Counting the Ways, dir Will Robertson, 1 – 5 November, Burton Taylor: Edward Albee’s Counting theWays is an unsentimental studyof love and grief in a modernAmerican marriage. Composed ofa series of short scenes, on occasionas brief as one sentence, it offers anabstract, dislocated view of middle-America’s disillusionment with loveand married life. The play presents theaudience with two generic caricaturesknown simply as ‘He’ (Sam Thomas)and ‘She’ (Poppy Burton-Morgan).He and She have been married for sixor seven years, but their life as presentedin the play has become one ofperpetual self-doubt. Love and sex becomeinterchangeable in their equallylacklustre nature and ambiguity. Sodisengaged have they become fromtheir emotional life that grieving isviewed in light of its protocol.In Robertson’s production, thecomplexities of naturalistic theatrehave been stripped right back, withminimal props and stark on-off lightingduring the scene changes. By stagingthe play in traverse any theatricalillusions are removed so that, as Albeeexplores human nature onstage, theaudience become necessarily involvedin the process. Face to face with fellowaudience members, reality and conceptare broken down so that the distinctionbetween audience and play isunclear. Robertson offers an invitationto address your own nature. Thiswouldn’t, however, be possible withoutthe actors’ naturally compellingstyle, which centres our attention onthe stage. This transcendental qualityreaches its apex when suddenly midwaythrough the play the actors slipout of character and you are treatedto their biographies.The play has been marketed as apowerful two-hander between two ofOxford’s heavyweights, and it lives upto its billing, with the actors exhibitinga rich array of acting ability. Burton-Morgan brilliantly captures the bitterconviction of a married woman fallingout of love, while Thomas makesthe sullen irritability of He his own.For a script founded on an introspectiveattack on emotions, it is a shamethat the interpretation did not invitemore contemplative acting. Robertson’sstress on the comic elements ofthe script means the characters neverdevelop beyond the level of caricature,and their relationship as a resultnever really rings true. Nevertheless,as a thoughtful piece of drama, theplay is well worth making time for.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

The Insect Playdir Nanw Rowlands1 – 5 NovemberOFSThe first thing to strikeyou about The InsectPlay is that it is visuallystunning. Not only is thecast strewn with contestantsfrom Cherwell’s very own ‘FitCollege’ face-off, but costumes andset are equally dazzling. It is refreshingto have the idiosyncratic resourcesof the OFS put to good use: its occasionallyawkward rake becomes atreat for the audience when the variousbalconies are clustered with vinesand busy bugs, making for more ofa three-dimensional sense of immersionin flora and fauna. Loungejazz accompanies the numerous butterfliesgadding about the first act aspseudo-English upper-crust typesfrom roughly the turn of the last century.Victor (Charlie Morrison) andFelix (Ted Hodgkinson) make for anantagonistic double act of suitor butterflies,the first as a nonchalant cad,the second as a hopelessly self-obsessedpoet-fop reminiscent of ThomasLove Peacock’s satire of Shelleyin Nightmare Abbey. The posturingpair reappear in the darker third actas ant commanders in a set-up redolentof Bush-Blair. As the mercurialand manipulative objects of desire(and bad poetry), Iris (Lucy White)and Clytie (Holly Midwinter Porter)complement an impressive first actteeming with life.It is only in the second act, withthe arrival of the miserly Mr andMrs Dung Beetle (Harry Ullmanand Charlotte Hayne) that you realisethere’s much more going on inThe Insect Play than nice vignettes,confirming the sense that the play’sprogression is more thematic thanplot-driven. Ephemeral insects playephemeral roles and many of the castconsequently double up on parts.There’s as much Journey’s End hereas there is A Bug’s Life. It is the presidingfigure of the broken-heartedtramp (Iain Dreynnan) who formsthe play’s lynchpin. A discursive momentumbuilds around him as hewitnesses the disjunct and senselesscausations of nature. If we’re to takethe anthropomorphism to be a productof the tramp’s mind, perhaps thebest way to think of this productionis as a kind of modern morality play.But far from being a just God, Nature’srules are haphazard and unfair:one dung beetle’s ‘capital’ is rapidlypilfered to become another’s. Just asyou’re growing fond of a charismaticinsect and greedily awaiting its onstagereturn, it’s reported unceremoniouslyconsumed. The implicationsfor human society in the repeatedrelationship break-downs betweenthe insects are measured against thetramp, whom we discover to havefallen foul of love himself. Can heconvince anybody, including himself,that humans are more