I have been running these entries based on a day starting at midnight, and at about that time I was on the inadequate red bus travelling back to the hotel. It had just been announced that there was a wedding going on there and that somehow the guests had requested that the brass section of the orchestra play at the reception. 'They're all completely drunk out of their minds, they won't give a damn what you actually play' we were told. I really just wanted to sleep and so I snuck off to my room as soon as we got back. I have to this day no idea what was going on downstairs as all I could hear was the odd very distant noise. Finally some quiet, and I'd feel much fresher in the morning and have the first proper sleep for about four days.
And then stuff properly went off the rails.
You know in a film where something really big like an avalanche or the first arrival of an alien invasion fleet happens? It's something of a stock dramatic device to have silence broken by a gradual crescendo of noise until it reaches an overwhelming climax. There are good musical examples of this in Shostakovich's Fourth Symphony and James MacMillan's Veni, Emmanuel. That is about as well as I can describe what happened next, except the source of the noise wasn't an orchestra in the way described above but an indefinite number of students going absolutely nuts - screaming like someone had been murdered (perhaps they had?), throwing the switches to blast music at volume levels I didn't realise were possible, running in all directions at once and swinging from what appeared to be perilously fragile ceiling beams. At 1 in the morning. In a public hotel. What were they thinking?
Reader, I bollocked them. It could have been wittier and probably more concise but it was all I could manage and it got my grievances across. And I think it was justified. I was really, really counting on sleeping well tonight because I knew my playing and my level of sociability were diminished already and it would only get worse, and I'd been really looking forward to it. What is more remarkable is that in response they did not do one of the two things you'd expect; either mumble an apology and slink away, or else laugh and carry on. No, instead they actually tried to defend what they were doing. You read that correctly. We're on tour, we only have a few days here, they rebutted, how dare you tell us it's wrong to go nuts and impose our selfish whims on everyone else.
I want to just take a look at this a little more. I simply couldn't believe what was happening was being perpetrated by people of such an advanced age. You would expect it on a youth orchestra tour (and yet I was never witness to anything like it on one) but these people were old enough to have their own houses and to drive and be really quite advanced academically - and besides, why weren't they so shattered that they hadn't dropped off to sleep half way up the stairs? How could the thought not have sloshed around with all the wine in their heads that this behaviour was fine at the party downstairs but monumentally not fine outside somebody else's room? Am I being at all unreasonable here?
As it happened, things were resolved fairly swiftly and amicably when one of the unfortunate individuals promptly apologised the next morning, and I did that terribly British thing of apologising back. I am pleased to say there was no further animosity between us for the rest of the tour, but in between eating so-so scrambled eggs and chocolate rolls I couldn't help looking around expecting to be rounded on and berated by other involved parties for my actions. Luckily, this never happened.
The morning's main news was that our English bus had now been fixed and was in Budapest (general rejoicing). The downside was that there was no way the drivers could legally work today what with all the hours they'd spent getting here overnight, so we had another Hungarian bus for the time being (it was late arriving). At least it was bigger than yesterday's, with proper underfloor lockers to contain the instruments. Today we were heading to Eger, a small town in the east, to play another concert. In an unexpected move, we set off not onto the motorway but into the centre of Budapest, and were given some minutes to explore the Hősök tere (Heroes' Square). This is a large traffic circle with a central column at the centre and rear colonnades with bronzes depicting heroes of Magyar history. I'd been here before but never taken any worthwhile pictures, so I was off the bus and looking over the place pretty quickly. Already rival buskers playing inauthentic 'gypsy' music were engaged in a Mexican stand-off on different sides of the expanse of chequered paving. It turned out we would be back here tomorrow, so I shall spare you a lengthier description until then. There is nearly nowhere for a bus to wait at the side of the square and as a result we had several false alarms at locating it when we wished to depart. This was chiefly because every other bus in the area was also white and emblazoned with the same tour company's insignia. Eventually it came round the corner and we dragged less perceptive souls with us before they got swept onto the Spanish pensioners' coach and ended up in a nursing home in Seville.
We got on the way to Eger. The bus was blissfully quiet, road noise aside. Most people were asleep, or projecting to the world the appearance of sleep, and there was just occasionally the faintest murmur of conversation. Companion was alternating between Russian work and her mp3, and so I dug out mine and put on some Kodály to accompany the Hungarian countryside going by. Last time we were here, we played some of his music in every concert; his Dances of Galánta to be precise, and it's that that I listened to, along with the Peacock Variations. At a rest stop I kept getting asked how to work the coffee machine - as if by knowing the words kave and teat I was somehow also qualified to instruct the correct order for inserting coins and punching buttons!
