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Urbane Hymns

A Village Choir, by John Webster. Wikimedia Commons.

holsthousezoom      By Simon Brackenborough

As regular readers of this blog will know, I’ve long been fascinated by hymns. A big part of that fascination is their community role as songs for common worship. But I’m also really interested in how hymn tunes are taken out of the church pews, and put into different contexts – sometimes even made into symbols.

The necessary simplicity of hymns for untrained voices also makes them an easy subject for instrumental elaboration. A good example are Bach’s chorale preludes for the organ. Bach is the towering figure for hymnody in the German Lutheran tradition, composing and arranging many tunes in four-part harmony, which are still used as models for teaching today. But his organ preludes spin these chorales out into a more polyphonic texture.

Luther himself composed hymns, including the famous Ein’ Feste Burg. For the 300th anniversary of the 1530 Augsberg Confession – a declaration of Lutheran faith – Mendelssohn composed his Symphony no. 5, known as ‘The Reformation’. It culminates in a finale with Ein’ Feste Burg for full orchestra, glorifying God’s ‘mighty fortress’. Its first movement also includes a references to the ‘Dresden Amen’ figure – a grand hymn cadence that was later used as a Leitmotif by Wagner in his religious-themed opera Parsifal.

On a more intimate scale, an obscure hymn tune unearthed in The English Hymnal was made into a Passacaglia for viola and piano by Rebecca Clarke. This ‘old English tune’, with its austere opening and expressive descending phrase, was attributed to Thomas Tallis. Clarke’s piece is a short masterclass in contrapuntal elaboration, with a powerful punch. It reaches an impressive climax as it turns to the hymn’s final rising line.

Sometimes hymns appear in instrumental works with a personal significance. Polish composer Andrzej Panufnik’s Sinfonia Sacra was commissioned to mark the Millennium of Poland’s Christianisation in 1966. Panufnik – who had already defected to England from what was then part of the Eastern Bloc – used the Medieval Polish hymn the Bogurodzica to powerful effect. Its emotional resonance for the exiled composer is not difficult to imagine.

Similarly heartfelt is Alban Berg’s violin concerto, a work dedicated to ‘the memory of an angel’ – the recently deceased young girl Manon Gropius. In its second movement, Bach’s harmonisation of Es Ist Genug emerges out of Berg’s expressive serialism, set for quiet clarinets. The words of this chorale deal with the preparation for death. The homogenous, ghostly sound of the clarinets could be a remembered choir, or an organ.

Hymns are a source of comfort, and are often sung at funerals and memorials. But when Cheryl Frances-Hoad was commissioned to compose a piece to mark the 250th anniversary of Bach’s death, she chose a title that subverted this idea. The composer – then only 20 –  borrowed A Refusal To Mourn from a poem by Dylan Thomas which had made a deep impression in her school English lessons.

Thomas’ arresting anti-elegy invokes religious imagery in the face of a wartime tragedy, even as he seemingly refutes its usefulness. In her piece for oboe and strings, Frances-Hoad makes a similarly bold plundering of two Bach chorales, reorganising pitches to construct chord sequences, motivic cells and retrograde versions.

The delicacy of the string writing and the bright piercing tone of the oboe lends much of the piece an ethereal aura, whose lyrical nimbleness mostly avoids the steady tread of hymnody. But in its final, serene ‘Chorale’ section, the gentle outline of Christus, Der Ist Mein Leben becomes clearer in the oboe’s part. This fascinating and beautiful piece ends on a quietly ambiguous chord. 

The small scale of A Refusal To Mourn seems suited to its material. Lutheran chorales are given a much more expansive canvas in Psalmos, a ‘concerto for orchestra’ by Theirry Escaich. In a video introduction to the piece, Escaich cites the influence of Stravinsky’s hard-edged Symphony Of Psalms, and – perhaps surprising given his source material – the overriding importance of rhythm.

Psalmos is prone to outbursts of vitality and violence, and the chorales, when they make themselves clear, seem to be part of a disturbed dreamscape. Escaich clearly delights in the range of timbres available, including marimba and vibraphone. This composer, steeped in the French organ improvisation tradition, takes us through all the metaphorical stops.

If hymns can help mark important anniversaries, they can also be more nebulous symbols of the past. Vaughan Williams gave a Tallis hymn a famously mysterious treatment for double string orchestra, replete in dying echoes. His friend Holst borrowed an old Genevan Psalm tune for a choral setting with a similarly Gothic aesthetic. In both cases the hymns appear first as ruinous fragments – they give us a magic window into the past. But it soon becomes clear that these musical artefacts are actually expressing timeless human frailties.

A very different example from the other end of Vaughan Williams’ career is his Fantasia On The Old 104th Psalm Tune for orchestra, choir and piano. This gloriously eccentric piece takes a somewhat dour melody through ruminative piano cadenzas to bombastic, neo-Baroque choral counterpoint. It is a marvellous and surprising work from his remarkably experimental old age, and it reaches a thrilling conclusion.

A similarly comprehensive treatment of a short hymn – though on a much smaller scale – comes in the Variations On Love Divine by Ailsa Dixon. This series of nineteen short movements for string quartet uses John Stainer’s melody to the oft-set text Love Divine, All Loves Excelling. But the variations are titled with parts of the Gospel, ‘exploring the meanings of divine love in a series of scenes from the incarnation to the ascension and a final vision of heavenly joy’. In the recording below, the title of each movement is narrated.

Stainer’s eight-bar tune is the model of humility, but it seems to have a symbolic role – it is only after the ‘incarnation’ movement that it is clearly heard, as the now-pregnant Mary makes her way to Bethlehem, with a clip-clop imitation of a donkey. From then on, this hymn is continually varied as we’re taken through the story of Jesus’ life.

There is something quietly thought-provoking about Dixon’s insistence on using this modest, contented-sounding tune to cover such large theological ground. Funny as it sounds, I can’t help but think of the parish church Nativity diorama – the message of this work seems to be that a whole world of religious meaning can be revealed through even the smallest means. In that sense it is closer to the civic role of hymnody than any grander setting.

Of course, hymns have been used for religious story-telling before. Chorales form part of Bach’s Passion settings. Likewise, in Britten’s operatic update of the Mystery Play Noye’s Fludde, he sets three familiar English hymns to mark important points of the story. This fits with the community aesthetic of the work, which includes roles for children, and is designed for performance in churches or other small-scale venues. At the conclusion of this most familiar Biblical tale, with the full audience coming together in song, the sense of ritual through mass participation is truly moving.

As it happens, Britten had used church music to portray a much darker aspect of community in his earlier opera Peter Grimes. In Act 2, we hear off-stage singing of the church’s Sunday morning liturgy – a sinister reminder of the Borough’s collective moral presence, which will be quick to pass judgement on the suspected Grimes. Britten, as a homosexual and Conscientious Objector in wartime Britain, would have been all too aware of dangers of parochial groupthink and religious dogma that church communities could represent.

But however much real life may fail to live up to their sentiments, hymns remain a tempting symbol of an idealised, united society – of Heaven on earth. This unattainable ideal is a poignant subject of Adelaide Anne Procter’s poem A Lost Chord, which was set to music by Arthur Sullivan. Its narrator sits idling at an organ, while feeling ‘weary and ill at ease’, when they chance upon ‘one chord of music / Like the sound of a great Amen’:

It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an angel’s psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.

This moment of musical glory is fleeting. At the poem’s conclusion, we find ‘It may be that only in Heav’n / I shall hear that grand Amen’. Sullivan’s song setting – The Lost Chord – was a huge hit, and though it may sound starchily Victorian today, it is not hard to see why. It is magnificently constructed, with direct emotional appeal and clever word-painting – its introduction even recalls the style of an organ prelude.

Quite aside from specific references, the homophonic, melodically limited style of hymnody is a recognisable musical trope in itself. Some fascinating allusions to the ‘chorale style’ occur in Chopin’s solo piano pieces. In the central section of his Nocturne op. 37 no.1, we hear a series of block chords which sound remarkably like hymnody. For a master of idiomatic piano writing like Chopin to resort to such simplistic means is surely no accident. Perhaps he was expressing a personal religious sentiment, perhaps he was toying with the idea of what piano music could could be. Nocturnes are night-time pieces after all. In darkness thoughts wander, and forms take on uncanny new appearances.

Meanwhile, some passages of music are so irresistibly hymn-like that they simply demand words be set to them. The ‘trio’ from Elgar’s first Pomp And Circumstance March is now virtually inseparable from its later guise as Land Of Hope And Glory. The grand theme that concludes Sibelius’ Finlandia has been set as several songs and hymns – most bizarrely, it even became the national anthem for the briefly secessionist African state of Biafra. Equally counter-intuitive is that the majestic chorale-like theme from the finale of Saint-Saëns’ ‘Organ’ Symphony was turned into a hit 1978 song with a reggae beat, appropriately titled If I Had Words. The song’s video was even set in a church.

As any parish organist will know, hymn tunes are naturally promiscuous – they frequently find themselves with several lyrical partners. But in adding words to instrumental music, we put it to a new purpose altogether. Whether it is secular, religious, or political, we lose some of the inherent flexibility in the music’s meaning.

For this reason, I have always much preferred the great hymn-like theme that emerges in the middle of ‘Jupiter’ in Holst’s The Planets to either of its settings as I Vow To Thee, My Country or World In Union.

There’s also an obvious problem here: Holst’s tune in Jupiter covers a range of an octave and a sixth – and it rises which each repetition, totalling three octaves. To be sung easily, its second part has to be transposed down an octave. So in pinning this tune to lyrics, it not only loses ambiguity, but also much of its ascendant, transportive power.

While Holst’s melody is not a hymn, it does seem to be a kind of hymn-essence. It arrives without warning in resonant unison strings, and rises gloriously, unconstrained by the human vocal range, and all the messy baggage of its words.

In my mind, that is what makes this music so much more moving than any attempt to put it into verse, however well-meaning. Jupiter – the ‘bringer of jollity’ – is a planet of astrological pondering, a source of marvel beyond our grasp. This is a hymn of impossibility; a song of pure love, free of our earthly liturgies and flawed human communities. Perhaps that is why, just before its final climax, it vanishes back into thin air. It leaves us with its own lost chord. It may be that only in a heaven, of one kind or another, that we can hear such a grand ‘Amen’.

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Different Strings

Detail of a harpsichord, by Sguastevi. Wikimedia Commons.

holsthousezoom      By Simon Brackenborough

As a young boy, long before I started learning piano, I used to clunk around on my family’s Yamaha Clavinova. I remember composing something like a dirge and playing it down in the bass of this electronic keyboard. As I switched my crude melody between its different synthesised voices, I heard how its character changed.

These voices were just pale imitations of acoustic instruments, of course. But among them was a distinctive and crisp sound. It was something I’d never encountered in real life – a harpsichord.

From my CD collection – lamentably forsaken in recent years for the convenience of internet streaming – I recently pulled out Glen Wilson’s album of harpsichord music by the English Renaissance composer Giles Farnaby, on the Naxos label. Farnaby is not the most celebrated name of his era, but his music for this instrument is full of verve and character. 

Meanwhile, on YouTube – where much of my listening takes place these days – I’ve been exploring some different strings. The Mandé Variations is an acclaimed 2008 album by Malian kora player Toumani Diabaté. World Circuit Records have generously uploaded the whole thing, and it’s perhaps my favourite recording of kora music I’ve found since I started investigating its repertoire last year.

Both recordings are worth their own in-depth exploration. But taken together, they showcase the fascinating differences and resonances in music for solo sets of strings.

The harpsichord is most often found away from the limelight, plinking away in a Baroque continuo group. While a piano hammers its strings, the harpsichord plucks them, with a penetrating sound and even dynamics – its volume cannot be shaped by the player’s touch on the keys.

As a solo instrument, the close-up metallic twang might at first seem a little pungent. And the flourishes of ornamentation in its early repertoire can initially sound mannered and fussy.

But the ear quickly adjusts to this sonic profile, and the harpsichord brings a graceful precision to contrapuntal music. At slower tempos, it lets in light and air between the lines. The bright percussive tone makes virtuoso passages all the more exuberant.

And since vitality abounds in Farnaby’s music, any fears of plodding fuguery can be quickly laid aside. Wilson’s recording includes his fantasias, and several idiomatically transcribed part-songs. As Wilson writes in the liner notes, the learned style of imitative entries that begin the fantasias tend to break into ‘playful anarchy’:

The virginalists […] add to their contrapuntal working a final toccata, a closing section of idiomatic keyboard pyrotechnics and polyrhythms […]

The opening theme is often deceptively simple and broad. In the example below, there’s even a disconcerting premonition of Richard Strauss. But from here the contrapuntal texture quickly grows, florid lines unexpectedly shoot from nowhere, and Farnaby starts to play metrical games with us. The music sounds highly improvisatory, its progress constantly swerving and unpredictable.

This may be ‘early music’, but anyone partial to the guitar solos of heavy metal shredders will find a kindred spirit in the freewheeling virtuosity of its toccata. And as the jazz musician Ethan Iverson recently wrote, keyboard music of the English Renaissance has ‘a familiar kind of atmosphere’ for him too:

The sources are incomplete, supported and thwarted by oral tradition, kept together out of love and duty. The titles are remarkably inconsistent, let alone the notes. When you get to ornamentation, all bets are off. Play it how you want to play it.

