Mr Crane looked disgusted. ‘A tune, my dear boy!’ he boomed out. ‘A tune! I’m hearing but I’m not believing. A tune!’
This was the worst thing that could happen. Mr Crane loathed tunes. He said they showed an insistence on rationality that wasn’t appropriate for these disjointed times.
‘No, there’s no tune. It’s just a repeated-’ Colin began, but he must have sensed it was too late for that.
Someone near me cursed and wriggled.
‘Have you learnt nothing from the Masters?’ Mr Crane boomed again, swirling around and snarling at us. His eyes were insect.
I felt myself gulp. Colin may have been a Goth, but I felt for him. This could get nasty.
Hair. God. Hair like party streamers.
‘I play you Ligeti, I play you Berio, I play you Stockhausen and Boulez and you throw back in my face a, a... bagatelle.’ His voice was getting louder, a far stretch, a terrible portent.
None of us knew what a bagatelle was, but it was always bad.