It turned out to be a pretty good call. Not laughably cheap (although Hungarian prices are way less than the UK) but still about 50Ft less than the cafés in the main square, and housed in a nice little - well, house - with wooden beams and pink plastered walls. We sat in the upstairs room in which there were two other customers and perused the rather hefty menus. The page was in Hungarian, so I reached for my phrasebook to identify some unfamiliar words (admittedly that was most of them) before realising that there was an English translation. And, over the page, a French one. And German. And, flipping over the leaves, Italian/Spanish/Japanese. Judging by the two languages I could read, every page contained at least three unintentionally hilarious translations. And sadly, one of the greatest regrets in my entire life is that both my companions and I have forgotten all of them.
The food itself was welcome and delicious. After making strategic use of the facilities (there were no toilets in the basilica) we dashed back, thinking we had only minutes to spare before the start of the rehearsal. It turned out there was little need to run (actually, there was: it was threatening rain again). There was hardly anybody else around when I retrieved my instrument from the bus (many thanks to the driver for helping) and entered the basilica, so I put my things down and got out the camera. The interior was a splendid sight. The yellow shade of the exterior was here turned into gold; both in the marble of the pillars and the ornate detailing of crosses, candelabras, the organ case, column finials. The wide central space, rows of pews in the nave and two long transepts, was crowned with a magnificent dome which had been completely invisible from outside the building. This sat above a ring of large windows and was decorated with a tremendous artwork that can only be described as testament to some very stiff necks. The other remarkable feature of the space was the resulting reverberation. Obviously all churches have one, but this was truly huge. 'People have failed A-level Music Technology for adding that much reverb!' commented our Conductor after we'd sat down and let a chord gradually disappear into the frescoed colonnades.
Our programme would be the same as yesterday minus the overture because of the Catholic Church getting silly over that kind of thing (I know a great story of a conductor who, in order to be allowed to perform Scheherazade, told a priest that the piece was about a nun!). There was a harmonium in the dressing-room which was eagerly played by all the proper organists and not me. Once again, the crowd that had gathered filled the whole cathedral. Ah yes, this brings me to...
Once again, we were conducted from memory, not just in the concert but in the rehearsal. Now, I was quite polite about the wisdom behind the score-memorisation in my last post, and whilst it was an impressive party trick, I've got to be honest that I am still yet to be convinced of its necessity for any reason. Being more awake, I was both greatly more aware of the dangers inherent, and also that a reasonable number of the orchestra were at best unsettled and at worst actively hindered by this stunt. I have to be blunt about this, but I don't think our director was as knowledgeable of the music as he would have been with the score, and we could tell. We were constantly nervous, anticipating something unpredictable, possibly a mistake. Worse, some of the gestures were utterly inane. Entries were less confident. Mine and others' workloads leading our sections were increased. On an interpretive level, there were possibilities of contrast and interest in the performance that were not explored. In a word, the main fault was to break a golden rule of conducting: the conductor's intentions must be clear, and especially so given the performance space. With the audience in, the reverb had been reduced to only (ha!) about six seconds and to expect us to hold everything together just on the basis of aural feedback was foolish. It might have been a good plan with a pro orchestra, in a familiar acoustic, but to do it as it happened was to gamble a lot, and I'm not sure it was a gamble that paid off.
I know for a fact that there are videos of this concert posted on YouTube for all to see, yet having set out to try and keep our identities concealed, I lack the chutzpah to openly break cover by linking directly to them. But...dear readers, by now I think this within this blog you have all the search terms necessary to find them for yourselves and to judge our respective performances*. It is something of a shame that as far as I am aware, there is no footage of our encore, the Bartók, for there was a wonderful moment just as the strings' first chord enriched the clarinet solo where a small gasp of realisation and delight could be heard from every row of our audience. They clearly held the piece in the same regard as your author does.
