CHAPTER 6
OPERA HOUSE-CATHEDRAL
We are excited, as the great project nears completion. Some
of us have already played in the opening concerts in the Opera House Hall, and
now the Opera Theater itself is almost ready.
What's this? The back row of woodwind is sitting in front of
a considerable drop to the backstage machinery, protected by a floor strip and
a looped rope. After some rehearsals, a wall is installed. Now we almost pass
out from lack of oxygen and stifling heat. It seems that the players' pit is
one of the main exhaust systems for the theater. There is competition to sit
near the corners of the wall where a small gap allows a breath of refreshing
cool air containing a life-supporting ratio of oxygen.
We discover that the large safety doors open inwards. There
would be no hope of getting out in an emergency. We are told that it is
considered that the main danger of fire is in the backstage machinery, in which
case the pit is the escape route for the technicians.
The pit is not as large as had been hoped, and we are
limited to two hard-working double basses, a highly disappointing situation for
those of us used particularly to the European Orchestras where the basses often
seem to lead a mighty charge with a roar like a lion. Even the vigour of the
strings' bowing style is challenged for reasons of safety.
We begin an incredibly protracted process of evolution
toward a larger, safer pit, more in keeping with Utzon's original design, which
had the Opera under the other sail, where the Symphony Concerts have now taken
over.
Some of us even investigate the stairwell that leads to a
blank wall. Could this rank with the mysteries of the pyramids in future
millennia? Quite possibly, for there is an undeniable air of religiosity about
the Symphony concert as we know it.
There is a strict protocol, and an almost unvarying form.
There is the hierarchy of priests and attendants in the conductor, soloist,
players, ushers, attendants, ticket sellers and publicists. The ritual
performance is offered to the audience who pay obeisance with silence,
attention and applause. Apropos of which, please read on-a short piece which I
penned some time ago.
A MAGIC MOMENT
You may have noticed it. I'm sure you have. Others too.
But no-one has ever, ever mentioned it. At least, not to me.
You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?
I'm talking about a super-charged moment that blows the
collective energy of two thousand souls.
It happens quite often at a Symphony Concert….now you're
wondering.
Let's reprise a Symphony Concert-
I know pretty much what to expect – the drive, the parking,
the ticketing, all done in a pleasant haze of anticipation. Faces familiar
through the years, beaming their own brand of musical possession. Literary types,
searching for literal truths in the music, Central Europeans, drinking deeply
from the well of Cultural Inheritance, earnest students, and critics of every
hue sharpening their pencils to dagger points.
We've really shared some wonderful moments, all these people
and I. And most of us have slept together at some time or other. Sometimes my
last conscious thought has been "What a wonderful performance!", only
to find my next conscious thought being "Good Heavens! is that really the
time?"
I don't think it happens at Stadium shows. It would be
almost impossible at that volume anyway. And no, it's not the sleep of boredom,
no matter what some might think.
I think it really is another form of hypnotism…or
meditation. Or maybe, both.
Mozart's particularly bad. And there are plenty of others of
course. But it's that moment when the brain stops talking, and the little voice
in the head is stilled, and the magic of the harmony is rearranging neurones
and synapses. At that moment we're completely at the mercy of the music. We no
longer know where we are or what we are doing. We just are. And we are the
music.
Is that the super-charged moment?
No, that's not it.
Of course, there are many wonderful moments.
I love the tuning up, when the Orchestra changes from a
medieval machine clanking and whirring in various keys, to a sleek engine
purring and humming its way into gear.
The moment of anticipation as the conductor raises his
baton...
A Fascist, some say? Are they mad?
Elitist? Oh dear! Ah yes, I think I see where they're coming
from. Yes, it certainly does seem a widely held view now. How sad!
I've noticed that villains in American films of late tend to
speak beautifully, and are often English. They also have a nasty habit of
listening to classical music, while their innocent children revert to rock
whenever possible. Could it possibly be a case of commercial forces pandering
to popular taste...no, I don't think so either.
The point? This strange moment I mentioned?
Yes, I suppose I should get on with it.
It happens when there is a female performer, let's say a
singer, and of course, a male conductor.
Well, they're just about all male.
Yes, well, there are some ladies working at con……
Okay, yes, well, it is happening.
