It’s not my
seventieth as a performer although I think in my very early years I discovered the
calling. My debut leading role in the
Sunday School drama ‘Little Tuck’s Dream’ (I was little Tuck and five years old)
propelled me into a life of loving the ring of laughter and applause. So I guess
I can claim this is my sixty-fifth season in my seventieth year.
But that’s enough
of that. The season has started and I am
writing this in the lorry at the Hereford Steampunk Festival in the intriguing
and historic Hereford Waterworks Museum.
And a cold, blustery and wet start it was with a thus-far unnamed Storm disrupting set
up day and a very difficult access problem, eventually solved by a friendly woman with a tow bar who was able to hook up the trailer and we manhandled it into
the right space so the real business could start.
The Hereford
Steampunk Festival is a noble affair supported by the great and good of the Steampunk
world. I love all things Steampunk. The people are warm-hearted, eccentric,
imaginative folk who have found a niche in this meeting of all things quirky Victorian
with Jules Verne science fiction, and a touch of Philip Pullman for good
measure. I hope I don’t sound
patronising. I don’t mean to be. A fabulous melange and some superb costumes,
concepts and contraptions. Last night I
co-hosted an evening of such performance with my good friend and steampunk entertainer
Greg Chapman and a superb, if sadly under-supported event it was. The forty or so steampunk souls were rather swallowed
in the cavernous and impressive Hereford Shire Hall, but it made no difference
to the power, creative energy and genius of those performing on the
programme. The soiree was a rip-roaring
success, topped by a solo performer whose extraordinary talent, musical
virtuosity, raw energy and profound observation of humankind took us away from
our daily struggles and strife. Captain
of the Lost Waves. Google him, Youtube
him but best of all go to a live event where he performs. When I first saw him, whatever I was
expecting from this diminutive, top-hatted soloist rapidly vaporised as his
energy, musicality and genius emerged.
He worked the tiny crowd and by the end we all danced with him, accompanied
him to this other world seduced by wry perception, superb tunes and rhythms and
sheer exuberance for life.
It is by witnessing
such talent that makes me understand, yet again, why I am in this
business. And although the aging coil
aches in places where it used to play, I find I can still amuse with all the
strange antics in my repertoire so I shall carry on. I have told friends and family, and I tell
you all here, that I shall give it all another five years before taking some
time to contemplate the following five.
At this time of life, contemplating eras in bunches of five years seems
sensible and profoundly pragmatic. Not
that I’m known for my sensible nature. Although
I said I wouldn’t, I have resurrected the three chair balance and it is there,
beckoning with a strange somewhat macabre look on its face…
I also have a new
dance. Inspired by the fabulous and
nostalgic film Stan and Ollie, I have found a choreographer prepared to stifle
her sniggers and teach me a few moves.
Set to Maff Potts’ short, sweet celebration of his son Herbie’s birth,
it finishes off the third show of the day.
I would welcome your critique of it.
Anyway I love dancing it so I hope that comes over even if I will not be
winning Strictly with it.
And some new close
up magic and last, but by no means least, the addition of Martin Orbidans and
live music to accompany the show.
Persuaded back from early retirement in faraway exotic Eastern lands, Martin
brings his amazing musical virtuosity to the show this summer. I look forward to my seventieth year and
sixty-fifth season with enormous pleasure and anticipation and look forward to
seeing you somewhere during it.
All the best from a
road near you,
Mr Alexander
