Sharing a July 12, 2026 interviewing article from The Telegraph (UK) by Guy Kelly. © Stephan Farrell (Found by Diana D. Le) André Rieu: "My parents were afraid of me" The 76-year-old King of the Waltz on living to 140, his controversial arena tours and seeking the adoration he never received as a child. André Rieu would like to issue a correction. When this newspaper interviewed the Dutch violinist conductor, impresario and “King of the Waltz” seven years ago, he told us that he intended to live to 1,000. “I would love to do it,” he said, citing the work of Professor Aubrey de Grey, the British biomedical gerontologist and author of Ending Ageing. “I think it’s possible. From the moment that he says, ‘OK, we are ready to trial,’ I’m there. I’m first.” That was in 2019, when Rieu was 69. He is now 76 and, while he’s as vivacious as ever, he’s revising his lifespan. “I don’t want to live forever, but I think it’s possible now, without tricks and without pushing it, to be 140. “It’s achievable, I think. I don’t smoke, I don’t drink anymore, I do my sport every day with a personal trainer. In fact, just yesterday my trainer was saying 100 is going to be the new 80, 120 the new 100. So… I’m trying.” Firmly in middle age, then, Rieu looks well. “I’m in my castle,” he announces over Zoom, spinning to take in the ballroom from which he answers interviews. Rieu has owned the 16th-century De Torentjes Castle, in his hometown of Maastricht, for more than 30 years. It was once owned by Count d’Artagnan, made famous by Alexandre Dumas’s The Three Musketeers. Today, its current swashbuckling owner sits on a gold chair, in a room filled with round tables covered in deep crimson tablecloths. On the wall behind him, gilt-framed oil paintings of Rieu stare out. “The castle is really my office,” he says, “I live next door.” He is in his familiar tortoiseshell spectacles, and a sky-blue and sunflower-yellow checked suit. The hair remains a wonder: swept back by the gales of applause he is met with every night, and worn long, in a fashion popular for men in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Critics have said he’s trying a little too hard to evoke Beethoven; being worth something close to £40m, though, Rieu could probably buy Beethoven’s actual hair, if he wanted. He is now one of the best-selling classical artists in the world, with 45 million albums sold and, at one point, performing to 600,000 people annually. Next year marks 40 years since Rieu and his wife of half a century, Marjorie, started their Johann Strauss Orchestra, building it from 12 musicians into a 60-piece, globally touring beast with 100 support staff and some of the most elaborate stage sets around. Every concert – show, really – is a riot of colour, with mocked-up Habsburg palaces, ice rinks, and balls. The men in the orchestra wear tails and the women wear low-cut satin gowns and puffed sleeves, like Disney princesses. Rieu approves every last sequin. All the music is light, all the time signatures are adjusted to be waltz-able, even if they perhaps shouldn’t be, and Rieu, who slowly leads the players onstage from the back of the often stadium-sized arenas, conducts things with a perma-grin. He is met by raptures. “The result is always the same: people go home with smiles on their faces, and they have an evening which makes them say, ‘Oh my God, I forgot the whole s--- of the world.’ “And that is why we travel. I want to grab them by the heart and make them forget everything. I’m not travelling like a priest, of course, but the result is the same. It’s escapism." Not everybody sees it that way. Rieu’s detractors call him the “King of Schmaltz”. His music is too popular, they say. Too jaunty. Too garish. Not respectful enough. “Very often people say about my pieces, ‘Ugh, it’s kitsch. But I don’t understand why people say that, because it’s simply with more feeling. Why is it too popular? What is too popular?” He is no fan of what he sees as the “proudly elitist” types in the higher arts. “It’s that thing of, ‘You don’t understand this music, so you are not with us. We are here and you are there.’” He is treated with “suspicion” by that crowd, he says. “They think I do it with tricks and all that, but there’s no tricks. It’s simply that I am like that. And I choose musicians around me who are happy to play with me. That’s it.” In fairness, it is not only classical music snobs who are left cold. There exists a thread on the online forum Mumsnet that begins: “Just watching [Rieu’s] Christmas show on TV. He is like some kind of wizard. All those facial expressions, What is going on? The audience [is] obsessed!” The top reply reads: “I’m sure he is the leader of a cult which attracts pensioners.” In fact, he says his audience is “growing and growing” thanks to Spotify and YouTube. And getting younger, too, though he concedes that young people often “come to the concert by accident” or get