“Is it me, or people making a bit more effort than usual with their appearance?”

It’s Sunday, and Mimi and I are doing our makeup at the Barbican in preparation to sing.  We are singing songs from America, from Copland’s arrangement of a number of old American songs (you might almost call them folk songs) to modern songs by Morten Lauridsen and Eric Whitacre.  The choir has been on a journey which is not unusual when we learn something new.  Along the way we have struggled with the challenges involved in learning new (and especially contemporary) pieces.  This is the phase in which we are most likely to dismiss the pieces as being not very good.  Now, though, whilst still feeling a little nervous, we are starting to catch ourselves singing snatches of the songs.  We are ready to perform.

We have been on a journey of another sort with our conductor – and composer of some of the songs we shall be singing – Eric Whitacre.  He is younger than many of the conductors we sing with and brings the kind of beach-blond good looks which are often associated with California, where he lives with his wife and young son.  His compositions, whilst contemporary, are tonal – tuneful – in a way which is not fashionable in the world of new music.  What’s more, in his rehearsals with us, Eric’s manner is quite unlike that of many of the conductors we work with, combining confidence with humility and an unusual dose of openness – letting us know, for example, how it is for him to hear the Songs of Immortality, which will be premiered for the first time tonight, being sung for the first time.  Behind the scenes the chorus “chatter” suggests an ambivalence towards him, both drawn to his good looks and his openness of manner and slightly wary.  This is not what we’re used to.

Whitacre is a modern composer in another way.  His website (at http://www.ericwhitacre.com/) is thoroughly modern in its use of the possibilities of modern social media.  It includes a blog, twitter and facebook page as well as a photo gallery (from which I have taken the photo above) and examples of his music.  After he discovered a recording by a young woman of his piece Lux Arumque on YouTube he invited singers to record their line and created a virtual choir performance.

What of our concert?  This, too, was a thoroughly modern affair.  Whitacre introduced each piece or cycle with his trademark directness, openness and honesty to which the audience clearly responded warmly.  His wife, soprano Hila Piltmann, sang Barber’s Knoxville:  Summer of 1915 with an assurance and simplicity that moved me.  The choir (if I may say so – I am not without bias) rose to the occasion, singing with our trademark gusto and even with a bit of polish here and there.  I loved the challenge of the Songs of Immortality and was moved almost to tears by the rising crescendi in Sleep.

I was moved, too, by Whitacre himself.  For he was never less than completely gracious in his dealings with everyone involved.  For this, as much as for the beauty of his music, I am deeply grateful.