The lads (who shall henceforth remain anonymous for their own credibility's sake) assimilated into the thousand strong crowd as oil does to water. It was unclear at one point if the acts were on stage or sitting in the tenth row, two seats apart. The comedic Host made a few one liners that were pitched at a height too lofty for our blonde headed comrades.... the humour being swiftly lost over their heads, laughter abounding around them. Nervously, they joined in, an uncomfortably wry smile appearing on their faces. Onwards the programme marched towards much hilarity and applause.
A linguistic tongue twister of an introduction over and on strolled the first Maestro and his "Axe". He was a lanky bean-pole of a man with annoying hair falling across his face so that he had to perpetually do the Decor¨¦ toss-of-the-head.... an endearing trait for the first two minutes. Wait a minute..... this guy had some talent on Guitar. If this reporter could translate directly (and he can't!), he'd describe accounts of Hendrix-esque ability grinding that axe..... making it cry and sing..... chug and whinny in all manner of Bluesy interpretation. Alas, this reporter is not that man..... the account is of good guitar skills and poor lip synching. There is, however, a flowery lining to every slivery tale..... at the silencing of that axe grinders every song a gaggle of game youngsters would run onto the stage at the prompting of parents too embarrassed to do it themselves, delivering a bouquet of roses, carnations and other floral forays. Very quaint...... the lads went "Ahhhh" and "Ohhh so cute!" on cue as they felt compelled to do...... by the twentieth repeat it was a bit more like "Ahhh... just get on with it wouldja!!!"
They cowered down into their seats trying to create some cushioning over their ischiums to allow the enduring of at least four more acts. The Maestro finished his very public Axe sharpening and retired to the wings, a florists livelihood remaining on stage ungraciously. Never fear for the laughter returned for a few witty assessments of Kazakh life-in-the-boonies. Damn.... missed that one as well!
Now we must take a moment to explain the D¨¹mbra (apologies for the spelling of a word that appears in no Microsoft thesaurus... just accept that somethings are!). Imagine, if you will, a thin wooden pear shaped instrument with a fret like the much adored classic guitar...... then rip a few strings from it so that a mere two remain, alllowing for a somewhat limited musical range resembling that of plucking a cats eyebrows with chopsticks...... you have the picture and sound of the D¨¹mbra. Ah.... yes... this is a rather unfair account of a musical experience that many hundreds of Kazakh children heard without any ill effects, leaving the only conclusion being that it is an acquired taste..... as is Baijio..... and its other accepted name is "Liquid Lobotomy".... so it is a game Hunter that goes after that beast voluntarily..... Likewise the Dumbra!
Thirty two minutes of twanging Dumbra.... much grinding of teeth and the buxom singer had a strong voice.... along with some other unusual clicking noises, snorts and bellows. A pained applause followed.
The moment had arrived! A hush descended over the crowd...... or was it veiled fear of what was to come.... nobody could say for sure. Then it happened.... You saw the glow appear first. It started faintly at first.... like on coming headlights on a country road. Then more intense until a flash of orange emerged from the velvet green drapes. They had arrived!
Exactly who "They" were was a mystery to our two intrepid larrikin lads.... but who ever they were it was apparent by the number of sunglasses in the audience that they had arrived. That was the brightest part of the performance. From there it descended into audio mayhem and floral genocide..... It never dawned that so much could be owed by so few, to so many, after such a short time of doing nothing much with very little!
The best that could be written was that it was like watching two very portly lads, that have imbibed copious quantities of the amber nectar, put on a performance well above their inherent ability whilst under that wonderful illusion of greatness that the amber stuff allows. A pained laughter eminated from the central two seats in the tenth row.... luckily drowned by the clapping, jeering and rarified cheering surrounding them. Disbelief filled the air in a small pocket of the auditorium..... Something was rife in the state of Denmark!
The night was seemingly drawing to an unnaturally painful conclusion when a smartly suited comedic terrorist ran onstage... hijacked the microphone and held the auditorium to ransom for another dose of the prior acts. It was a blatant act of imprisonment for our two lads were out on a school night and it was fastly approaching bed time with supper and cookies. They gazed at each other with contempt on their faces.... for they were pinned in by narrow seating and a few too many Rubenesque Kazakhs between them and the smell of freedom in the aisles. They hunkered down, put a piece of wood in their teeth and bit down hard for the next hour and a half.
The suits didn't improve... although the taxidermic accessories didn't make a second season appearance on the broad catwalk. The flowers kept-a-pilin' and the world grew a lesser place for it..... And then it was over! The effect was like slowly coming out of anaesthetic in recovery.... dazed and culturally confused..... the lads gingerly stepped out into the foyer dreading the enthusiastic line of questioning that was inevitable......