indoctrinated by a grandparent. Fans used to send him gifts, but now he has to tell them not to, because the internet is rife with fake Rieus: AI-generated videos saying he’s dead, or injured, or impoverished. And his acolytes are all too ready to open their purses. “That’s troubling us a lot. I read that it comes from Vietnam. There are young, highly educated technicians who make all these [videos]. There was one lady, a fan of mine in Puerto Rico, who paid €35,000 to these guys, thinking she’d paid it to me because my castle needed a renovation.” He looks desolate. “Not good. But it’s a part of life nowadays.” Rieu sees his orchestra as a family, and he’s the patriarch. His own father, André Sr., was a conductor who ran the Limburg Symphony Orchestra, in Maastricht. Rieu took up the violin aged five, and later spent 11 “miserable” years as his father’s principal second violin. “He was more or less a dictator. He picked on the weak people. I didn’t like that. He was not very sympathetic. I thought, OK, I’m going to do things a different way.” The third of six siblings, Rieu was extremely talented, but, as he previously told The Telegraph, his father never said he loved him and his mother told him she got a hernia carrying him and thus he would “never amount to anything”. It’s difficult to see why they wouldn’t simply be proud of him. “Exactly, ask them. They are dead, but when I think about them now, I think they were afraid of me. They couldn’t cope with me being as I am. My mother always said, ‘Don’t look people in the eyes, André, that’s not polite.’ But that’s what I do. Yes, I think they were afraid of me. It’s the first time I’ve said that.” Of course, Rieu went on to ensure he would never have a love deficit again. Every night, thousands of people adore him. He initially scoffs at this thought. “You think it’s a compensation for my youth? You think I’m looking for admiration every day?” Well, you’ve certainly built the supportive family you never had… There is a pause. “Yeah, that’s true. You could explain it like that.” It hasn’t always been serene. In 2008, he infamously built a replica of Vienna’s Schönbrunn Palace, complete with ice rink and a carriage covered in actual gold, for a tour in Australia. Expecting to fill five stadiums, Rieu only managed two, and thus was saddled with £30m of debt. He and Pierre, his manager and younger son (now 45; his brother, Marc, is 48), sat in a bank all day, remonstrating. “A young guy from the bank said to the others, ‘Let him play, because that’s the only way we can get our money back.’ And he was right.” He was indeed. Rieu’s tour the following year sold 1.1 million tickets, becoming the sixth-highest-grossing of the year, above Britney Spears, Tina Turner, and Coldplay. And now he is going back on the road. A residency in Maastricht, where he is beloved (“I am, actually. I make a lot of money for them”), precedes a run of arenas in Britain, then he circles around Europe until well into next summer. Every stop has the same schedule. “We have a little soup, sound check, dinner together. I go to sleep, they go into town, then we have our concert. I don’t explore cities. I’m going to do that when I’m 120.” Some locations are too dangerous. They were booked to play in Russia, then the war started. They were due to play in Bahrain, but then war broke out in the Middle East. They’ve played Israel but wouldn’t now. “It’s too dangerous. All 130 people must agree, and they trust in me.” But he loves Britain. Some 50 years ago, it was seeing the Last Night of the Proms on television that first showed Rieu how lively classical music can be. “There is this joy, this looseness, normally [at concerts] the audience is very disciplined. I heard you can only go to the Last Night if you’ve seen 10 Proms?” He means the “five-concert ballot” (one of several ways you can acquire tickets, in fact), and he approves. “Because then you get a good audience, not like the New Year’s concert in Vienna. That’s spoilt, because there are only Japanese sitting there for a lot of money. That’s not good.” Rieu recently found out he’s going to be a grandfather for the sixth time, and is already planning his 80th birthday party, which sounds similar to his nightly concerts (“dancers from all over the world, I’ll play the waltz…”), but age cannot wither him. In fact, he now books the hotel suite next to his own to use as a gym, having been inspired by actor and former wrestler Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson, who famously takes his “Iron Paradise” weights room wherever he goes. “I thought, if the Rock can do that, I can too.” Alas, there are some things he can’t outrun. “I play less,” he laments. “The muscles in your hands are completely different when you’re older. But that’s normal.” He smiles. It isn’t frustrating for him. “Now, when I hear my old recordings, I think, ‘Oh my, that was beautiful. That was me.’”

