Truro Cathedral Choir Spring Concert, 6pm, Saturday 22nd March 2014

PROGRAMME

For lo, I raise up – Charles Villiers Stanford (1852 – 1924)

Peace (from ‘1914’) – Alan Gray (1855 – 1935)

Christmas Truce – Graham Fitkin (b 1963)

Lord, let me know mine end (from ‘Songs of Farewell’) – Hubert Parry (1848 – 1918)

Lord, thou hast been our refuge – Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872 – 1958)

Semi-chorus: Harry Flint and William Thomas (treble);

Paul-Ethan Bright (alto); Horatio Carr-Jones (tenor); Charlie Murray (bass)

INTERVAL

Organ solo:

 Psalm Prelude, Set 1, no 1 – Herbert Howells (1892 – 1983)

Luke Bond (organ)

Requiem – Gabriel Fauré (1845 – 1924)

1 Introit et Kyrie

2 Offertoire

Soloist: David Risberg (bass)

3 Sanctus

4 Pie Jesu

5 Agnus Dei et Lux aeterna

6 Libera me

Soloist: Charlie Murray (bass)

7 In Paradisum

WORDS AND PROGRAMME NOTES

Composed by Stanford in 1914, ‘For lo, I raise up’ is easily one of the most vital and dramatic anthems in the Anglican repertoire, setting passages from the first book of the prophet Habakkuk. Habakkuk himself is almost a mystery figure in the Bible, and is a stand-out amongst all the prophets, as he is the only one to openly question the wisdom of God. Rabbinical tradition holds that he fled the sacking of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar and the Chaldeans, but returned to Judea and even found himself at God's service in aiding the prophet Daniel in the Lion's den, by feeding him a delicious stew. 

The organ accompaniment is as much a part of the drama as the voices, with a characteristic upward sweeping semiquaver motif that opens the piece while altos, tenors and basses enter in unison. Their tune is answered by the trebles, who suddenly leap high in their range, helping them stand out from the organ. This tumultuous character is as much a response to the text as it is Stanford's own reaction to the outbreak of the war. At the words “Art not thou from everlasting?”, the prophet seeks to communicate his unwavering belief in God.

The texture becomes busier with the words “For the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord”; the semiquaver figures return in the organ part, but this time rather than echo the violence of the opening verses, they represent the fulfilment of Habakkuk's petition to the Lord. The anthem could not end more different to how it began, with absolute stillness as the Lord God takes his place in the temple and “all the earth keep silence before him”. 

It is impossible to overlook the imperialistic overtones of the text, especially in relation to the date of composition. In 1914 Britain, it would be almost impossible not to think of the central powers of Germany and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, “who march through the breadth of the earth to possess the dwelling places that are not theirs”. It is perhaps a noteworthy coincidence that the German Empire's Coat of Arms is the Eagle, which “hasteth to devour”.

For lo I raise up that bitter and hasty nation,
which march through the breadth of the earth,
to possess the dwelling places that are not theirs.
They are terrible and dreadful,
their judgment and their dignity proceed from themselves.
Their horses also are swifter than leopards,
and are more fierce than the evening wolves,
and their horsemen spread themselves,
yea, their horsemen come from far.
They fly as an eagle that hasteth to devour,
they come all of them for violence;
their faces are set as the east wind,
and they gather captives as the sand.
Yea, he scoffeth at kings and princes are a derision unto him
for he heapeth up dust and taketh it.
Then shall he sweep by as a wind that shall pass over,

and be guilty, even he whose might is his God.

Art not thou from everlasting,
O Lord my God, mine Holy One?
We shall not die.
O Lord, thou hast ordained him for judgment
and thou, O Rock, hast established him for correction

I will stand upon my watch and set me upon the tower
and look forth to see what he will say to me
and what I shall answer concerning my complaint.

And the Lord answered me and said,
The vision is yet for the appointed time,
and it hasteth toward the end and shall not lie
though it tarry, wait for it, because it will surely come.

For the earth shall be filled with the knowledge
of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.

But the Lord is in his holy temple:
let all the earth keep silence before Him.

Words: Habakkuk 1: 6-12; 2: 1-3, 14, 20, adapted

With music by Alan Gray, ‘1914’ is a setting of the first, third and fifth war sonnets by Rupert Brooke.  The cycle was published in January 1915, and was composed of sonnets detailing the idealised life, accomplishments and death of a soldier. Brooke himself died on 23^rd April 1915, having contracted a fatal sepsis from an infected mosquito bite while stationed with the British Mediterranean Expeditionary Force in the Aegean sea, just two days before the Battle of Gallipoli started.  

Compared to the other items in tonight’s programme, ‘Peace’ (the first movement of ‘1914’) is positively cheerful. Rather than the armies who “come all of them for violence” in ‘For lo, I raise up’, or the more introspective feel of the later items, ‘Peace’ sees the soldier as a kind of heroic, happy warrior. Rupert Brooke’s poem comes from these earliest days, when the War was seen as a kind of adventure, with recruits and Army officials alike expecting hostilities would be over by Christmas. 

