On Monday night the eleven male heathens – of good faith mind you – braved the elements and the height of Mick’s new brush fence to gain entry and meet for rehearsal around the grand boardroom-like table at the sprawling bushland home of Christine our esteemed musical director, and Mick her First Lieutenant, who keeps everything shipshape and strictly pusser.
We didn’t pass the port and muscat, mention politics, fiddle with the flowers, blaspheme – nor observe the Royal toast – but we were encouraged to lubricate the vocal chords prior to and during the practice singing session with a drop of Mudgee shiraz – and the general ambiance reminded me of some memorable guest night dinners at Greenwich on the Upper Table of the Painted Hall (of Christopher Wren fame).
Arriving late I got the jackpot seat right beside Christine who led all musical aspects of the singing in all four parts of the harmonies. I had never before been regaled up close and personal with the correct pitches, rhythms and dynamics – and my deficiencies in all three hit me – more than somewhat, as Damon Runyan was wont to say.
Last night’s intimacy with the leader (whoops) worked brilliantly and would be a great future format if Christine and Mick can include it in their busy schedules.
Harry – jamais arriere – of clan Douglas