It is a fairly common thing to buy a concert ticket. One glimpses concert titles, or follows artists or attends an event that chimes with prior experience. All of us have done this over the years, for better or worse; we rack up a collection of musical memories for future reference that become inner mulch for solo train journey cogitations, or simply jaw-slapping bragging rights over unkind dinner conversations.
A concert ticket also enables the holder to become part of the performance. Other than in the minds of stalkers, the pleasure of seeing artists perform is necessarily transient. Some get down with the performers and party, such as the excellent Rod Stewart time who shared the Odyssey Arena in Belfast with 10,000 or so well oiled Norn Irsh and us. When famous names tour we like to say that we attended because it gives us a sense of worth in our otherwise fairly humdrum lives – we steal a little of their glory, bask a little in their limelight, borrow a little of their glamour. Other performances, such as those of the classical concert variety, may demand a little less from the attendee in terms of participation and rely on intellectual stimulation.
Buying concert tickets to see unknown artists (unknown to yourself, that is) is a little rarer. Most of us are cautious of novelty, but aware that potential rewards could outweigh the risks. I am sure that those in February 1957 who first saw the new group The Quarrymen probably have fairly good memories of the event, think about it often and have become notorious braggers at any given opportunity. They were, after all, witnessing the birth of The Beatles.
With such trepidation we bought a slew of tickets for upcoming concerts in the Moravian Philharmonic's Dvořákova Olomouc season. The first by the ArteMiss trio, Proč bychom se netěšili, consisted a words-and-music review of that well-known Czech one-time revolutionary and composer Bedřich Smetana.
With orations of Czech contemporaries Jan Neruda and Aleš Heller spoken by a certain Valérie Zawadská in a voice only a gravelly 60-a-day habit can generate, the Czech piano trio reviewed Smetana's work brilliantly, bringing up several well-known pieces (as well as a few by Shumann). Overall, it provided about as wonderful and accomplished an impression of his work possible on a 2 hour balmy Sunday evening. (By the way, smetana is also the Czech word for cream!)
The performance was nearly outshone by the brilliant, kingly setting in which the concert took place, the magnificent Ceremonial Hall of the Prelature of the Hradisko Monastery. A wondrous baroque creation, the lavishly decorated hall contains every kind of ornamentation of that period – stuccoes here, there and everywhere, a painted ceiling of the feeding of the five thousand, a feast of tromp l’oeils and a near-surfeit of reliefs in every direction.
The building is now operated as a hospital. So lavish are the decorations, I feel like popping along with a contrived ailment or two just to have the pleasure of staying there.
And on top of that, the view of Olomouc on this summery night was sheer perfection!
Outside on the balcony at half-time the birds twittered joyously and the bells of Olomouc rang across the meadows down by the river.
Within three days we were again at another concert, this time at the much less exciting performance hall in the Vlastivědného muzea or History Museum. The Ola Viola Sound were Korean viola players – well, most of them (they included in their number guitar, cello and double bass). The ensemble carried off a few well-knowns, such as Bach's Sonata No 3 and the 'New World' largo bit from Dvořák's 9th Symphony that is now synonymous with Hovis bread and Gold Hill in Shaftesbury. Not much to write home about, but the audience enjoyed seeing funny looking oriental-types with big fiddles; we both felt a little homesick for the lovely people that live on that side of the planet.
The interval introduced us to the courtyard of this former church of St Claire. With echoey swifts flying above us, it was a reflective space, surely its original purpose if my recollection of the solitary Claires is anything to go by.
At all that, we exited the venue to find the noise of the nearby Olomoucký Majáles music festival banging away in a nearby grand courtyard venue, a property previously owned by the bishops of Olomouc (who would surely have deeply disapproved). The band we stayed to hear, Lavagance, seems to have a bit of a following and certainly kept us there for a beer or two, even if their encore was Depeche Mode's Personal Jesus. The only reason I mention this is because in the Czech Republic almost every café, bar and restaurant with a music system is tuned to one Depeche Mode song or other. Perhaps it's a law. I must endeavor to find out!
The next day was a beautiful Czech holiday; warm sunshine, a light breeze and a lack of the usual workaday traffic meant the afternoon walk around the Botanical Gardens was a real taster of the coming months. The gardens are, unfortunately, a little shabby – there are only so many Koruna in the public coffers and I'm sure the local government pay of these well-meaning horticulturalists is niggardly. At least we were serenaded rastafari-stylee from the ongoing gig in the old fort next door – a local Reggae band that went by the improbably name Homebwoyrasta. They look devastatingly uncool, but were actually quite good... on the day.
This rather nice day ended with a drop in at one of our locals, the bar next to the Letní Kino or outside cinema which is on the daily dog walking route. The rickety beer garden tables surround an open stage under enormous sycamore and beech trees, a hostelry of arcadian bliss. It would not seem out of place for a goat-hooved Pan to pop out from the shadows to blow his pipes on stage and encourage revelers to remove clothing. The performers that night, however, were mostly locals although a band of unhappy neo-Kraftwerk ne'er-do-wells took the stage at dusk to offer a beat-driven set akin to the Ozric Tentacles (but with lyrics). We sat and talked much with local studenty-types, but I forget their names – the band, that is.
And so to the third concert, of the celebrated Latvian violinist Gidon Kremer. Actually, we didn't make it. I'm rather sorry about this because I would have loved to hear this legend. Actually, my sorrow is also tinged with embarrassment. You see, thinking it was a Thursday we went out with some friends to a café for afternoon beers in the glorious sunshine but when time came to realise our mistake, it was far too late that Friday (and we were by then in a bit of a state). Oh, the shame!
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