To go to PRESS articles 2026, PAGE 1, click HERE.

Sharing a July 12, 2026 article from 1zuid.nl. Words and photos by Laurens Bouvrie Translated by Diana D. Le For ten years, Kimberly Smith has been the star of the Viennese waltz spectacle at André Rieu shows While this marks the 20th edition of the Vrijthof Concerts for André Rieu and his Johann Strauss Orchestra, Kimberly Smith is also celebrating a milestone this year. The owner of the Maastricht dance school bearing her name has been responsible for one of the most visually impressive elements of the Maastricht maestro’s shows for the past ten years. In 2016, she surprised the audience with 75 couples on the Vrijthof; at the 2026 edition, 150 couples from the Benelux countries and Germany will steal the show with a Viennese waltz set to "Lara's Theme" from Doctor Zhivago. Laurens Bouvrie's first report in words and pictures for 1Zuid focuses on Rieus' second weekend at the Vrijthof in general, and on Kimberly Smith and The Maastricht Dance Company in particular. Dancers It’s fifteen minutes after intermission when Kimberly Smith appears on the steps of the Theater aan het Vrijthof. While André Rieu, as is his custom, tries to get a sense of which countries his fans are from, the Maastricht-based choreographer double-checks the details one last time. Fifteen minutes later, a seemingly endless line of women in sky-blue ball gowns, men, and a number of women in tailcoats pours out of the Theater aan het Vrijthof. A little earlier, the dancers in wheelchairs had already taken their positions at the corner of Vrijthof and Grote Staat. The Half-Hour Viennese Waltz is about to begin. Assignment The former Dutch ballroom champion—who even reached the quarterfinals of a World Championship once—does more than just add an extra dimension to the Vrijthof concerts by André Rieu and his Johann Strauss Orchestra. What was first presented to the public on the square in 2016 has since become a regular feature of the Rieu show, and not just in Maastricht. Kimberly Smith: “When André approached my father to recruit dancers for the Vrijthof concerts, he managed to convince André that I would be the right person for the job—including the choreography. A unique challenge awaited me.” Not Easy Ten years later, André Rieu proudly announces The Maastricht Dance Company night after night. And it’s no longer just in the Stehgeiger’s hometown. The first performance and those that followed were a huge success—so huge, in fact, that André Rieu decided to ask Kimberly Smith to do this more often. “Of course, I was all for it. The first edition with the ballroom dancers taught me that getting everything just right wasn’t exactly a piece of cake.” Kimberly Smith’s approach to recruitment was simple but intensive. “I just started calling all the dance schools. If any dancers were interested, I would go visit them. Even for just one class, that was a huge undertaking. In the years that followed—André asked me if I could turn 75 into 100, and a few years later into 150—it became clear that I would also have to look for dancers in Belgium, Luxembourg, and even Germany.” Just like André Rieu, she, too, turns out to be someone who doesn't want to leave anything to chance. And with great success. The audience is thoroughly enjoying the performance by The Maastricht Dance Company. Enthusiasm Reaching out to the dancers and getting them excited is one thing. Rehearsing from Luxembourg to the northern Netherlands is another challenge. Kimberly Smith: “Once I’ve come up with a choreography, the trick is to teach all those couples at various locations in such a way that everything comes together perfectly in the show itself.” The fact that all these participants not only do this well but also enjoy it is evident from their faces year after year. Even during the most stressful moments—running back and forth to the square at a brisk pace—the dancers’ joy is palpable. Inclusivity