The last line of the first section, “And all the little emptiness of love!” may reference Brooke's own emotional dissatisfaction, having recently ended an unhappy love affair, that signing up was an escape. Moving on, the feeling of thanks continues, and a sense that fighting is a way into heaven; there is no reason to find upset as all are fighting for a worthy cause, that even though you may be afflicted by pain, “that has ending”. 

The music comes from 1915 and is old-fashioned for that time, rooted in the late Victorian and Edwardian styles rather than in a more progressive twentieth century idiom. The texture is given over to the treble line having a tune and being supported by men’s voices, with an organ accompaniment that is more reminiscent of a Music Hall than a solemn Cathedral setting.

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,

And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,

With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,

To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,

Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,

Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,

And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,

And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,

Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,

Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;

Nothing to shake the laughing heart’s long peace there

But only agony, and that has ending;

And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

Words: Rupert Brooke

The next item is a setting of the poem “A carol from Flanders” by Frederick Niven (1878-1944), which recounts the spontaneous Christmas truce that occurred on the Western Front in 1914. Unlike the other items in this first half of the programme, ‘Christmas Truce’ is not from the time of the War at all, but was commissioned by Truro Cathedral for the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols in December 2011.

The text is a précis of the events that probably took place on Christmas Eve 1914, without tying it down to just one place. Almost six months into the war, the battles of attrition had not only taken their toll on the opposing armies but also the land itself, with the infamous “No Man's Land” standing between miles of barbed wire trenches. Stories that seem fantastic with historical hindsight abound, and have taken on a mythic status.  Tales of men waving flags, singing carols to each other, playing football and exchanging gifts, stories of home and sharing packets of cigarettes that took place were reported to senior officers on both sides, who quickly ordered that the men resume shooting at each other. 

Composer Graham Fitkin creates an uncertain atmosphere from the start, with trebles alone singing a plaintive tune over harmonies sung by the alto, without being grounded by the lower tenor and bass voices. The line “Not all the Kings and financiers, and they who rule us could prevent these things” is a direct reference to the orders issued to restart the fighting (orders which were ignored in certain isolated pockets).

A striking feature of the music is that “Christmas Day” returns at the end of each verse, almost reassuringly, as if the fact that it is Christmas Day means miracles can happen. The piece ends with “Christmas Day” being repeated in glorious, lush harmonies, suggesting that perhaps every day could indeed be Christmas Day. But in the final bars, the words are left hanging on a dissonant chord cluster, loaded with uncertainty and anguish. Like the cease fire itself, the happy music must give way to reality.

In Flanders on Christmas morn
The trenched foeman lay,
The German and the Briton born,
And it was Christmas Day.

The red sun rose on fields accurst,
The grey fog fled away;
But neither cared to fire first,
For it was Christmas Day!

They called out from each to each

Across the disarray,
For dreadful had been their loss:
"Oh, this is Christmas Day!"

Their rifles set aside,
One impulse to obey;
'Twas just the men on either side,
Just men — and Christmas Day.

They dug graves for all their dead
And over them did pray:
And Englishmen and Germans said:
"How strange a Christmas Day!"

Between the trenches then they met,
Shook hands, and e'en did play
At games on which their hearts were set
On happy Christmas Day.

Not all the kings
And financiers and they
Who rule us could prevent these things —
For it was Christmas Day.

Oh ye who read this truthful rime
From Flanders, kneel and say:
God speed the time when every day
Shall be Christmas Day.

Words:  Frederick Niven

The ‘Songs of Farewell’ can be counted amongst the greatest works by Hubert Parry, perhaps best remembered today for his hymn tune ‘Jerusalem’ and his anthem ‘I was glad’.

When he retired in 1908 at the age of sixty, Parry had a great output of symphonic works as well as oratorios and secular songs. In 1895 he became the head of the Royal College of Music, and from 1900 to 1908 concurrently held the post of Professor of Composition at Oxford University.

Although Parry did not serve in the War, he was distraught to see so many young men, both former pupils and contemporaries, go out to the Front and never return. His inner turmoil was compounded by his love of German music and culture.

‘Lord, let me know mine end’ is the final song in the set of six composed at the very end of Parry’s life. The words come from Psalm 39 and deal with the nature of life and death. The Psalmist asks God to tell him when he is going to die (“Lord, let me know mine end”). He reflects on the fact that worldly possessions count for nothing when a person dies (“He heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them”). On the one hand, he puts his trust calmly in God (“truly my hope is even in thee”) but, on the other, cries out to God in his illness and discomfort, which he knows that only the Lord can deliver him from. (“Take thy plague away from me, I am even consumed by means of thy heavy hand”). Towards the end of the psalm, he accepts that mortal life is only temporary, “for I am a stranger with thee and a sojourner as all my fathers were”, acknowledging that his life is as short, and is just as frail in the face of God as all the generations that have been before.  Finally, he asks that he might be delivered from his suffering and face his end with dignity before he dies: “O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I go hence and be no more seen.”

