Tag Archives: London Symphony Chorus

Meditating: a personal experience

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Monday morning.  When my alarm goes off it interrupts a seemingly interminable dream of the not-so-pleasant variety.

In the dream, I turn up at 7pm prompt ready to sing in a concert.  I open my bag to find that everything I expect to take out of it – my music, my concert clothes – are not there.  It seems that we are singing with a second choir who have things organised – they are able to offer me a black top with the regulatory below-the-elbows sleeves.  I ask if anyone has a skirt or trousers and several people tell me they’ll check – before disappearing into the dream ether.  I look around me and find the entire contents of my wardrobe seem to be at hand – except, that is, anything black.  7.30pm comes and I discover the concert doesn’t start until 8pm – I have an extra half hour to fill the gaps.  Except that I don’t manage to fill the gaps:  I just have more time in which to feel stressed and run around trying to find clothes and music unsuccessfully.

Waking, I notice how some details of the dream are totally true to life (the bag I open at the beginning of the dream is one I’m using a lot right now) and others are strangely off beam (I am always ready for a 7.30pm concert in time for our warm up, which is usually at about 6.40pm).  Others are, of course, figments of the dream-state imagination.  I also reflect that it’s not surprising to have had this dream at this time.  It’s not just that I am returning to work after a break and face the prospect of several weeks of busy-ness at work and in my hobby as a singer.  It’s also that in the past week my dreams have indeed been varied and vivid.

This seems to have been a side-effect of my time spent at Oxon Hoath on retreat.  This was a brief sojourn – I arrived on Tuesday afternoon and left after lunch on Friday.  Still, I have been meditating up to five times a day.  In the morning, I have done two full meditation rounds before breakfast, comprising ‘asanas’ (simple yoga exercises – not nearly as stretching as the one shown, though this photo tickled me rather), ‘pranayama’ breathing, meditation and a gentle return.  We have also meditated as a group before lunch and then, in the afternoon, I have enjoyed two more meditation rounds.

What does the meditation comprise?  After the preparatory asanas and pranayama breathing, I close me eyes and repeat a mantra that has been given to me by my teacher – over and over for a full twenty minutes.  The effect is a slowing and deepening of my breathing.  As my thoughts arise I simply let them go, returning to the mantra.  Sometimes my thoughts are active – a kind of inner chatter.  Sometimes, my mind is more still.

In our shared discussions, people get to ask all sorts of questions which range from questions about the experience of meditating to questions about the body of spiritual teaching from which the approach springs.  Questions about meditation can reflect or stimulate a certain anxiety (am I doing it right?) which spring from the belief that somehow there is such a thing as the perfect meditation to which we can all aspire.  It reminds me of discussions about sex, except that the word “transcend” replaces the word “orgasm”.  My teachers have always, however, highlighted that every experience is OK.

My own experience seems quite mundane in the moment – a gentle falling away of inner chatter and an increasing sense of peace.  It’s easy to tell myself that in some way I am falling short.  My vivid dreams tell me, though, that something is happening – some release of stress, perhaps, or a greater connection with self.  And if this is the result of just two days’ meditation, how much more is possible over time?  For doesn’t it make sense that, like exercise, the effects of meditating on a regular basis are cumulative, like exercise or gardening?

In truth, even the act of arranging my schedule to make it possible to meditate has an effect.  By doing this I am giving priority to a certain way of being, perhaps even to being over doing.  For to a greater or lesser extent, the act of meditating brings me to greater stillness within myself, or opens my awareness to the greater stillness that is already within.