civilised thanthe colonising ants? Is the whole playthe enactment of the tramp’s addledmind following his rejection in love,a rejection which will prove fatal tohim at the play’s close?Fear not. Nanw Rowland’s buoyantcomic touches consistently dispel anypossibility of descent into a grimlyreductive Mankind=Maggots sociopoliticalcritique. Even at the pointsof the play’s bleakest intimations ofFirst World War Europe, this playrefuses to commit itself to a decidedlysatirical or serious perspective.Thew Jones puts in yet another firstrateturn in Oxford theatre, in thisinstance as a capitalist ichneumonfly dedicated to feeding his larva (IsabellePelly) the tastiest morsels. ThinkBlackadder meets Terminator withVeruca Salt for a daughter and you’llget the idea. Similarly unresolved isthe role played by the chrysalis (SkyeBlyth-Whitelock). Delivering promisesof new life that hover somewherebetween insightful and banal, shedies tragicomically immediately afterbirth. This is a production that offersnearly everything you could hope toget from an Oxford show and doesso, moreover, with a dose of down-to-earth good humour.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Soul Inspireddir Bawren Tavaziva20 OctoberPegasus TheatreTavaziva Dance describes itsstyle as ‘African-influencedcontemporary dance’ infusedwith an awareness of, and familiaritywith, modern urban youth culture.Last week they came to thePegasus Theatre with Soul Inspired,a passionate and vivacious new programmecelebrating the diversity ofcultural experience and reflecting theintegrative ethos of the company.One of the company’s stated objectivesis to “inspire and providerole models for young people”, andthere is a tendency to think this allsounds slightly gimmicky, playingup to the current trend for stressingthe educational importance of artrather than its inherent artistic merit.However, in their performanceon Tuesday it was refreshing to seeeverything in the mission statementof the company borne out with sincerityonstage. The company avoidany sense of contrivance; their useof African, contemporary and urbandance seamlessly merges these differentelements to a point which attimes makes each indistinguishablefrom the others. Every movementthe performers make has purpose andresonance within one or indeed all ofthese social and artistic spheres.The fusion of urban and traditionalstyles reflects the background of thecompany’s lead choreographer, BawrenTavaziva. Tavaziva started out inHarare, gaining his first experiencewith City Youth Dance Group, ascheme aimed at benefitting localunderprivileged children. He thenjoined a professional company inZimbabwe, Tumbuka Dance, trainingin classical ballet and contemporaryGraham technique, as wellas traditional Zimbabwean styles.Tavaziva moved to the UK in 1998,working with numerous acclaimedcompanies before establishing hisown, Tavaziva Dance.The programme for Soul Inspiredopened with a piece called WorldsApart, a fusion of African and contemporarystyles of dance, with anadded element of cultural referencingto modern British urban life. Highlyabstract and synchronic movementdrivensections evolved into theseemingly improvised, depictinginteractions between friends andneighbours in a style leaning moretowards physical theatre than puredance. In the piece Link Duet, therewas again emphasis on character andnarrative as well as pure movement,as a couple comically portrayed theirconvoluted and passionate domesticdrama to the sounds of Tom Waits’Watch Her Disappear. Zviri Mumoyo(‘It Is in Your Heart’) was less successfullyrealised however; more‘lone dancer at a beach party’ thanthe ‘solo from the soul’ promisedby the programme. The energy ofdancer Lerato Lipere filled the otherwiseempty stage, subtly convertingthe repetitive rhythm of the musicinto something almost ritualisticand comforting. The second half ofthe night was composed of two contrastingpieces representing war onthe one hand (Tribe) and the deathof a loved one (Umdlalo Kasisi) onthe other. In both pieces, the interactionbetween the dancers was closerand more physical than before, butwhile Tribe evoked the threateningand aggressive contact of warfare, inUmdlalo Kasisi the dancers acted assupport and scaffold for each otherin their grief.If the show had a weakness it wasthat, for pieces which seemed to relyso heavily on narrative, the detailsof the stories being told were sometimeshard to discern. This left theaudience witnessing a strong and intenserepresentation of emotion, butwithout the clarity of the narrativeupon which it was obviously reliantthe feelings expressed felt a littlefoundationless. Nevertheless, SoulInspired was a vibrant, diverse andpowerful programme performed byan energetic and very talented company,pertinently exploring the senseof traditionalism within contemporaryBritish society and its fusion withindance.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

