Prima Donna indeed: Rufus Wainwright reminds us that great musicians really, really care

I don't know much about opera, but I know that only Rufus Wainwright could entice a crowd of genre virigins to a French language debut - and leave them whooping in the aisles. Witnessing the triumphant premiere of his opera 'Prima Donna' last night he emerged the unflappable renaissance man, sprinkling splendour wherever he goes.

Wainwright's genius lies in enchanting songwriting, delivering performances that can make you smile and break your heart. Prima Donna transferred his effortless grace and immodest grandeur piece-by-piece to the opera and answered his decree that someone needed to 'bring the tunes back'.

Not only do admire his balls for making such a bold foray into unchartered waters - risking a libretto of tutting from the critics - but what his show does is to enlighten music fans of all persuasions.

The premise - an opera about an opera singer - had the deconstructive, post-modern wink of an outsider. To tackle the life-affirming - yet painful - synchroncity between an artist's craft and their identity is something of a musicians in-joke. It was, as is befitting of Rufus, a vanity project in the extreme. It was also its definitive strength.

Our cultural obsession with music has left us deadened to the flicker of a tortured genius. When everyone can audition to be a star, the majority of musicians are dispassionate and expectant. From pop to rock banality yawns out a limp embrace.

For all the warbling, simpering and weeping crocodile tears on 'X Factor', no one believes Alexandra Burke would be driven to insanity if she lost her voice. She'd probably carve out an equally fulfilling career breeding kittens.

'Prima Donna' reunites a pop-savvy crowd with the notion a musician lives and dies by their art. That Wainwright has relayed this message in a medium out of step with mainstream music allows it a critical distance. It also sprays an insouciant fragrance into the haughty musk of its host genre. It shows both opera and pop what it's been missing - and confirms Rufus Wainwright as the prima donna standard for which all musicians should strive.

Happiness in Magazines - or not

It takes a lot to get hair as pink and blonde as mine: four hours of a hairdresser (two at some stages) dividing, bleaching, washing, dividing, pink-ing, washing, snipping, cutting, drying, straightening, snipping again. The extensive time spent in a context so focused on image makes it impossible for girl not to consider femininity - especially given the reading material on offer. Each appointment is a rare opportunity to run the gamut of glossy magazines with impunity; each one proffering tropes of womanhood - none of which remotely appeal.

So which kind of lady could I be?

Now, I could be the sort of girl I am and take the Guardian, but the kind of girl I am also feels embarrased about waving my liberal zine around in there. There's something about spending silly money on silly hair that doesn't quite square with Iranian protest updates.

Today my random selection featured Vogue (scary), Tatler (foie gras for the soul) and OK! (unsettling).

OK! No
I've always consoled myself with the notion that no one reads 'sleb magazines seriously, but curiously OK! still manages to take itself seriously. Like Tatler, it's in the thrall of awful rich people, albeit at opposite ends of an alleged 'class' spectrum. My copy was a few weeks old - comparing Kerry Katona and Katie Price's respective falls from grace - what will the future hold for them? Price has always been the worst kind of woman and is a vicious empty vessel ('I should have trapped him with a baby' screamed a recent Closer front page), while Katona is more troubling - you believe her damage is real. One uses bawdy sexuality as empowerment, the other is helplessly subjugated by the nasty piece of work she married. Both are independently wealthy, though this brings about a marked contrast in their situations - Price has a license to behave how she pleases, for Katona it's just another way she is robbed of personal resources by her husband.

A few pages on we get Chantelle Houghton, who is now boasting curves after a too-skinny phase. This modicum of willful, classic womanliness wrestles with routine WAG-tastic modern standards for relationships, informing insights like: 'If a woman could describe her perfect man they'd say they were looking for someone who was caring, thoughtful and someone who would put up with a lot of shit. So Peter Andre then.'

