So, do you find me a changed man?

Did I have an epiphany in the Upper Circle? Am I a convert, or will I continue to struggle blindly over the opera based questions on a University Challenge?

The answer to the first three questions is a resounding NO; but…

The fact that I have left that sentence to hang could suggest that Opera North failed in their challenge; for a collection of bloggers not to feel indifferent about their latest production, Carmen. Though I don’t necessarily think they are to blame.

It was a big, bold and brash looking production; full of positives running through the first two acts. I thought the stage design and lighting conveyed a sense of place – the hot, muggy south of America. I thought the cast interaction behind the main stars to be intriguing. Even the “woman in bathing suit” character held my attention; by doing nothing, in case she then did something.

There was a humour and a darkness that was balanced out perfectly – from the violent acts and intimidation, to the Michael Jackson dance routine and the almost, guarded English gent, desperate to protect the dignity of an exposed young lady – think police officer and a helmet and you’re not far off. The crowd laughed in all the right places – guided by a prop, a jaunty wave, a well executed facial expression – yet it was clear the production was always one, drawn knife away from a change of tempo; a more sombre mood.

I thought the numbers – is that more musical theatre than opera – that involved the full cast, had a rhythm and purpose to them, that saw time pass effortlessly from curtain rise to the close of the second act. The full stage presence seemed overly busy at the start, but maybe this was intentional; as once in full swing, the movement and interplay was a joy to watch.

What really did it for me was the steely determination that Heather Shipp gave to Carmen. Her eyes, transfixed on something at the back of the auditorium; face contorting as she sang out to us. It was then, with the full cast on stage, yet “Carmen” apparently alone with her pain, her anger; that I found something in opera to enjoy.

Not every one of the seasoned opera goers around me appeared to agree on the positive aspects – maybe it was because they were opera goers that what I found enthralling, failed to push their classical buttons? Certain elements immediately polarised the audience. From the barbed comment that “you can’t sing a love song in shorts”, aimed at the principle male lead – to the mixed reaction on seeing a woman’s breasts on full display or a man simulating the removal of underwear with his teeth. The breasts were quickly covered up (to much amusement), and the curtain came down before any more underwear could be removed; but the tongues had started to wag.

If those parts were intended to shock – that is where my indifference could have kicked in. Yes I was surprised to see a pair of breasts, on stage, whilst surrounded by an elderly audience – but it is no more than I see on television, or in at least one leading red top. The same can be said for the acts of violence. Compared to what I saw the night before, masquerading as a cultural documentary on traveller folk, the blows on stage were ham-fisted. No one actually believed anyone was being hurt – but maybe that is what happens in operas?

The biggest issue was neither the “sexy” nor “violence” for me. Through no fault of the cast, director or company; the opera simply lost me. If I had have walked out of The Grand Theatre during the second interval, I would have most probably finished the evening a happy man. Yet the aria of act three heralded a change of pace and direction that in previous operas have also left me cold.

Having spent a period of time reviewing DJs and their CDs or live sets, I quickly learnt to appreciate the importance of good programming and flow over simply playing one big record after the next. In the first two acts, opera seems to have this in spades. A bubbly intro is followed by a well known piece. Some minor interplay helps to link together another couple of well paced group performances – before the big number burst through in the heart of act two. The second half of the performance appears to have been designed to give the Individuals chance to shine – yet, and this goes back to my comments in part one. Without the language, a reliance on the display screen soon comes in to play.

For the first two acts I bobbed and weaved around the heads in front to see what was going on across the whole stage. When the spotlight is on one individual, who is tasked with filling the stage with their sole presence, I feel at a loss unless I am following their words on the screen – virtually ignoring anything they are doing – losing their facial expressions, prop work and anyone or thing that might be loitering around the periphery. In acts one and two I picked up enough words thanks to GCSE French to convince myself I didn’t need to follow the “script”. Acts three and four were more an exercise in reading, than listening and enjoying.

