The Script perform to adoring fans at Trnsmt
One adoring fan held a cardboard placard reading 'set list please' at the front of the stage.
Singer Danny O'Donoghue wore a red suit during the heatwave during the set and praised fans at the Glasgow Green festival.
Other acts on Friday included US rapper Schoolboy Q, who performed an energetic set on the main stage.
The southern rapper who has frequently collaborated with Kendrick Lamar performed tracks from his recent album, Blue Lips.
English rock band Wet Leg also performed at the festival on Friday, and played songs from new album Moisturizer.
Singer Rhian Teasdale wore a bikini top with Father and Son on each bralet as she wowed crowds on the main stage.
The festival is set to close with headliner 50 Cent.
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Spectator
7 hours ago
- Spectator
A startling inversion of the original opera: The Story of Billy Budd, Sailor in Aix en Provence reviewed
On the continent this summer, new operas from two of Britain's most important composers. Oliver Leith likes guns, animals and dissolving sickly sweet sounds in acid baths of microtonality. In one recent orchestral work, the conductor becomes a pistol-wielding madman; his next, Garland, a vast pageant premiering on 18 September at Bold Tendencies, Peckham, sees a horse become a musician. He's 35 and already has a school. Listen out for it – in the London new-music scene you can't move for Leithians. The telltale sign is the sound of twisting metal: shiny pitches that warp and bend until brittle. He's English but in an outsidery way – jokey, gentle, sad, eccentric. The opposite of arch, insidery Benjamin Britten. But opposites attract and Aix's artistic director Pierre Audi – in one of his last creative decisions before his death in May – made a smart move to commission Leith to adapt Britten's seafaring epic Billy Budd. What we get is a startling inversion of the original opera. Where Britten goes XXL, giving himself the biggest canvas he can (70-strong cast, 70-odd-piece orchestra), Leith restricts himself to a postage stamp of sonic possibility (six singers, four musicians all playing keyboards or percussion). Where Britten ushers in gale-force threat, Leith is still and withdrawn, like a tide that's suddenly gone out. Where Britten is precise, Leith is carefully careless. (Some of the most striking musical drama blooms from simple walls of ill-behaved whistling or the subtle chaos of a thundersheet, slowly stroked.) In other words where Britten offers a proper operatic man-of-war – oaky, brutish, immaculately rigged – Leith presents a wispy ghost ship, almost digital in its evanescence, a 16-bit HMS Indomitable, pixelated and threadbare, bobbing along in dense mist, its harmonic sails in tatters. Out go the thick slashes of darkness; in come pure neons. Every tinkly, glisteny metal thing a percussionist could possibly get their hands on is here. It's the kind of palette you might put together if you were scoring the Teletubbies, not a Napoleonic-era tragedy of the high seas. It should be stupid as hell. It somehow isn't. There's a hallucinatory quality to the bright chimes and cloudy throbbing synths that speaks beautifully to the confused morals and heightened desires of this delirious, unhappy crew. Like Leith, director Ted Huffman takes the opera to places Britten never dared. Though it was in effect Britten's coming-out opera – Beecham had nicknamed it 'Twilight of the Sods' – the gay element was sublimated in a way that could offer the composer plausible deniability. Huffman cuts to the chase and makes it explicit. It's a sign of how right the move is that when a kiss comes between Budd and the sailor who will soon betray him it feels inevitable, swept up as it is in a moment of real musical ecstasy. A master of old-school ensemble theatre in the Peter Brook mould, Huffman moves things along economically and expertly. (He's also shaved 45 minutes off the original and you barely notice.) The cast are excellent (Joshua Bloom's hypnotic Claggart, the standout), the musicians heroic in juggling bits of acting and singing with their multifarious musical demands. More characters all at sea in Rebecca Saunders's first opera Lash – Acts of Love. And at the Deutsche Oper Berlin première, conducted by Saunders's partner Enno Poppe, you could really feel it. We open in freefall: vast liquid glissandi behaving like monstrous water chutes sliding the music straight into strange electronic static. K (and N, S, A – they're all one person) is on the threshold of death. She struggles to speak, then vomits up a parade of putrefied memories about hair and skin and sex. The words, derived from an original text by artist and author Ed Atkins, are a plotless tour de force, 'violent, emetic, immoderate, improper, impure', as Jonathan Meades wrote of Atkins's extraordinary novel Old Food. In Act Two body parts and love and longing are each addressed in a messed up memento mori. Transcendence sweeps in, through rapturous, convulsive duets, trios and quartets that entangle the four selves. It's Bosch-like, a danse macabre, funny and vulgar, and the directors at Dead Centre might have had far more fun with it had Saunders – in a rare misstep – not dictated so much of what happens on stage, including instructions for live videography. (Theatres, I beg you: put your cameras away.) No matter. Saunders's music is so full of expressive force, the text can afford to forgo story, the stage all visual interest. As in so many great operas, the score contains the drama. And here Saunders proves that she is not only the great genius of dramatic momentum, of subduction and eruption – her soundworld sits on thrillingly volatile faultlines – but also an intuitively lyrical composer. She even gives the four corpses a ravishing final a capella. If you don't like to be swallowed up or spat out, it may not be the opera for you. But for the rest of us, what an auspicious operatic debut this was.
