Perfection and Pollution: What will safeguard the light?

Why Might God Still Care.

May 04, 2023

This piece will be talking uphill, all the way, so I must begin by some ‘clearing of the path’. I always use the word ‘God’ with reluctance, usually after trialing alternatives that serve no better. It’s not the word itself —which I like—, but the thousand ways in which it can be twisted to mean something I don’t; judgement, imperative, sanctimony, and expropriation are a few of many.

What I mean is better called Good, but that is also subject to devaluation in a hundred ways. Let me just define my God: the creator of Perfection, perhaps where God is best recognised. But then what is Perfection? I will adopt a working definition: That which intricately and aesthetically fits its nature and its purpose, does no harm and is sufficient to itself. I might add that perfection is instantly recognisable, it uplifts, and needs neither explanation or justification. It has all the qualities of ‘I am that I am.’

But where is the Good to be found and how strengthened? How might anyone add a lash or spurs to help?

We, and I mean mankind, is wrestling with Good and Evil, nakedly apparent, flanked by both horses at full gallop, heading towards a hellish dystopia or the dawn of what calls itself the Great Awakening. Which will prevail is anyone’s guess. But where is the Good to be found and how strengthened? How might anyone add a lash or spurs to help?

Many writers now feel fettered. The world is changing, in ways we cannot anticipate. The world for which we used to write, its values, its metaphors, its allusions has evaporated. The commonplace story, the narrative tracing linear time, now seems trivial. There is a war raging and the small skirmish in Ukraine, taking lives needlessly and tragically to satisfy the amour propre of Washington, and hastily fill its pockets, is something of a last hurrah.

Writing anything, without reference to the greater war for the soul of mankind, has a ‘Look there’s a squirrel’ feel. Yet the New World to which to adapt new narratives, relevant stories, has not yet been born. We writers line up at a starting point, make false moves, and then, uncertain, draw back. Who are we addressing? We no longer know.

A few speak to one another, but need few words beyond a nod in passing. They know, and they know the others don’t. Or don’t choose to.

With Rome burning it has a Neronic absurdity.

Coming up on the inside rail is the Coronation at full stretch, masquerading in the squared colours of stability and tradition, but heading for the fall and end of both. Not many are really interested.

The Head to be crowned has already sworn its oath to a foreign allegiance, sold its country’s sovereignty for thirty pieces of silver, and is photographed in military bling he has done nothing to earn. The Cope who will officiate has been declared no longer Head of the Church in which the ceremony will take place. With Rome burning it has a Neronic absurdity. So, it will be a continuation of the great hoax, visited upon the naïve, all waving flags and oblivious to the real race to a finish, or aware of what is really at stake.

*But some good news demands a tipped hat. And another. As someone who lives alone in the middle of the country, tied to a garden and a dog, I rarely see or talk to anyone except the check-out at a supermarket. Any encounter that shines a light on my search for answers shines brighter for its rarity, but also for the contrast it offers to the suspended ennui. We are all waiting for the starting gun.

But every open glance or genuine smile is now as precious as sun breaking through cloud.

Where I live, among the few I encounter, nobody has shown any signs of awakening. They are hanging limp bunting and are fretting about their summer holiday, or a short shortage of tomatoes. There is a war on. Can you not hear or see it?

Someone fully embattled, and in the camouflage of an advance scout, Martin Geddes, understands the suspension of this phony apprehensive war. He recently wrote:

‘I am slowly learning to love this odd time, difficult as it may be, for it will soon pass, and its uniquely transitory nature lost.’

He is talking about memory and those who already mourn what is being destroyed.

Unexpectedly, my daughter was generously gifted with two tickets to the Albert Hall to hear Maxim Vengerov’s gala concert, playing Brahms. and she invited me.

A trip to the London has not happened for fifteen years. Lord, was it still possible? I cannot remember how to do ‘dress’ (in both senses). A bus might find space for one, at short notice? That achieved, the smooth approach to doors I had never ever darkened required an Uber. I can no longer walk very far. Never before ridden an Uber. Uber driver wore black, a headscarf, and chatted to a friend in Arabic all the way. Traffic, a Satnav and a friend still made space for her to notice the perfume my daughter was wearing. As she dropped us off, she asked for its name. My daughter helped translate it into her phone. It was a signal. God usually affirms a new path by signals. What better than a wafted scent and a warm exchange with an appreciative, enterprising immigrant?