That said I definitely finished the night with more positives than negatives. Maybe the cultural and physical setting made this a more palatable opera for me? So, yes – the case against indifference has been won.

Yet it is clear that Carmen convinced me, if I needed convincing, that I will never fully be at one with opera. For all the great performances – especially the intense relationship of the male and female lead performers, underlying tension in the plot and well worked adaptation – I could happily go the rest of my life without having to hear another bleeding heart aria.

Maybe I’ll for ever be the owner of a ‘now that’s what I call opera classics’ attitude – but that doesn’t have to stop me peaking behind the cover from time to time.

Opera North continues to take Carmen as part of their winter season to The Grand Theatre in Leeds, as well as theatres in Newcastle, Nottingham and Salford Quays until May

The image to the right of these words is of a book.

The actual book is not important. The fact that it has a cover is.

I don’t know if the book is any good. I can’t tell that simply from looking at the cover. To find out if I like the book I have to open it, read it; follow the dialogue and then – not always at the end – put it down and make a judgement upon it.

I’m off to see “Carmen” tonight. My judgement already is that I will not enjoy it.

What I know of Opera North’s “Carmen” is through the snippets I have read online – including a set of fairly prosaic reviews and claims it is “sexy” and not suitable for children. Yet my pre-judgement has not been altered one bit by the reviews, nor its 12+ certificate – my judgement is based solely on the cover; the fact that it is an Opera.

But then are all Operas alike – or is there, like they claim about whisky, an Opera out there for everyone?

My experiences of Opera have been limited to two – “Madam Butterfly” at the Royal Opera House and the “Barber of Seville” at the Arena di Verona.

The first was a Christmas present for Amy. The seats were on the back row; looking over the shoulder of Zeus on to the stage. My dodgy knee gave way half way through. The pain was excruciating, and at one point I thought I would go out for the interval and not return; Propped up against the bar, waiting for Amy to reappear. It was the knee, guv; honest!

Thankfully there was a paid standing area just behind our seats. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a petit Eastern tourist, who I immediately offered my seat to. A thousand thanks and nods later, my leg was straight – the pain subsiding – and the thought of an evening at the bar declining with each passing aria.

From my new position, what struck me as being more peculiar than standing at the Opera was the fact that most of my fellow spectators, were staring at a laser display screen on the back of the seats in front. There they were, at the Opera – in what is a marvellous setting – with singers and performers giving their all on stage; and they are following the words on a screen no bigger than a ruler. Why not simply sit at home, read a book whilst having Maria Callas sing Pucini’s greatest hits on the CD player?

No screen for me. I wanted to engage with the action. To see the lips move as the words came out; to appreciate the effort that had gone in to the stage production. Surely that was the reason to be there?

The second effort was in the even better setting of Verona’s first century Roman Amphitheatre. It was a glorious, warm mid-summer evening. The day had been a scorcher and, even in the cheap seats once more, the atmosphere of the crowd was bubbling away nicely in anticipation.

We got there at seven and sat down on the polished stone steps, worn smooth by the feet of the servi, plebs and middle-class Opera fans for the past millennia.

As I said, we got there at seven. By eight, the only excitement was to be found in the crowd. With the heat from the day rising from the stone seats, and the warmth of the evening still with us; the cramped conditions on the upper deck was starting to affect a number of spectators. Regularly a paramedic would rush up the stairs to attend to a fainter – read: fainters – they were dropping like flies; more cold beer over here please.

Eventually, as the sun went down and the moon formed a natural spotlight, the Opera finally got underway. No laser display screen here – this was all about the spectacle of the performance, the stage design and the music. Or I guess it should have been. From our view point it was more, tiny people moving amongst large shrubs, singing with gusto but not really making a connection with me. At one point my over active imagination hoped for an ancient Roman trap door to open in the middle of the expensive seats; with gladiators, lions and other beasts of the Empire rising from them and laying waste to the nobs. It didn’t happen.

