbated in front of all Paris!’ Another scandal which revolved around Nijinsky was his early refusal to wear the ‘modesty skirt’ then mandatory for male dancers. Instead he wore only the rather revealing tights. This was 1911, and the audience included such eminent figures as the Tsar’s mother. Nijinsky was immediately fired from the company. The company was the Imperial Russian Ballet, one of the most illustrious in the world; and the role which Nijinsky forsook for the sake of his costume was that of ‘Albrecht’ in Giselle, his first principal role. He later complained, ‘I was made to suffer for my modernity’. The scandal set a precedent; forty-nine years later, Rudolph Nureyev, a ‘ballet celebrity’ to rival Nijinsky, wore a short jacket with sheer tights in order that the audience might better see the ‘line’ of his body. However, the single most talked-about event in the world of ballet had little to do with revealing costumes. Two of Diaghilev’s most talented protégées were Nijinsky and Stravinsky, and in 1913, the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées witnessed the performance of The Rite of Spring, choreographed by Nijinsky, scored by Stravinsky. It was the most controversial ballet of all time.Many of the movements were the antithesis of classical ballet. Ballet dancers are trained to be ‘turned out’; that is, when they stand with their feet together, their heels must be touching, and their toes must be facing in almost opposite directions. In The Rite of Spring, however, Nijinsky decided that, to produce the right effect, the dancers had to be ‘turned in’. Indeed, the dancers had to un-learn almost every technique that had formed the basis of their balletic educations. Feet weren’t pointed, arms were stiff rather than relaxed, and many of the movements were clumsy rather than delicate. This new style took the dancers 120 rehearsals to perfect, and resulted in many injuries.Of course, even classical ballet is a dangerous art. The majority of dancers have to stop dancing as they hit their thirties, and many have foot and ankle trouble, and even hip replacements, in later life. Ballet, despite its beauty, puts the body under a strain that it wasn’t designed for. What’s more, it requires a level of fitness that would rival that of most professional athletes. Perhaps this explains the fascination with the idea of dancing to death. This motif appears in many ballets, perhaps most famously in Giselle, where the spirits of women betrayed in love dance their errant lovers to their graves. These death-dances are no doubt arduous, but they appear effortless, and the audience does not fear for the safety of those attempting them. Nijinsky, however, plays with that convention, in creating a ballet that shows a manic and frenzied dance to the death, with the dancer attempting it looking both pained and exhausted. The premise is that the dancer is chosen as a sacrifice to the god of spring, and Nijinsky’s choreography exploits this idea to its full and gruesome effect.The strange contortions into which Nijinsky forced the human body were as shocking – and influential – as the innovations in set and costume. Yet it was not these elements alone that caused the controversy, but rather the combination of the almost bestial nature of the dance with Stravinsky’s unearthly score, the likes of which had never before been experienced. Stravinsky’s rhythms were irregular and his chords discordant. What’s more, this was the first score ever to utilize percussion as a section of the orchestra in its own right. The result was the most ground-breaking ballet ever created.To call the reaction of the audience a riot is not an exaggeration. The strife between those who supported the ballet and those who deplored it was so strong that fist-fights were started in the aisles. The resulting pandemonium was so loud that the dancers could not hear the orchestra, and Nijinsky was forced to stand in the wings, counting loudly to ensure the dancers kept in time. Many people left, but the chaos continued; eventually the police got involved, but even they were unable to restore order. Nijinsky and Stravinsky were distraught, but Diaghilev was reportedly delighted: he could not have hoped for better publicity. There has never been a scandal to rival this in the ballet world; even the arts world in general, never short of scandals, would find it hard to compete.Diaghilev’s Ballet Russes became a catalyst for change in almost every form of art. It spawned countless copies, and was the inspiration for numerous films, television dramas, books, memoirs, documentaries, and even songs, making an indelible mark on modern culture. It became the hallmark for rebellion against convention and tradition, though those who later broke boundaries in mediums like sculpture, popular music and film may not remember or credit it. So when you think of ballet, by all means think of tutus, pointe shoes, and Darcey Bussel. Classical ballet has its merits, and I for one would not disparage it. Just don’t forget that there was once a time when ballet changed the world.

