I can’t remember the last time the words ‘a live stream’ had been quite so an exciting prospect. In the run up to it I wasn’t entirely sure why, but it was exciting enough to insist of moving my laptop, phone and notebook to the sofa to watch on the ‘Big Screen’ downstairs in the lounge.
I sat in considerable anticipation, staring at the screen, leaning in to what I thought I heard as someone bashing at a laptop keyboard. Had there been some kind of technical error? Was there someone there? Was this all just another pre-recorded YouTube premiere, or were we going to see Stephen Hough on stage at Wigmore Hall playing something or other?
When the shot did change to reveal an empty Wigmore Hall I admit, for no reason I can immediate explain, I cried a bit. I miss the sense of occasion. I miss the people. I miss the escape. As lovely as it is to experience something ‘sort of live’, it all seems cruel. Here, a gift from the classical musical world to those who feel most at home in it, we’re reminded of the ineptitude, double talk, lies, and deceit that means the thing we love will remain out of our reach for all too many months to come.
Look at it this way. Hough’s Wigmore recital was the present-day digital manifestation of the Tristan chord: yearned for but ultimately destructive.
Hough’s performance was both electrifying and crushing. Uplifting and cruel. The wait is too long.
I miss the people who make this kind of magic come to life. I miss the peers who clap excitedly in response to it in the same way I do.
But we have (effectively) a month of daily performances like this to follow. Thank fuck for that.
