Sometimes, the experience of singing is so rich that it’s hard to know what to write following a concert – so many threads to be followed, so much that could be said.

Of our concert on Sunday (Haydn’s Seasons) it’s true to say that I didn’t anticipate at the beginning of our rehearsal schedule the joy I would experience in singing this piece for the first time, as the early grind and impossible “note bashing” of our early rehearsals (“will I ever get my head around this piece?”) gave place in time to the deep delights of performing it under the beloved baton of Sir Colin Davis and alongside the exquisite singing of our three young soloists, Miah Perrson, Jeremy Ovenden and Andrew Foster-Williams.

It is not unusual, when we sing a piece that is not part of our ongoing repertoire, for the chorus to come to our first rehearsal with the conductor with anxieties about our preparedness.  This was true last week when it seemed to us that there were corners of the piece we had barely sung before.  And still, during our final week we rehearsed every day and grew in confidence.  And when we grow in confidence we often grow to love the piece we are singing as I did Haydn’s Seasons.

There were moments of humour, too.  When we sang our pleas for rescue from the summer storm (“Wo ist Rettung!”) our dramatic intent was just a little too dramatic for Joseph Cullen, our Chorus Director, who reminded the sopranos that we were not singing Tosca.  Sheepishly, a number of us confessed to each other during our break that we wondered if this remark was addressed at us (“was it me?”)  And because I know I have one of the larger voices of the section I was quite happy to come back after a rehearsal break to find a leaflet for Tosca perched on my score (thanks, Eileen!) and to pipe down just a little when Joseph let me know that yes, I could be heard above the rest of the section.

It would be a great omission to write without mentioning our regular partners, the London Symphony Orchestra.  I particularly noticed the commitment of the orchestra’s leader who could be seen (and heard) practising some of the intricacies of the piece in the breaks and whose exhortations to the players revealed a passion to go way beyond simply playing the right notes at the right time.  (If only our national football team could play under such a coach!)

Our own coaching included some fine tuning by Norbert who brought a singer’s understanding of what it takes to project the German text as well as a native speaker’s knowledge of the language.  Amongst the vocal coaches we have worked with Norbert stands out as being both fun and effective to work with.

So, as I write, I am still singing extracts from this piece I have come to know and love in recent weeks and I find myself relfecting on the deep sense of priviledge I continue to feel after half a lifetime (yes, half my lifetime) of singing as a member of the London Symphony Chorus.

Even as I yearn to catch up with last week’s sleep deficit, my gratitude is heartfelt.

Sometimes, I have reasons to remember a concert long after it has passed so that a light touch in the present evokes my memories of years gone by.

One concert that remains vivid in my memory is a performance of Mahler’s 8th Symphony in which I sang as a member of the London Symphony Chorus in 2001 – or thereabouts. We sang in the Birmingham Symphony Hall under the baton of Sir Simon Rattle and alongside the National Youth Orchestra.

It was a special occasion for me because my nephew, Edward Nesbit, was a young composer that year with the National Youth Orchestra, a sign that his early interest in composing held some promise and (I confess) a matter of auntly pride. It was also a pleasure, as always, to have the opportunity to catch up with Paul Keene, who is Director of Programming and Projects at Symphony Hall. I sang under Paul’s baton as a member of the Peterhouse Chapel Choir during my days at Cambridge.

There is another memory that is vivid in my mind from that day. I suspect that other members of the chorus will remember it, too. In the midst of our tutti rehearsal, Sir Simon Rattle asked a member of the orchestra to take his place at the podium so that he could step back and listen to the orchestra. As Rattle walked back into the depths of the hall the young timpanist, Robin Ticciati, took up the baton and conducted. Even as I write I feel the goosebumps that I felt then at the realisation that this was a young man whose bright future was already visible – something to be nurtured and celebrated.

Times move on. My nephew, Edward, has continued the courageous and uncertain path of a composer and is currently studying at Kings College, London. You can read about him and hear some of his music at www.edwardnesbit.com. And on Thursday 25th March, Robin Ticciati will be making his LSO debut at the Barbican, conducting Sibelius, Lindberg and Grieg.

I’ll be there.

Show me a man who says he doesn’t like classical music and I’ll show you someone who doesn’t yet know what he likes. Why else would ‘Carmina Burana’ be so widely used by advertisers and television producers? Why else were the ‘three tenors’ so popular when they came together in 1994 to sing in concert?

We all like classical music. As a member of the London Symphony Chorus I can tell you that you wouldn’t always know it when you’re in the concert hall at the Barbican: so many audiences are white, middle aged and middle class (yes, I guess that’s me!) It’s hardly a representative cross-section of our deliciously diverse population.

So I loved the video that reached me this week (thanks, Arabella!) of a live opera performance in a market in Spain, the Opera en el Mercado. I confess that to watch it touched me – brought tears to my eyes.

And I smiled to read the banner which was raised at the end of this brief performance: Ves como te gusta la opera? See how you like opera?