As well as the inescapable influence of the War, it is surely no coincidence that Parry did “go hence and be no more seen” shortly after finishing this piece of music (the ‘Songs of Farewell’ date from 1916-1918 and Parry died in 1918). Perhaps ‘Lord, let me know mine end’ was a personal prayer from someone who knew his days were numbered and, when his time came, wanted to die without suffering.

Lord, let me know mine end and the number of my days,
That I may be certified how long I have to live.
Thou hast made my days as it were a span long;
And mine age is as nothing in respect of Thee,
And verily, ev'ry man living is altogether vanity,
For man walketh in a vain shadow
And disquieteth himself in vain,
He heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them.
And now, Lord, what is my hope?
Truly my hope is even in Thee.
Deliver me from all mine offences
And make me not a rebuke to the foolish.
I became dumb and opened not my mouth
For it was Thy doing.
Take Thy plague away from me,
I am even consumed by means of Thy heavy hand.
When Thou with rebukes does chasten man for sin
Thou makest his beauty to consume away
Like as it were a moth fretting a garment;
Ev'ry man therefore is but vanity.
Hear my pray'r, O Lord
And with Thy ears consider my calling,
Hold not Thy peace at my tears!
For I am a stranger with Thee and a sojourner
As all my fathers were.
O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I go hence
And be no more seen.

Words: Psalm 39.5-15

One of Parry’s pupils at the Royal College of Music was Ralph Vaughan Williams who composed his anthem Lord, thou hast been our refuge in 1921, just three years after the War ended. Perhaps uniquely, Vaughan Williams sets two versions of the same text simultaneously. He sets words from Psalm 90 and also the hymn by Isaac Watts “O God, our help in ages past” which is based on Psalm 90.

The semi-chorus opens with an original tune before being joined by the full choir which sings the hymn tune 'St Anne', very slowly indeed. The hymn tune ‘St Anne’ was composed by William Croft in 1708 when he was the organist of the parish church of St Anne, Soho. It has remained popular to this day and is frequently sung at Remembrance services.

The all-powerful, unchanging God described in the opening verses is contrasted with the weak, mortal human condition described from verse 5, “As soon as thou scatterest them”. Mankind’s frailty is compared to the grass: “In the morning it is green and growth up, but in the evening it is cut down, dried up and withered”.

The organ finally enters, with an interlude that has the ‘St Anne’ hymn tune buried deep within. This builds to a climax at which the full choir enters, loudly declaiming the opening words of Psalm 90 that were heard quietly, by just the semi-chorus, at the start. The slow hymn tune is now stated in the organ, with the tune soloed out. Fragments of the ‘St Anne’ hymn tune come through as the “glorious majesty of the Lord” is extolled.

Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another.

Before the mountains were brought forth

or ever the earth and the world were made,

Thou art God from everlasting and world without end.

Thou turnest man to destruction; again Thou sayest:

Come again, ye children of men.

For a thousand years in Thy sight are

but as yesterday; seeing that is past as a watch in the night.

O God our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come.

Our shelter from the stormy blast,

And our eternal home.

As soon as thou scatterest them, they are even as asleep,

and fade away suddenly like the grass.

In the morning it is green and groweth up,

but in the evening it is cut down, dried up and withered.

For we consume away in thy displeasure,

and are afraid at thy wrathful indignation.

For when thou art angry, all our days are gone,

we bring our years to an end, as a tale that is told.

The days of our age are threescore years and ten:

and though men be so strong that they come to fourscore years,

yet is their strength then but labour and sorrow.

So passeth it away, and we are gone.

Turn thee again, O Lord, at the last.

Be gracious unto thy servants.

O satisfy us with thy mercy, and that soon.

So shall we rejoice and be glad all the days of our life.

Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another.

Before the mountains were brought forth

or ever the earth and the world were made,

Thou art God from everlasting and world without end.

And the glorious Majesty of the Lord be upon us.

Prosper Thou, O prosper Thou the work of our hands upon us.

O prosper Thou our handy work.

Words: Psalm 90 and Isaac Watts

INTERVAL

Amongst his works for organ, the first set of “Psalm-Preludes” make up Herbert Howells' Opus 32, and this first prelude from the set dates from 1915. Rather than being a formal prelude based on a pre-existing tune, like the chorale preludes of Bach or the hymn preludes by Parry, these pieces are more evocative meditations on specific verses of a particular psalm. This particular psalm-prelude is dedicated to Sir Walter Parratt, under whom Howells studied at the Royal College of Music.

The piece is based on Psalm 34, verse 6: “Lo, the poor crieth, and the Lord heareth him: yea and saveth him out of all of his troubles”. The general form of the prelude follows what would become a characteristic technique of starting quietly and building to a huge central climax, before gradually falling back in both texture and dynamic. The melancholy tune at the outset is the foundation of the entire prelude. It is in a minor key, with Howells' characteristic use of modal harmony to keep the harmonic movement flowing, and the use of the full range of expression available to the instrument makes this prelude a particularly effective composition. 