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| The interior of the dome, Eger Basilica |
After the music had finished we had to hurry to pack away in time for the Mass that was being held afterwards (it was a Sunday). I rescued Companion's seat blocks (many violists use a method of sitting more upright to avoid discomfort when playing for long periods) and all my things, in the process missing a group photo being taken on the steps. Funnily enough, so did at least two other of the guest players on the tour, although I am sure this was coincidental. I would have no time or opportunity to change out of my concert things. We were back onto the bus and heading for somewhere called Szépasszony-völgy, which is usually translated as 'Valley of the Beautiful Women'. The reasons for this rather flowery title will quickly become apparent, for the hollow on the edge of town was home to a vast number of wine cellars in which guests could sample, buy and then presumably sample some more beverages until suitably horizontal. I had been given some tips on which cellars offered the best (they are all numbered consecutively) but this turned out to be fruitless, for we were booked for a wine tasting at a cellar belonging to the interestingly named Kiss (pronounced Keesh and certainly nothing do to with black-and-white face paint). The cellar was a windowless vault tiled with subtly different shades of orange-white bricks, and have a small but well-stocked bar at the far end. The floor space was laid out with sturdy wooden tables and benches, and I can only describe it as the ideal venue to be sampling the fruit of the vine in. I sat with some people whose company and conversation I would appreciate and awaited what we would be offered.
Our fixer pointed out baskets on every table and, in so many words, urged us to eat some of the small savoury cakes placed within in order to prevent us getting inebriated too swiftly. Actually, I try never to drink on an empty stomach (it's decidedly uncomfortable) and was glad to top up the relative lack of hunger the pizza lunch was still providing. It was explained that we would be sampling six different wines from the region and this commenced with a crisp dry white, which I rather liked. Next up was a red which was a blend of Merlot and Sauvignon, also OK but not to everyone's taste. The next wine was the one I'd been waiting for, the Egri Bikavér, which is usually translated as Eger Bull's Blood. As my guidebook described it, it is a 'dark, rich and dramatic wine' that is full of complexity. After this had been savoured came another mellower white, then a sweet red, of all things (I had never heard of such a concept before) and finished off with a sweet white. And another little cake, why not, because I'd worked up a bit of an appetite by now.
Soon after we were given another full glass of 'whatever had been out favourite' (I'll take the Bull's Blood, if you don't mind) and the sales counter started doing a roaring trade. I'd been banging on to anyone who would listen before the trip about the quality of Hungarian wines, so naturally I had to bring some back. They were astonishingly cheap compared to back home - less than £7 for a bottle of really very good Bikavér and about £4 for the nice white. These were safely secured in my bag and became my second-most valuable possession after the cello.
It was then time to go to another winery, except this one was in the country and at least part of the purpose of our visit was actually to eat as well as drink. It had started to rain again in a very English sort of way, the sort that makes the inside of vehicles develop a layer of moisture that reveals every smeared smiley face anyone has every drawn on a bus window. We moved slowly down some rather rudimentary country roads out of the town, through fields and eventually turned up a hill into the courtyard of the Korona borház. The building was of that continental type in which a massive shallow-angled roof covers a three-story chamber about fifty feet wide. Next to it was a sort of covered outdoor grill area where I could see we would be given food (and hopefully soon). It was now raining quite purposefully and thus I was quite glad to be shown inside a pair of large gates to the building. This turned out to be a sort of loading bay; a dull square chamber empty apart from a further door and a trolley with full wine glasses on it, clearly for us. Why not, I thought - and then smelled the contents just in time. It was a hideous stench, and I hastily drew away from what would surely have been the most awful vinegar I never tasted (you know, I'm sure that because my eyes are so bad my other senses have grown more perceptive to compensate...). Several other people who hadn't been so quick and had sipped shared my opinion. Apparently this was a particular way of making the wine but it really didn't hold much appeal, even bearing in mind our tastes had been 'warmed up' at the other place.
