A Singer’s Life Pt23
I thought I would take another slight diversion today, so that I could look at one of my life’s obsessions. Now cricket and opera don’t often go together, so that’s the end of this article….
Oh no it isn’t!
Since my school days, my love of cricket and singing were a problem. Wednesday was choir day for rehearsal after school, but by the time I was beginning to realise I wanted to be a singer, I was also opening the bowling for my school First Eleven (if you don’t understand cricket, bear with me) and we had games against other schools every Wednesday afternoon, starting at lunchtime and going on till early evening. Something had to give, and of course it was choir! I’ve never found out how I managed to stay in the choir without having to go to practice – I can only assume it was the intervention of our marvellous headmaster Sir Roger Young, who loved singing and cricket. Anyway, it allowed me to play cricket in the first team for four consecutive years. I was never lightning fast, but I was very accurate (a sort of not very good Scottish Glenn McGrath) and loved playing. Sadly, my cricket playing petered out at St Andrews, and after a season in the First Eleven, singing took over. I did occasionally play for beer teams in my 20s and 30s, and once got a game for Bill Frindall’s 11 at Andover. I had been singing in Rigoletto at ENO with John Rawnsley, who was a keen cricketer but couldn’t play that day. John very kindly recommended me as a singing cricketer, but I think they were all rather unimpressed by this young, relatively unknown Scotsman. Bill Frindall was the legendary Test Match Special (BBC Radio) scorer and general statistical magician who put together teams of famous cricketers and celebrities to play charity matches all over England. I found myself rubbing shoulders with Zaheer Abbas (Pakistani great), various other older cricketers, Leslie Thomas (of Virgin Soldiers fame), Gyles Brandreth (broadcaster, comedian, Tory MP and famous cardigan wearer) and most excitingly, Robin Askwith (the star of the unbelievably politically incorrect 70s films, the ‘Confessions’ series). To tell the truth, I was completely out of my depth. John Rawnsley could talk for Lancashire (and frequently did!) and has a marvellously extrovert character, while I was new to the wicked world of London and celebrity, but a few pints later on, I think I managed to hold my own, and had some fun conversations with these famous people, who of course had no idea that I was not on a par with the great Mr Rawnsley!
I managed to go to a few Test matches when I lived in London, both at Lords and the Oval, and they were always special occasions. You may wonder why I, as a proud Scot, support England at cricket, and it’s a question I have often asked myself. The answer lies in the fact that until recently, Scotland did not have a recognisable cricket team of any stature. There were a few Scots who played for England over the years, and indeed one captain, Mike Denness, but these were isolated characters. A few played for English counties, and sometimes popped back to Scotland for fixtures against their counties (usually losing), but really I had to support England, especially if it was against Australia! My son cleverly has readjusted his sights by being a West Indies supporter since early childhood, and indeed has met his heroes on several occasions, notably having a long conversation with Joel Garner recently. We were both nonetheless delighted two years ago when Scotland beat the full England team in a One Day International in Edinburgh. Much rejoicing!
I saw David Gower scoring his hundredth hundred at Lords, and there was one day when my friend, the counter-tenor David James, and a couple of other singers and I went to Lords for a Test between England and India. Much of that day remains a blur, as we had consumed 3 bottles of champagne before lunch. The Hilliards had recently had a great success with their CD ‘Officium’ and David was flush with cash. We were all very flush by the end of play, and I don’t really remember how I got home! I do remember early on, and this was the mid-90s, a mobile phone rang in the crowd. Now at this time the only people who owned mobiles were stockbrokers, so the whole crowd round about shouted “Sell your shares!” Changed times?
