Re-imagined for four new allotment sites in Bristol and Bath, ‘Roots Replanted’ hopes to inspire people to explore their relationships with food and the land. Using various recycled props, playful characters will guide audiences on a gentle amble down the bean-rows to investigate food security and sustainability.

It’s interactive, too: last year’s participants followed the action by planting seedlings and eating nettle soup, and this year is sure to be just as inclusive. In time-honoured allotment tradition, the shed will be a focus point, but featuring work from local artists during performance weeks. Trowels at the ready!

Various venues (see below), 7.30pm, Thu to Sat, mats Sat & Sun 2.30pm, £9, £7 concs. Tel: 01225 386777.

9 – 12 Sept
Hampton Row Allotments, Bathwick, Bath BA2 6QS

16 – 19 Sept
Peasedown St John Community Farm, Dunkerton Hill BA2 8PJ

23 – 26 Sept
Bloomfield Allotments, Bear Flat, Bath BA2 2AB

www.bath.ac.uk/icia
www.kiltertheatre.org

The Canadian outfit have been somewhat left in the slipstream of fellow Montrealites Arcade Fire – in terms of exposure and commercial success at least – but the vocal howls, squeals and tics on their new (third) album ‘Expo 86′ are a pertinent reminder of their wonderfully oblique allure.

As Hodgkinson suggests, the quartet’s artful alt-rock can veer enticingly towards Modern Lovers-style proto-punk: taut guitar chops and erudite lyrics combine in a brilliant clatter of harmonies and pounding beats.

But flailing around a live stage is where these chaps are really at, thraping instruments, wholly lost in their own pulsating sonic adventures. That’s when these wolves truly emerge from their sheep’s clothing.
Velimir Ilic

Thekla, The Grove, East Mud Dock, Bristol, BS1 4RB.
7.30pm, £12.50. Tel: 0845 413 4444. www.myspace.com/wolfparade

Capable of holding up up to 1000 people, this 20-tonne portable dome – described by Kneehigh founder Mike Shepherd as an “upturned boat or cathedral” - is an impressive sight. After years of being advised to abandon the project, the mood within the company now is one of frivolous excitement and relief. “It’s marvellous!” enthuses Shepherd. “We’ve been touring together in tents for a long time, but we always knew we wanted more control over events and environment – this is about our independence, really.”

A fitting reference to madness and refuge, The Asylum will host a season of three retro Kneehigh shows. The first, ‘The Red Shoes’, described by Shepherd as “a very carefully choreographed, iconic piece”, is directed by Chief Executive Emma Rice. “It toured around the world for about three years and became very strong during that time,” she says. “I think it’s even more confident now. It’s a very brave piece of theatre and we make the audience walk through the journey with us.”

Loosely adapted from Hans Christian Andersen’s classic tale, the heady combination of live music, vigorous dancing and vibrant imagery makes for a mesmerising show, enhanced by writer Anna Maria Murphy’s haunting poems and ‘fairytale foxy language’. According to Shepherd, its sense of mysticism is heightened further when performed alfresco. “In the past we did a lot of shows outside,” he muses. “The story darkens and deepens as night falls, and we wanted to hold on to that idea.”

Rice explains that this piece of “Cornish storytelling” – equally surreal, macabre, profound and funny – relates to the group’s fascination with fairytales. Rich with cultural and historical references, there are allusions to the horrors of the Holocaust and the First World War. Gender politics is tackled with a refreshing dynamism, too: handsome princes and romance are largely eschewed in favour of sexuality and sensuality. “The show is about daring to be different and being yourself”, Rice declares. “In every other version of this fairytale, the girl either dies or goes into servitude. I am passionate that ours is a feminist piece.”

The group look forward to staging ‘The Red Shoes’ at Bristol’s Old Vic in September, and intend to bring The Asylum here in 2011, too. “We have always been really ambitious,” enthuses Shepherd, explaining that “while ‘The Red Shoes’ is on in New York, we have ‘Brief Encounter’ at Broadway and ‘Hansel and Gretel’ at the South Bank in London.”

But he’s keen to point out that the days of village hall performances and rehearsals on Cornish hills are far from over. “People have asked if we have sold out to the West End, but we’re just trying to be canny and play the market through our work,” he says. “People tend to forget that during our first decade we really just existed on our wits.”

Renowned for thrilling shows that break the theatrical mould, the incomparable Kneehigh – with their brash new sky-busting Asylum in tow – could be harder to miss than ever.

Anna O’Loughlin

Bristol Old Vic, King Street, Bristol, BS1 4ED.
7.30pm, mats 2.30pm Thu and Sat, £5 to £26, concs available. Tel: 0117 987 7877. www.kneehigh.co.uk

20-22 August, Glanusk Park, Brecon Beacons

The scorching weather at last year’s Green Man put a sunny gloss on what was, in hindsight, a relatively weak line-up. But while this year’s event was something of a meteorological damp squib, a terrific bill generally made up for the downpours.

