Hi, How Can I Help You?: openly gay Miss America contestant performs in cafe basement

I had to cover this Free Fringe show the year before last. In the end, it was published by Fest in massively abridged form as part of a sort of 'review round up section'. A shame since it was good and could have used the publicity. There's a sort of prejudice against free shows during the Fringe, I think. Everyone agrees with the concept but audiences can be quite sniffy about going along to see them. As a reviewer, it can be a bit frustrating having to cover them rather than the stuff that you want to see but can't afford. Often you end up enjoying stuff that you'd otherwise have missed out on which is great but there are some real stinkers out there. The worst was Laura Levites' How Did I Get Here? which was on in a Broughton Street venue that I used for shelter. It enraged me so much that for a while I was seriously considering staging my own 'one woman show' in which I just recalled her routine as best I could, reciting it in a sarcastic tone while dressed in grotesque drag. The idea fell through when I found myself in a legal wrangle with the team behind the Polish poster for the film Tootsie.

  

Anyway, here's the review:

True to her status as the first ever openly gay Miss America contestant, issues of sexual identity and national politics play a large part in Scout Durwood's Edinburgh debut. The show, which she describes as a one woman musical though is more akin to a multiple-personality monologue, is set entirely within a New York City house of domination on the night of the last presidential election.

The piece's title derives from its opening scene, as an employee deals with prospective clients over the phone, vetting and attempting to accommodate their sexual preferences. The workers find that business is slow on this particular night and are left to interact with each other in their predominantly female environment. Through their conversations, they reveal their conflicting political orientations, back stories, present circumstances and fears for the future. The title, it turns out, really pertains to the compromises that the girls have to make in order to get by in life, perhaps to the detriment of their emotional well being.

Hi, How Can I Help You? is truly engrossing theatre, Durwood's manic efforts to embody her various roles betraying her versatility and fearlessness as a performer. She sings beautifully over looped vocals and kazoo and unexpectedly segues into unaccompanied country music laments. At one point she hula-hoops while roller blading, refusing to acknowledge the limitations of her confined stage space.

Though the show is extremely well-written, and moving in its ability to convey the sense of optimism felt by many during Obama's presidential campaign, it is too incoherent as a whole, ultimately acting as a showcase for Durwood's enviable skills rather than a fully-formed finished product.

Mercury Rev: a 'classic album' show done right

If Mercury Rev announced a live date several years ago, I'd have bought a ticket without any hesitation whatsoever. I did in fact do this when they played the Barrowlands in support of their patchy The Secret Migration LP. I've since had to rethink my opinion of the band following the consecutive release of two dull studio offerings. When their Deserter's Songs 2.0 tour was announced, I swore that I'd only go if I could blag a guestlist place and ended up having a great time for free. The performance really changed my opinion of these 'classic albums played in their entirety' affairs. During the encore, I didn't immediately recognise the song they covered as 'Solsbury Hill' and thought they'd found a great new direction. In fact, there's been no news from the group in the months following the tour and I wouldn't be surprised if whatever they do next tanks with fans and critics alike. Still, I hope that's not the case and am glad they got to milk their solid back catalogue one last time. Review below!

Mercury Rev

Queens Hall, Edinburgh

19/5/11

****1/2

When The Flaming Lips released The Soft Bulletin in 1999, less than a year after Mercury Rev emerged from the commercial wilderness with Deserter's Songs, critics eagerly compared the two bands. Each had started out as faintly psychedelic, avant-garde noiseniks who progressed towards creating symphonic Americana under the auspices of producer Dave Fridmann. Latter-day Rev frontman Jonathan Donahue had even served a tenure with the Lips in the early nineties.

Over the following decade, the groups' careers would run in tandem, both consolidating their resurgence with a solid album before eventually succumbing to formula and familiarity. However, while the Lips regained acclaim with Embryonic, a successful return to their low-fi roots, their associates strived to break new ground on the electronic Snowflake Midnight, an experiment which seemed to alienate even their core audience. Thus in 2011 we find Mercury Rev reviving Deserter's Songs amidst circumstances similar to those in which it was originally recorded, in need of recognition and reassurance.

