Writing something most weeks for the website is good fun, but sometimes I sit at the keyboard not knowing where to start.  Music from last night’s rehearsal is often a good place, and I set off not knowing where the thoughts triggered from the previous evening will lead.

It’s very much like that today.  It seems like the start of what in some academic disciplines is called a random walk.

The one musical phrase which is buzzing around in my head this morning, and has been doing all night, is the simple piano introduction to each verse of the last of the Shearing songs.  I am sure Valerie will not object to my saying that it must be the easiest thing she played all evening – just one note in each hand, no chords or anything like that right to the end.  But, maybe because we heard it so many times last night, it is there in my brain, buzzing around like a demented bee.

Which reminds me that I added a note about Valerie to the Website this week.
Click here to read it and see a charming photo of Valerie.

Which reminds me that, from her masterful playing of piano score reductions of orchestral accompaniments and custom accompaniments such as in the current concert, it is clear that Valerie is both talented and well qualified.  Indeed I was intrigued, but not surprised, to learn that she recently gained her Fellowship of Trinity College London, one of the highest possible performance qualifications.

Which reminds me that many of us amateur musicians have taken TCL exams in the past, from Grade 1 Piano or Recorder, or perhaps Violin, progressing up through as many as  eight grades or until such time as sport or members of the opposite sex became more interesting and demanding.  Grade 8 was indeed something to aspire to, and the Fellowship is several grades beyond that.

Which reminds me of my own experiences in my 40’s of having singing lessons and being persuaded to take some TCL exams.  Before the first exam I was quaking in my boots, not having submitted myself to the ordeal of such scrutiny for over twenty years.  The exam was held in what can only be described as the parlour of an Edwardian terrace house in Winchester.  It was a small room.  The piano was on my left, a large mirrored fireplace on my right, and the examiner was sat at a desk in the bay window.  Where should I project my voice?  The examiner was far too close, yet not to address him seemed rude.  Just to his right was a large plant, which, in keeping with the room, turned out to be an aspidistra.  I sang to the aspidistra, which the examiner seemed not to mind as he was kind enough to pass my efforts on that and a number of successive occasions with merit.

From the day of that first exam and even nowadays, when practicing music I visualize the Edwardian parlour in Winchester and sing to the aspidistra.

How do you get from Collaroy Plateau to Winchester?  It’s something of a random walk.

This is the second of three articles about MWC members who are active in an artistic field other than music.  This week I am delighted to feature Helen Reid, who joined the sopranos a few years ago, having previously sung with the Newcastle University Choir.

Helen’s other artistic love is painting in water colours.  When you see examples of her work, it is hard to believe that she started painting only seven years ago.  She initially sampled a variety of media, assessing their pros and cons, eventually settling on the most difficult, water colours.  She now paints with Guy Troughton, a prominent member of the Watercolour Institute of Australia who lives and exhibits locally.

Helen writes that the nature of water colour makes it very difficult to master and predict.  “The result varies with the thickness and quality of the underlying paper and the air temperature, which means quick or slow drying of adjoining areas of paint.  The difference in grain size of the pigments for different colours means that, in water, each colour runs and flows at different rates, often giving unexpected results.  Some colours push others aside quite rudely; some are soft, gentle, retreating.  Tiny variations in the amount of water can mean sharp edges to objects or quite unpredictable flows and runs on colour into one another.  As well as being a constant challenge, the medium is a constant delight as you explore its qualities and infinite variation.”

Helen most enjoys painting subjects which have some personal meaning for her.  Examples which she has kindly agreed to be included in this article are flowers from a friend’s garden, a gulley near Alice Springs she once visited and a tree across the road from her home.  She says that inspiration comes from feeling a connection with the subject, something these pictures bear out.  It goes without saying that the photographs do not do anything like full justice to the actual paintings.

What next?  An exhibition perhaps?  Helen is not that keen on botanical or zoological subjects (Guy Troughton’s speciality) but would like to tackle the challenge of portaiture.  It will be interesting to see the results!

As we are now about half way through the rehearsal schedule for our next concert, I thought it might be interesting to turn from musical to broader artistic activities for a few weeks.

Did you know that a number of Choir members have not only musical but also other artistic talents?  One such is Cindy Broadbent, whose voice has augmented the mellifluous tones of the altos for the past eight years or so and whose first novel, The Afghan Wife, was published last year.

Cindy was born in the UK and studied at Birmingham University. A life-long interest in Middle Eastern culture was first sparked when she spent two years teaching English in a small town on the Black Sea coast of Turkey.

Since emigrating to Australia in 1975, Cindy has studied at the University of Sydney, where she furthered her interest in the Bronte sisters, about whom she still lectures, and in Jane Austin.  She has also guided visitors around the City, written on a number of topics, and taught English both in schools and as a second language to immigrants.  The stories she has heard from refugees, combined with her interest in Middle Eastern culture, have been the inspiration for The Afghan Wife.

