Berberis' World

Tuesday, 19th July 2011.

The time has come, the walrus said…

There are many, many quotes about failure to be found on the exponentially increasing fount of all knowledge good and bad and ugly, this being but one. This post’s title comes from one of Churchill’s.

I have to admit to more than a slight loss regarding something I’ve resisted writing about since it happened. However, time is indeed a great healer. New readers start here…

I joined the London Philharmonic Choir on 23rd July 2008, following a somewhat hurried audition by Matthew Rowe. Choir rules are that you must reaudition either every year or every three years, so I should have reaudtioned in 2010. At that time, the committee were way behind on their scheduling and each time I found out someone had been called to reaudition I breathed a sigh a relief for this… and began to panic anew. Inevitably, though, the committee finally got up to speed. Following a failed first attempt (when I didn’t get the summons until after a joint performance of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana) on February 21st, following a rehearsal of Elgar’s Dream of Gerontius, I steeled myself to (literally) face the music that was my reaudition.

Short story shorter: I failed. I was told afterwards, by genuinely sympathetic choir members that Neville let those who didn’t get through reaudition perform whichever piece was currently being rehearsed and, for a while, I did consider doing this. In the end, other commitments and a great deal of horribly wounded pride prevented me from doing so.

(Ironically, Dream of Gerontius is the piece I didn’t get to sing with LCS as I left before they started work on it. My score remains, as yet, unmarked.)

It was about a week before the realisation fully sank in. One evening, with the rest of the family out at the cinema (I hadn’t wanted to go to what was a techo-noise fest) I settled down with a bottle of wine to watch ‘Anchorman’. I had a good laugh before repairing to the study to listen to some music. Having the house to myself for the first time in ages, I intended to listen to some VERY LOUD music (or is that some music VERY LOUD?) probably to try to convince myself that, whatever I’d been told, I could still belt out a tune. Everything was going fine until I tried to get my PC to play music through the main speakers (via some little gizmo currently hanging innocently over the radiator). However, no matter what I did, this bloody thing would not work. After about an hour or so of changing settings, unplugging and replugging, rebooting and rebooting, I had had enough. A week’s worth of anger and embarrasment and frustration and, yes, grief at the loss boiled up and over and I retreated to bed to howl and cry like a wounded animal for what seemed like forever.

Immediately after this, I lost all interest in singing as well as all confidence in my ability. Even remembering the words of a much respected singing teacher didn’t help me, and I don’t think I sang anything (not one note) for about a month. Singing had been a major emotional outlet for almost 7 years and its loss was nothing less than a bereavement.

To be truthful, what hurt most is that I felt – still feel – that I simply capitulated. Whenever I think about what happened during that reaudition, there is a HUGE temptation to start every sentence with either ‘if only…’ or ‘what if…’

If only I’d said I had a sore throat… what if I’d actually read that book on sight singing?… if only I’d taken singing lessons… what if I’d done what I was supposed to do and wait to be invited in?… etc etc etc etc… The fact was that I hadn’t, I hadn’t, I hadn’t, and I hadn’t. The only person I can blame – if blame if the right word – is myself. I was responsible for what happened, and it hurt like hell. It still hurts, but less and less.

So, that’s it. I’m no longer a member of the London Philharmonic Choir. This means I will miss the Proms again. I’d been otherwise engaged previously – ironically, not this time – and was really looking forward to singing Verdi’s Requiem, as well as the Xmas performance of Beethoven’s 9th. (I may try to find a way to do the latter…)

I’ve not been completely idle, though. I recently sang in the 1000 voice choir for Karl Jenkins Peacemakers at Abbey Road, performed Carmina as part of the Really Big Chorus at the Royal Albert Hall and have (provisionally) joined another choir.

Nevertheless, I miss the challenge of working with a world class choir. Although it wasn’t the same after Steph left, I really do think I was up to the task; I practised at home, knew a lot of the pieces from memory but, on the day – when it really mattered – this obviously wasn’t enough. Maybe there’s a hidden agenda. Maybe whoever makes the decisions just want the choir to be the best it can be… I don’t know. I can’t know. And, ultimately, it doesn’t really matter now. I sang Brahm’s Deutsches Requiem on stage at the Royal Festival Hall under Yannick Nezet-Seguin, one of the most inspiring conductors I will ever work with. And it’s on CD. I’ll take that… with a great deal of enthusiasm.