“…to create an awareness on a global level of this world-class orchestra” is what he said. The words of our new, and oh so young, Finnish music director (Pietari Inkinen) who has been described as exciting, so talented, and particularly brilliant. With such glorious aclaim, I wonder what precautions are required to keep a sense of balance so necessary for one who must stand on a podium with both his back and feet so close to a sheer drop off the edge of the stage. But I do have to admit that he is certainly good - indeed quite exceptionally good. Our national orchestra has never played better, and world-class is indeed what it is.

Being way too early the other night we diverted two blocks to our favourite secondhand bookstore for a pre-concert browse. One has to be careful not to lose track of the time in there, and that was certainly true when I unearthed a pristine copy (printed in China - what a surprise!) of the complete short stories of one Katherine Mansfield. Wellington’s child, famous daughter of our beautiful harbour capital, she spent a full first five years on this soil before being swept back to Mother England and further abroad, thereafter disparaging of her native beginnings other than what of the culture could contribute to her literary works. With the pristine printed-in-China copy underarm anyway, we set off in time to be wowed by the wizardry of the wand, that curious little stick that draws out of the strings, brass and woodwind, all the magic there is to be heard in the music.

From our usual place three rows from the front, a little below eye-level with the ankles of the first violins, we can watch with awe the deft fingerplay, closeup facial expressions and other such fascinating detail. Humans are a funny lot. Who would have thought to compose music where first and second violins play in unison but one semitone distant from each other? It did little for me, and neither for most according to the scant enthusiasm in the applause to follow. It would have been interesting to hear an honest opinion from various players as to what they really thought of Rautavaara’s “A Tapestry of Life” and whether they would even be bothered with doing it again. The British cellist, Natalie Clein, is certainly clever on her strings and the sounds, set in order by Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, were exquisitely wonderful. But the facial expressions were agonizing. So much pained emotion! One hardly knew where to look, as though watching was a kind of voyeurism and such intimacy with the music should surely be kept just a little more private than given a full frontal display. Then our young conductor himself, so energetic and enthusiastic that my heart was left in my mouth, praying he would not poke himself in the eye - or up the nose - with his own baton. But it was as he said “…to create an awareness on a global level of this world-class orchestra” and surely, with each new performance, this certainly deserves to be done. On this occasion Mahler’s “Titan” was spectacular!

How does one keep humble when so much praise is heaped on one’s head? I can suggest one certain technique that sure works for me, and that is to brave the questions of the morning newspaper’s Five Minute Quiz. It would seem that unless one has a headful of Hollywood nonsense, the who’s-sleeping-with-who-this-time-around logs, then one is fated to swallow a dose of the humbles. An average score of three out of ten is hardly star quality, and I must admit to being a failure in all this Real Life. So much is going on out there, and I know so little. Fortunately my cat comes to the rescue. Her insistence that breakfast is the most important meal of the day eventually overrides my resolve to stay bedridden until my brain catches up with these important world events. Thank goodness for small mercies - a quiz score that indicates such a hopeless case, and the incessant mewing of a hungry cat. I can recommend both for a good sense of proportion. However, those who read what else I write here will know that is far from my first recommendation. As the broadcasters say… we can expect normal transmission to be resumed shortly.

We knew we were going to be s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d in our definition of “music” before we even got there, but the programme’s first 12 minutes was just awful. Our ears hurt. A Kiwi composer, now resident in Edinburgh, had come up with something for the trumpet player and orchestra. While not wishing to discount the trumpet player’s skill, all we could see was the naked emperor, the one whose new clothes had been made of nothing. Call that music? Not for us.

Apparently Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953) had half his audience respond much the same way when he sat down at the piano and gave vent to his anger and grief through his second piano concerto back in August 1913. His startled audience found it all far too modern - schizophrenic, unbalanced, enraged, terrifying. The score was later destroyed in the upheaval of the Bolshevik revolution, used as fuel for a cooking stove. But Prokofiev re-composed the concerto and peformed the new version, no less dramatic albeit a little less alarming than the original, in Paris in 1924. Prokofiev's friend Vyacheslav Karatïgin described its première as “leaving [us] frozen with fright, hair standing on end.”

