Here Comes Treble: Intimate Evenings
...Playing chamber music is known as “the intimate art”. For twenty years I was truly privileged to enjoy playing the flute each week in an amateur wind quintet – purely for fun. My fellow musicians were Clive on oboe, Pat on clarinet, Haydn on bassoon and Jack on horn. Each had a passion for music and their sense of humour was decidedly whacky...
This scintillating article by Isabel Bradley (Isabel Larsen as she was then) was first published in the newsletter of the Flute Federation of South Africa in April 1994. If you don't play an instrument, if you have never been part of a chamber group or orchestra, after reading this you will regret missing out on a heap of fun.
For more of Isabel's tuneful words please click on Here Comes Treble in the menu on his page.
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Playing chamber music is known as “the intimate art”. For twenty years I was truly privileged to enjoy playing the flute each week in an amateur wind quintet – purely for fun. My fellow musicians were Clive on oboe, Pat on clarinet, Haydn on bassoon and Jack on horn. Each had a passion for music and their sense of humour was decidedly whacky. Here is a typical evening:
As instruments are assembled and blown on to warm them, a cacophony of hoots, squawks, shrieks and honks erupts. Reeds crow and crack; I distinctly hear the sound of a cow with digestive problems in all four stomachs, coming, I think from the bassoon – or is it the horn? Between puffs, we laugh, talk and catch up on the week’s news.
Pat hands out the first piece of music – a ‘warmer-upper’, a suite of dances by Denes Agay. “Let’s play this first, then tune our instruments! One – two – three!” says Pat and we all breathe in and begin.
My flute is playing high, I’ll adjust it when we finish this piece. I pull a wry face, shudder – and keep playing. I know we’re sounding ghastly. Clive, counting rests, catches my eye and grins. The clarinet is playing flat, but will come up when it’s warmer; the bassoon is a little sharp, though not as sharp as my flute; the horn is trying to wind its way to a happy medium between the three of us; the oboe, unable to adjust, plays where it finds itself.
Behind us on the table, the chocolate cake smells like nectar of the gods – I’m soooo hungry… Oops, where am I? I only had three bars rest, but I’m counting a fourth and fifth; we all grind to a halt. Clive takes out his tuner – a handy little gadget that shows by a system of lights and an indicator line just how sharp I am. I adjust my flute, blow an A pointed at the machine and the wavering line settles in the centre, the two lights shine steadily – I’m in tune. Pat twists the tubes on her clarinet, plays an A, and once again the lights shine steadily. Haydn decides he’ll tune his bassoon by tightening or loosening his lips while playing. Jack bends his horn’s tuning by a combination of adjusting a slide and moving his left hand inside the bell. Clive’s oboe is right without adjustment – after all, it’s his tuning machine, he’s got it trained!
Haydn quietly asks, “How can A sharp B flat? It isn’t natural!”
The Agay dances are put away and we move onto a quintet by Müller. It’s not too difficult and is delightful music. As we’re studying the ‘geography’ of the piece – where technicalities such as repeats and key changes are – Clive says, pretending to some theoretical knowledge, “I come in with an augmentation of the theme at bar twelve.”
Haydn retorts, “What! An orgasm-entation?” I dissolve into gales of laughter as Pat counts us in. I catch up – with trembling lips and aching diaphragm – five bars later. Soon, however, the bassoon erupts in obscene gurgles, sounding like lava in the stomach of a volcano and my diaphragm threatens to resume giggling. I gulp a breath in the wrong place, hoping that Jack won’t notice my shaking shoulders. He notices. We both collapse in whoops and the music falls down as the others join us in helpless laughter.
After regaining control, we continue. Things are a little better now. That phrase is lovely, the clarinet sounds beautiful… Suddenly it lets out an unscheduled shriek of agony; Pat recovers and continues without breaking rhythm. Her clarinet gobbles contentedly in its low register, playing an ‘obstinato’ (correctly, ostinato), sounding more like a turkey than any I’ve ever heard. (An ostinato passage is one in which a short musical pattern is repeated – repeatedly. We’ve nicknamed it to suit its obstinate nature.)