The difference is that 13 years on, the band has complete faith in the material. Opener 'Holes' is introduced by a swathe of stately guitar feedback, Donahue's vocals coming in atop almost ceremonial keyboards. The following 'Tonite It Shows' is even better, the singer standing flamingo-like on one leg as he conducts its swirling, balletic arrangement beyond the drama of the studio version.

If watching a band perform a classic album in its entirety sounds like a futile, predictable exercise, Mercury Rev certainly make every effort to confound us. Most interesting are the fleshed out renderings of the record's three musical interludes. 'The Happy End (Drunk Room)' is particularly notable, recast as a robotic guitar work out. Seguing into the evergreen 'Goddess on a Hiway', the band seamlessly walks the line between innovation and nostalgia. An encore that includes an electro-tinged cover of Peter Gabriel's 'Solsbury Hill' and majestic take on early single 'Carwash Hair' closes the night in a dignified fashion, interest in the group fully restored.

Lewis Porteous 

 The review as published by The Fly

Touch of Evil: but Universal has personal space issues

As part of a recent application process, I had to write a review of a film that I'd recently seen. I did mine on Touch of Evil, which has just been given a comprehensive Masters of Cinema re-release and is good. More on Orson Welles some other time.

Touch of Evil

Dir. Orson Welles

Universal, 1958

Having enjoyed unprecedented creative control at the onset of his Hollywood career, Orson Welles' fortunes waned in the years that followed, his unreliable genius doing little to endear him to profit-driven studio heads. Shot upon his return from a period of European exile, Touch of Evil, his 1958 adaptation of a pulpy Whit Masterson novel, was intended to re-establish the director as a bankable star. Heavily edited and buried as a B-picture, it's only recently in its restored form that the film has found the audience it deserves.

The story begins in Mexico as a bomb is planted inside a car. One rightly acclaimed tracking shot later and we see it detonate over the US border. Honeymooning Mexican drug enforcement officer Mike Vargus (Charlton Heston) meets local Police Captain Hank Quinlan (Welles) at the scene of the explosion and the pair clash from the outset. Quinlan, a corpulent embodiment of small town greed and corruption, ensures that all crimes are solved in accordance with his suspicions. When Vargus questions the legality of the Captain's methods, Quinlan concocts a plan to discredit his opponent. What follows is a warped depiction of beat culture as Vargus' wife (Janet Leigh) is terrorized in a desolate motel, leading to a masterful ending sequence, the rapid-fire editing of which predicts later Welles classic F for Fake.

A genre film steeped in the conventions of film noir, Touch of Evil was nevertheless ahead of its time. Its cynical tone, moral ambiguity and palpable sense of decay were too intense for contemporary audiences, Quinlan's eventual redemption of sorts paving the way for the anti-heroes of '70s cinema. Over the next three decades, Welles worked primarily as a jobbing actor, struggling to raise the funds for his own directorial offerings. Though he had further triumphs in this field, he would never make another film quite so potent.

Lewis Porteous

Cornershop: a good band

Michael Gallacher took the above photo

I got to cover a Cornershop show last Friday. A lot of people wrongly assume that they have little to offer beyond their globe-smashing mega hit but in truth they're one of the most consistently brilliant bands around. My pathetic, fawning review is pasted below and hasn't gone live at the time of writing this. I didn't get a chance to mention how great their recent collaborative album Cornershop and the Double 'O' Groove of is because they didn't play anything from it, but it's essential listening as far as I'm concerned, is the case with all their LPs. Brilliant, brilliant band. It's quite hard to find out any real information about them, but I do know that while all the other bands spent the nineties hanging out with William Burroughs, they got Allen Ginsberg to appear on a their album. Therefore they are as good as '60s Dylan.

I think I was stood behind Frances McKee throughout the gig. Her young kids weren't into the show and were running back and forth down the front, holding their hands over their ears and complaining. Really threatened to ruin my evening, actually. The perpetually sexy Vaselines frontwoman must learn to be more considerate of others, as I'm sure Kurt Cobain never tired of telling her.