The deadline is fast approaching for entries to this year’s New Writing Festival. Some plays will already have been finished, proof-read, revised, polished and popped neatly into the Burton Taylor office at a sensible, even healthy hour. Other writers, scattered across Oxford in various garrets, might at this moment be realising with horror that the estranged Jacqueline can’t return at the end, but must remain estranged because she died in Botswana when she was nine. A few might simply not realise at all that a character who entered to eat a biscuit in the first act has beenleft silent on stage ever since, still eating biscuits we presume. Many entries are probably even more raw and are being hammered into existence as we speak; perhaps some are still only good ideas waiting to begin their frantically unnatural growthspurt into a living room comedy about Chernobyl. It is, however, the deadline itself which seems best to encapsulate the effect that the New Writing Festival can have on people of a literary bent. Not only does it accommodate those who would usually take action upon an idea, offering them a wonderful platform from which to pursue it, it also shakes the inactive, shy and bemused into becoming bumblingly pro-active members of the thesp community. And all this only to meet the deadline.The format of the competition is relatively straightforward: eight shortlisted plays are announced in eighth week of this term, and four finalists shortly afterwards. Directors enter the scrum in order to bid for individual scripts and are accepted early in Hilary, the play is cast and then suddenly, and rather disarmingly, you the writer are introduced to the flesh-and-blood embodiments of the characters who peopled your brain in the gusty, panicked approach to the Michaelmas deadline.As your previously mounting suspicions about your own mental wellbeing ease off, the hard graft of the festival itself begins in earnest and you are soon swiftly tumbling towards the fourth week denouements in the Burton Taylor, OFS and O’Reilly. The society of those who do, would do, or have done plays in Oxford is, like any other group, united under the auspices of a slightly peculiar and austere habit. Yet the allure of the New Writing Festival seems to be precisely its emphasis on ‘the new’, as declared by the title. It might just as easily have been called ‘The Cameron Macintosh Prize,’ and yet the funding and institution of the event are kept commendably clandestine in favour of an emphasis on open entry and the encouragement of new voices on the Oxford stage.The other titular emphasis is, perhaps, slightly more misleading. The ‘writing’ which is celebrated in the initial stages of the competition often represents, as perhaps it should, little more than a catalogue of things which will inevitably change in the process leading up to the fourth week performances. This is not, of course, to say that the writer’s wishes become in any way denigrated, but rather that after the finalists are announced there emerges an astounding task force of thespianic worker bees who take these scripts (which can vary from laboured opus tohasty works executed in crayon) and transform them into living, breathing theatrical experiences. It is often pointed out, in a manner perhaps too dismissive of a writer’s capacity for excitement, that the greatest thrill for a writer is to see their work realised on stage. In fact, the thrill isin the actual process itself: the four weeks of changing, amending and, for some, begrudgingly compromising, are where the thrill-seeking writer finds the greatest measure of fulfilment. The New Writing Festival deadline may loom, but this is really only the beginning. Information on the festival, along with details of the trials and triumphs of last year, can be found on www. ouds.org.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

The Roads Don’tLove YouGemma Hayesout 31 October« « A lready with one nominationfor the Mercury Music Prizeunder her belt for her lastalbum, Night On My Side, expectationswere high for Gemma Hayes.It’s easy to see why. The MercuryPrize admirably rewards one of thescarcest qualities in popular musicculture. Originality. Nobody candeny that the Mercury judgesdidn’t pull through this year bychoosing Antony and the Johnsons;undoubtedly a distinctive album,with Antony Hegarty’s androgynousvocals and such varied contributorsas Lou Reed, Devendra Banhart,Boy George and Rufus Wainwright.Unfortunately, in spite of variousmerits, originality is not one whichcan be awarded to Gemma Hayes’latest offering The Roads Don’t LoveYou. In a market recently floodedwith the gentle tones and guitar riffsof such singer songwriters as NorahJones and Katie Melua, Hayes’ pieceoffers nothing new.The warning signs are clear fromthe album cover. The horror provokinglytrite Dido-esque photograph ofa pretty, though