It was just to see, just to see, all the things you knew I'd written about you
Many moons ago there was a small article on the BBC website, about some bloke who was engaged in a project to mark the 350th annivesary of Pepys beginning his diary. Interesting, I thought, and promptly added his blog to my RSS reader.
The project was as described in Benjamin Till's blogpost of January 1st:
To compose a 40-part motet based on Samuel Pepys' diary.
Now. When I hear the phrase "40-part motet", I think Spem in Alium. You do too, surely? If not, you should. Spem In Alium is Thomas Tallis' monumental choral work, composed for eight choirs of five voices each. As Wikipedia puts it, Spem in Alium is "regarded as one of the pinnacles of Renaissance Polyphony". It's not performed all that often because - basically - it's hard. For a start, you have to find 40 singers who can sing technically-challenging parts alone, because every single person's part is different. And that's before you even tackle the logistics.
And some guy, whom I'd never heard of, was going to just polish a forty-part motet off in a few months, find some people to sing it, and perform it before the year was out? I boggled gently at his hubris and resolved to watch quietly from the sidelines.
As I read his blog, I realised that if I'd never heard of him, that was more my ignorance than his obscurity. He's been involved in a huge number of projects, many of which are delightful in their quirkiness. He wrote a musical about the A1, for goodness' sake! He's a film-maker as well as composer, and there's a big body of work out there - a lot of it done under the auspices of the BBC's regional bits.
As the year's worn on, it's been increasingly obvious that he also was boggling at his own hubris. I've followed his writing about the problems of writing the motet, the repeated explosions of the computer software he uses for composition (usually at critical moments), the struggle to find the singers, to get them together for rehearsals... the posts occasionally got hysterical, usually followed by him giving himself a slap and getting back on with it.
Just in case finding eight choirs totalling forty people was too easy, Till set himself an extra task: one choir would be opera singers, one folk singers, one gospel singers... plus there would be representatives of Magdalene College, Cambridge and the Royal Navy for the Pepys connection... they must all be arranged in uniform height...
OK, I made the last one up. But the challenge of finding the choirs was so huge that I (and, from some of the posts, he) thought he'd never make it.
Then he invited people to put themselves on the guestlist to hear the motet performed; I signed up. Then I began to worry a bit... I knew the project had been beset with various problems, but the main worry was an issue of my own.
Ssh. Don't tell anyone. Despite my neophile tendencies when it comes to rock bands, I'm very wary of modern "classical" music. So much of it seems to me to be totally devoid of, well, music. I love, say, Peter Warlock and am on speaking terms with some of the works of John Tavener[*]. But I have a Michael Nyman recording which I can't actually listen to, because it's like having someone gently file your nerve-endings.
Studying in GCSE music in school, we were honoured one day to be visited by a contemporary composer who played through various compositions of his, talking us through them. I remember one piece in particular, which was inspired by architecture in, er, I forget which European city. He talked passionately about the blocky, ponderous structure of the music while I thought... that's just random chords. While I am quite prepared to accept this is a failing on my part, a lot of modern music just means nothing to me.
So a modern 40-part motet? There's a lot of ways in which that could go wrong. A few weeks back, Till posted a recorded excerpt on his blog and I listened to it in trepidation... and relaxed. Here, at least, was music I could listen to. I wasn't due to spend half an hour cowering under a bench in St Olave Hart Street while random dischords ricocheted over my head.
Last night began with readings from Pepys' diary. Members of the choirs dotted round the church read snippets from different eras, giving a flavour of the sort of things he used to write. Then they started singing: three of the motet's six movements (The Great Fire, Deb Willet and, er, movement 6 whose name escapes me).
They started to sing... and I was bowled over. The music is complex and polyphonic, as you'd expect with 40 parts, and yes, it is modern in sound. But it's also amazingly melodic with giant themes that sweep you up and along with them, and gorgeous harmonies. And, at times, gorgeous dischords. The differing styles of the choirs - folk, opera, musical theatre - come to the surface with different themes, matching the mood of the words. In short, it was fabulous. It's the sort of thing I can imagine wanting to listen to over and over again, and finding new things all the time.
As an aside, the technical ability of the singers was - to me - amazing. I have sung in a choir in the most amateurish of ways, and these people were, admittedly, largely pro or semi-pro. But to be able to hold these complicated parts alone, sometimes with your neighbour singing violently clashing notes, is something I can't even begin to imagine doing. Never mind smiling and making it look effortless at the same time.
The final movement was performed "in the round" - I'd been reading about this on the blog and not quite understanding how a choir worked in the round. In the event, the audience stayed seated in the body of the church and the choir spread out into a circle[**] around them. The final movement - whih conveys Pepys' joy at his newly-acquired coach and finery, then his sorrow as he lays down his pen as he feels his sight going - is immensely powerful, and the feeling of being totally surrounded by it was quite amazing.
People spoke about a "world premiere" of all six movements. I'm unsure whether they were joking... but if they're not, book your seat.
Almost as an afterthought, the choir also performed an earlier work of Till's, Oranges and Lemons. It's another choral work, set to a soundtrack of London's church bells painstraking pieced together from recordings taken in situ. That was bloody marvellous as well. Mr Benjamin Till: look out for him.