Cornershop

Platform, Glasgow

20/1/12

**** 1/2

14 years since the event, 'Brimful of Asha's chart-topping success now seems like a momentous occasion in British cultural history. The '60s had seen the likes of George Harrison and Brian Jones incorporate sitar-solos into their bands' increasingly ambitious beat group fare, while Donovan made even minimalist Eastern drones palatable to the young. However successful these experiments were, they were guilty of evoking a sense of exoticism very much at odds with the country's expanding Asian population. Cornershop's moment in the sun saw frontman Tjinder Singh reclaim Indian instrumentation from its position as a pillar of psychedelic credibility, adding hip hop production and C86 indie jangle to the mix. 1997's When I Was Born for the 7^th Time is a modern classic of cultural assimilation and progress, and pointed to a way forward during the death-throes of Britpop. Sadly, the record currently languishes on the racks of Poundland and only Gareth Gates' collaboration with the Kumars at No. 42 has come close to having the same impact. Subsequent Cornershop releases have been infrequent, Singh citing an unreceptive musical climate as the cause of his stalled output. Live appearances are rare.

The seven-piece take to the stage this evening ostensibly in belated promotion of 2009's Judy Sucks a Lemon for Breakfast and are greeted by a modest yet partisan audience. The recent material's grooves are in a glam rock vein and demonstrate remarkable pop nous for a band that, by this point, has every right to feel jaded. 'The Roll Off Characteristics (Of History in the Making)' fuses thorny guitar riffs with playful Moog synth-lines, busy, percussive drumming and one of Singh's best vocals. 'Soul School' melds sitar with a dirty, fuzzy bassline, while 'Who Fingered Rock 'n' Roll?' is the sort of Stonesy rocker that Primal Scream frequently attempt to write but rarely pull off.

Every song played deserves to have been a huge hit and as such, there is a slight air of futility about tonight's set which sees the band hidden away in an arts centre. That 'Brim Full of Asha' receives the same rapturous response as less celebrated oldies 'Lessons Learned from Rocky I to Rocky III' and an extended, feedback-driven '6 A.M. Jullander Shere' suggests that they have at least outgrown their status as one hit wonders. Whether they can dominate the airwaves again remains to be seen, but this is essential music that deserves to be heard.

Lewis Porteous

Fanzine: director's cut

A crazed egomaniac, I have a real hard-on for seeing my name in print. Publications may refuse to present it in the same font as the Def Leppard logo or using ink which smells of 'Stunning Eau De Parfum', Katie Price's top fragrance, but it remains a great name and one that the public will never tire of reading. You do realise that dotting lower-case 'I's with little hearts was my idea, yeah? You're welcome, legions of imitators. An upper-case 'Q' that's seen to coyly suck on a lollipop while twirling its hair round its forefinger? I'm working on it, compelled to just... create, y'know?

The downside of seeing my name, which is 'Lewis Porteous', in print is that writing for physical publications imposes stricter word-limits on my 'craft'. It can be frustrating producing solid 300-400 word pieces for regularly updated websites, only to have 100 words or less at my disposal when trying to impress the kind of readership that a well distributed magazine guarantees. I'm rarely satisfied whenever I read back magazine copy, though acknowledge that these reviews have to be pretty shallow by their nature.

I agreed to cover shows by King Charles and Fanzine a couple of months ago, for The Fly's magazine and website, respectively. The former put on what was probably the most risible performance I have ever witnessed and yet seemed poised for enormous mainstream success in the coming year. His apparent need to bask in the adulation of teenage girls genuinely unsettled me, yet I also resented him for seemingly lacking the nerve to commit the sort of moral transgression that any number of legendary 1950s rock 'n' rollers wouldn't have thought twice about. It was a fun night- my friend and I especially enjoyed it when a young lady approached us to ask if we were “massive K.C. fans” like her- but I could say nothing good about it. I explained this to my editor and, happily, a review was off the cards. I covered Fanzine soon after, went on holiday and forgot about the show.

I leafed through a copy of The Fly this weekend and saw that my piece on Fanzine had been included in heavily edited form, possibly in place of the mooted King Charles piece. It reads OK, but when a review is substantially reduced in size, its structure and content will inevitably seem a little off, at least to the writer. In this case, I'd maybe rather my work had been attributed to Alan Smithee (a pseudonym used by directors who wish not to be associated with a film for which they would normally be credited, numb-nuts).

EDIT: Upon re-reading it just now, the magazine version is fine, it just seems a little short of context, perhaps even too specific. Sorry to have wasted your time.