by Rosie Fearon

If you strip I Do down to its fundamental components it can be probably best be summarised as Pretty Woman seen through a slightly quirky French filter. Did you ever catch Richard Gere wearing a gimp mask? No; I didn’t think so. The protagonist is Luis, a middle aged perfumier who is the archetypal committment-phobe; reluctant to move on from his adolescence and escape from the Godfather-esque herd of matriarchs who run his life for him. Pushing him towards marriage they introduce him to a series of attractive, intelligent women who add to the feminine blanket that surrounds him, emphasised through the director’s clever employment of split screen technique. Determined to take action and to regain his masculinity, Luis decides to hire someone to pose as a potential fiancé in order to halt the wife-hunting female brethren in their tracks. After dismissing internet escorts as too expensive (Julia Roberts wouldn’t get a look in), he persuades Emanuelle, a colleague’s sister to take the job. After successfully getting dumped at the altar, Luis’ plan appears to have worked a little too well, and the comedic second half of the film is dominated by his campaign to get his family to reverse their opinions about Emma so that he can escape from the relationship. The film then takes the predictable turn of deeper feelings developing between the two main characters, which is complicated slightly by the fact that Emma is in the middle of adopting a child (from Brazil; how very Angelina of her). The fact that Luis, a fundamentally selfish and slightly pedantic neat freak, is won over by the toothy smile of an orphan from the other side of the world seems to let the film down slightly. I Do tries to deviate from the traditional rom-com format by bulking up its plot with sidelines that are never fully developed, apparently designed to keep us wondering about the outcome of the story. These tagged on sections of the narrative are never quite engaging enough to make us really care about the characters they involve. The time would be better spent in exploring the understated chemistry that exists between Luis and Emanuelle, and reconciling the fact that they both seem to be searching for something but can’t quite seem to grasp it.A charming, Saturday morning piece of film-making, I Do isn’t going to change the world, but it succeeded in making the afternoon’s essay a lot easier to write after a good dose of boy meets girl, boy and girl have some problems, and boy and girl shack up together with an extremely cute baby.

by Emma Butterfield

This is not porn. Cherwell might sign its editor up to an escort agency, but it hasn’t yet sunk to reviewing porn. That said, there are lots of shots of men covered in oil. Admittedly, they’re turn-of-the-century Russians, but if that’s your thing, you’ll probably enjoy the film more than I did. That’s not to say that I didn’t like the film – just that it’s unsettling. A Crude Awakening is a documentary about the oil industry: how it has developed over the last century, and why we’re now on the brink of a serious shortfall in supply. And, yes, it does mention Iraq. The film’s basic premise is hardly revelatory: our economy is at odds with geology. We are often told that we’re addicted to oil: A Crude Awakening illustrates the economics which drive that addiction. A barrel of crude oil contains enough energy to do 25,000 man-hours of work. It makes headlines when the price of oil reaches fifty dollars a barrel, but compared to the equivalent cost of labour, oil is incredibly cheap. It’s this cheap energy which has sustained global industrialisation, and the concurrent improvement in our standard of living. It also sustains us in a more visceral sense: for every calorie consumed in the developed world, 10 calories in fuel energy have been expended in production. This is a fascinating and very well-made documentary; come on, I managed to follow it all. I shall now set about proving its hard-hitting nature by my own, newly-informed synopsis. Standard market economics reassure us that as oil becomes scarcer its price will rise, making alternative fuels more attractive. The investment in alternatives will pay off, as improvements in technology make them more efficient and economies of scale render them affordable. What the market demands, the market will supply: ask and it shall be given unto you. Even this optimistic model allows that there will be a troubled transition period, during which oil is effectively unavailable (either exhausted, or unaffordable), and the alternatives unready to meet the pressing demand for energy. In the film, a panel of talking heads describe how abrupt and uncomfortable this transition will be. For years, oil-producing countries’ production quotas were capped according to their stated reserves of oil, and so they overstated their reserves in order to maximise production. Despite our growing thirst for oil those "stated reserves" remain unchanged: each member claims to be finding new oil as fast as they are extracting it. Since the market price is depressed by these fictional reserves, when the oil does run out, there will be no forewarning when the oil price soars. We’re headed for a crash. Like all documentaries, all this is skewed by the directors’ choice of interviewees, and their editing decisions. What’s interesting is the diversity of pundits represented: geologists, the former head of OPEC, Stanford professors. No dissenting voices are heard, because all of the assembled dignitaries agree on the film’s central argument: oil is finite and production has peaked, but our demand is growing. We are taught that we are able to exercise free will because we live in a liberal democracy. A Crude Awakening shows that our freedom depends on the fact that we are unbound from the land and from manual labour: our freedom depends on oil.

