A two massage day, audience taming, and bug catching.

Tianjin is a huge city that none of us have ever heard of.  It's the same size as London.  We arrive after a long journey (made even longer by a detour through Beijing to drop someone off), and our management treat us to a drink at the bar.  The lone waitress panics as do we.  She calls for help and drinks soon appear and then disappear.  It's at times like this, battle weary and broken, we can become rather silly. LIzzy decides that she needs to hug everybody.  What a good decision!

What I love about Tianjin is the road signs.  There's a pictorial representation for a seemingly endless list of do's and don'ts.  These are large and hang threateningly over the wide roads; a man falling asleep at the wheel, a couple primly sitting with their seat belts tightly fastened, and a broken wine glass containing a car.  There's no mistaking their meaning, only I wonder if they're not a little too absorbing.

A trio of us spend the morning at a massage place. We are taken up to a room with three wooden beds and we're each given pairs of tatty pyjamas.  We giggle and prance around the room until three ladies in uniform come in and gesture for us to lie down.  I wonder if we'll still be doing things like this when we're old ladies - the thought that we will makes me very happy.

We are giants

The concert hall is huge and fresh out of the box.  It's set in a complex which looks like a space ship.  The poster of the orchestra in the foyer stretches over three floors of the atrium - we are enormous in Tianjin.  Backstage is very plush and we all line up to use the espresso machine.  After mine is spilt over my dress, I smell like the stuff all day and it's not nice.  

The hall is full.  We begin and I notice stewards at the back of the hall, pointing red lasers into the audience.  I find out later that this is to stop people taking photographs; the laser of shame is pointed onto the screen of any naughty phone or camera.  People are even filming with their i-pads.  

As the concert progresses, the atmosphere in the hall changes from an restless need to recording proceedings to a calmer sense of listening to the music.  We feel we have tamed them after an initial scuffle. The arias from 'Giulio Cesare' are so arresting that the audience become still.  The arias show a potted version of Cleopatra's character development, from her naivety and ambition, through love, to victory. 

After the concert, a quartet of us go back for another massage.  It's open 24 hours and I decide that I'll never have the chance again at a 10pm post concert foot massage.  I wonder what the Chinese masseuses make of us; they whisper and giggle as do we, performing the massage in complete unison.  Lizzy squeaks with pain and everyone laughs.  It's a moment in which language and culture presents no boundaries to understanding, or in other words, it's simply funny.

The next day we are back in Hong Kong and this is my 'bad day'.  I'm feeling sick at Beijing Airport and I sleep throughout the three hour flight.  By the time we land, I'm beginning to feel better but all I want is my bed at home. The next day in our dressing room, I ask the massed Ladies of The English Concert if it's true that everyone has a low day on tour?  I receive a chorus of "Yes" and we leave it at that. 

Hong Kong is a whirl of neon and buildings that leer over you in a threatening manner.  Restaurants are piled high in skyscrapers, each promising a better view than the next. Designer brands line up to do battle and you're accosted every few yards with offers of cheap watches and handbags.  The skyline is stunning with the mountains rising triumphantly over the skyscrapers.  Small areas of thick vegetation lie untouched between roads and I imagine the effort it must have taken to trample it into submission.

I wake in the morning and turn on the radio.  This isn't what I usually do.  The final 'Hallelujah' of 'Silete Venti' comes squealing from  the speakers and the announcer says, "And I was speaking with Harry Bicket who will be conducting the English Concert…".  Harry tells me later that they'd called him in his hotel room only seconds before going on air and the line was so bad that he could hardly hear a word the interviewer spoke.  What a way to wake up.

Hong Kong City Hall.

We have no wifi in our rooms so we congregate in small groups in the lobby where it is free.  I wonder what it was like touring before the internet, so engrossed are we in the act of Skyping home and checking our emails.  The thought that we might have talked to each other more comes first, but perhaps being so in touch with home makes us happier. There's no harm in spending some time away, back in the other reality of home, family, and friends.  This modern life is a tricky thing; I suppose people have been saying that for an eternity.

