Object lesson: What's your trademark?

Sherlock Holmes had his pipe.  Dorothy had her red shoes.  Batman has his Batmobile.  If we asked your friends what object they would most immediately associate with you, what would they say?

I don't think it's so much an object that people would immediately associate with me, more part of my appearance: The Sideburns.  Off an on for the last 5 years I've had...interesting facial hair.  Originally, it comes from jumping at freedom, I suppose, but more and more it has become the defining characteristic of my look.

Now, I was seeing this girl for the whole of the two years of my VIth form.  Among many other thousands of things that were said to me by her was a particular statement that denied me any sort of facial hair.  Now, of course it's a sensible idea to shave if, like me, you could not have raised any respectable kind of facial decoration... And I'm actually going to weigh in and say it was a fine idea for the time as well!  But it was the fact that I was told.  I had to be clean shaven.  It grated on me.  So... after the first "I don't think we should see each other" salvo was fired (like Han, I shot first), I decided to leave my face alone.  Razor blades and shaving foam left on the side.  Over Christmas, hostilities came to a head and it really did end, and I still hadn't shaved.  Returning to my second term of my first year at University, I had held out... Even with my long, long hair, that fell about my shoulders.  For those who know what I looked like in those days, it truly was ridiculous.

Eventually I saw sense (or more accurately saw how dreadful my reflection was), and decided to take it off again, bit by bit.  For whatever reason, I left my cheeks til last... And decided that actually, it looked good.  Alright alright over there, I know you disagree.  Some people have badgered me to remove them for my "own sake", or whatever, but as time has gone on I've been able to decide for myself more and more.  

Off and on over the next four years, I removed them every few months and let them grow back from fresh.  Now, I keep them and trim them with either a little electric razor or scissors, and always with a comb.  When Choir went on their recent trip to Sweden, I had my head almost shaved but left the chops wildly long.  They're a neat identifier as well, as picking me out in the line up on the BBC's broadcast about our staging of the 1880 Nine Lessons and Carols is as easy as it gets.  Sideburns?  Yep, there I am!  Obviously, the goal is to one day graduate to an epic and well clipped beard like our Senior Lay Vicar, because yes of course he is my pattern.  No nonsense singing, decorus but mucking about in the off minutes, and no bloody prancing about.  There are some great pictures, actually, of him, me, and my chops in profile from Christmas 2013 that I really must get hold of.

The chops are an important part of my aesthetic at the moment.  Will I keep them?  Who knows.  Probably some woman will make them into a deal breaker and I'll fold because let's face it... I always fold first.  They are part and parcel though, alongside the hair that Walken would be proud of, the suit that'll outlive me, the paisley and all that bloody jewelry I wear and have given away.  Oh well!  I will say one thing though, that having sideburns makes it a hell of a lot easier to draw me...

This is the Record

For context, I've written this on the 11:31 to London Paddington, before changing at Plymouth to pick up the 13:25 to Edinburgh, landing in Derby.

Last time I opened by saying how as we reached the end of this year, it felt like coming out of a trance into time again. The elastic nature of the last 6 months, with January's long dark winter dragging on for eternity as waves of wind and rain battered our hearts (yet did not seek to mend), February's spring through to the broadcast, just after half term and then... Christ. Where the hell did Trinity go? It almost feels like last week that I was sat going upcountry, but that time was for the Chief's Wedding, notable for many things but primarily the first time I've had any time off from the Stall at Truro. This trip is in aid of yet another wedding, and the fact that I'm missing the very last of the last weekends for that which is most precious does discomfort me... But the Michalemas mid term break is close after all.

Trinity's short(?) term brought its own joyes though, with the choir trip to Scilly being an unofficial start (who needs an Easter holiday anyway), whipping through to the CD recording (soon to be available in all good record stores and online retailers), and the month of June... Ah yes, June. June with its concert weekends that spilled into July: St. Mary's Singers taking on Mozart's reorchestration of Handel's Messiah; For the Fallen, the Cathedral Choir's Summer concert; the Spurious Bach Vespers the week after, with two entire cantatas and a sung Lord's Prayer that was equal to any musical marathon; then to July, with Handel's Israel in Egypt, performed thankfully by Three Spires Singers (but still a Saturday night on for the Boss), the next day webcasting of Missa Papa Marcelli... And now Sunday gone, with the webcasting of the Kodály in the morning, then Walton's celebrated The Twelve at evensong AND THEN the Valedictory proceedings, which came to a quiet close at around 3 in the morning of the following day for me.