What I naively assumed to be just welcome drinks then turned into a blow-by-blow account of the entirety of two winemaking processes. We were shown into a mysteriously-lit room full of large stainless steel pipes and huge urns with taps and gauges. I feel I must here apologise to the proprietor, a small plump man with a meticulously manicured moustache (although can facial hair really be said to be manicured?) - firstly because I've declared some of his wine to be the vilest thing this side of Glee, and secondly because at any other occasion I would have listened with intense interest to his talk (via our fixer who was translating the 99% of Hungarian words I didn't know). I'm sorry, I was just too weary and right at the back of the crowd and got too easily distracted by taking arty-farty photos of the inside of the wine vats and such like. I have since read at length the mechanics of wine production, and jolly interesting it is too, but back then it just wasn't the time. After all this, we were then shown into another long chamber which was the wine vault proper ( I imagined it to be hundreds of feet into the hillside by now) and whose rough brick walls were stacked with many, many barrels of various grape-based liquids. There was another complimentary glass of red (alright, not quite as good as the last one I had) and I suddenly became aware of a subtle but steady loss of inhibition amongst the group. This is significant.We went back outside where it was a foul night; really pouring with rain. Luckily our barbecue was under cover and more luckily was ready to eat, as my stomach was really sucking on empty by now. I'm afraid I rather skipped normal British protocol for communal meals: I grabbed a bit of pork from the table and devoured it before queuing up properly. Actually it was all worth waiting for. A large pig had been despatched and roasted for us just this afternoon, and on top of that there were grilled bits of other farmyard friends, exotic salads, paprika sausages, casseroles and - ha-ha - more bottles of plonk. I ended up with Companion who, if not nonplussed, was a little less plussed at the grub on offer (she's a vegetarian). Shortly after, our Fixer, who was fast achieving legendary status, also joined us although I do not remember anything of our conversation. What was memorable was his singing. I don't remember a note of what he sang but it was clearly a folk song and was as remarkable in its elegant simplicity as the Bartók that was our encore. Afterwards, a few non-playing members did some close harmony, as if to prove their musical credentials, then we all joined in singing Happy Birthday and by request a somewhat polytonal rendition of Yesterday to one of the winery's staff. This was all good and I lapped up the general conviviality.
It was then announced that the winery's shop was selling the delicious Merlot we had been guzzling at dinner. It was the same simple ploy the other place had used; fill up your customers with booze and then flog them some more, but actually it was so good and again so cheap that I didn't hesitate to grab a bottle, intending to save it for a very special occasion. This now also joined as part of my second most precious possession after the cello.
I emerged from the shop delighted with my purchase. That delight lasted perhaps twenty seconds; firstly because I could see I was going to get wet running to get on the bus, and secondly because my comrades had suddenly completed their transformation into monkeys. Were this blog not publicly available and purporting to be family-friendly I'd almost certainly use a far stronger verb+noun to describe them: they'd been given a guided tour of the place and a ton of free wine, had a delicious meal and all the hospitality the owners could give, and now in return, they had decided to thank them by stealing wine glasses, tableware, baskets, bottles and anything else that wasn't tied to the floor, and vomiting over the driveway! I think if anything has made a lasting impression on me today, it is that I can now see why the British are not only reviled but actively feared abroad for their lack of sobriety. The Turks besieging Eger had more respect for the culture they were invading (in fact the Ottoman Empire often instilled a far more tolerant and free society than the Christian ones they conquered). What must the rest of the world think of us?
Oh Lord, I'd have to share the bus with these people, and, unlike when there are drunken louts on the train, I couldn't even move to another carriage to avoid the unfolding havoc. I sat as far forward as possible where it was marginally quieter (only to the extent that the end of Mahler 1 is quieter than the end of Mahler 8), got out the mp3 and pretended to be asleep. Actually, this was reasonably successful and taught me a lot about how to deal with the strange Mr Hydes that had been decent people several hours ago. It is actually very easy to pretend to drunk people that you are in a similar state to them, and is another useful skill I seem to have cultivated by accident. When, inevitably, a mindless yob swaggered up and presented their unlovely presence over me, like a perverse policeman demanding to know why I wasn't as wild as them, I could firstly pretend I hadn't heard a word of their inane babble and then send them away with the twin excuses of headphones and closed eyes. I found that this was more effective if I launched into an equally inane monologue about how brilliantly amazing the piece I was listening to was (Mahler 7; and I wasn't listening at all of course - it would have been quieter were I sat next to a jet engine) meaning they couldn't get a word in edgeways and gave up fairly quickly. The journey was made even more tortuous by having to stop at each and every service stop for people to vomit. Imagine how I'd described the not-good ten minutes of last night, stretch it out to about two hours and you'll start to appreciate what it was like.
Somehow, eventually, mercifully, we got back to Békásmegyer and I hopped off the bus pretty sharpish. (Actually, compared to many people who were now finally starting to regret their revelry, anything was pretty sharpish). And now here's a remarkable thing: my roommate was as un-drunk as I was and hadn't stolen anything either. A sizeable proportion of other people were the same. So why did it sound as if the whole world was off its head? How could such a small number go so out of control and impose themselves on everybody else?
The only saving grace was that after all this, most people wanted to go to bed. Finally, tonight I slept well.
Next time: We run across a road, I eat many strange fishes, and things are decidedly better
*The town of Eger, or Eger Basilica, may be spelt 'Egerben' - this isn't a mistake, it's because Hungarian uses suffixes for prepositions, so in this case the word means 'in Eger'.
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