Vogue
The repellent nature of the Jordan-Chantelle model must be to do with the way they tell 'em, because when Rufus Wainwright talks about prima donnas in Vogue it sounds classy, passionate and inspiring. Funny how different things sound when they come from someone with talent. Meanwhile, Alexa Chung posits another alternative to the up-skirt route to self-definition when she tells us how she hearts the tomboy look. 'It's far classier to showcase your personality than your cup size' she says, underwriting said personality with the aphorism 'I don't care what anyone thinks' while holding down a career that reeks of kitten farts. Alexa could've learned a lot from Florence Welch, whose wardrobe we plunder in the next feature. Channeling vintage, silliness and eccentricity, her outfits convey 'I don't care' by wearing it rather than saying it. Though admittedly, it's the difference between a Dan Brown novel and a Julie Burchill column.

Tatler
I left Tatler 'til last, and didn't finish it. After 26 pages of adverts you're plunged into fawning accounts of gratuitous displays of wealth enacted by dead-eyed heiresses. The humbling of this scene was one of the few positive effects of economic collapse and it seems they've got over it now.

Now I'm not trying to say all women are scheming, squealing or stupid. That's almost certainly not true. It's just a shame they don't have decent magazines in hairdressers.

That’s out of my remit, guv - the curious definitions of public service

Nothing stirs the intrigue of media braying fraternity quite like a debate about public service broadcasting, so the past few days of navel gazing have proved a Class A stimulus. Yesterday's cliffhanger delivery of the Ofcom report on the matter even caused the Today programme to draw breath from it's long financial yawn and talk about it twice in one show - a public service in itself. The main thing that struck me though was the implied technical disparity between public service and commercial output. It's as if what's popular can't be useful, or that what is enriching can't be entertaining.

Whether C4 join forces with BBC Worldwide or Five seems to represent both halves of the debate - whether your output is populist or enriching defines how you're perceived. It's not a question of whether you can be both - as BBC, ITV and C4 all prove is possible - but it's why the two terms are treated as mutually exclusive. C4’s recent Sex Education project is a case in point - provocative as well as worthy it was hailed as a classic example of their unique take on the public service remit. A cross-platform box-ticker too, the producers proudly claim that the site got over 3 million views (though with a domain name like a premium chatline - sexperienceuk.channel4.com - it would be hard-pushed not to. I imagine most of those who clicked through from Google were probably disappointed by the array of flaccid anatomical analysis and cringy videos of pensioners talking about dildos). It may have been educational and controversial but it was also massively popular and, judging by the volume of engagement, pretty valuable. For those of us with minds in the gutter it provided hours of amusement too - I made a sniggering bee-line for this video:




It's significant that this whole debate is really hotting up due to the pluralistic, digital age as it is the internet that proves how out-moded the public service versus commercial debate is. A trawl through the lawless, gratis world of online content reveals the realistic pattern of people's tastes - it's innovative, porny, disgusting, intelligent, and mindless in equal measure. Given the freedom to choose people want to consume pretty much everything - simultaneously. Producers make it because people want it. Rather than quibble over who is responsible for what I suggest what should actually be merged are the terms 'public service' and 'commercial'. Then broadcasters can focus on producing simply great programming that sates our kaleidoscopic, voracious desires.

A vote with no confidence: the pitfalls of giving the public a say

Sometimes voting is democracy's own worst enemy. When it's not exposing the ill-conceived instincts of the masses it's revealing the shortcomings of those counting the ballots. In the same week that Manchester's driving community voted against being charged more to drive, the BBC yet again 'safeguarded trust' by soliciting viewer votes and swiftly ignoring them. At last, close readers of early Manics lyrics and fans of Tom "Strictly Holby City" Chambers can agree on something: democracy is an empty lie.

