Switzerland

Michel Corboz is famous. Hundreds of recordings, many of them -core repertoire too- considered definitive. He directs the Ensemble Vocal de Lausanne, and it was with a wonderful baritone who has sung with the group for eleven years (or more; I'm dreadful with numbers) that I took the train from Grandvillard to Lausanne via Palezieux, which is a sloooow journey past Gruyere and several hundred cows scattered about, cats staring, buzzards sitting hunched over in fields quite close, small deer cropping the grass, etc. and then, changing trains in the unremarkable Palezieux, zipping very quickly down, and through a tunnel and suddenly amongst vineyards on the hillsides that run down to Lac Leman, where there is always something interesting going on at the horizon, usually clouds and silver linings and reflections on the lake. Well anyway. This wonderful baritone is also a pianist and a conductor, and he played for me at the break, and I did the Agnus Dei from the B Minor Mass of Bach, Es ist Vollbracht from the St. John Passion, and the Agnus Dei from Rossini's Petite Messe Solenelle. I think I did well. They were rehearsing the St. Matthew Passion and it was interesting to compare the incredibly precise sight-singers of England to the more relaxed but more impassioned Swiss. Because the Swiss have more time for rehearsing, they can afford to be a bit out of synch with their final Ts and Ds and so forth, but second time round, they're all feeling one another somehow and are absolutely together. Precise but above all together. I suppose this group is exceptional in many ways though. They all like each other tremendously, and last summer when they actually had an entire month without a concert, everyone missed everyone else. When they did Sehet Jesus hat die Hand I was asked to come up and sing the alto. Unfortunately it has been many years since I did that, and I wasn't perfect but they gave me a lovely round of applause because truly, they are a lovely bunch of people. So anyone buying a recording of the Ensemble Vocal de Lausanne, remember that these voices all belong to sweet, sweet, amiable, polite, friendly people who do it all out of sheer love. I do think it comes across. Their chorales were quite moving, and those are usually the bits that choirs tire of the fastest. Imagine how many times they've done these! Hundreds I'm sure.
I forgot to say in my blog about the Fribourg Conservatoire's modern, shiny metal cube of a building with every fitting flush with the shining wall that it was refreshing to see, looking out the slab of glass that is the back exit, that it was covered in slugs, happily crawling over a surface so smooth. Their leech-like bellies made a most interesting spectacle, quite welcome.
Michel Corboz is seventy three years young, as that whimsical expression goes, and is vibrant and fun, and doesn't have huge things to prove with the St. Matthew Passion. He merely wants to present a beautiful, sensitive, moving performance of it that never tires the listener. This is rarer than one might imagine. He wears a fedora and a scarf and a big black coat. A man his age with a huge farmer's moustache came in and embraced him and sat and watched the rehearsal out of sheer pleasure. Never found out who he was.

On Monday the 9th I got up early to sing to a fellow in Fribourg.

Fribourg is rather interesting, though I didn't have much time to explore it. I thought that the Conservatoire de Musique would be easy to find. The touristy maps didn's show it. I asked a lady and she told me to take the number 3. I waited fifteen minutes for one. I asked the driver if he could give me a ticket to the Conservatoire de Musique on the Rue Louis Braille. I got a shrug and "J'ai pas..." which means, not "I haven't" but "I don't know", spoken roughly. "Rue Louis Braille," I said again. "Aucune idee." Okay. So I got off the bus. I asked more people. A big goth knew exactly, and described the name of the stop and the environs and loads of details. Good. I waited another fifteen minutes for another number 3. I then said confidently to the driver, "Un billet jusqu'au Cassottes" or whatever the name of the stop was. He shrugged (whoever said that only French people did this?) and said "Prenez un billet au machine..." gesturing at these big metal things that stood on the pavement against a building. I couldn't believe it! Note to foreigners: Fribourg bus drivers do not deal in filthy lucre. "Je vais etre en retard! Au Conservatoire de Musique!" I freaked at him. He came out from behind his seat with the air of a most put-upon fellow indeed and walked to the machine saying "Voila. C'est le zone 11. Voila! Deux francs. C'est tres simple." Okay. Other note to foreigners: All of Fribourg, despite the many colours on the map on the ticket machines, is one zone. Yeah. Very simple.

The new Conservatoire is one very new building. Its newness is stifling. It's all the most uninviting architecture you could ever wish for. All that sixties stuff? This is the inevitable conclusion. There is no entrance, there are no doors, there are only corners and sides. All very sparkling and new and shining. But no welcome at all. The symbol on the male toilets is an i. The symbol on the female toilets is also an i, with the bottom part of it a bit spread out. Perhaps indicating a skirt. Hard to say. All the lights are motion-sensors. So I got to the lobby/cafeteria and they came on for me. I settled down to my book quietly and they forgot I was there and switched off.

Nice man though, the conductor fellow. The whole thing was entirely in French. It's an odd stage I'm at. It's more easy for me to talk and talk, expressing myself and making mistakes, but still expressing myself, than it is to listen and say the right few words. I fear this makes me something of a bore. Or crazy. He liked me though.

