The cultural life of Olomouc is flourishing. Almost weekly there are concerts. And because entrance tickets are not that expensive, and a good friend of my plays in the orchestra, my own cultural life flourishes too.
I prefer going to concerts with choir, orchestra and solo singers, because then there's not only a lot to hear, but also a lot to see. What fascinates me is how after a while individual characters start to emerge from the uniformity of the choir. These types are alway - alway - in every choir: the older man with the conspicuous moustache, the ladies with short, dyed hair and stern faces, and then the few choir members singing from their toes, swaying back and forth or bobbing up and down.
With the choir as backdrop, the solo singers shine as birds of paradise. The ladies in their evening dresses, sparkling earrings and immaculate lipstick, and the men in their evening suits. They look somewhat unapproachable, and when they start to sing, they drown out the choir with ease. I sit there in awe, wondering how it is possible that a voice can fill the hooks and cranes of the cathedral so seemingly effortlessly.
Then the conductor. As if invisible strings go from his hands to all the instruments and all the singers, orchestrating and choreographing the movement of the music, making it dance, swell and surge, speed up, slow down, and eventually grow quiet.
The concert I attend this evening is Dvořak's Requiem. Choir and orchestra are amateur, but the solo singers aren't, even though the bariton sounds a little timid. But he looks grouchy, and he is wearing ankle socks which show when he sits down, so I am not at all suprised. The concert is beautiful, but it is also imperfect. This only makes me respect the conductor more, because the challenge of piloting choir and orchestra past the dangerous passages, and continuing cheerfully after the trip-ups can't be easy. The evening comes to a fabulous - albeit rushed - climax..
Not so long ago I attended another concert, for which a children's choir was flown in, to perform a small role. The children stood there on stage dolled up and akwardly. Halfway through their part, one girl threw up, and was carried off smoothly by one of the leaders. The choir sang on bravely, but the girl standing left of the unfortunate sick girl couldn't get over her disbelief, and kept looking at the vomit with visible disgust for the rest of the piece.
My own cultural life experienced a climax three years ago now. Despite my limited knowledge of sheet music and the Czech language, I had sung in a few different choirs. But this time a friend dragged me to an event I didn't know the details and extent of. It turned out to be a weekend for organ players, conductors and singers in the evangelical church. The conductor was Swedish, speaking German, translated into Czech. We sang Latin, Swedisch and Czech church music. It was all rather confusing. Thankfully, the girl next to me had a loud voice; she was my life buoy. Our concert on Sunday afternoon suprised me on several levels. First of all, the girl with the loud voice had gone home already. Secondly, I stood in the front row, in the immediate field of vision of the Swedish conductor. Thirdly, the entire concert was filmed. It wasn't easy not to look bored during the endless organ intermezzos. The church was cold, the concert long. It wasn't easy, this climax of cultural life of mine.
I prefer going to concerts with choir, orchestra and solo singers, because then there's not only a lot to hear, but also a lot to see. What fascinates me is how after a while individual characters start to emerge from the uniformity of the choir. These types are alway - alway - in every choir: the older man with the conspicuous moustache, the ladies with short, dyed hair and stern faces, and then the few choir members singing from their toes, swaying back and forth or bobbing up and down.
With the choir as backdrop, the solo singers shine as birds of paradise. The ladies in their evening dresses, sparkling earrings and immaculate lipstick, and the men in their evening suits. They look somewhat unapproachable, and when they start to sing, they drown out the choir with ease. I sit there in awe, wondering how it is possible that a voice can fill the hooks and cranes of the cathedral so seemingly effortlessly.
Then the conductor. As if invisible strings go from his hands to all the instruments and all the singers, orchestrating and choreographing the movement of the music, making it dance, swell and surge, speed up, slow down, and eventually grow quiet.
The concert I attend this evening is Dvořak's Requiem. Choir and orchestra are amateur, but the solo singers aren't, even though the bariton sounds a little timid. But he looks grouchy, and he is wearing ankle socks which show when he sits down, so I am not at all suprised. The concert is beautiful, but it is also imperfect. This only makes me respect the conductor more, because the challenge of piloting choir and orchestra past the dangerous passages, and continuing cheerfully after the trip-ups can't be easy. The evening comes to a fabulous - albeit rushed - climax..
Not so long ago I attended another concert, for which a children's choir was flown in, to perform a small role. The children stood there on stage dolled up and akwardly. Halfway through their part, one girl threw up, and was carried off smoothly by one of the leaders. The choir sang on bravely, but the girl standing left of the unfortunate sick girl couldn't get over her disbelief, and kept looking at the vomit with visible disgust for the rest of the piece.
My own cultural life experienced a climax three years ago now. Despite my limited knowledge of sheet music and the Czech language, I had sung in a few different choirs. But this time a friend dragged me to an event I didn't know the details and extent of. It turned out to be a weekend for organ players, conductors and singers in the evangelical church. The conductor was Swedish, speaking German, translated into Czech. We sang Latin, Swedisch and Czech church music. It was all rather confusing. Thankfully, the girl next to me had a loud voice; she was my life buoy. Our concert on Sunday afternoon suprised me on several levels. First of all, the girl with the loud voice had gone home already. Secondly, I stood in the front row, in the immediate field of vision of the Swedish conductor. Thirdly, the entire concert was filmed. It wasn't easy not to look bored during the endless organ intermezzos. The church was cold, the concert long. It wasn't easy, this climax of cultural life of mine.
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