Looking at the verse provided, we can draw parallels to how the piece develops: the way the simplicity of the tune gradually builds in dynamic to the climactic arrival of the Lord, to the hushed yet hopeful ending in D major, where the poor has been delivered from his troubles.

The Requiem by Gabriel Fauré is one of the most popular large-scale choral works in the classical repertoire, second only to Handel's ‘Messiah’. That it is held in such affection is perhaps down to Fauré's attractive melodies, the timeless simplicity of the style, and the effectiveness of the organ accompaniment (reduced from the orchestral score).

Fauré began work on the Requiem in 1887, making it contemporary with the construction of Truro Cathedral. He was more than familiar with liturgical texts, as deputy for thirteen years to both Saint-Saëns and Dubois in their roles as principal organists at an important Parisian church, La Madaleine.

Originally consisting of five movements for an ensemble of SATB choir, organ, violas, cellos and basses, harp and timpani in 1888, it was premièred on 16^th January at the funeral of the architect Joseph Le Soufrache, under Fauré's direction. At this time, La Madaleine had a choir of men and boys, and a treble sang the now famous Pie Jesu, a tradition carried on in English cathedrals to this day. In 1889, the Offertoire was added, including the baritone solo beginning at “Hostias”. In 1890, he further added to the work by including the Libera me, which was originally a stand-alone composition for baritone and organ, written in 1877, and which completes the Requiem as we recognise it today. By the time it was performed in 1893, it had been reorchestrated, and parts for horn, trombone, bassoon and violin were added to the existing score.

The next major revision took place in 1900, when the instrumentation was further developed into a large, symphonic orchestra to cater for the concert tastes of the time. While grander orchestral in scale, this new arrangement added no new material – the new wind parts for flute, oboe and clarinet merely doubled existing lines. Through all these arrangements and additions the organ part has managed to survive unchanged. Even an instrument of modest resources is able to accompany the Requiem satisfactorily, the instrumental parts of the original 1888 version adding depth of tone and expression rather than any truly unique material. The expanded orchestral arrangement of the Requiem was performed at Fauré's own funeral in November of 1924, the 90^th anniversary of which will fall later this year. 

1 - Introit ‑ Kyrie

Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine: et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Te decet hymnus, Deus in Sion: et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem.

Exaudi orationem meam, ad te omnis caro veniet. Kyrie eleison.

Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.

Rest eternal grant them, Lord: and let light perpetual shine upon them.

Thou, O God, art worshipped in Sion, and unto thee shall the vow be performed in Jerusalem.

Hear my prayer, all flesh shall come to thee. Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

2 - Offertorium

O Domine Jesu Christe, Rex gloriae:

libera animas defunctorum de poenis inferni, et de profundo lacu, de ore leonis,

ne absorbeat tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum.

Hostias et preces tibi Domine laudis offerimus tu suscipe pro animabus illis,

quarum hodie memoriam facimus. Fac eas, Domine, de morte transire ad vitam.

Quam olim Abrahae promisisti et semini eius. Amen.

O Lord Jesus Christ, King of glory,

free the souls of the departed from the pains of hell and from the deep waters,

from the mouth of the lion, lest hell devour them and they fall into utter darkness.

We offer to thee, Lord, sacrifices and prayers;

do thou receive them on behalf of those souls whom we remember today.

Let them, Lord, pass from death to life,

which of old thou didst promise to Abraharn and his seed. Amen.

3 - Sanctus

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth.

Pleni sunt coeli et terra gloria tua. Hosanna in excelsis.

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of hosts. Heaven and earth are full of thy glory.

Hosanna in the highest.

4 - Pie Jesu

Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem.

Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis sempiternam requiem.

Blessed Lord Jesus, grant them rest.

Blessed Lord Jesus, grant them eternal rest.

5 - Agnus Dei

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona els requiem.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis sempiternam requiem.

Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine: cum sanctis tuis in aeternum, quia pius es.

Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine: et lux perpetua luceat els.

O Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world,

grant them rest. O Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world,

grant them eternal rest. Let light perpetual shine upon them,

with all thy saints for ever, because thou art merciful.

Rest eternal grant them, Lord: and let light perpetual shine upon them.

6 - Libera me

Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda:

Quando coeli movendi sunt et terra: dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem.

Tremens factus sum ego, et timeo, dum discussio venerit, atque ventura ira.

Dies illa, dies irae, calamitatis et miseriae, dies magna et amara valde.

Deliver me, Lord, from eternal death on that dreadful day,

when the heavens and the earth shall quake,

when thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.

I tremble and am afraid for the judgement and the wrath to come.

That day of wrath, of woe and tribulation, a great day of bitter grief.

7 - In Paradisum

In Paradisum deducant angeli in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres,

et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem. Chorus angelorum te suscipiat,

et cum Lazaro quondam paupere aeternam habeas requiem.

May the angels lead you to Paradise, may the martyrs receive you on your arrival,

and lead you into the holy city Jerusalem. May the choir of angels receive you, and,

with the former poor man Lazarus, may you have eternal rest.

Programme notes by Paul-Ethan Bright, edited by Christopher Gray

But wait, there's more!

