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Somebody once called someplace in Britain "The City of Spires". Whoever it was, they were wrong. Or they hadn’t ?00 to spend on a trip to the most beautiful City in Europe and caught the ? day return National Express coach to Oxford instead. I can see how the confusion arose though, Oxford having its share of architectural splendour. In all fairness one parallel can be drawn. There is the genuine need for a heavier Fashion Police presence. Juxtapose, however, the repeated trophy glory of Oxford United and that of Sparta Prague and the Czechs could be forgiven for coming away feeling a little hard done-by. Allow me to redress the balance, while I tell you about my weekend in the Czech Republic’s capital city. I had Fun. And I had fun in a place where everybody looks so, well, serious. It’s just that in Prague, fun manifests itself differently to in England. In England we drink, take a "healthy" selection of drugs and indulge until we are incapable of standing, let alone talking. That has its place, don’t get me wrong. I like to Party. Everybody does. But Prague has reminded me of travelling. Seeing how other cultures have survived without relying on the usual dynamics of television and intoxication to suspend their sheer tedium. It fills me with sadness to see how those who are supposedly worse off than us with our big cars, important jobs, long hours and accompanying stress, ironically wear smiles that look a thousand times more attractive than the latest ?000 shoes from Manolo Blahnik ever could. I don’t think this is anything approaching an Epiphany in any way, shape or form. This is about experiencing differences that are invisible to me because of my ordinary way of life. I lead the same, successful life that a good proportion of those of my age do. I have found myself in a tolerable job, which pays more than it should and sustains the style of living which I have chosen for myself. For the most part that involves surrounding myself with beautiful things: car, stereo, a great flat and expensive shoes. Tangibles. All scream: "Look at how well I am doing in life". How I, therefore, came to see a concert, sat down, all dressed up on Saturday night in Prague - No dancing, no drinks, no drugs and definitely no 6am finish - remains a total mystery. No street cred, either. No Moby or Linkin Park to brag about. How was the woman of my dreams going to take this? This was a country mile from music for the masses. Claire and I were the only people there with a mental age of under Seventy Five. The Prague Symphony Orchestra’s opening gambit was to win us over with a little Mozart. Claire afterwards admitted to being moved by it, arguably because she was awake through a small proportion of the movement. I spent the whole time thumbing through the programme, trying to reassure myself that Carmina Burana wasn’t actually being performed in the orchestral equivalent of "Screen Two", next door. The rest of the time, I watched the curiously the behaviour of the orchestra, the thirst for visual entertainment, a consequence of square eyes from my youth. Knowing nothing of the music and less still of the composition of an orchestra, I listened intently, sorely wanting to cross that invisible line from keen, but clueless observer. I wanted to join in the smiles, to feel what the composer felt and wanted to share with his audience. Perhaps the key to this was through that guy with the magic wand at the front. The Maddest Professor of all musicians. The Conductor. There is something very theatrical about a Conductor. In my head a Conductor will ALWAYS have crazy, wiry grey hair and will take to the task in hand with a vigour that seems almost supernatural. A smile will seldom betray his lips. A maniacal laugh, however, is by no means out of the question. This conductor was no exception. Except to all the above we must add huge stage presence. And a blouse to eclipse anything in Pat Butcher’s Christmas wardrobe. So the fact that she also eclipsed half the Violin Section was no great surprise. Mozart was served up by a full orchestra of the straightest, most rigid-backed musicians their kin will ever conceive. Take the first violinist, identifiable by his shiny shoes and an immaculately tailored monkey suit. Perfectly coiffed grey hair, more than just a touch of brillcreem. A jaw that would cut diamonds. I’m surprised he didn’t saw the damned violin in half. Among the violinists was also a woman in her early thirties. Wearing a baggy jumper that betrayed her status as a lesser musician, she was really playing to the audience. With each stroke she took with the bow, her face assumed a different expression, a study of concentration and emotion. Maybe she was trying as hard as I was to like what she was doing. Two hours of classical music lead to me draping handkerchiefs over BOTH shoulders in an effort to keep Homer and Marge from dribbling down the smartest shirt that I had stuffed, cursing into my