desperance

If there must be muzak in heaven, it shall be the sound of a dozen Russian men singing a capella. And they shall be cassock'd and bearded, and not actually all of them basses but even the tenors shall be basses in their heads, basses only waiting for their beards to kick in; and they shall sing mostly mediaeval church music. With some rollickin' folk songs...

For yes, this is a gig report, which I do not generally do but the Russian Patriarchate Choir is just fabulous and I wanted to keep them all. 'Specially one of the soaring tenors and the young apprentice basso profundo whose voice is there already but you just know he needs another thirty years of gravitas (and beard) before they'll ever give him a line of solo: for the true basso profundo was the paterfamilias as he ought to be, the tallest and the oldest and the best bearded and...

Actually, to be utterly truthful, there was a sorry lack of real patriarchal beards, and the majority were sadly clean-shaven; but that was the only disappointment of the night. I wasn't going to spend twenty quid on a CD, Mr Basso Profundo, no, however much you hijack me on the stairs, for lo, I have the internets; but if anyone out there ever gets the chance to see them, just go. Oh, yes.

And now I have a pint of hot toddy, and I am taking it to bed. G'night, all.