Compared to the harpsichord, the music of the West African kora is much softer in timbre. But it bears some noteworthy similarities. The polyrhythms of Farnaby’s showboating are very much a staple of its technique, while melodic ornamentation and fast improvised runs – known by the lovely onomatopoeia birimintingo – are a key feature too.

But the kora is a harp – with a large calabash gourd resonator – which means the player’s fingers have direct expressive access to the strings. Traditionally these were made of twisted leather strips, but modern koras now commonly use nylon. Their silvery sound caresses the ear, and the polyrhythms create an effect rather like dappled sunlight.

The whispering gorgeousness of Diabaté’s playing certainly makes for a seductive listen, and I was hooked in by the album straight away. The YouTube video is festooned with enthusing comments, one of which sums it up concisely: ‘this is like chocolate cake for the soul’.

I couldn’t agree more. And this being so immediately pleasurable and fit for savouring, it seems Diabaté might ask why Farnaby’s music is in such a rush to cover so much ground so quickly.

In the opening track, Si Naani, he sets up a ostinato, and the interplay of notes creates a kind of stasis, cultivating a gentle groove. Expressive improvisatory figures appear and disappear, little details suddenly emphasised before returning to the underlying pattern. It teases the ear with wonderful sensitivity.

In the second track, Elyne Road, it is not hard to hear Diabaté’s influence on the soothing piano minimalism of Ludovico Einaudi. As I wrote last year, Einaudi’s popular album I Giorni makes specific reference to a time he spent with Diabaté in Mali.

Within the kora’s 20-odd strings, Diabaté finds room for plenty of variety. Kaouding Cissoko conjures dazzling sonic clouds that sound startlingly ambient and modern. In Djourou Kara Nany, he stops the strings to create a brisk staccato effect on the offbeat, with a sharp syncopated rhythm.

The album’s title is also worth noting. Mandé music is an oral tradition, and within the patterns of its repertoire exists a realm of limitless potential variation. So while Wilson’s disc proudly states it contains the complete Farnaby fantasias, the very idea of completion would be missing the point of Diabaté’s record entirely.

Of course, such oral traditions can also produce frustrating ambiguity. The kora has become emblematic of the West African hereditary tradition of ‘Griots’, who trace their origins to the 13th century. But as an excellent article by Lucy Durán explains, its exact age is much disputed. It is most likely younger than other Griot instruments – and possibly younger than the harpsichord too.

A kora. by Steve Evans. Wikimedia Commons.

Much clearer, however, is the fact that the kora’s modern spread across the international music scene has changed it considerably:

The original, older and rougher sound of the kora, produced by leather strings (in use until the 1960s), the buzzing of the metal rattle attached to the end of the bridge, and the non-western intervals and scales, have now been largely abandoned for a cleaner, more resonant, and western aesthetic.

In fact Diabaté uses two koras on this album, with different tuning mechanisms – traditional leather strips, and modern pegs. Its cosmopolitan journey is summed up on the final track, named Cantelowes after the London road Diabaté lived on in the 1980s. Unexpectedly, it begins with an  quotation from Morricone’s famous theme to The Good, The Bad And The Ugly.

Like its music, the kora itself seems to be undergoing continuous variation. Its modern developments certainly sit in contrast to the efforts Wilson goes to for a historically-informed performance. His liner notes tell us he spent two days with a modern copy of a surviving English harpsichord in preparation for this recording.  On the vexed question of temperament, he assesses Farnaby’s clues and ends up with ‘an irregular tuning […] which gives better fifths to G and its neighbours at some unavoidable cost to the thirds and leaves a half-comma wolf in the usual place’.

As someone who struggles to tune even the six strings of my guitar by ear, I can only say I am supremely grateful not to need to worry about wolves at all.

Though still languishing somewhat in the piano’s long black shadow, the harpsichord remains a remarkable piece of engineering, and the various innovations created for it  – transposing manuals, different choirs of strings, ‘lute stops’ – are a fascinating testament to this.

In the 20th century, the instrument became newly attractive to composers. Poulenc’s Concert Champêtre is one charming example of this, exploiting its archaic associations for a kind of camp neo-classicism. Since then it has steadily built a modern repertoire to complement its old one. Now younger harpsichordists like Mahan Esfahani and Jean Rondeau are pushing forward its solo profile, and both explore far beyond the Renaissance and Baroque periods.

Wilson’s album ends, appropriately enough, with a piece called Loth To Depart. It’s a great example of English Renaissance melancholia, fit to sit and weep beside Dowland’s Flow, My Tears. Its theme embodies the idea of a reluctance to move, tarrying within the small range of a perfect fifth, while the harmony makes bitter-sweet turns between major and minor.

Farnaby elaborates this disconsolate tune through several variations, eventually galloping it out through the open air with surging scales. But there is no virtuoso send-off. In the last variation, it returns to a more restrained style.

The harpsichord may not have the sensitivity of the kora or lute, nor the sustaining power of voices or viols. But in Farnaby’s exquisite final bars, Wilson draws out something you might not expect from the decaying notes of these plucked strings. It’s certainly nothing I could have imagined while fumbling through my childish composition on the Clavinova’s keys. There’s a lingering sense of real poignancy.

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John Powell’s Heart Of Darkness

John Powell, 1916. Wikimedia Commons.

           By Aaron Keebaugh

On December 29, 1922, John Powell walked on stage in Boston’s Symphony Hall with conductor Pierre Monteux to offer the local premiere of his Rhapsodie Nègre with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. By that time, the composer and pianist had established a reputation as one of America’s leading musicians, and the Rhapsodie, an eighteen-minute work for piano and orchestra, stood as his most successful composition.

Composed in March 1918 for the Russian Symphony Orchestra, the Rhapsodie had gone on to receive performances from by orchestras across America, all with its composer as soloist. Historian John Tasker Howard recorded that it received more than fifty performances in New York City alone by the end of the 1920s.

Attractive for its blazing difficulty, the Rhapsodie Nègre also struck a nerve with audiences and fellow composers for its mix of European classical and African-American vernacular elements. An advertisement in the New York Herald prior to its world premiere in 1918 treated the Rhapsodie as part musical experience and part social project – in bluntly racial terms:

In the work, Mr. Powell has attempted to show the development of the negro since the days when he was first brought to this country from his native home—Africa. The composer has made a study of the colored people, especially their emotional and musical side, and it is his purpose to give full vent to the negro’s feelings and characteristics through music.

Powell’s contemporaries praised him for what he had achieved. After the Rhapsodie was performed at the Norfolk Festival, Henry F. Gilbert, a composer who strove throughout his career to thread African-American elements in his music, found himself ‘profoundly moved’ and commented that Powell ‘was realizing a mission that he himself had been unable to realize’.

But for audiences inside of Symphony Hall that December night in Boston, Powell offered a political message. His program note – written under his pen name, Richard Brockwell – provided a disturbing depiction of the African-American as an individual:

In the case of negro music, there is, over and above such qualities as those mentioned, an additional spirit which leads a peculiar and heightened interest. This interest comes from the fact that the negro not merely occupies a subordinate position in the political and social organization of America, but is, au fond, in spite of his surface polish and restraints imposed by close contact with Caucasian civilization, a genuine primitive […] In addition, to this there is still another stronger characteristic of negro music: The negro is the child among the peoples, and his music shows the unconscious unbound gaiety of the child, as well as the child’s humor; sometimes Aesopian, often, unfortunately too often, Rabelaisian.

To close this pointed and shocking description in the program booklet for that Boston Symphony Orchestra concert, Powell listed himself, unabashedly, as the founder of the Society for the Preservation of Racial Integrity at the University of Virginia – his alma mater – in 1916.

His point wasn’t lost on critics. Donald Francis Tovey even remarked, apologetically, that ‘Mr. Powell has the profoundest sympathy for the negro as an artist and as a human being. But profound sympathy is very different from the facile dangers that threaten two races of widely different stages of evolution that try to live together’.

***

For much of his adult life, John Powell held to the then prominent view that the United States was a de facto white nation. In an interview published in the Musical Courier, the composer remarked: ‘To write about the negro […] one must know about the negro; to paint him in pictures one must paint him as he is, or, rather, not as he is but as he was, as he racially was, and as he might be if he were free to develop upon his own roots, free from white cultural influence.’ He went on to say: ‘The pessimistic view of my Negro Rhapsody is no more than recognition of the gloomy outlook for the negro’s racial development in a white country.’

Yet in spite of the success of Rhapsodie Nègre, Powell broke with the thinking of Antonin Dvorák, who argued that American music could break free from European models if composers drew upon African-American and Native American folk sources. ‘Do I think that negro music will serve as a basis for an American school of composition?,’ Powell asked in the same interview. ‘No. I do not think so, for the same reasons that I think Indian music cannot be used. Why? Because neither is American. The whole civilization of the United States is European.’

The issue of race so occupied Powell’s thoughts that it became a leitmotif of his life’s work. In 1924, Powell was invited to present two lectures and a piano recital as part of the Rice Institute, where he articulated his vision of American music – one based upon Anglo-Saxon folk melodies – and what the United States could do about immigration and African-American ‘problems’.

Race so occupied the composer’s thoughts that his friend and fellow composer Daniel Gregory Mason recorded that:

[John] will gladly sit up all night with you, if you let him, discussing music, or just gossiping—for he has an unappeasable appetite for personalia, especially when spiced with a little friendly malice—or declaiming some of his pet fanaticisms such as the horrible dangers of intermarriage between Negroes and whites, or the supreme virtues of Anglo-Saxon folk songs.

***

John Powell was born on September 6, 1882 in Richmond, Virginia. His father was headmaster of a private girls school, his mother a staff member there. While young, Powell showed a keen interest in music. He studied piano with his elder sister, and later with former Liszt pupil Frederick Charles Hahr. After graduating from the University of Virginia, he ventured to Vienna to study piano and composition. An interest in wrestling he developed as a student in Virginia carried over to his Viennese circles, where he joined the ‘Turnverein’ – an athletic club for young men whose purpose was to exercise the body as well as the mind.

Music, though, remained his focus, and he made his recital debut in Berlin in 1907. He lived for a time in London, and developed friendships with Lord and Lady Plymouth, Arthur Balfour, the Virginia-born Lady Astor, and the writer Joseph Conrad.

Here Powell co-founded the Fresh Air Society in 1913. Like the Turnverein, this promoted the development of a sound body as well as a sound mind. Members viewed art and life as progressing along an evolutionary path for the betterment of both. They eschewed impressionism, atonality, and other current avant-garde developments in the arts. Writing about the Society, Powell said that ‘it is necessary for the welfare of art that the artist, before deciding to flood the world with strange forms and original confections, to be very sure that the substance of his creation be genuine, sanitary, and worthy’.

Powell’s compositions up to this time reveal a conservative, post-Romantic style. His Sonate Psychologique of 1905 bears the impressions of Liszt and Richard Strauss, while the hour-long Sonata Teutonica encapsulates the Society’s themes of progress and oneness in sound.

Less cumbersome is the Sonata Noble, a work that takes Sidney Lanier’s poem The Symphony as its inspiration. And though Powell would later state that his use of African-American music was mere ‘character music’, he incorporated black folk songs in his In the South Suite and Sonata Virginianesque for violin and piano.

Powell’s views on race emanated from his experiences growing up in the American South, and like many of the white elite there, he believed that the United States was based first and foremost upon Anglo-Saxon heritage. The U.S. government observed and passed laws that fit well within that ideology. ‘Plessy v. Ferguson’ legalized segregation of public venues on the basis of race in 1896. In 1924 Congress passed the Johnson-Reed Act, which restricted immigration of Irish, Italians, Slavs, and other ‘non-white’ Europeans.

Powell was also a proponent of eugenics, the early-twentieth century science of human breeding that was widely discussed by progressive intellectuals. The composer had read and absorbed Madison Grant’s The Passing of the Great Race, which couched the history of world peoples as a clash between races.

A racial map of Europe from Madison Grant’s The Passing Of The Great Race. Wikimedia Commons.

The State of Virginia, where Powell settled after his European ventures, set the stage for eugenicists in 1902 when the General Assembly passed a new constitution that left control to a small white elite. A series of Jim Crow Laws passed between 1900 and 1918 segregated railroads, streetcars, residential areas, and prisons, and thereby eliminated African-Americans as a political force.

But what elite whites like Powell feared most was racial amalgamation. Using census records collected between 1890 and 1910, eugenicists determined that some one hundred thousand people of mixed white and black race were passing as white, a problem Powell had claimed in his lecture Music and the Nation in 1924.

To counter this perceived threat, activists led by Powell and his newly formed Anglo Saxon Clubs drafted legislation for the Virginia Assembly that redefined what it meant to be white by classifying in the most meticulous way what it meant to be a ‘colored person’. A race code from 1866 in Virginia stated that ‘every persons having one-fourth or more negro blood shall be deemed a colored person’. The Racial Integrity Act of 1924, which Powell had a hand in drafting, imposed the so-called ‘one-drop rule’ – persons with one-sixteenth African heritage were then to be classified as ‘colored’.