As I say, the lady sings…
Yes, the fat lady, perhaps, perhaps not!
She sings, he waves, the Orchestra plays, the audience
listens and everyone is moved, everyone is happy.
They applaud – on and on it goes. Waves of clapping volley
round the hall. The applause builds and builds. It fills the air like a thick
mist.
Something now must be done in this static drama. Conductor
turns to singer. Singer turns to conductor. Toward each other they move. The
distance between them narrows. Chins tip upward as they close in.
Then, it happens!
All eyes have now locked onto this improbable pairing. There
can be no hint of passion. Physically exhausted and mentally spent, they look
somewhat gross, florid and sweating from their performing duties.
A hand's breadth apart, the kiss is now irrevocable, and the
applause absolutely dies. I swear it! As their lips touch, there is absolute
silence and you would swear we were at the eye of the mother of all hurricanes.
Suddenly, they are in retreat, and the power is back on.
Life resumes and once again we are swimming in a sea of
sound.
Where did all that energy go?
What on Earth were we thinking?
And how strange no-one has ever mentioned it.
Until now!
EARLY PONDERINGS
It is early afternoon and I am alone at the front gate. I
lean on it, watching the fluffy clouds drifting by. Where my brothers and
sister are I do not know. But I, the responsible oldest, am here by myself, as
I often seem to be, alone with my thoughts. There is an unseen ban on staying
in the house, and at the back I feel I may be asked to do some painting or
wood-stacking, which I'd rather not at the moment.
I'd rather watch the endless march of the ants and the
parade of the fluffy white clouds and rest my chin on the metal gate, sucking
the metal for the sharp sweet taste sensation.
What thoughts might a child of seven be having at such a
time?
Again, I'll tell you, because I want to.
I can tell you exactly what thoughts were.
I wonder if I am having a happy childhood. I read about
happy childhoods in books. The pictures are of smiling, red-cheeked children
with large happy smiles. I don't think I am one of those. They all look a bit
girlish anyway. How would I know if I am having a happy childhood? Would I be
aware of it at all? Perhaps not. Perhaps it is in the nature of happiness that
we are unaware of it at the time. What should I be happy about? I am not
mistreated. I know that I think I have wonderful parents who love me and whom I
love – but doesn't everybody have that?
Should I ask myself if I am unhappy?
Am I unhappy?
Certainly not!
What would I like to change?
I wish I didn't have to run the gauntlet of bullies from the
State School on the way home. I wish I didn't have such messy handwriting with
so little character or style.
I would like my sister Anne to be cured of her bronchitis. I
don't like getting the strap at school.
But these things don't upset me too much and they don't make
me unhappy.
Is not being unhappy the same as being happy then?
I think it might be.
Now I think I'll go down to the back lane and see if I can
find some harlequin bugs.
***
CHRISTMAS/XMAS
Now I am twenty-five. We talk to Maxwell through the Ouija
Board many times, but tend to ease off around Christmas. He says "Would
you like to know what Christmas was like in my time"
Of course we are interested, but it is only what you would
expect. It is a religious festival, albeit a joyous one, with feasting of
modest proportions. Fruits and nuts are delicacies, and the main decoration
seems to be hanging colored strips of cloth, with a preponderance of purple, in
the doorways. After all, this was the fourteenth century.
***
What an exciting time it is for a ten-year-old. Can anything
beat the thrill of the countdown, the joy of unwrapping the presents, the
festivities and family fun? There are the little knick-knacks that turn up from
God-knows-where, the gifts from relatives, and the big ticket items from the
Man in Red himself. However, I have been hearing disturbing rumors concerning
this person's true identity, but have been ignoring them in favor of the party
line currently peddled by my parents. These older children, however, cynical
though they sound, are the sort who do seem to know something.
The one thing we have been hoping for, against all advice,
is a bicycle. We have been warned of the danger, our youth and inexperience,
the expense, and every other factor conceivable, but on the great day…there
they are. Two gleaming bicycles are waiting for Brian and me.
Naturally we are overjoyed!
But as I look at this miracle, I am again assailed by doubt.
How dreadful, I think, if this is provided by my parents, to credit someone
else; and a someone else who may not even exist!
I decide to look at my mother's face.
I know immediately that there is no Father Christmas…but I
sure have wonderful parents. I discover half a century later that my father
rode many miles one-handed on one bike, guiding the other with the free hand,
to deliver them on Christmas Eve.
***
Christmas a year earlier and we all return from Midnight
Mass ready for the morning. It's hard to get to sleep but it eventually
happens.
Light – it's morning. It's the Great day. But what's this…no
presents!
Yet we can hear sounds of joy from the neighbours as new
toys and games are rolled out. I run in to Mum and Dad. "Mum, Dad, Father
Christmas hasn't been".
As I rush into the room, I am astonished. My parents are
asleep on top of the bed, with all their clothes on. This has never happened
before.
They seem very perturbed.
"He's just running late"
"No, we can hear that the kids next door have got their
presents."
"He's just going round the block in a different
direction. You must go back to bed, and you must be asleep or he won't come. If
he even thinks you're peeking he'll go away"
Back to bed, eyes tightly shut – is that a rustle or a
swish. Must close eyes. How long has it been? Can I look?
I peep, and see...presents!
He has done a poor job…presents are strewn haphazardly round
the room and only a couple have made it in to pillow slips.
Nevertheless, we are relieved and overjoyed.
Brian says "Guess what?"
"What"
"I saw his coat tail just going up the chimney"
I am just about to say "Me too" but can't manage
it.
Brian has all the luck.
***
I am now a middle-aged man. Margaret says to me
"Adelaide says she would love to have the presents out tonight, Christmas
Eve, under the tree. What do you think.”
"Well, it seems a bit bald. I know she's a big girl now
at thirteen, but I thought we might go on with the Christmas game for a bit
longer."
We place the presents under the tree, and before long,
Adelaide investigates.
Then there is a heartfelt sobbing.
"But these are the real presents. I only meant the
little extras from friends and relatives, to make it all look more
Christmassy".
We are mortified.
"But Adelaide, I thought you were a big girl now…"
"Oh yes, I know all that. But I just love everything
about Christmas, the lights, the stories, the papers and tinsel."
Adelaide cries and her miserable parents wonder how to turn
back the clock.
IDEA!
"Adelaide, we've never been to that street where all
the houses are done up in Christmas scenes…how would you like to come with
us?"
Leaping out of bed, "Oh yes!…but you're not just saying
that are you?"
"Oh no…truly, it's one thing we've always wanted to do,
and have never had the time".
Many thanks to the residents of the Boulevard, Ivanhoe.
***
Midnight Mass at the Church a couple of years later, and
Margaret and I are playing the Bach Double violin concerto to enhance the
service. Up in the choir loft the music soars out through the vaulted space,
the timeless counterpoint of Bach working its magic yet again. Margaret's
violin and my flute take turns to climb progressively closer to Heaven, while
down below an assortment of families at various ages and stages squirms and
wriggles in the warm night air. The young adults are in party gear ready to
move on, their religious duty done.
Adelaide and Dominic greet us after the service.
"Well done" says Dominic with a smile.
"Yes" says Adelaide. "We think that you and
Mum are the only people in the Church who have had a Religious
experience."
***
PANDEMONIUM
One Saturday night when I was thirty, not long after the
Sydney Opera House curtain rose, the Operetta was disturbed by voices raised in
the audience. The polls had only just closed on a contentious election (aren't
they all?). Someone was shouting one of the election slogans "Turn on the
lights". Others, offended at this affront to decorum cried wittily
"Shut Up”, “Get stuffed” and “you're a disgrace”. The noise escalated
until it was realised that a patron had died, and the lights were indeed turned
on.
After the gentlemen was attended to, the chastened audience
settled again to watch the show, which was re-started. The name of the
Operetta? It was The Merry Widow.
A NASTY TURN
The bassoon is a double reed instrument, the reed being
fashioned from a sliver of bamboo-like grass called Arunda Donax, grown
commonly in Southern France. Other reed instruments also use this material.
Is someone coming round tonight to join us in a session? I'm
not sure. But I have to make a reed for tomorrow. It's urgent!
Reeds are the soul of the instrument, and whereas the
saxophonist and clarinettist generally choose from a box of prepared reeds, the
oboe player and the bassoonist often make their own reed – a lengthy and
tedious process which has changed very little in centuries.