by Hilary Aked

In a film directed by Spike Jonze with a flawless screenplay by Charlie Kaufman, you learn to expect some truly strange and comic moments, but this one takes the biscuit. One scene from Being John Malkovich, which flies gloriously out of leftfield-nowhere, takes place directly after a superficially sentimental moment between pathetic loser Craig (John Cusack) and his wife, Lottie (Cameron Diaz). He realises he has become the husband from hell – "What have I become? My wife’s in a cage with a monkey". Indeed she is, yet she reassures him that he is "not a monster, just a very confused man". Husband and wife say they love each other, and he walks over to the cage.

Rather than releasing her from her imprisonment however, he makes a phone call, forcing Lottie, at gun-point, to talk to his colleague Maxine, with whom they are both infatuated. A meet-up is arranged, incidentally, through a portal leading to John Malkovich’s brain. Weird and wonderful, it’s also flaunting the absurdity of the characters’ behaviour and situation.

Hints have been occasionally dropped that Lottie’s pet chimpanzee, Elijah, suffers from "suppressed childhood trauma" of an unspecified nature. He is seeing a psychotherapist, we gather, but these allusions are too minor to warrant the title ‘subplot’. However, everything we weren’t really wondering is revealed to us when Elijah watches his beloved owner struggling to free herself from the ropes which bind her wrists. Suddenly, the camera begins to zoom in on Elijah. His eyes are narrowed; his moment of glory has arrived. Piano music surges and is then superseded by – what else? – bongo drums. We are in his memory, in a verdant jungle; the picture is blurry and overexposed. Looking at the world from Elijah’s point of view, from high up in a tree, the camera lurches about in a frenzy, witnessing the capture of two other monkeys by poachers: Elijah’s parents. We hear frantic monkey noises, panting, the sound of feet running, and men shouting. Elijah approaches his captive parents, and subtitles translate their fearful, squealed message: "Son, untie your father and me…quickly! Before they return!" We see a small pair of chimp hands enter into the frame and struggle to untie the ropes, but to no avail. Enlightened as to the special resonance of the challenge ahead, we cut back to the apartment where Elijah shakes off the memory and determinedly sets to work on Lottie’s bonds, freeing her to a backdrop of poignant strings.

The flashback itself lasts less than a minute, but it’s a priceless interruption. An abrupt, violent and potentially disturbing scene, hilariously undercut by the subtitles and context. Although totally superfluous to the main plot, it if far from an unnecessary throwaway scene; brilliantly bizarre moments like this make the movie.

by Emma Butterfield

Pete Doherty. The Libertines. Made your mind up already? The album contains no unreleased material, and I imagine the rationale behind releasing it is to subsidise Doherty’s habits, or the other members’ vanity bands. It won’t reach new listeners that somehow missed them the first time around (all of 3 years ago), and their antics have already polarised their potential audience. Aficionados have already sought out every demo and bootleg, and the rest of us have been avidly ignoring them (and will presumably continue to do so).

That said, if they were ever going to release a best of, it would have to be now: they depend on our knowledge of their antics. ‘What Katie Did’ is a tacky Beach Boys pastiche (without the 4-part harmony), whose appeal derives from the fact that we all know who Katie is. This is Doherty’s killer device – the listener feels like they’re in on his secrets. Doherty’s lauded wit is nothing more than a series of inside jokes.

The poppy five-note melodies and four-line choruses have lasting appeal, but the humour will fall flat when the audience isn’t au courant with the self-proclaimed prince of Albion and his ‘bird from South London’. All that will remain are some songs which attempt a punk aesthetic (a conspicuous gurgling scream in ‘Up the Bracket’, and every song less than 4 minutes), but maintain a simple tunefulness. The Libertines are Busted, but with suits and skag. Their sound is at odds with their reputation for outrage – it’s conventional, pretty and melodic: the title track, with its refrain of ‘oh I cherish you my love’ is very sweet (saccharine, in fact, were it not for the occasional references to blood up the walls). ‘Don’t Look Back into the Sun’ recalls a similarly titled Britpop anthem. Unlike Oasis, though, the Libertines’ music won’t outlast their myth.

by Michael Bennett

Clocking in at just 33 minutes, Into the Wild is disappointingly short. It wasn’t just the disappointment of good music coming to a close, it was the way most of the tracks barely had a chance to begin. The only song on the album that feels like a finished piece of work is ‘Hard Sun’, an Indio cover (which nonetheless fits in very well with the original tracks). The second track, ‘No Ceiling’, is a perfect example of this. No sooner has the plucky tune and lyrical message been established than the song ends. Several songs on the album come across like this as half-finished ideas for songs, which is quite frustrating (especially as they sound like very promising ideas).

