Berberis' World

Saturday, 17th December 2005, St Mary’s Church, Lewisham.

Magnificat – Paul Patterson

Carols for choir and audience: Once in Royal David’s City/O Magnum Mysterium (Gabrieli)/The Cherry Tree Carol/Of the Father’s Heart Begotten/Hodie Christus Natus Est/Stille Nacht/Hark! The Herald Angels Sing/Here We Come A-wassailing/While Shepherds Watched/The Twelve Days of Christmas.

Conducted by Stefan Reid and Andrew Dutson

Accompanied by The Aurelian Ensemble

Trumpets: Alex Cromwell, Dom Field, Giles Liddiard, Ruth Woodhams

Trombones: Lewis Edney, Robb Tooley, Robert Workman

Tuba: Simon Roberts

Timpani and percussion: Sacha Johnson, Emily Morris

The opening piece was Magnificat (Opus 75, 1993) by Paul Patterson.

The last Magnificat we sang was by Cecilia McDowall, and I’m afraid that – for me – both that and this work by Paul Patterson suffer from the same thing: trying too hard. For this Magnificat, it was the the trumpets, the syncopation, the tambourine, the lack of any identfiable melody, the overall twee-ness. None of this is the fault of the composer or the musicians – the tingle factor was, for me, competely absent. So it was a good thing we sang it first to get it out of the way, leaving the carols for the much more traditional, and peronsally enjoyable, second half.

Saturday, 12th March 2005, St Mary’s Church, Lewisham.

Matthias: Shakespeare Songs: Under the greenwood tree/Full fathom five/Lawn as white as driven snow/Sigh no more, ladies/Crabbed age and youth/Dirge/It was a lover and his lass/Blow, blow, thou winter wind

Solos by Kate Mapp: Who is Sylvia? (Franz Schubert)/Full fathom five (Robert Johnson)/Who is Sylvia? (Gerald Finzi)

Shearing: Songs and Sonnets from Shakespeare: Live with me and be my love/When daffodils begin to peer/It was a lover and his lass/Spring(when daises pied)/Who is Sylvia?/Fie on sinful fantasy/Hey, ho, the wind and the rain

Solos by Kate Mapp: It was a lover and his lass (Roger Quilter)/Take, O, take those lips away (Madeline Dring)/When daisies pied (Thomas Arne)/The Compleat Works (John Dankworth)

Rutter: Birthday Madrigals: It was a lover and his lass/Draw on, sweet night/Come live with me/My true love hath my heart/When daisies pied

I preferred the Rutter to the Shearing, which was a little too ‘Sing Something Simple’ for my taste.

Saturday, 11th December 2004, St Mary’s Church, Lewisham.

This concert opened with the standard Once in royal David’s city, before the main feature Ottorino Respighi’s Lauda per la Nativita del Signore.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that Ottorino Respighi was old. Renaissance old, rather than chronologically. Perhaps it’s the name. But no. Maestro Respighi was born in 1879 and died, somewhat earlier than he might have wanted, in 1936. Positively modern.

It’s much more to do with the fact that the depth and breadth of my musical knowledge is woefully inadequate. The most basic research reveals that Respighi was deeply interested in music from the 16th and 17th century, and it sounds like it, too.

I don’t mean that in a disparaging way; it’s actually a very lovely piece. We were accompanied by The Aurelian Woodwind Ensemble, using the original instrumentation.

Also on the menu: O come, O come, Emmanuel – Adam lay ybounden – I sing of a maiden – Of the Father’s Heart begotten – Nativity Carol – Myn lyking – Run, Shepherds, Run! & The Three Kings by Jonathan Dove – O come, all ye faithful – Sir Christemas

Soloists for the Respighi were Rosalind Waters (soprano), Kate Mapp (mezzo-soprano), Vernon Kirk (tenor). Katrine Reimers and Robert Hunter played the piano, and Andrew Dutson the organ.

Saturday, 14th November 2004, Broadway Theatre, Catford.

I learned to read music in the same manner that I learned German; (a) because I had to and, subsequently, (b) without a great deal of enthusiasm. Therefore, as I struggled to learn this new and strange language which was the choral movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, at break-neck speed, it became increasingly obvious that I should have paid more attention in lessons. The text I could do – the little dots on sticks were far more daunting.

Chorus Director Stefan Reid instructed, cajoled, and encouraged us to infuse our performance with the zeal Beethoven heard in his head. To be fair, poor old Ludwig could only hear it in his head, being almost totally deaf when he composed it. I think it shows; lots of high As for the sops (which he may have been able to hear) and not much of interest for anyone else. As a mezzo soprano (a.k.a. contralto or, incorrectly but most commonly, alto) the 9th is pretty dull.

However, when you’re on stage, one small step from a four-foot drop into the orchestra’s brass section, large bright lights shining in your eyes, in front of a live audience who’ve actually paid to be there, it becomes the most terrifying roller-coaster ride since the Corkscrew at Alton Towers.