case as the taxi had honked it’s impatience downstairs . Only once did I actually have to shrug in my neighbour’s inner ear to stem the crescendo of snoring, but it the scowls of disapproval from the aficionados were audible above even the big bass drum. The piece de resistance didn’t come until after the interval (champagne, not ice cream, sweetie). To be fair to both Claire and I, we were far from alone in racing out the door for cigarettes and anything the sour-faced barman could muster to make the second half more paletable. In the event and when it mattered, he delivered. After two greedy slugs of Czech Pilsner, the first bottle had been drained entirely. I eagerly parted with a second fistful of Korona and this time, savouring the bitter taste (that, frankly deserves a gazillion times more accolade than the advertising execs of Britain afford Holsten Pils and that other muck, the "Best Lager in the Probable World") I wandered into the foyer, now resolute to accompany the local brew with a tobacco chaser, whilst Claire queued for the Powder Rooms daintily sipping her Pink Champagne. The Orchestra were greeted back onto the stage with starch applause. Some of the audience fidgeted uneasily in their seats. Those musicians on the raised stage took their seats and those with wind-instruments began a series of perverse facial exercises as if competing in some impromptu gurning contest. One or two of the strings section, not to be outdone, flexed bows and cracked knuckles in a primeval display of testosterone. In the animal kingdom this would almost certainly have been perceived as a mating call. I gestured to Claire, somewhat surprised not to see one or two of the female musicians shyly admiring these demonstrations from behind a Peacock feather, coyly batting their eyelids at the sheer machismo of the display. Interestingly the section with the biggest instruments of them all simply sat, bold as brass, legs astride their double basses. The conductor followed the Orchestra in, her face a picture of determined concentration. A deep bow, then she turned and signalled to a doorman beside the organ pipes above the musicians, who appeared to mouth something to an invisible colleague, then adroitly step aside as he was almost stampeded by an excited army of women in black. An equal number of men followed onto the tiered balcony, segregated from the women entirely. Every one of the 170 musicians looked to the conductor. The atmosphere by now was charged. Claire had finally returned from the little girls room and an hush descended upon the entire magnificent hall. Revelling in the burning fuse of expectant silence, our conductor took time to compose herself. Then, at last, theatrically raising both arms, she summoned her orchestra to take up their instruments, looking every bit like Emperor Caesar addressing the people of Rome. Heads turned and the audience’s attention was centred on a lone percussionist as a single drumbeat crashed like a cannon. Half a beat later our senses were scrambled as the 140 strong choir ripped into "O Fortuna" in perfect unison. I was pinned me to the back of my seat as wave after wave of erotically powerful noise hit me. My ears had to borrow from my other senses to cope with what I was hearing. I laboured to breathe. My mouth was dry. My fingers ferociously gripped Claire’s hand. Transfixed, I realised that I had heard this music before. I knew what was coming and felt the same as every single one of the audience: Alive. The emotion in that music and in the one voice of the choir stirred something inside me that felt like a ball of passion. And it built in waves, as the conductor first hushed voices and orchestra to barely more than a whisper, causing me to visibly shudder, then relax. Semper crescis aut descrescis; vita detestabilis? The tempo and volume of the singing grew, building the expectation, only to abate, teasingly, promising a climax, but denying the listener any opportunity to prepare for its arrival. Sors immanis et inanis, rota tu volubilis? But the unease and sense of urgency developed in an impossibly paradoxical sequence of variety and repetition, confusing us further. Finally, when it almost seemed as if there was never to be a climax and the audience has been fooled, the singing dipped half a note lower than on any previous phrase. An indiscernible pause, then: Sors salutis et virtutis mihi nunc contraria?BR>A barrage of unexpected majesty assaulted our senses. After a staggering crescendo, which seemed to last five minutes, in fact only 90 seconds, I was pushed into the back of my seat, as if the might of the G forces that the very music created held me there. Tears sprang from my eyes. Moved and speechless, I gathered what remained of my dignity from the floor around me and contained myself until on the refrain it was replaced as I nearly wet myself. Now, let’s not misunderstand: I’m a man that appreciates the finer things in life |
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