Slouched into a corner of the Cinema tent on Friday (ostensibly avoiding the rain), a series of bugged out animations provided many unexpected but unmitigated treats; eccentric beatnik Professor Balthazar, a kaleidoscopic trip from 1970s Yugoslavia, was a particular gem. Over at the Literature tent, BBC 6 presenter and ex-rock hack Stuart Maconie buddied up with comedy writer David Quantick, regaling us with witty tales of excess from their NME salad days.

Oddly, Beirut’s Balkan-inspired brass excursions – usually so stirring – felt somewhat underwhelming on the main stage; luckily, a lightning dash across site found the blissed out techno-squall of Fuck Buttons much more to our liking.

Doves’ bland, dad-friendly rock was always going to be a bit tame after that. “We’ve played together for almost 30 years now,” reflects the band’s Andy Williams in the festival programme. “The empathy between us grows all the time.” His sentiments were clearly lost on the audience; it was difficult to tell whether their enthusiasm had been dampened by the rain or the duff bluster being limply pumped at them from the stage.

Saturday brought fresh delights, not least of which was a glut of coffee and cake from various stalls; in between, boy/girl duo Summer Camp did their mesmeric, poppy Cocteau Twins thang; American outfit Avi Buffalo more than justified their burgeoning hype too, combining 60s-styled psychedelia with a yelpy post-punk edge.

At 52, seasoned campaigner Billy Bragg still works his audiences like a charm with easy-going banter, a canon of wonderfully crafted songs and a political fire in the belly that shows no sign of fading. Under the stars, headliners The Flaming Lips resorted to their trusty bag of theatrical tricks. Cocooned in an outsized man-balloon, singer Wayne Coyne (pictured) rode the crowd, cannons fired out bucketloads of confetti, and men flounced around in bear-suits, before the strains of ‘Do You Realise?’ had us – burly chaps and all – blubbing into our hankies.

Sunday saw a lengthy break from the rain, and further highlights to boot. Great to see Sunderland’s Brewis brothers David and Peter back together as Field Music, touting their C86-styled indie to an appreciative throng. And despite sporting horrific facial bumfluff, Brooklyn buzz trio Bear In Heaven wowed a sizeable crowd with soaring synth-heavy psych-pop. After an hour or so hiding in the Rough Trade shop to escape Mumford & Sons’ folky scree, we re-emerged for the magnificent Tindersticks. Flagship tunes from their landmark earlier albums might have been lacking, but as ever, their languid orchestrations and Stuart Staples’ regal croon were majestically executed. Still amazes me that such a criminally shy man can write such tender and insightful songs about fucking.

Another rainy deluge signalled the arrival of elfin harpist Joanna Newsom. Her baroque Kate Bush-on-helium avant-folk should have provided a soothing antidote to the relentless drizzle, but instead became strangely irksome. By the time she came back on to do an encore and close out proceedings, you sensed that the waterlogged troops in front of her, many of them marauding back to their tents, had had enough.

Velimir Ilic

“The future of white dancefloor-scorching electro-funk” (Time Out)

“English electro-pop wonderkids” (DJ Magazine)

“Accessible and synth-savvy” (Mixmag)

Thekla, The Grove, East Mud Dock, Bristol, BS1 4RB.
7.30pm, £6.50. Tel: 0845 413 4444. www.myspace.com/fenechsoler

The small but striking exhibition now showing at Gallery 2C in Clifton demonstrates why O’Neill’s name has become synonymous with the celebrity shot. It explores a fascinating juxtaposition between the British perception of celebrity and Hollywood glamour. The likes of David Bowie, Elton John and Tom Jones appear quirky and outlandish next to the effortlessly polished Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. Even the Queen and Prince Phillip are portrayed in a humorous light with their dorgi – a cross between a dachshund and a corgi – sat bolt upright at their feet.

By contrast, those British stars that crossed the Atlantic to become the ‘royalty’ of the American screen such as Joan Collins and Elizabeth Taylor have a much greater command of the art of ‘celebrity’ – gazing squarely into the lens, they implore us to adore them. Meanwhile, faded film idols such as Mickey Rourke and Michelle Pfeiffer are pictured at the height of their powers, a poignant reminder of the transient nature of celebrity.

Interestingly, the exhibition also features powerful portraits of Michael Douglas in 1988 and Catherine Zeta-Jones in 1997, before they became publicly linked. Beneath the glitz and the glamour though, there’s a subtle undercurrent of vulnerability, depicting personal tragedies and stories that have become public property. Shots of Eric Clapton and Woody Allen hint at the human flaws and imperfections that can either accelerate or undermine a celebrity’s status.

