Dedominici at Latitude

Richard Dedominici's brand of lecture performance may not be entirely appropriate for a sunny festival in a cabaret tent. Then again, given his propensity for agitation and awkwardness, I'm not sure he is entirely appropriate anywhere. Great Dedominici moments in my life include his speech at the National Review of Live Art, when he launched his own archive (sample entry: "this is like Disneyland, in so far as there are plenty of queues"), the day he hunkered down with my mother to discuss the problems of Watford's art-ignorant mayor, and the arrest in Edinburgh after he asked whether the cannon at the castle could take out the new parliament.

His latest obsession - following on from trying to create a Croydon-Watford rivalry - is the lack of physical exercise inspired by the Olympics. His technique of taking a surprise fact - here, the salient point that the arrival in a country of the Olympics sees an immediate downturn in actual sporting activity by the citizens - then exploding it through absurdist shattershots has led him to campaign for more dogging.

His suggestion that we gather in a car park for a spot of action research during Paolo Nuntini's set is warmly greeted - certainly, watching a pair of middle-aged strangers achieve uncomfortable orgasms in the back of a Ford Escort, while raining spunk on the windscreen and chasis beats an hour of most MOR music - but Dedominici's research is still in the planning stages. An attempt to design an Olympic torch in style of a golden dildo, an interlude by Pop Era (pop plus opera), a coda in which he invents words to the Cagney and Lacey theme tune: Dedominici is not quite ready to present the International Dogging Federation to the world. Against quick fire comedy and loud music, the hour is fragmented and less forceful than his previous forays into political art.

As always, there is a serious point behind the tomfoolery: Dedominci is a sharp social commentator and Dogging for Gold has a moral intention that belies the surface crudeness. Not only does it allow him to pursue one of the phenomenon that makes up the spectrum of sexuality in the UK, but is rarely discussed except pruriently, he pokes fun at the Olympics. He even avoids easy jokes about the Lisa Simpson giving head logo.

Dedominici's moral universe is slowly coming into focus. He casts himself as harmless, a Live Art jester, yet his vision of the UK - lulled by media, lurking in the bushes and unthinkingly slipping into a corporate-controlled sleep.

Latitude Day 3 Part 3

I am not going out in that rain. Even if Showstopper - The Musical is on in the cabaret tent, even if Camille O'Sullivan was waiting for me in a tiny venue by the river, where she would go down on one knee and promise to be a guest on my radio show. I have no pairs of socks left. My boiler suit - as it turns out, my festival fashion statement was more stupid than it sounds - is muddy. I have seen The Waterboys today. I interviewed 1927. I gave poor Gary McNair a big hug. I am having some time in the press tent, drinking coffee and blathering with the lovely Anthea from the festival team.

There are plenty of chances for me to meditate on my old age at Latitude. Not least, all those nostalgia bands that I remember as snappy young things. Why, there was that time when OMD were in the charts. And the day Mike Scott went folk on Fisherman's Blues. And I'll never forget the day Os Mutantes discovered tropicalia...

Most of all, that little whinging voice that does not like the mud.

There are many many other critical questions... has cabaret hit a wall? There has been a lack of cabaret acts in the cabaret tent this year. Bryony Kimmings may cross a line from Live Art, but she isn't burlesque. Prudentia Hart is three hours of multi-platform fun (okay, music and drama for those not as painfully pretentious as I am), but it is not a variety bill. Only tonight, in an evening curated by Dusty Limits, do I see a real cabaret show.

Oh, sorry: there was Ducky last night. That had Scottee, another one of my fascinations.

But it still stands: can cabaret offer enough artists to fill a tent for three days? Latitude has a sensible policy of refusing to book the same acts year after year, so it doesn't mean that there are no good acts... it might mean there are not enough.

Hang on, the rain has stopped. If I run, I might catch Frisky and Mannish.

Latitude Day 1, Part 1

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?