Philip Ledger

Every year in King’s Chapel, Cambridge there is a Founder’s concert when former choral scholars in the famous choir (in my day known loosely as “the chaps”) are invited to return to the college and sing with the current choir. Extra trebles and a few sopranos are roped in as well in case the balance becomes too bottom heavy, and the repertoire is large-scale, with a good student orchestra to accompany. Afterwards, there’s a dinner in Hall. It’s an excuse for a reunion and a chance to rekindle the old lags’ connection with a period in their lives when, as very young adults, they were part of an ensemble of extraordinary professional standards; an ensemble that during seven services a week, as well as numerous tours and recordings, strives to set a standard by which choral singing throughout the entire world is measured.

Robert Poulton

Grief is a strange beast. It fogs your mind, grabs your throat and strangles your heart. But through all the pain, strands of memory push towards you and start to join together until they begin to form cogent wholes. All my strands, every single one of them, remind me of what a rare man was Rob Poulton – a lovely, loveable man, and I, like so many others, genuinely loved him. He was a rare constant. It didn’t matter if I saw him or didn’t see him; I knew that – if I could get hold of the bugger – he would be a friend in good times and bad.

Woman gets an award no-one has ever heard of

When the news spread last week that Katherine Jenkins had been given a “Mozart Award”, the sound of serious music lovers’ jaws dropping could be heard in outer space. Many simply couldn’t believe it. They thought it was a hoax. How could they give a Mozart award to Jenkins? Had she ever tackled Cherubino, Dorabella, Sesto, Idamante or Zerlina? No, of course she hadn’t. A Barry Manilow award would surely be nearer the mark.