Kimberly Smith herself considers having fun to be of the utmost importance. “Whether you’re a professional or an amateur, doing it well is just as important as enjoying what you do. What’s also very important is that, as much as possible, everyone who wants to can participate.” By this, the choreographer means, above all, that people with disabilities should also be able to be part of the company. “I think—and so does André Rieu—that promoting diversity is very important." Other Locations What began ten years ago on the Vrijthof as an exciting challenge turned out to be here to stay. As mentioned above, this isn’t limited to the Vrijthof shows. “We’re all very proud of our Rieu track record. We also perform at the big Christmas shows at the MECC. And we’ve performed outside of Maastricht as well. For example, The Maastricht Dance Company has been part of the New Year’s shows in Amsterdam and Antwerp for years. And we’ve even participated in shows in Bahrain and Paris."

Sharing (part of) a July 13, 2026 article from De Telegraaf. By Pieter Klein Beernink Translation by Diana D. Le Unforgettable André Rieu on the Vrijthof: from French village square to opera spectacle in Verona, to exuberant German carnival session Who has been there once, has been sold for good: a performance by André Rieu in Maastricht. Some go to the capital of Limburg every year. Including Ger Koopmans. “This year I’m going three times!” he reported in the midst of his guests, at one of the long dinner tables under the trees around the Vrijthof. As chairman of LTO Nederland, he did not have to think about the nitrogen plans of the cabinet, the eco- regulation or the new rules for goat farms: "Tonight is pure pleasure!" The excitement slowly built up in the enormous square near St. Servatius Basilica. A brass band marched in from the distance, playing as they went. A moment later, André Rieu—the conductor of this musical operation—stood with his orchestra members on the steps of the Theater on the Vrijthof. There, he stood in silence for at least fifteen minutes, surveying the crowd while pacing back and forth in front of the chattering violinists in their colorful dresses. The show had begun. And it would run for twelve performances this summer! A moment later, the orchestra members marched to the “Entry of the Gladiators" through the clapping crowd toward the gigantic stage across the square. Three courses had already been served. The mood was already lively. The staff of the Italian restaurant Gio’s—which had already served and cleared away three courses—scurried between the tables with new bottles of wine and water. Meanwhile, the first notes drifted past the facades with their natural-stone window frames, around the historic streetlamps, and over the white tablecloths. “He always starts quietly,” knew Joop Atsma, who is also a regular guest at Rieu’s Vrijthof with his wife Tea. “After the break, it goes wild.” The beginning of the evening resembled the terraces along the Vrijthof still on a French village square. While night fell, the concert appeared to turn to an opera spectacle in Verona. It resulted in an exuberant German carnival session. The rhythm accelerated, a dance group waltzed between the audience and here and there people participated. Finally, "All Menschen became Brüder" sounded and Rieu thanked the audience. “Everything is coming to an end!” he cried. “No!” Called back the public “Yes!” He responded and went on for a moment. The first-year Rieu-goers in the audience packed their things and went home. However, routine visitors knew that it was only now going to start well! A little later, Rieu drove the whole Vrijthof crazy and everyone who could, was dancing. No discord, no drunkenness: just fun. The music was swinging, snow made of foam flakes was falling, torches were blazing, and the fairy-tale party continued with many more songs until the stroke of midnight. To never forget!