It was so wet on the way to the train that morning that I actually brought spare clothes and changed into them in the tiny toilet on the tpf train. Very interesting. It was one of those where you can see the ground racing by through the bottom of the pan. Anyway, the third thing I said to this conductor was "J'ai des autres pantalons dans ma sac qui sont tout mouille! Il pleut beaucoup dans Grandvillard."

That evening, I met another man who is closer by, at Les Sciernes. He met me there and we went up a hill...Les Sciernes looks completely alone, a station just on a hill with a few cows...anyway we went up a hill and there was a small village. Very sweet. He had a Steinway from Hambourg, from 1941. It must look back to some interesting times from its Swiss nook!

I was dropped off at Albeuve station afterward, exactly one minute before the train was to arrive. On time of course. I scrabbled with my money and the machine frantically, thinking "No, no, no don't go without me!! Argh!" and undoubtedly saying so. As I did, this phlegmatic voice says over my shoulder, "J'attends, madame. Pas de problem" or something like it. It was the train driver, from the driver's seat! It really is a local service, and very personal.

It rains and rains here. Must be the most wet and cold July on record for this area. And me with only one pair of trousers (the tout mouille were borrowed from the house I'm sitting) and a whole load of summer dresses! That's what happens when you visualise yourself at your destination, and pack accordingly.

Well, since MySpace has seen fit to delete me and everything about me, without rhyme nor reason, and since various people were interested in life in the Swiss mountains as lived by me just now, here I am doing Bloggery. This computer is SLOW and even dials up. And resolutely refuses to give me images. So when I chose the 'skin style' for my blog I just clicked on 'classic' without knowing what on earth it looks like. If it is an eyesore, I do apologise.

I suppose I ought to start with Sunday. I am making pin-money here by being Veronique's stand-in at the Chateau d'Oex Catholic church, a plastery, Mediterranean affair in the village made famous by David Niven, who lived there for the last twenty or so years of his life. The rich flock there still for the skiing, though it seems less swank than places like Gstaad or Saanen, which are just up the line from it on the excellent railway. By less swank I suppose I mean that there isn't so much Gucci and Versace on offer beside the Swiss farmers' smocks.

Veronique assured me that whatever I did, they would like me. The Catholic liturgy is of course familiar to me, but to have to contend with the fact that hymn books only have a melody line is a bit challenging. She lugs around five books which between them have about ten hymns that are in the official Catholic hymn book. And three different mass settings...and there is a different psalm refrain every week, and a different musical prayer refrain, etc. Again, not harmonised. She had written "Accompagnement seulement au refrain" next to most of the hymns on the list too. ???

Anyway. I was most apprehensive. Added to all this was the fact that it was holidays for the usual Priest there too, so I had someone else who didn't know what was usually done.

The only train connection from Grandvillard that allows me to get there with enough time to practise leaves at 7 am. Pleasant! I got on the small Gruyere TPF train and the carriage smelt of a small woodfire and, perhaps, faintly, of roasted meat. And the only person sitting in the carriage was a rugged looking chap with a square beard (ie no moustache) a huge green rucksack and a green felt hat. He was a smiling fellow with a tanned face. Mountain man, I said to myself, and I was quite right.

He introduced himself as "Jean-Michel, berger".
"I was in Gruyeres and I spent the night there...now I must got up the mountain and milk my cows."
He had been in Guatemala in the 70s, he had been in Scotland in 73, Canada in 68...everywhere he went, he had to do with cattle. He loves goats though. "The goat has sensibility, finesse, espieglerie..."

The train conductor treated him with deference and when Jean-Michel said that he had a general Abbonnement (free travel; they cost a few thousand francs and are great if you use the train a lot) he didn't even ask to see it.

At the church, all was deserted. I sat and watched the birds flying about, and the roses blooming everywhere, and finally was let in by the replacement Priest when he arrived. Playing for the mass was made both easier and more difficult by a man who sat directly behind the organ. He seemed to be itching to play instead of me, and indeed knew everything. He expected me to harmonise the single lines at sight, and even said 'Look, this is g, c, e, a...' and I tried to explain that I am not like a jazz musician, that I like things to be written down. I didn't want to say, "look here sir, but the lady who usually plays here hasn't bothered with harmonising, so just leave me alone, hey?" Anyway. He announced the hymns, which was just as well because French numbers, when they get into their hundreds, can be confusing, never mind having all these slips of paper, about five open books, and a keyboard where the black notes are brown and the white notes are black, and the pipes blare out into your face but not necessarily to the back of the room...But then when it came time for the prayers of the people, I waited for the cue from him (he really had taken over) and got none. And then when he realised this, he got up and tried to play the organ past me. Luckily it wasn't switched on and nothing came out! I mean, really!

I discovered at the end that he was an organist at another parish, on vacation. Which explained everything. Many people came up to me to congratulate my singing. I do two self-accompanied solos per Sunday. This Sundays were the old standbys: Ave Maria, and Panis Angelicus. And yes, it was the Schubert Ave Maria.