This winter, reality TV has filled a hanging chad-shaped gap in voting scandal entertainment, and Strictly Come Farcing has proved a rotten Florida borough. Saturday's maths GCSE brain-teaser of a balls-up sent all three semi-finalists into the final and turned next week's denouement into groundhog day. Coming only weeks after they had to refund John Seargent's voting charges, this is the second time the corporation managed to over-complicate a popularity contest. Repeatedly making a play of interactivity and then telling the audience they're wrong exposes the flaws of the mechanic. Where voting is concerned it takes two to tango - but devoid of co-ordination, both viewer and producer usually end up like this:



A lot rides in the way you pose the question; Manchester was asked if it wanted the congestion charge, so naturally the motorist lobby gave a resounding 'no'. Big Brother asks viewers who they want to evict, so they reject the most potent housemate - who often happens to be the most entertaining. In each case the result reflects the knee-jerk reactions of the most pro-active - more thoughtful questions would prompt a more balanced answer.

Also, you've got to be clear on how much power you give the people. Strictly has suffered from a conflict of interest, with viewers consistently undermined by the peacocks on the judging panel. If the audience's opinion is so expendable then why is it purportedly at the heart of the format? That said, the popular vote gave us a 50/50 chance of JLS singing a cold and broken Hallelujah all over Christmas, so there's an argument for supervision by a responsible adult.

With the participation in the democratic process so fallible, maybe it's time that the public found other ways to exercise their power. Disgruntled Strictly fans could learn a lot from the Barclay brothers, who got all Scrooge on Sark's economy because their preferred candidates didn't get win last week's election. After all, if a dance contest airs next Saturday and no one bothers to vote, does Brucie get a bonus?

We are the angry mob, still baying for a credit crunch blame figure...

So Sergeant hangs up his ballet shoes on the same day the BNP's Christmas card list is made public; it's a wearying sign of the times. I don't just mean the irony that a political editor should be wrestling for top news billing with something he'd once have reported on. No, it's that the revolving doors of the angry mob seem to be lubricating themselves and gathering alarming speed.

As one door of common protest closes, another opens its bulletin boards for the daubing of discontent. John Sergeant's 'undeserved' place in the finals of Strictly Come D-listing has been fueling the messageboards for weeks (in perfect synchronicity with some similar kerfuffle on X-Factor). Now he's decided his day job was less fraught with civic obligation he's waltzed off home. Never fear though, there's a whole cauldron of finger pointing and placard waving to be had with the BNP. Here, mainstays like civil liberties and free speech are spiced up with a bit of social gollygoshing- "OMG one of them was a vicar?!" On the other channel, if human interest is more your blame-game can of worms then there's still Baby P / Shannon Matthews to play pin-the-tail-on-the-devil with.

The issues behind each of these are obviously starkly differentiated rings of hell, though they are linked by our love of scalp-hunting. We've always loved a good old fashioned witch hunt, but ever since our money disappeared it seems that current affairs has become more a pantomime than ever. Blame is the damp firework left behind by the financial crisis and now it's going off in our face. There was no one to hold responsible for credit collapse - the blacked out windows sped away from the City and mammon's architects disappeared in a cloud of 'shhhh'. I guess there's always those who took out their 128th credit card squealing 'free money!' - though the angry mob never points its finger at itself. Basically, unless one of the head gloaters at Goldman Sachs turns out to be on that BNP list, a period of sustained shadow-chasing awaits...

Who Asked You?

At the risk of provoking the yawns of literally tens of readers, I feel some sympathy for Ross / Brand in their Week of Reckoning. Not that I wish to add my lowly voice to the wealth of comment already; aside from Daily Mail enthusiasts every news fan has a deeper and more complex appreciation of this matter than those lost hours staring blankly at fiscal hieroglyphics. No, I may never have slept with Brand - and let it be said I'd never initiate coitus with a man with a more virile, unruly mop than I - I do have a slightly personal involvement with the story.

Well, that is to say, I was the victim of digital hate campaign wherin a groundswell of criticism of my art resulted in my removal from the BBC's list of preferred suppliers. No I'm not Max Gogarty, but I am Sophie Hammer, the girl who's audaciously verbose review of the Ting Tings provoked a backlash from the 'online community'. Read it, consult your dictionary if necessary, then scroll down for the insults. O.K, so scale is important here - I was paid a very modest sum to write the review and the story didn't make News At 10. However, in the same way as Ofcom officially view one complaint as important as thirty thousand, it is the principle that is important.

