The Sock and Mr Jesus

Another Friday another Lunch Hour Concert. We were expecting a cello and a piano. But the program notes said 'Organ'. Oh yes, a change of program.

The organ music began, the ceiling cracked. It may have been cracked already. You notice things when you are looking up. The organ is high.

Usually that is all there is to do. Look up. But there was a double screen set up on the stage so you could see the organist's shoes on the left and his hands on the right. So I soon forgot the cracks in the ceiling.

The organ music was having even more alarming effects on the audience between me and the screens.

For instance. A man two rows in front developed a hole in the top of his head. It may have been there already. But you notice these things with an organ.

Another man four rows in front performed a peculiar wrinkling shiver from his neck to his crown, through his sparse hair.

A psychology professor looked twenty years younger as his neck became smooth. It may have been like that already. You notice things under an organ.

No one thought the organ music was funny. Except me. Diddle diddle diddly diddly dee....paaarp!
Diddle diddle diddly diddly dee...paaarp! Diddle diddle diddly diddly dee...paaarp!

Don't tell me that's not funny.

One of the pieces James Tibbles played was Herr Jesus hat ein Gartchen. It had five variations, all the same. The notes said the title meant King Jesus hath a Garden. But I beg to differ. That is Mr Jesus hath a Garden.

Two things happened at the end. One, James Tibbles came down the stairs and took a bow.
So we could see him.

Two, I asked my mum how it had been and she said not very good I don't like organ music. Did you have your hearing aids in? I asked and she said No, that would have been a hundred times worse.

Three, as I was getting up out of my seat, I saw that the person in front had left a brightly striped sock on the floor.

One too many things.

Disconcerting

I don't think there'll be too many people at this one, said my mum.

Oh I don't know, Niki Vasilakis has been on television, I said. It depends, I added, trying not to be too argumentative.

We took a long time over lunch and arrived at the Elder Hall right on one o'clock.

There were hardly any seats left. We had to sit on the front row at the extreme left, up against the wall.

From there Niki Vasilakis was visible only through the oblique railings of the steps that led up to the stage.

The musical notes of the Kodaly and the Ravel flew by us sideways, hit the back of the hall and bounced back to our ears on the front row so that we were the last to hear them.

Directly in front of me on the stage was a big black shiny piano, which was not being played. As the violin cried out with a heart-rending mournful sound I realised that should the piano move towards me in a straight line and continue to do so after reaching the edge of the stage, that is, move towards me over the gap at a height of about one metre off the floor, I would be pronged in the neck by three golden piano pedals.

Did you manage to see her dress? asked my mum, when it was over.

Well..... yes, I answered, trying not to give the impression it had been easy.

Perhaps it was my eyes, she said, but did you think it looked like that famous French painting? Of course it was difficult to tell because of the angle. It was cut in two by the seam.

You may be right, I said, but I didn't think so.

Bad Timing

What do you think of when you hear the bassoon, the oboe and the piano playing together?
Probably not what I thought when I heard them yesterday. I went to a Lunch Hour Concert with my mum and got a lesson in Bad Timing.

We were sitting in our seats waiting for the concert to begin, when I remembered I hadn't given her the printed copy of an email from my son in Scotland. Instead of putting it in her handbag she began to read it straight away. The seats were filling up fast. My old professor of psychology sat down immediately in front of me.

Oh, said my mum, who hadn't got her hearing aids in, and was reading the bit about how my son is trying to potty train his 19 month old daughter. They're starting very late, she went on loudly. I used to put you on the potty after every feed from when you were a very little baby. Did you? I said, in a midstrength whisper, trying to bring the conversation down to a lower level. And you ALWAYS DID SOMETHING, she ended with conviction.

Normally I would have contested this, and defended the right of my son and daughter-in-law to wait until their daughter began to show some interest in using the potty, but due to the circumstances I was reduced to hissing Yessss. Who wants their old psychology professor to hear such things? Not to mention everybody else.

And so it was that when the bassoon, oboe and piano began to play the delightful strains of a Saint-Saens sonata, some Nussio variations, a duo by Villa-Lobos and a sarabande by Dutilleux, I heard only the sounds of breaking wind and tinkling water, and when it was over, applause seemed highly inappropriate.

Proles

Another Lunch Hour Concert yesterday. I make a habit of choosing an inappropriate seat.

My mother's friend was there. I led us forward to three seats on the second row.

The concert was performed by Stefan Ammer on the piano and Rachel Johnson on the cello. First they played Brahms. I was very happy listening to the Brahms. Usually I don't like Brahms all that much. I always think of that Warren Mitchell film where Brahms eats sardines straight out of the can, wearing mittens.

But this was far from sardiney. I like the cello. If I were a musical instrument, I would be a cello. However, at the end of the piece my mother whispered, "That was so loud! I'll have to take my hearing aids out." I turned to her friend. "It's nice to be so near the stage, isn't it." "Yes," she nodded. " You hardly have to crick your neck at all." I'd forgotten that she only came up to my shoulder, sitting down.

Next it was the Shostakovitch. I like Shostakovich. But I began to wonder if we should have been sitting further back. I decided, since I was the only one enjoying being in the second row I would concentrate all the harder. Shostakovitch's Sonata for Cello and Piano in D minor. It was the one which pokes fun at the Prolekult, in the finale. I was waiting for that bit.

Waiting, waiting. Suddenly I realised that, far from listening to the largo, I was trying to multiply 15 by 15 in my head. This was to see whether I had cheated my mother earlier by asking for $2.80 for 15 photographs at a cost of 15 cents each. You fool, I said to myself. You can calculate 15 x 15 any time, while the music is but fleeting. So I paid attention until the end. Yes, it was very plinky-plonky. But I wondered whether I would have picked up the vitriolic sarcasm of Shostakovitch's dig at the Proles, if I hadn't read the program notes.

"That was lovely," said my mother at the end. "It was so much better with my hearing aids out."

"Wouldn't it be marvellous to play a musical instrument," said her friend.

As for me, I forgot all about 15 x 15 until now. I've just worked it out on a slip of paper. It appears to be a lot less than I thought.