We are playing at City Hall in Hong Kong. It's an old fashioned building where you walk off the street and straight onto the stage.  There an no espresso machines backstage here; I'm relieved.  We interview Harry this time between rehearsal and concert.  By this stage in the tour, I'm feeling so tired that I just ask him to talk about the music we're playing, and he speaks fluently to camera without hesitation.  Later, he worries that he might have seemed grumpy.  Perhaps he's having one of those days.

By this time, Alfonso has caught my bug and he looks green as we walk onto stage.  He brightens up as we're met with noisy applause from a smiling audience.  He loves a hall that reflects enthusiastic applause with such volume, he says it makes him feel like a rock star. What an imagination!  We begin and the hall has a clear, warm acoustic.  I later wonder at how we play the same music so many times and without feeling bored of it.  Sometimes we must employ certain strategies; I try to think of the audience's enjoyment, finding new elements to listen to, or simply trying to play better.  By this stage in the tour, we have the music securely in our heads and we're enjoying listening and watching the music flying around between us.  

We have no idea what this banner says.

The audience are so enthusiastic that they receive the full compliment of two encores.  Carolyn and Harry sign programs and CD's in the foyer after the concert and I meet up with a friend who I haven't seen in seventeen years.  All this travel brings you to friends in far flung places.  We congregate for one last time in the foyer with our lap tops and newly purchased i-pads for a final, weary chat with our people.  We're off early in the morning to Taipei - a certain kind of tiredness is bedded in by now and only being able to get few hours sleep hardly seems anything to worry about anymore. The physical toll of such travel is equalled by the pleasure of it - or so it would seem.

We play our first concert.

It's a relief to be finally rehearsing.  The church in Macau is warm and the air conditioning strains nosily to keep it from becoming unbearably hot; the men of the English Concert must wear their tails tonight so they're eager to keep it on.  We spy some lurid blue cassocks in the vestry and suggest the men might be more comfortable in these.  Walter Reiter, our principal second violin, wants to dress in the Bishop's robes and with his wild hair and unstoppable beard we think he'd look perfect.

I cannot find the words for this photograph. 

A rehearsal in a church usually involves hoards of onlookers, most of whom I imagine feel lucky to have found us there.  Perhaps not though - we rather shatter any sort of peace one might be searching for.  We rehearse the set of arias from Handel's  'Theodora' which all feel a little new.  We're playing them here because the Cleopatra arias from 'Julius Caeser' are too saucy to be performed in a church.  Theodora on the other hand, being a religious martyr is the perfect heroine for this setting.  Harry loves this music, saying it's some of Handel's best writing.  It was his penultimate work and a flop at that, probably due to it's dark, introspective mood.  It was barely performed in his lifetime and although (or maybe because) we violas are rather redundant, the music is beautiful.  Carolyn sings these arias with such intensity that we are happy to sit and listen.  

Joe editing the blog on the move

When I'm on stage but not playing, what do I think about?  Sometimes I'm fascinated by someone in the audience, or a violinist's fingers, but it seems best of all when the playing going on around me makes me feel like the audience member with the best seat in the house. I watch the interaction between colleagues and notice the subtleties of this complex relationship that pass by in a second yet communicate so much. 

In the break between rehearsal and concert, I interview Carolyn Sampson for a film that we are making.  I've never interviewed anyone for anything before and I furiously scribble questions on the back of a card our bass player, Peter McCarthy, gave me in NewYork two years ago. It has been residing in my viola case ever since; Lady Hamilton smiling beatifically back at me.  I read the questions robotically to Carolyn and she answers. I miss everything she says; my ears are blocked with panic.  Attempting something new in however an amateurish way is a challenge and I suppose it's meant to be.  When we specialise so acutely, there are parts of our brains that become a little numb.  It reminds me of when I started playing professionally; the low level anxiety of it, the toll of which could only be noted with hindsight.  

Nadja at St.Paul's, Macau

Touring is a game of organisation and to know when to eat is always a challenge.  I make the decision to risk hunger and eat after the concert.  Luckily in the interval I find a sticky, fur covered sweet in my bag which staves off any wilting.  Harry admits that he's had a MacDonald's - he excuses himself by explaining that this is a well known method by which to gather enough energy for a concert without feeling too full.  I find my furry sweet to be more appealing.

