A BIT OF A LIST

This will amount to not much more than a list, just for the record.

I managed to make it, black tie and all, to our 40th Alumni Reunion dinner in the Great Hall on a steamy hot night at the end of February. Do the sums if you must, but remember things happened earlier way back then. I had my 17th birthday in first year University. It was way too young, for most things, let alone a career choice. That said, forty years later there were few regrets among the large number still alive and still interested, although quite a few had retired, and they mostly 'proceduralists'.

There is a strange commonality at play. A large group initially derived from school academic achievement and adolescent, or parental, ambitions, becomes subdivided alphabetically for practical, in both senses, reasons, only to be reorganised again for student allocation to institutions, then dispersed in postgraduate allocation to an even wider array of institutions, and finally let loose on an unsuspecting public. Yes, I'm talking Medicine. And what happened next was the subject of the night.

It turned out that Turns, despite much goodwill in the audience, really failed to hit the spot. A shame really. Everyone wanted it to work. As K noted, Reg is best with someone else's material and with much stronger direction that his protege could deliver. Nancye Hayes was saddled with a increasingly unfunny costume, loads of dialogue, not her strong point, and not that much to sing. And the mother-and-son routine is pretty old hat.

Our first encounter with the Sydney Symphony for the year was a very satisfying Peer Gynt. This was fine ensemble playing, with some gleaming icy brightness from the violins, and terrific solo work, especially Jacqueline Porter's lovely Solveig and Simon Halligan's ardent Peer, all held together with lucid narration by John de Lancie. Stage direction was considerably better than the last effort, a clumsyish Midsummers Night Dream, and this time the amplification was excellent. Not inappropriately either.

Earlier on the same day, in the same concert hall, there had been a memorial for Bruce Jackson, Sydney's export to the world of big sound. He had a huge career in the USA, front of house for the Greats, (Elvis gave him a plane for his birthday, Streisand would have no other) and though you may not have known at the time, he was the man behind the sound of the Sydney Olympic Opening Ceremony. He had crashed to his death in Death Valley, on the Californian Nevada border. Bruce and K had grown up together, neighbours, family friends, had entered the world of electronics together, stayed in contact, and worked together again during the recording of the Sydney Olympic music.

Lilli Tomlin was a must see. It was the night before Mardi Gras, and Enmore was buzzing. So was Lilli, kind of. Despite local references, there was a sense of Friday-must-be-X, and although the seriously gay and lesbian crowd loved her, they failed to deliver her that extra feedback I suspect she needed to really raise it up a bar or two. The interesting point she did make, and confirm the next night on the Mardi Gras telecast (where the commentary was between embarrassing and atrocious) was that she was not in agreement with gay marriage, seeing it as aping heterosexuals.

We even managed Nixon in China from the Met, with Adams' score sounding particularly Glassish, with Wagner interludes. The libretto mostly escaped me. It was of a depth and meaning that made it all but impossible to appreciate except by slow reading the text. For me, the women stole the show, except for the exceptional Cho En-lai of Russell Braun. I still find the camera work too close, too often. Peter Sellars alone was worth it.

The SSO Mahler 6 was very good, fast driven, muscular, exciting. They're getting good solid sound happening, which augurs well for the 7, anyday soon.

And last but not least, Orchestra Romantique gave a great concert last Sunday afternoon, all within walking distance, a glass of wine, a happy happy crowd. Harriet has the story. We sat close and the Berlioz was particularly vivid and visceral. I loved it.

Enough already.

ORCHESTRA ROMANTIQUE

Paddington Town Hall; Sunday, March 6, 3pm. You'll be just waking up.

Orchestra Romantique, brainchild of Nick Byrne (second trombone Sydney Symphony and Ophicleide serious dude) and Nicholas Carter (Sydney Symphony associate conductor), is the new Sydney orchestra made up mainly of Sydney Symphony players with a focus on the romantic repertoire. While obviously targeting all music lovers, it is especially conscious of people who for one reason or another don't necessarily make it to the big venues with bigger ticket prices. But the intimacy (Paddington Town Hall, 600 seats), the prices (adults $25, concessions $15, family $65), and the starting time (Sunday 3pm) aren't the only reasons you should be going.

How's this for programming:

Carl Maria von Weber - 'Oberon' Overture (1826 - it was said to have killed him, aged 40).

Jules Demersseman (1833-1866) - Introduction and Polonaise for Ophicleide and Orchestra.

Hector Berlioz - Symphonie Fantastique (the 1830 version, with period brass and percussion, prepare to riot).

Never heard of Monsieur Demersseman the virtuoso French blower who died at 33? Never heard the ophicleide?? Then better not miss this challenging work on this amazing instrument with a reputation for needing more air than a rugby player and not without risk - apart from the untimely death of the two composers, there's this: "... and his uncle who tried to commit suicide by shutting his head in a carpet bag, and his father who played Ophicleide and died insane as they all do..." Virginia Woolf to Vanessa Bell, 1916).

More pictures and stories, as well as all about this pre-tuba brass instrument of sweet highs and gruff lows, can be found on Nick Byrne's fantastic Nick and his Ophicleide website. Be careful Nick.

But wait - there's more. There's Scott Kinmont and his big serpent. Hah. The gang's all here.

I missed their first concert but I'm not missing the second. From what I hear, neither should you. My eldest sister and some of her extended family heard the programme last Sunday in Newcastle, and she reports it was brilliant, with the Novocastrians whooping and foot stamping in appreciation.

