It is the 1970s. In the interval of a concert in Bristol, somewhere around St Michael's Hill, I meet a friend, then a flautist and conductor, nowadays a New-York-based arts management/consultancy person of truly terrifying eminence. An orchestra has just struggled through some Copland.
"Hello," he says, "did you hear that? Weren't the trumpets bl**dy awful? I wish you were playing!"
An age passes.
"Richard," I reply, "I am."
2 comments:
I'm rereading chunks of your blog and this made oi larf lots.
Good, good, delighted to be of service! :)
Post a Comment