Live music, pilot events and hopes dashed

I’ve had an inkling of what it’s like to be a political journalist this week. Or at least what i think it might be like, starting the week thinking the angle on live performance was documenting the first tentative post-COVID steps and the hope that emanates from attending DCMS ‘pilot events’ at St John’s Smith Square or invitation recordings at Hatfield House. A few days later, ending the week feeling oddly crushed that venues I hold dear having to shelve plans for socially-distanced concerts in August because of Boris Johnson’s surprise announcement pausing the easing of lockdown restrictions. It’s difficult to pinpoint what the angle is when the target keeps shifting.

I started the day with a press release about Snape Maltings innovative response to managing the demand of a socially-distanced audience by offering ‘pay what you want’ for access to a 45 minute programme of live music. A pragmatic response, I thought. A vision of the future. Maybe the start of a new path. Could I combine a weekend trip to East Suffolk on the 7th or 8th or 9th with a parental visit in West Suffolk too, I pondered. Could I justify that expense? And if I could, why was I doing it? Was it for me? Was it for a blog post? Was it for the venue? That’s what it’s come to. In case you’re wondering: it’s a little from columns a, b, and c.

A radical shake up is what’s coming. I’ve heard three different PRs (not this week I hasten to add) say that to me as being the opportunity for the industry presented by COVID19. The most obvious example of that opportunity already being grasped is digital. Some organisations get it and have responded editorially in an authentic and relevant way. Others have been a little twee. Some have even dared to take the plunge with paywalled concert performances. One starts this weekend – the Live from London Festival.

That such projects have sprung up without the slavish deference paid to the likes of Medici TV (until they truly offer a casting facility that supports actual video their £14.99 a month subscription is an extortionate amount of money to spend chained to your laptop or mobile) highlights the next step U.K. arts organisations might as well take in the twelve months: daring to ask its audience to actually pay for its content. Those organisations who do so first will rightly take the glory. Because in the absence of a viable independent live-streaming platform that serves U.K. musicians, they might as well give it a go. According to the FT for example, Live from London secured 2000 subscribers a week before the first stream too. Even accounting for over-inflation of figures, to have secured revenue at all right now is a story worth shouting about.

As far as I’ve witnessed this week there are three possibly four people in the game – Stagecast, a chap from Cambridge, Apple and Biscuit and Barney Smith (plus the producers the ensembles have kept on). They all have the business acumen, strategic vision and the kit to offer the infrastructure which could create a platform for organisations to serve up their content and, importantly, get a fair cut. It won’t substitute ticket sales and album sales (I don’t think) but it would be a start.

I like too the nimble responses of organisations – the resourcefulness and pragmatism – to make something of this, to dare (as far as I can make out) to press on regardless anyway. To do the very best they can. The idea of a 45 minute concert does seem crushingly short. But then, what’s more important? That groups of up to 25 can hear a Mendelssohn Cello Sonata in an intimate setting or than we wait until more financially viable audience groups can hear a longer concert performance and in the meantime there be silence? I’d go for the former. And if I got used to that maybe shorter concerts would be something I just got used to anyway. It’s what the New Music Biennial we’re doing a few years ago. I remember quite appreciating that format.

Is it heartbreaking or is it all in my imagination?

One thing that did surprise me interviewing people this week at St John’s Smith Square was the extent to which the shutdown of live events had prompted me to project a lot of my own sense of disappointment onto performers and arts administrators. Neither Richard Heason nor Gesualdo Six Director Owain Park bit on the emotive question in the way I thought they would. That’s either because I’ve assumed their heartbreak to be the same as mine and completely misjudged things or they’re utterly professional. Let’s go with the latter (because they are actually professional anyway).

Still I think of those who have spent time building up to their own organisations moment of reemergence – orchestra managers, chief execs and musicians – and can’t help but think they must feel massively disappointed. Effort expended for a particular deadline, only to have hopes dashed. It won’t be a fortnights delay – this will surely go on for longer than that. And when I think like that I can’t help but think of this not as live performance stopped, but people struggling to do the right thing not for audiences but for their colleagues. Because the arts enables livelihoods.

In conclusion

The Johnson announcement was a blow. The conversations where one industry expert posited that orchestras wouldn’t play for a year was probably true but still too difficult to hear. Everybody should stop thinking describing their season as a ‘virtual festival’ is endearing or acceptable because it’s annoying the hell out of me: virtual isn’t a substitute for real, stop trying to make out it might be – at best it’s quaint, at worst it’s fascile.

