I’m gratified to hear that, on relating my recent outbursts of drunken arrogance to strangers, ie “Do you know who I am?” or “Oh, just Google me”, my friends find this utterly amusing rather than shameful. A silver lining, perhaps, but I’m happy to come across as laughable, as long as it’s endearingly, harmlessly laughable. And not pathetically, dangerously laughable. But it’s not up to me to decide that.
At the Boogaloo recently, a woman kept coming up to me to say “Oh you, you’re just so funny!”, and I don’t think I actually said or did anything at all in her presence; I was just standing around.
Last night: to the Italian Institute in Belgrave Square with Suzi L, Lawrence G and Alison, for a classical recital with narration presented by Handel House. It’s about castrati singers such as Farinelli et al, with a rather excellent title, “Machines Made For Singing”. Three performers: an older gentleman as narrator, who I suspect is a stage actor; a good-looking, tousled-haired young man on harpsichord who appears to have his own female fanbase, and on vocals Nicholas Clapton, who’s a leading expert on those curiously castrated opera singers of yore. I understand that his range as a counter-tenor isn’t quite the same as a real castrato (the last one died a century ago), but the notes he hits sound pretty damn high to me. Higher and purer than the pop-soul range of Jimmy Somerville, for instance, or the vaudeville shrieks of the singer from the Tiger Lillies.
Typically, my mind wanders at a tangent, or disappears into its own world altogether through exhaustion. I’ve been going out too much lately, and vow to concentrate my meagre energies on my own work from now on, as opposed to enjoying the work of others all the time. At least until I finish a few projects.
I’m rather struck with Professor Clapton’s lack of facial stubble, and wonder if it’s connected with his innate ability to sing in such a high voice.
“There’s nothing funny or odd about a grown man singing falsetto” he tells the audience, suggesting that he’s been subject to a lifetime of innuendo-laden queries about his talent. “Stick a pin into any man and you’ll hear falsetto notes.”
Even so, he does have a slightly otherworldy and angel-like (as opposed to angelic) quality about him, falsetto or not. And when he takes questions from the floor after the recital, I’m tempted to ask him about his personal skin care programme. But I resist.
Afterwards, we walk out onto the Institute’s balcony, where I feel tempted to wave – or salute like Mussolini.
“I sometimes wonder if I was a Nazi in a former life”, I wonder out aloud to Suzi and company.
I then hastily add, “In which case – if anyone asks, I was Schindler, okay? Schindler.”