Surreptitiously, while counting twenty-four bars’ rest, I look around: Haydn’s feet are doing a strange dance: his left foot beats out the rhythm strongly, heel to toe, then the right takes over; then comes a passage of fast triplets and both feet are going, right, left, right – left-right – right… Clive’s right foot, crossed over his left knee, frantically waves a slightly different rhythm in mid-air. Jack counts rests, widely mouthing the numbers at me, clicking bony fingers in time to the music. Pat’s feet, tucked under her chair, secretly tap time – though not quite at the same speed as either Haydn or Clive. My heels and toes take turns tattooing the carpet.
While Pat collects the Müller and hands out the next work, conversation is random and strange:
“Imagine the creepy-crawlies living inside an oboe reed – or a bassoon reed!” remarks Haydn.
“As you put it to your mouth to blow,” continues Clive, “tentacles wave from the opening and eyes pop out at you on stalks!” He squints, sending me into gales of laughter again. “Never,” he adds seriously, “Never, ever, suck a wind instrument!”
Haydn says, “I’ve often wanted to put a flag on top of my bassoon when I’m playing in the orchestra. Maybe a balloon would be better… a balloon for a bassoon…” he ponders. Then, while scraping a reed, he burbles to himself, in a deep voice, “To the woods, to the woods!” He changes to a squeaky voice, “But I’m only thirteen!” The deep voice remarks, “This is no time to be superstitious!”
A discussion erupts about the need for better lighting on our sheet music: Haydn, the ring-leader, suggests everyone wear miner’s lamps. Clive feels they should be plugged into our individual performances – brightening to spotlight quality when playing a solo, throbbing delicately during an accompaniment, or switching off completely when a wrong note rears its head. The concept of lights not being lights at all, but ‘dark suckers’ is mooted, to be discussed later, in depth.
The chocolate cake smells better every moment.
After a short break to enjoy cool drinks, we take out a quintet written by the master of this genre, Anton Reicha*. After two hours of playing together, the spirit of true music appears among us, taking control. The bassoon rumbles like a contented elephant. The horn bravely calls us to battle with rich, honey-gold sounds. The clarinet coos like a turtle dove. The oboe croons a love-song. The flute soars into one of Reicha’s ‘big tunes’, flying high over a golden land, setting my soul free.
It is at moments like these that there is the greatest intimacy, a bonding of minds and souls. The music slows of its own volition, picks up tempo again without conscious effort; we hesitate for the same breathing space, resume at the same time; a unison passage is perfectly in tune and we end together with deep satisfaction. Music, the most intimate art of all.
At tea-time, after three hours of music, we’re all high on deep breathing, concentration and the fun we’ve shared. Picking up a jam tart, Clive solemnly awards it to Haydn – a medal for extreme bravery in the battle of the triplets.
My body is exhausted, my left shoulder-blade burns as if a knife twists in the surrounding muscles. Squirming to find a more comfortable position, I become philosophical: “When playing a musical instrument, if you put your soul into it, your whole body must go into it too!”
“Oh dear,” murmurs Clive, contorting face and body, “Isabel can’t fit her foot into her flute!”
Our families think we’re totally mad – maybe they’re right. With madness such as we enjoy – who wants to be sane? We enjoy each other’s company and take immense pleasure in the music we play together. Most people, ‘sane’ or otherwise, will never know the sheer delight we experience each week while making music. They’ll never know that deep satisfaction at the end of a session which leads us to sigh contentedly and grin at each other like idiots.
Oh – and the chocolate cake tasted even better than it smelled!
Until next time, “here comes Treble!”
*Anton Reicha was a contemporary and acquaintance of Beethoven’s. He moved to Paris where he taught flute and composition at the Conservatoire of Music. Reicha wrote a large number of quintets, each a beautiful masterpiece. Over many years Haydn and Pat added all of Reicha’s quintets to their massive library of sheet music.
By Isabel Bradley
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