Christy Moore was absolutely brilliant. I was confident that the music would be good, having listened to enough of his recordings over the years, but I didn't know quite what a charismatic stage performer he was. Though, given the rave reviews the papers gave his previous Royal Festival Hall appearances, and the Amazon reviews of his live albums that comment on the atmosphere at his gigs, I knew he must be pretty good. He is extraordinary, part musician, part comedy Irishman, part shaman. Declan Sinnott is a highly skilled guitarist, and they had signed up an excellent percussionist, but it was Christy's show. They announced at the outset that there would be no interval, and I was amazed when suddenly it was the last number, and I looked at my watch and two hours had passed. The encore stretched to four or five more songs.
Dramatically, one long sweep of music worked better than breaking the mood by having an interval. I did feel a twinge of sympathy, though, for anyone with a weak bladder or other bodily needs that meant they needed a loo oftener than two and a half hours. I laid off the caffeinated drinks from lunchtime onwards, to be on the safe side.
We made a day of it, and kicked off with a swift visit to the Estorick Collection of Modern Italian Art in Islington. I've been meaning to go there for years without ever quite getting round to it, and their current exhibition of Georgio de Chirico ends this weekend, so it was my last chance to see it. I have had a soft spot since childhood for his vaguely surreal paintings of deserted classical squares, with their architectural ambiguities and incongruous details. The temporary exhibition focuses on his sculptures. Suffice to say that Il Duce would probably have liked them. We didn't, but I'm glad I saw them, finding them ugly and vaguely repellent, but interesting. The same went for the permanent collection.
The Systems Administrator's reward for indulging me in a visit to a small gallery of twentieth century Italian art was to be taken to lunch at Gem, our Kurdish restaurant of choice. I had a delicious aubergine thing, while the SA is still trying to work out how they stop their lamb kebabs from falling to bits. They serve a sort of fascinating stuffed bread, which I think I could try at home, and if we go there again I might try asking the owner what sort of rice they serve. It has much fatter grains than the usual long grain rice, but is not as sticky as risotto rice or pudding rice, and I liked it very much.
We had thought to go to the Cabinet War Rooms, but after looking at the queue decided to save those for a quiet winter's day when we might share them with fewer visitors and get more of the atmosphere. Instead, we went and looked at Westminster Abbey. Confession: it was the first time I had ever been inside. If a building with comparable historic associations were to be found somewhere that we were on holiday for a week, I would have visited like a shot, but because it's in London, it's always there, and it costs eighteen pounds to go in, I never did. It is incredibly tall inside, and the gothic tracery of the ceiling is fine, but honestly the best bit is the tombs.
They are squeezed into side chapels like a series of mad, overcrowded junk shops. The Howards and the Percys have their own chapels, while others contain unlikely bedfellows. It's a nice touch putting Mary Tudor and Elizabeth I together, united in death as they never were in life. Brave General Wolfe gets a gigantic and lavish monument, but space is so tight that a heroic young man who died in a sea battle off Bengal is squatting on the back, partially obscured by a set of reposing figures in doublets. Those who died more recently mostly have to make do with slabs on the floor, and I was touched to see Clem Attlee commemorated near his personal friend and political ally Ernie Bevin. According to Wikipedia, since the early twentieth century remains have had to be cremated before being interred, because space is getting tight, the only exceptions being the Percys (of course), on account of them having their own vault.
Westminster Abbey is an Old Peculiar, answering to no diocesan bishop, and the Church of England, not being allowed to call the tune, does not pay the piper and contributes nothing towards the running costs, according to the leaflet I picked up. On that basis I can see why the entrance fee is as high as it is. In the economics of the arts, one Westminster Abbey entry equates to half a Christy Moore concert, who is in turn worth less than the RFH's most expensive classical pianists this April.
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