Julian Lloyd Webber: Tenor puts boot in, gives the fingers

Amid scurrilous reports of declining audiences, the great Sicilian tenor Franco Bonisolli has set an example to us all.

Ever since Pavarotti warbled his way up the charts when the BBC chose Puccini's Nessun Dorma as its 1990 World Cup theme, the link between football and music has festered fortuitously, but - when it comes to audience participation - Luciano is a mere novice compared with Franco.

A reliable source informs me that, following his recent gargantuan performance in Mascagni's Cavalieri Rusticana, any appearance by Bonisolli guarantees the "house full" sign.

Apparently the spectators at Sicily's romantic Taormina Theatre were incensed when Franco broke off and yelled abuse at the unidentified conductor, after the unfortunate maestro had adopted "too slow a tempo for his key aria. They whistled and booed in disapproval", whereupon our hero gave them the fingers before stomping off stage.

All future Bonisolli performances are booked out months in advance, and all of us in classical music must learn to snatch similar victories from the jaws of defeat. For now that sport - with its all-seater stadiums and emphasis on all-round family entertainment - has become far too genteel, it's up to us to give our supporters what they want and "get a result". I mean, Elgar isn't an anagram of lager for nothing.

In future, all concerts must be refereed. Points for performances will be awarded and performers' league tables established. Issues of promotion and relegation will be keenly watched by merciless gum-chewing managers, who will have their chosen substitutes from the youth team eagerly awaiting on the bench.

Wrong notes will be severely penalised and performers adopting too slow tempi will be yellow-carded for time-wasting. String players using over-sentimental portamenti and pianists who over-pedal will be justly punished for bringing the music into disrepute.

Elgar louts will be ejected and musicians will be over the moon or as sick as parrots after their fixtures. Believe me, we have a lot to thank Bonisolli for - at long last they'll be queuing outside our concert halls again.

* Having to answer the same questions over and over again is an occupational hazard for itinerant musicians. You know the sort of thing: How old were you when you first started playing? How many hours do you practise? Why did you choose the cello/piano/sousaphone? And so on.

Mercifully, they are easy to answer and, compared to some of the real occupational hazards - constant jet-lag, dyspeptic maestri, fractured family-life and airline staff singularly unsympathetic to the joys of travelling with a bulky yet irreplaceable instrument - such recurring cross-examinations are a doddle.

But one persistent question is not so easy to answer, namely: How do you keep a piece of music fresh when you have played it dozens if not hundreds of times?

Last Christmas I was preparing for a 10-concert tour which included seven performances of Elgar's Cello Concerto. I was also preparing for my first concerto performance of 2003 - Elgar's Cello Concerto.

I have lived with the Elgar for more than 35 years and I can write, without hesitation, that it has been a constant, significant presence in my life. But how can an interpreter keep the performance of any work spontaneous when they have been playing it for years and years?

This is a question which goes straight to the heart of what it means to be a soloist. Practically, a soloist requires many of the attributes of the sportsman, but there is a crucial difference: a sportsman's career is unlikely to last more than 15 years, whereas the soloist's could last for 60.

To maintain that level of performance over that length of time requires a certain dedication that cannot be explained by paltry moments of applause. For year after year of solitary practice, solitary travelling and solitary hotel rooms hardly adds up to a life of unalloyed glamour.

Classical music is a calling. Once you have heard its message you will do it whether your parents say you can or can't, whether your critics say you can or can't, and even whether you can make a living or you can't.

That is neither romance nor conceit. It is fact.