I have always been, like most Scots, a keen fan of golf, though a very modest player (modestly talented, I mean!). I had the undoubted privilege of studying at St Andrews University (where I am now Honorary Professor of Singing). One of the great pluses of being a student there, as the home of golf and the site of the famous Old Course, was that for a small fee – I think it was something like £5 a year - one could play on any of the courses, if free, all year round. I now regret I didn’t play more but I can say that playing the Old Course at 6.30am on a beautiful May morning, with the skylarks singing above me, was one of my great life memories, and coming down the 18th fairway with lots of tourists and students watching, and making a par, was the icing on the cake. Although not much of a golfer, I always enjoyed playing a round, and on my return to Edinburgh in 1997, I joined my local club, Murrayfield. When, in 2005, I developed a polyp on my vocal chords, I had to go to London for an operation, as there was no doctor in Scotland brave enough to operate on an opera singer. I went to the best, Tom Harris, in Blackheath, but was told not to speak for two weeks. Now those of you who know me will appreciate that this was quite an ask, but, aware of the gravity of the matter, I complied for the given time. Just before the two weeks were up, I decided to go up to St Andrews (an hour and a half from Edinburgh) to watch a day’s play in the Dunhill competition, an annual tournament featuring many of the world’s best golfers and a whole bunch of celebrities and notables. I thought that this would be the perfect place to go, since I could watch the golf, have a nice walk and get lots of fresh air. The problem with being a spectator at a golf tournament is that, given the immense distances players hit the ball (often well over 300 yards), it is impossible to know when a ball might be coming your way. A player will usually shout “fore” to indicate a misplaced shot, but often doesn’t. Unfortunately for me, as there were a lot of good amateurs among the field, more shots went astray, and I was wandering along minding my own business when a small white bullet appeared out of the sky and bounced off my head. My prohibition from speech was, sadly, overridden by the necessity to yell and swear very loudly! The fact that the culprit was the Secretary of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews, made it all the more annoying, especially when he seemed more grateful that my head had stopped his ball landing in a gorse bush than worried about my health! Anyway, no harm was done, and the vocal chords recovered.
I am now only a social member of Murrayfield, since, in 2009, a combination of an entire summer working in Seattle on Wagner’s Ring and an operation to replace my knee joint meant that I only played two rounds that year. At a cost of some £400 a round, I reckoned it was time to put the clubs away and enjoy the pleasures of the clubhouse instead.
The following year found me in Victoria BC, singing La Roche in Strauss’ ‘Capriccio’, a visit which coincided with the Winter Olympics across on the mainland in Vancouver. The Winter Olympics hold no great place in the British mentality, although the Scottish curling team, representing the UK, have often done well, and Torvill and Dean famously won gold in Sarajevo. So imagine my surprise to find the Canadians in the cast and in the whole city loudly going bananas about the sport we call Ice Hockey, but which they call simply HOCKEY. Canada is very good at this sport and that year in their homeland, they got to the Olympic final against, as fate would have it, the USA. Well, anticipation was rife in Victoria, and sensibly, Pacific Opera Victoria had not scheduled a performance on the day of the final. I knew nothing about hockey, other than what I had gleaned from TV of very big men, all wrapped up, appearing to fight other big men, all wrapped up, on ice and nominally pursuing a small object round an ice rink. I was made to understand that this is indeed a game of great skill and passion, which is extremely important to all Canadians, and that the fighting is not necessary or relevant to the outcome. My mentors through the preceding rounds had made me much more aware of what was going on, and I settled in to watch the final as an adopted Canadian for the day. Of course, Canada won, and the celebrations were long and enthusiastic. I will never forget my colleagues on the balcony of the Chateau Victoria Hotel singing the anthem ‘O Canada’ at the tops of their (very good operatic) voices, as the populace cheered below. In fact, I filmed it for posterity as the only person there unacquainted with ‘O Canada’. I know it now!
The following year, I was in New York understudying the same role at the Met, and one of my understudy colleagues was the fine Canadian baritone, Peter McGillivray. He offered to take me to see the New York Yankees in a baseball game at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, as I had expressed an interest in this strange game which we play at school in Britain, disguised as Rounders. Again, like most North American sport, including American Football and Basketball, it announces itself as World Series or World Super League or something, despite the fact that most of the world has no interest in its existence. Anyway, I have always been keen to go to a game and Yankee Stadium seemed the place to go. Huge crowds were there to watch the game against the Baltimore Orioles, but, unlike in Europe, it was all very genteel and good-natured. They did want to see their team win, but the desperate thirst for victory and almost pathological hatred of the opposition we are used to in football was completely lacking. I enjoyed it very much, but mentioned that, as the playing area of pitcher and batter are far away and in a small part of the stadium, it does not make for a great spectator sport if you can only see the action on close up TV. This was accepted but largely ignored as the ravings of a jealous Brit. At one of the many breaks in play, I decided to go down and buy a beer for Peter and myself. I asked the very nice lady for two beers, and she asked to see my ID. I explained to her that I did not have any ID on me, but that I was 54 and able to cope with an American beer. She replied that if I had no ID, she could not serve me. Frustration and a sense of bewilderment were building up in me, but fortunately, a passing stranger, seeing my predicament, showed her his ID, told her to serve me a goddam beer, and went on his way. I am eternally grateful to that unknown American gent, and would like to buy him a beer next time we meet….
Next time, more wondrous theatres.
