For reasons that need not detain us here, I have recently had to endure more than my fair share of Luciano Berio and other blighters of that ilk, and I wanted to consider how the glorious Western classical music tradition of structure, harmony and melodic invention could have descended into plinkety plonk rubbish and the kind of sounds foxes make when copulating. As Thomas Beecham once memorably remarked, he never knowingly listened to Schoenberg, but he thought he might once have trod in some by mistake.
But it’s the Easter weekend as I write, the sun is shining for the third successive day here in verdant, primrose-blessed west Dorset, and the idea of refreshing my indignation by listening to Berio’s intolerable Sinfonia is too ghastly to contemplate. So I’m going to tell you about the gig I went to on Saturday night instead.
If I were forced at gunpoint to choose my favourite place in the whole world, it would be Lyme Regis. I first went there as a child, and every time I return, which is frequently, I get the same tingle of pleasure. The Cobb, the esplanade, the steep curving main street, and the mysterious jungle-like wonders of the undercliff are attractions that never stale. I’ve visited Lyme at every time of day, in every season and in every weather, and I have always left the place feeling better than when I arrived — even when it is overrun with tourists.
One of the many things I love about Lyme is the Marine Theatre, just a stone’s throw from the sea and occupying a building that resembles a glorified scout hut. But inside there’s a decent stage and auditorium, and a cosy upstairs bar with an outside balcony commanding sea views.
It’s not exactly a place for cutting edge drams. Amateur companies use it, and small touring professional groups. There are Pilates classes, classical recitals and CD fairs, and regular visits by rock groups, most of them tribute bands. When I saw the poster advertising the Mods, who specialise in covering the great pop songs that graced the charts from 1964–70, I knew I had to be there.
The band seemed disappointed that there were fewer than 100 people in the audience, but they played a two-and-a-half-hour set and gave it all they had — which was a lot. All seasoned middle-aged pros with long CVs, and counting Noel Gallagher and Paul Weller among their acknowledged admirers, The Mods are one of those bands that play for the sheer love of the music and of performing.
As they stormed, with great musical chops, through hits by the Kinks, The Stones, Pink Floyd (wonderful to hear ‘See Emily Play’) before ending with a thrilling 20-minute medley of Who classics, the sense of pleasure both on stage and in the audience was palpable. Couples in their seventies jived, young couples got it on, and your ‘Olden but golden’ correspondent jumped up and down and waved his arms in the air like some superannuated punk rocker.
Great rock and roll will never die and it’s my bet that we will be listening to The Who’s ‘My Generation’ and ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ long after dreary Berio has been consigned to the oblivion he so richly deserves.
Charles Spencer is theatre critic of the Daily Telegraph.
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