I know there's always talk of the “Champagne Year” of scholars, which must be some ten years ago now, but 'ere!  There's sum bleddy vintage to this year as well. I could think of no better group to form my first year 'out of the house', and certainly no better year of repertoire and solos to ease me into having some confidence in my own abilities (as much as I still don't really like myself) and my place as a Lay Vicar. Reliability is the focus, as the ever-present cornerstone of the Altos, often to be found at the centre of jolly japes with the Senior Lay Vicar, but still with a responsible attitude towards services and preparation... Jeez I ought to be putting this on my resume! Some of the highest tributes paid to me this very term were from the Senior, for my rendition of the Record of John, from the Boss for my “outstanding” cantata solo, and finally from Mr. Walker, who simply said he wished I had been his friend for years. Really... It's the last of these which means the most. True, I assumed the role of John the Baptist in tribute to my friend Father Michael Bartlett, God rest his soul, and knew exactly how to deal with the devotional solo with love o'erflowing from Cantata 117... But to hear that? Especially from someone whom I feel has already achieved far more than I ever will? Hands down the most respect showed to me the entire year.

I've been saying goodbye for a long time, I know. This is some sort of coping mechanism gone into overdrive, in order to belay the shock of letting go all at once. Once the last departs in the beginning of August, I will be all but alone. I'm tired of hearing people tell me it's going to be okay and it won't be long until September because really that isn't the point. Those who arrive will not be those who have left. Of course I'm looking forward to greeting the new Scholars and helping to put them through the inevitable initiation of booze and curry and Vanilla. Of course I am. But they won't be them. I remember something that came up with The Admiral in Nelson Court, and also with my right trusty cousin at the end of my first year in Truro, that once we leave NC15, or this Cathedral, we die. That life ends. But it's only through one life ending that another can begin.

All I have said the last few weeks is “Don't go”. I want to hold on to all the happiness s year has brought, whether by cooing in public as a Countertenor greeting, grunting harshly out of windows to frighten (or be frightened by), and even (perhaps especially) all the fighting has helped me realise just how good everything is. As the old saying goes though, if you love something, or someone, you let them go. More vital now is how I proceed; if I look back constantly, I learn nothing from this year, or any other year gone. There needs to be a positive difference. In six months time, I'll need to book flights. If I don't have the money, I can't book the flights. If I don't have the money, it means I haven't been sensible with my budget. If I haven't been sensible with my budget, it means I'm still basically looking backwards, trading meaningless expenditure for genuine personal growth. And if I can't book the flights... Then I really have failed. Damning perhaps, but all true nonetheless. I have plenty to catch up on over this 8 week vacation, and not just a wage either. It is time I put away childish things.

Obviously September is the dawn of a brave new world. A new life, indeed, the first service of which is appropriately on the seventh. After all the doubtful noises, I feel secure in not leaving this choir, but only hope that the usual promise to do more early rep again is not as hollow as it was this time last year. I'm not really sure where I could go, either. I have had plenty of places thrown at me for consideration, but who else would want this sound, halfway between a razorblade and a battering ram? If nothing else, at least a reference to my home town's mascot (among other RAMs). It's time to wake up the next suite as well, and turn my attention to the dour and passionate BWV1008. As little time as I have for Bach's organ music (not only for it's sheer ubiquitousness and the fact I can't play it) and also the unweildlyness of the vocal material, the 'Cello suites are mine, even if an host of cellists rise up against me for saying so. Two years ago, I conquered the G major suite, characterising it as a summer's day, complete with a late afternoon squall before a fine and dry evening of dancing. Perhaps I will find 1008 reflected somewhere else? Perhaps not. Perhaps I will even find its reflection in my own self, but that would just be melodramatic, wouldn't it!

To conclude, I must reiterate my congratulations to the leavers this year. Even simply surviving without resigning is a triumph in and of itself, let alone some of the fantastic solo and ensemble performances by this back row. Arguably, the Papa Marcelli is the more polished of the two last webcasts, even if I ultimately prefer the roughshod nature of the Kodaly. In the Palestrina, the blend is sublime, the tone peerless, and the ensemble enviable. It is the very best of what we can do, free of the emotional supercharge and blistering tessiturae that the last Sunday of term brought us. It's a real shame that the last Evensong wasn't recorded at all, if only for our personal enjoyment rather than international webcasting. Most of the sorrow has come from reminiscence, from those first few days of getting totally lost, or not having an oven for three days, or dinner with you on the day you arrived; how apart we all were in those days.

