Under the Boardwalk

This week for the first time:
I watched Boardwalk Empire

The best thing about January - possibly the only good thing about January - is that you can get away with staying in and hibernating every night using post-festive blues, dreary winter weather and hardship as acceptable excuses. I have been politely declining most invitations in favour of cosy nights in curled up with my better half and, at the weekend, I even treated myself to a 'Staying in on a Saturday night' outfit consisting of elastic, drawstrings and velour for optimal comfort. My cousin's in-laws refer to these rather fetching combos as 'loosies'.

The hours spent rooted to the sofa have practically doubled over the last few weeks and the desire to watch TV versus quality programmes being aired ratio is sadly not in my favour, meaning that, without illegal downloading I would potentially be staring at a blank screen or resorting to a game of dominos. A sorry existence? Quite possibly. But I think January has managed to redeem itself thanks to HBO's addictive series 'Boardwalk Empire', that I downloaded at the suggestion of my Mum and brother who are both leading authorities on everything that is good television.

Set in Atlantic City in the 1920s prohibition era, Boardwalk Empire has everything you could want from a TV series; drama, gangsters, sex, violence, a killer soundtrack and Steve Buscemi. Not many actors can make your skin crawl and be sexy and heart-warming all at the same time and this is why Buscemi is high on my list of favourite actors and why the nominations and awards have been flooding in for his potrayal of dodgy Atlantic county treasurer Enoch 'Nucky' Thompson.

The quality of the cast doesn't stop with Buscemi. A buff looking Michael Pitt (Funny Games) smoulders as Ivy League boy turned gangster and the addition of Michael Kenneth Williams was a stroke of genius after he very clearly stole the show as Omar Little in HBO's other gem The Wire. Casting doesn't get better than Kirkby up-and-coming star Stephen Graham (Combo in This is England) as Al Capone, who ditches his scouse accent for a thick Brooklyn drawl.

Stephen Graham was recently sat in front of us on a Liverpool to Brussels Easyjet flight. He was collared by cabin crew for carrying what was very clearly oversized hand luggage and made to wait and board the plane last so that they could place his luggage in the hold for an extortionate fee. Every single passenger had to walk past him and, scousers being scousers, there were constant cries of "Y'alright Stephen, lad?" and "How's it goin' Al Capone?" The last passenger to climb aboard a full plane, I'm sure he was relieved when he discovered that a stag party of about 15 semi-drunken blokes had saved him the final seat right in the middle of their group and were only too keen to quiz him about what his Mum had cooked for Johnny Depp when he was invited to dinner at the Graham family home.

A visual feast, no stone is left unturned when it comes to detail in the television masterpiece that is Boardwalk Empire. The first episode was directed by Martin Scorcese and cost $18 million, but this does not take the shine off subsequent episodes with jaw-dropping cinematography the likes of which is rarely seen on the small screen. I confess that usually, I hardly pay much attention to set or costume design but in every episode so far, I have found it difficult to hold back on verbalising my appreciation. Just take Kelly Macdonald's (Margaret Schroeder) hats - each episode is in competition with the last in terms of elegant headwear design - and I can only imagine the look of delight on Buscemi's face when he was first introduced to his wardrobe. Why don't they make suits like that anymore?

Boardwalk Empire is groundbreaking and honest in its approach to scenes of a sexual nature. Without being overly gratuitous, it makes a refreshing change to the usual fully-clothed erotic scenes from other American series (Jennifer Aniston's bra probably needs surgically removing) and pays a fitting tribute to the somewhat louche morals of the era. It doesn't hold back on the violence and at times, my squeamish nature leads me to avert my eyes from the screen. There's a certain amount of humour involved in the show and many of the belly laughs come from the clever portrayal of the social and technological differences between the 1920s and the modern day.

My next step will be to investigate the music. I am already hooked on the Donovanesque Brian Jones Town Massacre theme song 'Straight Up and Down'.

Would I try this again?: They can't make series 3 fast enough.

Fun with Steve Buscemi: Chicks with Steve Buscemeyes

A Day at the Races

This week for the first time ever: I went Lindy Hop Dancing.

Last weekend saw the arrival of one of my favourite annual events: La Fête de la Musique, when the Francophone cities of the world are treated to three days of wall-to-wall free music. After a manic rock 'n' roll fuelled Friday night and an enthusiastic and well-received performance with Android 80 in the town of Malmédy on Saturday evening, what could be better than taking a trip back in time and revelling in the laissez-faire ambience of the Roaring 20s?

As part of the weekend's events, my friend Vincent was hosting an afternoon 'thé dansant' in the park and the dance of choice was Lindy Hop. It was not until very recently that I had heard of Lindy Hop. My friend Rebecca has been taking classes in Brussels and this piqued my curiosity. The dance first evolved in Harlem in 1927 as a mutation of Breakaway and Charleston and incorporated elements of tap and was made popular in the famous Savoy Ballroom. It was named after Charles Lindbergh's atlantic crossing in 1927.
As it turns out, I am slightly familiar with it through its other name, 'Jitterbug'.

Thanks to Vincent for recommending this scene from The Marx Brothers 'A Day at the Races' featuring Whitey's Lindy Hoppers. I'm sure I don't have far to go to reach the same level as the girl 52 seconds in.

Lindy Hop is a swing dance set to jazz and ragtime and, with a fondness for this kind of music, I had high hopes for an enjoyable afternoon. So I slowly ambled down to Liège's Parc d'Avroy in that half-hearted, post-alcohol manner that comes with the territory of Sunday afternoons.

On first arrival, events seemed a little tragic: One lone hippy-looking guy was flopping around the dancefloor to a Duke Ellington number, admittedly putting his best foot foward, but I have doubts that Caterpillar sandals were ever the footwear of choice at The Cotton Club. As often occurs on a June weekend in Belgium, the weather was also putting a dampener on proceedings. It was the kind of weather that lulls you into the false sense of security that Summer's almost here kids, until two minutes later, somebody creeps up behind you and throws a bucket of water over your head.

Never one to let the weather prevent my enjoyment, I ordered a round of beers (the Belgians would not dream of serving PG Tips at a tea dance) for me, my husband and the friends we had bumped into and dragged along, and soon settled into the relaxed Sunday atmosphere appreciating the delights of Count Basie, Louis Jordan and Cab Calloway. I was especially thrilled to hear Ella Fitzgerald's 'Paper Moon' and thought to myself, "If there's a dance to go with this music, I want to learn it!"

The opportunity was not too far away, as Vincent had engaged two teachers who were more than willing to share their expertise, and, before long, I was forming part of a 'Lindy Circle' on the dancefloor. After mastering some very basic steps in 8 time, we partnered up and put our newly acquired skills to the test. The girls where asked to move around the circle with the aim of changing partners, as is common practice in dance classes. I particularly enjoyed dancing with a little Indian guy half my height who seemed unable to stop giggling, but not so much with a little weasely guy wearing a flat cap who spun me 'round and 'round to the point of nausea. I became more and more relaxed with what seemed to be my kind of movements; shuffling feet, a shake of the leg, a shimmy here, a shimmy there...In fact, I was later informed by my husband that the Lindy Hop is no different to the way that I normally dance!

Looks a bit more like Riverdance here...

When the occasion presented itself to pair up with the professional dance teacher, it was clear that I was now a Lindy Hop afficionado, worlds apart from the other beginners and just a couple of lessons away from embarking on a new career in the world of dance. Bruce Forsyth would soon be knocking on my door.

Would I try it again?: Where do I sign up?