IM KABARETT

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I’m back. Back in Europe. Back in Berlin. 

The Emirates flight from Sydney was more than a bit of a trial (what insane person set up the steward call-buttons to echo through the whole plane every minute or two during the entire ‘night’, killing any hope of sleep?) – I fear have not found ‘my’ airline after all. Disappointing.

Robert Jordan and The Wheel of Time helped to dull the twenty-nine hours of comfortless, skimpily-fed and barely (whisky-and-) watered travel from Australia to Dubai and to Germany, a nice cold beer and a hot salami-on-ciabatta bun at ‘Italissimo’ in the very well set-up Frankfurt airport revived me amazingly, and a relaxing last Lufthansa leg into Berlin stopped me confirming a determination to a find a ship ... any ship ... for next time round…

And, then, there was dear Kevin, waiting at Tegel to meet me and take me home and feed me, wine me, and all but tuck me into bed … at 7.30pm.

Wednesday dawned white, chilly and fair and ... no jetlag! Just as well, for when I come to Berlin, when I’m around Kevin, I pick up the reins of my European life and turn myself back into the theatre and music critic that I first became in the 1980s. And on night one, I was ‘on duty’.



We were booked to return to Tipi (am Kanzleramt), the larger of the two tented theatre-cabaret venues on the fringes of the Tiergarten, where, on my last visit to Berlin, I experienced my Best Entertainment Night of 2009, to see Das Konzert by Tim Fischer.

Mr Fischer is famous. In Germany. I had never heard of him. But then, I had never heard of Montmorensy last year, and I fell head over heels for him. So…

It is difficult to walk into another country’s culture and, with no knowledge and little studied background, ‘take on’ an established star. It is very much more difficult when your mastery of the language involved is at best ‘limited’. Especially with an act like Tim Fischer. For Fischer is a chansonnier. A performer of twentieth-century songs. A Kabarettist in the best sense of the word. Where the heart of Montmorensy’s act is in his music, with Tim Fischer it is the song-words and his delivery of them which are supremely all-important…

Das Konzert -- a sort of a ‘best of’ selection from Fischer’s earlier shows -- is performed by five people: Fischer, radiant in black then white, at the centre of affairs, supported by two pianists, and two ‘guests’: the elderly composer (Gerhard Woyda) of two of his songs, and a warmly handsome baritone-ish vocalist (Ralph Samir, unbilled, but evidently ‘known’) who joined him in one love duet. For yes, much of Fischer’s performance is on the gay plane, and he wears a persona to match. Was this going to be the Geschwister Pfister and its Ursli again? As the concert began, I thought (in spite of the fact that Fischer was neatly male-garbed) that it might, but no. There are some very superficial similarities, but, to start with and all importantly, the material here is different. Fischer sings – in a plain, focussed, almost unmusical light baritone, unmarred by vibrato, catapulting his text from behind his teeth with incisive vigour—pieces, ‘male’ and ‘female’, ranging from the years between the wars (Friedrich Holländer, Theo Mackeben) through the sixties, to adaptations of modern, international numbers and to pieces written especially for him. Yes, he does include a couple of numbers made famous by Zarah Leander – who is to a German gay performer what Judy Garland is to an anglophone one, and in whose material he made himself famous as a teenager – but these do not in any way dominate the programme in a way I had thought, given his history, they might. And, thank goodness, he doesn’t frock up. He doesn’t need to. For Fischer is a clever man, a very clever man, and he has no need of a feather boa and stilettos to make his points and effects.

When he walked on to the platform, and launched into his first number – Holländer’s aptly titled ‘Der hysterische Ziege’ (the hysterical goat) – followed immediately by a wild 1960s paean to ‘Ein Neandertaler’ (Günter Neumann), I simply didn’t know what to think. The posters showed this palely too-pretty boy. Here was an explosive little man of what – forty? fifty? (he’s 37) – who looked more like Pinocchio fitted out with the mouth of a smiling shark … Rowan Atkinson with gremlin ears and flailing wrists ... hurling syllables at you like so many mortar bombs, each word like a piece of clear, jagged glass .. I was stunned. I’d always assumed that the impersonation of the Master of Ceremonies in Cabaret, as made filmicly famous by Joel Grey, was a wild, exaggerated burlesque. I now know that it wasn’t. That style of performance was a genuine part of pre-war German theatre and Kabarett performance, the province of many stars of the period, and Tim Fischer is the 21st century epitomy of that tradition.

But he is not all bombs and shards of glass. And – in a carefully constructed programme -- he quickly lets us know it. Item three is a gentle little love duet (‘Wir zwei sind ein Paar’), sung with (and composed by) his pianist, Rainer Bielfeldt. Suddenly the wild, biting, in-your-face-and-ears Fischer is gone. The Joan Crawford mouth becomes a rosebud, Rowan Atkinson transmutes into the pretty boy of the poster, and you watch stunned. They must be lovers: he couldn’t look at and sing to the other boy like that if they weren’t (NB, they aren’t, not since ages)*. And then the moment of calm is over, and the whirlwind is back… with songs bitter, songs comical, songs which had me stretching my ears and my German to their eager limit, wanting to be a part of what was going on. The whirlwind came to its first peak with an incisive and audience-delighting performance of Holländer’s well-known (even to me) ‘Stroganoff’ ... and then, little by little, Fischer calmed the game. Gentler tones and less aggressive songs ... and, as the first half ended (he had sung fourteen songs with barely a pad of chatter between them) and he moved into his second, equally demanding, set, he stretched his boundaries and offered himself in some items from world outside.