***

To the audiences seated in Boston’s Symphony Hall that December night in 1922, Powell’s Rhapsodie Nègre offered a problem – now incredibly uncomfortable – on which to ponder.

Powell dedicated his Rhapsodie Nègre to the writer Joseph Conrad, whose novella The Heart of Darkness inspired its composition. Conrad’s story took aim at British imperialism and the cruel, even deadly treatment of indigenous Africans by one Mr. Kurtz. But Powell’s reading, as suggested by the Rhapsodie, seemed merely to depict the Africans as savage. Throughout his program note, the composer describes his character music with phrases such as ‘Voodoo orgy’ and ‘wild plaintive cry’. Powell also quotes two African-American spirituals: Swing Low, Sweet Chariot and I Want to Be Ready, which tie the composition to a unpublished play that Powell wrote with his wife Louise Burleigh.

In Beatrice: A Tragedy in One Act, race is a constant theme. The eponymous character is a children’s nurse to the Nortons, a wealthy Richmond family. Beatrice is white in appearance and raised by a well-to-do white family, but Mrs. Norton clarifies to a friend that she is ‘only fifteen-sixteenths white’. Echoing the words of Madison Grant, she reminds her friend that ‘one drop, you know, makes the Negro.’ Powell further noted in his manuscript that the tune I Want to Be Ready is the device that ‘awakens’ Beatrice’s blackness.

And blackness, for Powell, was something to fear, for the Rhapsodie Négre depicts the African as forever untameable and wild. His choice of genre was telling. Rhapsodies involve loose form, exuberant expression and aspects of improvisation – suggesting that Africans are unable to control their impulses. In contrast, J. Lester Feder has noted that Powell’s only Symphony, written in 1947, is based entirely on Anglo-Saxon folk materials. There, frameworks such as sonata form control the content, suggesting that whites, possessing sound minds, are able to rise above their natural instincts.

Even in music, Powell was unable to ignore what he saw as the chief moral danger of his day. When discussing such innocuous subjects such as the combination of works with piano and orchestra, much like his Rhapsodie Négre, Powell cast his language in racial terms. ‘To my mind,’ he wrote to Daniel Gregory Mason, ‘and I speak too from practical experience, the piano concerto is a hybrid, and, like the Eurasian and Eurafrican, possesses few – and these suppressed – of the virtues, and all – and these emphasized – of the weaknesses of the two parents.’ His Rhapsodie Négre, then, was intended as a dire warning about racial mixture in American culture.

***

Seeking to understand the racist, however, doesn’t diminish the damage that the racist commits. Though heralded in his lifetime, Powell has been relegated into the proverbial dustbin of history. Virginia’s Radford University removed Powell’s name from its music building in 2010 after University officials learned of his white supremacist legacy. And save for recordings by Roy Hamlin Johnson and Nicholas Ross, the composer’s music is rarely performed in concerts, perhaps for good reason.

But, in the wake of resurgent ethno-nationalism as a reaction to globalism in the past decade, Powell is finding a new audience. In fall of 2017, Counter-Currents Publishing, a platform for the North American New Right, which like the ‘Alt-Right’ envisions a white ethno-state, posted an apologetic article about Powell. While mentioning his activities as a eugenicist, the author A. Graham equivocates, saying that ‘it is unlikely that [Powell] harbored prejudice’ against Europeans of Italian decent or even Africans, citing his friendship with the black separatist Marcus Garvey as evidence.

Graham goes on to embrace a vision of the arts’ place in society that may, on the surface, seem welcome to arts advocates who know little about Powell or his legacy:

Our quandary is that most of us as modern Americans are entirely deracinated and rootless. Powell at least grew up around folk music and could draw upon the culture of his home state, but folk songs are alien to most young white Americans and therefore their use in modern compositions is likely to be characterized by artificiality and insincerity. This can be counteracted first by activating a sensibility characteristic of our racial soul through perpetually immersing ourselves in great music and art; the challenge then is to create a musical language that gives authentic expression to this. Political change must necessarily be preceded by a revolution of a spiritual and cultural kind. Thus a future revitalization of American music could contribute to the awakening of our people.

John Powell, it seems, remains a man of his own time. But he is also a man of our potentially dangerous present.

Aaron Keebaugh teaches courses in Music History, World History, and American History at North Shore Community College in Danvers, Massachusetts. A musicologist and critic, he has published articles on music in British Post-Graduate Musicology, the Musical Times, and the Classical Review. 

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Butterfly Effects

‘Monarch Butterfly Sanctuary’ by Rafael Saldaña. (CC BY 2.0)

holsthousezoom      By Simon Brackenborough

It’s a cliché that arts organisations are forever keen to attract more young people into their audiences. Within the ranks of today’s youth are the core supporters of tomorrow.

We’d also like the think that the arts can help young people to navigate life’s biggest challenges. But what should arts organisations do when today’s youth has a future that, in some key respects, looks to be considerably worse than now?

During a summer of heatwaves and widespread wildfires, a new climate change report has made headlines by outlining the scenario of a ‘Hothouse Earth’. It’s the latest in a long series of scientific warnings to bring sobering clarity to what is surely the defining issue of our time.

But it may not seem so defining in our day-to-day lives. Like most people, I tend to focus on more manageable and tangible worries. I might feel guilty about taking the occasional flight, or tell myself that being vegetarian means I’m helping the planet. But I also know that meaningful action on climate can only come with large-scale forces too – international agreements, legislation, technological innovation.

The implications of the issue can leave us feeling overwhelmed. But what I’m interested in is how the arts can best prepare for, and respond to, the radical changes that are already happening to our planet. These will increasingly affect the lifetime of today’s young adult.

I encourage you to read the report. It’s not overly long, and is mostly comprehensible to a layperson. And what it forecasts is an increasingly dynamic, disruptive and dangerous phase of human history.

Furthermore, the changes the report calls for are dizzying in scale – all the more so coming from the measured arena of science. What is required is ‘a deep transformation based on a fundamental reorientation of human values, equity, behavior, institutions, economies, and technologies’.

In other words, combatting climate change is not just about switching from fossil fuels to solar and wind. It’s about storytelling, and how we perceive our place in the world:

Human societies and our activities need to be recast as an integral, interacting component of a complex, adaptive Earth System.

And perhaps this is where the arts have a role to play. I don’t think the arts can be instrumentalised to solve problems, but – to steal a line from Tom Stoppard – they can nudge the world a little. They can help to shape to our sense of collective self.

Back in 2015 I wrote about John Luther Adams’ Become Ocean, a modern orchestral work partly inspired by climate change, which has achieved remarkable popularity.

From Mendelssohn to Frank Bridge, a lot of music about the sea has reflected our inner human drama, through contrasting its stillness and storms. But in Become Ocean we hear nature instead as a huge, gradual process. The music slowly rises and falls across 40 minutes – a vast formula playing out. It immerses us in a mesmerising logic, one terrifyingly indifferent to our daily obsessions.

The implicit warning, as this vision fades away, is that we’ve unleashed new energy into this system. From Miami to the Maldives, rising seas now imperil millions. We really have become ocean.

Admittedly, I’ve always been fascinated by natural processes, big and small. I named this website after a botanical term for an arrangement of berries or flowers, which was used by Edmund Rubbra to title the first movement of his piano concerto. That beautiful work starts with the branching of startlingly spare arpeggios, before blossoming into a series of bright and elaborate episodes.

But what’s clear from the report is that complex natural processes should be everyone’s concern. The composer Arlene Sierra has returned to such themes repeatedly. Her recent Nature Symphony reworked ideas from a previous composition for piano trio called Butterflies Remember A Mountain. This was inspired by the annual migration of the Monarch butterfly, some populations of which overwinter in central Mexico from as far north as Canada. Remarkably, this feat is achieved over several generations – the butterflies lay eggs along the way.

‘I took very fragmentary, tiny fluttering ideas and put them in a big cyclical, migratory form’, Sierra said in an interview with Rheingold. But she is clear that her artistic fascination with nature also carries a warning:

I don’t see how anyone living today can fail to realise the urgency of what is going on with the natural world and what we human beings are doing to change things. I have a little boy now […] and I’m so conscious of how different the environment is from when I was a child.

The meteorologist Edward Lorenz once noticed that tiny changes to his weather modelling resulted in remarkable differences in results. He famously commented that a butterfly wing might well lead to a tornado, and this popular notion of a ‘Butterfly Effect’ went on to be a key principle in chaos theory. It’s something that appeals on a human level, allowing us to marvel at the mysterious interconnectedness of the world.

But the hard science behind such complex cause-and-effect, when it comes to our own activities, does not so readily appeal. The stern warning of the recent climate report is that global warming may soon lock us into a ‘Hothouse Earth’ pathway – by triggering natural feedback loops that release further greenhouse gases as the planet warms, escalating climate change beyond our control. Such feedback factors include thawing permafrost and increased bacterial respiration. In the minutiae of field measurements and datasets, the future habitability of our planet lies.

All this considered, I feel it’s important that artistic preoccupations with nature are not seen as a mere subject, genre, or area of personal interest. A nature symphony is a human symphony. The failure to build our lives around the sustainability of the ‘complex, adaptive Earth System’ and our willingness to sacrifice it for short-term gains has brought us to this crisis. As the report forlornly notes:

The present dominant socioeconomic system […] is based on high-carbon economic growth and exploitative resource use.

None of this is to say that art works based on purely human relations are any less important. On the contrary, the arts will be needed more than ever in this century to offer hopeful visions of the future under increasingly testing climate conditions.

‘Ruggedisation’ is a word that’s used to describe societies adapting to withstand more extreme environments. Perhaps we could think of the arts as providing a kind of ‘cultural ruggedisation’ – which might be applicable in all sorts of ways.

One likely prospect of climate breakdown is the large-scale migration of peoples from the worst affected areas. As this happens, there will be an ever-greater need for the arts to humanise unfamiliar cultures, to build connections and empathy through exploring difference. Given Europe’s current political situation in this regard, it seem this work can never be finished.

By the same token, arts organisations will need to think about whether they unwittingly contribute to a narrative of historic identity which can be weaponised by those who want to build walls and sow division. As Donald Trump recently boasted: ‘we write symphonies’. For a much more enlightened and forward-thinking exemplar in classical music, we could look to the endlessly collaborative Kronos Quartet. Their recent album saw them pair up with the Malian Trio Da Kali.

Art will need to help us come to term with loss, and imagine what new ways of living might be. It can also act as a humane balancing force to the excesses of tech-utopian thinking, as revolutions in information technology are already shaping our public life in profound and sometimes disturbing ways.

Nonetheless, there is some irony in the fact that this very modern crisis echoes some of our earliest religious stories. The hubris of man meets with retribution from the heavens. But in the earth sciences, looking to the past can help us to understand the potential future. Some processes play out over mind-boggling periods of time.

The title of Butterflies Remember A Mountain is inspired by a hypothesis about a strange diversion in the Monarch migration route, a swerve which occurs as they fly over the Great Lakes. One theory is that an impassable land-mass may have once stood in their way, and that this kink in their journey still remains long after it has eroded.

Has ancient geography left an imprint in the behaviour of an insect? It’s another charming idea. But when it comes to contemplating our own long-term legacy, the outlook is considerably gloomier. What’s more, the climate report makes the case that our collective moment contains a depth of jeopardy that is truly chilling:

[…] we argue that social and technological trends and decisions occurring over the next decade or two could significantly influence the trajectory of the Earth System for tens to hundreds of thousands of years and potentially lead to conditions that resemble planetary states that were last seen several millions of years ago, conditions that would be inhospitable to current human societies and to many other contemporary species.

Of course, the science has its caveats and margins for error. And the report notes recent forward steps, such as the Paris Accord. But the imperative is clear: radical changes are needed at an unprecedented rate, while a degree of painful disruption is promised either way. Notions of gradual progress – the stuff of conventional politics and common sense – have become existentially dangerous.

It may be that an arts organisation’s much-coveted young person is better attuned to this reality than a senior arts administrator. After all, an 18-year-old today was a baby when President Bush pulled the USA out of the Kyoto Treaty, and a changing climate is all they know. For their entire life, ominous phrases like ‘warmest ever on record’ and ‘even faster than previously thought’ have periodically surfaced in an ocean of news, while politicians have repeatedly failed to rise to their challenge. 

We are all butterflies in the proverbial tornado, putting new energy into the system. Our world of tomorrow is quickly looking less and less like the one of yesterday, and now is the time for bold visions of a different future.

Tackling and adapting to climate change is undoubtedly a problem of vast magnitude that leads to unwelcome challenges in how we live. But it demands profound thought, care and attention in all aspects of our lives. We need the combined forces of both insects and oceans. No effort can be too big, nor can it be too small.

Trajectories of the Earth System in the Anthropocene can be read here.

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Relics And Ruins

A fragment of ‘Sumer Is Icumen In’, from Harley 978. Wikimedia Commons.

holsthousezoom      By Simon Brackenborough

Forbury Gardens is a public park in the centre of Reading, a green oasis near the town’s busy shopping centre. Aside from the usual flower beds and benches, visitors are greeted by a striking memorial to the Second Anglo-Afghan War – a fearsome sculpture of a lion, all rippling muscle and Victorian pride. 

