It was a warm, clear, early autumn evening, and the absence of rain had attracted a better than average number to the concert. The town centre was in full flow as usual, with the pubs, the restaurants and the coffee bars doing good business. High in the sky, the stars were bright; there was the distant mini-roar and the green wing light of an aircraft on its way to northern Europe. There were plenty of people about; the town had a good reputation regarding the lack of major crime. Unlike many other places of a similar size, which faded away after five thirty, this place had something of nightlife. Not as good as one would get in continental Europe, nothing like it. However, for here, it ranked quite high. Along the northern side of the main square, the trees were beginning to shed their leaves. The council workers, in their fluorescent jackets, early tomorrow would begin to sweep them up.
Apart from the watering holes, the square had a number of well-known High Street stores, but the main building was the theatre. It had taken a number of years to build, and was finally completed in 1901. The exterior were the same grey materials found elsewhere in the town, and it had a very presentable façade. But it was the interior that people really noticed. The walls were made of rich-grained wooden panels in a warm light brown, and the seats were ruby, but with the comfort of soft leather. The acoustics were near perfect; not as perfect as the most technological of the late twentieth century, but few worried about that. The important thing was, to most people, that you came thinking you would have a good evening out; you went for a meal afterwards, or or a drink or two, or maybe back home. But you knew that your expectations of a good night out would come to fruition.
The theatre attracted the kind of actors, entertainers and musical groups of a better quality and greater fame than the size of the town would suggest. The season might well include a couple of nights of well-known country and western performers, two or three jazz groups that always sold out, an Eastern European orchestra or two, and dance companies from such places as Cuba and Africa. For a town of its size, it did rather well.
This evening though, was a bit special, even for the town. Tonight, there was to be a concert by a young Russian pianist, Igor Yegennyi, had won, a year earlier, the prestigious Tchaikovsky Piano Competition. He was only twenty-two at the time. He had already built up a strong reputation, and an even bigger following. He had recorded two Rachmaninov piano concertos, and the Greig. He had become, almost overnight, the third best selling classical pianist in the last thirty years. The second part of the concert had one work, a new piece by a composer from north-eastern Russia. It was beginning to get quite a name, not least because of the length; people who had heard it were full of praise, thinking it one of the major works of the past half century. The tickets for this concert had sold out within hours of going on sale. The theatre had about one thousand seats, and for many of the events there, there would be a ninety percent plus of capacity. Tonight, though, would be a full house, in spite of the minor increase in ticket price.
The crowd was beginning to get bigger in the foyer, as curtain call came near. The theatre filled up, and there was the sound of quiet chatter and the orchestra tuning up. The lights went dimmer, and the leader came on, to warm applause.
A minute later, the conductor, an old man with a white beard, came on, turned to the audience, bowing. He was one of these musicians who, whilst not having become a major household name, had a solid and quality reputation among musician and the musical public alike. He had gone to a number of major venues around the world with this orchestra, and he had guest conducted some of the really big ones.
He turned around, paused, raised the baton, and they began. It was an old favourite, Glinka’s ‘Ruslan and Ludmilla'. It had everything that one wanted in an overture: the striking chords and timpani at the beginning, the rich, soaring melody that lapsed into the minor, then the rather mouse-like pattering in the centre, followed by the rousing conclusion. The audience, like audiences everywhere, gave it warm applause. The conductor turned to the theatre, and bowed, before asking the orchestra to rise. A minute or so later, he left the stage.
The theatre staff began to roll the piano into place and to check it was alright. The audience were clearing their throats and talking in a muted way. The place fell silent. A couple of minutes later, through the door came the pianist, followed by the conductor. There was much warm applause. They both stood centre stage, the conductor slightly to one side, giving prominence to the young pianist. The latter turned to the orchestra, and briefly shook hands with the leader.
The pianist went to the piano, sitting down with care and precision. He adjusted the seat, and checked the keyboard. He looked intently at the keyboard for a few second, breathed in, and raised his head. He looked at the conductor and gave a light nod. The conductor waited, the baton held in both hands in front of him, and the music began. This was the Rachmaninov, one of the most famous piano concerto openings of all time. The piano, beginning quietly, in the space of a few bars, began to resonate throughout the hall with the final descending chords of the solo beginning, to be joined by the orchestra in a thick, rich theme. They played with a passion and intensity of those whose life is music, and whose music is their life. The first, second, and then third movement came and went. At the end, there was a standing ovation, both for the young man of course, but also for the fine orchestra and their warm contribution. A young woman entered the stage with a large bouquet of flowers and presented them to the pianist. The applause continued. It was clear that he was not going to get away quite so soon. He was about to lay the bouquet on the floor by one of the legs of the piano, when the woman motioned that she would take it. He handed the flowers, and took his seat again. The theatre went silent.
He paused for a short time, and then began to play. At first, it was so quiet that the audience had to cock their heads slightly to catch the soft notes, but after that, the music became a little louder. It was not a work well known in this country.
