I can’t tell if the water dripping off my head, and running
down my trouser leg is sweat or rain. I am in the majestic train station at
York waiting for the 9.16pm to London King’s Cross. There’s something rather
romantic about making the journey from York to London. I guess it goes back to
the old coaching days. Pepys often talked about Yorke’s Wagons; in fact, it was
the arrival of a Yorke’s stagecoach in London at the tail-end of the plague
which indicated to him that life was getting back to normal again.
I’m buzzing. We’ve just done the dress rehearsal for Ebor Vox. About 400 people must have
walked through the streets of York starting at York Minster and ending at
Clifford’s Tower, singing my music as they wound through the streets. There are
very few words to express how emotional that can be for a composer.
I reached York at 3pm, and immediately went into a series of
interviews. For some reason the charming bloke from Derry who spoke to me first
brought out a sort of wicked sixth former in me. I think he reminded me of my
mate Pete from university, and subsequently everything he said made me want to
talk in a Northern Irish accent! I misbehaved terribly. He laughed, so I assume
he wasn’t offended and I hope I said enough sensible stuff for him to cut
something useful together.
I then called in on my old friend, John La Carillon, 150
steps up one of the towers of York Minster. What a cool place to meet someone
for a natter! I could have sat there all day. John is a convivial and most
fascinating man, whose claim to fame is having played at the funeral of one of
the Krays. He also played the carillon (a set of tuned church bells) on A Symphony for Yorkshire, and the piano
a year later when we resurrected the third movement of the work at an awards
ceremony. No composition about York would be complete without the Minster
Carillon, or, in fact, John playing the Minster carillon; and that’s why I’m
thrilled that Ebor Vox is starting
this way.
There is a section in my composition called the “breakout,” when
8 or so choirs get to sing little show- off sections, which all interweave. When
we attempted the sequence last Monday it came to a crashing halt, and I began
to wonder if I’d written something unattainable in the time we had, and the
peculiar acoustic at the York Eye. I could tell a lot of hard work had gone
into learning the music, but it just seemed one step too far.
An extra half hour rehearsal was therefore called today in
the Catholic church round from the Minster so that we could decide if it was a
section we’d be able to do.
I don’t know if it was because everyone was present for the
first time, or because people had all gone away and done a bit of private
practice, but it was like everyone simultaneously found the key to the door, unlocked
it, and then decided to batter it down
for the hell of it! We raised the roof – and
some. I think many of the singers were genuinely exhilarated by the experience
and lots of them came up to me afterwards to say how they’d suddenly understood
everything and were thrilled to be taking part in the section.# blushing #more
pride #take that Sally Brown.
As the rehearsals roll past, I see more and more characters
in the choirs whom I find myself drawn towards. Some people simply love singing,
and it’s the most infectious thing in the world to witness. I also love
watching the leaders of each of the choirs, and the rapport they have with
their singers, one of whom conducted me in my first term at university in a
Gilbert and Sullivan show. I took her on a picnic to Whitby in December 1992, and
insisted that everything in the basket was orange. It rained all day and so we
sat in a car park eating orange jelly, red Leicester cheese and wotsits before
driving back to York again. It’s been brilliant to see her again after all this
time.
When 20 or so amateur and semi-pro singers get together in one
City alone, one is reminded just how many choirs there are out there in the
world. It is thrilling to realise that, every night of the week, behind a myriad
doors in thousands of towns, cities and villages, people are singing; and
experiencing the joy that singing brings. I maintain that the feeling of
singing in three or four part harmony is about as good as it gets. Heaven on
earth in fact.
We ran the anthem I’ve written for the project last of all –
as the rain started to fall. I have never needed to conduct so big in my life.
It’s less a baton that I need and more a blinkin’ light sabre! The musicians
and singers are spread out over about 100 meters, and they have to watch like
hawks to keep together.
The anthem sounded wonderful however; magical – and there’s
some charming dancing and sequences of movement going on in front of the
singers... so charming, in fact, that all I wanted to do was join in with
them... and I did from time to time.
And what of Pepys? He was up "with the 4am chimes" and spent the day paying the hundreds of Navy men who'd helped to bring Catherine de Breganza from Portugal to London.
And what of Pepys? He was up "with the 4am chimes" and spent the day paying the hundreds of Navy men who'd helped to bring Catherine de Breganza from Portugal to London.
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