Time for a good burst of music

Press, 24 April 1979, Page 19

Time for a good burst of music

By

DERRICK MANSBRIDGE

Violence is so essential a bedfellow to television these days that it might be considered churlish and greedy to want more. But on two successive Sundays I have sat on the edge of my chair waiting for someone to smash Julian Bream over the head with a guitar. For those who go to bed

at a reasonable hour I should explain that Julian

Bream holds a Master Class for young amateur and professional guitarists at the last spot on Sunday evenings on TVI. These innocent guinea pigs pick out the piece of music set for them — usually some devilishly if-

ficult number — and Julian Bream proceeds to pick them to little pieces with the finesse of a steamroller running amok in the Botanic Gardens.

The programme starts with a close-up of Bream’s p i c t u r e-postcard olde worlde cottage in Wiltshire for no really apparent reason, unless it is the producer’s subtle intention to make us believe that anyone who lives in such delightful surroundings cannot be all bad. Then we are introduced to the composer for the evening — on Sunday it. was a South American,

Heitor Villa-Lobos. The three victims for the Inquisition are introduced and the first plays his or her set-piece. Usually, it is impossible to gauge from Bream’s face what he is thinking; it is contorted and tortured as much when he

is enjoying the music as when he is not. To the untutored ear the victim appears to be doing splendidly. And Bream's opening remarks are usually no reflection at all on his later outpourings. “Yes, that was quite effective,” he began by telling his first pupil on Sunday. But don’t be lulled I into believing him. When Bream began pulling the wings and legs off one by one, we hear that that section “was unbeautiful,” another “was pretty horrible,” and of a third he “didn’t think much of that.” This is the point I start getting excited, searching for the red mist appearing before the victim’s eyes, his (or her, Bream is definitely ungallent) guitar being swung upwards and sent down with maniacal

force on to Bream's bal ding head, so far no luck.

The victims sit there, studiously intent, lapping up insults as if they were lavish praises, and trying again and again to satisfy the monster Master. He has no favourites: the second victim played

“smooth suburban” could anything be more deflating'?), "obviously could do better if he had not been so tense and not been sitting in the completely wrong posture," and “was nicely played, but had no shape about it.” But there is one quite

horrible snag about this programme. Although Bream will sing while he is playing (to emphasise his points, definitely not to entertain) and his facial contortions and twitches would frighten even Dracula. when he shows his pupils how the piece should really be played, the most beautiful sounds flow out of his magical fingers. Suddenly music that has been largely and often soulless takes on qualities and tones that the pupil’s guitar probably only dreamed were possible. Even so, surely one of his victims will do something dramatic before the series end, if not to lay open Bream’s head, at least throw his guitar al

that camera tas frustrated golfters wrap their clubs around trees) and stamp out of the studio. Bream had three victims on Sunday evening and had three more on the previous Sunday There are two more programmes in the series, so six more chances of one violent episode. The odds of one in 12 are pretty good. Flesh and blood can stand only so much — even from an undisputed Master; even from a man who would undoubtedly say to a Yehudi Menuhin, “Yes, that was quite effective, but . . .”