The Savoy lounge has high ceilings. A white grand piano was the centrepiece of the lavish room that had Greek relief carvings along the frieze in between the marble columns that stand silent guard.
The pianist was working through an established repertoire of well arranged jazz and classical pieces. Ben and I had a refreshingly open conversation as we waited for the theatre’s doors to open. The Rat Pack, Live from Las Vegas waited for us to finish our drinks. My Canada Dry an Ben’s Gin and Tonic were obviously helping to pay for our waiters tuxedo, as they were only slightly less expensive than our half-price theatre tickets (the two-for-one coupons courtesy of my university).
On the nature of duplicate experiences, I’ve had little time to reflect, perhaps because no two experiences are the same. However, this evening’s show offered such an opportunity – or as close as you could get to it. Ben and I share an enjoyment of big band vocal jazz and admitting that we both have seen the show once already is a testament to the quality of both the production and our affection for the music. Inevitably however, my expectations were not to be met, despite the fact that the show had changed homes since our last meeting and the Savoy’s art-deco interior design was both an interesting point for observations and discussion.
The disadvantaged attendees behind us in row G only had to put up with two 6’5 giants blocking their view for half the production, because a headache, the type unaccustomed to loud trumpet shots and cramped seating, decided to crack Ben’s will to stay past intermission. I must admit, travelling through Covent Garden at rush hour after a full day of computing and clients trained in the delicate art of art-director torture would be enough to give me a headache too. The act, as with all comedy, depends so much on timing – something of which I was acutely aware this time: Dean would just catch himself before he jumped a line ahead; or Frank would come in a hair too late with a punch line that would be drowned out by the next line of vocals.
The production maintained all the features of its original: from wardrobe to mics with 30 feet long cords, to dated humour and smoking on stage. I suspect it’s a perfect example of the whitewashing nostalgic ameliorative effects of memory – both on an individual (I thought the second time would be just as good) and collective (people really used to laugh at these jokes) level.
On Monday, I will ask if my room can be furnished with something others received on arrival: a bookshelf. My desk is currently housing my ‘conversations with chimpanzees’; a book on Zen and archery, essays on Anish Kapoor and Jeff Wall; Flatland; and a recently finished ‘curious incident’.
Tuesday will see Bruno, Marcell and I off to meet Stephen Hawking at a lecture at London University. I doubt Stephen will remember me (because we have never met) and I doubt we’ll be formally introduced. Actually, I’m not sure what to expect this time – maybe that’s a good thing.
Tags: London, theatre