Every Terry O’Neill picture has its own story to tell. For anyone interested in the cult of celebrity, the world of the rich and famous, or simply fabulous portrait photography, this influential snapper is the man.
Jonathan Camp

‘Terry O’Neill: The Story Behind The Pictures’ is showing at Gallery 2C, The Mall, Clifton until mid-July.

The beauty of photography is that it urges us to stop, encouraging us to take an interest in other people and their worlds. That is clearly the aim of Life.Still, a captivating glimpse into the distinctly unremarkable daily lives of others.

Showing as part of Bristol Festival Of Photography, most of the work on show chooses Bristol as its subject. Gina Lundy’s ‘Academy’ explores secondary school life: the faces of naive, taciturn and preoccupied pupils stare out from one photograph; another fine example shows five teenage girls sitting astride a low wall, regarding us dispassionately, combining inquisitiveness with determination to maintain a marked distance.

Mike Lusmore, meanwhile, captures life on Gloucester Road in a deceptively simple observational style. We journey from the mundane (cash machines, shop interiors) to the bizarre (a pink stretch limo lurking outside a church). And Rebecca Harley’s portraits of Bristolians with their eyes closed is an intriguing idea, even if some subjects struggle to hide their self-consciousness.

American monoculture is John Angerson’s subject in ‘English Journey’. In ‘Bristol’ we have more evidence of cultural imperialism as Bristol Bullocks do battle with Cardiff Cobras on a winter’s morning at Filton. Further afield, a skinny youth with acne stares blankly back at us in ‘Leicester’, hiding behind baseball cap and KFC uniform.

Tamany Baker’s delicately framed shots illustrate dead birds and mice brought in by her rapacious cat Wolfie. Perhaps a little disconnected from subjects in the rest of the exhibition, they do suggest neat juxtapositions between beauty and the raw power of nature, reminding us that we too are merely animals. Life.Still is a small but engaging show that allows you to forget yourself and simply observe.
Jonathan Camp

Until May 30, Howies, 2nd Floor, 62 Queen’s Street, Bristol, BS8 1RE, free. www.lifestill.co.uk
Bristol Festival Of Photography runs until Jun 9. www.bfop.org.uk

The diversity exhibited in ‘Three’ will appeal to those keen to explore the assorted visual treats of Bristol’s Festival of Photography. Featuring 16 photographers, with pieces sprawled over three spaces (Tobacco Factory, The Photo Gallery and Photographique), the exhibition embodies concepts found in the photographs themselves. The literal movement between different spaces, for example, supports re-occurring themes of transience and change.

There is something overwhelming, almost urgent, about the plethora of artistic voices battling for your attention. Lou Taylor’s collection, depicting strangers on a tube, is suffused with emotion; exposed faces are framed by the carriage windows, mirroring the camera lens. There seems to be something tender but ruthless in her voyeurism, highlighting the vulnerability of her subjects while empowering the viewer.

Shamil Tanna’s unflinching portraits of famous figures such as David Cameron and John Lydon are equally engaging. Exploiting our familiarity with celebrities, they ask questions about the nature of identity – what is it and where does it come from? Is it about the colour and tone of skin? Or an idiosyncratic facial expression? Does it come from the symbolism of the American flag that Iggy Pop is posed against?

Overall, ‘Three’ is a dynamic exhibition that explores vastly different ways of seeing; more than anything, these wonderfully-shot, pin-sharp images are a testament to the styles and techniques employed by these highly-skilled photographers.
Anna O’Loughlin

Tobacco Factory, Bristol, until May 31; Photographique/The Photo Gallery, until June 9, free. www.bfop.org

Nic Green and Laura Bradshaw begin by wobbling their naked bits to images of jellies. In fact nakedness on stage is confronted early on; a dance involving 60 or so local bare and bold women, who have rehearsed in workshops, has them joyously shaking and moving to The Pixies and The Clash.

If there was nothing more to it, Trilogy could easily be accused of sensationalism. Instead it’s a serious, heartfelt and stimulating investigation into what it means to be a woman, where we are now and where we are going. Green and her company explain how lost they feel as women in their mid-twenties, in an age where Jordan is considered a role model and the original feminist debate seems to have fizzled out.

Part Two explores this with fascinating footage of the legendary 1971 feminist debate at Town Bloody Hall, New York. With a panel chaired by an objectionable Norman Mailer, the young Germaine Greer is electrifying and eloquent about the place of the woman artist: “No woman has been loved for the poetry yet we love men for this act all the time.” The company responds by dancing mesmerisingly as the footage plays, afterwards hilariously re-enacting their births.