Lessons in leadership from the conductor’s podium

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This article is one of two I offered this week for publication on Discuss HR.  Take a look to see which one got posted!
Recently, I reached a point when I could look back on half a lifetime as an active member of the London Symphony Chorus.  As such, I have enjoyed the extraordinary privilege of performing alongside many leading professionals whilst still being an amateur, enjoying my love of music whilst pursuing my career.  Today I take time to bring both interests together in order to ask:  what have I learnt about leadership as a member of the London Symphony Chorus?
In case you read Janice Caplan’s article last week, I preface this article by highlighting differences between the concert hall maestro and line managers in more traditional workplaces.  On a day-to-day basis, for example, it is our “voice reps” who ensure that we have enough singers for each concert and who will soon notice if attendance is poor.  Our music director, on the other hand, is attentive to the quality of our singing.  The re-audition is our only one-to-one though, as well as re-auditioning chorus members every three years, a good music director will attend to an individual’s contribution on an ongoing basis.
Conductors have a variety of relationships with us.  Some of them will work with us on a regular basis over a number of years whilst others will be rare partners in making music.  Some have inspired us to new heights in our music making whilst others have left such a poor impression that the queue to sing under their baton is perilously short.
Amongst the leadership qualities I notice conductors often show a life-time commitment to music-making.  Leonard Benstein, for example, died just weeks after we recorded his own work, Candide, in December 1989.  Sir Colin Davis, now in his 80s, conducted my parents many years before I first sang under his baton.
Some conductors are driven by a vision and, like musical entrepreneurs, spend many years in pursuit of their vision.  Whilst hindsight makes a career look easy, the truth is it takes hard graft, persistence and a tolerance of uncertainty to succeed.  Davis’ Wikipedia entrance references the “freelance wilderness” he himself described, beginning in 1949.  It’s only with hindsight that he’s become known as a great champion of the now much-loved music of Berlioz.  In a similar way, Richard Hickox worked hard to develop his reputation as a champion of British music, slowly earning the license to conduct and record works that were barely known and rarely performed.  The persistence of both men has afforded opportunities to me to sing an extraordinary breadth of music.
At the level at which we sing, conductors relentlessly pursue high standards as well as interpreting the music.  In his pursuit of musical perfection Hickox never finished a rehearsal early, for example, and Davis is consistent in urging us to sing slightly ahead of the beat and in encouraging us not to “chew” our vowels.  In rehearsal, such conductors show extraordinary attention to detail.  Still, the moment comes when it’s time to let go of refining the details and engage with the spirit of a piece.  In my early years with the Chorus, when Hickox was our music director, I appreciated his pep talk ahead of a concert, which helped me to step onto the platform with a strong sense of connection with the music.
The best conductors are themselves fine musicians and in this sense they lead by example.  If they’re not, it soon shows:  when one conductor repeatedly berated the chorus in rehearsal we were quick to notice that the error was his and slow to forgive him for his behaviour towards us.  The relationship between a conductor and musicians can be tricky and this is often a function of his (or her) world view and personal confidence.  Solti famously never worked with amateur musicians, for example, so that when we were scheduled to sing with him in 1997 we sang alongside professional singers.  In rehearsal his assistant conductor repeatedly asked to hear the ‘professionals’ and then the ‘amateurs’.  This was not a move which earned our respect even though we were thrilled to have the opportunity to sing with him (an opportunity thwarted by his death just days before the concert).
There are other ways in which conductors lead by example.  The conductor is, for example, the visual centre-point for the audience as well as for all the musicians.  If (s)he slips, there’s nowhere to hide.  What’s more the conductor is the chief interpreter of the score, and every performance carries his personal stamp:  no critic expects to write “great performance – except for the conductor”.  I vividly remember a performance of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, conducted by Daniel Barenboim at London’s Royal Festival Hall.  It’s rare for me to be carried away by a performance of Beethoven’s 9th – it is too frequently performed and uncomfortably and persistently high in the voice.  Barenboim stood on the podium and barely moved a muscle in a performance that had everyone involved completely spellbound.  His was the courage to do something that is rarely (if ever) done and to risk the extremes of success and failure.  More recently, Martyn Brabbins showed a different kind of courage when he conducted Havergal Brian’s rarely performed Gothic Symphony, conducting 800 singers and 120 orchestral players as well as soloists.
Some of the conductors whose leadership I have most enjoyed have inspired me with their love and generosity.  It has always been a pleasure to sing under the baton of Antonio Pappano.  I always think ‘ice cream seller’ when I work with Pappano.  At the same time, more than any other conductor, he radiates a quality I can only describe as love – for the music he conducts and for the people he works with.  I feel safe in his care as well as inspired to perform from a place of deep connection with the music.  How can I do anything other than give of my best?
As it happens, Pappano was Barenboim’s assistant at the Bayreuth Festival some years ago:  leadership in the world of music includes nurturing the next generation.  I remember watching one quietly understated act of sponsorship some years ago, when the chorus was rehearsing Mahler’s 8th Symphony alongside the National Youth Orchestra under the baton of Sir Simon Rattle.  Part way through the rehearsal Rattle signalled to the young timpanist to take his place on his podium so that he could walk back into the hall and listen to the assembled forces.  I remember thinking that this was no accident – that this was as much about sponsoring this young man in the role of conductor as it was about any need to test the balance of sound from chorus and orchestra.  (And yes, I was delighted to watch the young man concerned, Robin Ticciati, make his debut conducting the London Symphony Orchestra at the Barbican).
So, vision, commitment, pursuing high standards, leading by example, love and generosity – these are some of the qualities it has been my privilege to observe amongst conductors.  What qualities do you observe – and appreciate – amongst leaders inside and outside the world of work?

