The event turned out to be slightly more eclectic than we had expected.
At the beginning, two presenters appeared on stage: she was clad in a beautiful Chinese costume, while he was wearing a quirky combination of a pink shirt and a pale purple tie, supposedly to match the pink-and-purple concert title (which it sadly didn't). She would speak for several minutes in mandarin, and then he would add, 'That's right', and continue in English from where she left off. (During the event, he would fluently switch into Chinese, and the show became ever so enigmatic to us.)
Then they would thank the deputy prime minister for attending the event. (He would receive standing ovations as the only person during the event, which we found a bit culture-shocking.)
Then the presenters called upon venerable Ven Sik Kwang Sheng, the abbot from the monastery, to deliver his speech. He explained when and how the clinic was founded and what services it provides to the needy. His face was graciously radiant and solemn, and he was evidently proud to see such a plentiful attendance (about 3000 people, according to my guestimate).
After that all the prominent donors were personally invited on stage, presented with gifts, thanked and taken in a group picture, together with the Deputy prime minister. He received the most exquisite gift, handed personally by the venerable monk.
By this time, our expectations could not have been higher. What we were about to witness was surely a majestic once-in-a-lifetime performance.
And it was.
I had a vague notion of a Singaporean boys' choir, from the advent festivals I attended as their 'guide' in Prague. I remember standing in the corridor at the entrance to the Muzeum metro station, in a circle of fifty Singaporean 13 year-olds. Upon my request, they sang me an unforgettable three-voice melody, that got stuck in my heart, never left, and was there even when we first arrived at Changi airport. It played softly as we were waiting for the immigration procedure.
I had never been to a Chinese orchestra, though. And I never heard Buddhist unison choirs. And I had never heard all that performing together. The overall effect was simply astounding.
But there was one flaw, which prevented the event from being a heart-breaking experience.
There were too many microphones on stage, and too many lights switched on during the performance. There was an attendant sitting in the row behind us, who would, very ungraciously, grunt the whole time. He seemed to have enjoyed it most during the silent moments of suspense.
After one hour of placid (Buddha-inspired) tolerance, I could not stand it anymore; I turned around and gave the man my most I-hate-you-look I could possibly muster. It seemed to work after three consecutive failed attempts.
Apart from Chinese orchestra (which I found truly remarkable) and Buddhist chants and drumming (which I found even more remarkable), there was more. The eclectic collection of artists included:
- The thousand Arms of Guan Yin:
- Several other dances by 'China Disabled People's Performing Art Troupe', such as a beautiful Fairy Butterfly. Too bad they were dispatched from the stage in total darkness and could not see people giving them a big big applause.
- the beautifully touching and poignant video by Royston Tan (Little Note of Encouragement), expressing a Buddhist view of courage and maternal love - accompanied by live Chinese orchestra. It was sentimental and extremely un-American in the way it expressed the encouragement, but I loved it all the same. (And I wiped my furtive tears as soon as they formed in my eyes.)
However, the star of the evening was surely David Tao, described by the American Billboard as 'the most talented Asian composer-singer'. What we remember, however, is that he marched upon the stage, armed by a single microphone, and delivered something I would proudly compare to semi-finals of Slovakia's got talent. Or rather, a Robo Opatovsky performance at the Slovak 'Repete' show. The overall effect of him singing on half-playback, was rather bizarre. He just did not fit into the show. We concluded, sadly, that it was him, not the deputy prime minister, nor the venerable abbot, that attracted such abundant crowds.
The weird thing was that the audience did not seem to enjoy his performance at all. They barely clapped and many of the elderly looked rather irritated by the sudden burst of modern music.
"How did you enjoy the show?" asked middle-aged Arleen, a Singaporean money machine operator. We were waiting for the shuttle bus in front of the Singapore Indoor Stadium in a neat row, among Singaporean-only attendees. What her name and profession was I learned after a short discussion. On leaving the bus, she clutched my arm and said, "A few minutes ago, we were total strangers. And yet now, we talk to each other like best friends." My heart almost sunk. It was very, very true.
Suddenly I realised how much I'm missing my Czech and Slovak best friends from Prague here in this incomprehensible Singapore. Later, reading a book by Carol Holliger, I could not agree more:
"I do know that reserve is a mark of good breeding but I don't particularly care. The thought that I may never in all my life see a person again and that I shall never know anything about him unless we talk immediately is much more compelling. This trait of mine clashed head-on with their European reserve adn I often found myself surrounded by a group of friendly, laughing Siamese while they waited thirty or forty feet distant in a critical European twosome."
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