Before I start to write, I need the right combination of chemicals in my bloodstream. Fortunately, those not provided by my body can be easily injected or snorted, or discovered in a spoonful of raw instant coffee. I tried to get my first evening at Latitude written up this morning - I was first at the press tent and everything. Unfortunately, it turned out that I needed to actually see a show to have something to inspire me.
I had hoped getting lost on the way to the Festival would help: Mr B helped up by not putting the right postcode into his Sat Nav. "It's looking rather quiet for the main route into a major festival," I pointed out. A silent u-turn, and the first aristocrat of Chap Hop had us back in a comfortable tail-back.
My prediction from Mr B's hour long set in the poetry tent - which, up to that point, had been like an illustrated lecture on why I hate poetry - is that this August will be the Fringe of Chap Hop. People will be wandering the Royal Mile humming Acid Ted and plaid will make an unexplained come-back. Mr B would not be funny if he didn't have such a detailed understanding of how hip-hop works: unlike most of the slam poetry boys, he has a flow as well as the ability to speak really fast in rhyme. Plus he gave me a lift from the station.
After failing to write anything coherent this morning, I popped down to the Faraway Forest (the twee name for one of the various stages here) and made contact with the National Theatre of Scotland. It bothers me that the NTS are being so good lately: even David Greig, whom I delighted in calling over-rated, just because it made me different to the other critics, has hot form twice this year. The NTS are invading Suffolk with The Strange Undoing of Prudentia Hart, a confident mash up of karaoke, Border Ballads, choreography and scripted theatre. Since it is usually performed in a pub, the transition to outdoor festival is easy. Until, as Ali Macrae reminds me, it is set in a Thurso pub, cut off from civilisation by winter snow.
Trying desperately to appear knowing and cool - and not give away my enthusiasm for both Macrae's music and Madeleine Worrall's sensual, witty performance as the titular heroine - I led us off to a shady groove where we swapped tales of Scottish critics, Govan bars and local sessions. Behind us, a performance of a Greek myth seems to be reviving The Brian Blessed School of Acting. They shout in unison and distract me from an anecdote about my family band and how Kylie Minogue's Can't Get You Out Of My Head is, actually, a self-referential masterpiece.
Minogue is important in Prudentia: Worrall's version exposes its gentle heart beneath the pulsing, shimmering glamour. Macrae and Worrall warmly discuss the way that folk music is used in the play, suggesting that the modern session can be found anywhere a karaoke machine has been installed. The mix of new and old, folk and pop, script and movement, humour and intensity make Prudentia an interesting herald of a specific Scottish style of performance. It's brilliantly written, too.
And so... is that Richard Dedomenici in the cabaret tent?
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