Ah, the shape of things to come...

Later today, I'll be posting the first 'long form' piece, my programme notes for this evening's concert given by Truro Cathedral Choir.  As you may have read already, they are a key part of last week's self-inflicted madness.  As doubtful as I am that any professional effort might get noticed, I think it's important to remind people that I don't just write endless moans and adolescent hiaku, but once upon a time succeeded in the sphere of academic writing upon such learned subjects as, oh say classical English Organ building (although I never did find out just where Father Smith came from).  As always, I enjoy preparing notes for concerts, and once in my second year at University discovered that my recital partner and I had managed to sneak a recital theme into our recital theme, in a pleasing meta- episode.

Speaking of Organ building, I'm drafting (yes, actually drafting!) a piece inspired by listening to the newly-restored Royal Festival Hall organ on Radio 3 (GASP) last night.  Having worshipped at the altar of Neo-Classicsism before, stark in both aesthetic and tonal outlook, the sound of the RFH instrument immediately brought to mind not only how lucky we are at Truro to have kept our Willis in almost original condition, but just how excellent that monster pinned to the west end really is at Mancroft.  More to come...

Also, I've been thinking about inviting guest writers to contribute material.  Unlike my last blog, which truly was one man's sullen journey through a life he didn't really understand how to interact with, this blog is about accepting and managing my fears so I can move into the next phase of my life hopefully with confidence, and of course finally travel to America (details to follow).  Rather than be focused on one tag line that was tre parts in una, I like to think that the Asylum has many rooms; rather than feel disappointed in myself if I can't write another 1000+ word post a week about me and what feelings are locked up inside my head, I should at least give myself room to not have to.  I have many friends on whom I rely probably more than they realise, and I would wish to reflect that in allowing their voices to have place here, as well as day-to-day.    It's something I need to think about carefully though, as I don't even have anything approaching a regular schedule myself yet!  I don't want to suddenly publish stuff from another that we never hear or see again.  Hopefully, accepting scrips and submissions will help my own style, and may even help expand my fictional voice to actually making stuff up rather than just wishful thinking...

This is all navel gazing at this stage though, but seemingly witless aspirations have won before.  I mean, I would never have left home if I never thought I'd actually make it to Uni, and I probably would never have been appointed Lay Vicar if I hadn't taken the plunge and applied to the scholarship at Truro.  I will land on Oregon soil yet, as insane as it seems.  The biggest hurdle is the money at the moment, but at least some things never change!

One thing that I am more satisfied with is that I've actually expanded the pages, as you can see on the top bar.  Not too much, but enough to get connected...and enough to be less anonymous.  Another thing about growing up that most people seem to want to forget about is that you become more accountable for your own actions, as much as that distresses me ever so slightly, I must learn to live with it if I'm going to have any hope of a life I can be proud of.  Growing up sucks, huh?

TW3

  So... This week?  Jesus...
I'm not really sure where or even how to start: Tuesday to Tuesday's been pretty fraught, although most of the madness has been centred round the weekend.

Perhaps the start of my troubles was an over-estimation of my abilities, yes!  Hoisted by my own petard, and a first time for everything.  After the rave reviews of my programme notes for the Cathedral Choir's Christmas Concert (brought to you by the letter C), I was once again commissioned to produce the notes for the upcoming Lent concert.  Instead of being tied in to the season like the last one, this one is more the first round of performances concerned with the Great War of 1914 - 1918, the First World War.  The war that changed the face of modern warfare, during which we saw the invention of the Tank and Chemical warfare amongst other things, and was also responsible for a political reshuffle of mainland Europe and effectively ended an age of empires; while the sun may never set on the British Empire, the German, Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman and Russian Empires basically ceased to be, the effects of which contributed to the rise of communism and the invasion of Poland in 1939.  Now, I'm not here to go into this in detail (as you can probably tell), but it's all cause and effect, and should you wish to investigate further I advise taking a trip to your local library or perhaps completing a degree in War Studies at King's College London.

As I said, this is the first of many performances this year of the choir's commemorative repertoire.  Trinity's concert will see us present an expanded programme, using material from our recording project in May, and as I understand, most of November will be given over to events, services and concerts of remembrance.  To round out this coming concert, we're singing Gabriel Faure's well known and loved Requiem, alongside students from the local schools and colleges; it wouldn't surprise me at all if this was the first sowing of seeds for community events in November as well.  Anyway, I'm getting away from the point again!  For saying the concert is THIS Saturday (tickets available now), I only began work on the notes a week previous today... Whoops.  Even without the overarching subject of the War, the texts are far more involved than I could have expected, coming from heavyweight scripture or war poetry.  As could be well expected, I threw myself into a seemingly bottomless mine of information about the prophet Habakkuk, who exactly wrote psalm 90, BCP translations, what the connection between Brahms' and Faure's Requiems is, why St. Anne sounds just like Was mein Gott will, why Ps. 39 isn't about dying, and why everybody was in love with Rupert Brooke.  Suffice to say, it took more work than expected to turn this huge pile into anything worth presenting as a first draft, especially without getting bogged down in too much straight musical analysis.  