Going Gothic

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We did it!  Nine choirs (including three youth choirs), four soloists, a rather large orchestra (circa 120 players, subdivided into smaller orchestras and brass bands) and Maestro Martyn Brabbins:  together, we performed Havergal Brian’s Symphony Number 1, the Gothic Symphony on Sunday, 17th, July, 2011 at London’s Royal Albert Hall.

It’s about thirty years since it was last performed in the UK (and yes, a scattering of singers in our midst sang at that last performance).  It may be thirty more years before it’s performed again.  The sheer scale of the piece (and attendant costs) make it a major undertaking to bring it to the concert hall.  Even in the Royal Albert Hall, the stage has to be extended to accommodate the performers.

No doubt the audience comprises fans of this little known composer and a whole load of “musos” – especially composers, curious about such an audacious piece.  There is a sense of excitement and curiosity at the beginning of the concert.  Even amongst the performers there are many who have not yet heard the whole piece.  The choristers have not yet heard, for example, the first movements of the piece which are purely orchestral.  Nor have we heard the soloists in full.

There are many surprises.  A glockenspiel solo in the early movements takes my breath away.  Surely it’s the percussionist’s dream – an opportunity to show both the full range of the instrument and the skills and panache of the performer as well as to bring this music to its audience.  It would bear hearing again.  Susan Gritton is superb as she sings from the distant heights of the Royal Albert Hall, requiring a steely confidence as well as fine tone.  She has plenty of both.  Even in the midst of the choir I enjoy the stereophonic effects as different singers sing their separate parts.  I am full of admiration and respect for Martyn Brabbins for taking on a challenge of epic proportions.  (In an introduction to the piece by musicians in Brisbane, Australia, entitled The Curse of the Gothic Symphony, one person describes it as “the musical equivalent of climbing Everest, trekking to the South Pole, sending a man to the moon”).

To reach this point is the culmination of a long journey.  As one of the singers, I am aware that I have joined the road after many miles have already been travelled and still, it’s been hard work.  In the end, the response of my colleagues varies, from those who are glad to be done with this abominable piece to the (albeit tiny minority) who are truly elated.  I sit somewhere in between:  I am totally thrilled to have had this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to perform this piece.  It has taxed me, yes.  It has intrigued me, yes.  I would certainly sign up to sing it again, with all its strange quirks.

Above all, I celebrate this rare opportunity to showcase Britain’s rich choral tradition.  Even without Harvergal Brian, this has been a rare opportunity to bring together a dedicated population of amateur singers and we have collaborated with a great spirit of cooperation and respect.

Now though, it’s definitely back to business.  The ladies of the London Symphony Chorus have a break now, and I’m glad of it.  If you’d like to hear the performance you can follow this link to find a recording.  I’ll be resting my vocal chords and – for a while at least – writing about other things.