Under the energetic baton of Robert Trory, it was over almost before I realised, and I found myself standing with a huge and stupid grin on my face as the audience expressed their approval in the time-honoured but bizarre tradition of slapping your palms loudly together. It was hugely exhilarating and instantly addictive. I came off stage wanting to sing the whole thing again immediately.

I’d like to thank the Academy… no. I want to thank my GP who, when I was suffering from chronic depression, referred me to a project designed to get the chronically depressed doing something they enjoyed. I enrolled on an acapella singing course run by a smiling lady with a guitar who, every Monday between 10 and 12, taught us new songs and old songs and, crucially, that it is possible to perform solo in front of an audience (albeit a very small one) and not die from the gut-roiling, heart-pounding, skin-crawling, sweaty palmed terror. Thanks, Dr P and Annie.

“It’s all bollocks, all of it; astrology, numerology, palm reading, tarot, iridology… All total crap. Don’t believe a word of any of it.”

“You are so cynical! Not even in a slight, could-be-persuaded kind of way, just plain old sceptical through and through.”

“That’s me… don’t believe in any of it.”

“Is it the randomness of it that bothers you? The ‘how can this apply to so many people’ kind of thing?”

“Well, it’s that with the astrology. I mean, how many people are there in the world? Ten billion? Ok, let’s assume it’s six billion for argument’s sake. Now, six billion people, who are all born in an even spread over the twelve months of the year, so we’ve got half a billion people who are born under the sign of … oh, let’s say Aries, just to pick one.”

“And because you’re one.”

“Maybe, don’t interrupt. So, there are half a billion people born under the same sign, all of whom are supposed to have the same personality traits, the same behavioural characteristics. The same physical shape and stuff like that. Are you telling me that if you were to read the daily forecast in the Sun or the Mirror or the Daily Star or whatever rag you read, then every single one of those half a billion people are going to be facing the same kind of day? I think not.”

“Yeah, but the things are so vague that they could apply to any one of them and, depending on how you interpret them, they could apply to all of the six or ten billion people in the world.”

“Your point?”

“Just because it doesn’t apply to you doesn’t mean it doesn’t apply to some of those half a billion. It depends on your interpretation.”

“Which is why they can’t possibly be accurate, because if they were anywhere near the truth they’d have to be about three pages long and cover every single birthday in that month.”

“You’ve had too much to drink and you’re rambling.”

“I’m stuffed. I think we should have stuck at two. Eyes bigger etcetera. Never happened before…”

“Oh, of course not. Like the beers have never happened.”

“Quite. And I think we should avoid the pub on the way home and not go in and drink several more pints of lager.”

“And them we should not go home drunk and put a film on and finish the contents of our drinks cabinet.”

“We don’t have a drinks cabinet.”

“I know that. Perhaps we should have. A pink and green luminous cocktail cabinet, maybe. Filled with the most revolting drinks we can think of.”

“Eggnog and ouzo. Brandy and… oh, let’s see, washing up liquid…”

“You’re disgusting. Can you imagine what that would taste like? Eeeeewww.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t have to wash the glass afterwards, would you?”

“Well, on that basis you could have red wine and meths. Or white wine and white spirit. No need to clean the glasses there, either.”

“Exactly. Besides, after two or three of them you wouldn’t actually be able to find the glasses to clean them.”

“Or give a fuck.”

“Or give a fuck indeed. Shall we have some more tea?”

“Yeah, and a couple of fortune cookies. I feel in the need for some papery sugary stuff.”

“Which stabs you in the mouth when you bite into it.”

“Of course. The taste of blood combines so well with the cookie itself.”

“A pleasurable eating experience all round, then.”

“You could say that.”

“I just did.”

“I know. Don’t be so only child.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“You do that only child thing. Whenever I make some off-hand comment about anything you have to analyse it to death and somehow the fun goes out of being sarcastic.”

“Ooooh! Excu-use me.”

“I should think so too. Taking everything so literally. It’s not normal.”

“Well that me, not normal. You’ve met my mother. How can I possibly be normal?”

“Hmm. You said it.”

“Which means that you can’t be normal ’cause you’re here having dinner with me.”

“Good God, so I am! How the fuck did that happen?”

“I got you drunk and got you on a bus.”

“You filthy old sod.”

“Do they have cameras on the upstairs of buses?”

“Chances are, knowing our luck, yes they do. And they are, as we speak, editing the film down for Police Camera Action, or whatever is currently showing the nation how fucking stupid people really are.”

“Police Camera Bollocks, more like. Some of those people on those videos should be sterilised to prevent them breeding.”

“I didn’t have you down for a eugeneticistic.”

“A what? How much have you had?”

“I’d like to know what they put in this tea…”

“It’s gunpowder green.”

“So, gunpowder them. That’s nice. Tastes lovely. Yum yum.”

“Let’s have some more.”

“Okay. Make mine a double.”

“Are you going to finish that duck?”

“Fuck a duck.”

“No thanks. Can I have it?

“You can indeed. It’s out of luck. It’s a fucked duck.”

“Stop it, they’re watching us. We’ll get kicked out.”

