Cecilia Bartoli - take 223
Free entertainment came today in the form of sitting in, or so I thought, on the Musiciens du Louvre recordings with Cecilia Bartoli on the way to this evening's P and B. Not, however, before I had experienced more RER antics:
This time my helper was a suave student clutching a copy of Boris Vian's autobiography. He kindly helped haul my cello over the man-eating barriers but then continued to follow me all the way to the recording session. Is it possible that at 40, with my box on my back, I still cut a romantic figure?
I am overwhelmed by the wonderful Cecilia, whom I have never heard. I respond to her voice with my stomach - no messing around with other bits. On the word 'piange' she is floating above the band like a spirit hanging and then suddenly she is bursting with the rage of sadness. She opens her wings in ecstasy and then crumples, her mouth down-turned, in despair. She rocks like a mad rap artist above a frenzied bass and keels back from the power of the sound she leaves in the air. Her runs seem to originate in the flutter of her heart and her embellishments from tenderness. Wow.
So I am sitting there, and suddenly I am asked not only if I can takes Clare's place tomorrow in the section but if I am ready, right now, to rehearse. Unfortunately I have had a large espresso with my old friend Hilary in the break so I find myself, tuning down a semitone, fluttering with nerves and a caffeine high, not in the kindly reaches of the back of the section but right under Minkowski's nose as Second Cello. A rehearsal is suddenly a take and I am playing the first rough exploratory horrid out of tune insecure notes of the day in the 223rd take of Cecilia Bartoli and the MDL. Bloody terrifying.
On the way home after the gig, the RER was devoid of kindly cello lifting assistants and my ticket didn't work so I pressed the help button and was told:
" Je vais vous ouvrir si vous me jouez un morceau."
I guess it is slightly more sophisticated than:
"Gis a tune, love."
This time my helper was a suave student clutching a copy of Boris Vian's autobiography. He kindly helped haul my cello over the man-eating barriers but then continued to follow me all the way to the recording session. Is it possible that at 40, with my box on my back, I still cut a romantic figure?
I am overwhelmed by the wonderful Cecilia, whom I have never heard. I respond to her voice with my stomach - no messing around with other bits. On the word 'piange' she is floating above the band like a spirit hanging and then suddenly she is bursting with the rage of sadness. She opens her wings in ecstasy and then crumples, her mouth down-turned, in despair. She rocks like a mad rap artist above a frenzied bass and keels back from the power of the sound she leaves in the air. Her runs seem to originate in the flutter of her heart and her embellishments from tenderness. Wow.
So I am sitting there, and suddenly I am asked not only if I can takes Clare's place tomorrow in the section but if I am ready, right now, to rehearse. Unfortunately I have had a large espresso with my old friend Hilary in the break so I find myself, tuning down a semitone, fluttering with nerves and a caffeine high, not in the kindly reaches of the back of the section but right under Minkowski's nose as Second Cello. A rehearsal is suddenly a take and I am playing the first rough exploratory horrid out of tune insecure notes of the day in the 223rd take of Cecilia Bartoli and the MDL. Bloody terrifying.
On the way home after the gig, the RER was devoid of kindly cello lifting assistants and my ticket didn't work so I pressed the help button and was told:
" Je vais vous ouvrir si vous me jouez un morceau."
I guess it is slightly more sophisticated than:
"Gis a tune, love."
posted by ruth at 12:02 AM
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