Berberis' World

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.