Plenty of the plain
by
Arthur Butterworth
No-one now believes
the romantic notion of the composer
being the pale, under-nourished, consumptive
artist starving in some damp, mouse-infested
garret, existing on a dry crust of stale
bread and driven by some inner fire
of burning zeal to communicate to an
indifferent world his heaven-sent inspiration.
Musicians on the whole
seem to have no mean ability to look
after themselves. For my own part, when
it comes down to serious eating "I know
what I like".
My wife Diana is a
stunning cook; she has an unfailing
source of inspiration and supreme artistry
in the kitchen which I wish I could
match when I am on the rostrum, or (far
more frequently) staring blankly at
the white pages of virgin manuscript
paper lying on my writing table at 9
o’clock on a wet Monday morning.
If she is sometimes
beset by the exasperation of wondering
what to get for tomorrow’s lunch, little
does she know how much more I am exasperated
— even alarmed — at having to decide
what to dish up for the next piece of
music I have been badgered to write;
be it a tasty little snack for wind
trio to keep them going on a tour of
schools concerts in Caithness or Cornwall,
or a gargantuan symphonic banquet for
the ninety or more epicurean tastes
of the members of some distinguished
orchestra to consume at the Royal Albert
Hall.
Alas! My wife’s artistry
has, for virtually the whole of our
married life, been condemned (like the
flower "blushing all unseen and wasting
its sweetness on the desert air") to
unappreciation. I am no gourmet. I like
the most ordinary, plain (some would
say drab) English food, and Northern
dishes at that.
So her exclusive cordon-bleu
upbringing is generally forlornly wasted
on me. None of that fashionable Continental
stuff — no pasta, Greek food, Chinese
takeaway. goulash, ravioli, kebab or
whatever. Nor have I ever (knowingly)
eaten a banana. But I quite like fish
and chips.
As for conducting —
the bigger the concert the bigger the
meal beforehand. This is usually a solid
English ritual affair: most of the fattening
things middle-aged conductors ought
not to eat, especially before a concert.
Not for me the wafer-thin biscuit and
thimbleful of black coffee (no sugar)
and a tense, nervous pacing to and fro
in the green room an hour before the
concert begins.
I like roast beef,
Yorkshire pudding (even in preference
to my own native Lancashire hot-pot),
potatoes, thick brown gravy (like Brahms’s
orchestration is supposed to be!), trifle,
apple, blackcurrant or gooseberry —
or, best of all, strawberry pie with
ladles of mountainous thick Devon double-cream
or custard, or both. Then biscuits and
cheese; Wensleydale, obviously — none
of that suspicious-looking, malodorous
Continental stuff with mould looking
like the inside of the garage windows
after a wet summer. And coffee.
Now some composers
have celebrated food and drink in music
in one way or another: Strauss’s "Schlagobers,"
for example, and, of course, "Wine,
Women and Song" by the other Strauss.
Coming nearer to home, Derek Bourgeois
has even written a "Wine Symphony".
I am a bit hazy about wine; not through
imbibing it too often, you understand
... far from it. Perhaps my sensibility
towards the delicate nuances of bouquet
— that subtle, je ne sais quoi — the
difference between, say, a Nuits St
Georges ’62, a Chateau Perenne (Côte
de Payes) 1971 and a Wincarnis Tonic
(£1.23 special offer), might be compared
to the appreciation of an Elland Road
football crowd’s response to the subtle
shades of emotional difference between
a late Beethoven quartet and Boulez’s
"Eclats multiples" should they ever
be played before the match by the band,
Whisky? Well, I have
to treat this with the reverence and
sense of awesome respect rightly due
to the stern puritanical Presbyterian
country of its origin. But I never drink
the stuff. However, I believe it is
quite useful to have a spare bottle
or so in the boot of the car; if ever
one is unfortunate enough to run out
of petrol late at night somewhere over
Fleet Moss or Ribblehead. Whisky is
reputed to have a higher octane rating
than Shell four-star: it should have,
it is more expensive.
Brass players - and
I began my orchestral career as one
- are noted for their devotion to beer.
To me, however, it is a noxious, peculiar,
evil-smelling liquid which seems to
make willing fools or aggressive, raving
lunatics out of otherwise sane and sturdy
men. The stench of it reminds me of
dreary station refreshment rooms or
the smoke-filled bar at Offa’s Dyke
Colliery Welfare Institute — home of
that celebrated Welsh (championship
section) band — after the tumultuous
civic reception to celebrate success
in the 'National’ brass band finals.
Wining and dining —
or for me just dining — in the social
sense can certainly be a pleasure. But
one of the best ingredients for such
an occasion is not so much the food
itself — of which we generally eat far
too much — but the leisured, absorbing
conversation with the right companion.
Perhaps the kind of thing one imagines
Elgar to have relished in company with
his publisher, Jaeger, the "Nimrod"
we all know so well.
Arthur Butterworth
