The marriage was a write-off from the first night.
After the plumbers, builders and barristers, comes
the most exciting contemporary art show in town.
Images and sounds, and how they go together,
turn out to be an artistic narrative of a wounded
young man with yesterday’s empties on the ground
or abandoned on windowsills. The music scene
is exploding, the best of both worlds, though
less of a bonanza than expected. It’s no surprise
that boys should rebel and break loose, then
cordon off the other. Adolescent transgression
is a richly painted surface that appears to have
some kind of extra dimension. There are quaint
optical effects, professional struggles with
tragedy, and still one last act to come.
Spurt Splat Thwump Splish. Blessed with
an extraordinary ear and new-found prestige
this is less about the past and more about
the future. Performances begin this weekend.
This is music without sound, a spectacle
which generates sticking-out ears and lines
that morph into the sound you make in your head.
You read as you hear as you look, only to find
yourself coaxing a fragile soundtrack out of
a prolonged struggle with nerves, hysteria,
colitis, stomach cramps and migraines.
Glassy letters shatter like cat’s teeth,
giving an unregulated feel to dance events
scissored straight from the pages of cartoons:
bleak communist blocks in pale grey skies.