Entry of the Gladiators

Couple from Australia flew back on MH17 after André Rieu’s Vrijthof concerts: ‘When my brother told me ‘I think their plane crashed’, I said ‘what are you talking about?’ July 17, 2026, De Limburger, by Ronald Colée Translation: Ineke Peregian Springs/ Maastricht A gruesome end to five fantastic weeks. Twelve years ago, Howard and Susan Horder attended two of André Rieu’s Vrijthof concerts, after which they returned to Australia on MH17. Now their eldest son Matthew (51) has written a book about that devastating day and its emotional aftermath: The day the sky fell. In July 2014, it was the third time Matthew Horder’s parents traveled from Australia to Maastricht to attend an André Rieu concert. Before that, they had already seen him about five times in Brisbane. But in 2010, Howard and Susan Horder could no longer resist the lure of the DVDs featuring Vrijthof footage, wanting to see the Maastricht orchestra conductor at work in his own city. That first time in 2010 was so enjoyable that they repeated the same trip two more times. “It was quite an undertaking from Australia, but because my middle brother David has been living in London for thirteen years, they turned the second and third times into a combined trip. So, they visited my brother in England first and then added a few weeks of vacation, concluding with a week in Maastricht.” My parents loved Rieu's music. At first, my brothers and I joked about it. We thought it was quite unusual that they wanted to travel to Maastricht especially for him. Matthew Horder himself had never heard of André Rieu. “I am more charmed by Metallica and Ed Sheeran, but my parents loved Rieu’s music. In the beginning, my brothers and I joked about it. We thought it was completely odd that they wanted to travel to Maastricht especially for him. A concert is a concert, and his music sounds the same everywhere. That changed when we discovered that the atmosphere and experience in Maastricht were truly completely different and that our parents were certainly not the only ones traveling the world to see him in action in his hometown. They were part of a very large group of like- minded people.” In 2014, Howard and Susan Horder once again opted for a five-week trip through Europe. “After their visit to my brother David, they drove through Scotland in a rental car, returned to London briefly, and then—as the final part of the trip—spent another six or seven nights in the Netherlands. After which they would fly back home from Amsterdam.” Judging by their messages and daily Facebook posts, it was a successful holiday for the retired banker and insurance man and his wife, a former primary school teacher. “Dad loved photography, but usually we didn't see those pictures until we got home. This time, he posted something on social media almost every day, which meant we were able to reconstruct the trip to Scotland almost day by day in retrospect. He was also very enthusiastic about Maastricht, where they attended one concert from the square and another from the terraces.” After spending two more nights in Amsterdam, the two sixty-somethings departed from Schiphol on Thursday, July 17, 2014, on Malaysia Airlines flight MH17 to go home. “Dad announced that his Facebook posts would stop. And they certainly did stop…” At 3:20 PM, less than three hours after takeoff, the plane with 298 passengers on board was shot down over eastern Ukraine by a Russian Buk missile. “When it became known that a plane had crashed over Ukraine, it was the middle of the night in Australia, so I was asleep. But because David in London was in roughly the same time zone as Ukraine, he did get the news. He first tried to reach Dad and Mom, and when that didn't work, he called me, but I had my phone on silent. So, he tried our youngest brother Adam, who lived in Melbourne. He did answer. After that, they both tried to call me several times.” Missed calls When Matthew finally got up at six o'clock in the morning, he had a whole laundry list of missed calls on his phone. "Because Adam was in the same time zone as I was in Brisbane, I called him, to which he said, 'I think Mom and Dad's plane crashed.' I said, 'What are you talking about?' I turned on the TV and saw that it was MH17, and I knew that was their flight number. When I also checked the departure time from Amsterdam and found that to be correct as well, I realized that it really was their scheduled flight." Matthew decided to call the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade in Canberra immediately. "It took forever to get someone on the line there. They took down my details and promised to call me back as soon as there was more clarity." His wife Holly asked what was wrong. “When I told her that the plane with my parents on it had presumably crashed, she first looked at me in disbelief, then hugged me tightly and asked if there was anything she could do. To which I responded very matter-of-factly, probably in shock, with ‘Could you take the children to school?’” Matthew drove to his mother's parents himself to deliver the bad news. "And