On the plus side, Elder and Coote’s Sea Pictures, the Helen Grimes and Beethoven 3 that followed in the BBC Proms archive concert this week was a blissful treat – so full of energy, rasp and depth. I’m now wondering whether COVID19 was the best thing that could have happened to the Beethoven celebrations this year.

Onward. This blog has a revised editorial vision: keeping the flame alight for a year (or however long it takes).

Amid confusion and misinformation: Dvorak from Mariss Jansons and the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra

Earlier this week I cycled over to nearby Syndenham to collect the Ray Bans I left at my friend Vicky’s following a haircut.

During my revisit I exchanged with a pal who was staying with Vicky whose words about how concert venues like theatre would adjust in response to social distancing had caused me some consternation. I explained about the challenge classical music and opera venues face as articluated by Guardian journo and Thoroughly Good Podcastee Charlotte Higgins.

What my exchange with Adrian last weekend reminded me of was that there are aspects of our respective worlds and systems we don’t instinctively understand. What commands the focus of his attention isn’t the same as what commands mine.

Later in the week I posed a question on Facebook about whether having COVID19 antibodies I could or could not be contagious. Most respondents commented on whether or not antibodies meant one was immune from the ill-effects of the virus. No-one was able to articulate or respond to the specific question I was asking; many seemed confused on what the dividend having antibodies actually was. To be clear: I don’t have any COVID19 antibodies.

We are living through a period of confusion and misinformation. Few of us are singing from the same hymn sheet. Not only that, there are insufficient copies of the hymn sheet.

Admidst this I’m reminded of the pull of the writing, especially during what for me is the perfect diary-inducing period: the Proms.

Not everyone is in agreement. Contacts in my circle see plundering the Proms broadcast archive as evidence of a lack of innovative thinking. That’s a shame because I’ve reveled in unexpected musical excursions. Such broadcasts have been re-affirming. A sort of anchor.

Mariss Jansons conducting the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra Dvorak 8 (2004) was a particular highpoint this week. Muscular, thorough, detailed. Warm sonorous strings. Taut brass. Evocative storytelling.

Rigorous detail too. Listen to the second subject in the second movement, in particular to cascading bit in the upper strings – locked on to the beat but pushing the edges of musical hesitation. I listen to that detail repeated in the woodwind equivalent when the same material comes back before the end of the movement and wonder how on earth a conductor communicates the vision and ensures a consistent realisation of it.

Similarly the rip-roaring final movement complete with horn cues sounding like elephants running riot in amongst the band. And the cheer from the crowd after the final chord too. Such performances from both performers and the audience bring a tear to the eye.

Such moments – this one from 16 years ago – give me a second chance at hearing something special for the first time. I don’t remember attending the concert nor listening to it on the radio. I listen to it now and think how utterly amazing it is. I’ve listened to it six times in the past three days. That kind of listening experience doesn’t present itself that often.

And listening to it back for a seventh time as I write it feels like we’re clinging on to classical, celebrating the thing we hold dear, holding on tight in a storm. They are broadcast moments – so far – that remind me of the only thing which appears to make sense to me right now: someone’s musical intent articulated by a team of musicians who themselves create a spectacle that moves not only me but a whole crowd of other people I don’t know.

First Night of the BBC Proms 2020

Finally. Amid a global pandemic, the audience gets the credit it deserves.

It’s not the same. Not by any means. But, still the opening night of this year’s highlights-driven Proms season arrived with some sense of anticipation, signposted at the top of the day with a Facebook-generated memory of me pictured in the arena waiting for the First Night to start in 2009.

Later, an unexpected invitation to preview Ian Farrington’s fun-filled Beethovenmania – a season-opening commission that mashed-up all of Beethoven’s best-loved melodies. It’s a gorgeous thing to watch (you can see it on BBC Four on Sunday 19 July 2020) which depicts 350+ musicians and singers trapped in their lockdown view playing the music whilst two dancers rip off their masks and gig about to the music. It’s a tear-jerking thing which unexpectedly got me in the mood.

Come the actual First Night broadcast some of that infectious energy was inevitably lacking. Georgia Mann and Petroc Trelawny valiantly compensated with to and fro, plus some contributions from performers ‘down the line’.

