Tony Greenway

Tony Greenway in October

andy.shiels@archant.co.uk — Tue, 02 Oct 2007 11:03:00 GMT

Television does many things well. It is home to fabulous

dramas (I'm thinking of The West Wing), hilarious

comedies (A Bucket o' French and Saunders) and

riveting documentaries about killer crocodiles (thank you, the

channel known as 'Five'). The small screen also acts a

showcase for many watchable TV presenters, plus Vernon

Kay.

But - Sweet Jimi Hendrix! - will television please stop trying

to find Britain's next big singing sensation live in my front

room every Saturday evening? It's making my head woozy.

As I write this, the X Factor - dear God, will it never end? -

is making its depressing mark on the weekend TV schedules.

People who can sing and others who have a voice like the

foghorn on the Isle of Wight ferry are literally queuing round

the block to display their talents in front of Simon Cowell and

Mrs Ozzy Osbourne (oh, the irony).

Sometimes this strategy works: Will Young and Girls Aloud,

both discovered by Pop Idol-styley TV talent shows, are now

bona fide musical superstars, as is Pol Pot, the former

dictator of Cambodia (actually, I think you mean Paul Potts -

Ed).

But where do most TV talent show winners end up? In the

bargain bin at HMV and in panto at a theatre near you, that's

where. The public is fickle: your first single will go to number

one, but your third won't even chart. And there's always

another X Factor wannabe snapping at your heels.

Enduring fame happens when real talent naturally finds a

way. Look at Corinne Bailey Rae, Kaiser Chiefs, Arctic

Monkeys and The Pigeon Detectives: all from Yorkshire, all

supremely gifted, and all discovered without the aid of a

phone vote and Louis Walsh.

Which brings us to Rufus Wainwright, son of singer Loudon

Wainwright III and brother of folk-pop star Martha Wainwright.

This month, the delightfully arch Rufus - American by birth but

raised in Canada - comes to Sheffield City Hall on October

19th and Harrogate International Centre on October 27th as

part of a world tour to promote his latest album, Release the

Stars.

This is his most successful CD to date in the UK, reaching

the No 2 spot and going gold. And the title track, a fabulously

blowsy cabaret-style dig at the Hollywood studio system, is

the most original thing you'll hear all year.

Even so, Wainwright is not what you'd call a mainstream

performer. Possibly this is because he has never been on a

TV talent show in his life, honing his craft on the Montreal club

circuit and then working as a supporting act for the likes of

Tori Amos and Sting.

Yet after his appearance at Glastonbury this summer, the

Rufus bandwagon is picking up momentum and his fan-base

is growing. When he does finally click with the masses, he's

going to be huge and his fame is going to last – this time

Sheffield City Hall, next time Hallam FM Arena, perhaps?

No wonder, because Wainwright, who has been playing

piano since the age of six, is responsible for some of the most

beautiful and ambitious songs ever recorded. He has

recreated Judy Garland's famous 1961 Carnegie Hall Concert

on stage and on CD. He is even working on an opera, and

writing the libretto in French. That's why his peers, including

Elton John, call him 'the greatest singer-songwriter ever'.

'He didn't say "ever",' Rufus corrected, tongue-in-cheek, in

one interview. 'He just said "today".'

Now that's the real X Factor.

Tony Greenway in September

andy.shiels@archant.co.uk — Tue, 04 Sep 2007 11:23:00 GMT

THE school I used to go to closed its doors for good in July, so I went back for the last-ever old boys' reunion.

As an academic seat of learning it was in a sorry state all round, sinking so low in the educational league that it was in danger of falling off the bottom of the Oftsed table. Aesthetically, the building was somewhere between 'tatty' and 'squatter camp'. In fact, it was so squalid and useless that next month the bulldozers come in to knock the place down before it can fall on top of anyone.

I mooched around with three of my oldest pals and stood defiantly on the school lawn in full view of the headmaster (a brazen act which used to be strictly forbidden and punishable by instant death), reminiscing about the old days and watching the rats chasing each other around the bike sheds.

We also bumped into our former science teacher, a man who made Stalin look like a reasonable human being. This was a person who delighted in using my head for blackboard rubber target practice on a day-to-day basis and, by rights, should now be on trial in the Hague.