I am probably showing my own background and musical preferences by saying that, for me, his second act opener, Serge Lama’s ‘Je suis malade’ (music: Alice Dona), sung in fine French, was the best number of the night. And his least successful. For it was also the evening’s most demanding number, vocally, forcing the singer to the boundaries of his range and vocal capabilities, not wholly with success. For Fischer is not a ‘singer’ as such. He is not in the business of making beautiful or impressive sounds. That bald, open, sort-of-baritone is not a thing of beauty, it is a rocket carrier, a rocket launcher, made for carrying, supporting, curling round and, most particularly, hurtling forth words, sentences, stories, in a virtuoso way I don’t think I have ever seen excelled.

In pieces as different as precisely comical material of the ‘Stroganoff’ kind, the pointed Georg Kreisler ‘Weg zur Arbeit’, the affectingly half-whispered ‘Komm grosser schwarzer Vogel’ (Ludwig Hirsch) and a version of ‘Are you lonesome tonight’, sung as a sweetly flirtatious duet with his guest star, he was just grand. If I could have got by without ‘Send in the clowns’ (in German), it’s probably because I have heard them sent for far too many times since the original ... and I didn’t care for the piece even then.
As the evening rose to its height, the gentler moments of the saucer-shaped programme again gave place to the attack and forceful manner of the first part of the show, and the enthusiasm of the audience rose commensurately. When Fischer appeared wrapped, for just the one item, in a female coat, to sing a Michael Kunze translation of the Miller/Hirsch hit ‘I’ve Never Been to Me’, made famous in Germany as ‘Ich hab ins Paradies gesehn’, they quite simply exploded. I was a little disappointed. Not with the singer, not with the song (which I initially struggled – sorry, Michael -- wholly to comprehend) but with the audience. Was that why they were here? Was that what they liked? To see this clever artist get into even a smidgin of drag? I hope not … at least, not only. That would be sad. As he had proved over and over during the evening, he doesn’t need props and dresses to tell his tales, all he needs is his expansive talent.

Tim Fischer didn’t close out his evening with extravagance and a frock. The coat went back on its hook, and the grimacing, posturing piranaha back to its shatterable bowl, as he bowed his farewell with a gentle little number, ‘Die Rinnsteinprinzessin’, another composition of the pretty-smile pianist (lyric: Edith Jeske), delivered with precision and delicacy and all the effect that this cleverest of performers has at his command.
It was a fascinating night, and if I was weakening just a little through the last of the heroically end-to-end twenty-seven numbers, I blame it on Emirates Airlines and that bloody awful German of mine, which meant I had to work almost as hard as Fischer from song one onwards, aided (?) only by a nice bottle of Valpolicella.…
Would I go to see him again? Definitely. But I’d do my homework, and spend several sessions with Teach Yourself German first.
Will I go to the tents on the Tiergarten again? Try to stop me! As long as they are not doing Cabaret (the musical) which is scheduled to reappear there shortly, they will, I think, henceforth be my first entertainment stop in Berlin.
And – let’s be odious -- how did I feel about this evening’s entertainment compared with the two shows that I saw in the tents last year. Well, I was much, much more at home with Tim Fischer, his performance and his material, than I was with the Geschwister Pfister presentation. And Montmorensy? ... I’m sorry Tim, but I think I kind of fell in love with Montmorensy, so you (of all people) will understand and not mind if – for the meanwhile -- I only give you my personal silver medal…
But very silver indeed.

*postscript: my German let me down here. The song starts endearingly and then turns into something quite the opposite. So our hero, wearing his most angelic face, ended up singing lyrics which were anything but angelic. Which was the point of the song. Which I, alas, missed.

Closer and closer still...

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The ‘Sydney syndrome’ seems still to be working. My little family of horses seem to do their best when I am in the Sunny City by the Sea, rather than on the racetrack with them, or even when I am in their respective countries..

Yesterday, it was Fritzl’s turn. Since his interesting third – ‘Duchess’s first divvie’ – at Ashburton, he has had two starts: a hiccup at Bank’s Peninsula and a ninth place in – wait for it – the New Zealand Derby! Well, why not? He may have finished 18 lengths off the record-breaking winner, but he beat home several of the most highly regarded juvenile trotters in the country and, himself, clocked a time only 2 seconds off the new record.
As a result, I was pretty surprised to see him untipped and unpunterishly loved as ninth favourite for yesterday’s fifteen-horse maiden trot on the grass at Motukarara. Here, in Sydney, he was even less loved, except by me -- and by Barry who punted a fiver on him for a place. I was confident of a cheque and, in spite of the presence once again of Zealous Lady in the field, I would have been disappointed with less.

