Here Comes Treble: Nights of Glamour
...What joy to watch a full symphony orchestra in the throes of creating the most glorious sounds in the world. Like ballet dancers, the violins’ bows rose and fell in perfect formation, emulated by the bows of violas and ‘cellos. Dark-suited men bent over double-bases, making love to the long strings with more bows; on the tiers above them, the timpanist waited, beaters poised, to strike a sudden note or hammer out a rolling peal of thunder....
With generous words, Isabel Bradley shares the excitement and intense delight of her early concert-going days in Johannesburg.
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At a recent lunch-hour concert, we were treated to the long and beautiful Brahms horn trio, four movements of the rich, interweaving sounds of violin, French horn and piano. After a long, hard week of work, rehearsals and socialising, my eyes closed and I dozed, soothed by the music. My head just about fell off backwards and I woke with a fright, though hopefully not with a snort! Falling asleep to beautiful music reminded me of so many wonderful evenings…
From the time I was thirteen years’ old, Dad and I attended the weekly symphony concerts in the Johannesburg City Hall every season. People dressed for such occasions then, ladies wearing elegant long gowns, gentlemen wearing suits. As a student of home economics at school, I learned to sew and made several elegant outfits to wear to the concerts. Dad treated me like a lady – he opened the car door for me, then we’d drive off through the suburbs, across the Queen Elizabeth Bridge and into the underground parking garage. Once the car was parked, we’d walk, my hand tucked into the crook of Dad’s elbow, through the tunnel between the garage and the staircase leading up into the foyer of the hall. For a while, we’d mingle with the crowd, people-watching; then, as the bell jangled, we’d amble together up the wide stairs to the balcony, where our regular seats waited in the front row.
Members of the orchestra sauntered on stage, glamorous in black evening gowns and tuxedoes. The timpanist bent over his kettle-drums, twiddling the ‘taps’ and tapping the skins to ensure they were in tune; the oboist fiddled with his reed, blew a crowing note or two on it, then attached it to his oboe and ran up and down a scale or two; the flutes and piccolo tried out various bright – or shrill – bits and pieces; the trumpeters played a voluntary or two and the fiddlers scratched away, bows against strings. The heavenly cacophony grew as every instrument joined the throng.
A sudden silence fell, as the leader – the principal violinist – stood, tapped on his ‘desk’ and pointed at the oboist. In reply, a long and nasal note – known to musicians as A – rang out, and everyone scraped, tooted and banged again to make sure that all A’s were the same. As the leader sat, an expectant hush fell over the hall, interrupted by a shuffle downstairs as someone arrived late, the banging of a door outside, a stifled cough.
The conductor strode on-stage, commanding in a black tail suit; he bowed to the audience, turned to the orchestra, lifted his baton – and the spectacle commenced! What joy to watch a full symphony orchestra in the throes of creating the most glorious sounds in the world. Like ballet dancers, the violins’ bows rose and fell in perfect formation, emulated by the bows of violas and ‘cellos. Dark-suited men bent over double-bases, making love to the long strings with more bows; on the tiers above them, the timpanist waited, beaters poised, to strike a sudden note or hammer out a rolling peal of thunder. The principal flute-player, Mr Grujon, was my teacher; more than that, he was my mentor and my musical father. He sat hunched over his stand, never obviously watching the conductor; when he played his instrument it was with the most exquisite, bright sounds. My favourite character to watch was the principal trumpeter. His name was George; he had fair skin and pitch-black hair. When he raised his instrument to his lips, I sat forward in my seat to watch as his face turned pink, puce, red and then almost purple. Which composer would finally cause him to burst, I wondered.
At interval, Dad and I went backstage – my hand tucked once again into the crook of his arm, his jacket sleeve rough under my fingers. There, we found George, still red in the face: “What a blow!” he would exclaim, “what a blow!” as he headed for the pub over the road. Then we’d look for Mr Grujon and talk flute-playing for fifteen minutes. Sometimes, friends of mine played as ‘extras’; then I enjoyed a brief gossip or flirtation, before the bell rang and we headed back upstairs for the second half, the symphony of the evening.
Frequently during the symphony my eyelids grew heavy and my head drooped sideways onto Dad’s welcoming shoulder; I drifted close to dreamland, safe, loved, and rocked by glorious music. Often I was woken by crashing percussion, to thrill through the remainder of the performance.
One memorable occasion which kept me awake throughout the second half was a performance of Ravel’s arrangement of Mussorgsky’s ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’. It is superbly orchestrated and very exciting to listen to – and to watch. Towards the end, the percussionist is required to alternately strike the gong and the base drum. His name was Johnny, a terrific musician. My eyes were riveted on him; he struck bass drum, gong, bass drum, gong – calamity! – the gong on its stand fell over, bellowing loudly; he bashed the drum again, before picking up the gong, striking it on cue and continuing as if nothing untoward had happened. At the end of the piece, the audience erupted, cheering for Johnny!
Times changed, of course. I grew up, married, and left Johannesburg. Dad stopped going to the concerts and so did I – though when I returned on visits, we’d sometimes go together and recapture those evenings. The glamour dissipated – people dressed in jeans and T-shirts rather than evening gowns and suits. The music continued, though familiar faces left. George retired to the banks of the Vaal Dam to live in peace away from those ‘big blows’ which made his face so red. Mr Grujon moved to Cape Town, where he died some years later. Many of my friends left South Africa to study in America and England; or became doctors or lawyers and put down their instruments. One or two of them became members of the orchestra, and still play as professionals today in the Johannesburg Philharmonic Orchestra. When I go to the concerts now, the venue is different; instead of my hand feeling the rough cloth in the crook of Dad’s arm, it’s warmly clasped by Leon’s.
Despite the changing times and faces, music lives on, and Johnny still plays percussion – though as far as I know, the gong has never again fallen over during a performance!
Until next week, “here comes Treble!”
by Isabel Bradley Copyright Reserved ©