As a soundtrack, we can’t yet judge how well it fits into the film, but the album succeeds right from the start in painting huge open canvases of empty highways and wilderness. It feels like Vedder has strongly identified with the true story of a bright college kid leaving society for solitude in the Alaskan wilderness. He shows himself able to get right into character in songs like ‘Long Nights’ and ‘Guaranteed’, and relishes the chance to reflect on themes of freedom, society and loneliness.

Still, the song that captures the story best is one not written by Vedder, but by Jerry Hanan; ‘Society’. At first I was put off by clichés in the lyrics, till I realised they were supposed to communicate a mindset, not a political statement. "Society, you’re a crazy breed", sings Vedder, "hope you’re not lonely, without me".Fans of Pearl Jam might be disappointed by Vedder’s restraint and the sparseness of the music. Anyone seriously interested in him as a songwriter, though, will want to hear him given the freedom to create an album almost single-handedly. For the rest of us, the subtle, meditative tones of Vedder’s record might be surprising – and a reason to look again at his band.

by Katherine Eve

There is a very fine line between building up the audience’s appetite and letting their hunger pass unsatisfied, but the full capacity of the Academy is clearly abundant with loyal fans, as the arrival of The Coral 20 minutes late is still met with riotous applause. The aim of the evening is to promote latest album Roots and Echoes. To this end, The Coral refute lukewarm reviews and instead exude quiet self-belief as they launch into the set with four new tracks back-to-back.

The acoustics of the Academy afford clarity for the poetic lyrics, but we still swim in the guitar rhythms that drive the set. A notable complexity has returned with guitarist Ryder-Jones (he left midway through touring of The Invisible Invasion) playing off against Power’s keyboards and alternating solos with frontline guitarist Southall. Surprising strength comes in the live rendition of ‘Who’s Gonna Find Me’: we’re immersed in various layers of hooks and arpeggios and its hypnotic and disorienting vibes surface. ‘Remember Me’ grabs the audience instantly with its tribal drums and an anthemic chorus, though we’re still receptive to the sweetly romantic ballad, ‘Jacqueline’.

They have a plethora of hits to choose from and a quick succession of ‘Pass It On’, ‘Dreaming of You’ and ‘In the Morning’ satisfy the crowd’s longing for an injection of the quirky pop they are famed for. Somehow such songs seem reinvigorated and even stronger these days.

For some tracks anticipation is easily built by tuning up to a recognisable guitar riff, but on the whole, the live performance lacks drama: studio precision is adhered to; tracks are introduced by title; the audience are thanked on completion. This contributes to a somewhat muted atmosphere as the set wears on. For this reason it is wonderful to witness the energy of some free-flowing jamming and spontaneity in the encore. ‘Goodbye’ is the perfect opportunity for a psychedelic frenzy, complete with beating tambourines. We finally see the band enjoying what they do, and the crowd responds in kind.

by Oskar Cox-Jensen

Ben Hudson, of Library fame; singer, guitarist, rapper; possessor of a routine 2:1 from St Anne’s and a small scruffy dog called Dave. We meet up backstage in the venue he persists, like most of us, in calling the Zodiac, he searching for his flat cap, I keen to make the most of a ten minute interview. Neither of us gets what we’re after. Unhappily, the cap is lost. On a brighter note, we walk his dog for a good two hours, taking in the University Parks, his old college, and some glorious unseasonable sunshine.

Ben hasn’t seen Oxford in six years, and tonight will be his ‘first ever gig’ in the city, so he’s understandably keen to reminisce about the old place. He comes across as a typical arty Oxford student. He dabbled in plays, starring in a take on The Merchant of Venice, but when he was asked to direct A Clockwork Orange he backed off – ‘I felt I was in too deep.’ This erstwhile dilettantism still irks him; ‘I feel like I should have got a First or a Third’; and his one significant act at Oxford, he feels, was a JCR motion to buy St Anne’s a decent PA system. He admits that ‘I never really went clubbing; I found those people obnoxious’, nor to gigs; ‘what gigs was I gonna go to? Funk nights at Po-Na-Na’s? Travis?’ Instead, he stayed in, listening to Bowie and Joni Mitchell.