My favourite venue for writing was not the kitchen table, where I sit now, but Truro's most excellent coffee house, 108.  The only problem with sitting and drinking Latte after Latte for me is my Lactose intolerance, which almost gained sentience after being goaded with cup after cup of coffee.  People always tell me I should drink soy, but the thing is, life's too short for that bean curd as far as I'm concerned.  Obviously it doesn't taste like real milk, but the texture of hot soy milk isn't one I especially enjoy.  I'd rather run the risk of having to deal with some discomfort.  That said, I almost completely burned my digestion out last week, so maybe I ought to rethink at some point.

However, a coherent draft was sent and returned, and at that point I finally (at 1am, Monday(...) morning) worked out what I was trying to say about Psalm 39 all along, in the guise of Parry's monumental final Song of Farewell, Lord, let me know mine end.  In fact, Sunday was the next real point in the madness so let's turn our focus.  Really, it began on Saturday night with an impromptu couple of drinks that turned into a proper night out.  That said, I returned at an acceptable hour and drank a lot of water before retiring, making sure the front door was secured and then toddled off to bed.  At some point on this very night however, an unfortunate gained entry through the rear of the property (which has been left unlocked more often than not...), and proceeded to act in a very strange manner: ditching their boots at the stairwell, they then crashed into the dining room, dropping their purse and a handrolled cigarette.  After a little vomit, they pinched my black jacket and then exited through the front door, not pulling it locked behind them.  

The sudden realisation that somebody has been in your house that shouldn't have, hitting you not long after waking up, is something I'd advise you avoid.  2/10, would not repeat.  The Professor having left not long after half 7 or so, I was alone (OR WAS I), and finding a strange pair of boots on the floor lead to a sickening lurch into consciousness.  Casing the joint, I decided that the mystery visitor had already left, and locked the house down.  Now, as dreadful as it was had I found somebody, at least they would have been available to answer.  There was nobody in the bath, nothing disturbed in the spare bedrooms, not even any sign in the living room.  What?  At one point I even thought they might be asleep in the shed.  Although I picked up the purse and the cigarette, the rest lay undisturbed like some domestic crime scene, until my Landlord returned.  Of course, the next problem was that he doesn't carry a back door key, so once he got back (and I wasn't in), thus began a great backwards and forwards between here and the Cathedral looking for each other (by which point my stress had boiled over into anger), not withstanding that I couldn't get hold of the person I was supposed to be going with for sweet, sweet burgers (lunch at The HUB oh yes).  Christ.  At least the service went well!  Oh yes, that was the other thing: evensong's anthem was the aforementioned Parry, grand in 8 parts with, yes, you guessed it, just me singing the first choir alto line!  I can't really think of any sort of equivalent situation to compare it to, but basically, there's nowhere to hide.  Often there are exposed leads or tunes that are vital - there's no second chances either.  Add to the mix that I had woken up about three times between 5 and 7am with anxiety dreams about oversleeping, you can see why Sunday really could have just done on as far as I'm concerned. 

Thankfully, for me and possibly for you, yesterday was far calmer.  Well, except for the fact I didn't s get to sleep until 4am; I'm sure you can see how that might have an adverse effect.  Gradually it improved though!  Even the weather was on my side, allowing me to get the famous (or is that infamous?) chalk white legs out again.  I managed to print out a copy of Cards Against Humanity, a game where depravity is your friend... Even if it is organised fun.

As this insane few days has ended, I'm thankful that nothing really went badly wrong.  Don't worry, this isn't some heartwarming conclusion, but nothing was broken or damaged in any irreparable manner, I didn't have a huge fallout with anybody, and I spent most of the last 6 days writing.  And of course, it hasn't been boring, because there's nothing worse than being bored.  And the mystery invader?  Totally hammered after a night out, lost all their friends on the way... And just wandered in, completely by chance.  Drunk people will never cease to amaze me.

About the Author

After some years of running my last blog, I decided on posting an About the Author page, a list full of achievements, names, places and dates that made me seem like a basically competent musician, I suppose.  Actually, reading it back it makes me look a little dried out and boring.  This obsession with presenting an ideal face to the world, in order to please or impress as many people as possible has never been in fashion with me, and my experience over the past few months has been that it is utterly pointless when the cracks start to show.

I actually started to write that page as a joke.

It was actually surprisingly difficult, recalling facts, figures, dates and places in order to list them.  I don't keep records of that sort of thing.  The only thing I really keep a record of is my score library, spread as it is across several parts of this country.  Anyway, as I was saying... This list of times and dates and places, what did it really say about me?  What does it tell you of the character, of the capabilities and indeed the culpabilities of the author?  It's just like on my CV, having put down my degree (alongside several other qualifications), what does it really say?  That I went to University.  It says nothing about my struggles, my triumphs, what I enjoy or what I can bring to the table.  This is the thing though, in presenting this ideal face, that time for discussion isn't a priority.  It's all about facts and figures, things that can be objectively measured.  Sometimes with this approach in mind, it is difficult for me to remember that you are not your job, you're not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis.

