Tuesday, October 02, 2001
The weekend before last veered from the ridiculous to the sublime. On Saturday, I took a coach trip with 18 esteemed colleagues to Monkey World. Yes, Monkey World. And a 9am start, on a Saturday! Once we'd hung around for 45 minutes waiting in vain for the dozen or so hungover no-shows (and I'd grown accustomed to the all-pervading smell of Turns-Your-Tongue-Blue Pickled Onion Monster Munch), we set off for Wareham, Dorset. A great day. Spent time with old friends, met some new ones, had a wee dram. We all got back way past our bedtimes, but without leaving anyone behind, or indeed bringing any additional primates back with us (despite the best efforts of the more simian-smitten amongst us). And our inflight entertainment? Why, Mighty Joe Young and King Kong, of course.
And so to Sunday, and something completely different. Bjork was, as expected, stunning. Accompanied by Matmos, a Canadian throat singer called Tagaq, a full orchestra, electronic harpist Zeena Parkins and a 14-piece choir from Greenland; it was, as a live show should be, a wonderful assault on the senses. White feathers falling through a beam of light over Bjork's seated silouhette, as she cranked the handle of a music box. Scary guttural belches and shrieks emanating from Tagaq's svelte, satin-clad, gyrating form. The giggles of the Inuit choirgirls as they bobbed and swayed along with the dance beats so unfamiliar to this grand venue. Vast video screens of epic icescapes and microscopic organisms. The huge swelling sound from the orchestra vibrating through our seats, the pure power of Bjork's voice slicing through the air. The rattle of the bells hidden beneath her red feathered skirt, each time she jumped forward and back, like a child trying to stamp on their own shadow. So inspiring. So what have I done lately that is in anyway this creative? As a wise man once said, Do Something Pretty While You Can.
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And so to Sunday, and something completely different. Bjork was, as expected, stunning. Accompanied by Matmos, a Canadian throat singer called Tagaq, a full orchestra, electronic harpist Zeena Parkins and a 14-piece choir from Greenland; it was, as a live show should be, a wonderful assault on the senses. White feathers falling through a beam of light over Bjork's seated silouhette, as she cranked the handle of a music box. Scary guttural belches and shrieks emanating from Tagaq's svelte, satin-clad, gyrating form. The giggles of the Inuit choirgirls as they bobbed and swayed along with the dance beats so unfamiliar to this grand venue. Vast video screens of epic icescapes and microscopic organisms. The huge swelling sound from the orchestra vibrating through our seats, the pure power of Bjork's voice slicing through the air. The rattle of the bells hidden beneath her red feathered skirt, each time she jumped forward and back, like a child trying to stamp on their own shadow. So inspiring. So what have I done lately that is in anyway this creative? As a wise man once said, Do Something Pretty While You Can.
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