Musings at the start of the week

About Dorothy,

Monday morning.  I’ve been all round the houses this weekend – to a school visit on Friday as part of the Pearson Teaching Awards judging team (and when the visits are national they can be a long way away), to my niece’s Hen Party in Bristol on Saturday (catching up on Friday night with a treasured friend) and then to Birmingham on Sunday to join 599 other singers in our first joint rehearsal of Havergal Brian’s Gothic Symphony, which we’ll be performing on Sunday 17th July, 2011 as part this year’s series of Prom Concerts at the Royal Albert Hall.

So, it’s been quite a weekend!  I wish I could say more about my school visit on Friday and – because I am committed to the judging process and want to maintain confidentiality – I can’t.  My niece’s hen party was a blast as well as a reflection of so much that makes her who she is (and her parents the ones who have and continue to nurture her).  We have a buffet lunch as her guests – circa 35 assorted friends and family – gather in Bristol before going on a treasure hunt around Whiteladies Road, gathering answers in response to a whole load of clues and ending up with afternoon tea, scoring, prizes and much hilarity.  We get changed for dinner before a boat trip and then supper – a rather wonderful and ample supper – in a Chinese restaurant tucked away somewhere near the harbour.  On Sunday morning I catch the first train to Birmingham to sing.  It isn’t early – 9.30am from Bristol – and it isn’t fast, meandering cross country on it’s way to Brum.  Not early – though it seems like it!  The last few days have involved early starts and late finishes and they’re catching up with me.

Our performance next Sunday will be only the 6th performance of Brian’s Gothic Symphony since he completed it in 1951 and tickets have been sold out for some time now.  Why so rarely performed?  Members of the Havergal Brian Society will certainly protest at any suggestion that it is because this music is in any way lacking.  Rather, the symphony requires huge forces (including 6 – 800 singers, 190 orchestral players and soloists) a venue which can house both performers and an audience, funding and a conductor who is sufficiently audacious (or mad) to undertake to conduct such a complex and demanding piece.

As I travel back from Birmingham after our rehearsal I reflect on those people who are prepared to take on something which others have not – or only rarely – dared.  The composer, in sharing his or her work, faces the unknown in terms of the response s/he may get – a response which may change over time.  What may seem mad to some inspires the admiration of others.  And at the time of creation there is no knowing what the life story of a piece may be, including the life-story of the composer’s own relationship with his or her work.

This is, of course, true for us all.  This has been amply illustrated this weekend as the demise of the News of the World follows revelations whose impact reverberates far beyond the empire of Rupert Murdoch.  It seems to me that many people have their hands dirty right now – the journalists who hacked phones, the leaders (Rebekah Brooks, Andy Coulson) on whose watch they acted, the police who took money in exchange for information, the police who decided not to investigate, David Cameron… the list goes on and on.  Our actions follow us long after we have taken them.

The response of some is to look around them, seeking to determine what will be acceptable and taking care to be above reproach.  This strategy is utterly exhausting and largely ineffective – with so many people out there and with such diverse views there is always a judge.  And still, it takes courage to do the best we know how in a given moment, knowing that those who set out to judge may have little or no understanding of our aims and intentions.  The more ambitious the aims, the more we expose ourselves to judgement, to possible failure and perhaps, worst of all, to insignificance.  We all want to make a difference.

Speaking candidly about Candide

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Soon after I joined the London Symphony Chorus it was my privilege to perform Leonard Bernstein’s Candide under the leadership of the great man himself. This experience was captured on camera by Deutsche Grammophon and I still have the DVD.  You can find extracts on YouTube (my, we were younger then!)

Approaching a performance some 20-plus years later a certain nostalgia sets in amongst members of the chorus and the London Symphony Orchestra as we share memories and recollections.  They are not all flattering to Bernstein who was not always an easy man – one soprano reminds me of how critical he was of our then pianist in rehearsal.  I recall Bernstein smoking on the concert platform during rehearsal and remember how staff had to approach him to ask him to stop.  We all remember how the cast was besieged by flu.  At the same time, many memories are treasured.  This was our last performance with Bernstein who died soon after.  The cast was superb.  Even some of our own chorus members had solos to sing.