Meanwhile, here's the 'Oberon' overture. Imagine, instead of that horn, it just might be the first time you hear "the most lyrical Romantic-era brass instrument you've never heard"

A DAY IN TOWN

I'd stayed in the city for what turned out to be a depressing work meeting on Monday night. On the humid drizzly morning-after, forewarned about heavy traffic around the foreshores, I set off to walk to the pool with not much more than a dilly bag with togs and towel, and a book.

The two Queens had slipped into the harbour as the dawn was just breaking through heavy clouds and by the time I was at Mrs Macquarie Chair the huge Queen Mary 2 had docked at the Naval Base and Queen Elizabeth was looking somewhat more glamorous, if that compliment can ever be extended to today's big cruise ships, all top heavy overstuffed with little balconies, at Circular Quay.

I made it three people at the pool, as a light rain came and went, overhead mostly dark with occasional cloud breaks revealing a brilliant Sydney blue sky for a teasing few minutes. It looked like some of the local pleasure boats were taking passengers directly on board from a lowered gangway and jetty.

Swimming in the rain is heaven.

Around the cove, past the Opera House, I threaded my way along the Quay, through a million cameras, to the Museum of Contemporay Art, where the queues for the Annie Liebovitz exhibition were said to be intimidating. Well, there weren't any. Everyone was pointing the other way, looking at Herself, caught in breaking sunlight, and warping the perspective of all our usual landmarks, even the bridge pylons reduced to little stone things.

The exhibition is on one floor - 15 years of her life, with great expansive landscapes, walls of densely compacted personal photos of unnerving intimacy, drawing you close, too close, overlapping life and death, beginnings and endings, and everything in between, and of course riddled with the rich and famous. From an awkward gangly almost frightened early Nicole Kidman snap, for example, Liebovitz then takes you to the fabulous star, wrapped in the narcissism of her own glamour, emerging from a swirl of smoky gauze, nearly unrecognisable with swept back short hair and one vulnerable eye, and in a stunning inversion of reality, the empty theatre blurred out by the spots, leaves just the beautiful one and that door competing for your attention. Queue for it.

I was there for a long time. When I emerged there was more light rain and things were whiting out.

(clicking should enlarge)

I wandered off into the streets of the city, better.

LEO SAYS

The other day I came across this. While I can't say I yet agree with the first sentence, if he is talking about earthly life on this planet, and I don't know the context but intend to try to find it, I think I know what he means.

"Love is life. All, everything that I

understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is,
everything exists, only because I love. Everything is united by it
alone. Love is God, and to die means that I, a particle of love,
shall return to the general and eternal source." Leo Tolstoy

SEE YOU LATER SPOTTY

It happened quite quickly on Friday evening. She had been looking a little bit glazed and uncertain for the last few days, although she was in reasonable shape walking in Centennial Park on Thursday morning, trotting along at her own speed, tail wagging slowly, and endlessly, as it always did. Her last years were nothing if not a manifestation of strength and beauty of personality.

Spot was 16. The oldest dog I've ever had, and I've always had dogs. Always will I hope. Strangely, I'd been lent Dog Walks Man the week before, half finished now on the bedside table. Spot walked us through a life certainly better for her being. Our good fortune.

The little city house felt suddenly empty. I didn't get down to the country, by now surrounded in mist and low cloud with a light steady rain, till Sunday evening. With two candles and an incense stick burning, I sat on the couch with Millie. She's the big dog now, the keeper of the spirit. In a half awake half asleep fading meditative state, my bare feet under the old wooden table where Spot spent most of her last years, in the stillness, I swear I felt her hairs gently brush past my toes, soft and fleeting, then gone.

We had stayed in town for a fund raising party on Saturday. Under a marquee on the lawns of an old sandstone house, Sydney twinkling beyond the harbour, Diana Doherty, with Pen on piano, had played Robert Schumann's Evening Serenade, and only as she could - heartfelt and beautiful, time slipping away, a hushed audience, and us, a wee bit teary.

Here you go Spot ... and thanks

THE KING SPEAKS

You've seen the film. Now hear him speak. Colin Firth was reportedly brought to tears. There's more from the BBC.

The producer of this very personal film is Emile Sherman ...

(thanks to mamamia)

... son of Brian Sherman, immigrant, business man, entrepreneur, arts patron, animal rights activist. Sydneysiders, especially from the eastern suburbs, will be familiar with Sherman Galleries.

POPPING IN, AND OUT

The heat continues. During the day, and especially in the afternoon, there's very little coming and going, at least that you can see or hear. On Monday friends driving south popped in mid-afternoon. Although inside the house was marginally cooler, we sat with cold lime drinks under the big gum overhanging the lawn. The shade and the stillness, with just the slightest of air movement, surrounded by the hovering heat, was almost exhilarating. It was certainly peculiarly Australian.

Later we walked through what will hopefully one day be a canopy of scribbly gums. They're about four year olds now, and were planted as tube stock to evolve into an avenue of creamy white wandering trunks with widespread protective arms over the new gardens. More on them later. To get there you walk over the little stone bridge near the dam where two skinks live. One is always on the lookout, whatever the weather.

By the time we were back to the house, another visitor had appeared, someone I hadn't seen in all the years we've been here. Out came the book. It could be the common but rarely seen, secretive and shy, Scaly thrush (Zoothera dauma), a beautifully disguised forest floor dweller with brown and cream marbling, striding alertly across the lawn grub hunting. Or maybe it's the Spotted quail-thrush (Cinclosoma punctatum), equally wary.