“We’re their best customers at this time of day, on this particular day.”

“For eating crispy fucked duck, we are.”

“Here, can we have some more of this?”

“You could say please.”

“Pleeeeeeeease?”

“You’ve embarrassed her now. Poor girl. I’m sorry about him, he’s an idiot.”

“Ah, but you love me.”

“According to our star signs we should be hideously incompatible.”

“We are.”

“Shut up. Now let’s see what that fortune cookie has in store for us. ‘Your destiny lies with a short man with green teeth.'”

“‘Made in China’.”

“Oh right. Like it’s not been brought in from Birmingham or somewhere. Why import these from China?”

“They get a good deal?”

“With the cost of sending them from Birmingham they probably do. I reckon it would cost them less to fly them from China than to send them down the M6.”

“And they’d get here quicker.”

“Of course.”

“So, you still think astrology is crap?”

“I do, and I’d be willing to stake my reputation on it.”

“What reputation? You don’t have one.”

“I could have. I could have a reputation as… ooh, the biggest twat in the world.”

“No you haven’t. I’ve seen it.”

“Gah! Stop that. Maybe I’m the nicest person in Poundstretcher on a Friday afternoon.”

“How hard would that be?”

“That’s unfair. Some of them are alright.”

“Your destiny is to be the most coherent person in the pub in about half an hour’s time.”

“We can soon put a stop to that.”

“As we ought to. You’re brilliant when you’re pissed.”

“You don’t half talk rubbish. How brilliant is anyone when they’re pissed?”

“You get all chatty and flirty and sexy. I like that.”

“You’re just a pervert.”

“Your point?”

“No, don’t have one.”

“Open that bloody cookie then. Let’s have a look. A lookie. A lookie in your cookie.”

“It says…. ‘Made in China’…. no it doesn’t. It says, ‘Made in Brumigham’… no! It actually says… ‘Help, I’m trapped in a fortune cookie!’…”

“No it bloody doesn’t. Don’t piss about. Gimme…”

“Oh go on. Give me that one.”

“Pig.”

“Oink.”

“It says… ‘Donkey’s lips do not fit onto a horse’s mouth.'”

“Eh? Now what the fuck does that mean?”

“It means a donkey won’t kiss a horse.”

“Like bollocks it does. I reckon it means that you can’t… you shouldn’t have botox injections. Or Angelina Jolie’s lips would look stupid on Jeremy Clarkson.”

“Well duh. She’s got nice lips, mind.”

“She’s gorgeous. I’d have her lips. She should give them to me.”

“Then her face would fray. Ugh. Let’s see what this one says… ‘No wind, no waves.'”

“No wind, no bad smell under the duvet.”

“Hmmm. Let’s have a handful more.”

“‘Vicious as a tigress can be, she never eats her own cubs.'”

“Lions do, y’know. If a lion finds some other lion cubs in his pride, he’ll kill them. Did you know that?”

“I know everything.”

“Then why isn’t your brain the size of a planet?”

“It is. Just a very small planet.”

“Liar.”

“I know.”

“What does that one say?”

“‘He who asks is a fool for five minutes, but he who does not ask remains a fool forever.'”

“It depends what you ask, I would think.”

“How about ‘Can we have some more tea’? or ‘Another portion of crispy duck, please’?”

“Would you like me to be sick over the table?”

“That’s not one.”

“Might well as be.”

“Eh?”

“Might as well be, I meant.”

“Fair enough. Here’s one. ‘To know the road ahead, ask those coming back.'”

“Very deep.”

“I liked that fool one, kind of reminds me of something.”

“Oh? What?”

“I wanted to ask you… will you marry me?”

“Where does it say that? Gimme that…”

“It doesn’t. I’m asking you. Will you marry me?”

“Umm… are you serious? Is this the drink talking? Or the duck? Quaack…”

“No, it’s me asking you if you will marry me. Trust you to take the piss…”

“You’re serious. Fuck!”

“Not here. But yes, I’m serious.”

“This one says ‘Be not afraid of growing slowly, be afraid only of standing still.'”

“Yes, but what do you say?”

“Yes.”

“So there is something in this astrology lark then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’ve made a decision based on the contents of a sugary papery thing. Some rationalist you are.”

“I never mentioned fortune cookies. I believe in them…”

“That’s fortunate.”

“No, that’s fortune, cookie.”

“That is so bad.”

“But you love me.”

“I do indeed.”

“Shall we toast our good fortune?”

“I thought you’d said yes…”

“Very funny.”

“More tea?”

“No, let’s go to the pub and get really drunk.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Cookie. I like that. I’m going to call you that from now on.”

“You dare.”

“You pay and I’ll take a pee. Meet you downstairs?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Duck off. Duck’s off.”

“That’s why I feel ill.”

“You do?”

“Don’t be so only child again.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I’ll live with it.”

“Hopefully.”

“I’ve said yes, haven’t I?”

“The fortune cookie said yes. You just agreed with it.”

“I’m bursting. We’ll continue this in the pub.”

“Take your knickers off too.”

“Bollocks.”