These memories don’t augur well for our present-day conductor, Kristjan Jarvi though he may not know it, predisposing us to make comparisons and to resist his approach.  This is coupled with a certain pre-concert anxiety which compounds the effect:  we look for clearer directions than we are given (especially as we are asked to make movements, grappling with our scores, watching the conductor and dying… dancing… waving).  And even as we get clear about those movements we wish for more rehearsal time than we have.

Come the night, though, everything comes together and we – I at least! – enjoy ourselves hugely.  Our present day cast is also superb.  Rory Kinnear as narrator holds the story and engages the audience so that we are laughing from the very beginning and don’t stop until we have finished the piece.  Andrew Staples in the role of  Candide has the kind of guileless quality the role demands.  Kiera Duffey, as Cunegonde, puts on a superb performance of the song Glitter and Be Gay, scaling the song’s great heights with ease as well as conveying its comedy.  Kim Cresswell throws all vanity to the wind to give a hilarious performance in the role of the old lady.

Can we forgive Jarvi for not being Bernstein?  In the end it is the old man who prevails – not necessarily as a conductor but because he composed this wonderful piece with the same quality of tunes-manship that we enjoy so much in West Side Story and with orchestration which adds to the beauty of every note.  So, it will take something more from Mr Jarvi to usurp him.

Oh!  And PS:  we award “man of the match” to David Jackson, percussionist, for his athletic sprints between various instruments in the piece’s overture.

    

Bringing the Italian to Britain’s shores

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Saturday, 16th April, 2011.  I am at Manchester’s Bridgewater Hall with fellow members of the London Symphony Chorus to sing Verdi’s Otello with Italian Conductor Gianandrea Noseda.

Whilst it’s not the first time I have sung Otello, it is the first time I have sung under Noseda’s baton.  On Monday he joined us in London for our piano rehearsal.  (This is the first time the choir and conductor come together to rehearse the piece before joining forces with the orchestra and soloists for the tutti rehearsals and then the concert itself).  Noseda’s train from Manchester is delayed and our time with him is brief.  It is, though, enough for us to realise that he is going to take this piece at quite a speed and also to experience his use of humour as a way to illustrate the points he wants to make.  This is a rehearsal which stimulates curiosity and excitement.  On Friday, we travel by train to Manchester – just as the City’s football fans are travelling south for a historic encounter in the FA Cup between Manchester City and Manchester United.  We are in good time for our first tutti at the Bridgewater Hall.

Verdi’s music speaks for itself, addressing both light and shade in the turbulent story of Otello and his wife Desdemona.  The early expressions of love between the two are balanced by the dark scenes that unfold as Otello becomes increasingly convinced of his innocent wife’s unfaithfulness and, ultimately, kills her in his rage.   Throughout the story the audience has access to more information than any one of the characters and experiences the discomfort of knowing of Iago’s treachery, of Desdemona’s purity and innocence and of Otello’s susceptibility.  Those of us who know the piece are looking forward to moments of poetry and drama, including the scene in Act 3 when Otello changes from loving husband to a man filled with rage, Desdemona’s response when her husband flings her to the floor in the same Act and, in Act 4, her expression of her premonition of her death and the famous “Willow Song”.

Even in rehearsal the soloists delight.  Barbara Frittoli is convincing in the role of Desdemona and her voice is exquisite.  Clifton Forbis (in the role of Otello) stimulates just a little jealousy amongst the tenors of the chorus for his fine tenor voice.  Lado Ataneli (in the role of Iago) draws attention for his flamboyant acting and equally flamboyant hair.  Any concert performance of opera has limitations and at the same time many moments are carefully staged to convey the drama of the piece.