after that, I went to my parents' house to see if I could perhaps gather any other information there that might suggest they hadn't been on board after all. But that was, of course, completely useless. Between four and five in the afternoon, I received confirmation from the Foreign Office that my parents were indeed on the passenger list." On the way back, he picked up his children Sophie and Josh from school. "They were 7 and 5 years old at the time and had always been very close to my parents. So, I knew I had to tell them this before they heard it from someone else. And I also knew I had to do it honestly and not sugarcoat the message. I didn't do that either. Although I didn't say their plane had been shot down, but that it had crashed." To this day, the manager of sports infrastructure for the state of Queensland considers that the hardest thing he has ever had to do in his life. “But I am glad I did it. Because when I turned the TV back on, my parents appeared large in a photo on screen. How was that possible? I have my suspicions. I think someone from Malaysia Airlines sold the passenger list, after which journalists started scouring social media to give the victims a face. You wouldn't believe how many phone calls I received that day from journalists asking for confirmation and a reaction.” I think someone from Malaysia Airlines sold the passenger list, after which journalists started scouring social media to give the victims a face. That photo on TV turned out to be the final piece of confirmation for him as well. What followed was a terrible time, as he describes it himself. “You feel so helpless and powerless. You find yourself in Australia while the plane has crashed in Ukraine. That is so incredibly far away, and also a very dangerous and unstable area. You can’t just hop on a plane and go there. In the end, my brothers and I were only able to hold the funeral on September 25, almost two and a half months later.” Still, given the circumstances, that is quite quick. “But normally, when a loved one passes away, the burial or cremation follows within one or two weeks, and you can pick up your life again fairly quickly afterward. Now, we were assigned a liaison officer who called us every day for two and a half months to keep us updated. Even when there was no news.” Matthew and his brothers were also assigned a federal police officer who came to visit them at home regularly. “David had boarded the plane to Australia on the very day of the crash. And Adam came over immediately from Melbourne. So, when the police arrived at the house for the first time, all three of us were home.” Memorial service without bodies Four weeks later, on Friday, August 15, the brothers held a memorial service in a dance hall in Eatons Hill. "To celebrate my parents' lives. Even though their bodies had not yet been recovered at that time." Seven hundred people attended the memorial service. Singer Mirusia Louwerse, whom Matthew's parents had met during their visits to Rieu's concerts, also attended the ceremony and gave a speech at their request. Matthew is glad that he and his brothers held that memorial service. "It was very nice to see old photos and reminisce. That provided a counterbalance to all those gruesome and terrible stories that were coming out. It is important in life to focus on the beautiful things anyway." Coincidence or not, that very same evening they received a call from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs with the news that their mother had been identified. “They asked us what we wanted, whether they should take her home or not. Because Dad hadn't been identified yet at that time, we asked if they wanted to wait for that. That wasn't a problem at all. Five days later, Dad was identified as well, and my brothers and I boarded a plane almost immediately to pick them up.” He falls silent for a moment. “I have never cried so hard as I did then, upon arrival at funeral home Westgaarde in Amsterdam, when the family of five was together again for the first time.” Matthew is full of praise for how the authorities in the Netherlands and Australia handled everything. “At Westgaarde, my brothers and I were assigned a separate mourning room where we could say goodbye to our parents. We were even asked if we wanted background music, to which we asked if it could be music by André Rieu. That was allowed.” The three brothers were also each given a moment to themselves. “I told Dad and Mom then how the children were doing.” National flag Along with seven other bodies, Howard and Susan Horder were eventually taken to Australia by military transport plane with the national flag draped over their coffins. “David, Adam, and I flew simultaneously from Schiphol to Melbourne to welcome them there. And as strange as that may sound, we are very happy that they went on a journey together and came back together.” Finally, an official farewell was said to their parents on September 25, after which, eight months later, on May 9, 2015, their ashes were scattered over the sea near the town of Mooloolaba on the Sunshine Coast.

