London

July 18, 2011

Rain is the main factor of London right now. I spent yesterday waiting for G, who said he wanted to stay with me until it was time to go to the airport, and returning to the room to see if he were there or left a message dictated the actions of the day, but none of that ever developed. Bought him a ticket for the Gatwick Express– because he was out of money–which lies unused upon the pile of tickets. Did cruise the British Museum before opening, when it is cool and bright and calm, all the exhibits shut up like animals in a zoo until opening. Thought much and slept much, and though it doesn’t seem much of a day abroad, it was what I needed.

Finally made it to the Natural History Museum. It’s one of the great secular buildings in London, fancifully and topically carved, with monkeys clamoring up the arches in the great hall. I’m not sure that what was inside was up to the architecture, though. Dioramas always seemed dead and pale to me, stuffed creatures inevitably darkening imitations of their brilliant selves, and that is what it has to offer. Perhaps if the dinosaur bones had not been shut off for cleaning. . . I did easily, however, double my knowledge concerning millipedes and centipedes. Crossed the road for luncheon at the Victoria & Albert.

Later in the evening I went to the Royal Opera House to hear Rufus Does Judy! I think that what would have been a brilliant cabaret act got blown out of proportion by several levels of magnitude. Not that it wasn’t fun, but simply that Rufus Wainwright was not the right person to be doing it. Many of the songs are really not very good, and though I’m sure Judy could sell mediocre material of that kind, Rufus cannot. His voice is well trained but ordinary, his diction horrible. The evening could not have survived without the trope of a gay man doing the concert of a gay icon, a safe spot to which Wainwright himself kept returning. He invited his sister Martha on stage a couple of times, and she knocked her numbers out of the park. It wasn’t a great evening for me, but I would at any time buy a ticket to hear Rufus sitting behind a piano and singing, which is what he does as well as anybody. His presence is simply not big enough to fill the Royal Opera, whatever ego might suggest.

Found myself questioning the medium of the song concert. There was no unity except for similarities of arrangement and the singer’s voice, in songs which had, after all, been chosen with another singer in mind. I missed a story, or a reason to be hearing those particular things at that particular time. Again, it made better sense if one reminded oneself constantly of Garland, but that wasn’t enough to give meaning to the night, and justify 55 pounds. Weren’t the songs from shows, or meant to be heard in clubs while one is eating dinner and drinking with friends? With some exceptions, they did not repay the concentration the setting suggested, as might an evening of lieder.

The opera house itself is magnificent, airy and spacious. I’d only seen a tithe of it before. I drank my cocktail looking down on Covent Garden.

But homecoming was rewarding. A few peaceful drinks at O’Neill’s, then met Alec and Daniel from Manchester on the hotel steps, who were delighted with me because I am American and Americans are always friendly, a supposition which I went on to prove. They were in their 20's and each staying at the hotel for different professional meetings, which I am mixing up as I write, if it ever was clear. Also a long chat with the bartender, who is from Calcutta, and whose girlfriend is good enough for now but nobody you’d want to settle down with. They were all happy about something, and it made me happy to be among them.