Saturday, 22 March 2008


That's my word for the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Pristine. And precise. And a paragon of mastery in the art of sforzandos, crescendos and decrescendos. Firstly, our VIP seats were dead smack in the centre of the auditorium, in line with the conductor's ass. BEST SEATS IN THE HOUSE; and not cuz of his ass. We had the orchestra fanned out around us, illuminated under the Gulf's golden eagle.

There were Mexican Waves of violin bows, upping and downing. They beckoned to the violas and the violas sang back. The cellos hollered in response to double bass groans. AND THE DOUBLE BASSES. I mean, all I could see were their heads; but WHAT MAGNIFICENT HEADS. Like the front masts of Viking ships. And the spouts of the trumpets and trombones, so brightly yellow in the stage lights they looked like sunflowers. REALLY, they did!

Oh, man. Tonight, a bunch of old people cradling some pieces of wood, string and brass just BLEW ME THE FUCK AWAY! In the last piece, which was probably 20 minutes long, where my bladder threatened to self destruct, the conductor threw the most beautiful tantrum I'd ever seen in my life; his only weapon, a stick.

This performance. Tchaikovsky (my past life's only screw probably). This....THING was the soundtrack to my suicide drama. The only thing missing was the silver screen.

And just one last thought on the night. Nikolaj Znaider, the featured violinist, he got me good. He got me so good with his vibrato and his sweating earnest brow at the mercy of his heavily varnished violin, I wanted to rip off my clothes and roll around in anguish in the red-carpeted aisles.
Here's what I wore. Couldn't NOT share that with you guys. Also, some pictures of the Palace and the one shot I managed to blurrily get of the Orchestra before the ushers started coming at me.

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