Tuesday, 16 September 2008

Last Night of the Proms

Damn and bloody blast Bryn Tryfel! There, I have said it. It is 'out' in the open at last. And I feel better for having thus unburdened myself. Ah yes, I feel the great weight of last Saturday evening lifting from my shoulders at long last. I should make clear at the outset, dear reader, that I have the utmost respect for the man's musical abilities. I have, on occasion, even had the honour of being in his 'backing' group (so-to-speak - I had a minor part in an 'Elijah' he was doing years ago in Huddersfield, if I remember rightly). And speaking of which I have never, to this day, heard either live or on recorded disc anyone, whether living or departed attempt the first two phrases of 'Lord God of Abraham' in just one breath. One breath! The man's a freak, for goodness sake. Breath control like that, and a voice as big as St Pancras railway station can only have been bought at the expense of his immortal soul, I fear. But no matter. He will not 'appear' again on my portable TV set for some time, and I can always hide my record collection when Felicia comes again for supper. 
I had thought, of course, that an evening chez Can Bass followed by the musical festivities from the Albert Hall would be a most enjoyable experience. I could gently 'show off' my musical erudition (I mean, of course, give dear Felicia the benefit of my wisdom - which is a darn sight more than Clive James could when presenting the damned show!); we could snuggle up on the sofa finishing the wine; I might even 'hold her hand'. But no! First we had that idiot Norrington appearing on the conducting podium in a straight-jacket borrowed, no doubt, from the local lunatic asylum (and the orchestra would have been much better off if they had kept the tapes tied so the fellow couldn't wave his arms). Then the Welsh Windbag himself. Dear God, what a face (no competition there)! And what a voice! As soon as the fellow opened his mouth in that peculiar manner he had poor Felicia in a swoon. 
"Oh Can Bass" she said, slightly breathlessly "hasn't he got a lovely voice? It makes me go weak at the knees. Can you sing as low as that?" 
With the colour rising to her cheeks all the while, I attempted to explain the subtle differences between a baritone and bass (I am, technically, the former) but she would have none of it. 
"I'm down to do a solo in the tomorrow's Benedictus" I informed her "if you'd like to listen." 
"Oh yes, Can Bass" she cooed. "I'll be there". 
And then what happened? Yes, you've guessed. The DoM went and gave the blasted solo to Walter Drane (whom I noticed, incidentally, singing in the same peculiar manner as the aforementioned Welshman - i.e. with his bottom lip pulled down at the side like Fulton MacKay addressing Norman Stanley Fletcher, or Mr Geoffrey Boycott smiling. Honestly, the man is such a poseur!). 
After the service I attempted to explain to Felicia what had happened and apologise for dragging her to the cathedral under false pretences. But she was having none of it. 
"Oh but Can Bass, hasn't he got a lovely voice - just like that man last night on the telly."

19 comments:

Kitty said...

Awww, I'm sure she'll adore your Baritone. You're just breaking her in on those fancy Bass's.

Aren't you? ;-) x

The Poet Laura-eate said...

Ah but he's just Tryfel'ing with her affections - you're the REAL deal!

And you're undoubtedly a lot wittier than Mr Triffid too, aside from ploughing your own musical milieu!

Remember there's no need to worry about *competition* when one is unique in one's own right CB1.

Just be quietly confident that dear F will see this in due course, even if she is a little easily star-struck - and will also come to appreciate you for not selling your soul to the devil! (always a plus in a chap I find).

Or you could always choose to be admired for the largesse of agreeing 'Yes, he is frightfully good isn't he?' and add the masterstroke 'But enough about him, let's talk about you...'

Brownie points in the bank for at least a month of unbridled bliss! (not that I'm suggesting for a moment you wouldn't mean it!)

;-)

Tenon_Saw said...

Wasn't it Clive Anderson rather than Clive James?

Kevin Musgrove said...

Great God, man here's your chance: can you lip-synch to your Paul Robeson records?

ChickPea said...

Delighted to find that the recent rains have not dampened your ardour, Sir. Here's wishing you both much joy in tripping around the puddles.

Gadjo Dilo said...
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Gadjo Dilo said...

Oohhh... Can you sing as low as that?... Your beloved is clearly a worthy object of your affections, sir, but there's something of the minx about her too, if I may be impertinent. Take her on a tour of opera houses in the further-flung reaches of the former soviet-bloc - that'll put her off "real" basses for life!

Eddie 2-Sox said...
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Eddie 2-Sox said...

Dear CB1,

I have some news for you that may or may not perk you up. Remember that I offered to commission Barry Teeth to pen some romantic verse on your behalf? Well, I may have accidentally set the hare racing when I was speaking to Barry last night. He was trying to persuade me to re-consider the poem of his that I rebuffed - "Boning The Tuna" - and I "might" have let slip your need for some romantic back-up.....

Goodness only knows what he'll come up with.....sorry.

The Dotterel said...

As a fellow baritone, you have my sympathy. Girls just want to know how low we go (or if a tenor, how high) without a care about what's in-between!

Barry Teeth, Beet Poet said...

Hello CanBass1

Eddie2sox gave me your blogsite thing.

Have you got an email mate? I've written something special for you.

Can Bass 1 said...

I do indeed, Mr Teeth - Canbass1@gmail.com is what it's called, I believe.

Working mum said...

I suspect Bryn has a portrait in the attic gasping for breath!

Do tell me that she didn't like wailing Lesly Garrett in the Prawns in the Pork (yes, I am a TOG). I can't bear her warbling!

Gadjo Dilo said...

I can't bear her either, W-Mum: such a shiny shiny person she is. (What's "Prawns in the Pork"? And what's a "TOG"?)

Eddie 2-Sox said...

Gadgee Dildo, Prawns In The Pork is the name given to an outdoor celebration of....of....some music by unreasonably popular BBC DJ Terry Wogan.

A TOG is Wogan's self-invented fan club, standing for Terry's Old Gays. He has an army of elderly or middle-aged homosexual followers, as they are the only people who can bear his woeful, repetitive style.

By the way Gadgee Dildo, do you sell sex toys in Newcastle?

Gadjo Dilo said...

Dear Mr Eddie 2-Sox (this "Dildo" thing is really sticking, isn't it; still, never mind, fame at any price). No, I don't sell sex toys in Newcastle but it's probably a good career move. I think I get the "Proms" connection, though as I neither live in UK nor watch television I'm unlikely to fully appreciate the irony of what you say.

I passed Mr Wogan on flight of stairs once; he's was going "tum de tum de tiddily di de" to himself like some cartoon comic-book leprechaun Irishman. "He's a caricature of himself", I thought to myself, and I've felt very dismissive of him ever since.

Working mum said...

Gadjo - I think Eddie made a bit of a Freudian slip there, it's Terry's Old Geezers! I wouldn't want you to get confused about a married working mum!

Prawns in the Pork is the poor man's Last Night of the Proms performed simultaneously in a Park in London and featuring the classical artists that we wouldn't want to see in the real thing - ie Lesley Garrett!

Hadriana's Treasures said...

Shame I missed it. Wonder if it is still on that replay thingy. I watched the whole of "Maestro" and then forgot about the finale. Typical. Completely agree re: Geoffrey Boycott comments!

BS5 Blogger said...

I thought Mr. Norrington was a bit of a tool, too!