Only more signing then confusion was to follow. The prima donna sang – the crowd roared “Brava!” Some of which then got up to leave; before hastily rushing back when a prima uomo burst in to voice. “Bravo!” they shouted, and once again got up to leave, before finding the nearest vacant space to catch the next female response. It was like Tennis Opera and the crowd were the ball. We left just before 1am.

I enjoyed Verona for the experience of being there, more than the Royal Opera House, and definitely more than both operas. What I found on both occasions was a sense of longing – to understand what was being sung, and why it was being sung? If it is hard to follow the language, no matter how great the stage direction, it’s still hard to work out why a woman is crying or a man storming off.

It was as though my eyes were open, yet disconnected from my brain. If Opera, for a pleb like me, is merely about people moving around on stage whilst singing an indecipherable song, then I’m not sure I will ever grasp it. I don’t want to follow the “lyrics” on a screen like a karaoke machine. It hardly seems worth being there if I do that.

Opera North are challenging people to be indifferent about “Carmen”. It is clearly an adaptation that hasn’t sat well with some, but then maybe I am not an opera traditionalist; certainly not a fan. Will the way they have treated “Carmen” change my opinion of Opera forever, driving me to check out edgier productions, with “sexy” settings and age restrictions applied?

It won’t, unless I challenge myself to look beyond the cover.

I am an invited guest of Opera North through the wonderful The Culture Vulture website, who try desperately to engage the art world with clueless philistines like myself. My requirement is to simply blog about my experience – of which you will find in Part Two

I’m stood, hugging a bare-chested man.

I’ve been in this embrace for the last five minutes. I don’t know his name, or why he is hugging me. All I know is that his shirt is round his waist, I’m covered in his sweat and his mouth is moving but no sound is coming out.

He reaches his hands round to the back of my head, and with delicate fingers, starts to massage my neck. I don’t remember this being advertised as a service when I paid to get in here?

Still his lips move – his eyes darting around as they do. He points to someone in the distance, someone I can barely make out through the mass of bodies. Bodies interlocked with each other; and smoke, lots of smoke. The room is full of smoke.

Then, like ears popping as a plane comes in to land, a moment of clarity sweeps through my head.

“I said I was X from the message board” he shouts.

Then the roar returns. And he is gone, lost in the sound; possibly lost forever.

There is nothing seedy about this picture. This is a nightclub, and I love every minute of it.

Dance music and nightclubs changed my life. I met Amy not in a club, but through mutual friends I went clubbing with. Without clubbing and Amy, there would clearly be no Lauren.

This site wouldn’t exist were it not for Ben Edwards, who in his role as an editor at DJ Mag, gave me the opportunity to turn my thoughts in to print – through compiling reviews, interviews and features – all based on dance music and nightclubs.

Most of my good friends, the ones I chose rather than was forced together with through school or work – are those I share a mutual love of music and going out with. There are even those “friends” as mentioned on another post that I will never meet, but can talk free and easy with on a host of subjects, usually on sites dedicated to dance music.

It has given me more shared memories than anything else, possibly with the exception of my immediate family. Which is kind of ironic, as any detractors of the sound, the environment and the associated activities would suggest that the whole package does nothing but destroy brain cells. Yet ask any regular clubber, who has been going for twenty years or so what their favourite night out was, or where they were when they first heard a certain tune, and they will recount a host of “lost” nights far better than someone who spent last Saturday down the pub and can’t remember how they got home.

Those same detractors argue that it is all the same – beats, sounds, and venues. It is all the same, but so vastly different. The music may have an underlying rhythm pattern linked to the beats and musical bars, but the melody is different, there are key changes, vocals; there are even different dancing styles.

The venues can be as diverse as a reclaimed railway arch, a sports stadium and a beach bar – not to mention the varying shapes and sizes of the more traditional, dedicated club venues. Each will hold a different memory, for differing reasons – even if the DJ, the music and the friends are all the same.