Sometimes, it’s all in the framing.

Performing the world premiere performance, in April 2008, of James MacMillan’s St. John Passion was an exhilarating experience – how often does one get to perform a work of such magnitude knowing that every single performer is performing it for the very first time? MacMillan’s rhythms terrified me, his harmonies challenged and at times entranced me, the rich textures of his music stimulated as many responses as there were chorus members across the London Symphony Chorus.

Returning two years later to rehearse this piece marked the beginning of an altogether different experience. For whilst the piece is no easier to master second time around, it has something of the ‘known quantity’ about it. By the time we embarked on our tutti rehearsals with Sir Colin Davis and the London Symphony Orchestra I had a sense of confidence – not so much that I would get everything right but that, at least, I knew what I could handle and where my challenges lay.

By Sunday’s performance I was delighted to discover that there were passages I could sing almost by heart, leaving me free to keep eyes glued to Sir Colin’s beat as he guided us through MacMillan’s alternate accelerandi and rallentandi. And with less energy metabolising in the form of sheer fear, my attentions were able to wander more broadly across the music and my experience of it.

I am no music critic. And so I say with all humility how much I admire MacMillan’s ability to echo the tradition and beauty of liturgical chant through his setting of the narrative for a small chamber choir whilst also bringing great drama and a thoroughly modern idiom to the orchestra and to the voices rendered by the large chorus. This is a work of great beauty and dramatic intensity. Midway through the concert I suddenly recognise the likelihood that this will, in years to come, inhabit a place in the repertoire alongside many other choral greats.

And as I write I reflect on what it takes to embark on the path MacMillan has followed let alone to have reached this point, recognising the deep commitment that is needed to tread this path and how little certainty there is of finding one’s way. For this act of faith – and for the many small acts of faith that follow on from this single act or decision – I celebrate MacMillan, alongside those composers who precede him and those who are already following him.

Nowhere in my life is the way we lay down memories more apparent than in my role as a member of the London Symphony Chorus. For with 120 members of the choir singing in any one concert, we lay down 120 versions of our experience. Different members of the chorus notice different things about the experience. Different members of the chorus respond to those different things in different ways. Years later, when we compare notes, these differences are highly apparent. Were we at the same concert?

Talking with my friend and former chorus member Jenny Tomlinson in the run up to last week’s two performances of Elektra, it’s clear that Jenny laid down a few memories I had forgotten about our performance in 1989. She reminds me how one of our fellow sopranos, Eileen Fox, stood in for Christa Ludwig to do her scream in the role of Clytemnestra. Now, it isn’t normally seen as a compliment to describe someone as a ‘screamer’ in the context of the London Symphony Chorus, but hey! When you’ve deputised for Christa Ludwig, well, that’s an altogether different matter.

Once again, in 2010, Eileen is asked to offer her scream and draws the admiration and respect of fellow Chorus members. The stage staff who open the door for her make jokes after her first attempt (“honest! We could barely hear you!”) and are spotted wearing ear plugs next time round.

Helen Palmer, whose sister Felicity is utterly magnificent in the role of Clytemnestra, will no doubt lay down a few memories of the way eager audience members asked her for her autograph and Valerie Gergiev, too, did a quick double-take before realising that no, this was not Felicity Palmer.

James Mallinson laid down a particular kind of memory, laying down the tracks that will become the LSO Live recording to be issued in a few months time. The critics laid down a variety of highly positive memories in their reviews (not one of them about the chorus – though what can you expect when we only have a handful of bars to sing?). I would add my own “quite right, too!” as I think of the fine array of soloists and the orchestra’s exciting performance. The chorus as a whole may well lay down a memory of the various places we were instructed to sing from before finally gathering near the stage door.

Personally, I lay down one memory amongst the others which is personal to me. Standing at the back of the little group of “servant wenches” by the stage door I have barely enough light to see my music. Noticing this, one of the stage door staff takes out his mobile phone to shine the light over my music, following my finger as I highlight where the light needs to go. A small act of kindness which I treasure.

Sitting on the Barbican’s platform ready to sing Verdi’s Otello I realise I have spent almost half my lifetime as a member of the London Symphony Chorus. An announcement is made in celebration of the award of the Queen’s Music Medal 2009 to our beloved – treasured – conductor, Sir Colin Davis. And then the performance begins.

There are some performances that need no words nor desire them. Rather, they evoke a stillness and a sense of presence such that, leaving the platform at the end of the evening I desire no conversation and quietly gather my belongings to leave.

Something about this performance is such that the exquisite beauty of the whole embraces every tiny flaw and transcends it. Something about this performance is such that to want to mention one performer is to want to mention them all. For how could Anne Schwanewilms have given a performance of such beauty without Verdi’s choice towards the end of his life to compose this work? And what of the other soloists? What, indeed, of every musician involved?

As I travel home, wrapped in my own inner stillness, one word is with me: namaste. Just for tonight I take this word to mean