But carry on past the bandstand, and at the far corner you’ll notice something much older. Ruined flint-stone walls loom, crowned with tufts of colonising grass. Here, tucked away out of sight of shoppers, is what remains of a medieval abbey which once dominated the town.

Reading abbey ruins seen from the corner of Forbury Gardens.

Reading has no reputation for religious significance today. But for four hundred years it boasted one of the largest monasteries in England, and this park was part of its grounds. From where the lion now roars, you once would have gawped up at a magnificent church, on the scale of a cathedral. This place attracted pilgrims from across the region.

Having been closed due to safety concerns, the restored abbey ruins reopened to the public this year. Only a small part of the church remains – most of the ruins comprise the adjacent buildings of the chapter house and monks’ quarters. But they nonetheless convey a sense of the scale of the place. 

The abbey ruins with ‘The Blade’ in the background.

The abbey’s core of flint has lost its richly decorated ashlar covering, but there is a more enduring legacy attached to these walls. In the chapter house, a heritage panel illustrates a page from a 13th-century manuscript associated with the abbey – the music notation of the round Sumer Is Icumen In.

The song is catchy, has a jolly compound metre, and slots together nicely in its successive entries. Its lyrics tell of springtime changes – woods greening, a cuckoo singing – with a rustic simplicity that could come straight from a children’s picture book.

While the abbey’s existence is mostly forgotten outside Reading, Sumer has become widely sung around the world. It’s been performed by all manner of ensembles, and even heard at an Olympic opening ceremony. It’s been parodied by Ezra Pound and the children’s TV show Bagpuss. Its apparent innocence was set for boys’ voices in Britten’s Spring Symphony, and subverted to horrific effect in the cult film The Wicker Man. 

But look closer, and you’ll see the Latin words Perspice Christicola underneath the famous Middle English lines. There are two songs here using the same tune – one secular, one sacred – in contrastingly coloured inks. 

What’s more, this page is just one of a much larger manuscript – a fascinating miscellany known as Harley 978. It’s now owned by the British Library, but is thought to have belonged to a Reading monk. And like the abbey itself, it can offer us a colourful window into medieval English life.

King Henry I (left), holding a model of Reading abbey, and King Stephen (right) with Faversham abbey. Historia Anglorum by Matthew Paris.

Reading abbey was founded by King Henry I, a son of William the Conqueror. And despite the parochial imagery of Sumer Is Icumen In, there are cross-channel connections running throughout the abbey’s history.

In the evening of 25th November 1120, a vessel known as The White Ship struck a rock and sank off the coast of Normandy. On board were numerous Anglo-Norman nobility, including William Adelin, the only legitimate son of Henry I. The heir to the English throne was drowned, throwing the country into a succession crisis.

The sinking of The White Ship, in a 14th-century manuscript.

The following year, Henry I ordered the foundation of a new abbey. Its charter proclaimed it would be for the salvation of his soul, and for those of his dead relatives, including his lost son.

It would be a destination for pilgrims, and extend its charity to the poor and sick. Reading’s location on trade routes, and at the confluence of the river Kennet with the Thames, was ideal for catching passing visitors. 

The abbey was founded on the monastic model of the great Benedictine abbey of Cluny in Burgundy, and Cluniac monks came to help in its early stages. It was privileged with a generous endowment of lands across the country. Henry’s succession may have been in doubt, but Reading would be his great religious legacy – and his final resting place.

The remaining walls of the abbey church. In the background is Reading Gaol, whose most famous inmate was Oscar Wilde.

To draw in pilgrims – and their associated revenue – Reading amassed a collection of over 200 holy relics. The most important of these came to England via Henry I’s daughter, Mathilda. She had married Emperor Henry V in Germany, and after his death she returned with a treasure from his Imperial collection – a hand said to be that of the Apostle St. James the Great. 

This supposedly thousand-year-old hand was later installed as a star attraction at Reading. The cult of St. James was hugely popular in the 12th century, centred on the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia – as Joseph Camilleri has described, ‘The Way of St. James’ even had its own music. Since Reading now quite literally had a hand in this business, it could become a more accessible alternative to Compostela for English pilgrims. 

Building work on the abbey took many years. In 1164 its church was dedicated by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, in the presence of Henry II. But when Becket’s murder a few years later made him a martyr, Canterbury became a pilgrimage site that overshadowed Reading, in turn inspiring the world-famous tales of Chaucer.

The murder of Thomas Becket illustrated in the Book of Sarum.

A surviving document from around 1200 gives some insight into Reading pilgrimage. It lists various miracle stories – mostly cures, received by sick pilgrims from all levels of society. Few were able to gain access to the saintly hand itself, kept at mysterious distance in a reliquary, but water it had been dipped in was used for healing.

Amusingly, the stories even take a swipe at Reading’s rivals. Ysembela, a fisherman’s daughter who suffered ‘deformed and paralysed limbs’, toured saints’ shrines – including Becket’s – to no avail. But at Canterbury, she was visited in a dream by St. James, who told her to go to Reading. There she lit a candle for him and was finally cured.

The ‘Sumer Canon’ display panel on the chapter house wall.

Of course, Reading abbey would have been a place to hear plenty of sacred music too. But while the public literature around the abbey ruins proudly claims that Sumer Is Icumen In was copied down here, the evidence is somewhat less certain.

Harley 978 is its only source, and it does not include anything so vulgar as a composer name or place of composition. Andrew Taylor describes it as ‘a portable miscellany, elegant but not luxurious […] that reflects the eclectic interests of its first owner’. Assessing the clues, he suggests this was likely William of Winchester, a Reading monk.

The abbey ruins from the south.

Harley 978 may have been compiled over a number of years, but the bulk of it seems to date from the 1260s. From what’s known of the 13th-century book trade, it’s possible that some of this collection may be the work of professional scriveners in Oxford.

Besides Sumer, the collection includes Latin songs, and three two-part estampies. But more revealing is the amount of secular literature here. It includes the Lais of Marie de France – poems which focus on courtly love and fantastical themes. There is part of a guide to falconry, and the The Song Of Lewes, a partisan political poem which extols a recent victory of Simon de Montforte in the Second Baron’s War.

It also contains several ‘Goliardic’ verses – Latin poetry which satirised the church, and often lauded a life of carnal pleasure. One of these verses, Omnibus In Gallia, Taylor summarises as follows:

[…] a mock letter of introduction that calls on the Goliards in France to ply the bearer with wine until he staggers and inquires whether these French brothers still enjoy playing in secret with beautiful women like Rose and Agnes. 

This may seem surprising, but as Taylor writes, ‘the contents of Harley 978 would probably not have scandalised the average Benedictine community’.

More scandalous is the fact that William may have ‘played in secret’ with his very own Agnes. While serving as subprior at Leominster (a Reading dependency), accusations of the monk’s ‘incontinence’ with a nun, Agnes of Avenbury, and several other women were recorded by the bishop of Hereford. Whatever the truth of the allegations, William was nonetheless able to continue monastic life – he was subsequently brought to Reading and appointed as proctor.

Harley 978 gives us a rich insight into the world of its owner, whether it was William of Winchester or not. And while we may not know who composed Sumer, it is easy to see where its popularity as a song lies. With plenty of musical charm, it has been able to break free of its monastic context, and provide a timeless Arcadian vision of rural life in tune with the seasons. As Taylor puts it:

These earthy lyrics and the social harmony of the sing-along evoke the organic unity of Merry England, […] “Sumer Is Icumen In” is all we would expect the first English lyric to be.

Scallop shells on a crest in Forbury Gardens, the symbol of St. James pilgrims.

For four centuries, Reading abbey was a site of pilgrimage, but also a convenient meeting place. Here Henry II met Heraclius, the Patriarch of Jerusalem, who requested help in fighting Saladin’s forces. In 1359, John of Gaunt celebrated his marriage to Blanche of Lancaster here. Parliament was convened at the abbey several times.

The downfall of Reading, like so many monasteries across the country, came with the Dissolution during the reign of Henry VIII, overseen by Thomas Cromwell. In this pivotal period, the superstitious veneration of relics came under attack.

Thomas Cromwell, painted by Hans Holbein the Younger. Less than a year after Cook’s execution, Cromwell himself was executed for treason and heresy.

Reading’s abbot at the time, Hugh Cook of Faringdon, had once been on good terms with Henry VIII, but his apparent unwillingness to recognise the king’s supremacy over the Pope would seal his fate. He was tried for treason, and a chilling line in Cromwell’s notes – ‘the abbot Redyng to be sent down to be tried and executed’ – suggests he didn’t stand a chance.

Along with two associates, Cook was dragged through the town and hanged, drawn and quartered near the abbey gatehouse.

In the following years, the church suffered similar brutality, as materials were stripped off and repurposed elsewhere. It’s believed that abbey stones can be found in historic buildings around the town, including Reading Minster. A century later, the abbey site was further damaged during the English Civil War.

Reading Minster, which is thought to contain materials from Reading abbey.

Standing in the small part of the abbey church that’s left, it’s sad to think of how much has been lost. Here a plaque indicates the likely area where Henry I was buried. He died in France – one chronicler famously attributed his demise to eating ‘a surfeit of lampreys’. Whatever the cause, his body made the long journey back to his royal foundation.

The site being so disturbed, and now partly built over, it’s no longer clear if Henry’s remains still lie here. But this was his intended resting place, so the prospect of a Richard III-style excavation is not on the cards. When I visited, the air was bright with the sound of children playing in the nursery behind the plaque’s wall. It’s strangely pleasing to think that Reading’s youngsters might be running care-free over the body of a medieval king.

King Henry’s burial plaque.

While the abbey’s relics were seized at the Dissolution, their subsequent fate is unknown. However, the ground has given up one tantalising artefact. In the late 18th century, workmen digging foundations for Reading Gaol discovered a left hand buried in the abbey wall. After being passed among various owners, it now resides at St. Peter’s catholic church in the nearby town of Marlow.

Is this shrivelled and sinister-looking object the same hand once revered by medieval pilgrims? It’s tempting to think so. If it is the hand brought to England by the Empress Mathilda, then – its dubious saintly origins notwithstanding – it is certainly a remarkable survival.

Forbury Gardens.

Sat on the Thames in the middle of the south of England, the blessings of geography have enabled Reading to attract visitors, and made it a prosperous modern town. A succession of transport projects over the centuries – the Kennet and Avon Canal, the Great Western Railway, the M4 – have continued this trend long after its magnificent abbey has gone. 

So if you find yourself passing through Reading, remember that you are following in footsteps trodden by pilgrims for four hundred years. If you have time, I hope you consider stopping by these wonderful ruins, which are free to visit every day. You can also see stonework from the abbey, including an early carving of the coronation of the Virgin Mary, in the nearby Reading Museum.

Finally, it’s worth remembering that Reading’s monastery was founded and enriched through centuries of boats braving the waters of the English channel. They brought the king who was buried here, the relics of its miracle stories, and much of the varied cultural and intellectual life that fills the pages of Harley 978. Sumer Is Icumen In may be all we expect the first English lyric to be. But the cuckoo is a migratory bird, after all.

Textual Situations: Three Medieval Manuscripts and Their Readers by Andrew Taylor is available from University of Pennsylvania Press.

Saints and their Communities: Miracle Stories in Twelfth-Century England by Simon Yarrow is available from OUP.

The Royal Abbey Of Reading by Ron Baxter is available from Boydell & Brewer.

This article was partly inspired by a talk on Reading abbey pilgrimage given by John and Lindsay Mullaney. You can learn more at their website Reading Abbey History.

If you enjoyed this article, please consider helping to fund Corymbus. Make a monthly pledge on Patreon, and you will get access to extra posts there. You can also donate at any time on PayPal.

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Music History Minus Beethoven?

Portrait of Beethoven by Karl Joseph Karl Stieler, Wikimedia Commons.

         By Leah Broad

I recently Googled ‘music history without Beethoven’, and the results are hilariously depressing. Of 38,800,000 hits, my top three were: ‘Why Beethoven?’, an academic article stating that ‘there will be no end to our fascination with Beethoven’; and articles entitled ‘How Beethoven’s Symphonies Changed The World’, and ‘Beethoven: How the World’s First Rock Star Changed Music Forever’. The same search in quotation marks yielded a grand total of 0 results. 

The results for ‘composers not influenced by Beethoven’ is no less promising. The top hit is an article by Classic FM called ‘Beethoven’s Influence On Other Composers’, asking the allegedly important question: ‘Had Ludvig van Beethoven never existed, could he have been invented?’

Sure, Beethoven is important in European music history. But is music history without him really inconceivable? Beethoven’s impressive posthumous Google domination is a symptom of a much wider problem with the way music history is written.

‘For nearly two centuries’, musicologist Scott Burnham writes in his book Beethoven Hero, ‘a single composer has epitomized musical vitality, becoming the paradigm of Western compositional logic’. Beethoven’s values ‘have become the values of music.’ All roads lead to, from, and are compared to, Beethoven.