There is another aspect to our experience for, whilst Noseda is new to us, he is well known to members of the BBC Philharmonic with whom he has been working since 2002 and tonight is his final concert in the role of Chief Conductor.  You would not know this from the way he conducts for, as much as he brings humour – comedy even – to the process of rehearsal, his performance in the concert is totally committed.  (So much so that his vocal expressions remind me of John McEnroe in his Wimbledon days).  At the same time, at the close of the performance I watch Noseda kiss the score from which he has been conducting and embrace some of the key players of the orchestra, and I listen to the response of the audience as they applaud and cheer.  It seems to me that there is an intimacy in Noseda’s gestures which is rarely seen on the concert platform, let alone more widely amongst leaders.

As much as Otello conveys the drama of our human lives, Noseda reminds us that to lead is to commit – to give ourselves fully to something even whilst knowing that we cannot predict the response of others, and in this way to be vulnerable in our visibility.  This is leadership as an act of faith.  And everything that makes us human is with us in this act of leadership, whether or not we dare to own it and to reveal it, willingly, to others.

PS  If you’d like to hear our performance of Verdi’s Otello, tune into Radio 3 at 3pm on Thursday, 2nd June, 2011.

  

An evening of Terrible singing

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Reading the programme notes in Prokofiev’s Ivan the Terrible I get lost in questions of this and other composers’ relationship with the regimes of which their music speaks and of just how many versions exist of this piece, which  is fashioned from Prokofiev’s music for the film of the same name.  I think I’ll leave such thoughts with David Gutman, author of the programme notes.

As a member of the choir, I have been grappling in a far more intimate way with the challenges of learning the piece, along with my fellow singers.  I think of the well-trodden phrase “a bad workman always blames his tools” even as I think of the score we worked from, with words and music which were, at best, hard on the eye – and that’s before we even attempted the Russian.  We have been “note bashing” and – come to that – “word bashing”, with the help of Natalie as our chorus master, Alex (“Sacha”), our language coach and Roger on the piano.  We have been through our usual phases along the way, wondering if we’ll ever get there – even as our first tutti rehearsal approached, we were still learning corners of the work and coming to grips with the words.

On Friday, we had our first encounter with Xian Zhang, our conductor for the piece.  She is that rare creature, a female conductor, and, as such, the object of our curiosity.  I creep in late for the piano rehearsal and cannot see her from my place at the edge of our awkwardly shaped room.  Nor can I see just how diminutive she is in size.  At the same time, she is like a ball of energy – her presence is so much larger than her physical size.  Right from the beginning I find myself enjoying her approach.  Her energy and enthusiasm combine with clear instructions to the choir, orchestra and soloists.  Where some conductors would tread discreetly in their dealings with the soloists, she is open in giving her instructions so that I have a sense that we are all equals here.

As our first tutti unfolds so do the joys of the piece and of experiencing the work of my fellow performers.  Early on the men rehearse Feodor Basmanov’s Song with Russian bass Alexei Tanovitsky.  He turns to face the men so that they can hear each other, opening his arms wide.  His is not the energy of one who is trying hard to get things right.  Rather, his is the energy of one who sings and enjoys.  He does.  And so do we.  In the same movement Anthony Stutchbury, a member of our tenor section, is charged with providing a shrill whistle in several places and takes instruction from Xian Zhang.  David Jackson, a member of the percussion section of the London Symphony Orchestra is also charged with providing a shrill whistle in the next movement and I smile as he puts his fingers in his mouth in preparation, thinking of all those years of musical education.

Despite its themes, which include a good measure of violence as the men of the choir commit to a Russia forged on the bones of her enemies, the piece is above all – for me at least – tuneful.  One colleague hears echoes of Chopin and Rimsky Korsakov.  Another highlights a flavour of Orff’s Carmina Burana.  I confess that I finally work out that the rhythm which catches my attention early on is reminding me of the song Love and Marriage (go together like a horse and carriage…). And the broad sweep of the orchestra at the beginning of the Song about the Beaver reminds me of Nancy singing As Long as He Needs Me in the musical Oliver.  Somehow it doesn’t do to leave the concert singing Love and Marriage…

Sometimes, by the time the concert comes, my best moments have already come and gone.  This evening though, I relish every moment of this lively and spirited music.  I enjoy my own singing (including the occasional “extra” as I join the altos – why should they have all the best lines?).  I enjoy the orchestra.  I enjoy my fellow singers.  I enjoy the soloists.  And above all, I enjoy the conducting of Xian Zhang.

