The Shed

The National Theatre unveils its new temporary theatre space, designed by architects Haworth Tompkins.

London’s Southbank has been given an injection of colour, thanks to the National Theatre’s new temporary theatre space. The Shed, designed by architects Haworth Tompkins and built in just under a year, is a striking, exciting structure, which heralds the start of a multi-million pound redesign of one of Britain's most iconic cultural institutions.

It is large, red and angular. Four chimneys shoot up from each corner of the timber-clad building, puncturing its grey surroundings, playfully willing you to explore inside. It couldn’t be more dissimilar to The National, whose concrete structure represents a history of British theatre that can seem exclusive. “We wanted The Shed to feel welcoming,” says Steve Tompkins, co-partner of architects Haworth Tompkins. “I love the main building but I’m realistic about its flaws. At the time it was designed, there was nothing to look at on the South Bank, there was no river walk. So as a consequence it’s quite impenetrable from the outside.” Erected in-part to tackle this issue, The Shed will temporarily replace the Cottesloe theatre, which has been demolished as part of the £70million redevelopment programme affecting a huge proportion of the National Theatre. Focusing on re-energising the theatre, The Shed offers the National a chance to experiment with new forms of theatre.

Like the Cottesloe, it is a small studio theatre, seating up to 250 people. Currently set up in a thrust stage format for Tanya Ronder’s play Table - running from 9 April to 18 May - it is an intimate and flexible space, in which two tiers of black seats sit so close to the stage that it will be nigh on impossible for performers to ignore them. “The Shed emboldens the managing team and artists to take risks,” Tompkins adds. “It’s a bit dangerous, a bit edgy. But it’s still accessible.”

While from the outside the building may seem to perch, playfully, teasingly on the edge of its parent theatre, you can only access the space by going through the main building – the two are seamlessly joined. Once inside, it doesn’t feel tacked on. Rather, it works with the original structure, enhancing and exciting the theatre’s ground floor foyers.

The Shed is made almost entirely out from rudimentary materials such as steel, plastic and timber. And Tompkins doesn’t try to disguise them. A long wooden bar stands to the right of the entrance to the space, and wooden benches, tables and stools are scattered around the foyer. It's reminiscent of the Underbelly venue at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival – rugged, but ready to be used and enjoyed.

“We don’t want people to feel manipulated,” says Tompkins. “That’s the worst thing you can you do as an architect. There is a whole generation of people who are positively allergic to being manipulated by design. So there’s an aesthetic of under-designed architecture. Obviously you can’t create something like this without designing it, but you can do it in an open-ended way where people feel comfortable to be themselves.” In this sense, they have triumphed. Almost all of the solid walls are covered with black chalk boards. Instead of plasticated signs, information has been scrawled on walls and doors in white chalk. Casual and unassuming, the interior of The Shed juxtaposes wonderfully with its loud exterior.

The Shed will remain in place until February next year, by which time the Cottesloe will have been renovated, ready to reopen as the Dorfman theatre. In the mean time, it offers the National ample opportunity to experiment with an exciting programme befitting this unique setting.

The Shed, designed by Haworth Tompkins. Photo: Philip Vile
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Only Drake could wow the O2 by pointing out random audience members' clothing

It takes charisma to pull off abandoning hits halfway through.

On the last London night of his Boy Meets World tour (20 March), Drake doesn’t come on stage until 10pm, which is enough to kill off most gigs at the O2 Arena (hello, Bieber), as people are worried about getting the Tube home. The amount of rum and Coke in the room – a steaming, unrecognisable space with a false ceiling of globular lights and a stampeding crowd split in half by a fence – certainly helps keep the buzz. But who’d have thought that a man standing onstage diligently pointing at audience members and saying what they’re wearing (“You in the blue dress shirt with the ­lager!”) would constitute one of the most exciting nights the O2 has seen in a while?

“Tonight is not a show, not a concert, not about me,” says Drake, who runs an annual “Drake Night” in Toronto and once visited Drake University in Iowa.

So far, the world’s favourite rapper – his latest album, More Life, recently got 90 million streams on its first day of release on Apple Music alone – has had a shifting identity. His songs capture a new strain of emotionally literate but solipsistic hip-hop, which can feel intense or whiny depending on how you look at it. His offstage behaviour is Type-A rapper – he has been accused of throwing beer bottles at Chris Brown, he has been punched by Diddy and he has had altercations with Jay Z, Kendrick Lamar, Pusha T and Ludacris.

But Aubrey Drake Graham, the son of a white, Jewish mother and an African-American father who once played drums alongside Jerry Lee Lewis, does skits about his petulance on Saturday Night Live (see “Drake’s Beef”). Emotionally demonstrative, openly dysfunctional, a bit of a bruiser, with an ability to flit between a dozen styles of music while expressing a desire for crowd participation that borders on the needy . . . Could this man be the ­Michael Bublé of hip-hop?

Drake’s sprawling two-hour roadshow is held back from chaos by the force of his physical presence. Blunt-headed with muscular, sloping shoulders and mesmerising, nimble feet, he prowls the edge of the stage. He has had so many hits (and has so many guest stars tonight) that he is not interested in playing them all the way through. Instead, recalling Prince in the same venue ten years ago, the show becomes a series of medleys. With just a drummer and a synth player at the back of the stage, he demonstrates an invisible, physical control over the music, operating it like a string puppet, stopping or starting songs with the drop of a foot or the shrug of a shoulder, so they collapse in the middle and are gone.

It takes charisma to pull off abandoning hits halfway through. Pointing at people in the audience, real or imaginary, is a music hall thing. Bruce Dickinson and Metallica’s James Hetfield do it too. Amid a hokey message to follow your dreams, he recalls his time spent singing for $200 a night as a John Legend tribute act. Cue a perfect demonstration of Legend-style singing – before he suddenly sloughs off “all this bathrobe-and-candle-sexy acoustic Ed Sheeran shit”, while huge columns of flame engulf the stage.

Drake is still at his best with blue, slinky songs of alienation – “9”, “Over”, “Feel No Ways” and “Hotline Bling”, which doubles up as make-out music for the couples in the crowd. One pair of lovers, Drake establishes during one of his crowd surveys, have been together for ten years. “I can’t even make a relationship last ten days,” he laments. In 2012, he told the Guardian, “I’ve had too many girls to ever feel uncomfortable about the man that I am.” An old-school boast from a modern man.

The guest stars serve to highlight Drake’s variety, rather than shine on their own. Their songs, too, are started, suspended, chopped and screwed. Drake is more macho when there’s another guy onstage with him – doing “Successful”, with the literally named Trey Songz, or dueling with thefrenetic Skepta, who sounds so much tougher (maybe because he’s a Londoner). The two whirl around the stage like helicopter seeds.

Nicki Minaj, apparently Drake’s one-time lover, rises fembotishly from a hole in the stage and says in a London accent, “I want some fucking crumpets and tea.”

She adds, of her host, “This nigga single-handedly changed the game.” Minaj sings her song “Moment 4 Life”: “I call the shots, I am the umpire . . .” But she doesn’t really. Even her presence flares up quickly and is gone.

Kate Mossman is the New Statesman's arts editor and pop critic.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution