After the play which replaced the last blog, it’s back to normal for this report from the front line (of the woodwind section) and I am happy to report that Sir John Eliot Gardiner is now firing on all cylinders. Being ill on tour is uniquely distressing and something which is always unwelcome no matter who you are in the organisation. For instance, a player laid low by a virus or stomach bug is a player who needs to be replaced, often at short notice. A nightmare for Sue and Mark who are already running around like idiots. They are not idiots by the way. On short European trips like this one, that isn’t such a problem as as long as you have enough notice, a replacement can be found and flown out should the ill player be unable to play. If we are far from home, Japan for instance, we take two principals in the wind and brass, illness cover being one of the reasons. Sometimes though, illness strikes at short notice and doesn’t adhere to musicians union rules, and there is no option but to struggle through the concert with gritted teeth (string players only) and concentrating on not throwing up.
I succumbed to an inconvenient bout of food poisoning myself a couple of years ago and haven’t touched shellfish since. In fact, it is making me feel a little queasy just typing this. This incident has become known in my mind as Mussels in Brussels. Four of us had had a very nice set menu in a lovely restaurant in Brussels which I have been to many times. I won’t tell you which one for obvious reasons. The menu was a typical affair consisting of a salad followed by moule mariniere followed by a chocolate mousse. I thoroughly enjoyed it and later on that afternoon made my way to the hall for a performance of Mahler 6 with Gergiev (available on LSO Live although what happened next was edited out I think). It is quite normal on long tours to feel a little out of sorts as we spend a vast amount of time flying, getting up early, going to bed late, eating late at night and sometimes drinking a glass of wine after concerts. You can imagine that living this sort of lifestyle can take its toll and I don’t think it’s unfair to say that it can leave one feeling a little jaded from time to time. Arriving at the hall, I felt a little tired but nothing unusual, but gradually through the rehearsal I felt hotter and hotter.
“Its sooo hot in here isn’t it?” I said to Sharon.
“No, I’m a little chilly. You look a bit pale actually, she replied.
So after the rehearsal, I went outside to get a breath of fresh air.
Come the concert and I was starting to feel a little off colour. As luck would have it I was playing the second piccolo part rather than the principal flute and as I gradually started to go green, Sharon and I quickly flicked through my part looking for crucial moments for her to cover should the worst happen. It took a while but we found one bar. As we sat after tuning, Sharon turned to look at me,
“Are you OK? You really don’t look very well at all”
“I feel sick. Very sick and I feel a bit faint”
“Well maybe, you should just sit there and it will pass as the concert starts, but if not, wait until a loud bit and go off stage.”
This made me feel a little better as you never have to wait too long for a loud bit in Mahler 6. Funnily enough, having something to concentrate on and the physical actions of playing a wind instrument are often enough to focus the mind and stomach into postponing any ejections until after the concert. Sadly, I wasn’t in the first movement of the symphony so I had to sit for 35 minutes surfing waves of nausea which were ever increasing in their intensity.
As Valery walked on to begin, Sharon reminded me, “Just go in a loud bit if you have to and I’ll cover you”
I nodded, which was all I could manage.
I don’t remember much after that except that I very quickly realised that I was not going to last the first symphony without making an early exit. Shortly after this realisation, I became aware that I wasn’t going to make the end of the first movement. I kept hearing Sharon’s voice in my head, like Obi Wan Kenobi repeating use the force Luke. I repeated her mantra, just go in a loud bit, just go in a loud bit, just go in a loud bit, and hoped I wouldn’t take her advice too literally. Of course, as the music had now started, our conversation was restricted to a series of elaborate hand signals and knowing looks. I looked at her with a look of panic, she looked at me and wondered what shade of green Farrow and Ball would describe me as. I indicated that I was going to leave as soon as we reached a loud bit-she took my piccolo to save me weight and time, every second counts.
There are moments in the life of an orchestral musician when nerves, technique, practice and a little bit of magic all come together and a performance takes on a life of its own, you almost feel in total control of what is happening; an intoxicating feeling at the best of times. On this occasion, for me, none of the above applied and my body had other ideas. Wait for a loud bit? I don’t think so screamed my stomach as it rebelled. In fact , at possibly the quietest moment of the first movement I stood up as gracefully as I could bearing in mind I was feeling dizzy by now, I turned towards the basses who on seeing my impressive colour (which by this time left me looking like a genteic experiment between Yoda and the Wicked Witch from Oz) parted like the red sea. There was a clear path of about 15 feet between me and the door and how I wished I could click my heels and be at home. I walked as gracefully as I could, as if walking off in the first 10 minutes was normal, closed the door quietly behind me, turned and ran as fast as I could.
Now if you are familiar with Mahler 6, you will know that there are offstage cowbells. On this performance they were moved into place once the orchestra are on stage. Their postion which was about 5 feet from the door I had just come through. Off stage cowbells are hung on a metal contraption which looks a bit like one of those temporary wardrobe rails that you hang your coat on at concerts. In my haste and dizzy state, I hurtled at speed, in slippery concert shoes, towards the the rack of cowbells. If it was a movie, this part would be in slow motion with the percussionist diving at the bells and shouting N-O-O-O-O-O!!! In reality, he had a look of impotent horror as I clattered towards him. Fortunately having mastered the Barry John sidestep as a child, adrenalin took over and I leapt to the side and actually jumped through the metal wardrobe and crucially under the cowbells. They didn’t move, I carried on and made the bathroom – just. For purposes of repeating this concert, with hindsight it is a shame I didn’t take the bells down in the quiet bit. Obviously on retelling it would have become more funny, although not at the time, but cowbells make almost as much noise when you pick them back up as when you knock them over. Of course, artistically, I very glad my rugby skills came in so useful.
On this occasion, my absence from the orchestra was not a disaster, but it does put into perspective how well John Eliot managed the other night. Despite his suggestion that one of us took over, he managed, in fact, more than managed a fine concert. Personally I was glad to see him mount the podium, I have no aspirations to be a conductor. Although, ever prepared for the concert, I had some mussels backstage on standby.
Just in case.



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