Juliet England: Proms with a hearing loss

Ah, the Proms. The great British music festival that’s been going since 1895, and that’s looked on with envy around the world.

But how to get the most out of these most special occasions when your hearing is less than perfect? After all, to state the glaringly obvious, the whole thing is all, unavoidably about sound.

I’d been to Proms gigs (sorry, concerts) before, and it’s always been a great lark, though perhaps, in truth, more as a jaunt out and a day trip to London than because I have any extensive knowledge of or great passion for classical music.

As my friend and I sat in Kensington Gardens before the matinee performance, he showed me the programme and tried to enthuse me. It was to be Mahler’s Third Symphony, featuring the American mezzo-soprano Susan Graham. It was certainly not a piece I’d heard before, or knew anything about.

We’d got discounted disabled tickets on account of my hearing loss.

But, really, I was along for the ride more than anything else, so, perhaps annoyingly, admittedly didn’t show that much interest when my friend tried to enthuse me about what we were about to listen to.

“Blimey,” I say, when we are shown to our seats – in a box, no less – “Best seats in the house.”

It’s true that it’s hard to envisage where in the Royal Albert Hall there would be better acoustics.

Infuriatingly, my hearing aids – I’ve been getting used to new ones recently, and they are taking some time to settle down – are squawking like a pair of rabidly demented parakeets.

We try and talk but, given the hushed ambience, it’s hard work. I can no longer hear whispering as I may once have done.

“It’s an increasingly silent world,” I mutter in the moments before the first note is played. My friend looks alarmed.

The conductor (Andris Nelsons if you’re interested) walks on to applause, and the members of the Boston Symphony Orchestra prepare to do their stuff.

I sit there not quite sure where the tuning up ends and the piece begins.

As the music progresses, it settles down and I get quite a bit out of it. Of course there’s no denying the sheer quality and beauty of the sound. I can tell that it’s work by an earlier composer than, say, Mozart, and can just about make out which instruments are being played when, if only because of watching the musicians’ hands moving.

I can distinguish the different string, brass and percussion departments of the orchestra – just about.

But I am worried about the choir – will I actually be able to tell when they start singing?

I certainly knew when the mezzo-soprano walked on stage; she’d be extremely hard to miss. And, yes, I could hear her voice, too, again just about.

But concentrating so hard is exhausting, and inevitably my mind wanders. I try and close my eyes at one point to see if I get more out of the music that way. My friend jabs at my arm to see if I am still awake.

Although we have excellent seats, somehow both the sound and the orchestra seem quite a long way away, and I feel quite distanced from the whole thing.

It’s perhaps only afterwards that I appreciate something of what I have missed. My friend asks if I heard the children’s choir and the trombone solo. I stare at him.

“There was a children’s choir? There was a trombone solo? “

When I find it on YouTube, it sounds incredible, and, oddly, I almost get more out of hearing it online with headphones.

My friend stays up in London for an evening gig. (Sorry, performance.) A Beethoven symphony, I think.

Read more of Juliet’s articles for us here.

Juliet England does freelance social media and PR work for cSeeker.