But that was 83 years ago now, and we have had a little time to get used to it. Known to be a staggeringly difficult piano piece to play, and probably the most challenging anyone has ever written, 29-year-old Freddy Kempf managed it brilliantly. The applause was tremendous. Standing apart in its almost entirely pervasive, red-eyed rage, Prokofiev’s second piano concerto incorporates not just grief over, but also anger at the wasteful loss of his great friend, Maximilian Schmidthof. And knowing something about Max helped us to appreciate the raw unbridled passion and cut some slack for the composer as well. I can even say that I liked it.

So, what happened to Max? Max was a fellow student from the St Petersburg Conservatoire and talented, highly intelligent, and equally keen to shock colleagues and tutors. But in April 1913 Prokofiev received a letter from Max, and it said: “I’m writing to tell you the latest news - I have shot myself. Don’t get too upset … the reasons are unimportant. Farewell. Max.”

Oh boy! What a terrible letter to get! And so the second piano concerto is full of the horrendous raw emotion of terrible grief and rage, attempts to comes to terms with, then further relapse into more of the same. To suffer the loss through suicide of someone close, this composition says it all.

The content of Judah’s Journal is copyright.
If you are NOT reading this on Judah’s Journal, then it has been
copied from there and is re-published illegally - in other words, stolen.

Suicide… such a bad-tempered response. Some will say that it must take courage, others that it takes terrible despair, but what it really comes down to is murder. One murders oneself. It takes all the worst of suffering and throws it straight at those closest around. No, I have not lost anyone close through suicide, but two friends, a colleague, another I knew of, and the 9-year-old child next door all wasted their lives in that way. The child’s death was the worst and left a burden of guilt, both rational and largely irrational, throughout the neighbourhood. It is such a hard thing to reconcile.

A Friend’s Suicide
(I believe he was wrong to do it)

When my position has me here
The stretch is far to over where
The other side does beckon too
Compassion’s ask is also due

I must not judge a friend’s despair
His motives question when unclear
Being human can be tough
Especially when it cuts up rough

Please forgive my limitations
I’m not the One behind creation’s
Plans, designs, or greater view
A friend I am but human too

© Judah (June, 2003)
Judah’s Journal

So when it comes to Prokofiev, I did understand a little of where he was coming from, and his composition makes great sense when one knows about Max. I was not alive 83 years ago to react as the audience did then, but can say that today’s modernism does nothing much for me… except to hurt my ears and produce visions of naked emperors!

I bet there must have been quite a few sore arms this morning after the performance last night. But then again, our national orchestra are professionals of high calibre and very well practised with their instruments. It was the longest symphony that I have sat through, and also quite the grandest. The composer had pulled out all stops (an appropriate expression to use considering this was a brilliant organist - yes, that to the left is the organ he used to play in the Abbey of St Florian, Austria) and produced something that usually polarizes the audience into lovers and haters rather than fence-sitters. In case you had not guessed, I’m something of a classical (including romantic period) music junkie. It’s better than being on drugs, and to be medicated by music produces only harmless side effects and no toxic ones.

But rather than go into great academic lengths about Anton Bruckner and his distinctive style, I prefer to make some light-hearted observations of last night’s performance in particular. I’m in the lover camp rather than the haters one. No’s 5, 6 and 7 are a nice listening experience, the first movement of No 4 my absolute favourite, but No 8 is quite extraordinary. It is best likened to taking a train journey, sitting there in your window seat and gazing out at the forever changing scenery - valleys, mountain peaks, rivers, towns, farms, lakes, forests, back yards, all kinds of things. Their connectedness is provided by the journey rather than anything much else, and their sequencing somewhat randomized. However, the destination is reached regardless and one can look back on quite an interesting and varied journey. But best of all is the third movement, the Adagio where one encounters “celestial heights” after escaping from Dante’s Inferno.

