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.