This is problematic for a whole host of reasons. That our tools of analysis, ways of listening, and historical priorities have been so focused on Beethoven means that other composers have been read in comparison, rather than on their own merits. To quote Burnham again, ‘we may read the history of tonal theory in the nineteenth century as a form of Beethoven reception’, and by reading music in this way, ‘we implicitly claim that Beethoven’s music most closely resembles the way music ought to go.’ 

This has produced surprising results; for example, Beethoven’s music has historically been gendered ‘masculine’, leading the music of his contemporary, Schubert, to be gendered ‘feminine’ in response. Robert Schumann wrote of Schubert that he ‘is a feminine character, much more voluble, softer and broader […] in relationship to Beethoven!’ 

This gendered comparison has sometimes led to Schubert receiving short shrift in nineteenth and twentieth century writing; for example in 1883 the music critic H. Heathcote Statham commented that Schubert’s songs leave the listener ‘with a consciousness of having been overdosed with sentiment; of having gone through a great deal of repetition and mannerism, beautiful at first but cloying after a time; with a longing for something more bracing and manly in style and feeling.’ 

Besides ignoring many of the similarities between Beethoven and Schubert, this perpetuates the idea that not only are certain musical gestures associated with gendered characteristics, but that ‘masculine’ features are superior.

Focusing on Beethoven also pushes to one side multiple sources of influence that were nothing to do with Beethoven, giving us a skewed perspective of musical history. It focuses inordinate attention on Austria and Germany, hiding the geographical complexity of many composers’ lives and influences. Particularly in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, composers outside Austria and Germany were in dialogue with music from these countries but were hardly defined by it. They turned to the work of others in their native and neighbouring countries for their primary sources of inspiration, and often expressed ambivalence about Beethoven’s work.

Janáček, for example, wrote that Beethoven ‘illuminates every single cloud and dispels every shadow. But what is the good of that? I want to capture the clouds themselves, I want to sink my eyes into the blue of the sky, I want to bundle the very sunrays into my fist, I want to plunge into the shadow. I want to cry myself into the core of yearning: all this in full intensity.’ Beethoven was one in a plethora of inspirations from elsewhere — Dvořák, Slavic folk music, and Russian composers including Tchaikovsky. 

Sibelius also had a distant view of Beethoven. He wrote in 1894 that ‘I am really a tone painter and poet. Liszt’s views about music are most closely related to my own.’ He admired Beethoven, but wrote in his diary that Beethoven’s technique ‘is often antiquated and not brilliant enough.’ More important for Sibelius were modern composers like Scriabin and Debussy, and authors like August Strindberg, whose writing he greatly admired. Of course, statements like these shouldn’t always be taken at face value, but the wealth of music that these individuals produced that bears little resemblance to Beethovenian models suggest that we do them a disservice by shoe-horning them into a Beethoven-centric view.

But more than this, Beethoven-as-music-history provides blinkers when it comes to deciding what is or can be the subject of music history. We – musicologists, performers, publishers, and programmers – are now paying more attention to composers who do not fit the heroic-white-male-composing-masterpieces-in-isolation model. Composers like Clara Schumann and Julius Eastman are making their way into concert programmes and historical studies more regularly. But to pick just one example, what of Elfrida Andrée, composer, conductor and Sweden’s first female cathedral organist?

Despite a litany of setbacks (including being refused an organist appointment in her twenties because ‘the sight of a woman on the organ stool [would be] indecorous and disruptive of devotion’), Andrée persevered to become the organist at Gothenburg Cathedral in 1867. In a time when it was only considered acceptable for women to write small songs and piano pieces, Andrée composed two symphonies, several chamber works and an opera, writing to her father that ‘It would be easier to tear a piece from a rock than to tear away from me my ideal: the elevation of womankind!’ There’s a wealth of musical figures whose lives and works weave narratives that do not feature Beethoven.

Photograph of Elfrida Andrée, Wikimedia Commons.

Finally, emphasising Beethoven dictates our expectations of what music history can do or should include. What is the point of music history? In his Oxford History Of Western Music, Richard Taruskin writes that the point of a history is ‘to explain why and how things happened as they did’, and that to do so he included music ‘based not on my preferences but on my estimation of what needed to be included in order to satisfy the dual requirement of causal explanation and technical explication.’

It’s easy to poke holes in Taruskin’s History without acknowledging what an extraordinary feat of scholarship this single-author, five-volume series is. But as musicologist Gary Tomlinson puts it, Taruskin’s ‘preferences, he seems to think, are not preferences at all […] History happened thus.’ Beethoven, of course, gets two and a half chapters all to himself, to say nothing of his repeated appearances throughout volumes three to five as an influence on later music. 

But in this ‘catholic’ and ‘near exhaustive’ history of Music And Why It Happened, jazz, collaborative composition, incidental music, and sound art have little or no place, to name but a few. Nor are technologies or economic forces major players in this version of history. And this is perhaps the main problem with considering Beethoven indispensable to what Taruskin labels a ‘true history’. A history that prioritises Beethoven prioritises central Europe, concert halls, notated genres, and composers’ lives and works. And while Beethoven is indispensable to histories with these priorities, there are other narratives to be told in which Beethoven’s name is not so important. 

Our historical standpoints – what we choose as subjects and importantly what we choose to omit – these are preferences. We can seek truths within frameworks, but we choose which frames to look through. In some of music history’s frames, Beethoven is indispensable. But in many more, he’s not. When we stop thinking of Beethoven as the irreplaceable figure of music history, we discover that music history is much, much bigger than Beethoven.

Leah is a Lecturer in Musicology at the University of Oxford, researching incidental music and music from Scandinavia. She is the founder and editor of The Oxford Culture Review, a BBC/AHRC New Generation Thinker, and winner of the Observer/Anthony Burgess Prize for Arts Journalism 2015. You can find out more about her work on her website, or follow her on Twitter @LeahBroad.

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A Picture Of A Purpose

Frederick Hart’s sculpture ‘Ex Nihilo’, photographed by Paul Chenoweth. Shared under Creative Commons.

holsthousezoom      By Simon Brackenborough

The discovery of natural evolution has been a revelatory development in human intellectual history. It is an idea that has given us a whole new perspective on our place in the world, and changed the story of who we are.

The language associated with evolution is often applied to other aspects of our lives too – including music. We can hear ‘survival of the fittest’ rhetoric in the way a canon is upheld and defended. We can see how certain musical innovations explosively multiply, like an advantageous genetic mutation. And a sudden change to a cultural ecosystem – war, political revolution, technology – can dramatically alter the various fortunes of its musical species.

Back in 2015 I wrote about the eleventh symphony of Edmund Rubbra, the last he composed. Rubbra’s life and music demonstrates the challenges of artistic evolution – of swimming against cultural currents, and ending up marooned far from the mainland of public consciousness. Here I want to explore another of his symphonies, one which sits at an intersection of different evolutions – natural, spiritual, and musical. It is his eighth, composed between 1966-68.

A clue to understanding this symphony is found in its subtitle: Hommage à Teilhard de Chardin. The story of this extraordinary man is worth telling, as it sheds light on ideas that shaped Rubbra’s worldview – ideas of a vision to unify Christianity and the theories of evolution.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin was a Jesuit priest and mystic, but also a leading geologist and paleontologist of his time. He was born in 1881 into a wealthy Catholic family in the French region of Auvergne – a landscape of mountains and dormant volcanos. His father was an amateur naturalist who collected all sorts of specimens, and through him the young Teilhard developed a fascination with rocks and stones. 

Auvergne landscape, by Julien Chabal. Wikimedia Commons.

The twin devotions of Teilhard’s life – Christianity and science – were nurtured at a Jesuit-run boarding school. Sensing a religious calling in his late teens, he then entered a Jesuit novitiate. Life here gave him much to study, and he also received his first taste of foreign travel, with successive periods spent abroad. Wherever he went, he never wasted opportunities to go on trips to collect local rocks and fossils.

Teilhard was ordained as a priest in 1911. But a formative moment came from reading the book Creative Evolution by the philosopher Henri Bergson. It was ‘fuel at just the right moment’ he later recalled, ‘for a fire that was already consuming my heart and mind’. The word ‘evolution’ haunted him ‘like a tune’, it was ‘a summons to be answered’.

Teilhard moved to Paris to study geology and paleontology, where he would eventually complete a doctorate and gain a professorship. But his ideas about evolution found an unexpected catalyst in the violent upheaval of the First World War.

Teilhard served as a stretcher-bearer for an ambulance unit. Despite being present at many major battles, he somehow survived completely unscathed, and was even made Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur. Meanwhile, in the down-time between fighting he was putting into words a mystical vision – perhaps with the enhanced clarity of a man staring death in the face. As Ursula King describes in her excellent biography, evolution was informing Teilhard’s perception of a universal consciousness, a ‘Christ in the cosmos’. Shortly after the war, he wrote in his essay The Priest:

Let creation repeat to itself again today, and tomorrow, and until the end of time, so long as the transformation has not run its full course, the divine saying: “This is my body”.

His language could be strange but beautiful. For all his expertise of the physical earth, Teilhard wrote of the desire ‘to pierce through the seamless veil of phenomena’, and find its hidden spiritual potential. In the 1920s he coined the term ‘noosphere’: a ‘thinking layer’ above the biosphere, consisting of human thought, feeling and love. Teilhard saw this as means of humanity evolving further, and becoming ‘Planetised’.

The thinking envelope of the earth […] is multiplying its internal fibres and tightening its network […] its internal temperature is rising, and with this its psychic potential. 

When in 1923 Teilhard took a ship to join a French paleontology mission in China, it would be the first of many years working there throughout the 1920s and 30s, including some difficult and dangerous expeditions to remote inland regions. Most famously, he was involved in excavations that unearthed remains of early hominids known as ‘Peking Man’.

But throughout a stellar career in science, Teilhard continued to write on his spiritual ideas. His magnum opus was the book The Human Phenomenon, pulling together themes from a lifetime of thought. It describes how the increase in complexity of life leads to a greater ‘within’ of organisms, or consciousness. Drawing on the concept of the ‘noosphere’, he extrapolates this process forward to see humanity attain a supreme conscious state – the ‘Omega point’, the point of God himself.

And yet sadly, although many of his writings were circulated among friends, most were barred from publication during his lifetime. Teilhard’s ideas were too unorthodox for the comfort of his Jesuit superiors – something that caused him considerable distress and disappointment.

Teilhard de Chardin, unknown photographer. Wikimedia Commons.

Nonetheless, after Teilhard died in 1955 his works were soon published, and the fact that Rubbra was familiar with them by the late 1960s shows the speed of dissemination, even in translation. Rubbra’s son Adrian Yardley recalls that he had ‘pretty much all of his writings’ available in Britain. In an article about the symphony, the composer described how Teilhard ‘exercised an enormous influence on me’.

His cosmic view of evolution gives, if one responds to it, a picture of a purpose, a oneness, that makes nonsense of any fundamental antagonism or real separation between the world-view of science and of Christianity.

Rubbra shared Teilhard’s Catholic faith and unusually spiritual inclination. But he made it clear that his musical homage could only go so far.

It was no part of my intention, even if possible, to translate these ideas into music: but they meet, I hope, in a like optimism.

The symphony was composed some ten years after its predecessor, and this long gap coincided with an important development in Rubbra’s approach. His music always had its own kind of internal evolution, an organic flow of ideas. But he described how ‘my thoughts had gradually crystallised into a knowledge of the dramatic value of intervals’. 

The deployment of certain interval units, embedded in harmony and threading through melody, became a key unifying force. Furthermore, the chosen intervals contract through the symphony’s three movements – from fourths, to thirds, and seconds – something that Rubbra alluded to with a scientific analogy.

There is an odd parallel, in the intensity generated by the progressive contraction of intervals, to the energy engendered by the astronomical phenomenon of star contraction. 

A night sky might well be where this symphony begins. A quiet, widely-spaced string chord creates a sound of vaulted wonder. Two clarinets and divided violas, a fourth apart, introduce a mysterious undulating figure. 

There follows a succession of probing ideas, restless with creative potential. Out of this emerges a noble theme, first heard on strings. It is partly ‘mirrored’ by its own inverted shape below, an unfolding contrary motion which suggests some cosmic significance – each action has an equal and opposite reaction.

Leo Black has compared this movement to the ‘Representation Of Chaos’ from Haydn’s Creation, and its primordial turbulence gives way to riotous fertility in the second movement. Starting from a set of motifs based around thirds, Rubbra rejoices in twisting and turning his material through ever-new combinations, colours, and metrical games. It shines with a love of endless transformation that Teilhard would have recognised – this could be a flight through unspoilt forest glades, each bursting with abundant forms of life.

If the blazing major-key conclusion feels like a moment of arrival, then the slow finale ushers us into a very different world. Adrian Yardley has remarked that this symphony is ‘in many ways a pilgrimage’, and the hovering horn chords at the opening suggest the stillness of a consecrated space. A violin theme slowly unfurls, built from intervals of seconds with added sixths, and its shape is immediately inverted halfway through.