But, in its place a strange unexpected feeling as a listener: a perception driven by a moment in a radio schedule – a day, a month, perhaps even the air temperature; the idea that Proms regulars are all coalescing around speakers to relive a shared memory.

Why else would I look forward to listening to a series of pre-recorded links and archive broadcasts, if I knew none of it was actually going on up the road, if not to reconnect with a cavalcade of broadcast-related memories?

In the absence of the actual event, memories were driving me to listen. The warmth in the listening experience wasn’t only down the content (the music) but the way the contrived event stirred concertinaed memories and recollections.  

Ian Farrington’s Beethoveniana

Farrington’s commission was a rip-roaring joyous musical celebration of all things Beethoven, neatly capturing recognisable melodies and subverting them with a series of musical theatre and movie medley style variations and settings. There was a whiff of Nigel Hess’ mastery in Farrington’s score. I also heard bits of former BBC music director Victor Hely-Hutchison’s harmonic style too. There was something effortlessly pleasing about the whole thing that got this rather odd year underway with a much-needed flourish. Jaw-dropping efficiency. Watch out for the choral element – those harmonies tickle the melancholy gland.

LISTEN TO IAN FARRINGTON’S BEETHOVENIANA

Beethoven Piano Concerto No.3 / Igor Levit / 2017

What became obvious pretty quickly to me during Igor Levit’s taut and electrifying performance of Beethoven’s third piano concerto with the BBC Symphony Orchestra, was the sound world of the Proms-world. Regardless of whether you’re one of those tiresome purists who relishes a debate about the declining quality of Albert Hall sound mixes and the like, there is a distinct Proms ‘live’ sound. It’s different from studio recordings and live concert captures. What I hear on the archive broadcast is the ‘space’ of the Royal Albert Hall, itself a contrivance. And yet it transports me in an instant. There is in that imagined space a grand sense of occasion, inclusion, warmth and acceptance. A projection of a kind of egalitarianism. And I miss it (we’ll go into that in later posts).

Audience as unlikely but valued artists

And there are coughs. And warm applause. I can hear evidence of real life in between the first and second movements of the Beethoven. Never in my concert-going and listening experience have I wanted to hear more coughing, not less. The sound from the audience reminds me what we’re striving for: a viable return to live performance.

From this delicate almost painful soundscape emerges a hard-fought opening chord at the piano at the beginning of the second movement. The response from the orchestra sets the mood in a fragile state. There are moments when I imagine myself inside the Royal Albert Hall listening to it there, at which point it all gets a bit too raw and I have to back away.

Such passion and enthusiasm is the enemy of accessibility

This is all tempered by the thoughts and feelings I’m still grappling with. I’ve spent way too much time in the company of people for whom wax lyrical about why music moves me is evidence of me being elitist. As though my passion and enthusiasm and joy at responding to the music I love is the very thing that is casting a shadow over them. I find myself feeling guilty at wanting to articulate the enormous joy I experience in the moment hearing all of these textures in this contrived aural ‘space’. That’s gaslighting. Isn’t it?

I’m struggling with it now as a I embark on 6 weeks of listening to archive Proms broadcasts. Advocacy is seen by some I know as a threat. A danger. How can something that brings joy even in the darkest times for whatever reason be such a threatening thing? And why am I still feeling guilty about it? Unless of course it’s because you feel jealous.

LPO Brass at Henry Wood Hall

I was at Henry Wood Hall this afternoon to interview brass players and percussionists at the LPO rehearsing and recording for the band’s Summer Sessions available on YouTube next week, many of whom hadn’t seen each other in real life for four months. Also weird to see actual people in real life doing ‘work things’. Oddly demanding to interview people at an extended distance – mean almost. Generated some good stuff (though tussled with the imagined voices of nearby critics saying that talk of tubular bell tuning was alienating for classical music newcomers – fools). Uplifting to be in the company of like-minded people – people whose livelihoods I care deeply about. Current health and safety measures are tiresome – holding live performance back right now. Adjusting to requirements about what’s ‘right’ and ‘acceptable’ in a physical space is exhausting too. But as someone who is always keen to bang the proverbial drum, it is a delight to be amongst musicians again as I was today. Generous types who just want to get back to work. Indebted to Rebecca J at Premiere for the visit. We all just need to knuckle down: this is going to take a long time.