By the end, women in the audience are invited on stage in a celebratory naked finale, and the whole theatre is standing to sing Jerusalem, the song of protest sung by the suffragettes; we are united in a fighting, heart-soaring moment. If only real-life feminism could create such fervour.
Lucie Wood

www.mayfestbristol.co.uk

Initially, ‘The Keepers’ draws us in with compelling sound effects: windows squeak when wiped, storms blast terrifyingly, as if mocking the keepers’ petty squabbles; claustrophobia is nimbly evoked by compelling mime; and Lawrence Williams’ score is beautifully elegiac. Lighting is dramatic; when the main beam is magically restored you feel that men can cope in this lonely outpost after all.

But rarely are we persuaded by character. Martin Bonger and Fionn Gill fail to convince as genuine lighthouse keepers. Any sense of psychological torment is fleeting. The script is too full of modern sensibility: one keeper announces, in soap opera cliché, ‘If you need to talk, I’m outside.’ The keepers address us with goofy, attention-seeking grins rather than real emotional presence. The script is notably uneven: when the survivor goes mad, his mental deterioration is too rapid. And when the relief boat arrives, rowed by his dead colleague, we are baffled; the play ends abruptly, with no dramatic verve or climactic moment.

There’s a real sense of missed opportunity. Enjoyable rather than edifying, a tense story that could have gripped turns out to be little more than a passing distraction.
Jonathan Camp

www.mayfestbristol.co.uk
www.theplasticinemen.co.uk

Based on good quality British classics, the menu changes regularly, using local produce as far as possible: there are hand-made organic sausages and various pies, served with rich gravy and a choice of three types of mash; crab & seabass fishcakes with potatoes, salad & lemon mayonnaise; or what about rib eye steak with confit shallots and hand-cut chips?

There are also daily specials to choose from, with classics such as line-caught cod and chips with mushy peas, whole roasted poussin with roasted new potatoes or crown of lamb with sherry vinegar sauce. Greedier eaters will no doubt want to tuck into puddings such as bitter chocolate torte or old favourites such as bread and butter pudding.

Or you can pick at the popular charcuterie plate, overlapping with cured meats, seasonal leaves, shavings of parmesan and olives. And there’s a great cheese board, with cheeses supplied by the award-winning Lye Cross Farm in Somerset.

We’ve got a meal for two at The Spotted Cow – complete with a bottle of wine – up for grabs.

To enter, just email comp@makemeneon.com with your name and contact details, quoting COW and telling us how you found out about make me neon. Last date for entries is 30th September, 2010.

Up until now I have never had cause to climb aboard a life raft, a fact for which I am exceedingly grateful. But sitting in one to watch this latest production from London theatre company Curious only added to the show’s quiet magic.

‘The Moment I Saw You…’ is about love, and whether you should stay and stick it out or give up and run. Skillfully blending intimate live action with vintage-looking film and a gorgeously evocative soundtrack, Curious weave together wonderful stories about imperfect characters: a lady cast adrift on a lilo, a woman trying to hold back the sea, a man standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to jump whilst being watched by a calmly philosophical whale.

There are some compelling performances. Claudia Barton has a voice as richly seductive as ladlefuls of melted chocolate, while company founders Leslie Hill and Helen Paris sure know how to spin a yarn, whether that means holding court with a mic or whispering right there in the life raft with you.

Granted, the life raft is a bit cramped and not enormously comfortable (my bum is still a bit numb). But discomfort is easily dispelled by the ending, a moment of pure joy that celebrates love and says yes to staying and sticking it out. I urge you to see this, but be sure to take someone you hold dear (and maybe a cushion).
Clare Ogden

www.mayfestbristol.co.uk
www.placelessness.com

“Do you guys… ah… get what I do yet?” John Moran is nearing the end of his one hour set. He has mimed, acted and sung to a backdrop of intricately recorded quotidian sounds: car horns, footsteps, coughs, splashing water. He shows us a world we rarely stop to consider, his performance defying generic classification. “It’s just a bunch of sound cues,” he informs us. “To me that’s my fetish…”

John Moran delights in reversing expectations. Previously a composer and performer of large-scale musical works and operas, and eulogised by Philip Glass, what on earth is he doing on a chilly Monday night in Bristol?

The answer is clear from his performance: full of breezy Nebraskan charm, Moran relishes the intimacy of smaller venues. He grins, gurgles, apes and roars. As with Kerouac, life On The Road seems to suit him.

Moran and his sidekick Saori are engaging throughout, mouthing voices with expert timing from a painstakingly recorded backing track. Illuminating juxtapositions are suggested: he is nervy, uncertain and comic, particularly when repeatedly mouthing the words of a Berliner vamp and a Thai boy-model; she is calm, lithe and supple, moving with exquisite mystery, embodying the elegance of the East. Much of the performance depends on hypnotic loops of sound, as we hear and see the same Surrealist sequences again and again, almost guiding us, Proust-style, towards the essential truths hidden in memories.