A few years previously, Rubbra had set to music an ancient Chinese poem about a priest’s journey. The song begins with the line ‘you were foreordained to find the source’, and there is a parallel here to the enclosed arcs of this theme, each returning to its starting note. The sense of beginning with the sureness of finality is masterfully spun out through the deep breaths of the following music.

Later on, a shape from this theme is extended into a long, meditative line. Its disarming eloquence caused the critic Hugh Ottaway to remark it had ‘the magic of a new discovery’. And when a graceful decorative figure appears towards the end – first on violins, then flute – it is this new theme in retrograde and at double speed.

Replete with suggestions of sacred geometry, the symphony reaches its conclusion in a state of transcendent calm. At the last chord, a strange flourish on the celesta adds a lingering glimmer of mystery.

Rubbra’s new approach is compelling, and demonstrates a highly original mind. But at its premiere, critical reaction to his intervallic structure was mostly unfavourable. It was still effectively a tonal symphony with conventional scoring, and in the more radical cultural climate of the time, this piece must have seemed like the work of yesterday’s man. It was all too quickly forgotten. 

Edmund Rubbra. Shared with permission of Adrian Yardley.

The dominant narrative of music history selects a few innovators and influencers. Today, while we are fortunate to have much of Rubbra’s music recorded, it elicits relatively little discussion or performances. But with time and perspective, perhaps the picture of his singular purpose can be seen more clearly. 

Any revival of interest in Rubbra will bring an important question into focus: what value does our culture place on this kind of optimism? Listening to his eighth symphony is to behold the work of a benign creator – with all its joy, fascination, surprise, and mystery. But while there is certainly deep feeling in Rubbra’s music, there is relatively little that reflects aspects of our psyche such as despair, irony, anger, or violence.

Instead, the optimism that Rubbra hoped to share with Teilhard seems to be a kind of attitude to life. It has roots in religious faith, but it also stems from patient dedication, careful thought and contemplation, and trusting yourself to find the path to your own truth. Asked in an interview if criticism affected him, Rubbra said ‘not fundamentally. At the moment perhaps, but I realise what I’m doing and what I have to do’.

Teilhard de Chardin carried on working and travelling into his seventies. He was elected to a chair at the Academy Of Sciences, but Church authorities, suspicious of his ideas and influence, refused to let him reside in Paris. Instead he spent his final years exiled in New York, where he found funding for a research position. It was at a friend’s apartment there on April 10th 1955 that he suddenly collapsed from a severe heart attack and died. That day was Easter Sunday.

Teilhard de Chardin’s grave in Hyde Park, New York State. Photograph by ‘Ɱ’, shared under Creative Commons.

Teilhard’s body was buried upstate from the city, in a cemetery at the Jesuit novitiate of St. Andrew-on-Hudson. A small gravestone only lists his name and dates, and the site has since been taken over by the Culinary Institute Of America. ‘It seems a forlorn place’, King writes, ‘for someone who travelled the world and is said to have influenced the thinking of both the United Nations and the Second Vatican Council’.

Nonetheless, Teilhard’s works have gone on to develop a considerable following. While ideas like the ‘noosphere’ may seem far-fetched, they demonstrate a mind that thought deeply about humanity’s future, and which correctly foresaw a more connected and globalised world.

Teilhard lamented a Church complacent in its ‘abstract theology’, ‘artificial ritualism’ and ‘over-refined piety’, calling on it to reflect the forces that gave people a zest for a life. For him that force was the music of the earth – his fascination with the patterns of its composition since his childhood, and a perception of spiritual truth within it. As he wrote in the introduction to The Heart Of Matter:

The Diaphony of the Divine at the heart of a glowing Universe, as I have experienced it through contact with the earth – the Divine radiating from the depths of blazing Matter: this it is that I shall try to disclose and communicate […]

And while Teilhard’s body now lies in a humble resting place, his ideas have been granted much greater honours. Recently, his name was heard by millions of TV viewers during a sermon by Reverend Michael Curry at the wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. The Bishop drew on words Teilhard wrote with a typical fusion of spirituality and science. 

After harnessing the ether, the winds, the tides, gravitation, we shall harness for God the energies of love. And, on that day, for the second time in the history of the world, human beings will have discovered fire.

Judging by social media commentary, many people watching the wedding seemed to be surprised and moved by the Bishop’s positivity and passion. Perhaps, even in our cynical and fearful age, there is a bigger receptiveness to the power of optimism than I often suppose. 

If Rubbra’s music were given just a small fraction of that audience, who knows how many might become willing followers on his musical pilgrimage? For now, his symphony can only lie in wait, a glittering crystal of rare musical thought. Those who chance upon it will find all the magic of a new discovery.

You can listen to Rubbra’s eighth symphony on Spotify. ‘Spirit of Fire: The Life and Vision of Teilhard de Chardin’ by Ursula King is available from Orbis Books. ‘Edmund Rubbra: Symphonist’ by Leo Black is available from Boydell and Brewer.

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In Every Corner Sing

A stained glass window of George Herbert at St. Andrew’s church, Bemerton.

holsthousezoom      By Simon Brackenborough

In my experience, music is a great route to poetry. I’m fairly sure it was through the Five Mystical Songs by Vaughan Williams that I first discovered the works of George Herbert – the poet and rector of Bemerton, on the outskirts of Salisbury. Since his death in 1633 at the age of 39, Herbert has become known as one of Britain’s most loved and respected writers of religious verse.

Herbert’s words have been put to music by many composers. But in reading these poems, I’ve found the Vaughan Williams settings especially hard to shift from my mind. They contain some of his loveliest melodies, with a natural ease that perfectly marries Herbert’s deceptive simplicity. Take for example The Call, set in the Five Mystical Songs. Vaughan Williams takes up the skipping rhythm inherent in its first line, and makes it a defining feature.

Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life:
Such a Way, as gives us breath:
Such a Truth, as ends all strife:
Such a Life, as killeth death.

John Drury’s Music At Midnight is a fascinating biography of Herbert, full of literary insight that has helped me to better understand his poetry on its own terms. He also adds some clarifying light to the rather saintly reputation that has been cultivated around Herbert, particularly by Izaak Walton, who wrote the first biography a few decades after the poet’s death.

Herbert may have become a parish clergyman, but he was born into a wealthy family – lords of Montgomery Castle on the Welsh borders, and part of the same branch of Herberts as the Earls of Pembroke.

His father died when he was young, and he moved with his mother to Oxford and then London. Bright and studious, he went on to Trinity College Cambridge, becoming a fellow there and rising to the prestigious role of ‘Orator’, which involved making official addresses and correspondence on behalf of the University.

Herbert’s journey to the priesthood was far from inevitable. A great career in public office might have come to pass, and when he finally became rector of Bemerton, just three years before he died of suspected tuberculosis, he had agonised over his calling for some time.

Ironically, he was never publicly known for poetry – in English at least. His Latin poetry was published, but the verse so widely loved today was kept to himself: revised and reflected on in private, refined to his particular style of lean precision.

Nonetheless, when Herbert’s poems were published soon after his death in a collection called The Temple, they became a huge success. He influenced a whole new generation of poets, and his words were soon being put to music by composers such as John Jenkins and Henry Lawes. Some made expressive solo songs, such as Purcell’s version of Longing, or John Wilson’s Content. More substantial is a choral verse anthem by George Jeffreys which sets Easter, the same poem that opens the Five Mystical Songs.

What is interesting is that these early settings don’t seem nearly as concerned with Herbert’s most celebrated poems today. Among these is Love (III), better known by its first line ‘Love bade me welcome’. It exemplifies Herbert’s habit of finding religious metaphors in aspects of everyday domestic life – in this case, the hospitality culture he was raised in. Here’s the first stanza, and a beautifully simple choral setting by the New York composer David Hurd.

Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked any thing.

Enthused by Drury’s marvellous book, I decided to take a drive to Bemerton and see St. Andrew’s church, where Herbert ministered. It’s a small and modest building. Across the road stands the rectory where he lived – a much grander structure with grounds along the river Nadder, a tranquil chalk stream that glides east towards Salisbury like a quiet prayer. 

St. Andrew’s Church and rectory, Bemerton.

Entering the church, I was pleased to find a stone carving of ‘Love bade me welcome’ at the door. There is also a nice stained-glass window of Herbert, memorialised beside his friend Nicholas Ferrar, who has earned the eternal gratitude of Herbert fans by ensuring The Temple’s posthumous publication.

It’s a pleasant place, but beyond these features there isn’t much to see. So I quickly went on to Salisbury cathedral, walking the half-hour route that Herbert must have known so well. As the well-kept front gardens of Bemerton gave way to a drab industrial estate, the great spire came into view – the tallest in the country. I soon arrived at the idyllic water meadows where the Nadder joins the Avon, a vantage point immortalised by John Constable. Today the same west front of the cathedral bears a statue of Herbert, dedicated in 2003.

Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows, by John Constable. Wikimedia Commons.

Salisbury is a lovely city, and on such a beautiful May morning – young leaves glowing in spring sunlight, bluebells and cowslips crowding the verges – it was hard not to think of Herbert’s poem Vertue.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die. 

Like The Call, the rhythmic pulse of that first line was set to a beautiful melody by Vaughan Williams. But Hubert Parry also composed a choral setting of Vertue with its own mellifluous charm.

There’s an interesting connection here too. As it happens, Parry married Elizabeth Maude Herbert, whose brother (another George) was the Earl of Pembroke. So Parry joined the same family tree as our poet, two centuries after he died.

The St. Andrew’s window depicts Herbert holding a violin, and without doubt music was hugely important in his life. He played lute and viols, and it’s said he sang his own settings of his verse, though no notation of them has survived. His was a golden age for music in England as well as literature, and he would have known it – during his childhood in London, the composers John Bull and William Byrd visited his home, and John Donne was a family friend.

What’s more, musical metaphors ring through his poems with remarkable abundance. One of the most striking occurs in Easter, which alludes to the ‘three parts vied and multiplied’ of the harmonic triad, and compares the sinews of the crucified Christ to lute strings.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
With all thy art.
The crosse taught all wood to resound his name,
Who bore the same.
His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
Is best to celebrate this most high day.

Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song
Pleasant and long:
Or, since all musick is but three parts vied
And multiplied,
O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
And make up our defects with his sweet art.

But poetry, of course, has its own inner music. Diane Kelsey McColley has described the way that Herbert’s apparently simple arrangements of words are precisely ‘tuned’ to create multiple resonances:

Linear arrangements of words form vertical consonances whose overtones, as well as fundamental meanings, are in tune […] not only do thematically related concepts and images form vertical chords, but also the partials or secondary meanings – puns, etymologies, allusions, and the like – are in tune as the partials of natural tuning are.

Most clearly of all, Herbert’s poetry celebrates the essential goodness of music. His Antiphon (I) joyfully exclaims ‘Let all the world in ev’ry corner sing’, which rounds off the Five Mystical Songs in rousing fashion. It has been set to several hymn tunes, and George Dyson gave it an appropriately sunny treatment in his Three Songs Of Praise. 

Much more contrasting to the Five Mystical Songs is Roxanna Panufnik’s imaginative setting of The Call. Whereas Vaughan Williams makes these words noble and affirming, Panufnik creates an atmosphere of sensual mystery, with harp arpeggios wafting up like clouds of incense.

The composer Judith Weir seems particularly drawn to Herbert – her several settings include a beautiful version of Vertue. But when Weir was commissioned to compose the opening piece for the 2011 BBC Proms, she chose three particular lines from the poem Man. 

The stars have us to bed;
Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws;
Music and light attend our head.

With the formidable musical forces of Janáček’s Glagolithic Mass at her disposal for the concert, Weir turned these quietly nocturnal lines into a grand public statement, with organ and brass blazing bright. Stars, Night, Music And Light anoints the world’s largest classical music festival, announcing a long summer of dazzling nights under the stars.

A very different kind of selective quotation appears in the sonorous choral piece Contrition by Ola Gjeilo. He sets the final line of Perseverance in his central section: ‘Thou art my rock, thou art my rest’, and repeats it meditatively, a deeply felt mantra.

Herbert’s short life was marked by frequent poor health, and there is something moving in the fact that the late John Tavener turned to this poet after a period of illness in his final years. The Three Hymns Of George Herbert incorporates his earlier choral setting of Love (III), but he expands the forces, calling for a ‘large, resonant acoustic’, with a choir and string orchestra offset by an ‘echo choir’ and string quartet at a distance. Bells and gongs sound from a gallery above.

The use of this spatial arrangement becomes apparent in the first choice of hymn: Herbert’s ‘echo poem’ Heaven, which cleverly repeats the last syllable of each line as a new answering word to its preceding question.

A commercial recording of the Three Hymns is yet to be made, but the 2013 world premiere can be heard below. Herbert’s words traverse the far spaces of Washington Cathedral, with all the time-stopping stasis that Tavener does so well. The temple becomes an instrument. Its every corner sings. How wonderful it would be to hear this work under the great vaulted ceiling of Salisbury, while Herbert’s statue gazes west, out across the water meadows to his tiny church in Bemerton.

The antiphonal effects of the music reverberate just as Herbert’s poetry, locked away during his lifetime, has echoed down the centuries since his death. These words, rich in their musicality, remain fertile ground for inspiration.

