Author: Manuscript Notes

With impeccable timing I have just completed, through a combination of luck and discipline, the Christmas edition of The Spectator. In turning the final cover and consigning it to the waggerpaggerbagger beneath my desk, I say farewell to the season. (It was, incidentally, a Christmas-crackeringly good read.)

Tomorrow, the 6th of January, marks that occasion formally. The visit of the Three Wise Men to the infant Jesus, The Epiphany, gives me the perfect excuse to share my favourite Christmas melody with you, which I last did at the end of 2016; so it doesn’t seem overly early to re-issue it with a different singer, and one of my favourites, Gerald Finley.

Back in 2016, I put together the content for the programme for the concert in St.Paul’s Cathedral in aid of MS. It is there in full on YouTube, (Finlay about 10 minutes from the end) and the performaces of singers and actors still bring a lump to my throat. One of the thrills of being at the heart of the rehearsals on that day was having an element of control, enabling me to ask Gerry to sing it once more – not, of course, because there was anything wrong with the first rendition, on the contrary: it was so utterly delicious, that I just needed to hear it again.

What I had forgotten, and this applied to all participants on the night, is that professionals don’t give it their all in rehearsal. Something is always held back for the performance itself, the result being that however prepared you think you might be for what is about to follow, an unexpected variation, be it emotion or emphasis, will be thrown in – and suddenly the eyes fill up. And so it was that night. I remember shedding a tear during rehearsal of one the spoken pieces, then declining the offer of tissues just before the concert after I’d left my handkerchief in my wife’s coat, insisting, “I’ll be fine.”

I wasn’t.

Many have told me this was the lovelist version of The Three Kings by the German composer Peter Cornelius (1824-1874) they had ever heard. Poor old Cornelius: he did, in fact compose a number of works, including three operas, and was friendly with, and influential on, Wagner and Liszt, but he is now chiefly known for this.

But if you’re going to be known for one piece alone, you could do worse. Christina Rossetti published her poem In the Bleak Midwinter in 1874. We are all familiar with the sentiment in the final verse of offering the heart in the absence of sufficient means to bring anything else: if you listen to the third, final, verse here I think Cornelius might just have got there first.

And so farewell, Christmas. My thoughts and heart to you wherever you are for 2020.

Click on the image for another version by Gerald Finlay –

Anger is almost always a wasted emotion.

But it is a sad reality that anger above all else will define for many of us the year 2019. Domestic political anger. National anger. Geopolitical anger. Racial anger. Climate change anger. Protests everywhere around the world. 2019 will go down as one of those years where the mood in the UK was continually laced with vitriol, and a lack of tolerance for the opposite-held view. At its worst, it culminated in acts of unimaginable violence in broad daylight, in supposedly one of the freest and most coveted capitals in the world.

There were some glorious moments, too. Who will ever forget this one?

But there were not enough of them to counter the dominant mood. Which is why we need Christmas this year more than any I can remember. At its heart is the story itself, an event of which I recall the esteemed journalist, Paul Johnson, when asked if he believed it, replying,  “Of course it’s true, you couldn’t possibly make something like that up.” Many will have attended church services in the last couple of days without having done so all year; and then there are all those carol services. We hear them year in, year out. And still we come.

We do so, I believe, in recognition of the fundamental goodness that ultimately binds us together. Of all the words in Chrismas carols, two very simple ones which we breeze through every year, ‘Comfort and joy’, go a long way: we would all love both, but comfort is what we all need, because none of us is without some fragility. And fragility is right at the heart of the Christmas story. Christmas brings with it the opportunity to extend the hand, a momentary glance, or just a directed silent thought, of comfort.

Music can come to our aid here: its ability to take us away from ourselves can lead us to a place where our minds become less troubled.

I am not an avid listener to the music of one of the first great Romantic composers, the Frenchman, Hector Berlioz (1803-1869), but I cannot let the 150th anniversary of his death pass without a nod in his direction. During his lifetime, he was never appreciated in his native country and you would struggle to find a complimentary critic. Felix Mendelssohn observed, “He makes me sad, because he is a really cultured, agreeable man, and yet he composes so very badly.” His output is not huge, but it is generally large in scale, so that except for the occasional overture and Symphonie Fantastique, he is not a regular feature in the concert repertoire.

About the only piece to have won any acclaim in his lifetime was the oratorio ‘L’enfance du Christ‘. Within it, and written as an isolated work before the rest of the piece, ‘The Shepherds’ Farewell‘ has earned its place in Christmas music, as a passage not of glory and joy, but as a prayer of comfort and tenderness for the infant child. The words – ‘God go with you, God protect you, guide you safely through the wild!’-are by Berlioz himself, an almost life-long agnostic; and all of them in keeping with that need for comfort.

Some thoughts on the music. There are three verses, all opening with a handful of notes on the oboe. You might think a piece like this would open with something altogether softer, a flute or clarinet, but the oboe is a masterstroke – as it has been in other famous pieces, such as the second movement of Brahms’ symphony or the second movement of his violin concerto. (One celebrated violinist, Pablo de Saraste, actually refused to play the piece, because he wasn’t going to just stand there waiting while an oboe, of all things, played the melody in full before him.) And later, of course, there is Dvorak’s New World symphony, where the oboe melody is now synonymous with the Hovis ad. (Other brands available.)

