Pssst. There's a rumour Fleetwood Mac's playing Basingstoke...

An old friend of my husband's (who shall remain nameless, for reasons soon to become evident) got in touch a few months ago.  "Fleetwood Mac is playing at your local theatre in March.  Shall I arrange tickets?"

Sure, we replied.

I couldn't figure out why a band that big ... even one 20 years past its prime ... would be playing in the 1,400-seat Anvil auditorium.  My husband and his friend figured it was a warm up for their much publicised reunion tour later this year.  I didn't think much about it.  If someone else was organising, and it was only happening 15 minutes from my house, I was happy to go along.  I wasn't a huge Fleetwood Mac fan but, like most teens in the late '70s, I owned a copy of Rumours and liked the songs.  Why not see it live?

Two nights before the gig, my feminine need for organisation emerged.  The boys had done nothing, and I at least wanted to sort details and pick a spot for pre-gig dining.  So I checked the website.  To see that we were attending Rumours of Fleetwood Mac, a tribute band.  I was highly amused.  The prime organiser slightly embarrassed.

In hindsight, I have to say that I probably enjoyed the tribute band more than I would have the real thing, had we procured tickets for the sold-out run at the 02 and trekked up to London and back.  The nature of a tribute band is to only play the most popular stuff.  Ergo, as only a casual fan, I didn't have to sit through anything I didn't know.  It was more of a theatrical experience than a rock concert, with everyone sitting down and actually paying attention to the show.  More my speed these days, as my experience at last summer's Blur concert proved.  They were fine musicians and, though several voices were clearly different from the originals, they were close enough overall to be impressive.

I walked away with three conclusions.

One:  Tribute bands are nothing to sneer at.  These people are serious musicians, bringing life to fine music.  In many cases they're probably in better voice than those they're honouring.  Who are not only ageing but, let's face it, have often destroyed themselves with the over-indulgence of their primes.

Two:  Fleetwood Mac was an amazing band.  The 13-year-old Ellen, a pop-saturated lightweight who would have been been playing her Shaun Cassidy debut album a lot more than Rumours in its debut year, never gave Fleetwood Mac the attention they deserved.  I clearly need to raid my husband's collection and get the top tunes onto my iPod.

Three:  Will there be 20th century bands that stand the test of time, attracting crowds to concert halls in two or three hundred years to give serious attention to their works the way we go to symphony or opera today?  The spectacle of 1,400 people taking Fleetwood Mac seriously, listening with the attention usually given to classical music rather than with the whooping, clapping and dance-along vibe of a pop concert had me thinking "yes".  And, I suspect, Rumours and a few other Fleetwood Mac hits may stand that test of time.

I might not have had the most sophisticated taste in 1977, but I like to think I'm getting better.

New York's Met makes 5.5 hours of Wagner positively enjoyable

When approaching a difficult opera for the first time, it helps to be presented with a performance for the ages.  This, all the professional reviewers tell me, is the verdict on the Metropolitan Opera of New York's new production of Parsifal.

While I lack the experience to tell you whether or not I agree with them, I can say that I enjoyed this 5.5 hour Wagnerian behemoth a lot more than expected, and that it stimulated not only my eyes and ears but my brain.  No, we did not nip to New York for the weekend.  I've finally made it to my first Live in HD from The Met cinema screening. 

This is a great way to see opera.  Sure, you miss the sense of occasion of a real performance. The Odeon Guildford is a far cry from the Royal Opera House.  But you get big, comfy seats, a great sound system, and all the action on a jumbo screen with excellent camera work.  This lets you see facial expressions and subtle movements, revealing that there's marvellous acting to go with those big voices. With two, 40-minute intermissions we were even able to bring in a nice picnic and some wine.

The comfortable environment was helpful, because Parsifal is challenging.  It's long, generally moves at a glacial pace and deals with complicated themes (including some disturbing anti-semitism that modern directors do their best to minimise).

The opera starts with a nearly two-hour first act that is mostly one character, the old Grail Knight Gurnemanz, filling us in on the backstory.  A wannabe hero, rejected by the grail knights, turns into an evil sorcerer hell-bent on destroying the guys who rejected him.  He does this by luring Grail Knights to his castle, filled with temptresses who seduce them and then turn them into sex-enslaved zombies who fight against their former colleagues.  The current chief kight barely escaped, but not before giving in to his carnal desires once, and getting wounded with his chain mail down.  That wound now refuses to heal and, basically, the order of knights and all of civilisation is going to hell in a handbasket because of his mistake.  This is sexy stuff, and would be amazing delivered in a Lord of the Rings style flashback by Peter Jackson.  But Wagner gives it to us in stately, dramatic 19th century aria with magical strings and lots of repetition.  It's beautiful, but ... even though Rene Pape's voice is powerful, rich and absoluely beguiling, my record of napping through at least a bit of every Wagner opera I've seen remains unbroken.

Act 2 is a blockbuster and, frankly, worth sitting through the rest of it for.  You can view a sample here.  Our young hero Parsifal has decided to save the day by taking out the sorcerer Klingsor.  He gets distracted by the army of seductresses, and almost gets seduced by the mysterious Kundry, who does all sorts of Freudian manipulation exploiting Parsifal's maternal issues.  (The director really plays this up; you could build a whole university psych class around it.)  But Parsifal resists, kills the evil sorcerer and gets back the holy spear that's going to cure the chief knight. 

This is good stuff, which fascinates, interests and repels you in equal measure.  The Met's production drove the spooky horror home, doing the whole scene in a pool of blood with those seductresses all in innocent white, getting progressively blood-spattered and sexual as the act went on.  Evgeny Nikitin's Klingsor was one of the most frighteningly evil characters I've ever seen on a stage, with sticky blood dripping through his hair and a voice that raises menace in your soul.

