Carrots

May I ask, enquired Pliny the Elder, how one hears, or imagines one hears, carrots in a piece of music?

You mean in the Walton at the Lunch Hour Concert? I asked.

Yes. I can understand that you may have heard traffic, chipmunks, bees, and even the motion of curtains, but I fail to understand how one imagines one is hearing something that neither moves nor makes a recognisable sound.

In other words you're asking me what I think carrots sound like?

I am.

Well, you have to understand the process. Do you remember how I became confused because they changed the order of the program?

Yes.

This meant that I never really got into the second, genuine Walton. I was full of chagrin, and self-reproach. The repetition of the chipmunk and bee sounds held an interest for me only insofar as they proved that in music you can hear almost anything you want.

And so you thought of carrots?

No, no, not like that. My mind drifted off. And since I was planning to go to the Central Market at half past three, it drifted towards a shopping list of the things that I might buy there. Not oranges, I thought. Perhaps a pineapple. Not bok choy. Maybe some carrots.

Aha! Carrots at last!

Yes, and I was thinking of the two limp carrots in the fridge at home, and that I might not need a whole bag of carrots but could probably do with about four large ones which I could buy from the Seven Sisters. Four carrots. Then my attention returned to the music. Don't ask me why.

I expect it was guilt.

Maybe it was. And I thought, is it possible that as I'm thinking of carrots I might hear carrots in the music? It had certainly been possible for me to hear other things which hadn't been there.

The reverse process, said Pliny sagely. This time you are thinking of something beforehand and then searching for it within the music.

That's right.

And did you find it?

Yes.

So, the question is, what did it sound like?

It sounded like four orange notes, rounded, but pointy at the end.

Remarkable, said Pliny.

Ignorance

At the Lunch Hour Concert I was sitting behind four middle aged people who were together. Something nasty had happened in the garden of one of them. One said, Have you seen The Shining? No, said another, have you seen Eyes Wide Shut?

The Chamber Ensemble came on stage in twos and threes. As they appeared some people at the back would clap. This continued disconcertingly as the stage filled up.

The first piece was by William Walton. I don't know a thing about William Walton, except what was in the notes. He wrote some music for a Shakespeare film in the 1940s. A Shakespeare film. Classy.

So, I'm listening. I hear traffic. Sigh. I hear chipmunks. Yuk. I hear bees. Hmm. I hear spooky noises, like the movement of curtains in a dark house at night. William Walton must have written this one for a film as well, I think. A multi-purpose piece. And very 1940s-ish.

They stop playing. The conductor indicates a young man sitting in the sixth row on the left. The composer. He is Stephen Tanoto. He takes a bow.

Thus I realise, and so do the 4 in front of me, that we had not been listening to William Walton.

Ha Ha they laugh. Ha Ha Ha. We didn't think it sounded much like Walton.

Well, I did. But now I know it wasn't. I am miffed, and can't get into this new Walton which they are playing now. Sure it has chipmunks. And traffic, and what's this? Carrots! But I feel cheated. I had been looking forward to the Tanoto. It was based on a chipmunk-free madrigal, and I missed it.

This new Walton madrigal piece was in 4 movements. The people at the back clapped in between, with decreasing confidence.

It ended. The people in front of me clapped ostentatiously, turning towards one another and nodding. That was the Walton alright. We always knew.