BBC Proms 2020 details announced and highlights selected

Many years ago when access to the Proms brochure and programme archive was as straightforward a process and leaping down the stairs at Broadcasting House and opening a cupboard, I recall stumbling on the Winter Proms season print and thinking how odd a concept it seemed. This, obviously, because it my mind the Proms is something that shapes the summer.

The idea that someone would even entertain the idea of mounting a similar kind of programme in the winter seems like a bizarre thing. Reading Alison Garnham’s chapter in the Proms history book edited by Nicholas Kenyon highlights that the then revival of the Winter Proms in 1947-52 brought the BBC into conflict with other concert promoters who smelled unfair competition. The season wasn’t financially viable either.

I digress. Kind of. Will this year’s Proms season announced today, if it was to be available in print, cast a similar spell on future fans furtively rifling through that same cupboard? I like to think so.

For someone like me – an unreliable, fickle and sometimes critical Proms devotee – there is little difference for me as a consumer this year as opposed to previous years. I’m a predominantly a listener. I prefer imagining the Royal Albert Hall as I listen on the radio. Memories collide. The unfamiliar is introduced. The summer is made sense of.

While its easy to scroll through the listings for this year’s season – 6 weeks of archive broadcasts across TV and radio plus two weeks of as yet-to-be-defined audience-free live performances – and think that this will be seen as a phoney season because I don’t have the choice to attend in person, the reality is that Proms 2020 is exactly what its always been: a series of concert broadcasts I can listen to on the radio. Only this year I get to browse through the past twenty years or so and relive some moments.

I’ve pulled-out a handful of things that catch my eye from a cursory glance of the list. But basically, the summer is sorted – an entire season of archive broadcasts. That, frankly, is good enough for me.

Thoroughly Good Highlights from BBC Proms 2020

Tavener’s The Protecting Veil (1989) – Tuesday 21 July – Radio 3

Norrington conducts Beethoven and Schubert (1989) – Monday 27 July – Radio 3

Sondheim at 80 (2010) – Friday 31 July – Radio 3

Richard Hickox (2006) – Sunday 2 August – Radio 3

Neville Marriner (1994) – Thursday 6 August – Radio 3

Rattle and Mahler’s Symphony of a Thousand (2002) – Sunday 9 August – BBC Four

Andrew Manze conducting Vaughan Williams Symphonies 4-6 – Tuesday 12 August – Radio 3

Argerich, Barenboim, and West-Eastern Divan Orchestra (2016) – Sunday 16 August – BBC Four

Kissin (1997) – Wednesday 19 August – Radio 3

Dudamel and the Simon Bolivar Orchestra (2007) – Sunday 23 August – BBC Four

Bernstein conducting the Vienna Philharmonic (1987) – Wednesday 26 August – Radio 3

Ibiza Prom (2015) – Friday 28 August – BBC Four

Rachmaninov Vespers (2017) – Sunday 6 September – Radio 3

Not and exhaustive list of my listening committments, but enough to delight and act as a substitute. What we need to do next is follow the Royal Albert Hall’s lead and make this count for classical music, live performance, and the wider arts. This season is the supporting evidence for the campaign audience, performers, and broadcasting organisations alike need to get behind: to reiterate the lifelong value of music in the minds of those who have the power to ensure the UK arts sector survives post-COVID19.

BBC Proms 2020 starts on Friday 17 July. Discover the full line-up on the BBC Proms 2020 website.

Borlotti Buitoni’s deft piece of comms

An unexpected delivery today through the letterbox. A spongy brown envelope in which was a tote bag and a face mask.

Inventive marketing I thought. Arresting communications, as I retrieved the Borlotti Buitoni Trust branded mask and bag.

I’ll admit that I still don’t like wearing a mask. It’s dehumanising. I hate not seeing other people’s smiles. Face masks feel like prisons. Middle class prison.

But it’s a punchy medium. Imagine having your key message emblazoned across someone else’s face. What would that message be? What would you say to others?

The bag was on reflection a far more sobering experience. I peered at the names printed on either side. A handful were familiar to me: previous podcastees; previous discoveries.

The inevitable questions arose. How are they faring? When will I hear them perform again? Will it really be next year at the earliest?

Yes. It will. And what I learned today is that there’s still a significant number of people who think that the money musicians earn from their craft is so small and insignificant as to not be worth banging the drum for.

That’s the next challenge. We need to go old school. We need to build more momentum. From the ground up. This campaign is a marathon not a sprint.