In Act 3 an exhausted Parsifal, Kaufmann's every muscle sagging with weariness, finally makes it back to the Grail Knights after years of wandering.  Thank God Wagner didn't decide to dramatise those, or we'd have been there all weekend.  He cures the king, takes his place, redeems the temptress Kundry and generally saves the day.  Again, we could accomplished all this in half the time that Wagner takes, but the combined quality of singing and acting holds your attention.

Much as I love the intimate setting of the Longborough Festival, where we've seen our Wagner live, it does make a difference when you throw all the Met's money at it.  Kauffman is an operatic superstar who combines his exquisite voice with great acting.  Katarina Dalayman is, according to the New York reviewers, the definitive Kundry these days, and she presented a compellingly believeable bad girl wanting to be good.  Peter Mattei's Amfortas, the chief knight, had you feeling the pain of that un-healing wound, half believing he was going to actually die on stage.

That cash also funds blockbuster sets, particularly Klingsor's castle with its oppressive cliffs and blood-soaked floors.  The Grail Knights' home was a bit too modern for me, with cracked earth rising to a horizon, a stream (sometimes water, sometimes blood) down the middle and striking images of sky, planets and landscapes projected on the massive screen that formed the back of the stage.  But it certainly did get across the idea of a land withering and dying along with Amfortas.  Nor was I particularly captivated by the choice of costuming the knights in modern business trousers and white shirts.  Though I understand the attempt to relate eternal themes to the modern age, I like my knights in chain mail.  These modern touches, however, stayed on the right side of challenging, being striking and interesting without becoming ugly, or eclipsing the drama.

Parsifal did nothing to change my usual opinions about Wagner:  The man needed editing, and I want to see staging by Peter Jackson.  But I can see the appeal, and I was delighted to be able to experience such an amazing performance, with such a starry cast.  It leaves me very, very excited that I hold tickets to see Jonas Kauffman in Don Carlo at the Royal Opera House in May.

L'Ortolan, Barbecoa prove their worth through consistency

Amongst the many advantages of our recent house move comes the fact that we're just 10 miles from an excellent Michelin-starred restaurant.  Dangerous, too.  We've been in the house five months, and I've been to L'Ortolan three times.  Is it a sign of good taste, or of severe fiscal irresponsibility, when the sommelier of one of the county's most expensive restaurants knows your name?

The excuse this time was a girls' weekend.  Cheaper than our traditional winter weekend away, we thought.  We'll stay at my place (Piers was scheduled to be away) and do one of those "staycations". 

We started with me whipping up dinner based around those ridiculously expensive dried morels the girls witnessed me buying in Madrid.  Slow-roasted caponata to start, followed by veal-stuffed ravioli in a morel and marsala cream sauce.  Hillary and Lisa bringing some particularly fine wines, of course.  Followed by lemon souffle and a tasty little bottle of Tokai.  My simple nights in have certainly evolved over the years.

Off to Nirvana Spa the next morning to soak out all the toxins.  And then on to L'Ortolan to convince the girls that there is fine dining in Reading.  Shocking, but true.

Executive Chef Alan Murchison clearly runs a tight ship, as this experience was just as good as the first three.  No chefs dropping by the table to chat, as in Malta, sadly, though the sommelier made up for that with amusing commentary through the dazzling wine flight.  We opted for the seven course menu, plus cheese course, rather than the 10 (there is no a la carte on weekend evenings).  Highlights included some delicate ham hock paired with passion fruit and pineapple (proving that the much-reviled Hawaiian pizza might have some redeeming qualities); the confit duck bon bon served with the duck liver rolled in pistachio (Murchison could make a fortune selling these as party food at Waitrose); and the rabbit with black pudding and a carrot jus.  Special praise goes to the team for assembling an all-British cheese board that rivals anything in France, with several options sourced from less than 20 miles away.  Expensive?  Yes.  But I'll keep going because the consistent excellence shows me I get what I pay for, and I can depend upon them for a delightful and memorable night.

Back in London, Barbecoa demonstrates the same talent for getting it right.  Backed by the starry trans-Atlantic team of UK superchef Jamie Oliver and American counterpart Adam Perry Lang, this upscale BBQ joint happens to be across the street from my office, so I'm probably here once every couple of months..  It's all sleek design and massive windows overlooking St. Paul's cathedral with a dining room looking in to the open pits.  All very trendy city of London.  But close your eyes and any Midwestern American will smell home.  This place knows how to combine flame, smoke and grill.

We had issues with the service the first time we ate here, but that, happily, has been an aberration.  I've worked my way through pulled pork (delightful, although far less authentic since they substituted the original cornbread with a gourmet waffle), the burger, ribs, fillet steak and most recently a grilled chicken breast on top of a well-crafted smoked corn salsa.  It's all been on par with the best BBQ places in Chicago, St. Louis or Memphis.  Which is about the highest praise I can deliver.

My only criticism?  Value for money.  This is simple food.  But it's served up in a posh setting with one hell of a view, under the aegis of famous chefs.  Which means that the bill for three courses here, plus some bread and olives and a side of veg (which you'll need, because there's not much besides the meat on that plate) will easily come in at £60.  For less than £20 more, you're at L'Ortolan's tasting menu. 

My search is still on for a place that's just as good, just as reliable, but cheaper.  Meanwhile, both L'Ortolan and Barbecoa will see as much of me as circumstance, lunch meetings and finances allow.