Miserere
A hot blue August afternoon and we're
in the gods at the Usher Hall. The seats
are too tiny (my knees reach my chin): sheer
hell as cramps attack our limbs, while the heat's
increasing each second. Five thousand feet
below (or so it seems), a dot of a man
who can hardly be heard, reads from a sheet
of paper. I hear F Sharp and A, can
distinguish Appassionata.
Forty minutes still to go, and I feel
my circulation's ceased. The sonata
is being lectured on: an intricate spiel
that's passing me by. Now there's thirty-three
minutes to go. But wait - a change. A tale,
a diversion has been introduced. We
hear how two words were confused (but I fail
to find it funny). Then all through the hall
I hear shifting and creaking, an outbreak
of clattering coughs. There's relief (though small)
at this slight change of tone. I now can make
it through to the end. We wilting, stiffened folk
have been revived by Alfred Brendel's joke.
*
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