Ignorance, ineptitude, and inverse snobbery

I watched BBC Parliament Live today. I haven’t watched BBC Parliament since Brexit late-2019.

At one point the Leader of the Commons in his baggy double-breasted suit stood up to respond to Peter Bone’s (remember him?) nauseating platitudes about ‘English cricket’. If ever there was indisputable evidence of a gleeful sense of privilege and self-entitlement here it was.

Later, Rees-Mogg responded to a Conservative and then Labour MP about a call for a debate about how best to support the arts during the easing of lockdown. Twice came the response: “The Secretary of State is aware of the problems some areas of the economy are suffering.”

That’s all the arts gets in response to its present situation.

Elsewhere this week I’ve been reminded of the spectacular inverse snobbery that exists in the classical music world. For those keen to introduce the classical music canon to those who assume its not for them, there persists a view that being an advocate who knows anything about the classical music world is in itself A Bad Thing. Yes, there are those who believe that the problem with classical music is those who love classical music.

Imagine it for a moment. You’re someone who loves the thing you advocate. But there are those on one side who judge you for not knowing enough (because you didn’t go to Cambridge or Oxford), and even more unaware individuals who judge you even more harshly for following your passion and sating your appetite in a particular chosen field. Self-knowledge and first-person advocacy is an even worse educational crime it seems.

Imagine transposing that situation onto a film buff. No one unsure what film to watch at the cinema would actively criticise a film fan en-route to purchasing their ticket for knowing ‘too much’ about the medium they’re passionate about. You’d have to be a complete arsehole to dismiss anyone who knew less than you standing in the same queue. Why is there significantly less snobbery about film, but so much persistent snobbery about classical music? And is that inverse snobbery classical music (and possibly the wider-arts) biggest problem? And if it is, when did that start?

And given the situation I observed this afternoon as I glared at Jacob Rees-Mogg postulating about the joys of cricket and goading his opponents over which county will win when the game does start up again, why is this ignorance so pervasive when so many musicians livelihoods are under threat? Shouldn’t even the most ignorant and inarticulate have worked out by now that regardless of what music you play, the fact that you play music for money means its the economy you exist in that is worth supporting?

It seems not.

I am rudderless. Disconnected. Unrepresented in the present climate. And the focus of my attention seems still focussed on Westminster.

Earlier this week I trialled a coaching workshop – a session to help managers and those they interact with communicate more effectively face-to-face. I worked with a musician friend of mine to introduce the basics of coaching to friends and associates.

It was a collaborative experience. It was also dynamic in that I was responding to what was going on in the group (hence why often the best thing for a plan is for the plan to be left to one side). At its simplest level it was a teaching experience – an opportunity to share skills which I often take for granted. Skills which at the same time also have provided me with life-changing experiences. I was reminded at the end of it that I’d wanted to be a teacher.

I’ve written about why I wanted to be a teacher and why it didn’t happen in longer form in a previous post. For those that haven’t read that, it’s the pervasive thoughts about Westminster which are probably most relevant here.

A few weeks ago a colleague offered to facilitate an introduction to the Secretary of State for Education Gavin Williamson (this after I had explained to the colleague, and on a blog post, how a Department for Education wonk back in 1994 had judged me unfit to teach children on account of being a perceived ‘threat’). I thanked the colleague for the consideration and the kind offer, later concluding to myself that Williamson’s politics made it unlikely I could even respond to an email from the man let alone expect a favourable review of my case.

The Wonk’s decision-making back in 1994 aligned with Jacob Rees-Mogg’s disdainful response to reqeusts for arts support meld into one ball of unmanageable vileness that I’m now, metaphorically speaking, throwing in the direction of Oliver Dowden, the Secretary of State for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport. I can’t and won’t blame him for everything. I’m not a complete arsehole. He’s, like Rupert Christiansen rather clumsily suggested earlier today, basically a good man.

But why do the things we cherish, the things we strive for, the things that make sense for all – why do they get trampled on so brutally?

What I conclude the day thinking as I try to wrestle with all of these seemingly disparate thoughts, is this.

People hate passion. They despise enthusiasm. They are threatened by it.

In the face of these seemingly intimidating traits the majority devolve personal responsibility, reaching instead for tired tropes or misformation to mask their own ignorance and insecurities. The things that bring us long-lasting meaningful pleasure – the thing we want others to experience in a similar way to us – are the very things that the majority look down their noses at because they think its more difficult to experience than it really is.

Why should I feel guilty for that?

