The choir's concerts are over. Thank goodness. Yesterday afternoon's performance fell apart. Bear in mind that in this piece the choir, offstage, sings for just over three minutes. The first minute was fine, but then it was lost. We could not hear each other, and nothing really worked. Our choral conductor was most upset, and rushed off in tears. We all went home. I consoled myself with a glass or two of wine. Singing such music in the dark, being unable to see the conductor, and being in a formation quite different to how we'd rehearsed did not help. And we are not accustomed to falling apart!
Anyway, after disasters, re-thinking occurs. Suddenly, it was decided we could sing in the room adjoining the stage with the lights on, instead of blue light and small torches, and we went back to the formation we had rehearsed in. This meant we could both see and hear each other. And this afternoon's performance went perfectly. But I am never ever ever going to sing this again. And I wonder, if it was ok to have the lights on today, why this could not have been done yesterday? Perhaps the answer is that truly talented mortals sometimes over-estimate the abilities of the ordinary person, such as your common garden chorister. Flattering, perhaps, but unwise.
Never mind. Such things keep one humble, and prevent smugness. Even if they make you shake and freak out, and give you nightmares.
This morning, to take my mind of matters musical, I went to the crochet clinic, and worked away at a couple of things, which have been as complicated and puzzling, in their own ways, as this wretched music by Holst. While we sat around working at our various projects, I described yesterday evening's disaster. Another woman there turned out to be the first wife of the husband of one of my chorister mates. And her daughter lives a street or two away from me. Small world, eh! Such coincidences, arising so much by sheer chance, always amaze me.
Intermittently I have been re-arranging the books, and there is more order and reason therein. Thus doth the little busy bee....
Anyway, after disasters, re-thinking occurs. Suddenly, it was decided we could sing in the room adjoining the stage with the lights on, instead of blue light and small torches, and we went back to the formation we had rehearsed in. This meant we could both see and hear each other. And this afternoon's performance went perfectly. But I am never ever ever going to sing this again. And I wonder, if it was ok to have the lights on today, why this could not have been done yesterday? Perhaps the answer is that truly talented mortals sometimes over-estimate the abilities of the ordinary person, such as your common garden chorister. Flattering, perhaps, but unwise.
Never mind. Such things keep one humble, and prevent smugness. Even if they make you shake and freak out, and give you nightmares.
This morning, to take my mind of matters musical, I went to the crochet clinic, and worked away at a couple of things, which have been as complicated and puzzling, in their own ways, as this wretched music by Holst. While we sat around working at our various projects, I described yesterday evening's disaster. Another woman there turned out to be the first wife of the husband of one of my chorister mates. And her daughter lives a street or two away from me. Small world, eh! Such coincidences, arising so much by sheer chance, always amaze me.
Intermittently I have been re-arranging the books, and there is more order and reason therein. Thus doth the little busy bee....
1 comment:
I am always fascinated (and amazed) by just how small the world is, and by the number of links that materialise with even a small investigation.
I am sorry that a lack of thoughtfullness (or stupidity) damaged your experience.
Post a Comment