It seems to have paid off. He started playing songs for fun, taking a ‘Gap Year’ dossing in London after graduating, and refreshingly, always saw ‘The Record Deal’ as just something that happened along the way. Now, ‘we’re famous, but only at our own gigs.’ He plays ‘mostly by ear’ and never writes things down – ‘If something’s important enough, you’ll remember it,’ he observes wryly, since I’d forgotten a Dictaphone. But he finds himself supporting Amy Winehouse (‘she’s a good girl’) and, two nights earlier, The Police, at the Millennium Stadium. ‘It was so big and ridiculously important that I just wasn’t nervous at all.’ Their live show that night has all the fervour and joy of an Arcade Fire gig, but far more style. To explain the transformation, he lapses into cliché for once. ‘I realised that I had to wake up every morning like a man possessed, and give it 100%, if I wanted to make it.’Ben always feared being stuck in an office, raging at DeLoitte and the milk round; a fate he seems to have escaped. But for such a focused, contented man, who stresses how important it is to ‘move on from Oxford, and let the new undergraduates have their fun,’ he’s awfully keen on chasing up old porters in the Lodge and staring fondly at his first year room. The guy’s a genius, and fiercely independent. But like so many of us, he’ll never truly escape Oxford.

by Patrick Driver

Only a skilled melophobe, or perhaps more accurately in some cases, ligyrophobe, could walk down Cornmarket Street at the weekend without encountering at least one busker. It is not uncommon to see schoolboys honking on saxophones under the Anglo-Saxon church tower, or the Peruvian equivalent of Hanson outside the phone shop (a six year-old playing the drums is impressive, but I can’t help wondering if the joy on everyone’s faces as they watch is akin to that derived from watching a dancing bear). But there is a wealth of more accomplished musicians of all varieties to be found performing around Oxford every week.

We’ve all seen them, heard them play, even given money to them, but while some are central pillars of life in the centre of town (bagpipes, anybody?), few of us know much about Oxford’s buskers. Ever eager to please, your reporter has done the hard work for you. With its lack of traffic and proliferation of shoppers and assorted other pedestrians, Cornmarket really is the place to be for a busk, and so there I headed on a gloomy Friday afternoon…

That Friday afternoon must have been the first occasion for some considerable time when Cornmarket was entirely devoid of buskers. Fortunately, walking past the Clarendon Centre I heard a smooth ‘cello melody easing itself through the doors and calling me in. There I found Dave Loew surrounded by an exhibition of newspaper articles, CDs and a scrap book. Having introduced myself, the first thing Dave told me was that he is not a busker. This was not my day. What the hell, I thought, I’ll tell you about him anyway. He has a story, you see.

Dave started to learn the ‘cello aged six, before studying at the New South Wales Conservatorium. He became the principle cellist for the Australian Ballet and Opera Orchestra, before returning to London, where he played with the BBC Symphony Orchestra and the Royal Philharmonic, as well as being a regular freelance musician in the London Symphony Orchestra, playing in various West End shows and recording for film soundtracks. Having failed to secure a record deal, three years ago he hired the Royal Albert Hall, acting as promoter, soloist and star. "The record industry is stupid", he told The Telegraph at the time, "They don’t know what they are doing and I want to say, ‘up yours – how wrong you all are and what a wonderful talent I am’." This is redolent of the rantings of so many X-Factor rejects.

But Dave Loew clearly has the skills to pay the bills, and his credentials go considerably beyond those of most X-Factor wannabes and buskers (he is not a busker, remember). He has produced three CDs of his own, and has paid for them to be pressed. Despite lacking the sex appeal of a Vanessa Mae, his sales have reached 160,000 in seven years. Tracks from his albums have been played on Radio 2, Radio 3, Classic FM amongst others. He has clients and fans in countries all round the globe, though curiously the president of his fan club is a rodent named Sophie. It was rather a surprise to find all this out about a man I happened upon in the Clarendon Centre, playing his ‘cello and selling his CDs. As I talked to him a man paid double for one of his albums, despite Dave’s protestations. I was rather pleased by this, for I didn’t have the money, and nor, if I am being entirely honest, were his albums to my particular taste, and he was not only donating 35% of his sales that day to breast cancer research, but also was also most obliging.