[*] Though I'd probably rather have John Taverner, if you don't mind.
[**] As ChrisC put it, that's not in the round, that's out the round.
The project was as described in Benjamin Till's blogpost of January 1st:
To compose a 40-part motet based on Samuel Pepys' diary.
Now. When I hear the phrase "40-part motet", I think Spem in Alium. You do too, surely? If not, you should. Spem In Alium is Thomas Tallis' monumental choral work, composed for eight choirs of five voices each. As Wikipedia puts it, Spem in Alium is "regarded as one of the pinnacles of Renaissance Polyphony". It's not performed all that often because - basically - it's hard. For a start, you have to find 40 singers who can sing technically-challenging parts alone, because every single person's part is different. And that's before you even tackle the logistics.
And some guy, whom I'd never heard of, was going to just polish a forty-part motet off in a few months, find some people to sing it, and perform it before the year was out? I boggled gently at his hubris and resolved to watch quietly from the sidelines.
As I read his blog, I realised that if I'd never heard of him, that was more my ignorance than his obscurity. He's been involved in a huge number of projects, many of which are delightful in their quirkiness. He wrote a musical about the A1, for goodness' sake! He's a film-maker as well as composer, and there's a big body of work out there - a lot of it done under the auspices of the BBC's regional bits.
As the year's worn on, it's been increasingly obvious that he also was boggling at his own hubris. I've followed his writing about the problems of writing the motet, the repeated explosions of the computer software he uses for composition (usually at critical moments), the struggle to find the singers, to get them together for rehearsals... the posts occasionally got hysterical, usually followed by him giving himself a slap and getting back on with it.
Just in case finding eight choirs totalling forty people was too easy, Till set himself an extra task: one choir would be opera singers, one folk singers, one gospel singers... plus there would be representatives of Magdalene College, Cambridge and the Royal Navy for the Pepys connection... they must all be arranged in uniform height...
OK, I made the last one up. But the challenge of finding the choirs was so huge that I (and, from some of the posts, he) thought he'd never make it.
Then he invited people to put themselves on the guestlist to hear the motet performed; I signed up. Then I began to worry a bit... I knew the project had been beset with various problems, but the main worry was an issue of my own.
Ssh. Don't tell anyone. Despite my neophile tendencies when it comes to rock bands, I'm very wary of modern "classical" music. So much of it seems to me to be totally devoid of, well, music. I love, say, Peter Warlock and am on speaking terms with some of the works of John Tavener[*]. But I have a Michael Nyman recording which I can't actually listen to, because it's like having someone gently file your nerve-endings.
Studying in GCSE music in school, we were honoured one day to be visited by a contemporary composer who played through various compositions of his, talking us through them. I remember one piece in particular, which was inspired by architecture in, er, I forget which European city. He talked passionately about the blocky, ponderous structure of the music while I thought... that's just random chords. While I am quite prepared to accept this is a failing on my part, a lot of modern music just means nothing to me.
So a modern 40-part motet? There's a lot of ways in which that could go wrong. A few weeks back, Till posted a recorded excerpt on his blog and I listened to it in trepidation... and relaxed. Here, at least, was music I could listen to. I wasn't due to spend half an hour cowering under a bench in St Olave Hart Street while random dischords ricocheted over my head.
Last night began with readings from Pepys' diary. Members of the choirs dotted round the church read snippets from different eras, giving a flavour of the sort of things he used to write. Then they started singing: three of the motet's six movements (The Great Fire, Deb Willet and, er, movement 6 whose name escapes me).
They started to sing... and I was bowled over. The music is complex and polyphonic, as you'd expect with 40 parts, and yes, it is modern in sound. But it's also amazingly melodic with giant themes that sweep you up and along with them, and gorgeous harmonies. And, at times, gorgeous dischords. The differing styles of the choirs - folk, opera, musical theatre - come to the surface with different themes, matching the mood of the words. In short, it was fabulous. It's the sort of thing I can imagine wanting to listen to over and over again, and finding new things all the time.
As an aside, the technical ability of the singers was - to me - amazing. I have sung in a choir in the most amateurish of ways, and these people were, admittedly, largely pro or semi-pro. But to be able to hold these complicated parts alone, sometimes with your neighbour singing violently clashing notes, is something I can't even begin to imagine doing. Never mind smiling and making it look effortless at the same time.
The final movement was performed "in the round" - I'd been reading about this on the blog and not quite understanding how a choir worked in the round. In the event, the audience stayed seated in the body of the church and the choir spread out into a circle[**] around them. The final movement - whih conveys Pepys' joy at his newly-acquired coach and finery, then his sorrow as he lays down his pen as he feels his sight going - is immensely powerful, and the feeling of being totally surrounded by it was quite amazing.
People spoke about a "world premiere" of all six movements. I'm unsure whether they were joking... but if they're not, book your seat.
Almost as an afterthought, the choir also performed an earlier work of Till's, Oranges and Lemons. It's another choral work, set to a soundtrack of London's church bells painstraking pieced together from recordings taken in situ. That was bloody marvellous as well. Mr Benjamin Till: look out for him.
[*] Though I'd probably rather have John Taverner, if you don't mind.
[**] As ChrisC put it, that's not in the round, that's out the round.