French connection
MICHAEL HENDERSON
Our senses have been diminished,' said Tom Allen (or Sir Thomas, if you prefer) last year. He was not talking about the enclosed world of opera, which he has adorned for 30 years, but the world at large, to which we all belong. He's right, of course. How else can one account for the televised festival of dimwits that encourages f-list 'celebrities' to cope with the choreographed 'horrors' of jungle life for the benefit of couch potatoes? But there are always things to celebrate. Last week 'Magnificent' Mariss Jansons brought the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra to London for an evening of Beethoven and Berlioz that filled the Festival Hall with joy.
Yes, joy. Here was music-making beyond the functional, the professional, even the inspired, for inspiration takes many forms. It was nothing less than a resounding affirmation of life in all its splendour, troubles and all. Perhaps the American judge who instructs noise offenders to listen to great music by way of penance is right. (Incidentally, what a great idea that is!) We should never be afraid to confront ignorance with beauty, which, as Keats told us, is truth.
There is occasionally joy in thought. Not often, no. For much of the time there is only imprecision, buttressed by thousands of words in newspapers that encourage readers that black is white. But every now and again a great performer or a great team comes among us. And anybody who has caught sight of Arsenal this season must now be familiar with true greatness in the form of Thierry Henry, their French centre-forward, who is dazzling the world of football with a quality of performance not seen in this country since Kenny Dalglish retired, Dalglish was the principal instrument of calibration in the great Liverpool side that won four European Cups (though he missed the first of them, being a Celtic player at the time). Henry is a different player altogether, more graceful in movement if not quite as effective, yet, in changing matches, But, my word, he is getting there, If Arsenal do not win the championship this year — and memories are fresh of the reckless way they squandered a healthy lead last season — they will not
easily be forgiven. By winning at Wolves last weekend they stretched their unbeaten run from the start of a season to 24 games — a club record, If they add six more games to that sequence they will go past the record established in 1974 by Leeds United. That was a superb Leeds side, but the current Arsenal one does not suffer by comparison and, in Henry and his French team-mate Patrick Vieira, they have two players of a brilliance that the English game has seen all too rarely.
If one ignores Ashley Cole's persistent niggling, the dreadful play-acting of Robert Fires and the selective memory of the manager Arsene Wenger (which is not always possible), only a churl does not respond enthusiastically to this new Arsenal, The club that everybody detested for their niggardly football (at times it was absolutely revolting) has blossomed to such an extent that it is now an absolute pleasure to watch them, and it is important to put that on record. And in Henry they have a one-man liberation movement, a troubadour, a star. He is walking a tightrope without a safety net and it makes a thrilling spectacle. Joyfully, freely, generously, he is conducting his very own Symphonic Fantastique.
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