Last night we had two goes at the Adagio, or rather at the first couple of bars. It is just the most hauntingly beautiful beginning to anything, and just as the orchestra had made its soft and delicate entry into the magic… somebody sneezed. It came from the seats directly at the back to the left of the orchestra, and equalled a grave mishap from the percussion in its magnitude. The conductor stopped the show. Good for him, as it resembled the shock of a disorientated moth darting into one’s soup and floundering there. He held the orchestra in silence for an extra minute, and when the reverberations of the sneeze had faded, we got the opening bars again. Oh Lord, may I never commit such an indiscretion myself. Thankyou for reminding me to put the Strepsils in my pocket.

Sitting three rows from the front I saw more violins than anything else, but a good view under the chair of the leader of the seconds had me watching a most enthusiastic cellist, a woman with short-cropped orangey-coloured hair and looking not too unlike Sir Elton John. I hope she doesn’t ever come across Judah’s Journal and recognize herself written of in this way, but that is what I saw. Not only that, but she threw her whole body into it, leaning forward and bouncing on her seat, sawing her instrument in half with the bow in her fist as though urgently in need of extra firewood for the forthcoming winter. And through a little tunnelled opening past the back of the leader of the seconds, I watched with suspense as the double bass next to her swayed like a gangway in a gale, threatening to topple over. All stops were out for real. The organist in Bruckner had him excel in the sounds he had composed, and the combinations were certainly unique all to himself. No wonder the Brahms camp had hated him. It was hard to fit him into the order of their day.

The lady in the row just in front of me and two seats to the right must have been quite overwhelmed by all of this. I don’t know why people go to orchestra performances just to sit there the whole way through with fingers in their ears. Beats me. Honestly, she took them out only during the brief breaks between movements. Maybe she was really more of a Brahms type but had not realized it.

The content of Judah’s Journal is copyright. If you are NOT reading this on Judah’s Journal, then it has been copied from there and is re-published illegally - in other words, stolen. Those who would do that are common thieves and lack moral integrity. Judah’s Journal

Well, eighty minutes of Number Eight was a very satisfying dose for one who pefers her medication in terms of quavers, chords and cadenzas. It is my addiction and my joy, that which brings my soul soaring to celestial heights where angels tend the throne of God. As wrote William Congreve in The Mourning Bride way back in 1697…

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.

Yes, my rock is now truly softened and my knotted Oak quite bendy.

Yes, that is I. No, I am definitely not up there with the greats! I was a high school student when that photo was taken - coloured sepia by me to age it suitably! The violin was handed down to me from my father and he was given it by an Australian passenger on board ship en route from Southampton (England) to Melbourne in the early 1960s. The Australian owner had taken it to Europe to have it valued, the maker’s name being Giovanni Paolo Maggini (1580 - 1630), but was told it was not an original - instead, just an excellant copy. He was so disillusioned that he wanted to give it away to someone who could play one. My father happened to be in the right place at the right time.

My musical dabblings began as a small child when I went to the piano and picked out the tune my mother was singing as she was doing her housework. It happened to be “The Happy Wanderer“. I found the right notes with my right hand, then as I experimented, found some pleasant sounding other notes that went with them with my left hand. I put them together and my father was delighted. He also played the piano “by ear” and we entered on a journey together where we often played duo - two pianos, one each - all the old favourites that my Dad loved. We played together for hours on end, often forgetting the time. The fun was to challenge each other by changing key, slowly working our way up the octave, one semitone at a time, one leading and the other quickly following, both with different styles but the one same shared love. Before long I was packed off to music lessons and discovered how to read a manuscript. The violin came a few years later, after my mother suggested that my father take me, instead of her reluctant self, to an NZSO concert with the visiting virtuoso violinist Alfredo Campoli (1906 - 1991). I must have been about 10 years old, and I was rapt.

A number of years later Signor Campoli, on another concert tour to NZ, decided he would like to play a little competitive Bridge one evening. It was on this occasion that my mother, herself a very good Bridge player, happened to meet him when they played at the same table. She told him about the young girl whose love of classical music, especially the great concerti of the Romantic Period, was awakened by one of his earlier visits. I have always been quite chuffed that through my mother he sent me his personal best wishes.