Re-emerging onto Cornmarket street, I was delighted to hear the sound of an accordion-like instrument playing merrily away. Further down the street was a smartly dressed, flame-haired, bearded man who was bobbing up and down enthusiastically as he played upbeat morris music. When I finally managed to jump in between extended periods of play, I discovered his name was Jamie Huddlestone, a very friendly character who was pleased to chat away for some time, and that the instrument was a melodeon, or button accordion. He is another street musician with an established musical background. Having learnt the piano and guitar as a kid, he moved on to violin and became a folk fiddler. Missing the ability to play chords, he finally turned to his most recently acquired instrument.

Fiddling in the West Country, he came to Oxford almost on a whim following a split with his violin partner, slept in his car, and soon enough started busking. On his first day he was given tickets to see The Pixies, and by the end of his first week he had three dates fixed – ‘One turned out alright’. He has since been the assistant manager at Jessop’s, but now takes part-time jobs to supplement his busking. On a good day, performing for a two or three hours, he earns about £80. Busking keeps him ‘ticking over in terms of money, but I just love being out playing’.

Jamie turns out to provide quite a window onto the busking scene in Oxford, which is seemingly not without camaraderie (though I’m told the regulars are not happy when groups turn up on Saturdays and play all day). He recommends a French jazz-influenced band called Les Alcolytes, a middle-aged guitarist regular by the name of Max Moonlight, a Paraguayan harpist, and The Huckleberries. Now, having recently come out of the folk closet, I’m glad he mentioned the latter. They can be seen every so often on Cornmarket, drawing large crowds and spreading jollity. The band consists of four blokes with long hair and beards, one bloke with stubble, and a guy who makes up for his relative hairlessness by looking a touch aberrant and having a bowler hat and a green violin. They are perhaps my favourite Oxford buskers, though not as common a feature in the life of an Oxford student as the guy who sits in the doorway of GAP and plays the guitar at night. I asked Jamie about him. His name is Asish (though the spelling is open to debate), and he may live in Witney. Jamie described him as a ‘gypsy-jazz freak’ who sits in Caffè Nero for a couple of hours before playing, caressing the fingerboard of his guitar and practising sotto voce. Despite the fact he doesn’t appear to invite voluntary donations, he does make half a living from his nocturnal strumming.

Whilst we were chatting away the general bustle of the street was pierced by the sound of the pipes, and so I walked on to find their source, Heath. I found him at first a little intimidating, but thankfully Jamie had given me his name and advised dropping some coins. I started by asking about his music, reasonably enough. He plays mostly modern Scottish tunes, which he renders undeniably energetically. He is, though, another musical polymath, accomplished also on folk fiddle and tin whistle amongst much else, and playing in a well-respected Celtic band by the name of Slâinte (I didn’t attempt to spell it until I saw it on Heath’s teeshirt). His mother brought him up listening to folk music in Australia (surprising, given he was wearing shorts on a cold afternoon – though I gather the piping is hot work). And he isn’t bad, either. A man who sat near Heath as he played, and tapped his tobacco tin to the beat, said ‘Kickin’, man – an’ tha’s comin’ from a Scot’.

Predictably, though, there are people who get annoyed by his music. He tells me that a man who lives on the other side of the street to his spot complains to the Council every time he busks there, and when first I asked to question him he was wary, worried that I would be writing from the angle of ‘the people that want to shoot me’. Those that work in the nearby shops know that they can’t complain, he explains, because he stays within the rules. The rules, by the way, are that there are three spots for buskers on Cornmarket, that you may not play more than three one-hour sets in one day, and that you must have given your name to the council and agreed to obey the other rules.I ask him why he busks. ‘Survival – paying bills.’ And does it do him well? ‘There are good days and bad days. Let’s just say that England is a very expensive country to live in. But I get by.’ He tells me that what he would have earned in eight hours in some of the low-paid jobs he’s done he can make in an hour on the street, which I find pleasing, as he must be bringing significantly more pleasure to other people and to himself this way too. ‘Is there anything else you want to say?’, I ask. ‘Be nice to buskers.’