typically pop-stocklooking blonde set against an out offocus city background is presumablylaying emphasis on the despair andloneliness which only singer-songwritersseem to be profound enoughto feel.But there is an old adage aboutjudging by covers, and it seems truewith the first track on the album,Two Step. It is catchy, and with theartist’s Irish roots making themselvesknown with echoes of the Cardigans,it is the closest she comes to beinginteresting. However, humourouslypoor lyrics turn a smart and sophisticatedsong into a thoughtless popditty.From then on the album blursinto a stream of homogeneous harmonies,and lacklustre lyrics whichprovide no insight whatsoever intoHayes’ claim that her personalityis stronger on this album than herlast one. If this album is an accuraterepresentation of her personality, Iimagine that a Tamagotchi would bemore stimulating company. Having,in her words, lost and refound her“mojo”, a claim that would lead mostto expect a more innovative soundand style, it is alas still nowhere tobe seen.Of course it’s not all completelybad. The Roads Don’t Love Youis in no way offensive; in fact it isperfectly acceptable, even pleasant,background music. It is ideal for essaycrisis management and treatingthe more severe cases of insomnia.But Gemma Hayes contributesnothing to the genre on which sheis styling herself; what she doeshas been done better many timesbefore, and anyone buying thisalbum expecting otherwise will bedisappointed. She is Avril Lavignewithout the humourous adolescentattitude. She is Norah Jones withoutthe soul. She is Eva Cassidy withoutthe spine-tingling voice and inspiringchoice of tracks. She is essentiallyreally rather dull.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Playing the AngelDepeche ModeOut NowIt’s really easy to write musicreviews of bands you don’t like.Put the promotional CD onthe stereo, ignore the resultantcacophony as a mere formality,bash out six hundred words worth ofsynonyms for “piss-poor” and retireto the bar for a self-congratulatorylibation. Keep to these rules, and theprocedure will be relatively painless.Just remember to avoid introspectionat all costs. Don’t be tempted by somefatuous ideal of fair and balancedjournalism. Take Depeche Mode,for instance. One certainly wouldn’twant to go to the effort of accordingthem a fair, balanced review. It’s justtoo difficult to be nice about them.At first glance, they appear to be themusical equivalent of schoolgirls whofervently believe that stripy tights andrat-nest hair signify a soul of singularbeauty and depth, rather than theaverage hormonal turmoil of puberty.This variety of cheerless pomposity isDepeche Mode’s defining characteristic,despite the fact that, as suggestedby both their quarter-century careerand the publicity photos that makethem look like particularly unwholesomeresidents of Royston Vasey,they are much too old for that kindof nonsense.Nonetheless, their new album,Playing the Angel, bears the supplementarytitle Pain and Suffering inVarious Tempos. Song titles includeA Pain That I’m Used To, Suffer Well,Damaged People and The DarkestStar. They might as well have goneand called the album "My Pain andSadness is More Sad and Painful thanYours", except ace Welsh popularbeat combo Mclusky did that backin 2000. Things are looking unprepossessing,and the music hasn’teven started yet. Pain and Sufferingindeed.The worst element of Playing theAngel is the idea of it. Despite theunsatisfactory premise detailed in theprevious paragraph, it isn’t that bad.Not to say that there aren’t countlessother releases more deservingof the ten odd quid cost of buyingan album. This is more than can beexpected by my profound antipathyto the prospect of listening to it.Actually, the work is dull and a littlepretentious, but alleviated by areasonable production ethic, somecredit for which should go to BenHillier, whose résumé includes workfor Doves and Blur.The zenith of the album, the aptlychosen first single Precious, is a sliceof delicately expansive electroniclandscaping. The exuberant, gospeldrivenJohn the Revelator, despitehaving a synth loop that soundssuspiciously like it came out of somethingby the Sugababes, is a listenableenough ditty, with a particularly emphaticvocal. Both tracks couldalmost be by the Killers, and like theretro copycats they don’t even comeclose to the majestic peaks achievedduring electro-pop’s eighties heyday.Suffer Well seemed to lift a bit fromone of these apogees, New Order’sTrue Faith, transposing it to the perpetualcrepuscular gloom of DepecheMode’s world. It is this stubbornmalaise that makes their new work soboring. As self-indulgent, smack-addledyoungsters, they at least had thesense to inject a bit of style into theirmelancholy. Self-indulgent old fartsjust don’t have the energy to maintainthat. The fact that they are still keptin business by credible labels likeKompakt and Mute is more a tributeto past glories than present strengths.Playing the Angel isn’t too bad. But itisn’t too good either.