So I have a new tutor on my new course, Writing 3: Your Portfolio, with the Open College of Arts. I have decided to try this out to aid in the discipline to write something everyday either connected to the course or not. I thought about putting here what this would be about and what it wouldn't be about...but then chaos, to me, seems so much more creative. It will be a diary, soapbox, displacement activity - when I cannot face writing (in the sense of the course) - and an emotional space for a damn good rant.
But here and now it will be about last night.....
Dorchester, St Mary's Church 7pm.
The first concert of the 2009/2010 Dorset Chamber Orchestra is always a good one. I do not know much about music, cannot read it and have no inclination to learn. My partner plays violin with them and has since childhood. It is always a good space and is never dull. The gathered always remind me of the cast of Midsomer Murders. I have that moment as they gather where I expect one to clutch their throat, having been sucking on a poisoned mint, and sink to the floor knocking over a respectable number of chairs and to gasps in various tone. It hasn't happened yet...yet.
Walking to the church under sombre clouds and darkening sky I saw a group of well dressed and well made up of eight or so young ladies (not one over fifteen); in amongst them was a whey faced young man who was draped almost over the wall, so relaxed did he appear. He looked through and around his heavy fringe which hung down below his nose from under his baseball cap. The girls were laughing and calling out to the members of the audience making their way to the concert. The older generation walked past without comment and because of this they felt secure to get louder and louder. There was no foul language or offensive remarks, it was more comments about "What ho my Lord!", "Hello Lady!" etc etc a la street urchin, albeit well dressed, healthy urchins all sporting expensive handbags, pressed clothes and expertly applied make-up. Strange our modern street furniture.....
As I crossed the junction past this group they called out to me. I am a little over five feet seven inches tall, zero cropped hair, goatee beard (greying) and glasses; I was dressed in my mountain coat and jeans. I am thick set and give the appearance of a bouncer off duty. For this slightly rough appearence I am usually ignored or actively avoided - unless I smile. I imagined quiet as I passed so I walked closer to them than was necessary hoping my presence would cause a toning down or momentary silence.
"Evening Gov'nor!" one of the girls called out from the middle of the pack. I turned slowly to look at the group without slowing my gait. The speaker was a brown eyed brunette with the kind of form that would cause all bouncers to check her age at any club/bar and her father sleepless nights. I looked her straight in the eye, and no-one else, and said "Greetings" nodding. I do not know what I expected.....but what happened was laughter, giggles and then a torrent of "What a great bloke... you're sound mate... the first one to speak to us...he's got balls!" There were some others but nothing offensive.
I looked back to find the group smiling and, shyly, dying down. I had popped their bubble; the older generation were frightened to talk to them and sensing this they were getting louder and louder because they thought they were untouchable. Provoking a response like a naughty child (or children) putting their hands on something they have been expressly forbidden to do so.
There is never one highlight in an evening with this orchestra, there are many. The Purcell, Overture (Symphony): The Fairy Queen was brilliant. Next came Concerto in G Minor for oboe and strings by Handel; the soloist was Helen Simpson who played wonderfully to the obvious delight of the conductor, Dr Robert Jacoby, the audience and the orchestra - the smiling was unanimous.
If there was a single highlight then the Song of the Angel for soprano, violin and strings by Sir John Tavener was it; Sofia Tavener was the violinist with Saskia Wilkins as soprano. It was the kind of performance which you wanted never to end; the violin and the voice of Saskia wove together so beautifully that they seemed to lift everyone. Saskia's voice is so high and so controlled and reached such heights that it could only be described as angelic; she soared, keeping her gaze on Sofia, blending her voice faultlessly with the violin. Just when you thought she couldn't reach further or cause the hairs on your neck to twinge again they lifted again and your heart almost stopped, wanting the notes never to end.
When the end came there was a palpable holding of breath, tensing of hands before applause risked the roof position; that pause at the end of the last note and before the applause showed that we wanted more. It was as they were taking their bows to wave after wave of appreciation that a tall, thin figure in the audience was beckoned to stand up from his wheel chair. It was Sir John Tavener himself, unsteady on his feet but glowing. He stepped forward and shaking Saskia's hand moved onto Sofia - HIS Grandaughter - kissing her hand by bending to her. Several women behind me gasped and made the connection at that moment, shuffling through the programme. The moment was touching and magical.
After the interval came Symphony No 1 in C minor, Opus 11 by Mendelssohn which was played beautifully and at a pace which made the audience feel exhausted. The strings appeared especially put to the whip - perhaps because I could see them clearly from where I sat - and I thought I heard them collectively sigh at the moment between the final note and the applause. Relieved smiles were commented on by several around me - one lady said "that was lively, they looked knackered!"
My partner and I made our escape into the night. I was disappointed to find that the little group of teens had vanished. It was a great performance and all the audience made it to the end without one of them being in any danger of poisoning.
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