But this is about me.  Not about you.  I'm still not my job, by the way.  I'm going to have a stab at what I think are the more important, character defining things here now.  I'm sure a more discrete list of data will pop up eventually...

The Author is Autistic.  This is probably the number one thing that informs my character, decision making, actions and all judgements.  What being autistic does for me is uniquely different from the next autistic person, don't forget.  For years I have pushed myself to appear "ordinary" to avoid awkward questions that make me anxious, or be shunned, simply for being different, which is an enormous, almost incomprehensible strain.  Of course, success has varied wildly over time, usually around people not being able to match up any discrepancies in my behaviour when things start to fall apart and perhaps I have a little panic attack, or perhaps somebody decides to wind me up for fun.  I usually keep away from knowing the major symptomatic behaivours, in case I start obsessing over every little thing that I do, analysing it IN CASE PEOPLE MIGHT THINK I'M AUTISTIC.

The Author is a Depressive.  Sad but true, I suppose.  It is rather self-destructive for me to talk about my depression, lest I get stuck in an ever decreasing circle and especially on a day like this where I need to be sociable and presentable... Not especially wise.  But... It still needs to be said.  It's not something I'm proud of, because I always think that I should be able to manage more and manage better than I can.  I've been... warned off anti-depressants by the anecdotal evidence: out of the five cases of those who have taken the pills, only one has had any success, but I wonder whether the added nicotine in their particular system has had something to do with that?  Just a thought.  Horror stories of panic attacks, violent outbursts and accidentally overdosing on other medication have proved to me that at this moment, dealing with my own problems under my own steam is the most constructive way forward.  Yes, I may have lived through 3 day panic attacks, but at least there was no chemical assistance in arriving there, that I may not have been able to fight through, and I came out of it on my own.  The Author is also an insomniac, which only exacerbates the matter.

The Author has never learned forgive himself.  Oooh.  Looks ominous, eh?  What possible occasion could have arisen that I will never ever forgive myself?  Just every day really.  As I said above, I always think I should be able to do better: to get out more, to apply for jobs every day regardless of setbacks, to ask people out... Actually just to be able to understand people's intentions without having to make a best guess would be a start.  Still, after years of trying, surviving university, and bungling through jobs in Truro, I don't exactly feel I'm really that far from where I started, that I should be doing better but aren't and since I'm the only person truly responsible for my actions and decisions then ultimately (drum roll please) it's all my fault!  At least the sheer anger of not succeeding keeps me going sometimes.  Other times it makes me take blame for things that aren't my fault, kind of looking for a quieter life - if you know whose fault it is, at least you don't have to argue about it.

But surely, in all these character faults there must be the odd gem, some factor to rescue the author from limitless self-destruction?

The Author has an impressively professional telephone manner.  This is brilliant actually, and amusingly one of my favourite things about working in the Cathedral office: nobody knows who I am!  Landlords, choir masters, fellow lay vicars and many more find I become completely unrecognisable (and also somehow more authoritative) when disguised by the telephone.  What's even funnier to me personally is whenever somebody rings me on my mobile and I greet them with the cheery salutation "Asylum South West", and they suddenly lose all confidence in what number they might have called.  Although thinking about it I might use my 'official' telephone voice, so at least they'll have reason to be confused.

The Author is the world's greatest unemployed glass collector.  Being the son of a former Publican, and also having worked as a waiter, the author is extremely aware of the egregious sins leveled against all members of the so-called"service industry", or "hospitality", as may be more familiar.  A solid reputation for being a heavy drinker but not a trouble maker, and also collecting spare glasses as and when they appear, which is far more useful than, well, not.  It's not perfect, but it's a start.  Also, the point of "don't be a dick to waiters" can't be said enough.  Even though things are usually peaceful at the Cathedral restaurant, there's been the odd problem customer, you know, people who come and order three cream teas in the middle of lunch, or kick up a fuss because perhaps the sofas sink a little too low... Be sensible.  We are not a furniture warehouse and we cannot magic up scones and teapots when everyone is busy taking food from the pass!  Shut up.

The Author is an impeccable dresser.  I actually for suggestions for positive things, and this was the one that came up the most.  Self-confessed dream of the 1890s, wearer of bow ties, cravats and master of the double four-in-hand, my reputation for three piece suits has lasted for years.  I started wearing a waistcoat to help hide my impossibly thin waist in VIth form - without one, wearing a suit became ridiculous, as I looked like a bag tied around the middle.  Not being financially blessed, finding these clothes can sometimes be difficult, but actually, having found most of my wardrobe and accessories in thrift shops and the like; I wear a Hardies Amies three piece suit, cut for Hepworths the Tailors: a beautiful English suit totally unlike the slim cuts and Italian off-the-rack suits common today.