The piece ends aptly, as Moran dives into a swimming pool, and disappears forever from sight and sound: art is not there to provide us with neat answers, only mesmerising questions.
Jonathan Camp

www.mayfestbristol.co.uk

Erecting a four-storey mini-hotel on Bristol’s Harbourside in just two days is no mean feat, but that’s exactly what the crew behind Electric Hotel have done. Conceived by visionary director David Rosenberg and produced by progressive theatre company Fuel, Mayfest’s flagship event is an ambitious meeting of minds.

As darkness falls, we’re seated outdoors, staring at the specially-constructed glass-fronted hotel in front of us. Inspired by Modernist architecture, it’s constructed from shipping container cubes, but you’d never know. Unlit, it resembles a slightly hokey Eastern European hostelry. There is even a bar doing a brisk trade at the bottom of the hotel, with a few hundred people here to prop it up.

The audience lights dim, and we don special ‘binaural’ headphones, enabling us to eavesdrop on happenings behind the hotel’s facade. By plying audiences with intimate, resonant sounds, Rosenberg is enhancing our voyeuristic experience, allowing us to imagine what might or might not be going on. Disconcertingly, amplified sounds in my head feel like they’re coming from behind me: someone trudging on gravel, the splashing of water in the hotel pool.

The blinds go up and the hotel comes alive, suddenly swathed in grandeur. Vibrant orange, red and blue lighting flickers from within, cutting through the night air to reveal a cross-section of rooms and corridors inhabited by various residents and cleaning staff. There’s a bright cocktail bar in full swing at the top of the building; the atmospheric soundtrack in my ears flits between glacial, menacing soundscapes and an infectiously funky Latin beat. It feels like being party to some secret parallel universe.

Transmitted solely through dance, physicality and movement, there is no real dialogue, nor linear narrative to speak of, but the drama is palpable. It’s a hive of activity: in one room, a couple argue furiously; in another, there’s a woman in a swimming costume, still wet from her twilight dip. Sounds pervade my head; my body is outside, but it feels like I’m in the thick of the action.

Strange scenarios and illusions unfurl. Dancers flit and flail around their rooms in sporadic bursts, occasionally in tandem; a man twirls gracefully down the corridor in his underwear. Immaculately choregraphed, the energetic fluidity of the performers is sublime to watch. Screams punctuate the heavy night air. A demonic cackle and a quickening heartbeat flood my head; a billowing cloud-like mass spills from a doorway; grim-faced henchmen patrol the building, administering beatings; there are vaguely sinister, otherworldly happenings afoot.

An hour flashes by. Watching and hearing this highly-absorbing visual spectacle unfold in a hitherto-untried dimension (to these ears at least) is a wonderfully immersive thrill. As people leave, visibly stunned, you can almost sense them begrudgingly readjusting to the real world.

www.electrichotel.co.uk

Electric Hotel from Ben Dowden on Vimeo.

May 12, 2010: Lone Twin: The Festival

Maybe I’m missing something here about Lone Twin. The widely lauded international theatre company’s latest piece The Festival is the last in a series called The Catastrophe Trilogy. Perhaps I should have read the intensely-worded leaflet I found on my seat about their behind-the-scenes process. But I wanted the piece to speak to me first. It should stand on its own two feet, I thought.

Only it didn’t. Jennifer leads a very ordinary life. She is a 42-year old woman, living in the suburbs of Sydney with her mother. She is a team leader at Nokia and has friends that talk about the latest box sets. She takes her mother to Crescent Head to see the hump-back whales, as she did when she was a child. She meets Oliver, an older man there. They have a connection and decide to meet a year later. During this year Jennifer thinks a lot about her life and decides she doesn’t need a man in it, so she tells him.

So where exactly is the catastrophe here? I was sure I was meant to feel something, if not by the banal story but by Lone Twin’s fairly unique method of storytelling. Songs break up dialogue and the narrative as they sing the weather report. At other times, they dance repetitively to show patterns and the passing of time. It’s all fairly odd and presumably intended to be amusing, but the only genuinely funny moments are when Bono and Bruce Springsteen turn up at the party and they break into karaoke. These moments feel truly uplifting. A shame the rest of the 58 minutes left this Mayfester cold.

