MUSIC TO SOOTHE THE SAVAGE BEAST AND OTHER TALES

Music To Soothe The Savage Beast

It's been a funny old week—in a Joe Pesci "funny" kind of way. A sudden onset of toothache threw me into an existential tailspin, and suddenly my mood and emotions were altered by the dull pain in my jaw, which became a nagging reminder that all life is suffering.

Adding to this morbid mindset, I attended a memorial service for a much-respected member of the local community. Sitting at the back of the hall clutching my face, I noticed one of the bereaved: a fearsome hulk of a figure from my past—a man who always resembled a cross between Mike Tyson and a rugby prop. I remembered how, as a teenager, he had once told me, "I don't like music"—the scariest sentence I had ever heard up to that point in my life.

As the coffin of his mother was carried in by the pallbearers, the space was suddenly filled with the tear-drop sound of Arvo Pärt's Spem in Alium. I couldn't help but notice how tears now fell down his cheeks. It would be presumptuous of me to assume the music had anything to do with the moment, though it did occur to me that, in this most fragile and delicate time, music might have played some small role in helping him process his grief. My heart went out to him.

As the service drew to a close, the sound of Ronald Binge's Sailing By accompanied us as we shuffled out of the hall like extras in a Bergman movie. In the context of sending off the well-lived life of a good soul, it seemed truly sublime.

The Swallow Returns

Although I enjoyed the Notre Dame reopening ceremony (minus the organ) last Saturday, I was surprised to see the soprano Nadine Sierra—who was scheduled to sing in this week's performance of Puccini's La Rondine at the Barbican—belting out La Marseillaise on the world stage in front of all the television cameras. This was after it had already been confirmed to ticket holders (myself included) that she would not be performing. To be fair, I had heard she has legitimate health concerns that make singing two hours of Puccini's open-throated music a daunting prospect. A mic-ed-up rendition of the French national anthem likely wouldn’t strain her vocal cords too much, though she certainly gave it some welly. And no doubt, the symbolic opportunity to perform at such an occasion must have been too great to resist. Personally, I feel the Puccini was more important but that's just me.

Though she wasn’t the main reason I wanted to attend the opera, I feared it would be a stretch to find another soprano capable of meeting the demands of such sublime music at short notice. And so, I found myself in two minds about returning to Mordor (London) on Thursday, even as the siren song of “Chi il bel sogno di Doretta” called to me through the Florentine poppy fields of my mind.

It’s not easy being a hobbit ensconced in the Shire, forcing oneself out of a cosy hole in the ground to venture into a city that, under the poisoned dwarf Sadiq Khan, feels all icky and seedy—much like I imagine Vienna must have felt under Karl Lueger between 1897 and 1910. No greater example of London’s decline was needed than the underwhelming Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square (a gift from Norway) that looked like a giant salami wrapped in butcher’s netting. Still, thirsting for Puccini's opulence, I realised that walking through the broken city was a small price to pay for such a sublime reward.

And rewarded I was. After reaching the softly glowing Barbican, shrouded in a drizzling mist, I found a water feature—resembling an upside-down umbrella—that seemed to be the source of all the precipitation. Inside the venue, I reflected on past cultural pilgrimages and how the greatness of such events often correlated with the obstacles overcome to reach them. For this journey, I had contended with a toothache, a star cancellation, and the onset of midwinter malaise and introspection.

Of course, the moment conductor Antonio Pappano ignited the orchestra with his first cue, my spirits were instantly rejuvenated, as if my soul had been plugged into a charging station. I only needed to maximize the energy conversion as Puccini’s ravishing 1917 score washed over me.

The replacement soprano, Carolina López Moreno, was, naturally, made an instant star by the opportunity afforded her in the absence of the originally billed artist. Her performance was so unbelievably beautiful that any lingering regrets about Nadine Sierra’s absence evaporated. The Albanian soprano’s stunning interpretation left me utterly captivated.

Memories of what this music has meant to me throughout my life undoubtedly heightened the experience also. The performance by Pappano and the London Symphony Orchestra, combined with the high-caliber lineup of singers (including tenor Michael Fabiano), brought me back to my first encounter with Puccini’s La Rondine. I recalled watching A Room With a View as a young teenager, deeply moved by the way Puccini’s music (especially selections from La Rondine) perfectly matched the beauty of E.M. Forster’s Anglo-Italian story. Later, during a relationship with a soprano girlfriend, I discovered an early clip of her singing the role of Magda for British Youth Opera in 2008. That moment synchronised my dream of life with my actual reality in a way that made me believe (for a short while) that I was a protagonist in my own Puccini opera.

The Christmas Bus

Rushing to catch the last train back to Gloucestershire, I found myself hopping aboard a train that more closely resembled a cattle truck. It was so packed that one could barely move a toe for fear of committing GBH.

On that train from Paddington to Swindon, I witnessed the full gamut of humanity pressed up alongside me. There was a broken young man airing his entire psychological distress over the phone to a friend he was threatening to fight, revellers returning from Christmas parties in the city, and tired children wailing. Not to mention the perpetually sliding toilet door, where people would vanish for a while and later reappear as if they’d been through some sort of time portal à la Mr Benn.

At one point, the ticket inspector, clearly concerned for our welfare, handed out bottles of water, worried some of us might be suffering from claustrophobia or anxiety. I was generally okay, apart from a woman’s fake reindeer antlers pressing against my face and two large red balloons that she eventually tucked between her legs to avoid infringing on other people’s space.

By the time I reached Swindon, the last train to Stroud had been cancelled. Myself and other bedraggled commuters were redirected to wait outside the train station, where a replacement coach was expected to turn up 45 minutes later.

Standing in the cold and dark, I ended up chatting with a guy who worked in marketing while four or five police vans assembled in front of us. They appeared to be dealing with some type of satanic beast in the back of one van, which was banging and howling. I imagined a cross between The Elephant Man and the girl from The Exorcist.

“Just a typical night for Swindon,” I said, as we continued to discuss our favorite films.

When it came to thinking about my favorite film, I once again saw a fleeting flash of that scene from A Room With A View, where the symbiosis of Puccini’s music and the visual storytelling of Merchant and Ivory created perhaps the most perfect moment in all of cinema.

By this point, the coach had arrived, manned by a driver who looked about twelve. I found myself a seat on the lower deck.

Leaving the demon wailer behind, I now had to contend with the conversation happening behind my shoulder: a lady working in advertising was engaged in an increasingly surreal dialogue with a crypto bro/paranoiac spouting drunken prophecies about the future.

Meanwhile, a bubbly blonde lady decided to check in with all her fellow travelers and ask a thousand questions before declaring (without any consultation) that we needed Christmas music pronto.

The barely pubescent-looking driver obliged, and we drifted through the darkness on our “Christmas bus,” listening to Wham, Elvis Presley, Bobby Helms, and Chrissie Hynde. The entire scene felt like a deleted moment from a Gavin and Stacey Christmas special, in stark contrast to the champagne excellence of Puccini earlier in the evening.

And yet, somehow, throughout the week, I have found music to be the common denominator, helping me forget my toothache and reaffirming my faith in humanity.

Perhaps music doesn’t just soothe savage beasts—it soothes savage toothache as well.