Salisbury Cathedral seen from the west.

Talks and concerts related to Herbert’s life and work continue to be held in the Salisbury area. But the story of Bemerton has one especially pleasing literary and musical epilogue.

The novelist Vikram Seth, author of An Equal Music among other works, has been an admirer of Herbert since his youth. When he heard that the old rectory was going up for sale, he made a visit, and was so taken by the place that he decided to buy it in 2003. 

After the purchase Seth wrote Shared Ground: a series of poems in homage to Herbert, formally modelled on his favourite examples. These were set for voices by the composer Alec Roth. In his note to the Hyperion recording of the piece, Seth wrote about his experience of inhabiting Herbert’s physical space, much as he had inhabited his poetic forms:

At the beginning I felt his presence hourly, both within the house and outside. As time passed, I began to think of it as being somewhat more my own, but still, indefinably, shared.

A small picture of Herbert inside St. Andrew’s church.

Of these poems, Host is a response to Love (III). Here Seth creates a dialogue between himself and the location in which he felt so strangely welcomed. Roth sets it to alternating tenor solo and chorus. Both poems can be read here, but Seth’s opening stanza is below.

I heard it was for sale and thought I’d go
To see the old house where
He lived three years, and died. How could I know
Its stones, its trees, its air,
The stream, the small church, the dark rain would say:
“You’ve come; you’ve seen; now stay”.

But Roth adds something else to Host. At its close, the choir sing a few more lines which, according to Walton, were once inscribed in the hall of the rectory, marking the completion of repairs during Herbert’s tenure. The little poem no longer remains, but it was titled To My Successor.

If thou chance for to find
A new House to thy mind,
And built without thy Cost:
Be good to the Poor,
As God gives thee store,
And then my Labour’s not lost.

These words was also set for choir by James MacMillan, to be sung at the enthronement of Rowan Williams as Archbishop of Canterbury. Several years later, Williams visited St. Andrew’s for a festival about Bemerton’s famous priest. A poet himself and a long-standing admirer of Herbert, he blessed the welcoming stone at the church door.

It seems that Herbert has many successors, of different sorts. And it’s surely no bad thing that I discovered the works of this fascinating man through the music of Vaughan Williams, however hard it may be to disrobe his verse from that melodic clothing.

For Herbert, music ran not only through his poetry, but his whole life. So it is deeply fitting that this particular entrance bade me welcome to his private world. What is clear is that Herbert’s legacy resounds in singing notes as much as it lives on in printed words. ‘Such a Way, as gives us breath’.   

‘Music At Midnight: The Life And Poetry Of George Herbert’ is available from Penguin. ‘Poetry And Music In Seventeenth-Century England’ is available from Cambridge University Press.

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The Magus

Prospero Commanding Ariel, by John White Abbott. Wikimedia Commons.

holsthousezoom      By Simon Brackenborough

John Fowles’s novel The Magus tells the story of Nicholas Urfe, a young graduate who takes up a post teaching English on a small Greek island. There he falls under the influence of an older man, Maurice Conchis, who seems to be a figure of considerable wealth, learning and charm. This mysterious character slowly draws Urfe into a game of escalating trickery, in which the boundaries of reality and illusion are increasingly tested.

Locked inside Urfe’s first-person narrative, we never fully understand what is happening to him, and the puzzles of Conchis grow more elaborate and sinister. As he digs down to discover the answers, the mysteries only deepen. 

I was left reeling by The Magus – it is a riveting and dazzling piece of storytelling. Its title refers to a Tarot card figure, also known as ‘The Magician’. And like the sibling words of ‘wizard’ or ‘sorcerer’, any figure who is able to bypass the laws of nature always has an appeal. Just look at the the Harry Potter series, which is arguably the biggest cultural phenomenon of my lifetime.

In a sense music is inherently ‘magical’ – it is invisible, and its powers over us defy easy explanation. It has magical associations in some of our oldest stories: Orpheus with his lyre could charm even the rocks and trees with his song. The Pied Piper of Hamelin put music to the use of service, then vengeance. 

The Pied Piper Mural by Maxfield Parrish. Picture by Plum Leaves, shared under Creative Commons license. Cropped.

In the same vein, a story from Finnish myth inspired Thea Musgrave’s orchestral work Song Of The Enchanter. It refers to an episode from The Kalevala, where ‘Väinämöinen, the hero-God, has fashioned a magical five-stringed instrument from the bones of a giant pike. Orpheus-like, he plays upon it and enchants the people’.

Musgrave’s piece was commissioned to mark the 125th anniversary of the birth of Sibelius. And among its bubbling woodwind textures, there emerges unmistakeable fragments of the ‘swan’ theme from his fifth symphony. It is clear that Musgrave’s ‘enchanter’ here is not only the one of myth. 

For a long time, magic has drawn on ancient and esoteric themes. In the Greek-speaking Classical world, the ‘Magi’ were known as priests of Zoroastrianism, a very old religion which originated in Iran with its founding figure Zoroaster. And it is through Greek writings about the Magi that our word ‘magic’ derives. So the concept itself comes not only with a dusty coating of old age, but also the musky scent of Orientalism – the projection of mysterious qualities onto an exotic ‘Other’. 

Etymology aside, the fanciful occult associations of Zoroaster and the Magi had a remarkably long life in the European imagination. And this is particularly apparent in an art form that loves exotic settings and mysterious antiquity as much as any other – Opera.

In Handel’s Orlando, the wizard ‘Zoroastro’ makes predictions from the stars, and uses magic to save the warrior hero from his own madness. Meanwhile, Rameau’s Zoroastre puts him in the title role, and he undergoes a magic initiation ritual to defeat an evil sorcerer. 

During a carnival in Vienna, the young Mozart once dressed up as an Oriental philosopher and handed out riddles titled ‘Excerpts From The Fragments of Zoroaster’. His opera The Magic Flute features a High Priest with the suspiciously familiar name ‘Sarastro’, who puts the Prince Tamino through initiation rites at his temple.

A century later, this tradition continued in Massenet’s Le Mage. His ‘Zarastre’ is a Persian General who goes to a sacred mountain to become a Magus. Laurent Campellone has argued that Le Mage was part of a renewed ‘vogue’ for Zoroaster sparked by Friedrich Nietzsche. His work Thus Spake Zarathustra reimagined the ancient figure not as a magician, but as a ‘new’ prophet who could propound his philosophy, one of mankind moving away from its old religious morality and towards the ‘Superman’. (In doing so, he prompted one of the most famous openings in all of orchestral music).

Zoroaster’s operatic roles may be Orientalist escapism, but even Nietzsche’s reinvention of him shows how ideas of the ancient, obscure and exotic can be a signpost to another realm of possibility. A recurring theme in stories of magic is the sudden discovery of a new depth to reality. And anything that is old, shadowy, or mysterious holds potential for things which have long lain hidden, if only you know where to look, which magic words to utter.

A Harry Potter fan at the Platform 9 3/4 in King’s Cross Station, London. Photograph by Nelo Hotsuma, Wikimedia Commons.

Harry Potter fans may be interested to know that before composing The Magic Flute, Mozart worked on a collaborative opera called The Philosopher’s Stone. Fantasy stories often draw on ideas that were once realms for serious study – in this case, Alchemy. And ‘Natural Magic’ was a term once used for demonstrating the marvellous behaviours of nature, of which music could form a part, with its intriguing phenomena such as sympathetic vibration.

In the late 16th century, a chapbook circulated with stories of one extraordinary Renaissance magician. Johann Faustus had allegedly practiced the ‘black’ magic of Necromancy – communication with the dead. It seems this was loosely based on a real figure, but in any case, the legend of ‘Faust’ was born. Two centuries later, Goethe sparked a huge revival of interest in Faust with his epic version of the tale, which went on to be enormously influential across arts and culture. It elicited a horde of musical responses. 

Unlike the reimagined ‘Zoroaster’, Faust is home-grown. His legend warns us of the lust for knowledge and power and its potential to corrupt – the ‘Faustian Pact’ with the demonic Mephistopheles shows us there’s a catch.

A woodcut illustrating Christopher Marlowe’s play Doctor Faustus, a dramatisation of the Faust legend.

Musgrave’s composer-enchanter also has a sinister cousin here, in the Faustian virtuoso. The violinist Paganini was renowned for his seemingly diabolical skills, an idea later echoed in the ‘Crossroads’ legend of blues musician Robert Johnson. And that great nineteenth-century wizard of the piano, Franz Liszt, was certainly taken with the demonic aspects of Faust – he composed four macabre dances, the Mephisto Waltzes, alongside a huge symphonic setting of the story.

As long as music has magical qualities, those who excel at making it will take on the appearance of magicians. Not only is musical talent inherently intangible, but the necessary years of hard work are also hidden from the stage. 

‘The Modern Orpheus’ – an 1831 bulletin advertising a performance by Paganini. Wikimedia Commons.

But there is also that other magic; one immediately spotted, immensely powerful, but very hard to explain. It’s the x-factor of presence, charisma – something that can apply to any field of performance.

The Canadian composer Vincent Ho speaks in such terms of the percussionist Evelyn Glennie. ‘She has the uncanny ability to draw the audience into a magical world and take us on wondrous journeys that are beyond material existence’. Using ideas of those charismatic figures who claim to access the world of spirits, his percussion concerto The Shaman was composed for her.

The Faust legend conjured up a huge amount of music, but another work by Goethe also led to a famous piece on magical themes. In a similar way, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice gives a warning about over-stretching our desire for power. In his master’s absence, the apprentice sorcerer casts spells which quickly spiral out of control. The orchestral scherzo on this tale by Paul Dukas was brought to life for countless children by Mickey Mouse, when it was animated for Disney’s film Fantasia. 

It’s sometimes said that ‘three is a magic number’, and much like the Mephisto Waltzes, Dukas uses a metre grouped in threes. This gives his bassoon theme a playfully bouncing quality, its magic characterised as dancing mischief (in fact, Dukas uses a 9/8 time signature, so three lots of three).

The use of a ‘compound’ metre is shared in the penultimate movement of Gustav Holst’s suite The Planets, titled Uranus, The Magician. But the figure that Holst creates here is no apprentice – this music is full of dashing verve and swaggering confidence. At its thrilling climax, an organ glissando rushes upwards like a firework. 

Raymond Head has described how Holst moved in an artistic milieu with esoteric interests. He suggests that The Planets was likely influenced by a 1912 book called The Art Of Synthesis by astrologer Alan Leo. To Leo, the planet Uranus was ‘the awakener […] it shows people that there is more to living than what can just be seen or touched’, just as a magician ‘invokes and manipulates unseen elemental forces’.

Head also notes that the ominous brass notes that open the movement spell out G, S, A, H in German notation, which can help us to form ‘GuStAv Holst’. Whether this was an intentional cipher or not, Holst certainly revels in his powers with this score. And the angular prominence of the motif gives it a character of mysterious significance – a musical ‘Abracadabra’.

You could say there is something of a shared ‘magic formula’ among these works by Dukas and Holst, along with the similarly supernatural music in Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre and Berlioz’s Witches’ Sabbath. It seems to be varying mixtures of a few features: a dancing metre grouped in threes, bright orchestral colours, quite often a minor key, and sinuous and/or angular melodic shapes. 

Much like fantasy literature, these are the sorts of pieces that form an enchanting gateway for young people discovering a larger art form, yet they remain popular with adults too. It seems only appropriate that many of the same features can be found in Hedwig’s Theme from John Williams’s superb score for the Harry Potter films.

The Magus very cleverly explores different means of creating illusion and suspending disbelief. Throughout the book, Conchis takes on various guises which play on this idea – hypnotist, psychiatrist, theatre director, film producer.

At first Urfe is intrigued by this wealthy eccentric, but he soon becomes obsessed with unravelling his mysteries. It is a dilemma familiar even from a simple card trick – do we want to understand the mechanics, or just enjoy the magic? Do we want the fearsome Wizard of Oz, or the small man revealed?

Perhaps more than any other composer, Wagner went to unusual lengths in the pursuit of grand illusion. His operas transport us with their huge scale, legendary themes, and intoxicating music. But in overseeing the construction of the Festspielhaus at Bayreuth, Wagner created a performance space dedicated to his ideal of the deep artistic experience. Particularly ingenious is its pit that completely conceals the orchestra from the audience. In the words of Tom Service, ‘the music seeps like sonorous perfume from the invisible depths’. 

Such innovations notwithstanding, the hidden power lying in Wagner’s scores had enormous influence on later composers. Debussy marvelled at passages in Parsifal which sounded as if they were ‘lit from within’. And in fact, it seems that wherever there is magic, there is also a source of mesmerising light. It is reflected in the tendency to use bright and silvery musical sounds for magical themes – Hedwig’s celesta, Mozart’s flute and bells.

Projection from a Laterna Magica, sourced from Breve Storia del Cinema.

Lighting is an essential craft in theatre, and so too in film. The ‘Magic Lantern’ was an early projection device, some versions of which could produce the illusion of moving images. The master filmmaker Ingmar Bergman gave his autobiography the same title, and his descriptions of different kinds of light in the book were a source of fascination for the Finnish composer Kaija Saariaho. Her Laterna Magica is a spookily atmospheric score, in which Bergman’s names for light are recited in softly sinister tones by members of the orchestra.