Cindy describes The Afghan Wife as a love story set against  the background of the Iranian revolution in 1979.  Having read and thoroughly enjoyed it, I would add that in addition to the love story, there is a high level of action with many twists and turns in the plot, not unlike a John Buchan story such as The Thirty Nine Steps.

Cindy is currently researching and writing a sequel, The Revolutionary’s Cousin, set in the USA and Australia at the height of the American hostage crisis in 1980.  It promises to be another very engaging read.

The Afghan Wife is published under Cindy’s pen name, Cindy Davies, by Odyssey Books.  Click here for the Odyssey Books website.  Click here for Cindy’s own website, which contains some more interesting reading.

The aging process seems to be a cue for all sorts of new experiences.  X-rays, ultrasounds and MRI’s had been a mystery to me until recently, but over the past few years they have become a routine feature of everyday life.

My first MRI scan was something of a revelation.  I am not very good doing as I am told, especially when it entails lying perfectly still while a person or a machine prods and probes my body.  A visit to the dentist in particular is a bit of a nightmare, not just for me, I well recognise, but also for the poor long suffering dentist.  Various friends who know this had prepared me for the MRI experience, telling me of the mask which would be placed over my head, and the strange sounds and loud bangs which the machine would make as it traversed the relevant part of my body, in this case, my head.

It did not start well when I turned up at the hospital early for my 9.30 appointment.  Half an hour early, I had thought, but no.  I was twelve and a half hours early.  The appointment was for 9.30 in the evening.  There are times when the 24 hour clock has its advantages.

So twelve and a bit hours later I was laid down on a bench and fitted with a mask which I suspect gave me the appearance not dissimilar to Hannibal Lekter or one of many characters in the more scary video games which my grandsons so enjoy, but as no-one else was there, it did not really matter.

Then I was told to lie perfectly still and to relax, as the machine swallowed me up and all I could see through the mask was a small patch of the ceiling .  Initally, relaxation was the last thing achievable by my tensed up mind and body.  But then – not unlike the Concerto for Violin and Percussion I described hearing last week, a pattern of sounds emerged.  The process is not called Magnetic Resonance for nothing.  The electrical frequencies which power the magnet are almost like music. The banging and clanging is at times rhythmic, at times apparently random, but always intriguing, making you wonder what will happen next.

Now more relaxed, I found myself imagining an accompaniment to the machine.  Lots of percussion, perhaps with full orchestra including all the brass, or perhaps just a string quartet to provide a better contrast with the machine.

So here is a challenge to Australian composers – write a concerto for MRI scanner and orchestra.  There must be a group who would play it and any number of MRI patients who would love to re-live their medical experience.  Or surely in this day and age it should be possible for an MRI machine to synthesise a musical accompaniment to its activities in real time, thereby making the original experience more enjoyable, and creating an up-sell opportunity for its operators..

Just in case readers are interested, the MRI proved what my friends and family could have told the medics without the need for a scan – there is absolutely nothing of note between my ears.  Which, for me, is good news.

Modern music always seems to be very meaningful to those who compose and play it, but somehow I have never engaged with it.  It always seems to be without any discernible form, without any singable tune, and frankly not that musical.

So it was with more than a niggling doubt or two that Anne and I accepted an invitation to attend a recital of modern music last Tuesday.  It had been a musical weekend, with a concert of classical music on Sunday and one of Baroque delights on Monday, never mind the events on Friday and Saturday that we might have attended had we not been otherwise engaged.  Anyway, there was no charge for tickets and the recital was in a good cause, so, as we were free, it would have been churlish not to turn up.

We had been told to expect something with a violin and lots of percussion.  And that turned out to be a very accurate description of a Concerto for Violin and Percussion, composed in 1959 by Lou Harrison. 

It took some time to become accustomed to the sound-scape of a single violin and five percussionists playing a bewildering array of instruments, including earthenware plant pots, drums from car braking systems and a recumbent double bass.  Then the music became really rather enjoyable.  Gradually, form and shape emerged, with build-ups and climaxes produced very effectively by both violin and percussion.  There were four clearly distinct movements.  Whereas a classical composer might have marked them, say, Allegro, Scherzo, Andante and Allegro Vivace, without seeing the score one could imagine instructions such as Boisterously, Whimsically, Pensively and Hyperactively.   The third movement was very moving, flowing seamlessly up and down like the silhouette of a mountain range against a pure blue sky, and finishing with a resolute sense of peace.

Half an hour passed very quickly as the music flowed relentlessly, waxing and waning, stressing and relaxing, always engaging for the audience.  Despite there being no tunes to take home, the music was clearly a work of art, carefully crafted by the composer and imaginatively realized by the performers with an extraordinarily high degree of technical skill and clear innate musicality .

The young violinist was Noam Yaffe, a student at the Con and Naomi Roseth’s grandson.  He thanked us profusely for helping to create an audience for his final year exam recital.  It was impossible not to counter with our thanks to him and his percussionist colleagues for introducing us to a completely new world of music which we would have otherwise allowed to pass by unnoticed.

So…..maybe I might do modern music in the future – well, some anyway.