Cute Fish
"Frauen Tennis. Martina Navratilova!Blaff Blaff!" screams our chef.
He whacks his baton over his stand to indicate the fierce attack he is after. He wants rough, tough 'n muscle, he wants down bows....Playing for this particular chef is a real calorie-burner.
The scent of tiger balm wafts accross the stands as delicate fingers seek to treat burning tendons.
"ShlkSPANG"
A plume of smoke rises from the gap where the 10 minute old E string of our ample Romanian leader used to be. This is the third. He is averaging one or two E-snaps a day so his fee should just about cover the replacements.
In the break the curtain of hammering quavers is rent in twain by a silent play as twenty musicans lay down, each going through their own private series of survival-asanas.
After the break we work on the other end of the spectrum - on a 'vrai pianissimo'. Our bows are likened, rather than to angry tennis rackets, to:
" Les plumes sur le foetus d'un poussin"
Unattractive though the simile is, it does the trick and silken lines finally start emerging to compliment the sounds of raging despair. That is, with the exception of the odd macho who will not give up the sound of leather.
I have located a duo of beating hearts on the other side of the orchestra to whom I look for conspiratorial inspiration. These men dare to reveal themselves and it is beautiful to see. One looks like Jesus, with soulful bowls of blue above a neatly trimmed beard and framed by shiny blonde tresses. He rips the chords out of his viola like the innards out of a hunted animal. The other looks like Rennaissance painter with Venetian gold curls drawn in at the nape of his pale neck. He wields his bow like a brush drawing the divine melodies out of the air.
(So what is it about the long hair, guys?)
The chef asks the chaps to eat a good rump steak before the next rehearsal, and for the ladies, a filet mignon. Our flute player translates this, for those who ask, as a 'cute fish' and so we go in search of steak and sushi.
He whacks his baton over his stand to indicate the fierce attack he is after. He wants rough, tough 'n muscle, he wants down bows....Playing for this particular chef is a real calorie-burner.
The scent of tiger balm wafts accross the stands as delicate fingers seek to treat burning tendons.
"ShlkSPANG"
A plume of smoke rises from the gap where the 10 minute old E string of our ample Romanian leader used to be. This is the third. He is averaging one or two E-snaps a day so his fee should just about cover the replacements.
In the break the curtain of hammering quavers is rent in twain by a silent play as twenty musicans lay down, each going through their own private series of survival-asanas.
After the break we work on the other end of the spectrum - on a 'vrai pianissimo'. Our bows are likened, rather than to angry tennis rackets, to:
" Les plumes sur le foetus d'un poussin"
Unattractive though the simile is, it does the trick and silken lines finally start emerging to compliment the sounds of raging despair. That is, with the exception of the odd macho who will not give up the sound of leather.
I have located a duo of beating hearts on the other side of the orchestra to whom I look for conspiratorial inspiration. These men dare to reveal themselves and it is beautiful to see. One looks like Jesus, with soulful bowls of blue above a neatly trimmed beard and framed by shiny blonde tresses. He rips the chords out of his viola like the innards out of a hunted animal. The other looks like Rennaissance painter with Venetian gold curls drawn in at the nape of his pale neck. He wields his bow like a brush drawing the divine melodies out of the air.
(So what is it about the long hair, guys?)
The chef asks the chaps to eat a good rump steak before the next rehearsal, and for the ladies, a filet mignon. Our flute player translates this, for those who ask, as a 'cute fish' and so we go in search of steak and sushi.
posted by ruth at 10:54 AM
5 Comments:
Did you get your Ipod back, Ruth? Hope so. We'd all miss this.
(I love that translation!)
Another lovely post. Thank you.
no GP i'm afraid the ibook (still have the ipod touch wood) has gone and is either being wiped or being used to commit massive fraud or being scrutinised for a lucrative book deal, so it`s a matter of getting by on Julian`s old one with no o and a faulty power lead till we can afford to replace it. I'm in internet cafes for the mo. It is VERY depressing....
Damn. That's a blow. Internet cafes no fun...
I do think you ought to show us pictures of those two chaps though - just so we can make our own minds up. Not that I want to see them. Or anything.
ah, caroline, the beauty of the fictional character. i mixed them up a bit with other fantasies for anonymity purposes if it helps! )but yeah, they're great)
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