CONCERT-PERFORMANCES
... THIRSTY WORK?
Arthur Butterworth
It is almost an axiom
that brass playing is a thirsty business.
Orchestral brass players, not to mention
their even more ardent cousins in
the brass band fraternity, have ever
been notable for their fanatical devotions
at the ubiquitous shrines of Bacchus,
of which there is traditionally one
at the stage door of every concert
hall and opera house. Now, wind instruments
and especially brass playing, can
indeed make exhausting physical demands
on the lips, the mouth and the lungs,
in the vigorous use of which a lot
of breath is required. Breath expels
vast quantities of moisture and, this
not unreasonably, needs replacing
after the exertions of playing a wind
instrument. However, it is unlikely
that the demands on a wind player
are more than that expended by singers
involved in similar vigorous physical
effort. Since our ancestors were used
to far longer concerts — to say nothing
of opera - than is the norm nowadays,
it is understandable that the pub
across the road was such an immediate
attraction as soon as the interval,
or even more looked—forward to, the
end of the whole performance mercifully
came along. This was natural enough,
and, in order not to be thought unsociable,
their string-playing companions went
along to keep them company, not just
to make conversation you understand,
but to refresh themselves with a very
necessary drink too, since even string—playing
can be thirsty work: all that vigorous
bowing can make for much perspiration
and expenditure of nervous physical
energy. So, the interval was quite
a high in the whole evening’s proceedings.
However, it would
appear that in recent years, performers
(even string players) have come to
the conclusion that this is just not
good enough; their human rights threatened
as it were, by having to wait all
that time - maybe almost a whole hour!
— before being afforded the opportunity
to demonstrate such civil liberties
as the need to have a drink. A few
years ago with the proliferation of
the plastic bottle, it began to be
a habit to take their very necessary
drink with them into the rehearsal.
Nowadays this has even gone a stage
further: not only are plastic bottles
of so—called "spring water"
(in other words ordinary tap water
in a bottle with a fancy label) seen
at rehearsals but quite unashamedly
appear on the concert platform as
well.
(One wonders what
next: a similar plastic bottle to
relieve themselves?) This is a ridiculously
self-indulgent, namby—pamby behaviour;
it suggests that many present—day
performers (forgive the pun!) just
have not got the bottle to withstand
a gruelling public performance without
liquid support. It also suggests that
there is a lack off stamina, both
physical and moral in this need to
be so reliant on stimulants, even
one so mild as a swig of water. How
did their forebears manage? That they
did so is obvious: there were not
the drinks—machines in every corridor
of a public place; they had to be
self—reliant and strong enough to
manage without self—molly-coddling
resort to a plastic bottle. Bassoon
players are even known to take a little
plastic cup on stage to wet their
spare reeds, but players in earlier
times needed no such assistance. Real
professional performers — whether
players or singers — display no such
physical weakness as to have to show
their audience that their powers are
all—too—soon exhausted.
This regrettable
concert custom has also been accompanied
of late years by other less—admirable
manifestations of behaviour, not at
all unrelated it might be thought,
to what goes on in sport. It seems
not enough for sports personalities
in acknowledging a point scored —
goals, runs, or whatever — by a modest
bow or wave of the hand, but must
regard the incident as if it were
a significant victory in some nation—threatening
major war, by an emotional outburst
out of all proportion to what has
actually taken place: the wild, uncontrolled
jumping into each other’s arms, the
contorted grimaces and over—the—top
exultation. This did not happen in
the really great days of cricket or
football, we were a nobler race then,
got things in proportion, like real
men and women always did. On the concert
platform this kind of behaviour now
threatens modest behaviour: In former
times, the leader would come on to
acknowledge his especial role as representative
of the actual players (although in
Germany the leader makes no individual
entrance, this is a peculiarly British
custom), followed by the conductor,
sometimes, but not invariably did
the players stand up as a mark of
respect for him — but there always
seemed to me ever such a slight hint
of fore—lock touching in this obsequious
gesture to someone, who after all
was no more than a person whose role
was to encourage and lead the actual
performers (for he himself utters
no sound at all!); conductor worship
has gone to absurd lengths in modern
times. He then nowadays goes through
a silly ritual of clicking his heels
together as if in some Ruritanian
comic opera, asking for the honour
of a lady’s consent to dance with
him, bowing in an obsequious way and
limply shaking hands with the leader
- male or female it matters not which
- before the concert can begin. This
is ritual carried to excess. After
the performance it has now become
an even more irritating custom — aping
sports— to hug, kiss and embrace the
soloists, even the leader on occasion,
when a modest graceful shaking of
hands would be quite sufficient to
express satisfaction of the performance
just enjoyed.
In my orchestral—playing
days we did not, as a rule, invariably
stand at the entrance of our very,
very distinguished, world class conductor,
he would have been embarrassed by
all the fuss. Then arriving on the
rostrum he would then invite us, the
players, to share with him the welcome
of the audience. At the close of the
performance he would acknowledge the
applause, and perhaps return a few
times to take further applause, but
the audience did not — as is so often
the custom nowadays — further applaud
the departing leader, this is an unnecessary
gesture since the concert has formally
ended with the departure of the conductor
and calls for nothing more from the
audience. It was my practice as an
orchestral conductor not to shake
the hand of the leader before the
concert commenced, but at the end
of the performance, before even turning
to acknowledge audience’s approbation,
I always felt it the prime obligation
to shake hands with the leader and
then invite the orchestra to stand
to share the applause. But drinks
on the stage, and all that kissing
and hugging..., never!