Spectator
7 hours ago
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Definitely the film of the week: Four Letters of Love reviewed
In the brief lull between last week's summer blockbuster (Superman) and next week's (Fantastic Four) you may wish to catch Four Letters of Love. Based on the internationally bestselling novel (1997) by Niall Williams, it's a quiet, lyrical, Irish love story featuring a superb cast (Helena Bonham Carter, Pierce Brosnan, Gabriel Byrne) and no dinosaurs marauding through town. Or none that I noticed, I should add. (See: Jurassic World Rebirth, week before last.) Williams has adapted his own book and the director is Polly Steele (The Mountain Within Me, Let Me Go). The film is set in 1970 or thereabouts and our narrator is Nicholas (Fionn O'Shea), a Dublin teenager whose father William (Brosnan) works for the civil service 'until one empty afternoon God spoke to him for the first time'. The light coming in from a window falls on his blotting paper in such a way that he decides it's divine intervention and he's being told to leave his employment and become a painter. 'I have to do it,' he explains to his incredulous wife Bette (Imelda May). 'It's what God wants me to do.' He grows his hair long and disappears for months on end to the west coast to pursue his painterly ambitions, while Nicholas, a solemnly earnest soul, frets and Bette slowly loses her mind. I wasn't sure I could root for someone whose self-actualisation necessitates the abandonment of family but then remembered I've never experienced light hitting blotting paper in that way. (Or not that I have ever noticed, I should add.) I hoped he was a decent painter, at least, but we don't see a single picture until right at the end and he is certainly prophetic. Best leave it at that. The other main character is Isabel (Ann Skelly), who lives on an island off the Galway coast. She has an adored brother, Sean (Donal Finn), who was mysteriously struck down one day. He is now mute and in a wheelchair. She is a lively lass, a free spirit and all that, and we meet her on her 'last day of childhood', wheeling her brother to the beach, before sailing to the (strict) convent school on the mainland. Her schoolmaster father, Muiris (Byrne), who is also a poet, is preparing for her sad departure as is her mother, Margaret (Bonham Carter). We know that Nicholas and Isabel belong together and will find each other because he says so right at the outset. But how? And when? For most of the film we cut between the two characters as we follow the various twists and turns, which sometimes prove to be wrong turns, particularly when wrong lovers are taken, and sex is mistaken for love. There is magical realism, and ghosts, and poetry. It always feels like a literary adaptation, thanks to its extensive use of voiceover, which I tend to think of as cheating – show, don't tell? – and because the pair are mostly kept apart, their connection, when it comes, feels rather rushed and unearned. But Steele directs with a sure hand and there is much else to delight in here. The cinematography has never made the Irish coast look so gorgeous (or sunny) or the cottages, with their jewel-coloured interiors, so cosy and the performances are all excellent. In particular I would single out Bonham Carter whom you don't look at and think: Irish matriarch. But she is wonderfully compelling as one of those women who keeps everything afloat and just deals with whatever life throws at her. Her scenes with Byrne speak of a long marriage. The others bring sincerity, including Brosnan, although you do have to get over the hair. If you can. It's definitely the film of the week if you are in the mood for a film although, alternatively, there is Smurfs, the sixth in the franchise. Up to you.
