Nigeria—are well organized, featuring three main buildings. One houses a world-class auditorium and recital hall, the second is a conservatory, and between the two, set on a pristine lawn, is an upmarket restaurant called La Scala. The creative energies so sorely lacking in the National Museum seem to have been vested here. And clearly, wealthy people are interested in what happens at MUSON. In theparking lot, cars and SUVs gleam in a long, aspirational row: Lexus, BMW, Mercedes-Benz, Audi. Yet the compound is not designed like a fortress, and one has a sense that this is a place for genuine music enthusiasts, that it is not just a playground for the rich and well connected. I have no problems walking right in, though I have no official business to conduct.
Large posters in front of the auditorium announce recent and upcoming shows: a Christmas gala, a choral performance, a fund-raiser for Nigerian breast cancer charities. There is a flyer for a jazz concert featuring the South African trumpeter Hugh Masekela in an appearance with Lagbaja, the most innovative of the current crop of Nigerian musicians. Most fascinating of all is the announcement of a performance of a Molière play by a professional company visiting from France. Culture, at least in this one corner of the city, seems to be alive and well.
The best thing about MUSON is that it is well organized. Better organized, in truth, than I’ve come to expect anything in Nigeria to be. And yet, it is a largely private venture. Perhaps that is the secret. They know the importance of presentation: the buildings are well maintained. I see several busy gardeners during my visit, patiently potting miniature palms. And MUSON also knows the value of running a nonprofit organization in partnership with corporations: the Agip Recital Hall is named for an oil company, as is the auditorium, Shell Hall. There is alsoa major sponsorship deal with the business consultancy Accenture.
The Nigerian government, that great bungler, is kept out of it. The mere existence of the conservatory surprises me. That it is so well put together is a great pleasure. As I enter the building, it occurs to me that this is an institution that, in terms of setting and infrastructure, could someday rub shoulders with the Juilliard School or the New England Conservatory. I take an irrational pride in the thought. Outside the building, there is a sign that reads: “Muson School of Music. Founded February 13 1989. Provides training in the theory and practice of music.” And below that, in smaller letters: “Individual instructions in singing, violin, piano, flute, clarinet, trumpet, cello and classical guitar for all ages. Graded theory and practical examinations conducted in May and November in several centres in Nigeria.” This is quite literally music to my ears. Cello lessons, in Lagos. I imagine some gifted child spinning her way through the Bach suites, practicing afternoon after afternoon in the heat, the sound of traffic in the distance, until she has full command of the music’s inner spirit, and can bring her hearers into a state of wonder.
I go up to the reception area, and there meet a plump young man with a pencil mustache. He is seated behind a metal desk, and is talking to a woman when I come in. She is lithe, dark-skinned, and wears glasses. He silently motions me to a seat. Then he gets up from behind his deskand walks slowly, ceremoniously, to the other side of the room, brings out a newspaper from a cabinet, and walks slowly back. He sits down again, opens the newspaper, and, pointing to a column in it, says to the young lady:
—And so, that’s what I was talking about. Isn’t that interesting?
He hands her the paper, stares into space meaningfully, and eventually, as if he has run out of things to do, turns to me.
—How may I be of assistance?
I tell him I was hoping he would be able to answer some of my questions about the conservatory.
—What would you like to
Large posters in front of the auditorium announce recent and upcoming shows: a Christmas gala, a choral performance, a fund-raiser for Nigerian breast cancer charities. There is a flyer for a jazz concert featuring the South African trumpeter Hugh Masekela in an appearance with Lagbaja, the most innovative of the current crop of Nigerian musicians. Most fascinating of all is the announcement of a performance of a Molière play by a professional company visiting from France. Culture, at least in this one corner of the city, seems to be alive and well.
The best thing about MUSON is that it is well organized. Better organized, in truth, than I’ve come to expect anything in Nigeria to be. And yet, it is a largely private venture. Perhaps that is the secret. They know the importance of presentation: the buildings are well maintained. I see several busy gardeners during my visit, patiently potting miniature palms. And MUSON also knows the value of running a nonprofit organization in partnership with corporations: the Agip Recital Hall is named for an oil company, as is the auditorium, Shell Hall. There is alsoa major sponsorship deal with the business consultancy Accenture.
The Nigerian government, that great bungler, is kept out of it. The mere existence of the conservatory surprises me. That it is so well put together is a great pleasure. As I enter the building, it occurs to me that this is an institution that, in terms of setting and infrastructure, could someday rub shoulders with the Juilliard School or the New England Conservatory. I take an irrational pride in the thought. Outside the building, there is a sign that reads: “Muson School of Music. Founded February 13 1989. Provides training in the theory and practice of music.” And below that, in smaller letters: “Individual instructions in singing, violin, piano, flute, clarinet, trumpet, cello and classical guitar for all ages. Graded theory and practical examinations conducted in May and November in several centres in Nigeria.” This is quite literally music to my ears. Cello lessons, in Lagos. I imagine some gifted child spinning her way through the Bach suites, practicing afternoon after afternoon in the heat, the sound of traffic in the distance, until she has full command of the music’s inner spirit, and can bring her hearers into a state of wonder.
I go up to the reception area, and there meet a plump young man with a pencil mustache. He is seated behind a metal desk, and is talking to a woman when I come in. She is lithe, dark-skinned, and wears glasses. He silently motions me to a seat. Then he gets up from behind his deskand walks slowly, ceremoniously, to the other side of the room, brings out a newspaper from a cabinet, and walks slowly back. He sits down again, opens the newspaper, and, pointing to a column in it, says to the young lady:
—And so, that’s what I was talking about. Isn’t that interesting?
He hands her the paper, stares into space meaningfully, and eventually, as if he has run out of things to do, turns to me.
—How may I be of assistance?
I tell him I was hoping he would be able to answer some of my questions about the conservatory.
—What would you like to
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