We were very early. Few of the intended audience were about. Courteous door keepers inspected bags and tickets with restraint and kindness, bar staff were keen to pour wine, an impeccable tall man took us to the right entrance and unlocked the doors to a box!

Finding it still existent was like recovering oxygen after years in a tomb.

Already it was a new world, no, it was the old one. A self-sufficient world of courtesy and welcome for an occasion they all seemed to be looking forward to. None of the constipated condescension that is so common to the assemblies for classical music. Instead, the welcome breathed a shared participation of all who would contribute to it, doormen, bar staff, necessary security; a world I could now dimly remember. Finding it still existent was like recovering oxygen after years in a tomb.

I could hardly believe it.

The Albert Hall needs no description; Obviously I had seen it in many television performances, but its great space was more intimate than I’d expected, partly perhaps caused by the softening plush, and tiers of small boxes, seen from the intimate space of what felt like a private room. Apart from a spot-lit double bass on the stage, rehearsing a passage inaudibly pizzicato, we had the great ovoid shell of opulence to ourselves.

The expected audience had waited through three postponements of this gala concert —Covid and the Queen’s death. If anticipation had worn thin, it did not show. Observing the casually dressed audience assemble, meet, greet, wave and acknowledge, gave a tangible understanding to their strong feelings in guarding the traditions, and why the ‘last night’ re-affirms who the Hall is for, the annual party for the nation.

It belongs to the people. The audience feels valued.

The self-importance of the BBC’s latest appointment who has ideas about wokery, and ‘identity’ is anathema, and should never be permitted to make a scratch on what has been secured by generations for an event that is merely one of hundreds hosted by the Albert Hall, from Eric Clapton, to tennis, to Cirque de Soleil. The Hall was conceived as a centre for the arts, and for fifty years it was the base for the London School of Speech and Drama where many of our great Dames began. It belongs to the people, is administered by a charity. The BBC is permitted to record and benefit from the proms. My impression was that all the charming, self- assured staff knew that. The BBC does not seem to.

Unlike so many theatres and concert halls the audience is honoured by enough doors, enough loos, and enough bars. The audience feels valued; the place exists for them as much as the performers, a place where the performance is only half the story. The Albert Hall is where the two are invited to meet, and celebrate the existence of one another.

Maxim Vengerov walked on stage in a pair of trainers and a blue kurta pyjama; entirely suitable for the marathon ahead. No tails, no dickie tie, no patent shoes.

No description can convey the marvel of the concert itself. The conductor, Marios Papadopoulos, was without flamboyant egotism, or exaggerated gestures. Vengerov had undertaken a punitive marathon, playing both the Brahms Violin Concerto and then the Brahms Double Concerto with a superlative partner in the sensitive Sandra Lied Haga, a Norwegian cellist. It was, quite literally breath-taking. Together they wove unending magic that has been coursing through my head ever since.

Not content with two concertos, Vengerov then offered an encore, and an invitation to nine violin students from the Royal College who performed Sarasate’s Navarra with him in unison as a finale. They will never forget their ’debut’ in a gala at the Albert Hall. That was entirely on his initiative. Vengerov is not only a wonderful violinist but the most generous of men, even when exhausted. Perfection? Instantly recognised? I would say so.

The Good must prevail. Must.

The gratitude I feel for being there to witness what I never thought to see again has made for intermittent tears and a deep joy, but also an obligation to tell others about it, and somehow to hold on to faith. The Good must prevail. Must. Will.

So ‘up-ending’ has been this experience, like a wind that has blown through tired despair, scattering the pages of a carefully ordered script, I am only now trying to re-assemble what remains. Collecting and setting back pages, or repositioning something of weight to secure them, the undefined something-of- critical- importance has me dizzy, oscillating between thoughts, feelings, anger, and trying to prioritise what I want to say, and hold on to. Something fundamental changed last Tuesday.

I cannot easily define what it was.