As I walk away on my way home I feel fulfilled, alive.  Who could ask for more?

Mahler’s Third Symphony: all in a day’s work for the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra

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Sir Simon Rattle and the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra at Royal Festival Hall for their London residency
Sometimes, the experience of going to see a film that has been highly praised by the critics leaves you feeling curiously disappointed – hungry even, yearning for something more.  I ponder this as Sir Simon Rattle steps onto the podium to conduct Mahler’s Third Symphony at London’s Royal Festival Hall. Rattle will be conducting the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra which has the reputation of being the very best orchestra in the world.  How much better, I wonder, can the world’s “best” orchestra be than so many other world class orchestras with whom I have had the privilege to sing as a member of the London Symphony Chorus?
For I am here as a member of the London Symphony Chorus, and as a result I have a seat at a concert which has been sold out for who knows how long.  In the midst of Mahler’s Third Symphony there is a brief and intensely beautiful alto solo which is, in turn, accompanied by ladies and children’s chorus.  With efficiency and compassion Rattle rehearsed the choir (the BBC Singers, ladies of the London Symphony Chorus and the boys choir of Eltham College) at the beginning of the morning’s tutti rehearsal and sent us on our way so that I do not know how the orchestra will perform across the grand sweep of this epic piece.
The concert begins with an hors d’oeuvre of two short pieces sung with great confidence by ladies of the BBC Singers before the concert’s “main course” begins.  I notice I am searching the filing cabinet of my Mahler 3 experiences in order to make comparisons and quickly decide to let go of experiencing this work through the filter of my intellect in order to surrender to my experience of this performance.  I am not disappointed.
Listening to the wide sweep of the symphony’s lengthy first movement, I am struck by something that goes beyond fine playing, even whilst wondering how many hours of study, practice, playing and performance are reflected in the exquisite playing of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra.  It seems to me that there is an intensity in the performance which comes from Rattle’s attention to the music’s every nuance as well as from the orchestra’s total commitment to their performance.
Seated as I am next to the boys of the Eltham Choir as they sniff, cough, fart and fidget I am aware of just how long a sit it is for them and still, I am barely distracted from the music.  And when our time comes to sing I am aware of how Rattle’s rehearsal has prepared us all – combining a lightness of touch with both confidence and precision for our brief performance.
Some time before the performance ends I find that I am experiencing something akin to the deep stillness I sometimes experience when I meditate – when I am present to everything that is around me even whilst experiencing a deep stillness within.  This has been an experience I cannot begin to render in words, one that I do not wish to discuss when, eventually, I leave the concert platform.
There is a moment of stillness as the piece ends which is quickly punctured when a member of the audience calls out “bravi!”  The audience is ecstatic, with fulsome applause as more and more people rise to their feet.  One of the boys of the Eltham Choir savours this word – “Bravi!  Bravi!” – like a new sweet he is tasting for the very first time.
I notice how Rattle not only acknowledges the performers, including individual members of the orchestra but thanks them, striding through their ranks to speak personally with those who have played some of the solos.
It’s hard to believe that, for these guys, this is all in a day’s work.  For me, it was far from an every day experience. 

Enjoying the kingdom of heaven on earth

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Qui cantat, bis orat
Saint Augustine

Days after two Sky News sports commentators are sacked from their jobs for sexism, I find myself wondering, as the Barbican’s staff bring out flowers for Susan Gritton and Sarah Connolly, if our culture will ever change to include equality in this tiny detail between male and female soloists.  This is the least of my thoughts, however, as I savour the experience of singing Elgar’s The Kingdom at the Barbican under the baton of Sir Mark Elder.