These days I am a listener, a staunch attender of the NZSO concerts, rather than a player. Besides the Maggini copy, I have my father’s piano and still amuse myself on that a little, but it is being transported to Elsewhere by the beauty and exhilaration of the sound of real talent that does far more for me now. Is there really an Elsewhere? My experience says that there is - a place where there is perfection, wonder, majesty, awe, beauty, and a savouring of all that resonates with the depths of our being. I hear it in this kind of music. I hear and see it again in Nature with the evening birdsong, the rainbow after the sudden downpour, the flowers in my garden glistening with dew, the majesty of my Southern Alps… and I touch it in prayer when I reach out to my Heavenly Father. This Elsewhere is His place where the wisdom of His righteousness has allowed no evil. We have a reflection of it in this life, a taste of that for which my soul yearns as He draws me ever closer to Him.

Yehudi Menuhin (1916 - 1999) said of him: “Simply the best, the most perfect violinist I have ever heard.” Having heard him as well over two recent weekends, I can see what Sir Yehudi meant.
The young Russian violinist, Vadim Repin, was accompanied by the NZSO in concert playing the Sibelius Concerto D minor, op. 47, and the Beethoven Concerto D major, op. 61. And yes, he was brilliant.

The conductor as well deserves a mention. Susanna Mälkki, originally a Finnish-born cellist, has very quickly become a much sought after artist on the international conducting circuit. For some reason conducting seems to be a male-dominated career, so it was quite a novelty to have a woman doing the honours - and doing it so enthusiastically well. And as always, our national symphony orchestra lived up to its excellent international reputation and played quite superbly under her baton.

An interesting thing that relates these two concerti to each other is that both were unpopular when premièred - the Sibelius in 1903, and the Beethoven almost a century earlier in 1806.

For the former, the première was disastrous largely because Sibelius, apparently in desperate need of some ready cash, brought it forward a month. The substitute soloist just wasn't up to it and Sibelius hastily withdrew the score. It was not until the 1930s when renowned violinist Jascha Heifetz (1900 - 1987) dusted it off and showed the world what it had been missing. The rest, as it is said, is history. Anything Sibelius has me thinking of the scenery of Finland, and this was no exception, there being a profound extent of Nature's influence in all his compositions and to which Sibelius made countless references: “Nature is coming to life: that life which I so love, . . . whose essence shall pervade everything I compose.” It was played with such skill and beauty that it seemed I had gone far further than a visit to the Town Hall.

Although the Beethoven Concerto was written in haste back in 1806 and unenthusiastic reviews called the thematic material commonplace, confused, wearisome and too repetitious, an evolutionary process was applied through the subsequent addition of cadenzas written by Joachim, David, Kreisler and many other celebrated violinists. Its first performance was by Franz Clement for whom it was written, but Clement was something of a clown and performed the Concerto by sight-reading (though there is some dispute about this) with an unrehearsed orchestra, dividing up the work to insert a sonata of his own after the first movement, playing his sonata with the violin up-side-down, and on only one string.

Somewhat more conventional with its rendition, the recent performance by Vadim Repin of Beethoven’s work had a packed auditorium giving the longest and loudest applause, including a lapse in restraint following the incredible Kreisler Cadenza towards the end of the first movement. The clapping was acknowledged by a slight nod of the head as Vadim Repin paused only momentarily before continuing with the rest of the piece. It was breath-taking, spell-binding and exhilarating.

Certainly Vadim Repin has been compared with his illustrous predecessors like Menuhin, Stern and Oistrach. But his incredible technique, infallible exactness and his tone that seems to come from nowhere do distinguish him indisputable. Sensibility, elegance and subtlety, as well as profundity, generosity and tenderness: there aren’t enough adjectives to describe this grand master of the violin. He’s now playing on the famous ‘Ruby’, the magnificent Stradivarius of Sarasate, who has played Lalo’s ‘Symphonie Espagnol’ on it. ‘I have it on loan from the Stradivarius Society in Chicago. It’s brilliant and many-coloured in the upper register, sonorous and generous in the lower. It’s a wonderful compromise between the natural brilliance of a Strad and the sensual power of a Guarneri!’
Source

So this is a violinist I have on my little list of “must go to hear” whenever I find his name appearing as guest of some orchestra. He and my other favourite, the Taiwanese-American virtuosa, Cho-Liang Lin (Jimmy). They are both quite amazing.