Many in the audience assumed it was some kind of Russian folk melody. It sounded like one, which was true. It went on, the piano evoking the sound of birds, and traditional dance, of water in the mountains, of snow and cold, of many other things people associate with the vastness of Russia. The music went into a whisper, and left. There was a long wait. The pianist was sitting, leaning forward, head bowed to the piano. He looked asleep. Then, he straightened up, to warm applause yet again from the one thousand people in the auditorium. He got up, walked to the centre of the stage, and bowed. He then shook hands with the conductor and the leader of the orchestra. The applause continued for a full minute; the pianist acknowledging the cheers with a nod of his head and a mouthing of ‘thank you’, again and again.
Then the pianist, conductor and orchestra left the stage for their break. Many of the audience did the same. The theatre had a decent reputation for food and drink, and the bar area was soon full. There would be about twenty minutes before the concert resumed. It was now about 8
20pm. Through the windows, one could see the still night had changed into a wet and windy one. A light drizzle was coming down, the kind of rain that heralded something much worse, nine times out of ten. A couple of the trees shivered slightly as the chilly breeze caught them.
‘Why does it always do this?’ a man in his fifties said to the woman with him. His complexion was weather-beaten; he might be a farmer or a veterinary surgeon.
‘Oh, don’t moan. You expect this in the west of the country. You’re out in it all the time and you don’t complain then.’
She was a good-looking woman, in a maroon trouser suit.
‘I’m not moaning, I’m just asking why it has to rain when we come out for an evening.’
She answered him, but it was not clear. Near the woman were many others engaged in casual talk, in twosomes, or in groups of three and four. The whole place seemed to hum gently with silent, prestigious and wholesome energy. The twenty or so minutes passed, and it was time to back into the theatre auditorium. The bar area emptied, and only the few staff and the used glasses, cups and saucers were left. The lights of the bar were augmented by the reflection of the colours of the labels of hanging bottles, and nametags on the top of the draught pumps. One of the bar staff had walked over to one of the windows. She was peering out. She turned to her colleague.
‘Hey, take a look at this. The wind’s picking up.’
The other girl came over, peering through he window.
‘That’s odd, that is. They didn’t mention anything about snow.’
They went across to tell the others.
In the auditorium, the people began to settle down for the final part of the concert. The interval drinks were taking effect, as a wave of relaxation wandered around the place. The orchestra were getting into place. The oboe sounded the A, and section by section, the orchestra began to tune up.
The final work of the evening was a one hour ten minute offering, for a full orchestra, including harp and piano, with soprano. It was called ‘In Exploration of the Truth of Time’, by a modern composer from eastern Russia, Rhir Rhemochahu, of whom little was known. He was highly thought of in Russian classical music circles, and that he came from near Irkutsk, and was a lecturer in twentieth century music. The work was largely unknown to western audiences, and the programme note, written by a music critic with one of the major newspapers, had said, in an indirect way, that people in a small borders market town were privileged to get to hear this work. This was implying that the ‘arts’ crowds of the cities were a little unhappy that they were unable to hear the work first. Many people from the area who had read the comments had thought him arrogant and patronizing. There was life, both physical and musical, away from the capital and the southeast, which is where the bulk of the population were; not everyone in the shires was ignorant or coarse. The critic had remarked that few people knew of the piece, a few had heard it on shortwave; few, if any, had heard it in a live concert. Nobody, for some strange reason, had recorded it, although it was quite clear that the sheer length was a major obstacle in itself. In this regard, the critic went on, it was reminiscent of the works, big and protracted, of the Englishman Havergill Brian. It was thought to be very testing to play, and needed an orchestra of considerable versatility to perform it well. The main part of the work was actually written for a film of the same name, but then the composer had expanded and extended the work.
The leader entered to applause, and then the soprano, followed by the conductor. The singer was a tall, nicely proportioned and good-looking woman, whose long pale green gown contrasted with the white shirts and grey suits of the men in the orchestra. She had shoulder length blonde hair. The programme notes said the she too, was from the east of Russia; her name was Anna Ontechkara. One would imagine that she might be part Asian. She bowed slightly, and then looked at the conductor. Once again, he bowed to the audience, turned to the orchestra, and the music began. In the beginning, there were a few chords, raucous, ear splitting, and almost torturing, as if the players were testing their instruments to the limit; the listeners were jolted out of their passivity. The few who had bothered to read the programme notes carefully were amused at the sudden intake of breath, and the contemporaneous jerking of nearly a thousand people. This was, some of them thought, the reason for it. In that sense, it was little different to Haydn’s Surprise Symphony. But, one might argue, at least he had allowed the listeners a little peace and quiet first. After the quake, it became slow and quiet in no time at all. The flutes did their usual job of creating the image of the wind blowing, using an assortment of chromatic scale, backed by the upper strings. The bassoons and double basses punctuated the body of harmony with nasal pizzicato. From time to time, flashing brass seared the score, igniting the notes around them. It was time for the soprano. She launched into a chant, her near three-octave voice resonating around the hall.
