IAN McMILLAN The percussionists just can’t miss a beat

IREALLY enjoy going to orchestral concerts; there’s something wonderfully powerful and exhilarating about an orchestra in full flow, making music that can fill a vast space with grace and power but which somehow becomes also interestingly intimate, landing on my ears only.

Lately, because I record my Radio 3 show in Salford on Thursdays, I’ve been going to evening concerts at The Bridgewater Hall in Manchester to experience the brilliant Halle Orchestra. I go with my son who lives on that side of the Pennines and as we watch and listen we’ve both become a little bit obsessed with the percussion players.

Perhaps it’s because they’re all arranged at the back a little away from the main body of the musicians; perhaps it’s because what they do is a little more physical, a little bit more visual than what the rest of the players do, or it seems to be.

Sometimes I can see that they’re waiting for their turn to shine. They pick up the triangle. They steady the triangle because they don’t want it to go ting at the inappropriate moment. I think that if I was a percussionist I’d get very anxious about the wrong time ting as it’s known in percussion circles.

I guess that when percussionists get together they talk about that time they dropped the cymbal, or the gong fell over, or the drumstick flew high into the air and missed the conductor by the width of a sharp note.

I’m pleased to say that none of these mishaps have befallen the percussionists at The Halle when I’ve been watching. Back to the person with the triangle: they’re ready. The conductor is keeping the rest of the musicians in perfect time. There must be an imperceptible nod to the percussionist because at exactly the right moment the triangle sounds and sounds again, bringing nuance and depth to the musical moment. It must be an exhilarating feeling for the percussionist, I reckon, to know that at times you can be the visual and musical heart of a vast orchestral force.

After these concerts my son and I speculate on the percussionists on their way home. We fantasise that they just can’t stop tapping things wherever they are. They go home on a late-night tram with their triangle in a box and they start to tap the tram window as though they’re a rhythmic ghost trying to gain entry. They get off the tram and walk home, their feet syncopating along the street; it’s almost a tap dance but not quite. It’s something more than that: it’s an orchestral tap dance.

When the percussionist gets home it’s very late and everybody else in the house is fast asleep. The percussionist tries to tiptoe but can’t help taptoeing. Even though it’s almost midnight the percussionist fancies a cup of tea and yes, you’ve guessed it, the percussionist starts to tap his mug (emblazoned with the slogan I’D RATHER BE DRUMMING) with his teaspoon.

He sets up a gentle beat then taps the kettle as well. He thinks he’s being quiet but he’s wrong. He uses the waste bin like a hi-hat, flipping the lid open with his foot and playing it against the rhythm he’s set up. He rattles a jar of sultanas then rattles a jar of currants and marvels at the difference in the sound.

Then another noise intrudes into this soundscape; the stairs creaking as the percussionist’s wife get up. He thinks he’s in trouble but luckily she’s a percussionist too so she grabs a ladle and a colander and joins in.

Boom! Ting!