May 10, 2010: Shlomo and his Vocal Orchestra: Boxed

Following high-profile collaborations with the likes of Damon Albarn, Jarvis Cocker, Bjork, DJ Yoda and Bill Bailey, human beatboxer Shlomo has already made quite a name for himself. Currently artist-in-residence at London’s Southbank Centre, he’s a regular festival draw, too. Not bad for a scrawny, unassuming bloke in a woolly hat. I’ve heard Beardyman before, but freely admit that beatboxing isn’t usually my thing. Still, in the freewheeling spirit of Mayfest, anything goes.

‘Boxed’, a beatboxing adventure featuring the stretchy vocal talents of Shlomo and his Vocal Orchestra, is essentially a modern-day street version of West Side Story. A warm-up routine during which the self-confessed beatboxing geek regales us with booming throaty bass and vocal hisses that sound like coffee percolators is mightily impressive.

Bristol’s Old Vic resounds to a kicking version of the theme from Casualty and live samples of his own voice, looped back into an incredible urban symphony. Where on earth are these strange, squelchy noises coming from? Is one person really making all these sounds? I’d never imagined a human voicebox could be so malleable.

‘Boxed’ itself centres on Lonely Joe (Shlomo), a boy who can’t speak; in fact, no-one speaks. Rival gangs communicate through beatboxing alone; Joe is able to send them spinning through time by virtue of wonderfully choreographed physical rewind sequences. And as they jump and whirl between decades, we get unique, soaring beatbox re-interpretations of The Beach Boys’ ‘I Get Around’, OutKast’s ‘Hey Ya!’ and Blur’s ‘Song 2′, enlivened by vocal tics, clicks and rumbles.

A version of David Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’ sounds like it’s backed by a massed army of space invaders and malfunctioning robots, but not for a moment does any of it descend into cheap karaoke. There is even an elegant vocal elegy that sounds rather like one of Górecki’s choral symphonies. Even the audience gets in on the act, Shlomo conducting as he and the rest of his chums improvise their extraordinary alien sounds over us. Incredible. And all this from the mouths of humans.

www.shlo.co.uk

May 9, 2010: Ontroerend Goed: Internal

After experiencing Ontroerend Goed’s ‘The Smile Off Your Face’ last year – in which you’re summarily blindfolded, strapped into a wheelchair and led through a series of tactile, offbeat and often improvised encounters – I thought I knew what to expect from this playful Belgian troupe; nothing they could do this time would faze me. I should’ve known better.

Waiting to go in, we scan the shell-shocked faces of the previous Internal participants as they leave. It’s too late to back out now. We go in and stand in line in front of a black curtain. The curtain lifts and we’re faced down by five actors who stare at us intently, knowingly. There are nervous sniggers and giggles from the other participants, but no-one speaks. A tall girl comes over to be my ‘partner’. She looks right into my eyes and I feel hot, like I’m melting. I’m led away to a dimly-lit booth.

We sit at a small table; there are animated conversations going on in the booths around us. She pours out liqueurs for us both; I don’t know her name, neither does she mine. She fixes her gaze longingly in my direction, and I’m flush with fear and excitement. My questions are rebuffed (”We don’t need to talk,” she says) so I decide to play along. Events take a sensuous turn, but I’m not sure whether it’s for better or worse: she strokes my hands, caresses my cheek and head, and I’m encouraged to reciprocate. I tentatively trace my fingers over her hands, then her face. She closes her eyes and tilts her head accordingly. It feels right and wrong. Feeling a little aroused and nervous, this could easily spiral out of control. I remind myself that I’m doing this purely for the sake of art. I’m shaking.

I rejoin the rest of the group for an impromptu ‘therapy’ session; some of the participants fidget uncomfortably in their seats as the actors provide an assessment of their temporary partners. Negative and positive comments are bandied about. Anything could happen: we could very well be asked to throw our keys into a pot at any given moment, or disrobe. Full of intensity, my partner is nothing but complimentary about me. She is clearly working up towards something, and duly unstraps her black dress. The eyes of the room bore into me, wondering what I’m going to do. Everything is a blur.

Internal is an exhilarating, beautiful and vaguely terrifying experience that messes with your head, makes you question who you are, and mercilessly rips your comfort zone to shreds in the process. Later, I was telling my girlfriend about what had happened. “Does it bother you, all that caressing and stuff?” I said. “No,” she replied. I didn’t believe her. She asked whether I had enjoyed it. “No, not really,” I lied.

May 8, 2010: Forest Fringe Microfest

Full of ‘unusual encounters and intimate experiences’, this weekend-long microfestival is part of a UK mini-tour (also calling at London, Glasgow and Swansea) designed to give the provinces a taste of the Forest Fringe experience.

It’s a feast of sound and vision, with an eclectic range of performers taking over Bristol Old Vic’s nooks and crannies: up-close encounters and small-scale performances compete for your attention with works-in-progress and various installations. Once inside, you’re free to explore and dip in and out of the evening’s entertainments.