As long as that view is prevalent there is little point in trying to get people to experience the arts or even entertain the idea of it: the people who make the decisions will trample on the very thing we hold dear.

James Recknell

I learned over the weekend that a relative in my musical family had passed away. Cancer had taken hold; COVID had made remission unlikely.

A family mourns. The need to reflect and pay tribute must be met.

Don’t worry. It won’t be mawkish.

James – tall, bedecked in a strange wirey beard – navigated the creaks of the music department floorboards with the same light touch he adopted at the keyboard. That was partly why he was so good at sight-reading. So very able to turn his hand to seemingly anything put on the piano in front of him. So seemingly at ease improvising at his students endless demands.

He adopted the same verve conducting a choir, galvanising an army of otherwise reluctant pupils to participate in the annual carol service. He never made the occasion about him; he allowed us the opportunity to make it ours instead.

It wasn’t an easy sell. I understand that now. Music was never the valued education stream the school I attended should have seen it. They were too focussed on sport. That I didn’t appreciate that tension at the time illustrates the way in which James’ energies were focussed on making the best of an otherwise challenging situation. Those with the talent he made full use of – teachers and pupils.

I benefited from both. When you hear someone better than you, or observe someone working harder than you, you can’t help but try and emulate them (even if you know full well you’ll never be as good as them).

One day during a clarinet lesson with my teacher Mrs Filby, I signalled my hope to play in the school production of South Pacific. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to play the part,” replied my teacher. “Maybe we should ask Mr Recknell.”

So we asked Mr Recknell. And he agreed with Mrs Filby. This wasn’t the response I had been hoping for. Not at all. Nor was my response. “I think I’d like to try. Couldn’t I try?”

A few weeks later, I played second clarinet to Mrs Filby’s first in the band for Culford School’s production of South Pacific.

From that point on I’ve revelled in the way I respond to people saying ‘No’. The people James Recknell brought to Culford School showed me what was worth working towards. And he was the first person to try and say no to me. That kind of lifelong education is invaluable.

Fifteen or so years after I left Culford School I emailed James Recknell asking him whether he’d be up for making a film that explored the things that kids responded to when they heard classical music for the first time they heard it. To my surprise and delight he said yes. He was game. Open. Willing. I appreciated that. He lined me up with a member of his team who sat to one side whilst I performed “experiments” on his class. It was only during the filming I realised that the room we were in was in fact the room I had that fateful clarinet lesson in nearly twenty years before.

After the filming we talked about the quality of the streams on the then named ‘Listen Again’. I extended my heartfelt apologies, adding that I agreed wholeheartedly with what he was saying but had absolutely no control over the quality of the output. He was, just as he was twenty or so years before, utterly charming about it.

I owe James a lot. He created a space for me to realise my own musicality such as it is. He brought me into contact with people who spurred me on. He prepared fertile ground for a lifelong love of classical music and appreciation of music-making. Only last year he was playing concerts in West Suffolk. My only regret is that I didn’t line up my schedule quickly enough pre-COVID to offer my thanks in person.

UK orchestras in a post-lockdown world: a warning shot from The Guardian, and a hint of resilience and determination from The Times

Charlotte Higgin’s article in The Guardian “‘We could go to the wall in 12 weeks’ – are we just going to let classical music die?” makes for grim if not entirely unsurprising reading. It also makes the prospect of any series of concerts broadcast from the Royal Albert Hall in late summer look a little like the UK orchestral’s scene a macabre kind of last hurrah, especially if as the Royal Albert Hall and the Southbank Centre have signalled recently, their days are numbered if action isn’t taken soon.

Higgins lays it on the line:

“There is a deep contrast beginning to open up between the UK and much of continental Europe. For our neighbours, public investment in culture is much greater, and organisations are less reliant on box-office income, so the Covid-19 crisis is not an existential one, as it is in the UK. And there has been silence from the upper echelons of government.” 

There is an irony to the timing to the piece (or maybe in reality it was in reaction to last week’s much-needed circling around DCMS Secretary of State tweet quoting a rather meaningless statistic about young people listening to orchestral music).

Dowden said: “Our culture and creativity are Britain’s greatest strengths so I want them to be open to all. Really encouraging stat from @BBCArts. #CultureinQuarantine about how younger people are turning to orchestral music during lockdown.”