The Author strives to do well.  Even though I may never truly learn how to forgive myself (and hey, if I'm taking my frustrations out on myself at least I'm not taking them out on anybody else), I do always try.  How hard I try is always split between how much effort I am actually putting in, and what people perceive, and quite often those two don't match up (see above).  As hard as it is to believe, I actually do wish to improve my life and feel like I'm making a positive contribution to the lives of others.  It's just that at the moment I seem especially aware that I'm not, and it really grinds on me.  You know, maybe sometimes I do do enough, but the hell if I can tell a lot of the time.  

The Author is old-fashioned.  Self-explanatory, really.  Wescoats, bows, and pocket watch aside, the author is a secret Tenor Banjoist.  I say secret, because I haven't played for quite a while now, almost four months.  Usually, I actually play the Bach 'Cello suites as I don't have any 'traditional' solo material to play knocking about: it's almost impossible to track down these days anyway, and not for free.   feel a bit bad saying that, as I did shell out for a professional standard instrument, so I really ought to invest in some genuine literature for it, but really I should find a Jazz band to prop up.  Also, the habits I grew up with as a chorister are now coming to fruition, and constant bad puns and watch-based jokes aside, bring me more in line with the disciplinarian attitudes of the Senior Lay Vicar, a veteran of some 35 years in this Cathedral Choir.  As we all know, I love mucking about at choir.  It'd be silly to deny it.  But in order to be able to misbehave, you have to put the work in.  I never think I'm any better than I am, and never try to play my skills up in front of ...anyone really.  Instead, dedication, application and just getting on with business as usual are the order of the day.  And after that?  Bad puns, "that's what she said", and the nefarious 'cock block'.  But not until you know what you're doing.

The Author is completely insane for publishing this sort of stuff in public view.  Goes without saying, really.  

Perhaps the most important thing in getting to know any author is actually just to read them, of course.  I have decided that half of my problem with writing is that I don't read enough these days: it's all tech websites and cookbooks, no real weight of prose or poetry.  I did make the mistake of reviewing some of  my very old posts from 2010 and yeesh were they bad already.  Consider the doors wide open now though, and I'll start work on my long form pieces that I've sketched out as well.  In exciting news I'm due to be published for the second time, having the responsibility of the Cathedral Choir's concert programme notes again.  It's only a short run, and most of the copies will probably get recycled buuuuuuuuuuut... It's my name at the bottom of the page after all!  Oh well.  Here's to a good weekend eh...

Back to Business

Well well well.  

I gave up writing a long time ago, because I basically fulfilled the terms of the Songman's Rest: it was started to keep me sane while I was a choral scholar at the Church of St. Peter Mancroft, and tide me over until I found a back row to call home again.  I had thrown myself into the deep end having moved off campus during my second year at the University of East Anglia.  I was struggling.  I didn't know how to manage almost anything in my life, and sought refuge by typing out my sorrows and hopes, dreams, fears, hatreds and deepest anger... And then publishing it on a semi-regular basis.  This process, on and off, lasted for three years and eight months, including a completely insane crawl through May last year, where I managed to publish almost every day.

The whole deal with that silly title was that I blamed part of my unhappiness on being "just" a choral scholar.  I understand now, of course, that this was completely ridiculous, but go with it for a little bit while I explain, okay?  I had a pretty large potato's worth of chip on my shoulder about not only having been a "Songman" at Derby Cathedral, but also having been told by a notable singing teacher that my voice would never fill a Cathedral... Huh.  I guess I'm still het up about that.  How about that?  Anyway.  That was basically the point, I wanted to get back to being a full time member of a Cathedral choir again, just like the good old days!  It was all a trick, somewhere I could retreat to and write whatever I liked.  Not really that many people read it in those days so I just about got away with anything.  Anyway, this is all a bit tawdry and dry, sorry.

In all honesty, all my struggles, failings, victories, gains and losses remain ultimately the same.  I am still hanging on by fingertips, somehow improvising into and out of scrapes with varying levels of success... But now I tie up the identity of the retreat with the new name at the top of the page.  Having ascended to the Lay-Vicarship of Truro Cathedral Choir in September of 2013, I have found my Songman's Rest once more!  But still... I haven't written for some 60 days now, and that's probably long enough.  One of the things that I started to forget as I reached the end of my tenure, was that writing was for me, and not for my audience.  I became more and more worried about people reading it and taking issue - something that didn't even bother me remotely when I started, all those years ago in that dingy living room.  I've almost forgotten what it's like to be an unpopular voice in a popular time, but recent tastes have reminded me that I shouldn't be afraid: it's as if I'm afraid of being myself... Which is probably the greatest root problem I have.  

So maybe that's the point of this blog?  To not be so afraid?  This might take forever really, a true lifetime's work, but at least if we start here, we can go somewhere.  And the silly title this time?  I cribbed it from a friend that I haven't spoken to in a long time.  Well, I always think of my head as an Asylum; part hospital, part prison, and all of my own making.  I have convinced myself out of more good things than you've had hot dinners, and really it's about bloody time I stopped doing that as well!  It's not always going to be pretty, and I hardly expect anybody to agree with me, but it'd be boring if I didn't at least spark off some controversy, however minor...

...and I can't stand to be bored.