Rhapsody in Blue

Herbie Hancock & Lang Lang, live at the Royal Albert Hall. I'm curious and even excited by the thought of what classical meets jazz might morph into.

But I'm distracted; My first time in the Choir section at the Royal Albert, and I'm reduced to an awestruck six year old as I gape at the vista of the interior in front of me (for the uninitiated, this is an almost circular venue, with events often stage in the arena in the middle, and a stage at the foot of this magnificent Gothic organ, and the choir effectively wraps around behind the actual stage...). The ginormous pipes of the organ are exhilarating fearsome and visions of hair jumping up like startled toupees occupy me for a bit. My attention fastens upon the unique perspective of the skeleton of the orchestra as I unsuccessfully squint to focus on the hieroglyphics on the sheet music arrayed in front of me. The languid filtering of the musicians thrills me, and the hairs on my neck quiver as I register the percussion section within spitting distance.... massive drum, triangle, gong... this must be what heaven looks like!

We're ready for the Maestro, and my body quivers as he bounds up to the applause, to then turn to directly face us! I have never, NEVER been to a performance where you actually saw the conductor in their full glory, and this beaming, curly haired, nattily dressed dynamo of energy and extravagant gestures was simply a treat! Brilliant!!! The stars were obviously aligned right, as what should have been a startling performance was insipid, allowing one's imagination to run riot. Always impressive, the proportions of the auditorium can only truly experienced from this angle, and I feel like Cary Grant (it does not bode well, that it's Cary and not Audrey I feel like..!!) as I survey the magnificence at my command. The perfect crime scene. So easy to discreetly 'dispose' off someone in plain sight, the orchestra the perfect cover for a stiletto (or maybe even a slim garrote), the balcony reluctantly supporting a limp body, blood melting into the lush red upholstery, invisible on a beautifully cut tuxedo.... the music cranking up the atmosphere.....Classic, sophisticated spy shenanigans. The divas take a backseat to the inexhaustible potential in front of me, and I lose myself in Mr. Grant.

The interval brings the snotty exit of Taks, pate with bagels and the realisation that the slats in the organ pipes remind me of postboxes. Apparently, I'm the only one who feels this way, and the suppressed grins at my vivid rendering of my Charade experience, and the totally unrestrained guffaws at my excited emphasis on the pivotal role of the triangle drives me to the acquisition of ice cream. The second half lifts the music, but even Lang Lang's exuberance can't compete with the conductors slices, punches and hold patterns. And then, finally, the Rhapsody in Blue that was a master class in the interpretation of what rhapsody is! The dominant divas carried aloft by an inspired orchestra to a colossal triumph.

Paisa vasooli?? The venue - Unquestionably. The performance - Unsatisfying. The trek back in the rain dressed as the summer queen (read strappy, insubstantial dress, flimsy embroidered flip flops, no umbrella and 14 kilos of shopping for a loved one) - shiveringly messy.

P.S. - Interesting that the page turners (ahem - proper pianist accessorise with professional page turners.....), were ethnically matching.... African American and Oriental. Curious, wot..