Sign of the times

A small park in London,  children everywhere.   Sign on the gate:

 “No unaccompanied adults”.

I wonder why.....

Toot, toot!

The Proms have been trying in recent years to shake off the fusty image.  Certainly the old dress code – if there ever was one – has gone, almost to the point where dressing down is de rigueur.

But some old habits die hard.  The programme is full of adverts for expensive schools, restaurants and gifts.  I was particularly amused – I think that’s the right word - by one offering model railway engines badged with the name of the recipient’s  school.  (“One For The ‘Old Boy’”.)

On offer were Eton, Harrow, Charterhouse and Marlborough.   But not, as far as I could make out, Plaistow Secondary Mod.    Or any of its ilk. 

Price :  £545 each, if you are interested. 

Public schoolboys and train sets.  The cliché lives on.  

Germanic....perhaps

The mighty Berliner Philharmoniker:  one of the greatest, if not the greatest, orchestras in the world and with a proud tradition going back 130 years.

I had always assumed – and, yes, assumptions are dangerous things – that its ranks would be made up of haughty Germans, born and bred.  But, like football teams, this is clearly no longer the case.

We went to a pre-Proms event  featuring three members of the Berlin Phil -  french-horn,  viola and  double-bass.  

The compere  knowingly asked them to introduce themselves and say where they came from.  The result:  Two Americans and an Aussie, and with broad dialects to match. 

Apparently nearly half of the orchestra are now non-native, as it were. 

I was left wondering why I  -  and, I suspect, most of the audience – were so surprised.  

Rattle and roll

I’m not usually a name-dropper, but...  

We were in London for our wedding anniversary and treated ourselves to a box (oh yes!) at the Proms for the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra and their conductor – a musical hero of mine – Sir Simon Rattle.

It was a wonderful concert, opening with Ligeti’s Atmospheres.  An unusual piece, and so rich in texture that you could almost reach and touch it.  It ended with a diminuendo to profound silence.  But Sir Simon kept beating time and, without a break, the high strings moved seamlessly into Wagner’s shimmering Lohengrin prelude. 

Atmosphere piled on Atmospheres.  It was a moment of musical intensity that reduced me to tears. 

On the Saturday, we were walking in a small park in Bloomsbury.  And there,  relaxing with his family,  was Simon Rattle.  I told him how moved I had been.  He showed what appeared to be genuine interest, and we exchanged a few words about the concert.

He could easily have shooed me away as he probably gets a fair bit of unwanted attention.  But he didn’t.  And I feel  richer for meeting him.