The path that has brought me to this moment is a long one – much longer, of course, than the flurry of rehearsals that has prepared us for this concert.  In our opening rehearsal, for example, I find myself thinking of my first experience of singing The Kingdom under the baton of Richard Hickox, with whom we recorded this work in the late ’90s.  The memory stimulates the sadness that comes with the premature loss of a man who was so passionate about his work, a sense of loss which is in itself a celebration of this great musician and champion of British music.

I think, too, of my father, for whom both music and the teachings of the Bible were a healing and spiritual balm.  I don’t know if he ever sung this piece, which is not frequently performed.  I do, though, imagine that he would have loved it, both for its grand choral sweep and for the poetry of its Biblical concerns.  Certainly, as our rehearsals proceed, I find myself thinking of the piece as an evocation of heaven on earth.  If it is not here yet it is at least possible.

As the rehearsals proceed Joseph Cullen, our Music Director, seems content – one might almost say uncharacteristically content – with our progress.  Come the concert I find myself sitting next to a colleague who has noted in her score the moment when Joseph told us we were perfectly balanced and in tune.  Joseph has been diligent in passing on direction from Sir Mark Elder ahead of our first rehearsal with him, known as the piano rehearsal.  I have not sung with Sir Mark before and I enjoy both his attention to detail and his lightness of touch (though even in the performance his instruction to pronounce the word knowledge with an “i” – as in “knowlidge” – makes me think of London’s black cab drivers).  Yes, we are working to achieve high standards and still this does not need to be – is not – dour, let alone a battle ground.

The arrival of the soloists and the London Symphony Orchestra at our tutti rehearsals is itself like the arrival of heaven on earth.  Susan Gritton stands out for her delicate and masterful singing which is showcased in Elgar’s exquisite aria, The Sun Goeth Down.  With such a beautiful voice, why is she not better known?  Sarah Connolly and Iain Paterson also sing masterfully and Stuart Skelton, struggling with a chest infection and saving what he has for the concert itself, also sings with great beauty even whilst clearly struggling.

As much as there is an audience on the day, I am here because I love to sing and I do.  Elgar himself remarked that his choral writing was much improved by the time he wrote The Kingdom and it is indeed wonderful, its dramatic intensity reflected in its dynamic range and in the various moods and colours he conjures.  If only we were sitting next to the tenors I would gladly join them in singing the passages that are written for men’s voices but we’re not so, after indulging myself in the rehearsals, I let the men do their job on the day.

I am often struck by the disproportionate response of the audience to the chorus and Sunday is no exception.  As Joseph brings us to our feet the applause increases and is reinforced by cheers.  I am glad of this and at the same time I celebrate the orchestra’s vivid and vigourous performance and think of the stamina and commitment needed not only to reach this standard of musicianship but also to maintain it.

If the response of the audience is anything to go by, the reviews of this concert will be highly supportive.  For my part I am reminded, once again, of the great privilege (or should that be “privilige”?) of singing, as an amateur, alongside some of the world’s finest musicians.

This is indeed heaven on earth.

    

Breathing out before I breathe in

All articles,

Monday evening, 3rd January 2011.  Today is a Bank Holiday in the United Kingdom since New Year’s Day fell on a Saturday.  As I write the bulk of the UK’s working population is preparing for the year’s first day back at work.

I have been preparing, too.  I have a session with a coaching client on the afternoon of my first day back which includes looking at feedback from her colleagues and I have taken time to review the feedback.  I have also been clearing out some of the e-mails which have landed during the holiday.

My preparations have been gentle and slow as I just about make it into first gear.  I am slowly recovering from a cold which I put down to my outbound flight to Copenhagen on Boxing Day (all those shared germs).  Even as I write I also recognise that I was susceptible at this time – the germs came and I said “yes, please come in”, as if my body knew to invite me to rest for a few days and to let everything wait.

As I have done many times before I think of the vocal coach I worked with, alongside my colleagues in the London Symphony Chorus.  Although I struggle to remember her name right now I do remember a key learning I took from our work together and whose application goes way beyond the art and craft of singing:  sometimes you have to breathe out before you breathe in.