Well, I wasn’t disappointed. Far from it.
Fritzl made a fine beginning from his number nine draw and settled, as at Ashburton, neatly in the one-one. A determined front-runner (which displaced Zealous Lady, also well away, in command) kept everyone running along at a fair pace until the home straight, when the compact field (barely a breaker!) splayed out across the track ready for the final explanation…
Fritzl popped neatly out from his perfect position and headed staunchly for the line. Momentarily, it looked as if he might win, momentarily, I believe, he even hit the lead, but Zealous Lady had been ideally cuddled away on the rails and in the final metres she popped prettily through the middle and – as last time – nailed Fritzl in extremis.
So – after his fourth in the Trotting Stakes, his third at Ashburton – Duchess’s little boy has posted his first runner-up position.
And Barry picked up $80 for his five dollar bet. Australian form followers evidently hadn’t weighed up maiden trot form against Derby form, and the wee lad paid $16.40 a place on the NSW tote!

Here is the finish .. that’s Fritzl in the middle with the scarlet chest band .. compliments of Race Images…



I think Fritzl has to be odds-on to become -- before too long -- Gerolstein’s first home-bred-and-born winner. But watch out! Seppl is waiting in the wings, hopefully only a month or two away from making his debut…

Horse Trading

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Just in case anyone is wondering why I am lingering in Sydney, when I was only here a couple of months back ... I am here to indulge in a little horse trading.
My equine empire has recently gone through one of its ‘excess fat’ periods, largely thanks to my unbridled purchase of three new animals (Livia, Ténor, Agnes) over the last year, and a little bit of rationalisation was needed. Since my horses are a hobby, not a business, the target was evidently going to be – as last time, when I disposed of Gwen – the non-racing horses; since I am in the game to have my horses around me, the obvious ‘victim’ was a broodmare I have only ever seen in the flesh once in my life, my sole galloping interest: the Australia-based Rosmarino.
I’ve been part of Rosmarino since Barry bought her from a sales agent half a dozen years ago. She gave us a splendid time as a racehorse: as a broodmare she has been perhaps unlucky but ultimately – and in spite of Barry’s hugely skilled management -- unsatisfying. Also exceptionally expensive. The racehorse world in Australia plays its games with several more zeroes on its end than trotting in New Zealand or even France. Or even Australia.
Because we six chaps have been a ‘team of pals’ for eight years, I hesitated – in spite of the crying logic – to break up the syndicate, but when I was here last time, I found I was not the only over-stretched member anxious to end the story. And so, both Rosmarino and her More Than Ready foal, Leo, are up at the Inglis sales, this week and next.
Yesterday was Leo’s day. Estimates among our team as to his value (irrelevant and subjective) and likely sale price (practical) varied so hugely that I stepped out of the numbers game. For me, if the horse made a profit on our outlay, that is, in these times, good business.



We went to see the boy in his box. A really splendid looking colt, unfortunately (but irrelevantly) hair-scarred where his baby leg was ‘straightened’ soon after birth. But I was dreadfully taken aback at the lack of style, of professionalism shown by the agents – the farm to which over the years we having been paying indecent amounts of agistment money – in showing the horse. I wanted to telegraph Wendy to get over here zippo and show them how to do it.



Still, when he came into the ring, Leo looked very fine, and the bidding started in lively fashion. In the end, he ‘went’ for $90,000. I say ‘went’ because he was actually bought by some members of our own syndicate. I’m glad for them, glad that they will be keeping this most handsome member of the family, and I’m glad for me that I’m out, and no longer stretching my wallet in this game which isn’t really mine. I shall watch Leo’s progress with exactly the same interest and joy as if I were ‘in’ … but from my possie on the other side of the fence: in harness racing, where I belong.
Next Wednesday, as I am setting out to see the Zarah Leander Show in Berlin, probably on the back of Kevin’s moto, it will be the turn of Rosie the mare to go under the hammer. And at the end of that day, 14 April, my eight year adventure in the world of galloping racing will be over.

Happily, just as this happens, my trotting interests are steaming, at last, back into action. This Sunday I shall have two babes running – one on each side of the world. Fritzl is in action at Bank’s Peninsula, NZ, and Ténor heads to Caen, Normandy… where the tripe comes from..
Caen is, of course, only a night-ferry trip away from the Isle of Wight .. so come June and July, if such a thing should happen again, a little voyage across la Manche may be in order..
In the meanwhile thank you Rosmarino, thank you Barry and the Rosmarino Inc boys, for a fine adventure, and .. on to the next one!
Allez, Ténor!

In which continent are you...?

I knew that Jack couldn't be in England. Or in France. Because he is always first off the cab-rank ... seconds after a race has been run ... with all the news, stories and results of my French horses.
'In which continent are you?' I emailed...
'I'm just down the road..' he replied.
After two years of continually missing each other, on both sides of the world, we had both ended up in Sydney at one and the same time..
So a rendez-vous was imperative..
We met up at a coffee shop in the Queen Victoria Buildings (where my iced tea was brought in a Lipton's bottle, without ice, and my 'no lettuce, no tomato' sandwich came consisting of little else..) and how good it was to see and hug an absolutely glowing Jack..
We've both had some hard times these last years, but we seem both to have come out at the other end of the darkness in pretty good shape..
Witness the photo snapped by Jack's colleague, Mette, to record the occasion ..



