DISCOMFORT ZONE:DEEP DOWN I am very shallow. When the idea of the discomfort zone is mooted, I know precisely what is coming next. We, the knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing goons of the sports cave shall be sent off to the arts world, where we shall get hot and bothered about modern dance or frown over pictures our three-year-old could draw, or fret about the crisis in modern oboe playing, writes TOM HUMPHRIES
No thanks. There is so much more to me than that. You haven’t even begun to take a test-scraping of the wonder of me if you think that is my discomfort zone.
“I want to test drive a motor car,” I said stubbornly.
“No, you shall not test drive a motor car,” came the reply.
“Date a supermodel?” “No.” “Wear leather pants for a day?” “No.” “Undergo spa treatment at a top people’s health farm?” “No.” “Write nice things about rugby?” “We’ll get back to you.”
There was no offer made of hanging with a rock band. No mention of going tasting wine for a day. Not even a compromise suggestion of myself and a rock band going off and tasting wine together all day.
Nope. Sports people and the arts is just funny to some people.
I was peeved by this right up until the point on Monday morning when I opened The Irish Timesand was granted perspective by one of those shocking images that will stay with me forever. The gaunt, hollowed-out features of Miriam Lord as she made her way up Croagh Patrick in a state of what looked like severe oxygen deficit.
Perhaps the editorial boffins know what they are doing after all.
Colour writers and Croagh Patrick, now that works. Miriam Lord on Croagh Patrick. Funny. Funny. Funny.
Fair enough. I don’t know much about the arts. I don’t even know what I like. I don’t see, for instance, what is wrong in wanting a reddish picture about a metre long for the hall. If that’s what the carpet needs . . .
Or why an opera can’t just be a play with a decent score. Not that I would see it if it were a play, anyway. I only go to plays while on holiday in the US. I’ve seen plenty.
I don't know which ones but Grace from Will & Gracewas in one. I've seen Mrs Soprano buck naked with Stanley Tucci (hat apart). I've sat so close to Martha Plimpton as she stood sidestage that I could touch her.
I wasn’t to know that she wouldn’t like it.
And once in Chicago, I was sitting in the front row and, as he took his bow, Gabriel Byrne told the people beside me that if they made as much noise again at a play he was acting in, he’d break their effin’ legs.
That was my favourite. If you’re going to have plays, put famous TV people in them, for God’s sake.
Now. When it comes to discussing my qualifications to write about a lunchtime concert at the National Concert Hall, I don’t want to underplay my hand. I’m not a complete fool.
If a figment of classical music has been used in, say, an advertisement, especially for confectionery, I will be familiar with that passage and will associate positive feelings with the piece.
My parents' old Dansette record player, when not dealing with Val Doonican Unplugged, often rocked to the sound of Golden Hour of Mantovani(boy, could that cat make those strings cascade).
Furthermore, about 20 years ago, as part of a previous series designed to get sportswriters to do foolish things, I attended an opera written by Gerald Barry and followed it up with a brief interview with Mr Barry, who lived near me in Stoneybatter at the time. I pronounced both experiences as not unpleasant, endorsements which I am sure have since helped Mr Barry considerably along the way.
So entering into the spirit of the discomfort zone thing, I turn up at the National Concert Hall for the RTÉ National Symphony Orchestra feeling like I am about to die. I feel great compassion for myself when I am ill and I present myself to the NCH lady like a heroic sheep dog who is just doing one more bit of work for the humans before succumbing to distemper. I ask if I can have a seat at the edge of a row. If I should pass away during, say, Mascagni's intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana(a dream of mine, as it happens), they can drag me quietly out by my boots.
She says an end seat would be no problem but that Matt the Photographer has asked that I be placed front centre so that he can get better pictures of me looking in bafflement at the orchestra while I eat my popcorn. In the journalism jungle, photographers hold high rank. So I sit front and middle reflecting that if I should die here, Matt will have an entire lunchtime of guilt to face.
After a while, the orchestra appears. Two things: they look as if they are on a break from working in the bank. Secondly, I recognise none of them. I had rather fancied that the RTÉ Symphony Orchestra might feature Anne Doyle on strings, Marty Morrissey on piccolo and perhaps Ryan Tubridy on triangle, but these just look like real people.
From where I sit I can make several astute observations. People still polish their shoes. My eyes are at a level with the floor – everybody’s shoes have a lustrous shine. Runners and jeans are apparently not acceptable while playing in a symphony orchestra, even at lunchtime.
Before we begin, a nice schoolteacherly woman called Evelyn comes out to explain some things to us. For a second, I have to glance around. Maybe the rows behind me have been filled with sportswriters doing novel colour pieces, but no, it’s an audience of people who look like they know their Verdi from their Nirvana.
We begin with the Nabuccooverture and the famous Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves. I haven't heard many slave choruses outside of GPA press conferences, but this is certainly the best and I want to conduct it as soon as possible. The music ambushes you from here and yonder, little licks and kisses of beauty making foreplay with your brain before throwing you across the divan and treating you roughly.
We are just getting our breath back when we are into the intermezzo from Cavelleria Rusticanaby Mascagni, of whom I have never heard. Forty-six years of ignorance beautifully punctured.
The soloist for the day is Adrian Wilson, and we are told once or twice that he is in the warm-up room practising. I like Adrian Wilson. I know that the oboe isn't a rock'n'roll instrument, but he comes out with an orange shirt and splays his knees and lets his neck puff out in a way that demands a whispered explanation from David Attenborough, and he is mesmerising. He does some Donizetti and then some Ennio Morricone (from The Mission) and it's so good you expect his team-mates to mob him when it is done.
The concert finishes as it began, with some Verdi. We pour out into the merciless sunshine of Earlsfort Terrace and the chunter of lunchtime traffic. A better, more sane group of people for having given some pampering to our minds. We get home and listen to all the pieces again, done by different orchestras on YouTube.
A savage breast well soothed.