Back in 1924 George Gershwin was asked to compose a jazz concerto for a Paul Whiteman concert just a few months before it was due to happen. He had never written a full score before, only tunes which other people then arranged for the orchestra. He was unconvinced that he had much to contribute. But Whiteman offered the services of his own arranger, Ferde Grofe, to help out with the orchestration, and so Gershwin agreed. He wrote down a few tunes then put the drafts to one side while he worked on other music. Just five weeks before the concert, a friend pointed out an advertisement in the newspaper - the concert in which Gershwin’s (er, as yet unwritten) jazz concerto was to feature. Talk about leaving it all to the last minute! Gershwin started writing rapidly, and so did Grofe who had the orchestration finished by 4 February. The concert was on 12 February, and with Gershwin himself playing the piano solo part - well, he had not actually written it all down and was still needing to make some of it up on the night (the price of procrastination!) - his spectacular Rhapsody in Blue was born.

Yet a little longer ago, back in the autumn of 1874, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (then aged 34) wrote his very first piano concerto. Since he hadn’t written one before he sought the advice of his friend Nikolai Rubinstein. Tchaikovsky sat down at his piano and played. What happened next was staggering. Rubinstein rubbished it. He called it “worthless, unplayable … passages were trite and awkward … as a composition it was bad and tawdry … only two or three pages could be retained, the rest would have to be completely revised”. Tchaikovsky was livid, speechless with fury, and so refused to change one single note of it - and thank goodness for that! It is now considered one of the greats of all time.

Last month our NZ Symphony Orchestra performed Gershwin with amazing pianist Kevin Cole at the keys. One could be forgiven for believing in reincarnation (although I actually don’t myself) as performance-wise this American pianist is a true George Gershwin clone. He was marvellous, being as the music was, roguish and cheeky, dreamy and thoughtful, funny and jolly, romantic and passionate, lively and teasing… he was all of those things, his facial expressions playing the part as much as his hands on the keyboard. And this month the Paris-resident Irishman, Barry Douglas, delivered the great concerto initially rubbished by Rubinstein in a rousing performance full of energy and thrills. However, methinks that Steinway Grand will need a right re-tuning before it is rolled out into centre-stage for the next performance whenever. Barry Douglas and Kevin Cole, like Gershwin and Tchaikovsky before them, are both pianists extraordinary.

But a word here about conductors as well. Estonian native, Olari Elts, has lots of talent - no doubt about that. He just seemed to be rather stiff down the centreline, as though his jacket was made of cardboard or excessively starched (but you don’t starch jackets, do you?) and the collar far too high. I was a little worried that he might topple domino-fashion if he tried to bend at all. But it was Yan Pascal Tortelier (ex BBC Philharmonic) who got the ovation for most entertaining conductor. He was magnificent, such an energetic soul and getting a real work-out up there on the podium. I was terrified he would step back a little too far and dance right off the stage, into the lap of the lady two seats in front of me. But by the end of a rather dreadful piece of music by an entirely different composer who should remain nameless (albeit played so well by our world class orchestra) he had so many of us laughing - including the orchestra players as well. There was a standing ovation for his antics. When he tried to pass the compliment on to the orchestra instead, our young Finnish concert master (who was laughing as well) took him by the hand and drew him to the front of the stage to take the bow for himself. Conductors can be such great performers in their own right at times. Now all that remains is to get them actually saying “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen” (or anything really) just as a polite way to start the show. So few of them speak, but I am quite sure that they can - and if only they would. **Sigh**

Oh yes, and this is my second go at writing the above. The first go was infinitely better - quite poetical, in fact. But guess what happened? Yes, you guessed. I clicked on “Save and Continue Editing” and the whole thing went away and demanded that I log in all over again! The back button did not help one bit. Somewhere between “Click and Continue Editing” and the back button, my words had been eaten. Well, I hope that geeky leprechuan has very poetical hiccoughs as a result of all that, but I guess it was a repeat lesson in the value of doing a copy-and-paste from Notepad instead.

Back again soon, very soon, most probably Tuesday (it being a special day for Kiwis).