Some words to approximate, in no particular order: Upliftment, Rarity, Generosity, Gratitude, Mastery, Humility, Service, but perhaps above all Preciousness, the unequaled encounter with Recognition, not of any one of these, but with the capacity to accept, and say ‘yes’. Yes to the risk every live performance takes —the split-note entry of a principal horn, the memory fade of a musical partner, the collapse of a tympanist- any could and do happen. None did. Yes to the recognition of the years of practice and mastery, yes to the empathy of another instrument who ‘gets’ what the phrasing asks of them and delivers it, but mostly just that ‘yes, I understand and thank you for offering it all to me.’.

That tries to highlight my feelings, without conveying the wave of overwhelm, or the gratitude. Only quiet tears, brushed away, contain those. Privately.

Then there is much thought that follows, and it is stained with misgivings.

Is it not a microcosm of the creation, in which the individual and particular retain their unique individuality but subserve the entire?

Is there anything that returns God’s belief in Mankind more than the heights and accomplishment of the Western Orchestral and Chamber Ensemble repertoire? In which each and every instrument, from piccolo to kettledrum all play a part? Is it not a microcosm of the creation, in which the individual and particular retain their unique individuality but subserve the entire? In which men and women are wholly equal? In which any nation can partake? A universal language of feelings, not belief, not conviction, simply the participation in an understood communication? Is it not the clearest expression of what the Great Awakening hopes to awaken? That which unifies utterly the common human heritage, and in sharing it, affirms its value?

So why do I have misgivings?

Because of its preciousness, that is only maintained by continued allegiance to it.

If those could be swept away without hesitation, why not the music that is judged ‘elite’?

In the last three years we have witnessed the destruction of so many things we once assumed indestructible; the Hippocratic Oath, the preservation of life, including each elderly life, the importance of early education, the freedom of congregation, and most of all the freedom to speak, to embrace, to witness the dying of those beloved. If those could be swept away without hesitation, why not the music that is judged ‘elite’?

I suppose I should offer a confession for context. I am not myself a musician, although for years I struggled to learn the cello. I started too late in life to get beyond playing notes to mastering music. But, through my daughter, I lived on the periphery of music schools, orchestras and at home played chamber music whenever we could. Given my technical inadequacy I sought to provide for others by converting a collapsing barn with an outstanding acoustic, to host intimate concerts in a rural area where little music happens. The intention was to marry a dearth of music with the real need for performance opportunities for young musicians just emerging from the Colleges. Before they were ready for the Wigmore Hall! We aimed for intimate informality, with limitless wine. Over about three years we slowly built an audience of perhaps thirty faithful attendees, although we needed fifty to break even.

In this capacity I faced the other side of what classical music brings in its wake; jealousy and sustained and ugly sabotage.

Something about classical music riles those who have never tuned to it. It is not enough to pass on the other side of the street, as they would a group of Morris dancers, or jugglers. Classical music seems to engender a violent resentment. ‘Wouldn’t face painting or line dancing be more appropriate? In the country? I would suggest that instead. There is always the Bath Festival for those who really want classical.’

Our posters were torn down by the boys sent from the local private school; our neighbours banged steel pots together to drown out rehearsals and recitals. Children attending classes or orchestral days were threatened with being excluded from any school orchestra or band. ‘You see we must give chances to the less fortunate…not those who are provided for privately.’ Not a single school, state or affluent private —and we are surrounded by many—attended a concert or took advantage of a masterclass for their pupils which was offered for nothing. Not in drama either. We were to be frozen out.

We were finally destroyed by a visiting pianist, who having performed, professed himself so enamoured with out enterprise, that he offered to help with the admin. Naively we entrusted him with our mailing list.

He wrote to all our audience, cancelling the next season’s concerts! We did not know until nobody turned up for the first of them. The final blow.

Our now empty barn, and Bluthner piano, tuned but silent.

I thought it necessary to admit the above, because I am aware it has made me hyper conscious of the corrosive and sometimes subtle signs of jealousy which is endemic in all spheres of the arts, but more obvious in music, when it directly impacts on the music itself. I attribute much of it to the ‘gate-keepers’; the venues, the producers, the fixers, who thrive on fostering the competitive. Without contributing anything they feed off its prestige. ‘Festivals’ are not festivals, but cut-throat competitions.

