ABSTRACT
In what seemed a rather bold gesture during my student days at King’s College, Cambridge, I persuaded a friend of mine with one of those classic Cambridge baritone voices to perform with me in a College Music Society concert the Four Indian Love Lyrics of Amy Woodforde-Finden. is was the closest I could have been said ever to have come, as a highly repressed and not-at-all gay boy, to camp. Any success it might have had as camp, however, was entirely owing to my straight baritone friend, who did incredibly unsuspected and virtually obscene things to the articulation of such phrases as “Pale hands, pink-tipped” in the song “Pale Hands I Loved beside the Shalimar.”