One of Leonard Bernstein’s best serious compositions is the five movement Serenade for orchestra and violin. The movements are each named after characters in Plato’s dialogue, The Symposium, and the setting is a banquet at the house of Agathon where the host, Socrates, and others speak on the subject of love. Bernstein wrote of his composition:

“The music, like the dialogue, is a series of related statements in praise of love, and generally follows the Platonic form throughout the succession of speakers at the banquet. The relatedness of the movements does not depend on common thematic material, but rather on a system whereby each movement evolves out of elements of the preceding one.”

The elderly Israeli lady whom we normally find sitting next to us at NZSO concerts was not there the other night. We usually enjoy her entertaining insights and perceptive little comments on members of the orchestra, but we know she is not one for 20th century composers… which probably explained her absence. I cannot make such a blanket statement about any “Age” of music as I often find something to like in all of them. On this occasion we were treated to the exceptionally brilliant talents of Taiwanese-American virtuoso violinist, Cho-Liang Lin, who seeks out contemporary composers and puts heart and soul into his playing. The performance was pure magic for me, but not so for hubby who prefers a common theme to an evolving development of elements. For neither he nor our absent companion, despite his physical presence, did it start where either of them happened to be.

So how many places can one person be? Whereas one’s body is anchored to a set of physical dimensions, it is fun that the mind can experience some freedom from those physical restrictions and travel the realm of ideas. We can find ourselves in many places that way. And in varying degrees, according to the measure we each have of the ability to empathize with others, we can also place ourselves where another happens to be.

The other day someone who said he was not very religious voiced a question about God, about how one can know for sure that God exists. Not being very religious, this was more of a casual interest… just a question he had in the back of his mind, he said. What I was hearing from him was no pressing need expressed on his part, no intensive search after God. It was just a question… rather like one might wonder at breakfast time what one should plan for dinner tonight. To my way of thinking, a good answer should meet the nature of the question, and in this case using this analogy be appealing to someone who had just eaten breakfast and is not too serious about dinner just yet. Of course, the faint wafting aroma of newly baked bread and freshly ground coffee can arouse the appetite of even the most replete breakfaster. Savouring this can lead to a pleasurable anticipation of dinner later in the day. On the other hand, the immediate delivery of a second plate of bacon, sausages and eggs is just too much, and when served up with the ubiquitous epithet “Enjoy!” or some other supposedly well meaning comment that overshoots the mark, I cannot leave the scene quickly enough. Yes to the aroma, but No to the second helping. That does not start where I happen to be.

On the one hand I enjoy and applaud the enthusiasm of Christians for whom the Gospel message is so evident in their lives, and completely understand their wish (and our Lord’s command) to share the truth. I appreciate the sense of urgency that goes with it too. And yet on the other hand, I find my own enthusiasm is tempered by another consideration. It is not I who deals with the souls of others, but it is the work of God who uses me. Therefore I must listen to His voice and heed His direction. There is a little matter of obedience, of self control and discipline, and something that I see as being the hallmark of God… that which He gives matches perfectly the need that exists. I believe that God starts where someone happens to be.

It almost seemed a little odd. With his beetle-back to us, Matthias Bamert threw his arms this way and that, using his fingers in grabbing motions to clutch the sound out of the first violins with his left hand as his right poked the violas with his baton, and his head dipped in exaggerated actions to the woodwind. He turned this side and that, and played the orchestra as though it was an instrument all of his own. Brahms First Symphony was being extracted perfectly with all the diligence of a master who knew his music without need for the book. But what was that about the tempo?

The tempo… it was just perfect too, but there was something funny going on. The baton moved… and then the note was played. We caught it every time… the little part-second lag, like a syncopated dance, a little secret shared between conductor and conducted. But what a performance! Brahms was certainly a genius, as the Schumanns had proclaimed, and our own national orchestra did him justice on the night.