Last year it was Jack who was winning races, this year I seem to have come back to life ... Wait till the two horses which we own in partnership (Lucie and D'Arcy) get into action..

Tenor wins at Vire...!

In Basse Normandie. Where the andouille comes from...
and less than an hour distant from Domfront, where Rosy won her race for me two years ago. Seems Normandy agrees with me..
It's early morning, I'm in Sydney .. I fell asleep before the race was run and woke at 5am to see ... the result that I'd so hoped for
Hourrah!!!! or should I say Hue-rah. Marion and the Hue family have notched me up my second french win.
Stories and pictures to come in due course .. but right now, I wonder if I'll be able to sleep a little more.


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Follow up:
Well, thanks to the splendid Basse-Normandie harness racing website (http://www.lescourseshippiquesbassenormandie.com/), I've now been able.. from my couch in Sydney .. to watch Tenor run his race. And run he did, which is more than can be said for nearly half of his rivals. Five of the twelve starters -- including the leader and the parked horse -- galloped and were disqualified. But it didn't make any difference. Tenor would have won anyway.
He made a tidy beginning, avoiding the horse inside him which started the galloping epidemic right away, and was quickly tucked away into the trail, behind the determined leader. There was a fair amount of movement outside him, as horses came up, and then went back and/or trotted awkwardly, but he just stayed where he was until the final turn when the horse outside him galloped, opening the door perfectly for our lad to pop off the fence, zoom easily past the leader (which then broke!) and cruise to the line, a comfortable length and a bit ahead of the only strong finisher and a Browns-Cow parade of beaten horses.
I think you could say he won with his hoof tied behind his back.
So he's proved himself superior to this company, now we shall see how he takes a step up. I'm confident ...

Go North, Young Man!

. 4 April 2010 and its time to take to the air waves. Alas, not the sea waves this year, not since the disappearance of the Bank Line and its wonderful cargo-cum-passenger ships. They are gone, crushed to teaspoons in Taiwan, or worse, and I am now condemned to air rather than sea travel. Oh, the blasted 21st century… My one consolation is that I seem to have found the ‘Bank Line of airlines’. I have booked my entire next four and a half months of travelling (give or take a ferry or a train) on Emirates, and will, of course, report back in detail with my reactions and inevitable opinions.

 

These last few days, Gerolstein has put on its most beautiful face, as if to chide me for leaving at a time when the autumn glints are on the leaves, and the autumn afternoon sun curls palely and picturesquely through the trees and gardens, when (nearly) all the big jobs for the year are done, the new grass is sprouting, and Elena and Agnes, Rose and Mikie, Lucie and D’Arcy are being shaken from a few weeks of torpic grazing to begin filling the place with equine action.

 

But the mornings are more than chill, they are cold, the daylight comes not till 7am and is gone by 7pm, Minnie begs to snuggle nightly on my bed instead of the couch, the heat-pump is on … and even the peacock went missing a whole day, hunkered down somewhere in the undergrowth, I suspect, to escape from the cold. And I must do the same. Or my tail feathers will fall out as well.

  So, today, I depart this pretty place and, all being equal, I will return in the spring, bright and refreshed after time in Berlin, St Helier, my British home on St Catherine’s Downs and in my special little corner of Paris, after having taken in The Ring of the Niebelungs, gorged myself on seafood in the Roseville Bistro and rognons in la Place Sainte-Marthe (14ème), tramped the dewy downs of Wight, and hopefully written a great chunk of my gigantic opus on Victorian Vocalists which, I notice, is now in its sixth year of preparation. And while I am gone, please, please may Elena and Livia, Rosy and Ténor, Fritzl and Seppl, go to the races and give me joy…

 

STOP PRESS. As if to celebrate my imminent return to Europe, Ténor des Baux runs today in the Prix du Haras de Peschard on the sand track at the Hippodrome Robert Auvray of Vire, Normandy. This is cruel. I should be there: Vire – just 40 minutes away from Domfront, where Rosy won her début -- is said to be the village which makes the best ‘andouille’ in France! Ténor, if you can win, I shall have to make a pilgrimage to Vire… with a big bib on! And now, Christchurch airport. ‘Bring up the curtain’, I am returning to the real world…

And ten days later..

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Ah! mon Dieu! Is that .. could it be .. grass?!!!!!

