Sharp-eyed readers might be a surprised that I have taken so long to write this up. I went to a concert last week at the Barbican. To be honest, I'm not really sure what to write about it. I arrived about three hours early but that was because I was meeting up with Faye, who was in the area but, probably wisely, didn't fancy the concert. It was a glorious hot day and we sat by the lake, although by then it had clouded over in the late afternoon. I had inadvertently caught the sun on Saturday in the back garden; I caught more on Sunday although I didn't realise until I got home exactly how red my face was. (Although it had cleared up by Monday morning.)
When we sat back the lake knocking back our drinks Faye happened to glance around and said, "There he is..."
"Who?" I asked.
"Gerald Finley," she said.
Our star for the evening was just strolling into the Lakeside Terrace. Well, I say 'our' star. My star. Faye didn't go to the concert.
And in the first half I was rather thinking I wish I hadn't. It started with Vaughan Williams Wasps Overture. I had this surreal thought that it would be much improved if they unleashed a swarm of wasps in the auditorium. Of course I immediately realised that that would be wrong on so many levels. But it was pretty dire.
Then was Elgar's Cello Concerto. There was nothing wrong with it and it is a lovely piece of music. But it has to be played really well to make it worth my while. And it was just an adequate performance.
I had only booked the concert for Vaughan Williams' Sea Symphony. No, not even that is true. I have the Sea Symphony on CD and whilst it's okay, it's never really grabbed me. So I have to be honest and say that the only reason I booked the concert was for Gerald Finley.
Well, the Sea Symphony was marvellous. London Symphony Orchestra were singing; London Symphony Chorus were zinging. Susan Gritton was splendid in what someone pointed out to me is a punishing soprano role. And Gerald Finley was everything I hoped he would be, and much much more. He makes it all seem so easy, and yet it is always such a striking reading. And I so love his voice. I really believe he is incapable of singing a wrong note or making an ugly sound.
Live, it really is a great piece of music. From where I was, practically on the floor of the Barbican, I felt surrounded by the sound of the orchestra, and the ever-wonderful LSO Chorus. And, you know, it was so evocative of the sea. But, still, I didn't feel any great urge to play the CD when I got home and I haven't done so in the intervening five days. Perhaps some pieces are just not suited to live performances.
Afterwards, the fairy godfather of SOSSLED smuggled me backstage. Without my partner-in-stalking, I felt a bit self-conscious and was a bit scared at the thought of hanging around looking like a lemon. I easily found Gerald's dressing room - which is more than can be said for him, so I showed him to it. I explained that I had been smuggled backstage and didn't want to hang around like a fan girl, because I'm not a fan girl. I thanked him for the performance and said that I didn't know the piece very well, but I enjoyed it and he sounded great. I didn't want to detain him, because he was en route to his dressing room, even though I would really love to spend some time in his company, over a drink or whatever. I said I'd see him at Figaro. Twice.
The Times carries a review
