It's the winter holidays. That means one thing - the annual trip with the kids to the ballet. It's a ritual, I tell you, a yearly round of tantrums, fist thumping and uncontrollable crying: 'Not again. Take somebody else to the stupid Nutcracker.' 'But it's so Christmassy.' 'So is hypothermia.' In the end I just have to agree to go, but on the strict understanding that I can sing 'Everyone's a Fruit and Nutcase' under my breath during the 'Dance of the Reed Pipers'.
Thing is, they are not even our kids. Haven't got any. Instead, we have a dog whose chief advantages are: 1) you can leave him at home while you go out to get drunk without returning to find Social Services on your doorstep; and 2) he never, ever wants to see The Nutcracker. So each year we borrow children from different branches of the family. And why? Because my beloved once heard somebody on Desert Island Discs whose childhood was transformed by a visit to the ballet, that's why. I never trust stories like that. When such people talk about being 'transported', I only ever think of convicts and Australia - for the thousand that went out, only a handful made it back. For every celeb who later talks dreamily of their youthful visits to the concert hall, how many countless others sat bored witless, silently vowing never to return?
What get me is not Tchaikovsky, nor even the audience packed with little girls. No, it's the parents. It feels like bulk lip-service to culture. Once a year they cart the offspring off to the Nutcracker and that is that box ticked for another 12 months. I suppose at least it has themes that are likely to resonate with young people. A lot of children's concerts I attend turn out not to be children concerts at all, but merely adult concerts at which children are present - the only differences seem to be that the hand dresses casual, Harry Potter is always in there somewhere and the thing is hosted by some slightly over-eager actor type who hasn't spent long enough on the script. I should know, I have done it myself a few times: from the stage, the mass of squirming forms reminded me of looking out onto farmyard.
Now, you are probably thinking I am a resentful, child-hating monster. Not a bit of it. On the contrary, as a professional entertainer I am writing to tell you that I am available for children's parties, and, strangely, my diary is empty over the festivities! Oh, all except for one date in December, of course, when I'll be at the ruddy ballet.
- Rainer Hersch is a British conductor.
