On Sunday evening I went to the Academy for Performing Arts to listen to the Hong Kong Welsh Male Voice Choir. Since its formation in 1978, when, we were told, all 12 founding members were Welshmen good and true, the number of swarthy pitmen has dwindled, so that now only about a quarter of those decked out in garish scarlet at the weekend would qualify as leek-eaters.
If it sounds like a backhanded compliment to say that the highlights of the evening were the contributions of the students of the APA, then it should be added that they were outstanding and a credit to both the Dean of Music and the Head of Brass. The 16-year-old pianist, Rachel Cheung, was particularly impressive, imparting just the right amount of feeling into a Chopin Fantasie Polonaise, and resisting the temptation to go the whole Yundi Li.
The other standout performance was by the eight man small choir, who did a magical rendering of "Danny Boy", which for the record is neither Welsh nor Irish. Well, half Irish, as the lyrics that are sung to the tune Londonderry Air were written by Frederick Weatherly, an English lawyer who never actually visited Ireland.
That the full choir (around 45 strong) rose above the level of a bunch of blokes being tipped out of the pub at closing time was due in no small part to the conductor, who wisely chose very few pieces where the four parts had to sing in unison for long. For, counter-intuitive as it may seem, it's not singing in harmony that shows up amateurs most cruelly, but singing the tune together. There's always one who can't, see.
My own memories of Wales are mixed. I went on two cricket tours there in the 1980s, managing to hit the ball 90 yards (I paced it out afterwards) through the pavilion window at Drefach, near Llanelli. It was all to no avail, however, as their opener, a miner, came in and smashed the ball to all parts. He remains to this day the only cricketer I've ever seen bat without gloves.
The following year, we went and it rained all week. In the end, we managed just half a match – but what a half it was, with the home side, Pontarddulais, winning off the last ball, after their number eleven had been dropped at long on. Not only dropped, our fielder managed to shepherd the ball over the boundary rope for six.
That evening we had a bit of a party, it being our last night in the principality. Knowing that matters were likely to take a vocal turn at some point, I had prepared something for any members of our team who were still standing to sing along to. Appropriately enough, I had adapted that great Welsh hymn by the Williams brothers, Guide Me, Oh Thou Great Jehovah.
I've forgotten most of it with the passage of time – I do recall that "When I cross the verge of Jordan, bid my anxious fears subside" became "When I crossed the Bristol Channel, I saw floods and three landslides" – but I still remember the chorus. Instead of "Bread of heaven", the clubhouse was soon reverberating to strains of:
Rain in Swansea
Rain in Swansea
Rain from five till 'alf past four
Rain from five till 'alf past four.
3 comments:
The Williams Brothers? Are they those tennis players?
Is this why you've been picking on Cardiff in my blog?
Will probably see Dame Jessica myself at an upcoming seminar. Should I give her some money? I won't be able to give her my 20p coins, though, as I need five of them to do one load of laundry. Plus, my loose change often goes to those guys who sell The Big Issue on the street; I feel bad for their lovely dogs.
You're an old Oxonian. Can you tell me why there are so many homeless begging in this affluent corner of a rich Western nation with social services? And why they are all guys?
And how they can afford a dog license? The combined talents of Isaiah Berlin, Karl Popper and Ludwig Wittgenstein would be hard pressed to answer all these questions. Dame J would of course let you know why - but it would cost you, you know.
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