'This is a journey...'

My month-long 'retreat' (only in the loosest sense of the word - hence the emphatic inverted comma) drawing to a close, I'm pleased at the progress I've been able to make on certain projects that I set for myself. A lot of boxes remain unticked though, and I (only half ingenuously) attribute this to an even busier evening schedule over the past few weeks than usual. Perhaps I should have blocked out the whole month as some kind of culture Ramadan, but when the enticing alternative was to see Helen Mirren, Jude Law, Simon Russell Beale and Rebecca Hall - and some more - all in the space of one week, for a total sum of what a return train journey to Manchester would usually cost, I made my choice in a flash. And now, of course, the Proms are beyond us. My terrifying annual reminder of yet another year that's passed. Before diving into the thick of it though, I'm relishing the memory of a trio of concerts that we enjoyed earlier this month, within 5 days of each other at Barbican (why of course, where else?), which ended our 08-09 season on a high note - or should it be a string of high notes? A high chord?! All the more special because only one of them belonged to the category that we usually attended.

There was Pablo Milanes, the venerable Cuban singer/songwriter who belted out one ballad after another to the accompaniment of his understated three-piece band. The concert, which also featured two jazz acts in the first half, was the main event of the 'Cuba 50 weekend', marking the 50th anniversary of the Revolution (also the beginning of their mutually-sworn enemity with the Western world). We were sitting in our 'usual' seats in the Hall, but were very much the aliens amongst a sea of Cubans and other Latin Americans of all ages. Latin Spanish was the official languge of the evening, and the crowd went wild when it was announced that none other than the daughter of Che Guavara was in the audience, and she was invited onto the stage for a speech. A plain, middle-aged woman, she reminded the audience of the origins of the Latino revolutoinary spirit, the many struggles that they (or she, at least) had undergone over the years, and the inevitable call for a closure to the Cuban people's plights that have now lasted half a century. When Milanes took stage, all eyes were glued, with an almost religious fervour, on this slightly frail old man looking like a retired school-master. Who'd have thought that the Cuban equivalent of Cliff Richards (minus the nip & tuck jobs) could elicit a 2000-strong sing-along like this, with virtually every single tune he belts out? We're the only members of the audience who don't know the repertoire, and we try hard not to be too embarrassed by this fact. Our friends leave early, later emailing to say they found the music too monotonous. But I think they're missing the point - this was a socio-cultural experience as much as anything. And it was thrilling to be part of the crowd.


There was the ever-reliable LSO, under the charismatic Michael Tilson Thomas, presenting an evening of Ives, Prokoefieff and Stravinsky - just my kind of programme. The Chinese pianist Yuja Wang finally arrived this side of the Atlantic, having already taken the US by storm, as another wunderkind barely in her twenties and already poised to take at least a sizeable share of Lang Lang's hitherto undisputed crown of Chinese classical superstar, and the global market that comes with it. Does she have what it takes? Why make our judgement now, she's got a lifetime to prove it, either way. Besides, Lang Lang is not yet thirty himself. The top management agencies and record companies will keenly keep their eyes on the next budding Chinese wizzkid for quite a while yet, that much is for sure.

Then, finally, there was Ute Lemper. With her seductive smile, magnetic voice, impeccably choreographed stage moves and mischievous yet intelligent narration between songs, two hours passed very quickly. She announced at the beginning of the evening that this was to be a journey, chronicling her influences as well as her own career, both historically and geographically. This immensely versatile, endlessly entertaining polyglot even did an astonishingly vivid impersonation of Helmut Kohl flirting with Margaret Thatcher with the aid of a scarlett boa (don't ask). True, the intimacy of both her musical reditions and her spontaneous, witty exchanges with the front-row audience members would have suited the pit of a cabaret - her natural milieu - rather better than the vast Barbican Hall, but when treated to an evening of thoughtfully-programmed numbers sung with this kind of pedigree, this would be a minor quibble. But the most memorable items, given the most empassioned performances, were naturally the Weills. Even with the silky New York accent, you kow that home is Germany, and she looks back at the Germany that she left behind with more than a little wistfulness. 'There was a wall, and it just seemed, to two, three generations, like part of the furniture - that it would be there forever. But then the wall came down. And the rest is history...'

History, of course, continues to be re-written every minute, by the biggest decisions made as well as the trivial ones. As we walked down Silk Street, for the third time that week, I couldn't help looking back as well, to the Latino crowd that we briefly belonged to several days before. Who knows what the future holds for Cuba? And will a new icon, a younger Milanes, archive it all, the history-yet-to-be-written with a different kind of ballad, perhaps? I imagine a svelt figure, a dark face, deep brown eyes, at the 'Cuban 70' weekend (for sure there will be one at the Barbican):

'This is a journey...'