Feel free to compare the original and the edit as produced below!

Original

Fanzine

Cabaret Voltaire, Edinburgh

19/11/11

****

Since the Libertines broke big with their brand of gritty mockney, most commercially viable UK guitar bands tend to impose a strong sense of national identity onto their music, having apparently learnt nothing from Britpop's mistakes. Currently touring in support of like-minded Londoners Yuck, Fanzine recognise that flag waving is for squares and are a mouth-watering proposition in the current climate. Though touted as students of the sort of noise pop associated with Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr., the group's sound is markedly more laid back and closer to that of early Teenage Fanclub and even nineties Glam Rock revisionists Denim.

Tonight is their first time playing in Scotland and though nerves do show, their material is strong enough that they quickly relax and allow it to speak for them. Opening track and new single 'Roman Holiday' is an infectious highlight, buoyed by a crunching guitar line and nonchalant harmonies. The following 'L.A.', meanwhile, sees the group set their frayed Shoegaze atop sprightly Phil Spector drums and sounds, like much of their set, wistfully nostalgic for a time in their lives that hasn't actually passed. Though they only play for 20 minutes, they display bags of promise and are a hit with the Yuck fans. While critics tend to regard Slacker Rock as an American art form, Fanzine peddle a distinctly British strain of it, both bands on tonight's bill hinting that a widespread resurrection of the sound could well be imminent.

http://www.the-fly.co.uk/reviews/live/1010882/fanzine/

Edit

Tonight is Fanzine's first time in playing in Scotland and though their nerves do show, their material is strong enough that they quickly relax and allow it to speak for them. Opening track 'Roman Holiday' is an infectious highlight, buoyed by a crunching guitar line and nonchalant harmonies. The following 'L.A.', meanwhile, sees the group set their frayed Shoegaze atop sprightly Phil Spector drums, like much of their set, wistfully nostalgic for a time in their lives that hasn't actually passed. Though they only play for 20 minutes, they display bags of promise. While critics tend to regard slacker rock as an American art form, Fanzine peddle a distinctly British and rather brilliant strain of it.

Worbey and Farrell: the ones that got away

Here's a short comedy review I wrote for The Skinny last August. To my knowledge, it never made it onto their website, though I'm sure I submitted it at the same time as a Richard Herring review that did. It's been languishing on my hard drive for months.

I'd been asked to cover every comedy show on in an Udderbelly venue, of which there were three within minutes of each other. I think I reviewed about five performances back to back on this day, having seen something of my own choosing in the morning. What a slog.

The interesting thing about immersing myself in as many shows as I did over the course of the Festival is that I found myself unable to feel any sense of anticipation and excitement over them. In some respects, this made me an ideal critic, fit to view each performance objectively. Conversely, it made me feel too detached and numb to enjoy anything. By the end of  the run, my ennui was so great that I couldn't even summon the energy to mute a self-service checkout in Sainsbury's.

I was on some kind of manic upswing when I saw Worbey and Farrell and actually loved their show, though I have absolutely no intention to see, hear or read about them ever again.

 

Unashamedly end-of-the-pier, Steven Worbey and Kevin Farrell's act is so camp that punters will find it either outdated or audacious, depending on their politics. Skilled pianists first and comedians second, the duo's unique selling point is that they share a single instrument and stool for the duration of their show. Their arms awkwardly intertwined, they bash out rhythms so impressively complex that audiences can't help but laugh in astonishment. Live relay footage of their ivory tinkling is projected onto a screen above them, showing just how frenetic their interaction is. This schtick is kept interesting by the wide range of compositions they cover from Tchaikovsky to Danny Elfman, by way of The Champs and Nina Simone.

The duo's work doesn't feel quite so fresh as they act out conventional double act dynamics and deliver flat monologues. In one skit, Farell's pompous classical recital is repeatedly ruined by Worbey's low brow interjections. In another, Farell delights in revealing to us that many famous composers contracted and died from sexually transmitted diseases.

Still, however hackneyed their comedy is, it's hard not to smile as Worbey turns to the audience, his lips pursed, eyebrows raised and fingers crossed, promising his exasperated partner that he really will stop mucking about this time.