The mixed pickles of March

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In between the spasms of horsework, housework (Sarah is back from her honeymoon, hallelujah!) and writing work, there’s always something out-of-the-ordinary to do around here..
Last night, in the quickly descending dusk, Wendy and I were out in the horse yards of Gerolstein, hand-sowing a hectare of new grass in a neat bit of teamwork, especially for a pair who’ve never done any such thing in their lives. Neighbour Tony had pulled his sharp harrows through the baked and sprayed-dead paddocks ... we raked and culled the mostly browned-off megaweeds into a huge firestack, and then I set off to scatter – with a good biblical motion .. a dozen kilos of pink and blue CRT seed over the said hectare and a bit of land. Wendy followed behind with a home-made rake concocted from the ride-on mower, pulling behind it a screen, and laden down with an old gate and a heavy tyre…
Our improvised system seems to have worked remarkably, although I was clearly a bit heavy on my sowing gestures, as we got through nearly thirty kilos of seed, before sinking gratefully into a hot shower, a djellaba and a bottle of something crisp, in front of the evening’s racing.
Now it’s a case of keeping all those paddocks damp for a week to allow a little germination: this will, I suppose, be the moment when the iffy Christchurch autumn chooses to blossom into burning days…
Watch this space for the first blades.



My other unusual event these last days has been a visit to NASDA. That stands for National Academy of Singing and Dramatic Art.
Yes, I know. I retired years back. I don’t do the twentieth-to-21st century of theatre any more, just the 19th, but … principal Richard Marrett, an old pal, convinced me that inculcated skills never die and that it would be good for the pupils to be confronted by someone – and someome from little old Christchurch what’s more -- who had been and done what they are striving to be and do: so I went. And now I am all involved. So far, I’ve only chatted with the students (79 of them), and some of them with me, I’ve listened to sixteen of them in a ‘performance practice’ class, and I’ve talked a little with their principal teachers. But, when I return, I think a few ‘master classes’ with the more advanced and promising (and vocally interesting) young folk will be in order … and, well, we’ll see. If I enjoy them and they enjoy me, if I can inculcate professionalism into them as well as performing skills, then perhaps I still do have some thing to offer.
Another space to watch, but not till the southern spring.

PS It seems I am to become a NASDA-ic fixture if http://www.facebook.com/pages/Chubbs-dont-get-in-the-Chorus-Line/354806592497 is to be believed

Tenor hits a 'C'

Not a top C, not yet .. but decidedly not a flat note ..!

Its been a busy horsey week…

Rose and Mikie (right) off for an ‘acclimatisation’ run round at the Motukarara workouts for the first time in their shocked lives

The arrival of our newest ‘boarder’, a tiny filly out of ‘Kim’, a mare who once lived here and behind whom Jan won a race…
Elena out on holidays and Agnes about to start lessons..



And now, at last, seven or eight months later than originally intended – thanks to bugs and to snow – my beautiful French colt, Ténor des Baux, finally made it to the races. At Bihorel, just outside Rouen. It was a ‘country’ race for three year-old male beginners (only two horses of the ten had ever been to the races before) …



Alas, France isn’t up to New Zealand in letting you watch the races minutes after they are run, so I have to wait a bit for that, but I do know that, in spite of pulling behind what I guess was a ‘country’ pace … he came third! It must have been close, for he was originally called second, but I shall soon see.
He hasn’t started out with quite the splash which Rosy did (she won first try), but I suspect, deep down inside, he will go on to do more than she has. He is evidently a nice horse, and I can expect some happy times racing him.
So bravo Ténor .. ‘encore’!!!

Postscript: I've seen it. He led, trailed, and ran on OK. But he ran greenly, pulled .. and the winner won comfortably, with Tenor getting pipped half a length into his third place. Will do better!



5 Thunder Mountain M 3 2500 Ph. Gillot Ecurie AB Trot F. Blandin
4 Théo Le Beau H 3 2500 C. Deffaux P. Boursier X. Thevenet
2 Ténor des Baux M3 2500 M. Hue K.-F. Ganzl M. Hue
6 Tropic Somolli M3 2500 B. Marie G. Braquet F. Blandin
3 Théo des Vauchaux M3 2500 C. Thierry Ecurie Darche F. Blandin
9 Tienno Montaval H3 2500 R. Archenoul Mme B. Chaudemanche R. Archenoul
7 Ty Breizh H3 2500 P.-L. Rousseau P.-L. Rousseau P.-L. Rousseau
1 Tempo d'Ecajeul M3 2500 F. Blandin E. Grelier F. Blandin
8 Tyrol Maxentais H3 2500 A. Muidebled A. Muidebled A. Muidebled
10 Totem Indien H3 2500 T. DesmarresT. Desmarres Syl. Desmarres

Origines
1er Thunder Mountain Orlando Vici Foolish Princess Passionnant M. P. Eskenazi
2ème Théo Le Beau Diable Indien Léa des Bosquets Eclat de la Crau M. X. Thevenet
3ème Ténor des Baux Fier des Baux Mademoiselle Fleur Carpe Diem M. B. Hue et Mme F. Hue
Répartition des allocations 4.000 € - 2.000 € - 1.040 € - 480 € - 240 € - 160 € - 80 €