But instead there he was, as free as a bird, shaking me by the hand and calling me by my Christian name. The whole day was surreal. No one shouted at me. No one criticised my grammar. No one put my head down the toilet and flushed it. Plus, we were allowed beer.

They say school days are the happiest of your life, but, honestly, mine were about as much fun as gum disease. I've been giving this a lot of thought recently and I've decided that it would have been a lot better if my parents had sent me to Rydell High School instead, the location of the hit movie musical Grease.

Just think of the fabulous benefits: singing; dancing; general frivolity; big quiffs; cool cars; warm weather. a lack of institutionalised brutality; access to the 'Shake Shack'; Olivia Newton- John; and access to Olivia Newton-John in the 'Shake Shack'.

At my school, there were none of these things - apart from the quiffs. So give me Rydell High any day of the week. Harewood House is showing Grease this month as a drive-in movie: a great idea if the weather behaves itself. I like the film, but find it strange that it regularly tops the charts of the Best Movie Musicals Ever Made (look, it's good, but it's no Paint Your Wagon).

For starters, there's John Travolta who, we are asked to believe, has just turned 18, despite clearly being at least 36. His legs appear to be made out of pipecleaners, and is that eyeliner he's wearing?

Also - and I don't care what anyone says - John should on no account be encouraged to sing in the upper register (Exhibit A: 'Sandy'.) He sounds like Kermit the Frog on helium.

Then there is the 'plot', which goes something like this: prim college girl Olivia Newton-John is the one that swivel-hipped teen John Travolta wants. Which is lucky, because she's hopelessly devoted to him. But their young romance doesn't go like greased lightning, because of those summer nights. Then she becomes a *** and they drive off in a flying car. The end.

And yet, Grease works beautifully. Perhaps it's the music. Perhaps it's the attention to period detail. Perhaps it's Olivia Newton-John in slutty satin leggings. Whatever the reason, you always feel better when it's over.

A bit like a school reunion.

Tony Greenway in August

andy.shiels@archant.co.uk — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 10:49:00 GMT

Car shows are big in Yorkshire this month. Tony Greenway takes two for a test drive...

CARS, cars everywhere – and not just on the roads. Last month, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (the original one from the *** Van *** film) came to Nunnington Hall, so naturally we took the ankle-biters along to watch it fly/drive past. Well, it was a cheap day out.

Chitty really must be a magical automobile because usually, when my children sit in the back of our car, the big one keeps whining: ‘Are we there yet?’ and ‘I’m BORED’ while wiping chocolaty fingers down the headrest and dropping crisp crumbs in her car-seat as a form of dirty protest.

But we had none of that when she met Chitty. She just gawped in silent wonder and refused to budge from her spot despite the lengthening line of children waiting to take her place; and it was only when I shouted: ‘Lookover there! Is that the Child Catcher?’ that she shifted pretty quickly - although it did cause a bit of wild-eyed panic in the rest of the queue. (Sorry about that. But blame Robert Helpmann: blimey, he WAS scary, wasn’t he?). I hope Chitty comes back to Yorkshire soon because even I got all nostalgic about seeing it in the flesh, as it were. Then again, after we left, I was whistling Me Ol’ Bamboo for three days solid, so you have to wonder if it was really worth it.

This month, there are more car-related events in the county (but of the ‘non-flying’ variety). On August 5th, Sheffield will be hosting its first-ever city centre motor show (which, by the way, is free). The council is calling it ‘a great entertaining day out for all the family’ and promises classic cars and bikes, military vehicles, wedding cars, brand new and futuristic cars and emergency vehicles (the only time you’ll want to see one up close). Then there’s the VW Festival at Harewood House (on August 19th ) that is, says the blurb, ‘aimed at VW enthusiasts who want to show off their cars; and also for the families who want to spend a sunny Sunday wondering around the grounds.’ If my own beloved MK III VW Golf didn’t consist almost entirely of rust and dirt, I’d take it along, too. But it does, so I won’t. I will, however, keep Harewood to that ‘sunny Sunday’ promise.

