In Memoriam

From his obituary in The Times of the 18th of September, 2013:

"Peter George Aston was born in Edgbaston, Birmingham, on October 5 1938, and was educated at Tettenhall College, for whose 150th anniversary this year he composed a setting of Let us, With a Gladsome Mind from John Milton’s arrangement of Psalm 136."

This is an odd one really, but I couldn't let this weekend pass without some kind of memorial note to our old Professor Emeritus.  We may not have seen eye to eye, in fact, we hardly ever saw eye to eye at all... That's beside the point.  The point is that this weekend I have been part of the culmination of the 'Cornwall Remembers' events in performing Benjamin Britten's War Requiem.  Earlier I said it was rather like the Kafka stories that I'm reading at the moment: totally remarkable, thought-provoking, full of meaning and depth and yet difficult to understand on so many levels.  That's a huge over-simplification, I realise, but the similarities are there.  The marriage of the text to the Missa pro Defunctis and the poems of Wilfred Owen, put together by a pacifist, in often deeply touching and unsettling ways is an absolutely incredible piece of work, whichever way you look at it.  Above everything else, it can't help but remind me of one of many unintentionally hilarious anecdotes from the great man himself (some liberties with patchy memories but work with me here):

"I had arranged a concert in St. Andrew's Hall in the city of Ben's Requiem, in the winter of 1976.  Unusually, ticket sales had been rather slow, which was surprising as it is a work of incredible profundity, as you know.  As the date of the concert drew closer, there were only around a hundred seats sold, which would have been a drop in the ocean, even with the vast forces required.  Ben had been very ill for quite a while, and regretfully he passed away, although not suddenly.  Of course, tickets boomed, and in fact, it turned out that I conducted the very first memorial performance of the Requiem for Ben himself [chortle chortle]"

Peter had several anecdotes, most of which he regaled us with either in conducting sessions or just on the street itself.  He always came out with things that were completely legitimate and often very interesting statements, but with some kind of... Unexpected comic cadence.  Perhaps in his sermon at St. Peter Mancroft, which was more a Bach High Mass lecture: "And of course, you can't have a resurrection without Trumpets".  Or at that great church once again, in concert this time with his Morley Consort of voices and friends: "...which I have wanted to perform in its original setting for so long, remember, these are genuine street cries...", of Gibbon's Cryes of London.  Sometimes ridiculous as well, in reviewing my dissertation abstract and first chapter, after pointing out a number of typographical pitfalls said "it's clear to me that you know far more than this about I do", or in a letter: "Even though it is a formative piece, I find myself pleased with my work from so long ago".  He even recounted a lunch with Peter Pears: "We had asparagus, the butter was dripping from our fingers".

He was not a great fan of countertenors, as I found out almost... all the time.  I obviously took it personally as that's what I do, you know.  There are lesser people to be disliked by at the end of the day, and I've certainly met them too.  Some ridiculous conversation where he waxed at great length about the merits of mixed alto departments in Ton Koopman's recording of Bach Cantatas ("the very finest"), lest in an all male department one or two members would go sharp in chorales... I dunno?

The point of all this is not to decry a man who left a respectable legacy behind him.  It is not to point out his personal faults, but to recall a musician, who showed great decorum and an unfailing willingness to teach those who wanted to be taught.  I would like to think that somewhere, along with all the other souls of the fallen in the Great War, he too will be remembered by others with the same admiration, if not more.  I may not have been his favourite student, or indeed his best, and I may not have ever been invited to sing with him, but for tonight's second and final performance of the War Requiem at Truro Cathedral, I will remember him.

 

A head shot for the ages.