Henry Wood Hall is a deconsecrated church standing stately in the centre of Trinity Church Square, in Southwark. Its namesake, Henry J. Wood, was enormously influential in the early days of British orchestral performance, conducting the Proms for nearly half a century before his death in 1944. The Hall itself was converted to a rehearsal and recording venue in 1975, and is used regularly by all the Major London Orchestras, including the London Philharmonic, London Symphony, Royal Philharmonic, Academy of St Martin in the Fields, and so on.
It is also the principal rehearsal space for the Oxford Philomusica, itself comprised of musicians who have or currently play with the MLOs, or elsewhere in London and the Thames Valley. The OP is the University’s Orchestra in Residence, and its Music Director, Marios Papadopoulos, is a renowned conductor and world-class concert pianist.
None of which is lost on Cherwell editor Alistair Smout, who is acting as official photographer on this cold December evening. As your correspondent makes some final preparations to guest-conduct part of the OP’s rehearsal – of Brahms’ Symphony No. 2 in D, Opus 73 – Smout delivers himself of the following (it must be admitted) less-than-pro-grade pep talk: ‘You realize the company you’re about to join, don’t you?’
The OP is rehearsing this evening in preparation for a performance the following night in Antwerp, Belgium, the logistics of which say a great deal about the experience of pro calibre music. The rehearsal is from 18.00-21.00, and immediately following this, the OP’s four double basses, one tuba, and assorted implements of percussion are loaded into a van that drives straight to Dover for the overnight ferry. The musicians are due at St Pancras Station by 7.40 the next morning, where they will take the Eurostar to Belgium, arriving (weather permitting) just in time to rehearse the final piece on that evening’s programme, with a certain guest pianist who is unavailable this evening for reasons I never discover. Two days later, the whole team is back in Oxford for its annual Christmas Concert at the Sheldonian.
(Most of the previous paragraph comes from Max, the OP’s stage manager, himself an alumnus of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (stage management dept). Max is compact and wears all-black athletic-style clothing, and when not chatting amiably with your correspondent hops around the orchestra (whilst it rehearses), packing-up instruments and getting as ready as he can for the big departure at 21.00.)
Various activities observed during the rehearsal (i.e., whilst the rest of the orchestra is playing): Pausing to mark music with pencils (everyone does this, a lot); looking over at neighbour’s stand to copy neighbour’s pencil markings; pointing at neighbour’s stand with bow of violin to correct neighbour’s pencil markings; discussing pencil markings with stand-mate while one or both are also playing; checking or sending text messages; leaving rehearsal because your section (e.g., all the trumpets and the trombones) has no more parts.
Johannes Brahms wrote his Second Symphony in just five months – essentially whilst on holiday in Southern Vienna – and gave the first public performance in December 1877. The work is in four movements, of which I am to conduct some smaller portion in the final fifteen minutes of the OP’s rehearsal. When I asked Marios to make some suggestions, his response was ‘Choose whatever ten minutes you like. It’s all difficult.’
Fortuitously, the portion of the Brahms’ that I’ve selected – roughly the first half of the third movement – is the last thing the orchestra rehearses before it’s my turn. Even though some of the brass and the timpanist have departed, the orchestra remains over fifty players strong and is eyeing me warily, in a friendly but ‘are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ kind of way. Marios has left his baton on the conductor’s stand, but I’m not sure about any baton-sharing-etiquette and decide not to risk it.
It takes a few minutes of the run-through to appreciate that the conductor’s podium is set rather far into the orchestra. I’m surrounded on three sides by violins, violas and cellos, which means that no matter where I turn, at least a third of the orchestra is getting my back. Marios likes to say that conducting an orchestra is like riding a thoroughbred race horse (N.B. It’s more like driving a stage coach pulled by fifty thoroughbred race horses), so try to imagine galloping along and checking your blind spots by physically turning around in the saddle.
The race horse analogy is also a good way to contextualize what a lot of people think about pro calibre orchestras, viz., that they run on auto-pilot. (Evidence of Marios’ infinite patience: Your correspondent actually said this at our initial meeting, in response to a query about past conducting experience. As in, Why would I need any conducting experience?)
It is certainly true that pro calibre musicians can get through a piece without any real direction, and do so with impressive results. Let’s call this the ‘sum of the parts’ performance, meaning that what Marios does with the OP is produce something greater than the sum of its parts. His confidence and vision mould fifty or so individual efforts into something strong and coherent and distinctive.
In contrast to this, things start to shake when your correspondent takes the reigns. They (the OP) can tell that I’m nervous, and it’s making them sound nervous. Marios keeps telling me to ‘just let it flow’, to ‘stop over-conducting’. (He doesn’t realize that counting every beat is the only way I can follow the score.) At one point he actually grabs my arm and tries to calm things down, but his movements seem to be following an entirely different piece of music. (Something like ‘the non-nervous version’ of Brahms’ Second Symphony.)
But we survive, two run-throughs, with no disasters. Everyone seems pleased and even mildly, pleasantly surprised. As people start to leave, your correspondent wishes them well in tomorrow’s concert. The only real feedback comes from one of the lower-register strings:
‘Don’t forget the cut-off in bar ten for the double bass.’
I take-out my pencil and mark the score.