And that’s what makes it so special. You may have an expectation of how a night will pan out – what you will hear, who you will see, what you will chat about – but then something will happen that pushes the night in a totally different direction. There will be new introductions, “aint’ see you in time” hugs, casual acquaintances and long time friendships formed. Organic is a term overly used in dance music circles, but it is hard to find a better one to describe the way a night grows and morphs. The way the punters on the dance floor link together, bouncing along to the tunes – it’s move or get moved at times.

Even the invasion of your personal space is something you grow to accept, if not always love. The random stranger, lost in a crowd – detached from their friends, who under the influence chooses to befriend you. Those are the casual acquaintances. By that time of night, neither of you are going to remember much of the conversation, but it was pleasant enough while it lasted.

Since Lauren was born, I haven’t set foot in a club. It was a concious decision – it took awhile to feel comfortable with her staying away from us, and at the same time – hangovers and babies do not mix which rules out much of the following day as well – especially if you are only leaving the club at six in the morning. But the older Lauren gets, the more I feel I have some unfinished business with that side of my life. I miss the vibe, the camaraderie, the lost conversations and the good times linked to the music and venues. You get the tunes on the podcasts, but that is only a fraction of the experience; a mere part of why I love it all.

There’s talk of a get together, a commemoration to a decade passed since a group of us met in Ibiza*. A lot of modern dance music leaves me flat, and the nights out, to the wrong venues can leave you feeling jaded – but a retrospective event, a chance to recount, a chance to remember, a chance to dance, chat, laugh and invade each other’s personal space is just the sort of night I need. A night we all need.

A big thank you to all the DJs, the producers, the club owners, promoters, the record shop owners, the space invaders, the bar staff, the randoms who chat to you at the bar, the casual acquaintances on the dance floor, the message board users – but most importantly the friends. Without you, it would have meant nothing.

Dance music and clubbing changed my life. Did it do the same for you? If so, get in touch – share your experiences, share your first nights out, your first tunes – your last dance with us all.

Keep the memories alive.

First club night – Gin Palace, Acton, London
Favourite club night – Optimo, Subclub, Glasgow
Favourite venue – The old terrace, Space, Ibiza
Favourite tune – Inner City – Pennies from Heaven (Kev’s Tunnel Mix)
Last night out – Polaroid, The Wire Club, Leeds (early 2009)

(*A number of us met on the weekend of 1/2 September 2001. It was the weekend England beat Germany 5-1, and it was also the Sasha birthday bash when he dropped the hideous “Cowpander” at Space – not all memories are positive ones HA!)

Image taken by Ben Raid at Junktion, The Tatty Bogle Club, London, July 2003

Found myself in a strange town, though I’ve only been here for six years now.

I’ve got questions in my mind. Trying to find a clue on Cookridge Street.

I moved to Leeds for love. It’s true. The love was already in me; it just happened that the person I loved was living in Leeds. I was living in London. The long distance relationship was a pain. At the time I had agreed to walk away from a role – and was well rewarded for doing so. With the severance package in pocket I took a punt and moved up to Leeds. We had a house; I found a temporary job and started to find the amenities – the pubs, clubs, bars, restaurants and shops that I would soon start to build a regular, happy relationship with. That was six years ago. My relationship with the city has not moved on from that point.

When I moved up, I was still in the phase of my life where running around on a weekend, getting up to no good – drinking myself through the early Sunday morning shows on VH1 seemed par for the course. I was still clubbing. Actually, I was still working for DJ Magazine; going to clubs all over the country – sometimes out of country. My social life revolved around pubs and bars that were used as pre-club venues, club venues, and somewhere to gather my thoughts after a hectic night out. It was very much as it was when I lived in London and Glasgow – same actions, different locations.

I knew at that point that I wanted more. I was reviewing club nights with DJs and promoters that were a fair bit younger than me – I was aging with every new review. Problem I had was that culturally I was a black hole. In London I had tried ballet, opera, theatre – some moments resonated, others had me looking at my watch. I expected more of myself – yet didn’t want to become something I was not.

