Tear-jerking turns in the bleakest of venues
West End Musical Drive-in
‘Another op’ning, another show!” as Cole Porter once put it, should be amended to “Another car park, another drive-in!” Although outdoor theatre is mercifully resuming, the headache of social distancing and nightmare of theatre closures have thrown the live entertainment industry back on a retro experience that’s in fact barely native to this isle.
Last month, I endured a valiant round of stand-up comedy in bleakest Brent Cross from the relative comfort of my rain-lashed vehicle. Then, a few weeks ago, I sweltered in bucolic Henley, writhing at the inanities of Horrible Histories. Now I have returned to the emotionally fraying new genre, which has thrown up another theatrical novelty: a “West End” version, with all your fave musical numbers sung at you from a safe distance.
While those involved in this stopgap arrangement to keep bills paid and the nation entertained would probably prefer it if I steered clear (I’m not proving the greatest cheerleader for this constrained version of live events), I’ve become a willing martyr to the cause, briefly fascinated by the dystopian horror of it.
For desolation, in fact, nothing quite matches the Troubadour Meridian Water, in an industrial estate off the North Circular, near Walthamstow. With its neighbouring scrapyards, processing plants and dismal buildings, it’s the antithesis of Shaftesbury
Avenue; on Saturday, the clouds threatened rain and duly delivered. If you can raise spirits here, you can raise ’em anywhere, and my admiration levels went through the car-top roof as this spin-off to a former theatreland “brunchtime” regular event (hosted here again by Carl Mullaney) soldiered on.
It’s hard enough for singers to lend sultry poise and gyratory command to the opening number of Chicago – All That Jazz – in scanty clothing and blustery conditions. To do so while ominous plumes wafted across from a nearby dump razzle-dazzled me.
Tears had to be held at bay as Jon Robyns, only recently a king of the West End, playing Valjean in Les Mis, gave a heartfelt rendition of Bring Him Home. Alice Fearn, Elphaba in Wicked, delivered its best-known number, Defying Gravity, with a vocal g-force that seemed to rouse just the right level of buffeting wind. And Kerry Ellis offset the drab surrounds with the glitter of A Million Dreams from The Greatest Showman.
There was an album’s worth of material on offer besides, augmented by blasts of car-horned approval, audience arms occasionally protruding through windows and braver punters even venturing outside to take part in the mischief of Rocky Horror’s The Time Warp.
A glimpse, then, at one windscreened remove, of how things used to be. Can they be again? I fear they won’t be unless action is taken to reopen theatres and also drum up trade in central London, these days as barren as our orbital backyards through want of visitors. Far better for the industry to park this drive-in idea for the time being and rally in Trafalgar Square, parading the best of our musical talent in a (governmentally sponsored?) drive to get theatregoer confidence back – and the show on the road again.