A Gerolsteiner Landmark or, Duchess’s Divvie…

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I’ve been breeding trotters in a very small way for six or seven years now. Not, it has to be said, with any notable success.
My first baby, Duchess, was too wicked to make a racehorse; the second and the third, Boris and Wanda, qualified, but never made it to the track..
But then came the year of two mares. Gwen bore her fourth baby, little Seppl, and the Duchess her first, his playmate Fritzl, known to race commentators as The Soldier Fritz.
Fritzl not only did make it to the races, last year as a two year-old he even raced in some of the classic juvenile races and finished fourth in the New Zealand Trotting Stakes. A landmark … a cheque … but not yet an official 1-2-3 place.
And now they are three year-olds, those two little boys, and if you follow this blog you’ll have read about Seppl’s two encouraging trial wins, and Fritzl’s fine, front-running workout the other day against the champion Glenbogle. Surely one or other of the two would soon break Gerolstein’s duck, and post a divvie.
Well, today Fritzl lined up for his first ‘normal’ race. No classic, just a straightforward maiden handicap in the sunshine of Ashburton. Given his workout effort, I was quite surprised to see he was paying 25-1 on the tote… but since I don’t bet. what did I care?



I was chuffed to see him behave nicely at the start, in spite of interminable waits for ill-schooled horses, I was chuffed to see him go away smoothly if slowly, whilst around him other horses were prancing and galloping, and when they settled down, there he was perfectly placed in fifth, on the outside.
Well, give or take the galloping (of others) it wasn’t a hugely adventurous race, and into the straight there he still was, poised behind the raceaway leader and the other better-behaved horses. ‘Go whoosh!’ cried my heart…
Well, he didn’t go whoosh. Maybe he doesn’t or can’t, or it was too dangerous for an effective first race to try to ... but the wee boy wound up gradually as others weakened and, when the post arrived .. our Fritzl was third! Beaten a length and a bit, and a neck. (I think, later, looking back we might be quite pleased to have been only a neck from Zealous Lady.) And when the result went up, he had paid a fine $6.60 for a place…
Eleven years ago, in April 1999, my very first horse, Davey Crockett, went to the races for the first time, in a maiden handicap at Hawera. He, too, finished third (though less well behaved). And he paid $5.00. Davey went on to win five races for me.. and I went on in search of other landmarks.
Today is one.
Our first home-bred divvie.
Bless you, little Fritzl!
And I guess I'd better toddle down the back paddock and tell Duchess...

PS We are hugely lucky here in the South Island of NEw Zealand to have probably the best racing photographers I've encountered anywhere in the world -- Colin and Ajay Berry of Race Images, take a bow! The walls of Gerolstein drip with the pictures they've taken of our horses over the last decade, and here's what they've sent me of today... a lovely photo of the wee boy in the running, and another showing him finishing on down the outside for third..

The Ring and I

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I have never seen Wagner’s ultra-celebrated Der Ring des Nibelungen whole, complete and in order. Not on the stage, anyway. Like anyone and everyone else who is or was interested in opera, I remember the famously filmed Patrice Chéreau version of umpteen years ago, which -- via British television -- allowed people like myself (with very limited German) finally to follow the story and even much of the poetry as well as enjoy the music. And over the years I have seen a handful of theatre versions of the various Ring-components: from a sceneryless Walküre at the Nice Opera House in the early 1970s to an unmemorable Siegfried at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden in a year which I also forget. But that’s it.



It shouldn’t have happened that way. After all, I was brought up in a home where the stories and music from the Ring, were as familiar as nursery-rhymes, and one of the first long-playing recordings which I owned – aged about ten -- was of Astrid Varnay’s Bayreuth Brünnhilde. I must have worn it out, as I don’t have it any more.
Then, aged fifteen or so, when I discovered the big basso voice that would change my life, one of the first pieces of music into which, with the rashness of youth, I greedily flung myself was Wotan’s Farewell. By the time I became a professional singer – with a voice ending at E natural -- I had downsized my ambitions to Hunding. Which wasn’t really much more practical, given that I boasted a twenty-six inch waist, no shoulders to speak of, and weighed in around nine stone.
Well, I never got to sing Hunding. I transmuted over the years from operatic basso into musical-theatre guru, and for many years – partly dissuaded by silly, ‘trendy’ stagings -- I did not even visit the world’s opera houses.
But, fifty years on from those Astrid Varnay days, I have come full circle. Once again, I listen to, enjoy and write about operatic music and operatic singers, once again I have put my nose and ears into an opera house, and now – with my pension book in sight –finally I am going to see (and, of course, write about) a whole, entire four-nights Ring des Nibelungen cycle. In a few weeks, I leave Sefton, New Zealand, for Berlin …

I am trying to have no preconceptions, no fixed ideas. I am not swatting up the half-forgotten details and music of Wagner’s work. I want to come to this as a piece of fresh and ‘new’ music-theatre. Which, I imagine, will make me the only writer-cum-critic in the world, amongst the hundreds who know the piece note and word perfectly, in such a position…
Watch this space!

Weaned, or Where's my mamma?

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Douchelette's hooning days are done for a wee while. It's the big wean time. And she is not at all happy about it. In fact, she is sulking big time. Five acres and a couple of square metres are just not comparable...



Happily, however, there is little Uncle Mikie, through the prison bars, for company and conversation .. and on the other side big Auntie Rose...