It is almost finished. Just over a fortnight until all those who won't stay are left, and then a month until the new boys come. I truly wonder what will become of them. How they will fare against the accommodation, the rising cost of a pint and whether they'll get jobs? I usually leave future predictions to my Mother (Jewish not Pagan), but she hardly ever shares that sort of information. This is certainly no goodbye though. London calls, and strong at that! As for the Swedish language barrier... Well, we can work on that. And while it may not be my home or native land, I am certain there will be plenty of room for me when the time comes that I can get to Canada. For now though? I guess I'll keep everything running as usual. Why try to fix what isn't broken?

(Thanks, Orlando)

Can't Stand Me

We take a break from our regular schedule of titles to bring you a daily post from WordPress' Daily Prompts.  I almost changed to a WordPress when starting up ASW, but that's another life now, I suppose... Those of you who remember the Songman's Rest will undoubtedly recall the voyage into madness that was BEDM 2013, with its orgy of almost daily posts on all sorts of subjects that basically had nothing to do with how I ran my life, so I had a hard time doing most of them.  One of my great inspirations is trying to write every day this month, although it has been silent for some time now... Check her blog out here nonetheless though.  

Anyway, today's prompt is "What do you find more unbearable: watching a video of yourself, or listening to a recording of your voice? Why?"



I'm really tied up on this one, actually.  I'm thinking both, but I feel that listening to my own voice is so utterly cringeworthy that on several occasions I have vowed publicly to never speak or sing again.  The quickest way to do this is to replay WhatsApp voice messages back - an awful idea beyond measure.  As much as it may be a damn sight faster than typing if I want to say a lot, it's still my voice that I'm subjecting the other conversational participant to, and for that I must apologise.  Still, at least they can't see me as well?  Thank heaven for small mercies.  I get really self-conscious when I know I'm being filmed or just watched in general, although thankfully I'm just not very aware very often.  The Cathedral here in Truro have a dedicated volunteer team of CCTV operators for concerts and high-profile services (think 9 L&C, for instance), with which I gather I am quite popular, most probably for my gung-ho singing tactics and intense expression whilst performing.  I really don't mind or exactly care about that though, you know?  I'm here to perform, and not much annoys me more than posers who deliberately try harder or tart themselves up because they know they're going to be on camera.  Feh.

That said though, I have a bizarre relationship with my own reflection.  A lot of my mental behaviour ends up being very dissociative, to the point of struggling to recognise my own voice and appearance.  As loath as I am to bring this up in case people dismiss me as a total nutcase and have me sectioned (under the Mental Health act of  1984, no less), but you know, you have to think about these things.  Now isn't really the time or place to discuss my personality as gestalt, either.  I often check in to every reflective surface just so I make sure I look like what I think I look like, to make sure I haven't forgotten or something.  I'm not a great fan of my appearance generally though, as I basically recognise that essentially I'm not very handsome, and so always react with shock whenever anybody compliments me.  That said, I always dress in an inimitable fashion... Although most of the time that's because nobody would want to imitate me.  I seem to have been subconsciously dressing in Superman colours of late as well, mostly to be found wearing a delightful fair of tomato red shorts held up by yellow belt, with some kind of blue shirt or jumper on top, which is interesting considering how my personal life is going at the moment.

Back to the question though.  Audiovisual recording is one of those things I won't be able to avoid in my line of work.  This coming year, we will be filmed for a DVD production detailing the first service of Nine Lessons and Carols, alongside the usual live broadcast on BBC Radio 3, annual CD recording and international tour.  That said, I couldn't imagine hosting a podcast or vlog for my own personal expression... It'd just be too embarrassing.

The Secret Sins

It's been a funny old year.  At times too long and now too short, on one hand draining but the other restorative.  As we free fall into the end of term, valediction hangs heavy in the air, and I must do my best to control the tides of emotion, acknowledged or otherwise that will pour from all sides... But mostly mine.