And then there was Chopin. It was a good night for tempo, Chopin with his characteristic way of stringing his innovations together by slowing down or speeding up the right hand while the left hand accompaniment stayed constant. Ever since I managed the Minute Waltz in nearly 60 seconds flat (although I might have missed a bar or two) I have loved Chopin with his chromatic scales and fancy frilly bits. Joseph Kalichstein is an absolute master on the keys, a pianist of huge talent and versatility. What’s more, he smiles as he plays. He enjoys his work, a happy seeming soul.

The elderly lady sitting just along from me, whose name I still don’t know although it doesn’t really matter, the same one who another night declared the oboe player to be so dishy, was delighted when she could claim the pianist as her own. “Oh, he is Israeli just like me!” she announced. “And brilliant too!” I teased her back. She gave a little choke on some sudden modesty.

Hubby wasn’t quite so sure… about Chopin, that is. He couldn’t quite figure where Chopin’s No 1 was going. “But that’s easy,” I explained. “When he’s right up the treble clef, there is only one other way, and that is right down to the bass clef. Likewise, when he is right down the bass clef…” Hubby catching on quickly figured the rest, “…he canters right up to the treble clef!” Well, more or less so, in rather general terms. A layman’s description of course.

Next time I might just have to take a needle and thread with me, though. The concertmaster, as gorgeous as he is, still has not stitched up the lower hem of his trousers. I know these things, sitting right up the front in the cheapy-cheap seats.

And dare I mention the brief introductory modern piece? Although the whole orchestra appeared to be playing, what I think really had happened was that some rogue had tossed a handful of lighted fire crackers into a revolving oil drum attended by a dance party of myoclonic clarinets. But I did like little parts of it. It certainly was lively, I’ll give it that. The Israeli lady would give it nothing, and nor did hubby. I don’t think either of them liked being s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d.

Postscript to my entry of yesterday…
Even at the bottom of the planet we are not safe from the spread of Islam.

In this morning's newspaper it is reported that Muslim terror groups have sent representatives from the Islamic movements Al Haramain, Hizb Ut-Tahrir and Wahhabi, promoters of physical jihad including suicide bombings and other acts of terrorism, to preach their beliefs on campus at Auckland University.
These visiting Muslims have caused a split in the original Islamic society at the university, holding Friday prayer meetings and preaching sermons to pressure peaceful Muslims to acknowledge the full extent of their faith, Islam.

Clearly the members of the original Islamic society on campus are not practising the principle of nasikh where later Qur'anic revelations are to mansookh or cancel out earlier ones. Muslims remaining in the original group are citing earlier revelations to "prove" that the Qur'an is a peaceful religion. Either they are practising taqiyya (holy hypocrisy and deception) or if genuine, they are not adhering to the true teaching of their faith.
Their more devout brothers will have them in their sights for the sword of Islam too.
Yes, devout Muslims kill other Muslims as well.
Nothing is to stand in the way of Islam… according to the Qur'an.

From Middle Eastern religion to Eastern music with Western multimedia elements… a recent concert by the NZ Symphony Orchestra featured a modern Chinese composer who showed us the most amazing sounds that could be produced by an orchestra of classical instruments.
Tan Dun's composition "Death and Fire" was full of sharp piercing animal calls simulated by the orchestra, quite un-nerving to listen to but very interesting (to me anyway) as well, together with hints of Bach and some unusual witty humour.
Even the names of the inserts (distinctly separate parts of the overall composition) were intriguing… Animals at Full Moon, Twittering Machine, Earth Witches, Intoxication.
Yes well, although it was interesting, I think my preference was for Mahler's "Das Lied Von Der Erde" which comprised the second half of the programme.
Even so, this was partly a work of depression and despair as Mahler contemplated his own mortality, having no belief in a personal hereafter, although finished with a drinking song through which his intention was to evoke the desire to drown his senses and transform them into an intense intoxication with the beauty of this Earth.

I was looking forward to something a little more happy as an encore, and that was provided by our host's invitation to drinks and canapés with members of the orchestra afterwards.
We certainly enjoyed chatting at some length with the chief trumpet player who was likewise challenged in his definition of "music" by the Chinese composition, preferred Mahler's earlier works, and was a great fan of Rachmaninov.
I think I'm really a classical romantic by heart.