All part of growing up, girl! So quit pouting and get into that adult food: broodmare mix and water instead of mother's milk..

Photo of the day!

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Today 'papa' Frank came out to visit Douchelette and, in spite of the grey and the rain, I popped my camera in my pocket before heading for the forest paddock...
A last photo with mama, in all probability, as tomorrow is set to be weaning day.
Almost as if they knew, mother and daughter put on a lively show for us



I am delighted to say that Frank has decided to christen this beautiful filly, by Love You out of La Grande-Duchesse, by the perfect name of 'Duchesse de l'Amour'

The Bonzer Day (part two)

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A beautiful, beautiful bride ,,
And the groom’s not half bad either…!



I don’t go to weddings. Up till today, I had been to just two in 64 years … clients of mine, in the days of my West End theatrical agency, and thus ‘obligatory’. Neither marriage lasted the year, I seem to remember. But I’m sure it will be ‘third time lucky’.
I simply had to break my ‘no weddings and funerals’ rule, this time, but for different reasons. For I think I can truthfully say that I did my part in making this happen.
Sarah, today’s bride, has been almost ‘family’ at Gerolstein for quite a few years. At first, she was the Nurse Maude nurse who helped me – and, oh goodness, how she helped me – through the difficult years of Ian’s last illness and death. And, afterwards, she continued to visit, to help me in keeping this ‘bachelor’ house in order.
Tony is the local locksmith, and he came here one day to change all the locks around the place after we’d suffered a visitation from a local ratbag. He was visibly in bad form, so, when the job was done, we opened a couple of bottles and he confided in me the history of a faithless wife and a marriage that had just ended.
Two lovely, giving, golden-hearted people, alone and not wanting to be ... ‘what’, I thought, ‘if I could get them together…’, and so I slid into match-making mode. Once I’d made sure the right facts had gone into the right ears, I was able to slide out of the picture. From there on in, they certainly didn’t need me!



And so, today, in a lovely simple sun-soaked ceremony in the garden of their Rangiora home, with Sarah’s sister as celebrant, and surrounded by their families, Sarah became Mrs Tony Beal. And no-one was happier than I.



Unless it be Sarah’s daughter, Lara – I met her when she was nine, and a few years later gave her dear old Dodo (Master Ado) for a riding horse -- oh boy, look at her now! ..
and Tony’s son, Sam, a delightful young man whom I met for the first time today, and who – like Lara – spoke his piece in the ceremony with considerable style.



Dear Sarah, dear Tony … you have many happy years together before you. Through them, please take with you … much love from Kurt

A double-headed Bonzer Day (part one)

. I remember forty years ago and more visiting Motukarara racetrack and thinking it was one the most agreeable racing venues at which to spend a happy and sunny day out. I still think that. I also often think that I enjoy trials programmes more than actual raceday… and of course when our horses are running, and running well that just puts the candy on the cake. Today, there was no problem about the sun. It was searing down at a round 30 degrees. And there were no problems with the horses! Elena ran first, in a splendid thirteen one-win-horse field. How nice to see real ‘rehearsal races’ at the workouts instead of two or three beasts doing a glorified bit of home-training. John and Gavin being on duty elsewhere, Murray again got into the cart behind Elena, and she was in for a little bit of a surprise! There is no better driver in New Zealand than Murray for ‘gentling’ a horse into doing what he wants. With Elena, that’s not always so easy as she has a very strong mind of her own, and I have a bundle of scrapes and cuts and bruises to prove it. So, against Elena’s ‘rules’ (race on the outside to give her ‘space’), Murray eased her to the inside, surrounded by horses, and she didn’t freak! Since we intend to race her Thursday, she was there for a stiff but not gutbusting cruise around, and that’s what she got. But with a finish. Murray pulled her from the back, three wide round the turn, and let her run home.. and run she did. There would have been five or six horses lined up across the track in the ‘photo for second’ and she was one of them. If Murray had turned the whip she would have been second. Very pleasing. Photo.

  No, not Elena this time, we have rather a lot of those. Yes, that’s Murray, but this is Fritzl. The other little boy, with Seppl, in the prize-winning old baby picture I posted here a few weeks back. Fritzl (The Soldier Fritz) started his career with a boom and a whistle, running fourth in the New Zealand Trotting Stakes for babies last season, but baby days are over and now its time for him to tackle grown-up racehorses. Today was his first tackle and I was a bit stunned the see him drawn in a heat with Glenbogle, the winner of sixteen races and a Grand Circuit champion, making a return to racing after a long injury. Glenbogle was handicapped to 150 metres behind, but when they lined up .. what! .. someone had forgotten to bring the 150m tape, so Glenbogle started right alongside our wee boy. Rather like a junior athlete alongside an Olympic medallist! Like me, the day I ran in an 800 metres heat against Peter Snell (led briefly, faded, last). And a standing start, too … They all went away safely, under the whitening sun, Murray easing Fritzl slowly but surely into third place, but out of the straight on lap one, he pulled out and went to the front, and there he stayed, gradually increasing the pace and looking adorably adept. Into the straight, and still ahead, with the others massed behind him .. well, fairystories have their limits. Glenbogle, which had doddled relaxedly round in last place decided actually to run the last couple of hundred metres and he shot past everyone else with ease. But I have this picture showing baby Fritzl – look at the difference between their physiques! -- running a genuine second behind a champion. The official result actually says he finished third, but here’s the photo (a few strides before the line admittedly). ‘Official results’ at workouts are notoriously approximate, and for me our wee boy was second. So now it’s the races. Maybe Fritzl will have his first rising adult start on the same bill as Elena on Thursday .. thank goodness I decided to spend the month of March in New Zealand. And summer has come, too, just days off the opening of autumn..

