If the rehearsals were a thrill with my new-found low-pitch companion, the first concert was pure delight. Except, that is, at one moment, which brought face-reddening, sweating disaster. That first clarinet solo in the 'Egmont' overture, with its wide leaps and drooping cadences, was all but over. The conductor was smiling his appreciation. Just two more notes to play - and silence descended, complete and utter silence, upon the soloist. The penultimate C natural, even with the sort of pressure required lately by the Clarionet, would not come. Instead there emerged a rush of wind and a moaning sound which demanded an immediate cessation of any attempt to blow. Silence, and embarrassment. But a lesson to be learnt. << less