It is not uncommon to waste hours of work with one small
miscalculation – a slip of the knife, a slight crack in the cane, an
over-tightening of the binding wire.
Here I am, late at night, lights dimmed and working by
candlelight to melt shellac onto the reed head, drawing copper wires taut,
using Dutch rush to file the blade of the reed.
Voices in the background I ignore. This is delicate.
I frown and concentrate.
Light floods the room – someone screams – I shout.
We all laugh.
It is my guests. Not knowing quite what to expect, and being
a little keyed up they have opened the door on a diabolical medieval scene – an
evil face over a candle flame performing an arcane ritual.
Apparently I look a lot better with all the lights on.
I'll just have to cadge a reed from my rival in the morning.
***
TOURING
The Life Orchestral is a strange mixture of Show Business
and High Art. Tremendous dedication and discipline have to be observed to
achieve and maintain a position.
Then, a routine of preparation and playing sees one
rehearsing often at office hours, only to switch to evening performance mode
the following week. Great concentration and nervous energy are sustained,
usually between the hours of eight and eleven. Naturally, many performances
have to be on the weekend when concert-goers are available. Consequently, quite
a deal of one's leisure time is around midnight or mid-week.
This works well for golf course availability and relaxed
convivial socialisation (otherwise known as drinking)...but not so well for
family routine.
On the other hand, the touring routine strikes an excellent
balance between professional and social life.
***
POWERFUL PLACES
I am touring with the Opera Orchestra in Tasmania, and find
the place intriguing. We have driven South for a picnic, and I am not sure
where we are going. It is very green, and the air is fresh, but eerily still.
We arrive at some ancient (for Australia) buildings in a
gentle landscape by the sea. It is charming in an odd way, but I feel out of
place and out of time. I am told the place is called Port Arthur. There is a
ghost town of old convict buildings of crumbling sandstone. A chill creeps over
me as we explore.
We go a little further, and I am shown a beautiful view.
There is something absolutely primeval about this vista of benign sea, offshore
island and drifting cloud. There is hardly any life about, animal or human. I
am shown, behind me, some trenches.
It is a system of cells, below the surface of the earth.
These were the solitary confinement cells, where light was excluded, from the
convict days.
The cruelty and inhumanity of it is overwhelming. It is my
duty to think for a moment of the poor wretches who were here.
But I can't take much at all.
I find over many years that I am far from alone in never
wanting to visit Port Arthur again.
P.S. Sadly, this place is now even more notorious as the
scene of Australia's most infamous massacre.
***
I am touring with the Opera Orchestra in Adelaide, not far
from the Barossa Valley, home of many great Australian wines and I have been
invited by Czech friend to attend a party in the Adelaide suburbs.
After our performance, we make our way to a sleepy, quiet,
dark suburb.
It is so quiet that we speak in hushed voices as our shoes
crunch the gravel.
What sort of party could this be? I wonder as we round the
back corner of the house.
There is a large barn-like structure at the rear of the
house.
Maybe the party is in here, as the house is so dark. We
tip-toe through the barn, and I hear faint noises, like a radio broadcast of
party scene in a play, with the volume right down.
My friend knocks on the floor.
It is a massive trapdoor, which promptly rises, flooding the
night air with a blast of "instant party". There are glasses
clinking, a piano playing and a constant barrage of banter and chat. It is warm
and cosy, and as we descend the rugged stairs, we find ourselves in a large
underground space – a cellar stacked with walls of barrels of all sizes, shapes
and colours. Also bottles, flagons, flasks and every imaginable device for
containing alcohol. There are tables, fridges and chairs and a piano being
played by someone from the Opera company.
Rudi had arrived in Australia some forty years earlier, and
had been amazed to find the bounty available to a man of taste. He admitted to
hoarding and was now keen to assuage his guilt by sharing it with appreciative
folk.
And for this surreal and memorable taste treat we are truly
grateful.
***
I am playing a concert for the International Society for
Contemporary Music, and we are in a voguish performance space, the Old
Darlinghurst Jail in inner Sydney, a splendid space of Church-like proportions
with a loft ceiling well-suited to acoustic experimentation.