The BBC ‘young musician of the year’ purports to be promoting young musicians but without hearing a note played, the winner of every section can be predicted. (S)he will be preferably black, trans or minority ethnic, a refugee, Asian, Indian; anything but white and British born. Mind you, I must acknowledge that the straight, white, male, British percussionist who won last year did buck the trend. Perhaps the audience of thousands inhibited the BBC’s agenda. Rumour has it that, behind closed doors, and before he won, his prodigious talent did not secure him a place at his choice of conservatoire.

The ‘young musician’ is not primarily about music, but about covering for, and fostering a socio-political agenda. What a hypocrisy, and a pollution that is!

Not only is classical music under attack, as ‘elitist’ and ‘white’ but the custodians of its preservation, the Conservatoires have been infected by social wokery; division, and separation. The contrived competition ‘between’ rather than the ‘inclusive’ together. Ability on an instrument is the first given, but thereafter students are selected by identity, not commitment or passion, A transgender with pink hair is now a shoe-in, a dedicated, gifted straight white male must go elsewhere. BAME music must appear in every student’s repertoire, and be programmed for each concert. Black and Mediocre Eskimos are few and far between, but one might be found to tick all boxes.

Those are now almost universal policies. Oxford University now discourages the teaching of Beethoven in its music curriculum, and offers fewer orchestral concerts; Cambridge amalgamates its Chamber Orchestra with its choir while the gay pride flag flutters from the turrets of the colleges. Excellence and dedicated mastery is elitist, Pussy Riot is called freedom, no matter how degraded, a transgender prima ballerina at the Royal Ballet is clumsy but pirouettes to general applause. Force majeur.

it takes longer to train even a jobbing orchestral string player, than to train a brain surgeon.

Through all this, students of classical music must, somehow, continue to believe their discipline of daily practice will be fulfilled by a world that is teetering on the brink of destruction. Their dedication and study will, perhaps, still find opportunities. |Maybe. Maybe never. They have always been the most poorly paid of any profession, although it takes longer to train even a jobbing orchestral string player, than to train a brain surgeon.

A story told by a friend, the Leader of a professional orchestra, bears out the assumption that musicians need not be paid because they love what they do. A bus driver taking his orchestra to a venue leaned across to him and said ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I have always wanted to know…. how do you all get time off work to do this?’

Yes, the environment of musical performance is tainted by competition, sometimes lethal. There are parents of musicians and musicians themselves, who permit their ambition to over-ride what their skill alone might carry; there is naked jealousy even in teachers for their pupils and even other teachers, which is not pretty. But that is true of every art, writing, painting, dance. It does not alter what I seek to convey. An aberration but no more.

Builders listen as they hammer or lay bricks.

The audience for classical music has been shown by the success of Classic FM which belies the accusation of ‘elitist’. Builders listen as they hammer or lay bricks. Something about classical music touches depths, both sublime and hellish. Perhaps it asks for vulnerability and an openness that many are unwilling to give it, perhaps its discipline and dedication shines a mirror on the emptiness of most self-indulgent lives. Perhaps its obvious value, and values, challenge the vacuous, the superficial, the repetitive and empty. Classically trained musicians, even very young ones, have to self-determine, make sacrifices, and do boring scales. Every day. Only some sense of its value must keep them going. Nothing else will.

The gospel of music is sung perpetually …You have to love it to survive it.

Prestige, if it ever happens, happens after, and rarely, for very few. The rest teach and encourage those who may excel and exceed them, accompany those who need to learn, or lose themselves in a back desk of an orchestra that turns out night after night. Without them the stars will nor rise or shine. The gospel of music is sung perpetually by the unrecognised, anonymous, and underpaid choir of small saints. All those harsh aspects, ironically, ensure its purity. You have to love it to survive it.

Perceived ‘elitism’ is achieved by the excluding and rejecting reaction. By those who do not partake. It is not intrinsic to the most inclusive universal language which celebrates all that we are at our human core, loving, generous and self-sacrificial.

a sense that its preciousness was deeply in jeopardy,

What was re-enlivened by that concert was a sense that its preciousness was deeply in jeopardy, and the only thing I could personally contribute was to write this, and feel a communion with all those unknown people who were there, conjoined, and who felt it too.

Three days later, Vengerov spent three hours giving a masterclass at the Royal College, attending minutely to the playing of three other young violinists. That is what this crying out loud sought to pay tribute to. An extraordinarily generous man, a universal art, and perfection needing recognition and protection. We need it now, more than ever.