Back and exhausted on Monday night after a gruelling week, I was straight out of the house after the briefest of stops to do some work with the guitarist from my new funk band. After the Festival Hall last Wednesday and Anghiari over the weekend I was sufficiently behind on my funk homework to be worried.
As it happened, our mini-session turned out to be fine, and my sight-reading stood me in good stead as we romped through more sunny classics from the seventies and eighties. I’ve played with enough ok bands in my time to know what a good one feels like, and this feels right. The music is sheer joy as well.
Mainly, though, I shall be catching my breath this week and then using the next three emptyish weeks to get some solid writing done. There are three pieces on the board, none of which is significantly advanced, so I need to make hay while the sun shines.
The Anghiari performance on Sunday evening was a reminder of what music-making can really be about, the communication of ideas from composer to audience via conductor and choir in the most profound fashion, a focus of shared thought and action to bring out good things.
We would do well to remember that in these troubled times. After the concert I was approached by a stern-faced lady in the audience, and I expected to hear something about the lighting or sound not being right. Not so. This lady’s mother had died that very morning and the performance had brought her space and comfort. It reminded me of Clifford Curzon’s remark that music is consolation for life.