That Monday morning feeling

It is the Monday morning after a weekend of MWC concerts, and, as usual, I cannot settle to anything.  It’s a good thing that I am retired.  If I were still at work, my contribution on days like this would be pretty unremarkable.

Phrases from the music we performed are continually buzzing around in my head, completely at random.  One minute it is Cum sancto spiritu, with one of the long runs (eventually mastered, but only just in time), and the next it is part of Georgia’s glorious rendition of Et incarnatus est.  The full double choir of Qui tollis interrupts, to be displaced in turn by the densely woven harmony of Osanna in excelsis. Then the charming final movement of the Mozart Divertimento cuts in, and only to be overtaken  first by the roof-raising volume of O come all ye faithful and next the magnificent sound of full choir and orchestra in the Hallelujah Chorus.  And so it goes on and on.

They were indeed two memorable performances.   One member of the audience was heard to comment over drinks and nibbles, “They really are a world-class choir!”  Carlos was justifiably thrilled.

As I put my copy of the Mozart score back in the bookcase last night, I bade the music a fond farewell.  It and I have been deeply entwined with each other these past thirteen weeks.  Indeed, we were so strongly linked that, had the music been a person, Anne might have been justified in thinking that I had been having an affair.  It is music of extraordinary technical accomplishment, radiant beauty and great spiritual depth.

And it is wonderful that we, a community choir, should be able to give such competent and convincing performances.  It is all possible through the efforts of many people – ourselves, in diligently practicing and rehearsing the music; the soloists, in bringing music of such beauty to life; the orchestra, in rapidly mastering complex music with apparent ease; and of course Carlos, in bringing all the elements together and infusing them with his consummate musicianship and engaging personality.

Cake and flowers etc.

Last night’s rehearsal was a corker.  Choir and conductor in great form, with soloists measuring up well to their respective tasks.  For us choristers, it is as though we have been mixing and baking a cake over the past fifteen weeks, and it is now out of the oven ready for the decorations to be added – soloists yesterday, and orchestra next week.

And what a cake it will be!

I know that mixing metaphors is bad writing, but I cannot help but make another observation.  The sound of the choir last night was awesome.  Confident, firm, and at time very loud.  However, we were in a small building, which seemed to constrain our sound and leave it, if it were a tree or a shrub, only just in bud.  How wonderful next week it will be to be in the Chapel, where the acoustic will encourage our sound to blossom and flourish in all its glory, with the buds opening to full flower.

The audiences are in for a rare treat.  And we in the Choir should also make the most of the remaining opportunities to sing this glorious music.

A final though on the Mozart Mass in C minor.  The man who wrote this beautifully crafted, profoundly spiritual music was someone who specialized in writing opera buffa and was disliked by many for his frequent lavatorial humour.  As they say in Yorkshire, “There’s nowt as queer as folks.”

 

Running hard

English is a fearfully irregular language.

For example, there are the obvious irregularities of pronunciation, such as through, though, cough and bough (you need to read those aloud!)

And then there are cases the same word has various meanings.  “Mine” (belonging to me and a hole in the ground) is one example.  Another is “run”, which the Macquarie Dictionary affords 167 meanings, of which number 1 is to move at faster than walking pace and number 121 is a rapid succession of musical notes.

Last night we had a wonderful rehearsal polishing up all the music for the forthcoming concert.  We did pretty well.  There were one or two glitches, but Carlos sorted them out and we are ready for the next stage, rehearsing with the soloists next week.

But for me there was one black spot.  Runs. The many meanings of this word came to mind as we ran through the music, although I had not anticipated finding quite so many in the dictionary.

We in the select first bass department have three really long runs to master.  My colleagues were fine.  But for me, the first was navigated just about successfully, the second fell apart somewhere in the middle and the third never quite got off the ground – its starting very high in the register on a top E is, I am told, no excuse.

So if you will please excuse me now, I am off for the first of many practice runs to get fit for next week.  I leave you to guess whether that is meaning number 1 or number 121.

What makes a musical performance special?

I asked myself this question last weekend after hearing the Fauré Requiem sung by the Sydney Philharmonia Choirs accompanied by the SSO.  It was a stunning performance, leaving the audience awed and delighted in full measure.  No-one rushed for their bus or ferry at the end – we all applauded for several curtain calls and then chatted to the strangers sat around us, savouring a very special occasion.  A truly wonderful experience.

But how did they do it?  And are there any lessons for community groups such as M W Choir?

The obvious observations include the Choir singing precisely in pitch and time, with consonants synchronised across all 150 choristers; being able to sing loud and especially to sing softly, and to create crescendos and diminuendos, both rapid and gradual.  Lastly, the Choir clearly knew the music well and were able to look up from their scores for much of the time.

That is the technical stuff, but there was more than that.  The choristers clearly understood the spirit of the words of the Requiem, and realized they had a duty to communicate their meaning to the audience.  In this they were ably assisted by the conductor, Donald Runnicles, whose varied gestures and facial expressions brought nuances of expression from choir, soloists and orchestra alike.

M W Choir is fortunate enough to have just such a conductor in Carlos.  As we enter the final weeks of rehearsal for the Mozart Requiem, we can capitalise on his deep understanding of both the words and the music.  If we can link with his vision of the music, so ably portrayed in his conducting, like the Philharmonia Choirs and the SSO last weekend, we will give our audiences another very special experience.

The Sound of Silence

Carlos touched on a bit of a raw nerve for me last night.  In amongst the many gems he revealed during the course of the rehearsal, he spoke about the power of silence.  And at the beginning of the rehearsal he made us observe silence twice as part of preparing us to sing sections of this wonderful music.  It seemed to work.  It was another hard-working, effective and thoroughly satisfying rehearsal – for us choristers, certainly.

Why the raw nerve?

I can no longer experience silence.

For the past couple of years I have been living with tinnitus.  I had thought I was special, but it turns out from conversations I am by no means alone.  The symptoms vary.  For some, like myself, it is generally manageable, but for others it is a serious condition affecting sleep, social interaction and all sorts of fundamental human activities.  All levels of the condition produce constant sound.  Some people hear loud, high-pitched buzzing noises all the time which interfere with daily activities: others such as myself experience a continuous sound which is not unlike the ambient noise in an airplane.  My version does not affect me when there are other noises around, but does intrude when there is, otherwise, silence.

For all of us with the condition, silence – the absence of sound – is no longer available.  At the end of a Beethoven symphony, alternating loud chords and rests, the rests are now coloured by sound.  Dramatic moments in plays and opera are sullied by sound.  Out in the bush, far away from traffic and people, there is still sound.  Sitting or lying, meditating, there is sound.

Losing the capacity to be really quiet has been a revelation to me.  It is only when I became aware that I could no longer experience silence, that I began to realize its true value.

For those whose tinnitus is severe, you have my hearfelt sympathy.  I cannot imagine how you cope.

For those without tinnitus, I urge you to make the most of every silence you can find.  In this busy, noisy world, it is a truly wonderful experience.