The craft of storytelling can certainly be enhanced by technology. But the perennial popularity of the novel shows that words alone can cast their own spell. In The Magus, the greatest power Conchis seems to have is telling stories – stories whose truth is difficult to ascertain, but which he weaves at length seductively, improvising and adapting as he goes.

This extra layer of storytelling within the book takes us deeper into its world. At the same time, it gives us an embedded model of the novel itself, hinting at its artifice. Just as with Holst’s apparent cipher, Fowles knows that he is the real Magus. The tricks Conchis pulls on Urfe are his own tricks on us. 

Perhaps it is no surprise that this idea of embedded storytelling has led to one of the most enchanting scores in the orchestral repertoire. Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade is based on the Arabian Nights, a legend which tells us of the power of stories to bewitch and sway human hearts. And his much-loved music matches that power triumphantly.

Illustration from ‘Stories From The Arabian Nights’ (1911). Source here.

The use of such narrative games also appealed to Shakespeare, as can be seen in his play-within-a-play device. The Magus makes knowing allusions to Prospero in The Tempest, the marooned wizard who, aside from other magical acts, calls up spirits to perform a masque for the lovers Miranda and Ferdinand.

Sibelius composed incidental music for The Tempest, and according to musicologist Erik Tawaststjerna, Prospero likely held significance for the Finnish enchanter, as ‘a symbol of the creative man’. His musical interlude for the magician features a glowing centre of woodwind and brass timbres, dramatically offset by a grave hymn for monochrome strings.

But it seems probable that it was not only Sibelius who saw himself in Prospero. Once his masque is over, our magician makes a celebrated speech, one which is commonly interpreted as touching on Shakespeare’s own retirement from theatre – his ‘globe’.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

In these immortal lines, Shakespeare extends the metaphor of Prospero’s illusion a step further. Life itself is a dream, the world its stage. In doing so, he alludes to a bigger truth: that stories are how we deal with the biggest, most fundamental questions of existence. Whether it is through the arts, religion, or science, we all weave tales which help secure our understanding of the world, and our tiny place within it. Anyone who can suspend our disbelief is a Magus, of one kind or another.

Detail from The School of Athens by Raphael, showing ‘Zoroaster’.

At the same time, these stories also reflect back on ourselves and our culture. We can note how many wizards and magicians have historically been male embodiments of authority and power. The history of witches, on the other hand, reveals how the prospect of women having hidden knowledge is often treated as far less welcome.

But times change. The fact that the more gender-inclusive halls of Hogwarts have now inspired a generation suggests that our ideas of magic will continue to adapt, as we do. And all the while, the phantom figures of Faustus and Zoroaster can remind us that stories are, in any case, a slippery form of sorcery. Much like the poor apprentice’s spell, they quickly take on a life of their own.

Part of Prospero’s speech was set to music by Vaughan Williams in his Three Shakespeare Songs for choir. Written towards the end of his career, he sets out in notes ‘the baseless fabric’ of Shakespeare’s late vision, and does so with chords of fragile magnificence. This is music that captures all the transient beauty of the magician’s power, in two minutes of pure magic.

At the very last chord, there is an inspired final trick. Halfway through the word ‘sleep’, the harmony unexpectedly slips from major to minor. It’s just a small touch – a parting glance. But it speaks of something that lies beyond our understanding. 

‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on’. However far down we go, the mystery only deepens. The Magus is always one step ahead.

John Fowles’s novel The Magus is available from Penguin.

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Dreams Of Mahler

Gustav Mahler photographed by Moritz Nähr, cropped from source.

holsthousezoom      By Simon Brackenborough

In 2010, Manchester’s Bridgewater Hall featured a series of concerts performing all ten symphonies by Gustav Mahler, to coincide with the 150th anniversary of his birth. Each concert also featured a new work commissioned to sit alongside the symphonies, plus another for Das Lied Von Der Erde, from eleven composers.

The results included a wide variety of approaches – from a short choral piece, to an orchestral arrangement of a Schubert song, to the seventh symphony of David Matthews, accompanying Mahler’s of the same number.

Edward Gregson is a composer and (now retired) academic, born in Sunderland in 1945. He took on the task to introduce Mahler’s sixth symphony, an immense and turbulent work of some 80-plus minutes. His tone poem Dream Song is one of the more substantial Manchester commissions, and is perhaps the one which most directly confronts its Mahlerian pairing. As he explains:

My approach in tackling this commission was to ‘invade’ Mahler’s world of musical ideas […] to portray a half-remembered landscape of some of the themes and motives from his Sixth Symphony, fragmented (or deconstructed) as if in a dream […] 

Mahler’s sixth is a vast emotional canvas, but it has a reputation as a ‘tragic’ symphony, made clear from the ominous march of its opening, through to the violent ‘hammer blows’ of its finale.

Gregson’s decision to reconfigure ideas from this particular work is appropriate, because the story of Mahler’s sixth is marked by questions of orderings, timings – even claims of premonition. It is a symphony that has never fully settled its version of events. Mahler made revisions after an unsatisfactory premiere, and consequently there is a lasting dispute over the correct sequence of the two inner movements.

A further mystery lies in its tragic character, as it was composed during the seemingly happy early years of Mahler’s marriage to his wife Alma, when their second daughter Anna was born. Mahler fostered intrigue himself, writing that his sixth presented ‘riddles’, the solution to which ‘only a generation will dare to apply itself which has previously absorbed and digested my first five symphonies’.

Alma went on to claim that this work anticipated later personal crises, most tragically the death of their first daughter Maria in 1907. It was Alma too who identified a passionately leaping violin theme, introduced as a second subject of the first movement, as representing herself.

The musicologist Hans F. Redlich went so far as to speculate that this music expressed ‘instinctive forebodings’ of the turmoil that would rock Europe through the new century, beginning shortly after Mahler’s death with the First World War.

If suggestions of prophecy seem fanciful, less contentious is that the symphony evokes the past. The trio section of the scherzo movement is marked Altväterisch – ‘old-fashioned’. At other points off-stage cowbells are heard, as if the intrusion of a bucolic memory. This all aligns with the popular idea of Mahler’s famous attributed comment – that a symphony should be ‘like the world, it must embrace everything’.

It may sound like an ambitious task to compress such a vast work into a tone poem, but Gregson avoids trying to encapsulate it all in his 20-minute span. His ‘parallel musical world’ selects various elements, and flips the tragic narrative to culminate in a Liebeslied – or ‘love song’ – which is his own variation on the ‘Alma’ theme.

The closest thing to a hammer blow is the very first chord, a nightmarish dissonance loud enough to wake anyone with a start. But what quickly emerges is a more probing and mysterious scene. Mahler’s so-called ‘fate’ motif – a major triad darkening to the minor – is heard in reverse. Minor becomes major, but it is a sonic stretching that seems to lead us nowhere.

The unfolding narrative gives us various signposts from the symphony – Mahler geeks can peruse Gregson’s guide – but this is no rehashing. His term ‘half-remembered’ is key: in the confusion of this dream, ideas are altered, updated, and personalised.

As a concert opener, Dream Song foregrounds Mahler’s sixth in the strangely transfigured light of its own remembering. The first four notes of the ‘Alma’ theme, an upward-sweeping gesture, become a leitmotif that gives coherence to the work, while portending the tragedy to follow.

Part of what makes the music so compelling is the imaginative orchestration, particularly in its translucent and ghostly passages. The central section is a menacing scherzo, but with some serenely pastoral music at its heart – Gregson’s own take on the Altväterisch trio. Then in a witty touch, we hear a glimmer of steel drums: cowbells translated from Alpine pastures to the streets of multicultural Britain.

When we finally reach the Liebeslied, it is a singing string melody complete with authentic late-romantic harmony. We could be fully in Mahler’s world, but the theme then transfers to a brass choir, reminiscent of Gregson’s northern origins and his large body of work for brass band. Bitonal scales start to distort the harmony, the dream-vision warps.

In the composer’s words, the work ends ‘peacefully, albeit bittersweet’. It comes to rest on a quiet E major chord, but the ‘Alma’ motif snakes over it on muted violins, diminished to a final questioning B-flat. Dream Song ends as it starts – with a strange ambivalence.

***

The Manchester Mahler commissions were arranged for an anniversary year, but Mahler’s symphonies require no such occasion. Last year for example, the BBC Proms included no fewer than five of them, in what was just a regular season.

I’ve long wondered when the trend for endless Mahler will subside, his music start to become too familiar. But as the LSO live-streamed a recent performance of his second symphony, my Twitter timeline filled up with rapturous responses of the kind that few composers, living or dead, seem able to generate.

Mahler’s second is known as ‘The Resurrection’ – but it seems that he himself has been resurrected. I would venture to say that reports of his death in 1911 have been greatly exaggerated. He is, in effect, a leading orchestral composer of our time. While he has his detractors, he is also given the frequent performances, along with the buzz and gushing plaudits that you would expect – in an ideal world at least – to be conferred on a composer writing the music of our moment.

In 2016, I heard Bernard Haitink conduct his third symphony at the Proms. It is a gargantuan piece. But standing in the packed Albert Hall arena, the audience’s collective faith was palpable. The extreme demands of this music – including a boy’s choir sitting in silence for most of its 100-minute duration – was completely normalised.

The evening’s triumph was a foregone conclusion. And I certainly enjoyed the experience – if nothing else, Mahler understood that if you give people a sublime ending they will go home on a high, no matter how long you take to get there.

But there is something more than just beautiful music going on here. There is an aesthetic of monumentality, something the Manchester Mahler brochure gives away in its first sentence:

Mahler’s symphonies are considered the greatest pinnacle of the symphonic repertoire, an unparalleled challenge for even the greatest symphony orchestras of today.

It is without doubt that Mahler serves as a kind of showcase composer for orchestral music – and by extension, classical composition itself. He exemplifies the lengths to which it can be put, the range it can cover, its ability to ‘embrace everything’. To a sometimes hypochondriac classical music culture, Mahler reassures with an emotionally powerful form of monumentality.

The metaphor of a ‘greatest pinnacle’ is also telling, because it uncritically replicates the masculine rhetoric – size, strength, challenge – that is bound up in the format of the symphony orchestra itself, as a large ensemble commanded by a traditionally male authority figure.

In the years since the 2010 Manchester season, conversations around representing women and non-white voices in concert repertoire have advanced significantly. It seems as if the classical music world is finally waking from its own long dream of complacency. Concert programming is slow to catch up, but it is promising that festivals such as the Proms have now pledged to bring their commissioning of new works to a 50:50 gender ratio by 2022.

By comparison, consider that only one of the eleven Manchester works was composed by a woman – the short, broodingly dissonant Mosaic by Bushra El-Turk. There were more members of the Matthews family represented that year, through brothers Colin and David.

And if Alma Mahler lies at the heart of Mahler’s sixth symphony, it is important to remember that she was also a composer herself, as well as a very complex character. But a key fact of their relationship, less prominent in concert marketing material, is that Gustav insisted Alma give up composing as a condition of their marriage, in order to support him.

Alma Mahler c. 1905-6, with daughters Maria (left), who died in 1907, and Anna, right. Unknown photographer. Cropped from source.

It is a jarring fact, and one that should inform our approach to Mahler’s all-embracing ideal. Can we completely separate his desire to express himself at such vast scale from his selfish suppression of his wife’s creativity? I don’t think we can. They share a cultural connection of that time, a male entitlement that underpins his monumental aesthetic – that the man’s genius, ascending his pinnacle, must be the hero.

So here is the real tragedy of the sixth symphony, whatever its supposed riddles might be. In the seemingly happy early years of their marriage, Alma would find herself as a theme in her husband’s music, when she might have been composing her own.

Now, I don’t underestimate the difficulty of programming unfamiliar works, while having to negotiate the commercial reality of box office receipts. But if we can at least aspire towards more diverse concert programming, we can see that some composers would necessarily have to be heard less often than at present to achieve that.

Our modern Mahler addiction would be a prime candidate for curtailment, firstly because a concert culture truly engaged with diverse perspectives simply wouldn’t be able to consign so many hours to these enormous symphonies. There would be too many other voices needing some of that space. But secondly, we might become more critically aware of what this monumentality represents.

We live in a time when Mahler’s works are being ‘absorbed and digested’ to an extent he might never have imagined. But to a generation that demands a menu more representative of the 21st century, his music – heard less frequently in a more varied context – might start to have some of its strangeness rightfully restored.

It would be no less powerful of course; no less beautiful, no less moving. But in a truly diverse repertoire, his idea to ‘embrace everything’ might seem a little presumptuous. His means and demands might appear somewhat inflated. In the passion of the ‘Alma’ theme we might hear the silent music of the numberless women who were historically pressured away from their artistic potential.

Much like the final chord of Dream Song, this music might leave us with a quiet note, one that lingers dissonantly. A 21st-century sense of complicated truth. For all his wonderful qualities, Mahler would simply be revealed more clearly for what he is – a man not quite of our time.

You could say, a little Altväterisch.

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