Competitions? Music?

I've been trying to write this all week, but have felt too depressed.

By some malign chance, the finals of the BBC Young Musician of the Year Competition and the Eurovision Song Contest fell on the same day: last Saturday. I'd been so busy with work that I didn't know the BBCYM was on and missed half the concertos. I was unlucky enough to hear the entire Eurovision.

Come on, folks, let's have some views. This is MUSIC. Is it also legitimate SPORT? Is art about competition? SHOULD art be about competition? Let me put my head on the block and say NO. Somebody in TV obviously thinks so. I disagree. Yes, it's good TV - at least Eurovision is when Terry Wogan's priceless commentary is involved. But have any of the contestants in the BBC competition noticed where their predecessors are today?

I can think of barely a handful of still-performing finalists from 20 years ago or so, who have actually managed to live down the label of being 'a winner' (ie, national concerto finalist) at BBC Young Musician of the Year. Ronan O'Hora is now head of piano at the Guildhall School of Music & Drama and, to judge from the wonderful Faure performance I heard him give last year with the Razumovsky Ensemble at Wigmore Hall, he's going from strength to strength. Nick Daniel, oboist, is still top of his profession; Emma Johnson, ace clarinettist, is still top of hers, but still carries the YM proviso. Tasmin Little escaped the inescapable by reaching the strings final, but not the overall one, and has probably done better than anybody. How many others have simply vanished? Some alumni are stuck doing downmarket gigs where their fading label still carries a bit of weight. They just can't get past it. It's very difficult and a bit awful. Being Young Musician of the Year is a marvellous thing when you're 17. It's not so funny in your forties.

This year's competition was won by clarinettist Mark Sampson. I didn't switch on in time to hear what he had to offer, so can present no opinion. The very best of British luck to him.

As for Eurovision, I usually get it wrong, but was pleased to find that my favourite actually pulled in second this time - the Russian hunk, Dima Something, surrounded by slightly dead-looking ballet dancers. But I turned off the sound several times during the course of the evening because the performers simply couldn't sing in tune. France, nul points from East Sheen!! How could you?!? For the same reason, I also turned off Spain, Israel and something else that was so forgettable that I've forgotten it. The one act that made me flee not just the sound but the vision too was Finland. So who won?!

Did they win because everyone thought 'this is so appalling that they don't stand a chance, therefore we'll tactically vote for them to stop our own arch-rivals getting anywhere' and hence they garnered votes to sweep the board? Was it because they weren't trying to sound like Abba? I think Sweden were; I liked them; but that's because I like Abba, how could I not, formative years etc. Or was it the anti-White-Suit vote? (WHY were so many wearing white suits?! Try those for 10 minutes on the London Underground...) Or did I hate Finland because my hard rock antennae are simply as out of tune as France's moody blonde? Hmm.

Thank God both contests are over for the time being & we can now get back to enjoying music, of all possible genres, for its own sake. Which is how things ought to be.

Mostly birds of prey

A priceless note arrived this morning from that concrete jungle in the City of London, also known as the Barbican, where the Mostly Mozart Festival, appropriately expanded for the Mozart anniversary, is to kick off on 6 June:

Please note: The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds has asked the Barbican to cancel Mostly Mozart's opening night fireworks, due to a rare pair of Peregrine Falcons nesting in the vicinity of the Barbican, as the noise from the fireworks may cause distress to the birds and their chicks. In lieu of the fireworks, the Barbican will offer every member of the audience a complimentary glass of champagne after the concert.

I can't help wondering why on earth Peregrine Falcons should pick the Barbican, of all places, to nest. How did they get in? Did they follow the yellow line?

Recommended reading:

Armando Iannucci at the Royal Philharmonic Society Awards last week...

Oh dear...

Our hearts go out this morning to our friend Arsenal Muse. Come on, mate. It was only a game. (wasn't it???)

An unrelated apology to our friends at All About Opera, to which I set up a link some months ago. This morning I realised it had never actually appeared on screen, despite existing in my template. Some basic remedial html (a missing ") seems to have worked.

Next, a tip for the person who found this blog by doing a search on "how to train a duchen": it helps if you feed us chocolate.

Last but not least, to anyone heading for Glyndebourne today for the dress rehearsal of Die Fledermaus: WRAP UP WARM AND BRING A BROLLY.

Muggins explained

An innocent remark from Ariadne made me realise that certain expressions I take for granted have simply never made it across the Pond.

Here in Olde Englande, we are a nation sometimes a little backwarde in coming forwarde. This has given rise to a specially Britishe sense of self-deprecatory humour: after all, it just isn't terribly nice to talk about oneselfe too much, let alone blogge to the entire worlde about one's activityes. Hence the expression 'muggins'. It's a useful, self-deprecatory replacement for the word 'me' when one is feeling awfully Englishe and though one is unarguably showing off terrifically about one's achievement, such as it may be, one is trying ever so hard to pretend one isn't. My husband and I are very prone to the use of such olde-fashionede expressions, dating as they may do from the time of Biggles; there is a certaine charme about such things, even in our brash, globalised 21st century.

Love to all
from muggins