In loving memory. More information about the book, click HERE.

Medical Care Report, July 18, 2026, De Limburger, by Kyra Volkers, Translation: Ineke © Mitchell Giebels Thousands of elderly people on a hot square, it's hard work for the first aiders at André Rieu's Vrijthof concerts: 'Some arrive in Maastricht already sick' A packed parking lot for walkers reveals that the average visitor to an André Rieu concert at the Vrijthof in Maastricht is no longer very young. That is why a massive medical operation is underway behind the scenes. "We try to remain as invisible as possible." "Strange, no one has fallen over yet." The man in yellow-red trousers squeezes his way through the crowd. It is 6:32 PM. Over the past hour, perhaps hundreds of André Rieu fans have been queuing for the terraces in Maastricht. The average age is high, the sun is severe. "Most of them have already been strolling through the city all day," notes Jos Euwes. "As soon as the gates open, people always feel unwell." Not today, and so we continue our route to the main post. Recognition "You here again too!" shouts one of the security guards. Euwes is a familiar face at the Vrijthof at this time of year. The company he works for, Bosec, has been providing medical care at Rieu's Vrijthof concerts for eight years. "The nice thing is that we run into the same people at every edition." In the Hoofdwacht (Main Guardhouse), the crew is divided into six teams. In the theater, there is a special first aid post for staff from the performances: bellhops (piccolos,) whose blisters need to be pricked or dancers who want to give their best performance despite injuries. Two first aiders cycle back and forth to the Markt, where about two thousand visitors disembark from the buses. Emergency scenarios are ready, for example, in case everyone needs to be evacuated to the empty parking garage. The entire operation was mapped out six months ago. A large screen full of figures and graphs. ‘Total: 254’ – the number of patients the team has treated in two weeks. 16 of them ended up in the hospital. “People often don’t realize what happens behind the scenes of an event like this,” nods co- owner David Hoogerwerf. “There are 12,000 people on the Vrijthof. That is the population of a small municipality.” Voerendaal, for example, but then – judging by the overcrowded walker parking lot – with a significant aging problem.

The first aiders at André Rieu are very busy. © Mitchell Giebels

Vomiting A German woman in a long blue dress stumbles in, heels in hand. Eight minutes before the show, her dinner came back up. She is given a bag and answers a series of questions. The hardest part, the attending GP explains, is that you have no knowledge of the case file. For instance, you can give someone who has eaten something wrong a tablet for nausea, but if the vomiting is caused by something in the brain, that is pointless. Anyway: the woman in the blue dress hurries back onto the square, only to trickle back in a few minutes later, looking unwell. What you often see, Hoogerwerf explains, is that people downplay their complaints. "Many come here from Austria or Australia already sick, in a state where you actually cannot go to a concert. But they have saved up for years for Rieu; it is a once-in-a-lifetime thing." An 80-year-old man falls ill in the middle of the Vrijthof. The piccolos signal security guards, who alert one of the first aid teams on the square. A phone call goes to the control room, where the police and municipality are also represented. Then the report reaches the main station. It sounds cumbersome, but a wheelchair is on its way in no time, because stretchers don't roll very smoothly on cobblestones. “And we try to remain as invisible as possible,” says Euwes. “Last week, someone felt unwell on the terrace of the Vogelstruys café. We had to approach him via the back of the stage.” The crew knows exactly where the cameras are positioned and tries to ensure that as few fluorescent suits as possible appear in the footage. What makes a Rieu concert different from other events? “The atmosphere,” says Euwes. But also, all the extras this target group asks for. Which performance arranges for people to hand out walkers? “And everyone wants to sit through the show, you do everything you can to make that happen,” says Hoogerwerf. But it does mean you have to carry out many more interventions on the spot. Fortunately for the crew, that happens in relative luxury. “This is something different from a small tent in the mud of a festival site.”

The team also helps many of Rieu's dancers; for instance, there is a separate post in the theater.