Spectator
7 hours ago
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How to spot a troublesome Airbnb review
The guest who thought our farm was in the town centre was very cross indeed. She got out of her car by the old fountain and stood hands on hips surveying the meadows sloping from the big old house towards the rugged mountains beyond. She was wearing knee-length khaki safari shorts, so you'd have thought she'd be pleased to pitch up in the middle of nowhere. But she looked askance at the rolling hills and affected to be shocked by the reality of what was clearly pictured and described on the booking site. She asked how she and her husband were supposed to walk to their drinks party in town that evening. Could they walk there? Not really, I said. Not unless the party was tomorrow evening and they had good hiking boots. 'Taxi?' she asked. So we had to explain. The only taxi here is the funeral director. Whether he can take your booking to go anywhere other than the grave very much depends on how many burials he is doing. When I explain this to most guests, they love it. They think I'm joking for a while and then they realise I'm not. As the builder boyfriend always says, Father Ted is not a comedy, it's a fly-on-the-wall documentary. The wonder of West Cork is that there really is a place called Whiddy Island, and one of the biggest towns really does boast a Blackpudding Visitor Centre, which advises you to book in advance. People say 'No bother!' to everything, because it is no bother to them. Because they are not going to do it. Can I have a taxi? No bother! This translates as no. When you call the funeral taxi, he answers the phone after 25 rings and doesn't say a word while you try to explain why you are being so bold as to want to go somewhere. Finally he says: 'No bother!' He can do something next Thursday if you like. Be assured that while you cannot have a taxi until next Thursday, if you happen to die before next Thursday, he will fit you in. If you cannot appreciate this sort of thing, then you should not be travelling around rural Ireland on the cheap, staying in Airbnbs. Instead, book into a luxury golfing resort with spa – Trump International Doonbeg looks very nice. The lady, who said she was from America despite having an English accent, did not get it. She kept telling her husband, who was Irish, to phone cabs. From his face, you knew he knew this was pointless. Almost immediately, the builder boyfriend felt so bad he offered to drive them into town. He even offered to pick them up again when their party was over. But they said they couldn't possibly accept. They got in their car, she still wearing safari shorts, and said they would drive to their party and not drink. They left early the next day, looking peevish. The BB offered them coffee. The man said yes please, but unbeknown to me she then told him they didn't have time. I was making the coffee when I heard them drive away and I ripped a strip off the BB for making me waste a coffee machine full of Lavazza, which screwed our margins, given the price of Lavazza here – only slightly less expensive than a block of gold because the government taxes everything to high heaven so being in the EU does not help one bit when it comes to buying French cheese or Italian coffee. It's almost cheaper to fly to London and buy it. I always know when a troublesome review is coming because it takes a long time. This one delayed for two weeks, submitting on the last day possible – same as the man who downgraded us because we didn't have a doormat. I don't know why people do this. In the online democracy of endless ratings, if you are going to say you don't like something, why not get on with it? I think people feel guilty, knowing full well that harshly judging a small private enterprise as though it were a major hotel chain is wrong. It came in four stars, which put our overall rating down again, and in the comments she typed a warning to potential guests, along the lines that suggested I was deceiving people. I had a poor Indian chap work on our listing all night, or all day his time, to indicate our exact location in the headline, as well as in the body of the text. He had to override the software to force the system not to link us to the nearest town in any way, just in case someone else in safari shorts wanted to walk to a party. I appealed the review but after a process that took ten minutes, Airbnb judged it fair. 'Sorry to put you on the spot,' said the next one, a week before arrival for a one-night stay. 'It's my wife's birthday…' He wanted my ideas for something nearby to do to make their stay 'romantic'. I was desperate to avoid another four stars so I racked my brains. A moonlit stroll along the roadside where Michael Collins was shot? A picnic at Three Castle Head under the stars, and hope you don't see the white lady, because that means you're going to die within 24 hours? Whale-watching? Bioluminescence night kayaking, with the Northern Lights if they can be arranged? I suggested some restaurants then fretted over whether to upgrade him to a better room, or put champagne on the tea tray. The BB, who had the lawnmower upside down to fix it, said absolutely not. 'Then what should we tell him? He wants to know something romantic to do for his wife's birthday.' 'Ask him if he's thought about taking her to Venice.'
