Composer of the Week on BBC Radio 3: Philharmonic for the people

The Royal Philharmonic, moneygrubbing Beethoven and the 9th.

Composer of the Week
BBC Radio 3

Five understated and languorous programmes celebrated the bicentenary of the Royal Philharmonic Society (5-9 August, 6pm) the UK’s oldest and most illustrious concert society. It was established in 1813 (just a few weeks after the seismic publication of Pride and Prejudice) by 30 professional musicians – many of whom hated each other – with the goal of funding London’s first purpose-built orchestral hall and putting classical music on a par artistically with the Royal Academy of Arts.

Of the many works commissioned and premiered by the RPS, it was Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony that caused the biggest stir – because it didn’t happen. Three members of the society paid Ludwig £50 in 1823 (£40,000 today), then waited 21 increasingly anxious months for the score, only to hear “on the grapevine” that he had premiered the piece in Vienna instead. “Some people could say that was naughty” was as critical as a commentator got when referring to this act of gobsmacking Ludwigian chicanery.

This kind of thing was in no way unusual for the composer. “For God’s sake, buy nothing of Beethoven!” went the cry in Europe at the time. There was never a more mendacious, crooked, moneygrubbing toe-rag than Ludwig in the later years of his life. If he were alive today, he’d have an account in the Cayman Islands in his dog’s name. So Napoleo - nic and oppressive did his behaviour become that his nephew blew off the top of his own head with two pistols at a place where the two of them used to walk, incredibly surviving his cast-iron “fuck-you-Ludwig”.

On 11 August, Westminster Council unveiled a plaque outside the building on Regent Street where the Ninth Symphony was eventually played. The 1825 records state that the RPS organised not just a public rehearsal but various alternative performances and discussions, all strikingly modern, yet at the same time so admirably and thoroughly of the period. Two hundred years ago was the best time in history to be a fan of classical music. The form, once commissioned by the church or state, was now done so by lovers of music, music collectives, or even the audiences: incomparable listeners, acutely aware of something we can have no conception of today – that in their lifetime they would hear this piece of music just once.

The mendacious, crooked, moneygrubbing late Ludwig. Photograph: Getty Images.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 19 August 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Why aren’t young people working

Don't Tell the Bride YouTube screengrab
Show Hide image

How did Don’t Tell the Bride lose its spark?

Falling out of the love with reality TV’s wedding planning hit.

Steph, 23, from Nottinghamshire, is standing in a drizzly field wearing a wedding dress. Her betrothed, Billy, is running around in a tweed flat cap trying to make some pigs walk in “a continuous parade”. A man from Guinness World Records is watching with a clipboard, shaking his head. Bridesmaids gaze sorrowfully into the middle distance, each in a damp pig onesie.

Thus ends the second wedding in E4’s new series of Don’t Tell the Bride – and the programme’s integrity with it.

When the classic programme, which follows grooms attempting to plan their wedding (punchline: human males doing some organising), began a decade ago on BBC Three, it had the raw spark of unpredictability. For eight years, the show did nothing fancy with the format, and stuck with pretty ordinary couples who had few eccentric aspirations for their wedding day.

This usually resulted in run-of-the-mill, mildly disappointing weddings where the worst thing that happened would be a reception at the nearest motorway pub, or an ill-fitting New Look low heel.

It sounds dull, but anyone who has religiously watched it knows that the more low-key weddings expose what is truly intriguing about this programme: the unconditional commitment – or doomed nature – of a relationship. As one of the show’s superfans told the Radio Times a couple of years ago:

“It’s perfect, and not in an ironic or post-ironic or snarky way. The format has the solemn weight of a ceremony . . . Don’t Tell the Bride is not about ruined weddings, it’s about hope. Every wedding is a demonstration of how our ambitions curve away from our abilities. It’s a show about striving to deserve love and how that’s rarely enough.”

It also meant that when there were bombshells, they were stand-out episodes. High drama like Series 4’s notorious Las Vegas wedding almost resulting in a no-show bride. Or heart-warming surprises like the geezer Luke in Series 3 playing Fifa and guzzling a tinny on his wedding morning, who incongruously pulls off a stonking wedding day (complete with special permission from the Catholic Church).

For its eight years on BBC Three, a few wildcard weddings were thrown into the mix of each series. Then the show had a brief affair with BBC One, a flirt with Sky, and is now on its tenth year, 13th series and in a brand new relationship – with the more outrageous E4.

During its journey from BBC Three, the show has been losing its way. Tedious relationship preamble has been used to beef up each episode. Some of the grooms are cruel rather than clueless, or seem more pathetic and vulnerable than naïve. And wackier weddings have become the norm.

The programme has now fully split from its understated roots. Since it kicked off at the end of July, every wedding has been a publicity stunt. The pig farm nuptials are sandwiched between a Costa del Sol-based parasail monstrosity and an Eighties Neighbours-themed ceremony, for example. All facilitated by producers clearly handing the groom and best men karaoke booth-style props (sombreros! Inflatable guitars! Wigs!) to soup up the living room planning process.

Such hamminess doesn’t give us the same fly-on-the-wall flavour of a relationship as the older episodes. But maybe this level of artifice is appropriate. As one groom revealed to enraged fans in The Sun this week, the ceremonies filmed are not actually legally binding. “It makes a bit of a mockery of the process that the bride and groom go through this huge ordeal for a ceremony which isn’t even legal,” he said. Perhaps we should’ve predicted it would all eventually end in divorce – from reality.

Don’t Tell the Bride is on E4 at 9pm

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.