The energy and speed of nature are beginning to clash, and the rain is beating down on a desolate landscape of exposed igneous rocks, the typhoon is blasting the coast, seething in agony, cutting and opening, ripping out the interior. In the desert, the abrasion of weathering is scratching away at a million rock surfaces, and in the snow-covered mountains, the winds tear at the atmosphere, and the avalanches break anything.
The music goes on, both musicians and audience rapt in intensity, oblivious to noise, sweat, stiffness and thirst. The music shifts into another gear, and begins to explore space; cold and remote notes, cadences replace the fire and water rhythm of the earth. She sings in a low, long way, undulating with an inescapable magnetism; the audience is hardly able to breathe.
In the auditorium, some members of the audience began to draw their jackets around
themselves, as if to seek protection from the imaginary chill of the music. The music goes up and down, in and out, soft and loud, fast and slow, a veritable concoction of sounds, of harmony, chords, scale, melody, rhythm, long notes, short notes, soprano and no soprano. Now the piano, in vibration like a container lorry, the brass being the effect of the ship’s foghorn, now the soft harp, the notes that try to tingle, like frost of an winter’s night.
The howl of the whale as the harpoon hits in,
as pictured by the blasting of the trumpets, and the pounding heart felt by the echoing of the timpani. Without warning, the music stop, suddenly, with no one expecting it. One minute the hall is humming with noise, the next, there is the silence that might exist on the moon. There is no movement, none whatsoever. After what appears to be an age, the soprano is raising her head, and looking at the audience. The conductor is turning too. The strings, wind, brass, percussion are leaning back in their chairs, breathing in, heads bowed, their mouths slightly open.
The auditorium begin to resound to the applause, going on and on for a full two minutes. In between, both the soprano and conductor exit the stage, only to reappear for a further outburst of cheering from the audience. A young woman, the theatre deputy manager, and a man come onto the stage with a bouquet each. They present these to the conductor and soprano. The applause, at long last, begins to fade away, and the orchestra go off, too.
The members of the audience are making their way out of the auditorium and into the bar area and then down the stairs to the reception. There is animated chatter amongst some, just a weak, tiring silence with others. People are beginning to put on their coats in anticipation of the autumnal ten pm chill that will be there, no matter what the day temperature has reached. In latitudes as high as these, once the sun goes down, the drop in temperature is efficient and quick. The lights in the theatre are dimming, and those at the rear can see that the auditorium lights are off. The first people are by the entrance doors to the theatre.
They are met by a scene of physical carnage. A number of young trees are down, their trunks broken, the branches ripped off. It is clear that the wind must have reached a high speed, tearing away at anything in its path. Rubbish lay everywhere, decorating in obscene fashion the coating of pure white snow covering the market square, the roof tops of the buildings, tucking in around the pipes and guttering, the benches, the tops of the cars. It is clear that the snow must have come down with some force. The people who get their wits together are beginning walking, finding the snow coming up to their ankles. The woman in the maroon trouser suit pulls her coat around her, turning to her husband, who is watching in amazement.
‘Now you have something to moan about.’
He turns to her in the oncoming wind,
‘After a concert like that, I have nothing to moan about.’
They clasp hands and begin to walk away, followed by the others.
It wis then they begin to notice that almost all the glass in the shop fronts is broken, huge cracks running along them here; there, the glass has shattered and fallen into the street. The woman is looking up.
‘See there, the tiles are missing.’
Her husband is squinting in the wind, and then they bow their heads, hunch their shoulders again. After ten minutes or so, the market square is quiet again, people having gone home. The orchestra is on the bus, off to their next concert, meaning they won’t get to bed much before 2 am the next morning. Now, we have an eerie quiet overlooking the chaos. The late walkers, the theatre staff, look up and walk on. There is nothing they can do anyway; they know the council workmen will be here first thing in the morning. In the cold, clear night sky, the moon is watching, attended by millions of stars, watching over the desolate and yet rather calm looking place. There is no noise at all; total emptiness is reigning now.
The next morning came. It was a warm day. The first people in the square were the council workmen - and woman. They wore green overalls with a reflective yellow jacket; a couple of the men were wearing shorts. The young trees were showing the new buds of spring, the sky was clear and the early morning sun brought warmth even at this hour. Thee workers collected the rubbish, much of it by now having thrown itself against building wall for protection. They didn’t take long; the sacks were thrown into the lorry, its orange light in a struggle to be seen in the yellow glow of the morning.
‘Are you going to see the cricket later this afternoon?’ one of the workmen asked his colleague.
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘a few of us will be there; you coming too? There’ll be some good cricket on a day like this.’
The other laughed.
‘Yes, if the batsmen can keep their eye on the ball. The whole lot were out for ninety the other week; bloody shambles. They call themselves a first class county. The college second eleven would give them a run for your money; championship material? No hope.’
They went off, the fading engine of the lorry being replaced by the sound of the birds on the buildings and the branches, their twittering in contrast to the silence of the morning air; maybe the birds too, would be at the cricket this afternoon; they enjoy their time in May.