You’d think that someone with a portfolio like Dowden’s would think twice before putting a tweet out like that (or that whoever is running his social media for him would make sure both they and him are across his brief). Quite apart from the fact that the figure appears not to be attributed to anything or anybody, the story that isn’t told by the spectacular grandstanding here is that orchestras can’t perform if the venues where they can drive revenue can’t open.

But of course, they can’t because no one in government really gives a shit.

Elsewhere in the press, Neil Fisher from The Times reports on Grange Opera and highlights a finer point which may be overlooked by a lot of people, the challenge presented by venues being in the locations they are and the impact that has on the willingness of audience in a post-lockdown world to travel there.

“Concert halls may have the infrastructure, and the BBC the players, but their very location in city centres works against them. “How are people going to get to a theatre in the middle of London?” asks Brabbins, thinking of the Coliseum, the home of English National Opera (ENO). Which is why the Theatre in the Woods may present at least an interim solution. There are no public foyers for dangerous mingling, there are ample car-parking spaces and it’s only about an hour’s drive from central London.”

The article confirms what I’d thought a few months back that there will be a critical point in the narrative when classical has a different story to tell – the struggle to get back to their normal – and the opportunities that offers for various different ensembles (and their PR staff) to tell a story and raise awareness. Abbey Road Studios were first out of the traps last week with a strangely uplifting selection of social media posts which gave a little hope for the future.

Grange Opera’s coverage from Fisher essentially promos a video production of a performance for streaming on the internet later in the month – part of its ‘Found Season’ substituting its postponed 2020 season (similar then to Aldeburgh’s endeavour announced yeserday).

But The Times article leads on arresting visuals of a socially-distanced orchestra and an isolated audience member. It’s evocative and perhaps even gives a false sense of hope. It’s intended to communicate a sense that the classical music world has a hard-edged kind of resilience with a spirited determination – a view reminiscent of the war-related tropes handed out like candy when Boris Johnson was in hospital with coronavirus.  

Both remind me that advocates like me need to be in this for the long game, looking out for the innovation, as well as supporting the artists, ensembles and organisations which are having to adopt a long-range strategy and cling-on in the meantime. I’m veering more on the negative side like John Gilhooly in Higgin’s Guardian article: between now and the end of September, we’re going to start hearing about venues and ensembles completely shutting down. That’s going to be a painful series of posts to write.

More about the Lockdown Wigmore Hall Concerts

I was originally going to write at length (again) about the Wigmore Hall concerts this week. But, you’ll be relieved to read that I won’t.

There isn’t too much more to say, other than how the mere experience of them as a viewer after an extended period of time denied access to high quality live performance virtually, digitally or in person triggers all sorts of thoughts and feelings in response.

The elegant simplicity of Wigmore Hall’s live stream video presentation makes the story that emerges from the gaps in the concert experience electrifying. This week I’ve been obsessed with the things I can’t experience first-hand and the way my imagination leaps in to fill the resulting vacuum.  

I’ve spent most of this week watching the YouTube stream wondering about how WH Chieftain John Gilhooly, presenter Andrew McGregor and the assembled musicians say to one another on arrival at Wigmore Hall. Nobody hugs, I’m sure. But how do they greet each other? Do they smile apologetically? Do they jump up and down with excitement? Do they, like I think I’d probably do, sob in front of one another? Or do they just shrug their shoulders and resolve to just get on with it?

The theatre of the visuals only adds to the pathos. Concert producer, concert presenter and performers appear ‘in vision’ – without an audience what we see is a sort of laboratory version of music-making.

As an audience member I find that difficult, on the one hand, though not necessarily for the reasons you might at first think.

Classical music actually does poignancy really well. We can create an unifying event with music, especially when it’s been denied for a while. You only have to look at Menuhin and Britten in the aftermath of the Second World War, or Barenboim and du Pre in the sixties and seventies to see that classical musicians have an enviable range of repertoire at their disposal to help heal wounds and map out a path.  

So, when I see an empty auditorium I don’t think that me and others like me should be there. I see a narrative in flow: that those on stage are keeping everything warm for us the audience member.

There was a sense watching Nicholas Daniel, and pianists Pavel and Sampson that they and others like them would continue to play for as long as they needed or wanted to. That they would play – patiently, resolutely – until we the audience returned.

Musicians right now whether it’s in locked-down concert halls or playing live from their front rooms and giving us the audience a call to arms. The rest of us are waiting for the barriers to be dismantled. And they will. Eventually.