I knew Leeds had much to offer. Beyond Technique, Asylum and Back to Basics where I spent most of my Saturday nights – the city offered a Grand Theatre, the West Yorkshire Playhouse and small venues like The Cockpit or the Universities for Gigs. There was the Art Gallery, The Henry Moore Institute and the Royal Armouries. To my shame – bar for a Rat Pack matinee at the Grand Theatre, a chance to avoid the rain in the art gallery or a couple of revival gigs at the Cockpit – I’m yet to cross the threshold of the city’s main attractions. I say shame – only for I believe that’s what the reader expects me to feel. For the reality is that I haven’t been to The West Yorkshire Playhouse or the Royal Armouries because the mood has never taken me there. The only barrier was desire.

It also isn’t the reason why I still feel lost in the city. Would going to see Billy Liar, the latest production at the West Yorkshire Playhouse make me feel more at home, or more aware of Leeds’ identity? Would going to the Royal Armouries enable me to tap in to the community spirit? Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner that I feel standoffish where community is involved. See, us Londoners need the threat of a two ton bomb falling on our head before we are prepared to leave our front doors open, or to break out in to song. Until then, we’ll pass you buy with heads bowed low for fear our eyes ever make contact.

But something is now stirring. Twitter is to blame. My cultural void needs filling. My drive to engage more with the people around me is increasing – strange how a global phenomenon makes you look inwards, at yourself and those closer to you. Through the use of hash tags – healthy debates about Leeds tend to grow, sucking in more and more viewpoints – some you relate to, others that pass you buy. The latest asks what people love about Leeds. I said nothing. As in, I love nothing about Leeds. Don’t get me wrong, it is a perfectly fine place to live – for Amy and me to bring up Lauren – for my mum to now live. For us to call home. But what is there to love about Leeds?

A lot of the answers people gave, and a lot of conversations I’ve had in my time in the city, always suggest that the best things in Leeds – are not necessarily native to Leeds.

If you live in the city, picture your perfect day. Mine would start with Italian coffee and a French croissant in La Bottega Milanese on The Calls. I might then head up to Hip in Thorntons Arcade – to pick up some American t-shirts and German trainers. I would spend the afternoon in North Bar on New Briggate drinking ale from Sheffield, Germany, America or Belgium. Sport or music would have to focus somewhere – maybe the national cricket team (often without any Yorkshire players) at Headingley or a band visiting Leeds on tour at the Academy. For food, and to show I don’t just run on coffee, pastry and booze – a well cooked Italian meal at somewhere like Diva Italian in Pudsey. We’d finish the night off at a friend’s house, drinking Mediterranean red wine or more ale picked up from Beer Ritz, whilst listening to American or European dance music.

So my perfect day in Leeds can only occur, if the people of the city are prepared to bring to me – the very best things I want from elsewhere in the world? If they stopped doing this – would it be time to move on? The reality to that question is no – but the basis of the perfect day does suggest that I use Leeds mainly as a place to live, to work and to source out new and interesting things, from parts of the world my budget will not take me to.

So how can I change this? How can I become more community focused – to live the life of a Loiner (a native of Leeds) who is genuinely interested in improving their lot – by improving their social, environmental and economic surroundings? Not simply interested in picking up a pay packet, most of which goes straight out of the city – but to get involved in community driven arts projects, localised debates and area regeneration? I am lucky in that I live in a nice, leafy part of the city. I am of an age where I do not object to a higher end supermarket or bar moving in – but what if that changes? What if I lose my job due to budgetary cuts? What if there is another lengthy bin strike and my drive way is festooned with used nappies? What if I simply want more out of life?

The answer to the original question is simple. What I love about Leeds are the people who are prepared to make a difference to my life. The next question that follows on from that – is how do I become a person that can make a difference to a stranger’s life? I don’t have the answer to that – but thanks to Twitter – I think I might know a couple of people who do.

The opening two lines are adapted from The Jam – Strange Town

The image is of The Parkinson Building, University of Leeds – a tower that dominates both the skyline, and my working life.