On stage, we are met by an ocean of smiling Macanese faces. The lady in the front row catches my eye and beams back at me.  Playing in a new country is nerve racking.  We begin and the sound is lovely and round; Bach's Orchestral Suite No.1. The light seems brighter and we all look more awake than we have for the past 48 hours.  I sometimes wonder whether the audience can tell if we've been travelling all day, or if we're at the end of a long tour?  Does it ever show on our faces?

I enjoy the game of 'what will the soprano be wearing tonight?'.  Carolyn always disappoints us on the frock of horror front; there's not a meringue or frill in sight.  The audience sit like statues for her Theodora and we leave the first half feeling as though we've made a new friend.  We spend the interval in the dim fluorescent light of the vestry, talking in groups or watching clips of our rehearsal on Alfonso's computer.  I realise for the first time that we all switch off rather easily in intervals - I chat with Nadja and completely forget that she will play the Bach Oboe and Violin concerto in a matter of minutes.  I'm not sure I'd be so calm. 

Graffiti in Macau 

Alfonso tells me that it's usually the simplest music that is the hardest to perform.  He doesn't like me to complain about the slow movement of the Bach Oboe and Violin concerto - he loves it.  Ten bars in and my right arm is smarting; small, repetitive movements not being my forte.  But I remember to relax and I start listening and fall in love with its wandering harmonies and mellifluous melody.  Sometimes I forget that the physical effort of playing can interfere with what you hear, never in a helpful way.

We end with more Handel, 'Silete Venti', a work which contains two long da capo arias; this is why I come away humming the tunes and annoying myself and everyone else.  I have to sing the first five notes of 'Happy Birthday' to stop them returning. The violas' famous moment is strangely where we are not playing.  Our forty five bars of rest have tripped us up on so many occasions. Harry eyes us nervously in advance, and we always get a sly smile when we do come in.  Carolyn zips through the final movement and the audience's applause doesn't fade until she consents to an encore. 

With the first concert of the tour under our belts, we head to a local restaurant and beg them to stay open just a little longer.  I am famished.  We eat and drink too much and Carolyn thanks them with the offer of her bouquet which is accepted without hesitation.  The following day is full of dread as we must travel by ferry, bus and aeroplane to Tianjin in the north of China.  The journey is scheduled to take 14 hours.  It suddenly feels as though our free time is over and the real business of touring is upon us.

Temples, pigeons and cocktails.

"Blogging can become an onerous task", Clare Hammett, our naturally precise harpsichord tuner tells me as we make our second lap around the gargantuan Sands Hotel.  We're looking for another hotel altogether, one which promises cocktails and a sunset;  but which has successfully hidden its bulk for nearly an hour.  My ankles throb in the heat and the temptation to run back to the massage place we passed twenty minutes earlier is pressing.  The advertisement promising 'Pinch, Scrape Feet and Oil Push' is all I can think about; all that is except for The Blog and what on earth I'll write about next.  Ideas circle, but none land.  Clare is right.

Tours usually begin abruptly, as we cajole our flight-broken bodies into rehearsal, but this time we have time to swan around the city, exploring palaces, temples and gardens.  On our free day I suffer terribly with fear of missing out; it's a debilitating condition when there's a whole city to explore.  I'm saved by Nadja, our leader, who has arrived a day late, guide book in hand and a bleeding finger with a complicated story.  She's read the chapter on Macau twice and is now a fount of local culinary knowledge from African Spicy Chicken to Macanese Roasted Pigeon.

Back at the cocktail hunt,  we're in a large group which moves with all the haste of an elephant - a lovely, friendly elephant with all your friends aboard.  The hotel is eventually found hiding behind an oversized impression of an art deco building in sickly green.  The top floor terrace's walls are so high that when seated we can only see a sky which has turned thick grey with pollution.  But it's nice to be outside and we all take our shoes off at the same time and cool our heels on the marble.  Helicopters busily ply their trade; this is a town of gamblers on the move.

Earlier that day, I try to find a moment of peace in a temple.  Swirls of incense hang from the ceiling like sculptures, the dust from which occasionally drops onto my head.  The walls are banks of glass cases; black and white passport-like photographs of people who I assume to be dead stare back at me.  I settle in a courtyard where two trees struggle through an iron grate to the sky.  The sunlight picks out thick plumes of incense smoke and I take my cue to sit down and close my eyes.  A speedy Chinese man who I take to be the person in charge enters, glares at me and all-too-hastily I give up.

