Event: The New Vermont Orchestra’s performance of Vivaldi’s Violin Concerto in G Salad, with guest performer Sophie Lingering on violin.
Location: Crickenstalk Hall, Redfordshire, PU
Review written by Daly Rickshaw, local correspondent for Lounge Flowers
Wern I sawrt the first acting, thee wwas a wee lill man in a werpy/derpy suit who took his wee lill manny wanny hands and made the velvet dance with them, the velvet being the sleeves, also the vest, and the rattle-tattles that lines the chest on the vest of the wee lill mann.
Now I been ways to many a concerto in my many times ‘round the heating spooze ball but never have mine eyeholes ner my earholes enjiggled a sound quite like the sound of that Orchestra. My companion of the evening, named of Nigel, turned his frithy head toawards mine and said in a voice for basements, “What a violin.” He was right, and knows his instrumentations like the top of his handlebars. I did always like the Nigel man, though he smelled like beets and sleep. He was a good bloke to have-a-round if you erven needed a shoulder to look at.
The symphony begot with a trhump-whack and we were off to the stages. The wee lil man with the hands skradaddied of the podunkium and hid his scaly face in the ratty shadows while the boys and girls played their tunes, which were all nice but sometimes made things happen to my head that I’m not proud of.
I spent the better potion of the evening sneaking latchies at Nigel’s hair because it was looking something like mine, crossed with a flat chimpanzee or a twisty muffin, only I couldn’t ferjure for the wife of me which it could have Ben. So that is one thing about the concert that is worth nothing.
Another key developerment was the squerler sound the seats made when you moved about atop them. If my boy were alive he would have loved the wray of them, but he is on the Road Island now and hasn’t the sensations to return, so he is like a maggot in the feast to me now. If you have ever had a boy give you a smacck across the eyelids with decisions and sauces then you would know what I mean by it.
Then the tubas gave a great, big brassy howl of hurricanes and the whole crowd lost their hats and wigs and we had to do some somersaulting with our necks to get them back again. We guttered the hats and wigs in a pyre, or a pile, and not one child was about the parameters so we sang a chanty song about how nice it was to be away from the children for the night, even if the tuba wind has blewed the hats off our heads and face.
The final act was yorderling for a taxi and getting in the stranger’s steelmobile, which we did.
Overall, a finest concert have I ever been to one. I would recommend that all the readers with tendenacities of dignity and praliciousness do a good turn to see and hear the concert.