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Who would live in the olden days? The poor sods had it hard. The minor matter of world wars and inadequate healthcare aside, everything was just so basic. Can we even imagine living in a world without dishwashers and washing machines, internet and mobile phones? We gripe about it now of course, this proliferation of modern technology turning us all into wired-up electronicjunkies, but we wouldn’t be able to go back to the days of sitting round a wireless to hear Churchill’s broadcasts – and most of us wouldn’t want to. The developments of science havemade our lives easier, but also richer and more expansive.But there is also an invisible line in this technology business, which we seem to have crossed. There seems to be a point up to which technology can only improve your appreciation of and ability in a certain field, but after which it rather seems to detract from it. The prime example is the world of music.Music as we know it has changed immeasurably with scientific development, perhaps more than almost any other field. Recording quality is leaps and bounds better than the crackling racket that used to pass for reproduction. Mixing desks have facilitated experimentation with styles and sounds, and even given birth to new genres like dance.Increased accessibility of equipment has made it possible for every household to have one or multiple sound systems. Instruments have been tweaked and honed, and new resources,such as the internet sharing system, have sprung up. In short, the position of the music lover has become easier. But the word ‘easier’ is a false friend – or certainly a two-faced one. Ofcourse the increased accessibility of music is a good thing, but the fact is easier doesn’t always mean better, and can sometimes mean worse. Just look at the iPod. The sleek, white(or pink or blue or olive green) little genius can store thousands of tracks in its clever memory. A few hours on the computer and you can have your entire music collection to be carried around with you on the train, to a lecture, available at the touch of a fingertip. Software like iTunes andthe much debated myTunes enable you furthermore to download tracks onto your computer and from there to your iPod like turning on a tap. It all, undoubtedly, makes much more sense than carting round a hundred CDs in one of those irritating wallets, or worse, faffing around with tapes. But with this ease and efficiency has disappeared much of what is wonderful about being a music lover. Scouting around record shops looking for a rare copy of an album, or nosingthrough random stacks to find something that grabs your attention just because of the cool cover (and then getting it home and discovering it is the best record you have heard in years); these are things of no value in a virtual cyber world. Most of all has gone the sense of slow, deliberate carethat record collectors take over their babies. Putting your iPod tracks in alphabetical order just doesn’t bring the same joy as pouring over your CD collection, carefully wiping jewel casesand dust-jackets and wondering why you never took Captain Beefheart out of his plastic jacket.The same is true of the machines themselves. As controversial as it may sound, an iPod, while a thing of aesthetic finesse, is not a machine designed to be loved. To be flaunted, yes, and flashed around and occasionally stroked in wonderment at its smooth, sleek shininess. But it is not like a record player. Record players are the true music lover’s dream. The machines themselvesare large and cumbersome and cannot be easily transported. They take quite a bit of looking after, what with cleaning their needles, changing their cartridges, investing in antistatic pads and the like. Records, too, must be meticulously looked after; no leaving them around on the topof a cupboard, because once they get scratched they are dead. The process of putting a record on a deck must be done slowly and carefully so as not to damage the record or the stylus. Andof course, you have to get up halfway through to change them over. You can’t skip between tracks except by physically moving the needle, and you can’t arrange playlists or shuffles. They are, in short, hard work. And yet despite all that, or perhaps because of it, they are beautiful, wonderful things.So what can record players teach us about listening to music? That what is quick and useful is not always better, neither in terms of effect nor in terms of overall appreciation. Anything in life worth doing is worth taking time over, and care and conscientiousness are rewarded in an increased overall pleasure. Record collectors unite! And just slow down a little.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005