It is really easy to knock in this rotten little rag and very hard to praise but we’ll try. It was a year ago today when I last wrote about the Royal South Street Society. How time and tiny feet fly when you’re enjoying yourself.
This year instead of sitting through the Tap, Ballet and Tantrums I opted for the Bands and Orchestras for the Eisteddfods. Well worth the money too. $10 for a whole afternoons entertainment is pretty good value, but I did miss the Choc-tops and Jaffas.
As I sat through several sessions of this years crop of budding Krupa’s, Armstrongs and Gillespie’s I was intrigued by the hundreds of musical pieces I had never heard before. Do they play obscure showband pieces so as to make it harder for us to determine their quality of musicianship (i.e. is it harder to pick the bum notes) or is there a whole music back-catalogue just for Schools?
My deductions were found to be correct when one of the Grammar schools burst into their rendition of the theme from the film ‘Man From Snowy River’. To be as kind as I can I found it difficult to differentiate the sound coming from the stage as 51 musicians or 51 newborn Brumbies neighing in panic mode for their mother.
But they soldiered on regardless oblivious to the judging panel trying to bore pencils through their brains.
They were replaced by a Junior High Band, who shall remain unmentionable, giving us a variation of Gustav Holst’s ‘Planets’ in a way totally different to the Universe that God had created.. At one point the angelic look on the Flugelhorn player changed dramatically after she realised that the notes she was blowing into it were certainly not the same ones supposedly coming out the other end.
A short interval was then taken to enable the volunteer Ushers to be replaced by several First Responders removing members of the audience who had committed suicide. I didn’t think it appropriate that a member of the audience should commence to sing -
After the performances resumed each succeeding ensemble was an improvement on the former until by the end of the show things were actually beginning to improve considerably. Maybe all the earlier groups were just the warm-ups?
At the risk of being called a chauvinist I did find that the male conductors tended to play safer pieces while the women seemed to conduct music that was more ‘bitchy’. The men were also superior when pretending they were puppets from ‘Thunderbirds Are Go’.
A hint to the kid on the Xylophone in Group Act #6. If the whole band dresses in black from head to toe why on earth were you the only one wearing red and white striped socks. The stage looked like a scene from 'Where's Wally'. A marvellous moment ensued when a young trumpeter let loose with such professional dexterity that it was glaring obvious that great musicians are not created, they are just born that way.
The Final Act had to be the best performance of the lot. The best presented the best musical selection and the happiest faces, except for the few brief looks of contempt at the reed section when they let out little untimely, ill-tuned and high-pitched squeaks.
But who am I to complain when I can’t even fart in tune. All I can say is that love them or hate them you are certainly missing out on some extraordinary performances from contestants young and old.
May I suggest that when you get home tonight Google Royal South Street on the Internet and sign up for email notifications for next years performances. I can assure you that despite the acidity of this story you will spend many a delightful afternoon of quasi-professional musicians, dancers, singers and actors at their very best.
You know you want to.
This year instead of sitting through the Tap, Ballet and Tantrums I opted for the Bands and Orchestras for the Eisteddfods. Well worth the money too. $10 for a whole afternoons entertainment is pretty good value, but I did miss the Choc-tops and Jaffas.
As I sat through several sessions of this years crop of budding Krupa’s, Armstrongs and Gillespie’s I was intrigued by the hundreds of musical pieces I had never heard before. Do they play obscure showband pieces so as to make it harder for us to determine their quality of musicianship (i.e. is it harder to pick the bum notes) or is there a whole music back-catalogue just for Schools?
My deductions were found to be correct when one of the Grammar schools burst into their rendition of the theme from the film ‘Man From Snowy River’. To be as kind as I can I found it difficult to differentiate the sound coming from the stage as 51 musicians or 51 newborn Brumbies neighing in panic mode for their mother.
But they soldiered on regardless oblivious to the judging panel trying to bore pencils through their brains.
They were replaced by a Junior High Band, who shall remain unmentionable, giving us a variation of Gustav Holst’s ‘Planets’ in a way totally different to the Universe that God had created.. At one point the angelic look on the Flugelhorn player changed dramatically after she realised that the notes she was blowing into it were certainly not the same ones supposedly coming out the other end.
A short interval was then taken to enable the volunteer Ushers to be replaced by several First Responders removing members of the audience who had committed suicide. I didn’t think it appropriate that a member of the audience should commence to sing -
‘there was blood on the saddle,
there was blood on the ground,
there were great big buckets of blood all around’.
After the performances resumed each succeeding ensemble was an improvement on the former until by the end of the show things were actually beginning to improve considerably. Maybe all the earlier groups were just the warm-ups?
At the risk of being called a chauvinist I did find that the male conductors tended to play safer pieces while the women seemed to conduct music that was more ‘bitchy’. The men were also superior when pretending they were puppets from ‘Thunderbirds Are Go’.
A hint to the kid on the Xylophone in Group Act #6. If the whole band dresses in black from head to toe why on earth were you the only one wearing red and white striped socks. The stage looked like a scene from 'Where's Wally'. A marvellous moment ensued when a young trumpeter let loose with such professional dexterity that it was glaring obvious that great musicians are not created, they are just born that way.
The Final Act had to be the best performance of the lot. The best presented the best musical selection and the happiest faces, except for the few brief looks of contempt at the reed section when they let out little untimely, ill-tuned and high-pitched squeaks.
But who am I to complain when I can’t even fart in tune. All I can say is that love them or hate them you are certainly missing out on some extraordinary performances from contestants young and old.
May I suggest that when you get home tonight Google Royal South Street on the Internet and sign up for email notifications for next years performances. I can assure you that despite the acidity of this story you will spend many a delightful afternoon of quasi-professional musicians, dancers, singers and actors at their very best.
You know you want to.