We quickly enter into the spirit of things. Armed with a map and a Birdwatcher’s Guide, we unwittingly become embroiled in a bird-themed mini adventure presented by Leeds-based company Invisible Flock. Part-treasure hunt, part-mystery, we’re impromptu detectives, flitting around the Old Vic’s mazy backstage corridors, deciphering clues and seeking feathers and trinkets. It’s highly liberating being let loose in the building’s catacombs, creeping through dark passages and encountering all sorts of weird and wonderful characters: human magpies, gulls and a shackled canary with a zip for a mouth that implores us to find its missing song.

The first floor’s temporary library, squirreled away in a corner, is full of sepia-tinted old books. A deliberately coy librarian – a bearded, twinkly prof in a tweed jacket, drawing on a mighty impressive pipe – arms us with further vague clues. He’s definitely concealing something. It wouldn’t be fair to give away the macabre denouement in too much detail (lest you encounter one of Invisible Flock’s similar events in future), but a distinctly off-colour peacock is the stuff of nightmares rather than happy endings.

Elsewhere, we’re encouraged to contribute to an Ideas Library by a singing librarian who forbids us to speak. Our submissions, written on a postcard, are given a value: my rubbish suggestion of converting people into robots by piping Human League tunes into their ears via glued headphones was nifty, but only awarded the princely sum of 29p.

Tinned Fingers’ ride into the cosmos, meanwhile, was reassuringly low-tech. Tilted backwards in a big old comfy armchair in a darkened room to the strains of a lulling space-themed Kate Bush song (the name of which totally escapes me), I craned my neck to watch animations of spaghetti rockets and intergalactic tomfoolery on the screen behind my head. Upside-down, astronaut-style, it really does feel like you’re floating in space, but that might well have been the beer.

Not everything went to plan: seated in a car parked outside with two headless ‘children’ strapped into the rear seats, an audio installation designed by Andy Field was scuppered by a faulty CD player, but no matter. By throwing artistic caution to the wind and embracing experimentation, the evening was an unequivocal triumph. Mayfest runs until May 22, and you should damn well jump in now; we sure as hell will be.

May 7, 2010: Mayfest Opening Night

It’s the opening night party at Mayfest, Bristol’s two-week festival of contemporary theatre. A smattering of people are ensconced in the Bristol Old Vic, chatting and supping booze. For ages, nothing happens. Having stayed up all night to watch the election coverage, we’re feeling dog-tired and impatient. Interestingly-flavoured Sambuca shots, doled out free of charge, pep us up.

We’re finally called to take our seats in the auditorium: Bristol six-piece Pepino – side project of Bizali chanteuse Blythe Pepino – will be playing very soon. People file excitedly through the Old Vic’s maze-like corridors and stream inside. The stage is decked out like a 1950s street party, with lots of colourful bunting. It feels like we should be eating dainty sandwiches and jelly. There’s a bit of a frisson.

Blythe Pepino sits behind her keyboard, patiently waiting for us to settle down. She’s wearing a lamp shade that covers her entire head, like a Dali painting made live; this is clearly a statement of sorts, but I’ll be blowed if I know what it is. Maybe she’s waiting for someone to plug her in.

Pepino removes the lamp shade and introduces an engaging ditty about wearing her friend’s grandmother’s clothes and a watch that doesn’t work. She tinkles the ivories as her voice trills like a sultry jazz singer trapped in the body of Kate Bush. Rather lovely it is, too.

She’s joined by the rest of her band: a double bass player and drummer appear, and a trio of violinists take the stage. We get more surreal, vaudevillian songs about roadside memorials and colouring books. It doesn’t really go anywhere, and we feel slightly restless.

A few songs later, everyone files out, and she puts the lamp shade back on. I go to take a picture, but she takes it off. She spots my camera. “Do you want me to put it back on?” she says. “Yes please,” I say, awkwardly. I take a quick photo, and we both feel slightly ridiculous. She keeps the lamp shade on. Maybe she’s waiting for me to go away, I think.

I skulk back out into the bar. Bodies rub against each other; the room is vibrant, electric: it feels like the whole of Bristol is in here. A host of other acts are due to play: Rozi Plain, Timothy X Atack and various DJs. Clearly a kicking night in the making, but the buzz has bored its way into my weary, election-sated brain. I find myself thinking that David Dimbleby must have some stamina as my head hits the pillow shortly afterwards.

