Ice: an opera for Tower Hamlets, The People's Palace, London

Ice storms the heart of the East End

After a Pimms-sodden summer of country house opera, a trip to Mile End makes a welcome change. This fume-filled stretch of road between the City and commuter-belt Essex has frequently been spoken of as undergoing a "renaissance". In the property pages, that is. Scratch the surface of Mile End's renaissance and all you'll find is inflated house-prices, one chi-chi restaurant and an attractive landscaping of the Regent's Canal. But local talent will out. Or rather local talent will out if it's given half a chance, as was clearly demonstrated in the first performance of Alasdair Nicolson's opera Ice; a community project between the schools of Tower Hamlets and the City of London Sinfonia.

Classical music community projects are not news. When I was at college there were countless schemes to foster chamber performances in Brixton or Thamesmead. But would watching a Boismortier Trio Sonata make Suhana, Toni or Shereene think that they could participate in an opera? In Ice, they had the opportunity to do just that. So did Ngozi, Billy, Bronwen, and approximately 60 other Tower Hamlets teenagers. Not just in the poppy bits – the choruses ranged from anodyne musical-comedy to angular modernist – but right through the fabric of the work, duetting with the two professional singers, playing side by side with the musicians of the CLS, and effectively co-creating the work.

It's much to the composer's credit that were you take the local talent out, Ice would collapse. In terms of creating something that is tailor-made, he has done a terrific job. But though I enjoyed the piece, I wouldn't like to be trapped in the mind of Alasdair Nicholson. Stylistically speaking, it's a crowded house; there's Hamlisch (Gerda's slurpy love theme), Bernstein (the punchy dances), Britten (the chilly overlapping choruses that recall The Ceremony of Carols), and Glass (frenetic twiddling in the woodwinds). There was even the odd hint of Bizet. Considering the opera was mapped out over only nine months of workshops and constrained in its instrumentation (the score was designed for the available amateur forces, with a professional leading each section), it was remarkably polished. Nonetheless, with Marvin, Lenny, Benny, Philip and Georges all jostling for space, there wasn't much room for Alasdair.

Andy Rashleigh's confused Jungian journey libretto – Sabrina the Teenage Witch meets The Magic Flute – doesn't bear close examination. There might be a drugs subtext ("We lust for Ice! We lust for Ice!"). Then again, there might not. There may have been some well-intentioned proselytising on virginity (there were some dubious metaphysics about pricking oneself on a thorn) but it was obscured by the madonna-versus-whore spat between Gerda (the teenage girl who believes in true love) and Ice (a sexually voracious female cult-leader). Their unlikely object of affection, Jay (James Marsh), delivered a promising juvenile-lead with a well-focused voice and an evident talent for comedy. Gerda (Gemma Woznicki) gave a spirited impression of Martine MacCutcheon's light, winsome singing and acted sympathetically. The two professionals (Richard Morris and Carole Irvine) were effective anti-heroes; Morris doing a marvellously lecherous Monastatos-goes-to-Broadway turn as Luger, and Irvine shrieking the part of Ice like John Adams's Madam Mao. But the chorus stole the show, particularly in the vivacious Carmen-esque girls' semi-chorus.

So this is what you get if you make children the backbone of a project; real involvement. Anyone who doubts the effect of such projects should have seen Peter – a 13 or 14 year- old clarinettist with an expression of studied cool on his face – clap the shoulder of his professional sidekick at the end of the piece and beam from ear to ear. For this un-cool smile alone, the City of London Sinfonia should be congratulated. Let's hope that someone with the funds to maintain this kind of involvement will notice. Eating the patisserie of high-culture for a few hours is a pointless exercise if the daily bread that is one-on-one instrumental or vocal tuition remains unavailable to so many.

a.picard@independent.co.uk