Last night the NZSO played the "world premiere" of a piece of music composed by a NZ university music tutor.
Michael Williams had for some time been interested in how ancient civilizations have viewed the universe, earth and humankind's place within it. Scientific discovery now makes it unfashionable to believe that the sky is a physical vault, a dome over the world, with the universe lying beyond.
His composition for orchestra and solo oboe was entitled Piercing the Vault and sought to portray musically the underlying ideas which he found beautiful, intriguing and somewhat mysterious.

It is fun that you can use music in this way… to paint sound pictures, write tonal poems, share ideas without using words, give impressions, arouse emotions and seemingly transport the soul to other worlds of experience.

Yes, it did that for me.
His composition was modern and therefore contained some of those discordant and seemingly unrelated sound clashes that seem to be a feature of the times, but it was interesting and intriguing too. Well, to me anyway.
I heard the rush of energy as asteroids and meteorites sped towards the vault, the glancing blows, the penetration of a few, the weirdness and spookiness of the unknown in the outer beyond, the yearnings of earthbound life crying out to the Great Creator over all, some bouncing from the dome to ripple around the globe and fade as echoes eventually do.
It was like a spiritual adventure.

The orchestra, conductor, the talented young oboe virtuosa, and the composer all got great applause.
But not everyone clapped.
The elderly lady just along from me leaned across and said at least "What a handsome young man that oboe player is!" and yes, that too. I would have to admit that he was almost as dishy as the concertmaster. And that's saying something!

But then followed Grieg's absolutely brilliant Piano Concerto in A Minor, 29 minutes of excellence by the French pianist Pascal Roges who also likes Norah Jones. He rode the piano. And he talked to himself as he played. Yes, he really did! I was sitting in the cheapy seats right up the front, and he was right in front of me. He was counting - in French, of course. I read his lips.
It was the first time he had played that concerto in public, and for a first time it was not all bad.
My heart was in my mouth right at the end, though. It was exhilarating and he almost fell right off the stool. No kidding! He was half on, half off, and we were electrified. The applause was terrific.

Well, my cat is learning her lesson in tolerance.
She is getting much better at coping with Beethoven and Mendelssohn.
Since it is either humour my tastes in music and thereby have the heater to snuggle up against, or move out of earshot and go cold, she is really coming along quite well.
But I am wondering when I should introduce her to Grieg.
However, I think it may be a while before she manages to cope with the piercing of any vaults. I doubt that she would care much for such a spiritual adventure.
At least, not yet.

A fine restaurant, the company of good friends, and an evening of Sibelius with our world class NZ Symphony Orchestra…
Yes, I hopped up quickly from my computer and sewing machine, and off we went last night.

There was something rather special about listening to our excellent orchestra playing Finnish music under the baton of a Finnish conductor with a Finnish virtuoso violinist who did such a magnificent job of the one-and-only violin concerto that Sibelius ever wrote. He played the entire 34 minute piece without music, and received well-deserved tremendous applause.

Right at the back of the orchestra, just behind the big drum and the cymbals, below the massive pipes of the permanently fixed pipe organ, I noticed a small mirror.
It gave me an excellent view of the back of the Principal Flutist with her intriguing tangle of thick curly tresses.
But no matter how hard I tried, keeping within the proper boundaries of personal space, I was not able to bring into view the face of the conductor as his black beetle-like back energetically darted all over his 3 foot square podium.
But as far as conductors went, he did have the essential bouncy hair which can be effectively tossed this way and that to always end up more-or-less in the same style that it started - thick, straight, short, definitely layered and very definitely bouncy.
In that regard he was just like my favourite Andrew Davis who has often conducted the British Proms in London.
With so much expression from the back, those beetle-like coat tails swishing everywhere in contagious enthusiasm, I am sure his face would have been just as good to watch as well.
But one can't have everything, I guess.

An evening of Sibelius kept us talking well into the wee hours of the morning.
Finland… the land so far north… Kalevala, Finland's national epic of old folk poems and mythology that so inspired Sibelius… the melodies, harmonies, tonal poems, flavours of Wagner, the powerful emotions…

Oh that's right, it was to be light and fluffy omelettes for breakfast this morning.
Well, I did get in that bit about the conductor's hair.