A couple of nights ago I went to my second live performance since the world’s axis slowed down 16 months ago. Singing, we were told right from the start, was a potential virus-spreader, and as such was banished forthwith to the screen, along with theatre, concerts, and indeed anything live.
The first concert I went to late last year was in one of the periods, somewhat akin to the principles of parole, that was supposed to lead to freedom, but didn’t. Two young and vibrant classical singers took us on a vocal journey celebrating the sea. 
It had been a joy to witness these young professionals and their smiling accompanist, ply their trade in living, breathing person. It reminded me how powerful it is to experience live performance (of any kind), where the performers’ desire to give to the audience becomes a gift to both. It says something when the performers emotionally thanked the audience at the end for being there. It was a teary moment.
The second live performance was given last Friday by my dear friend and singer, Rosie Ashe, a colleague from my days in the business. We got to know each other when we were part of an act for a couple of cruises in the early 1990s and have stayed friends ever since. She is a darling woman with immense talent, ingenuity and integrity, who has made her mark in main and character roles in the West End. 
Here she was in a clever one woman show devised by her in which she told the story of Ethel Merman. The performance was peppered with passionate and funny songs between salty tales of Merman’s four marriages. It was a triumph, and we, the socially-distanced audience, clapped and whooped Rosie and her excellent accompanist at every opportunity.
I was reminded once again just how much I miss the real transmission that takes place between performer and audience. In my performing days we’d talk about good or bad audiences. We’d often say things like, “the audience is hard work tonight”, or “they love us; they’re on our side”, or occasionally, “we might as well pack up and go home now”. But without an audience, whatever the size, or state, performers are nothing. Singing is a glorious, joyful means of communication cut down to the root by some unfortunate research that for many of us didn’t make sense.
For these past few years I have taught singing to people who love to join with others in amateur performance, either as soloist or choir member. I also run a singing group (in days we once called “normal”) for people with Parkinson’s that helps improve not only vocal function, but quality of life, not least of which is the joy of sharing with others. Now we – well the few members who can face it – are banished to Zoom. We battle with bad signals and other technical hitches, doing the best we can with a technology that is an unsatisfactory experience even at best. We do not mute our mics and sing to ourselves as so many choirs do. Personally I don’t see the point of that. Instead we take a verse each and sing to each other, thus making the best of a poor deal. Roll on live meetings.
We are not just meat and bone walking around, as our forefathers once were, trying to avoid death at all costs – a fact that has so far proved to be as unavoidable as paying taxes. Who we really are is fired by the many natural wonders that spring from being a fully-functioning human that is far from being just a body. Collectively we are mind, body and spirit, which provides the potential for boundless creativity. We feed one another on so many levels, singing being one amongst many. Whether as performer or audience, writer or reader, artist or viewer, we need each other to inspire and be inspired.
This is not meant to be a post about politics, policies, truth, lies, right or wrong, but what I personally feel about the handling (aspects of it) of the current situation, naturally spills out onto the page in my desire to communicate my passion via the less challenged act of writing – though even speaking one’s mind these days can lead to a metaphorical muzzle. Now don’t get me started on that one…tra la la!