From the opening Preludes of moving in with the Professor, and setting up shop in that great terrace (Noon erthly palys wrought in so statly wyse), Allemandes in Canadian language lessons, Couranting through services that might really have been rehearsals all along, sun drenched Sarabandes on the Isles of Scilly, dancing great Galanteries in a return to Norfolk lands... And now the final steps, in celebratory Gigue of everything that has happened, and the last things left to do too!  The end of term's just got crazy fast, with more large scale anthems being piled into a mid-week service than would even seem believable... When was the last time you did Blest Pair of Sirens on a Tuesday?  At least we won't have a weekend with a massive concert (or Vespers for that matter) to recover from, either vocally or alcoholically.  OR WILL WE?  This last (blest) pair of Sundays feature whole masses, the one coming being the masterful Papa Marcelli by John Peter Louis of Palestrina, and the following week brings us Hungary's finest in the shape of Kodaly Zoltan and his Missa Brevis, Introitus and all.  While it does mean that this will be the fifth time we've done that particular mass this year, it is written in to this year, being of no small personal importance to one of our great Tenors, but also as part of our summer concert... And really, it's just so bloody good that it bears being repeated so it can be further honed.  I myself will be taking care of the deeply emotional "Qui Tollis", both in the Gloria and it's return in the Agnus, and will pour every last ounce of heart and voice into it.  Well... I might save a bit for the
But what of the Scholars this year?  Yes, what indeed.  See, part of my life at the moment is to build meaningful relationships that may seem to have a finite value.  The whole process of having people around for ten months at a time is how this place works, replacing around half of the back row of the choir at a time. Some, of course, are invited to stay.  Some demand.  Anyway, while Canada's brightest and best came to join us, neither will stay.  Sweden will reclaim her own, and an Old Wykehamist leaves for Old London town.  I only have one friend who supports Forest, and he's right here as well, but I hasten to add that he is elect of the office of Lay Vicar as well, so at least he'll be around still.  Unlike last year, where relations were... strained to say the least, things have been excellent with the Scholars this year, not only by comparison but also genuinely.  I don't really know how or even if I'll be able to cope once they all leave, or even if I'll want to.  Parts of my life have become so ingrained with them, a decision gladly made as well.

This year's relative security has allowed me to put myself back together in a much more conclusive manner than would be expected judging on my usual mental state.  In doing so, I have discovered things about myself that perhaps I might not necessarily have wanted to or liked to have found out, but there it is.  I have also found many fine qualities of myself reflected in how others interact with me, and the inevitable surprise of those who mistakenly concluded I was of nothing worth.  Recently though, it's as if I have come into my heritage, and  have not only garnered high praise from the highest corners for my singing, but also for you know... Just being a really nice guy.  I actually laughed derisively as I typed that, because it's not exactly something I really expect or understand of myself.  Also, let's face it, it's pretty weak.  Turns out that all sorts of visitors (alright, mainly Canadians) have actually found me "acceptable" and "relatable" among other things.  I have been called "warm" and "engaging" by others still, and am beginning to slowly but surely understand that I'm punching, if anything, far below my weight.  Although I always give inanimate objects far too much value (what other idiot would refer to a piece of furniture as his oldest friend in Truro?), it's actually through understanding this that has probably allowed me to forge better friendships.  What will happen to the famous "last piece", of glass wrought pure, is anyone's guess though.  In a way it forms the only remaining part of a personality locked away while I spent the last seven years becoming dissociate, progressively more bitter and cynical.  Oh look, there's that number again...

What's next though?  This is the important question, because if anything, my life lacks direction.  In what can only be described as shocking news, and something that will surely please my aged mother, I intend to give up drinking over the summer, in an effort to raise the appropriate funding to get me to Toronto and back.  Being named an "honourary Canadian" and having four completely genuine and well meant offers of places to stay make me feel much better than being forgotten here.  Giving up booze will free up countless funds.  I conservatively estimate that it'll cut my expenses in half straight away, and of course the far quieter social scene will hopefully mean I won't go out so much on my own and end up trying to help with clean down while being definitely less than three sheets to the wind...

I know I always say this at the end of these things but I am actually working on all sorts of things again.  Guided by the models of my great and ancient masters, I'm hacking out sonnets, and hope to get a little cycle of 5 in a state that I might publish them here, publicly soon.  I'm also going to see the next symphony of destruction that is the oeuvre of Michael Bay, Transformers: Age of Extinction very very soon (if not tomorrow then like... Monday, so I'm sure I'll have plenty to say about that.  For now though, that's quite enough.  A prize that goes to anybody who can successfully work out the connection between the last four titles (not including the programme notes, obviously).