I recently went to the Harold Pinter Theatre to see Liberace and Liza: A Tribute, an affectionate homage to those showbiz giants, Wladziu Liberace and Liza Minnelli. The two performers’ impressions of the stars were uncannily accurate. It was a fun show, full of camp one-liners, which was fitting as the Panton Street venue was originally called the Comedy Theatre. Designed by Thomas Verity and opened on 15 October, 1881, it is one of only three pre-1890 West End theatres whose auditorium still retains most of its original four-tier Victorian layout. It’s a grand-looking place with a happy atmosphere built on years of laughter.
The music was impressive too. The piano-playing and the band were excellent, and so was all the singing…unless you were sitting where my friend and I were, in the front row.
As we found our seats – a steal at £20 – a woman in the second row was emptying the last of the contents of a bottle of wine into her and her friend’s cups. I suspected even then that she was going to become part of the show, and after “Liberace” spotted her from the stage and asked her a question, she answered him loudly in a fake American accent.
Unsurprisingly, this attention further heightened her spirits and she proceeded to sing every single song at full blast Brian Blessed volume, right over the top of Liza with a Z. I wasn’t quite in her line of fire. She was sitting directly behind my friend and two other women, and all three of them struggled to enjoy the show because of the additional vocalist.
Life is a cabaret, though. So should you sing or not sing at these shows?
In the past, London was a city that sang. From music halls to East End pubs, from piano singalongs to Cockney knees-ups, “rolling out the barrel” was part of the culture. With so much more on offer now, new rules have crept in and are largely venue/audience dependent. Singing in the right or wrong places can unite or divide, and someone who would happily join in at a pub or a gig might think twice in a theatre or concert hall.
During the interval we headed to the Moonlight Bar at the back of the stalls, named after the Harold Pinter play. The cute stalls bar is cosy and richly decorated, and we enjoyed some refreshments there, all of us but one. My aforementioned friend had stayed behind to speak to the two women next to him, who had asked if he would say something to the singer behind them.
When we returned to our seats, everything seemed to have been resolved. During the second half she didn’t sing nearly as much. We enjoyed some lovely ballads from Liza and flawless piano work from Liberace, with a lot of laughs from both. The performance received a standing ovation at the end.
But as we took a few pictures, the woman from the second row started shouting loudly at my friend. Clearly buoyed by her afternoon’s refreshments, she announced that he was passive aggressive, arrogant and had ruined the second half for her. It felt like an unexpected third act to a cabaret that already had more than enough characters. She even followed him as he left the auditorium, continuing the conversation loudly all the way up the stairs. He was quite taken aback. He had asked her politely and he definitely hadn’t been rude.
Afterwards I thought back to when I went to hear David Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars played in full at the British Library in May 2022, with commentary from the album’s producer, Ken Scott. It was part of their Classic Album Sundays series.
The album sounded so incredible I had to sing along a bit. I just couldn’t help it. It was otherwise so silent in there (yes, like a library). Only I and a man in a yellow baseball cap couldn’t resist joining in. Not in an overpowering way, I just wanted to share in the moment, not steal it. Although I did belt out “I’m an alligator” at some volume (fortunately for everyone else there, it only appears once in the song). There were plenty of stares and one person tutted. I got the message and shut up after that.
At the end of the Ziggy show, I headed off and the man in the yellow baseball cap came out after me. He turned out to be David McAlmont. We both giggled behind cupped hands as if we’d been naughty. It turned out that even people who take music very seriously aren’t immune to the urge to join in. On Saturday, I went to the Royal Festival Hall to hear David perform Ziggy Stardust along with fellow singers Nadine Shah, Peaches and Brian Molko, backed by a full symphony orchestra.
It wasn’t exactly a cabaret, so I had to restrain myself and follow the etiquette. Sometimes, if you love something so much, it’s really hard to hold it in. But perhaps the rule is simple: if you’re politely asked to be quiet, you probably should be.
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