I’m very interested in car design at the moment, because, for the family MPV, I've just bought (don't laugh) an old-style Fiat Multipla (I said DON'T laugh) – the one with the squashed-looking bonnet and the ‘roll of fat’ underneath the front window. The Fiat Multipla has many plus points. It's good on fuel, it's fun to drive and there's so much space inside that when you start speaking to the person in the passenger seat it’s like you’re yodelling in a canyon.

But it ain't pretty. In fact, it's hideously ugly, and resembles, from the front, a startled frog. From every other angle, it looks like the Popemobile. No-one is going to steal this thing because the Multipla is so grotesque, it acts as its own anti-theft device – and even the execs at Fiat (and they designed it) admit as much. So I am now forced to get used to people stopping, staring, pointing and laughing as I drive down the street, or asking for a papal blessing as I alight onto the curb.

But - ha! - did your car ever hang in the Museum of Modern Art in New York? No. I don't think so. But the Multipla did (albeit with a sign next it to it reading 'Man, that is one ugly car.') So who looks silly NOW, eh? Why. That would be me.

Who knows. You might even see a bullet grey froggy Multipla slap bang in the middle of the Sheffield city centre motor show. If we can’t find anywhere else to park it, that is. Just a warning.

City Centre Motor Show Sheffield August 5th 11am-4pm Free

VW Festival Harewood House, Leeds August 19th 0113 218 1010

Tony Greenway in July

andy.shiels@archant.co.uk — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 10:37:00 GMT

BACK in 1978, an American new wave band called Blondie appeared on Top of the Pops performing their UK breakthrough hit, Denis. Next day at school, it was all we talked about. Or rather, lead singer

Debbie Harry was all we talked about. It's hard to describe the effect that Harry had on a bunch of hormonally charged 12-year-old boys, but I think I speak for all my former schoolmates when I say: 'Phwoarrrrr.' By then, Harry was already 33, but this didn't matter to us because she was, we all agreed, the most sizzling female this side of our beleaguered French teacher andthe blonde one out of Abba (12-year-old boys think about little else - well, that and football.)

Our attraction to Harry was partly fuelled by the way she looked: blonde, just-got-out-of-bed hair, vermillion pout, blinding teeth and cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them. Her image was alarmingly, rapaciously sexual and her clothes were on the brief side.

But we also liked her coolly detached attitude. She had a surly, challenging stare which invited everyone to drop dead. Even at that young age, we recognised trouble when we saw it, and trouble looked like fun. I knew if I ever brought Harry home to meet my parents (I could dream, couldn't I?) she would be exactly the sort of woman my mother would violently disapprove of, but my dad, strangely, would be okay with.

She even had a powerful effect on females. At the girls' school down the road, pupils started sporting shaggy peroxide 'dos, even if some of the results were more Dirty Harry than Debbie Harry. Meanwhile, my friends and I got on with the tough chore of collecting every bit of Harry memorabilia we could lay our hands on - posters, records, magazines and even a video called Debbie Does Dallas, which we presumed was a recording of a Blondie concert in Texas but which turned out to be something else entirely.

Nearly three decades have passed, which makes Harry - eek! - 62 years of age and me old enough to know better. Amazingly Blondie are still touring and this month play Harrogate which is not, admittedly, the first place you'd expect to find a band associated with the wild excesses of the seventies New York punk scene. Debbie is old enough to be a granny now, so the only= ones buzzing about her will be the balding sexagenarians in the stalls. And when she sings 'Oh, your hair is beautiful' - a line from Blondie's 1979 hit Atomic - expect to see most of them burst into tears.

She's still a rebel at heart, refusing to grow old gracefully (if she was, she probably wouldn't be touring the world with a raucous New Wave pop group). Some commentators have tut-tutted about this, saying she's too old to be a rock chick and should retire with dignity. Funny that. No one ever says the same about Mick Jagger or Keith Richards. And anyway, she's still got 'it' - that same indefinable thing she had back in 1978. She still looks like trouble. Plus, her voice has stayed exactly the same. Just listen to the way she purrs 'she looks like she don't care', the intro line from Blondie's 1999 comeback hit, Maria. It's as strong and true as it was 30 years ago. So what if Debbie Harry isn't a poster girl anymore?

She's now something far more potent. She's become an icon.