In the event, cocktails are sunk without a glimpse of setting sun. We split into two groups and, a taxi ride later, find ourselves in Nadja's Roast Pigeon joint.  Offering up a restaurant choice to a sizeable party of your colleagues is a risky business - get it right, and you're a darling for the night, get it wrong and guilt gobbles you up. Only two brave souls order the now-famous pigeon after someone has spotted the photograph of the dish: the neck and head (beak and all) are still attached and unreasonably we all feel afraid.  Carolyn points out that we eat fish with the head on.  She's right of course but I still can't manage it.

We eat together, telling sorry tales of BT and promised superfast broadband that never materialises. We share too much wine which encourages us on to the casino at the Grand Lisboa Hotel where Sarah, our orchestral manager, performs the most beautiful non sequitor, causing Harry to exclaim, "But what were the questions and who is Melissa?".  If I ever find out I'll be sure to let you know.

Sweets, arrivals, and the ravages of war.

My name is Louise and I'm a violist.  Although this might sound like a confession, it's perhaps an explanation as to why I might have the inclination to write about our time in the Far East; we violists are relentlessly teased for being underemployed in baroque repertoire.  Violinists imagine that we revel in our umpteen bars rest but the truth is that we're creative souls, just wanting to add the middle voice.  For occasional consolation then (Handel could be rather mean with his viola parts), I'll be writing a blog about our experiences. This is all you'll need to know for now. 

It's 7am when we reach Hong Kong.  By 7.30am, Alfonso has a blogging page all set up for me.  He's technical support as well as the principal violist. He can't understand quite why I won't start writing immediately; he has set it up, I should write.  Plagued by guilt by 11.30am and on the ferry to Macau I begin and this is what I wrote: 

WiFi addiction at Hong Kong Airport

Waging war with jet lag takes some strategising.  Failure in your personal battle with the beast carries a high price when there are concerts looming.  I'm already feeling that terrible ache behind my eyes and the sense of being almost permanently off balance.  Some of us are armed with drugs, others have DVDs for the inevitable sleepless nights. There's an abundance of advice and the horror stories.  Surviving the long haul flight makes us brothers in arms, bound by the pain of it all. 

Back at Hong Kong airport we sat like students on the floor. Bill Carter, our theorbist has had an idea, the kind of which he has quite often.  On a tour of the Brandenburg Concerti with Another Orchestra he had suggested the serving of a 'Branden burger' with every ticket.  He wonders if we shouldn't offer sweets to our audiences on this tour.  Our program begins with Bach's Orchestral Suite No.1.  It takes time for each of us to fully appreciate his offering.  It's been a long flight and Bill has an original brain.

We were pleased to see him.

When we arrive at our hotel in Macau, whilst waiting for our keys, a few of us initiate a competition for who looks the least tired.  Carolyn Sampson wins.  The crueller game of who looks the worse was quickly abandoned.  Alfonso and I go foraging for a quick lunch.  We walk along streets sparkling in neon, mostly jewellery shops selling the same enormous jade necklaces.  We decide upon a cafe on a side street, its entrance guarded by tanks of beautifully coloured fish.  The walls are covered in photographs of the dishes which seem to be coated in the same gelatinous sauce.  They bring us menus we can't read and with gentle smiles we are encouraged to point at the photographs to make our selection.  So often on tour it can feel critical to choose the best thing on the menu but here, I could be pointing at just about anything; the strange pleasure of being illiterate.  We eat silently with occasional noises of pleasure.  

Back at the hotel I allow myself a nap which is spent thinking that I'm not sleeping.  I keep the curtains open and I'm dimly aware of a useless hammering somewhere below me; the random tapping in of picture hooks perhaps? I wake up thinking that I can't possibly stay awake, but after an hour it feels as though I'll never sleep.  It's morning and night all at once.

I have a desk in my room, set at a jaunty angle in the corner.  It looks as though I might interview someone from behind it.  The large window is grey with the grub of outside. The familiar suspects career skyward, great towers of glass and steel, and here and there, forgotten little buildings reaching as far as their ankles.  I know nothing about this place.  I resolve to explore tomorrow.