I invited a great-niece and a god-daughter to a Prom this week. In hunting terminology this is called running a bitch pack and is a compliment. Tom Isaacs, a famous huntsman at the end of the 19th century, said that “his bitch pack were the ones for killing foxes” but forrard, forrard (another hunting term).
Neither had been to a Prom and one hadn’t been to the Albert Hall. The first half had works by two Spanish composers: Manuel de Falla and Édouard Lalo. The singer in Falla’s El amor Brujo (Love, the Magician) was mezzo-soprano Stéphanie d’Oustrac. She performed songs in the Andalusian dialect used by Spanish gypsies. It reminded me of the flamenco I heard in Madrid in 2015. Stéphanie has a good voice but not big enough to fill the Albert Hall. Interestingly she is Francis Poulenc’s great-grand-niece.
Lalo’s Symphonie espagnole featured Joshua Bell playing the violin with his usual virtuosity. He is a favourite at the Proms and performed an encore. The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra was conducted by Charles Dutoit. He is eighty but looks twenty years younger. I was pleased that like the orchestra he wore white tie and tails. It is irritating when conductors dress differently, setting themselves apart from the musicians, as if a centre forward were to wear a different strip from the rest of the team.
After the interval the programme took on a French flavour with Saint-Saëns’ “Organ” Symphony. This had been commissioned by the Philharmonic Society of London (now the Royal Philharmonic Society) in 1886. Before it got underway Dutoit was presented with the RPS gold medal on stage. That combined with Joshua Bell’s encore made us late for dinner at Ognisko Restaurant (popularly known as The Polish Club) in Exhibition Road. The food here was famously bad until they had a re-think in 2013 and brought in Jan Woroniecki to run it. He already has Baltic in Blackfriars Road and is the son of a Polish soldier in the war who chose to remain here afterwards. An inspired choice and Ognisko now is always crowded.
He had sad news for us on Thursday night. His terrier, that used to scamper round Baltic, died aged eighteen earlier this year. I consoled myself with a shot of Bison Grass vodka while the bitch pack stuck to Viognier. The hunting analogy is apt in the context of the Proms as when hounds are in full cry it is called making music.
At the end of an evening with the Neave family, lovely Bob would say to his wife and three daughters, “Come on the bitch pack, time to go home.” I always used to think it was rather rude but put it down to him being a vet. I am glad to hear it was a compliment!
Sorry I missed the Saens Saens but Elvis has the moves.