www.mayfestbristol.co.uk

This is dance with modern at its heart. The medley of pieces veer violently from one emotion to another – dancers writhe to push-pull, love-hate relationships in Homecoming Queen; in Gold Day we share the joy of a sunny family holiday. Bruce dips his toe again into the mythical with a character reminiscent of Metz Schnapps’ Judderman. Then there is a strange god who commands slaves bound with rope, as a gum-chewing cheerleader pumps her pom-poms as though she’s throwing punches. This magical otherworld tinged with darkness is brought to life by the superb dancers: a couple dance together tenderly, and amusingly, a giant spider attacks a man in the bath, but for the most part, this feels like a giant cathartic release. It’s fascinating to watch it unfold.
Lucie Wood

Tobacco Factory www.markbrucecompany.com. www.mayfestbristol.co.uk

Traditionalists might have scoffed, but the Museum’s brave foresight was rightfully applauded, and has clearly paid dividends. Banksy has been accused by some of selling out: Bristol’s errant scamp might be highly collectible now, his work coveted by the likes of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, but even as he jostles with art’s glitterati, he’s unlikely to lose his edge. Second only to The Saatchi Gallery’s The Revolution Continues: New Art From China (which came 28th), the Bristol exhibition even managed to eclipse high-profile London shows such as Anish Kapoor at the Royal Academy, The National Portrait Gallery’s BP Portrait Award and The Serpentine Gallery Pavilion.

As his playful recent documentary (mockumentary?) Exit Through The Gift Shop clearly shows, Banksy delights in subverting the mundane and skewering perceptions: let’s hope not just that his imagination continues to run riot, but that the forward-thinking approach of art institutions such as Bristol Museum becomes the norm, rather than the exception.
Velimir Ilic

Design and detail have not been overlooked. The stylish interior is the kind of place that would easily lend itself to one of those glossy lifestyle spreads in the weekend supplements. There are flagstone floors, fireplaces to sidle up to and a sturdy mahogany bar counter; a mounted gazelle’s head and sepia-tinted photographs of distinguished old dudes adorn the walls. Channel 4’s Relocation, Relocation team were filming in the back room as we arrived and the place has just been given a very favourable once-over by The Guardian. Add in a buzzy ambience, dimmed lighting and a decent smattering of good-time folk, and The Castle – like a funky old gentlemen’s club, given a contemporary twist – certainly feels like the place to be.

There’s an excellent selection of wines, spirits and locally-brewed beers, including Flatcapper’s own hoppy house ale (1.40, £2.80 for a pint) and dark, velvety stout (£1.45, £2.90 for a pint), brewed in nearby Pewsey. We supped a more-ish half-pint of each, before switching to a rich glass of 2007 Castillo Viento Rioja Joven Tinto (£4.25 per glass), packed with fruity essence of plums.

The range of food on the menu isn’t overly fussy, but there’s enough variety to satisfy full-on foodies and nibblers alike. My girlfriend’s sticky lemon chicken fillet skewers (£2.75, from the Grazing menu) were tasty and pleasingly charred, despite being drenched in honey. A self-confessed chicken liver fiend, the pan-fried versions (£6.25) already had my name on them. Salty strips of bacon mingled with juicy, herb-scented livers full of savoury zing.

Having eaten here a number of times, the only quibble I’d have is over the generally static menu. I still hanker after the succulent portion of gamey rabbit I enjoyed over a year ago. Instead, my main was a simply-prepared pan-fried fillet of sea bass from the specials menu (£10.50), elegantly served with fondant potatoes, purple-sprouting broccoli and lemon parsley butter sauce; well-seasoned, fleshy fish arrived with nicely blistered skin, zesty sauce and earthy perfectly-cooked broccoli.

By comparison, my girlfriend’s Gloucester Old Spot pork chop (£9.25) was rather hit and miss. The meat was under-seasoned and a touch dry, but the accompanying braised red cabbage, full of berry-hued mulled spices, and the croquettes – crunchy, golden brown exterior yielding to fluffy potato – were delicious, as was the distinctly-flavoured Stowford Press cider cream sauce.

They don’t skimp on portion size here; my girlfriend only managed half of her brick-sized chocolate hazelnut brownie with vanilla ice-cream (£5.50), but declared its fudgy, chocolate-rich moistness a winning combo. My indulgent winter berry trifle (£5.50) – slathered with cream, custard and tart fruit – could have been a little sweeter, but was manfully polished off nevertheless.

Minor niggles with the food apart, The Castle has much going for it. Hardened to looking after hordes of peckish diners, tripping out plate upon plate of food, the staff are hugely friendly; if they were hassled, they never showed it. As Bradford-on-Avon’s default location for a night out, the locals here know they’re on to a good thing. Given its recent national exposure, it surely won’t be long before the town’s best kept secret attracts a wider audience.
Velimir Ilic

Mount Pleasant, Bradford-on-Avon, BA15 1SJ, food served Mon to Sat 9am to 10pm and Sun 10am to 10pm. Tel: 01225 865 657. www.flatcappers.co.uk