Gerolsteiner Babies

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BOYS WILL BE BOYS

Rodin couldn't have drawn it better. Two year-old Mikie leads year-old D'Arcy astray....



AGNES GETS 'THE LOOK'

Thoroughly settled in now, and soon to be broken in, Agnes -- though decidedly Twiggy-elegant -- has certainly started to show up with some of the airs of her big sister. The look down the nose is starting to set in..




THE CAPTAIN GETS COMFY

Our pal the peacock is making himself very much at home, too. His favourite 'nest' now is on the verandah outside the french doors to my bedroom. And he no longer flees at human approach... just stalks loftily away. But its a bit hard to be lofty in moulting time, when your tail feathers are falling out. I am on to vase three...

Agnes de Gerolstein

I said I wouldn't do it. I swore I wouldn't do it. More horses I simply don't need and I've already bought one in France and one in Australia this year. No more horses. Even when I saw that a full sister to my beloved Elena was up on the block at this year's PGG sales, I said .. wow, I wonder who will get her.. and I wasn't going to bid. I really wasn't.
Then, when I was engaged to go to speak to the students of the Performing Arts course at Christchurch Polytech (of which more anon) about My Fabulous Life and Career. on the very day of the auction, I thought 'well that's fate. I sha'n't even go to the sale'.
But...
I watched the first day of the sales on TV, and I watched beautiful, well-bred horses being knocked down for just a few thousand dollars. Oh, heaven, imagine if someone got Agnes (well, yes I had daydreamily given her a name) for five or ten grand... imagine what regrets I'd have. And how insulting to Elena!
I sipped a scotch. I devoured half a bottle of Aussie rouge, and finally I picked up the phone and called my friend Mike. "Going to the sales?" "OK, you can bid on lot 322 up to 10K for me."
I actually got back from my lecture in time for lot 322. The bidding was slow, and it got stuck at 5K. I had been right. 5k was me. But the auctioneer decided to spend an incommensurate amount of time on Agnes and finally someone proffered six. It almost seemed as if the sale was orchestrated to get to ten (the reserve maybe?). Mike was brisk and businesslike.. at 10 the mysterious 'opposition' (I should dearly like to know who it was) disappeared and ... Agnes was mine.
Inter-Island horse transport have a vast number of babes to transport here and there on sales day, but they got to us around 10pm .. and I finally got to see the horse I had bought.




On the TV, in the ring, she looked like Elena all over again. Safely home, one can see the differences. She doesn't have the haughty eye, the snooty stare of her elder sister, she seems much less exaggerated in character (although it was exactly the haughtiness and exaggeration that made me go for Elena four years ago) and I think she's not going to be quite so huge and tall. Which would actually be good.
But 10pm was not the time to start investigating. Wendy huddled her up in a warm cover and neck rug, piled some hay into a nice big paddock ... next to Elena ... and we all went off to bed.
Naturally, first thing this morning I scurried out to look at my new girl properly. It's a typical NZ 2010 summer day, cool and drizzling, it had rained steadily through the night, making mud, puddles and soggy manes the order of the day. So I really couldn't give an exhaustive inspection to the slightly shy filly in the big blue coat. She has a nice head, a nice face .. for the rest, I shall have to wait till the sun comes out and she can strip off..
And, of course, till she recovers from what is called 'preparation' for the sales...

But she's mine. And she will, if such a thing is possible, be almost as much loved as Elena...
Welcome to Gerolstein, Agnes.

A 64th Birthday Blowjob

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I haven't taken much notice of birthdays for quite a few years (except when at sea) but for my entry into my last year as a middle-aged man it seemed a nice idea to get over that particular hurdle in company. So Wendy and I were joined by sister Jan, by Natalie and Russell Latimer, and by Erin Fox, for a merry evening with TWO cakes.. and one candle. Representing the one year left before the British Government will owe me a pension...

Today is summer in Sefton

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New Zealand has decided, after several days of grey drizzle, to have its summer today...

Other folk, however, are not having even that much summer..
Kevin writes me -- with picture -- that its snowing in Berlin



And my friend Betsy sends me this, snapped an hour ago from her window in South Carolina...



It's wonderfully beautiful, but I think I'll take Gerolstein in the sunshine for the next few weeks!

Douchelette at three months

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While I was in Australia, Douchelette reached the venerable age of three months... so 'baby' pictures are in order to mark the occasion. Doesn't look too babyish, does she..