The JPO.
I love the orchestra, i love the strings and the woods, i love the flautists and the double bass. I love each instrument. I love the idea that a pained callous is a resultant sound of beauty. I love real music. I love the physical effort involved.
I love the orchestra, i love the strings and the woods, i love the flautists and the double bass. I love each instrument. I love the idea that a pained callous is a resultant sound of beauty. I love real music. I love the physical effort involved.
With the ease with which ultra mel custard gently glides across jiggly jelly,
so the smooth sounds of a well tuned orchestra send light tremors through my
being enhancing the vibrancy of my aura, a palette for a Henri Matisse.
 |
| jpo.co.za |
The Linder
Auditorium, acoustically magical, intimate and warm to the touch, rendering Northgate
a used condom.
A Thursday night, it’s gallery night, but i pass go paying one fifty five and slip into night one of the JPO’s 4th season.
We dress up, we stick on a collar and we iron our Shannon Brooks to have the crease running down the front. I leave the tie behind though, it was my old school blue. I polish my one’s and two’s. I don’t care to dress up for a flight on an SAA Boeing, but still I’ll dress up for a cocktail of strings, winds, brass and percussion.
The chipmunk chirpy MC at front and centre delivers misery. the coffers have been plundered. There is no more money, the musicians were short a salary, a salticrax month endured and that gutted me as a baby dolphin on the shores of Yokohama.
Seated in the nose-bleeds, moments before i blacked out from cerebral edema, the playful cacophonic sounds of the warm-up session fires up my pilot light and settles me in my plush chair. My knees blocking my nostrils, but I don’t care cos i’m about to be aurally tenderised.
A Thursday night, it’s gallery night, but i pass go paying one fifty five and slip into night one of the JPO’s 4th season.
We dress up, we stick on a collar and we iron our Shannon Brooks to have the crease running down the front. I leave the tie behind though, it was my old school blue. I polish my one’s and two’s. I don’t care to dress up for a flight on an SAA Boeing, but still I’ll dress up for a cocktail of strings, winds, brass and percussion.
The chipmunk chirpy MC at front and centre delivers misery. the coffers have been plundered. There is no more money, the musicians were short a salary, a salticrax month endured and that gutted me as a baby dolphin on the shores of Yokohama.
Seated in the nose-bleeds, moments before i blacked out from cerebral edema, the playful cacophonic sounds of the warm-up session fires up my pilot light and settles me in my plush chair. My knees blocking my nostrils, but I don’t care cos i’m about to be aurally tenderised.
And then
silence mutes us. Only the sound of a cough splutters the tranquillity.
The dramatic stage has been set, the conductor with stove pipe slacks, his white socks a Michael Jackson length and his American drawl, baton in hand boards the platform. As a co-ordinated air craft controller his waving arms, his torso pivoting, he delivers a back hand, the match is struck, the orchestra begins burning. The orchestra is catapulted into fighter jet action.
The dramatic stage has been set, the conductor with stove pipe slacks, his white socks a Michael Jackson length and his American drawl, baton in hand boards the platform. As a co-ordinated air craft controller his waving arms, his torso pivoting, he delivers a back hand, the match is struck, the orchestra begins burning. The orchestra is catapulted into fighter jet action.
The union of
the violinists sawing at Tchaikovsky’s strings. The bows bobbing, spearing the
swirling air above, an harmonius draw that tears me a Cameron Diaz smile. It’s
the gorgeous girls sketched in black in the violin section mesmerising me,
turning my legs to soggy marie biscuits.
my mouth’s drool sopping my collared plaid shirt.
The double bass , an instrument of beauty, they are deap but they anchor the shrill. There are few in number . With the bow, the page is turned.
The black tadpole figures of musical notes bound by horizontal lines hang ordered, they sit as players on the steps of West Side Story, delivering only the sublime. The brass, polished to a reflection. They air their opinion, a huff and a puff, they blow the house down to rapturous applause.
Ebonies and ivories. his hands the lines of longitude, stretching to deliver the key note. Rachmaninov drawing tears from the wells of my eyes as a biblical Isaac. I now longed for that opportunity to return to the keyboard of my youth i so rapidly gave up for Nintendo game time.
The double bass , an instrument of beauty, they are deap but they anchor the shrill. There are few in number . With the bow, the page is turned.
The black tadpole figures of musical notes bound by horizontal lines hang ordered, they sit as players on the steps of West Side Story, delivering only the sublime. The brass, polished to a reflection. They air their opinion, a huff and a puff, they blow the house down to rapturous applause.
Ebonies and ivories. his hands the lines of longitude, stretching to deliver the key note. Rachmaninov drawing tears from the wells of my eyes as a biblical Isaac. I now longed for that opportunity to return to the keyboard of my youth i so rapidly gave up for Nintendo game time.
I grew up
with green thumbs potting plants, the State Theatre part of my lexicon, the
ballet as shades of pink, and the classics as a gift my folks blessed me with. I
wasn’t only dished up with the A and B’s of culture but of the greats in the
arts.
The JPO must not die as the romans, or the greeks before. It’s a sign of our culturally anorexic society when our Philaharmonic begins to haemorrage. The orchestra must continue to fight the wave of Dashin Kards and the instrumentless Gaga’s we’re flooded with daily. Let us fete the du pre’s and the Barenboims, because they’re worth it.
Don’t let the M&M store be the glowing memory of a trip to New York. Let Carnegie assume the rightful space in our kids memoirs and the Royal Festival Hall and Barbican be etched in their cerebellums for their future enjoyment.
As I ran through Soweto, skimming past the beautiful glistening new Music Hall, I hope I don’t see wild game come to the city. Elephants are for the Kruger.
Let us not show our naivety to greatness, to the arts.
Don’t ‘spear’ our culture of the great stuff.
The JPO must not die as the romans, or the greeks before. It’s a sign of our culturally anorexic society when our Philaharmonic begins to haemorrage. The orchestra must continue to fight the wave of Dashin Kards and the instrumentless Gaga’s we’re flooded with daily. Let us fete the du pre’s and the Barenboims, because they’re worth it.
Don’t let the M&M store be the glowing memory of a trip to New York. Let Carnegie assume the rightful space in our kids memoirs and the Royal Festival Hall and Barbican be etched in their cerebellums for their future enjoyment.
As I ran through Soweto, skimming past the beautiful glistening new Music Hall, I hope I don’t see wild game come to the city. Elephants are for the Kruger.
Let us not show our naivety to greatness, to the arts.
Don’t ‘spear’ our culture of the great stuff.
No comments:
Post a Comment