During a rest in the performance, my gaze goes over the
walls…so many red bricks, unrelieved by any ornamentation.
Wait on…what are those marks on the walls? They seem to be
at regular intervals, and there is a whole row of them. And there are some
more, but they are higher up, and I see another line of them higher up still.
I suddenly realise that these are chain anchors, or flooring
pegs for several floors of prison cells, and that this noble space was actually
a warren of tiny cells.
Am I a coward?
Another building I've never returned to.
A SENSE OF PLACE
Margaret and I like to drive in the country…for any reason
at all. We don't hike or camp; we like our comforts. We travel in an
air-conditioned car in pleasant weather. The flies are outside and we are
inside – we like to drive in the country.
Sometimes I am doing music examining, assessing a long
procession of children on various woodwind instruments.
They are accompanied on pianos in various states of repair,
played by matching accompanists.
While I am engaged in this pursuit, Margaret researches the
town and its restaurants lest I expire from hunger.
Victoria is a good state to travel, as travel distances are
not too great, and there is a variety of terrain.
One of the most beautiful places is near Lakes Entrance, on
Australia's South-East corner.
In the hills up above the town, we left the car to walk in
the forest. The sun cast mottled light through thin, straight eucalypti and the
breeze sweeping up from the estuary below was balmy.
The water below us swept away, with many sandy spits and
pebbled beaches.
Animals moved through the brush not too far away…probably
wallabies. Lorikeets flashed overhead in a brilliant display, and there was
evidence too of wombats and other marsupials.
What a beautiful place, and how bounteous it must have been
– watered countryside full of game sloping down to a vast fishing paradise.
I felt suddenly like one of the trees, and as I did, seemed
to see tall thin ghostly shapes drifting through the trees.
Some minutes later, Margaret spoke.
"Do you feel something here?"
"Maybe. Like what?"
"Like aborigines".
I sure did.
In fact, they were not so far away.
We were not aware that on the other side of Lakes Entrance
was Lake Tyers, an aboriginal settlement. This area had indeed been a tribal
meeting place, and for good reason. It was a blessed and fertile area, and had
been frequented for hundreds and probably thousands of years by the local
tribespeople.
As has so often been the case, the richest land was the land
which they lost first.
If the aborigines are seen largely as a desert people, this
is because they were able to survive there on land which no-one wanted. Old
photos from various parts of Australia show a great deal of local variation in
the aboriginal population, and one felt that the people who roamed the slopes of
Nungerner above Lakes Entrance were a particularly well-fed and contented lot.
There are other places in Victoria which repay quiet
contemplation and evoke a similar sense of mystery.
Going through my Mother's photos with her recently (at age
ninety), I found a strange black and white from 1944. Shy aborigines are
clustered on a jetty in front of a tin shed. They are looking at the camera
steadily. There is no posing or larking about, no resentment or “attitude”. I
have never seen anything like them in Victoria. Mum said she met and talked to
them on her honeymoon, at Lake Tyers.
While performing children's concerts at schools in the
Gippsland area some twenty years ago, I asked if Lake Tyers had been contacted.
No, was the answer, but I was free to do so. I did, and arranged a show with an
elder who was courteous and appreciative.
“I don't know if you realise what it's like here” he
said.”It can be sad.”
I understood that poverty, disease, neglect and alcohol had
had their usual effect, like that in old-style American reservations.
“If you're happy to sing and have a good time, we will all
enjoy ourselves” I told him
When the time came close, I contacted them again. A younger
woman answered.
“No, he's gone and I'm in charge. We don't want no
whitefella music here. And we're not gunna send our kids to whitefella schools
till we get a Koori curriculum.” (Koori is the name used by Aborigines of South
Eastern Australia).
“Certainly, I don't want to push in where we are not wanted.
But I think it's a shame all the same. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
***
Performing children's concerts in the Lakes Entrance area
some time later, I was a little surprised to find audience members keen to film
the proceedings. Most of these people were Koori, and their children were
happily attending local schools. They were assimilating general culture and
technology quite happily and did not seem to be concerned about “whitefella
music”. I wondered if they were the children, grandchildren and
great-grandchildren of Mum's jetty-pic from the War Years.