The unswerving adulation of garnering 'the people's opinion' by online media has to stop. It is responsible for the distortion of public feeling and destruction of professional respect. Giving too much credence to the unedited and spontaneous reactions of readers to any event or piece of writing is to dangerously prioritise the amateur - a.k.a the half-baked. That's not to say community engagement isn't important - in fact it is vital for the future of online media. However, standards must be ensured. Given that those of us who work for established media outlets are trained in our craft, in what world should this feedback fraternity get more attention from our employers? Most of the time they can't remember to put spaces between words. It's the kind of inverse-snobbery-born-of-jealousy that they drawn upon when asking why it is us on the stage rather than them. Yet it is the same splutter of bitterness that can be heard when the frustrated and ignorant view Rothko and deride: 'My 5-year old could do that'. If that's reasonable attitude, do you really want your next electro-pop review written by the kind of person who claims: 'ive bin rejected from the bbc to write stuff, yet they post this shit. I dont geddit?! lol!'

The floodgates open when comment is solicited and all sides have to work harder to ensure quality of debate. Moderators, editors and the common sense of the community should be deployed. Badly spelt, offensive or baseless rumours shouldn't be approved out of hand by moderators; editors should keep adding back into the debate with their own comments to give balance, answer accusations and keep things moving. Those writing comments should think harder about their input - if writers can't use anonymity to hide behind lazy assertions then why should the audience? If web 3.0 is to really take engagement to the next digit then the community must respect and be respected. Two sides ganging up against each other will only produce more Brands, Rosses, Gogartys and - since I don't plan on shelving my thesaurus just yet - more Ting Tings moments.

Celebrity Mayfly

So another day, another update from Jade Goody's crumbling cervix. "My boys don't know I may be dead by Christmas!" screams the cover of OK magazine. "World exclusive interview" it heralds. Read on, reluctant schadenfreude enthusiasts - there's pictures! So much cynicism is up for grabs here it seems almost too much of an easy target, but it's frightening how ambient public sympathy has been so skewed by her illness. There's no sneering, no disbelief, just the willingness to wave cash-for-tears at a woman most magazines were vehemently decrying as racist at only last year. Jade Goody is back, and she's steering the fame-for-fame's-sake fun bus into even murkier territory.

Given that Goody was reportedly devastated at suspicions that her illness was a publicity stunt, she's made a characteristically brainless job of proving otherwise. Apparently her cancer is the latest product she's promoting, the latest twist in her storyline. With a career on the wane, what better plot device than a serious illness to win back audiences? It's malignant in every way - I'm not disputing the reality of her condition but it says bad things about what people are willing to do to remain in the public eye.

The flattening of the celebrity private-public divide has long been headed for fully 2D status, but this hammers the final nail in the coffin for the life-as-narrative zeitgeist. Jordan threatened years ago to give birth via live online video; the way things are going, it won't be long before Big Brother contestants will getting televised state funerals, like Diana. Though let's really give into nightmares; how long before 'Celebrity Mayfly' becomes the latest reality TV fad, the nihilistic, end-of-days denouement to the genre? In this irresistible, voyeuristic comedy of manners we see fame-hungry larvae gurgle from the loins of star-struck lovers before living their entire lives on screen - for one day only. Only one celebri-fly will be resuscitated so it's a race against time for each to engage the audience in their personal tale. Jade thought she was up against it with race hate, these guys have only 24 hours to devise a capitvating storyline that will keep the other column-inch zygotes at bay. How will our contenders utilise the PR arsenal at their disposal, picking carefully from 'challenge rounds' comprising such mainstays drug problems, genetic revelations and anal endoscopies. Like a game of Risk with more nudity and less geographical awareness, this will be family viewing designed for long winter Sundays, the moral tale of choice once BBC's supply of Dickens has run out. Whatever happens to Jade Goody, one can only hope her sons remain oblivious to the breed of fame she spawned.