Any number of choirs sing this beautifully, but I have deliberately eschewed the cathedrals, so that the oboe gets a proper airing. When it comes to Berlioz, few have been a greater champion than the late Colin Davis, and there have been few choral conductors of his equal in any generation. This beautifully tender recording dates back to 1961.

So farewell, 2019. This is my final post of the year. I have not been active enough this year, but we have been moving into our new house, so I hope to redress that in the months ahead. Wherever you read it and listen, you do me a very great honour by allowing me into your lives for a few minutes. My hope for all in the coming year is for a little more kindness and generosity of spirit.

I wonder what 2020 vision will reveal in December next year…

Click the image for musical comfort –

Charlie Brown, of Peanuts fame, often had the mot juste. Two, in this case, simple words are all that’s needed to encapsulate how most of us feel in the UK right now.

The ennui can be enough to stop you writing a blog; and yet I realise it’s exactly the reason for doing so. For a few minutes I have the pleasure of steering you away from the ugly vitriol which pervades our political pigpen – and that, alliteration – is yet another thing which is weally winding me up wight now. Our current leader, have you noticed?, has a particular propensity for practising prolonged pompous pronouncements, peppered with diatribes on dithering , delaying, deceit and denial.

So it’s a touch ironic that I’m turning to the Russian composer, Modest Mussorgky (1839-1881) today. It’s a strange name, Modest. First you commit perhaps the most selfish thing possible by gifting the world a reflection of yourself; and then you foist upon your creation a name, meaning moderate or restrained, as if by way of an apology.

Sadly his musical output did little to disabuse this. Nowadays he is chiefly known for works like Night on a Bald Mountain and his opera about another Boris chieftain, Boris Godunov. He was a highly gifted pianist, but he struggled with the subtleties of orchestration, causing many, including Tchaikovsky, to be uncharitable in their assessments of him. Even his teacher, Mily Balakirev, concurred that “Yes, Mussorsgky is little short of an idiot.” Despite the success of Boris, he did not get a good press.

Time for some belated balance. In 1874 Mussorgsky composed a fiendishly difficult piano piece in ten movements to celebrate the pictures of his friend, Viktor Hartmann, known as Pictures at an Exhibition. Its main theme, The Promenade, which filters in and out of the piece to reflect the different mood of the viewer as he wanders through the exhibition, was used in the 1980s political sitcom, The New Statesman, (when did we last see one of those?) featuring an MP called Alan B’stard, many of whose irreverant views have turned out to be spookily prescient. It was a part specifically created for, and acted by, the late Rick Mayall, and is comedy at its very best. Dig it out on The Youtube.

Classical music often seeps into our minds in ways like this. We know or like the tune, and can be content to leave it at that; but a little more digging adds to its appreciation. Today’s passage is the last of the ten, a picture for the design of the Gates at Kiev. Don’t go looking for them, the project got cancelled. (Another taste of things to come?) This final part comes from the orchestrated version by Maurice Ravel in 1922.

Brace yourself: this is a stonking sound, so don’t hold back on the volume. It’s precision playing. As you listen to it patiently,  you will hear how it expands and unfolds, bringing back the original theme, and culminating in a thundering, majestic finish.

I suspect Mussorgsky’s life was not a particularly happy one, and a high dependance on alcohol from an early age did for him at just 42. His grave has long since been covered by tarmac, but he gets his fair share of visitors: it’s now a bus stop in St.Petersburg. This famous portrait by Repin was done just days before died.

Click on the link and forget our political shambles – albeit with the help of some music applied to a political satire.

Forgive me if I strike a slightly sombre, or maybe just reflective, mood with this post. Over the years, especially as my own seem to pass ever more quickly, I have found the season of autumn to be an unwelcome visitor.

It is a reminder, however beautiful the colours may be for a few days, that there is decay in everything. As I write, rain is lashing down and strong winds are stripping trees of what leaves remain – to reveal the nothingness, the skeletons, that lie beneath.

Yes, I know it is part of an essential process, you might even assert a long-term harbinger of spring; but I cannot look at it that way right now. It is, for me, more of a summation of things past, of things gone for ever, whether they be happy events, of which I was fortunate to share many this summer – or people who are no longer here.

Anniversaries fall throughout the year for all of us, obviously. But autumn. Autumn, in its greyness and early nightfalls, has its way of bringing them all together. Which is why it is particularly apt that in the Christian calendar the feast of All Souls should be commemorated at this time of year.

So today I will be brief with my own words and let the music of my favourite composer, Franz Schubert (as if you needed telling) do the work. Many wrongly assume that Schubert’s brief life – just 31 years – was a sad one. He was, in fact, much loved and loved almost as much. I have no idea how many of his 600 songs or more I have heard, but this one, Allerseelen, set to the words of Johann Jacobi and written for the feast of All Souls, captures precisely my feelings of autumn and what it brings.

This version by Ian Bostridge is in the throat-lumping category. Each of the three verses has exactly the same melody, yet each is treated with different colour and emphasis, at times assertive and others almost whispering and yet never losing the note. Add to that the crystal clarity of his diction and you have 4.5 heavenly minutes to savour and reflect.

And no, you do not need to be a Christian or even a person of faith to appreciate this. All of us, at some stage, will wish this for those we have loved. Here is the translation (by Richard Wigmore) –

And here is the music, click on the image –

Today is Sir Bobby Charlton’s birthday.

Where on earth is he going with that?, I hear you thinking.

Bobby Charlton was a boyhood hero of many; but his appeal was not confined to young fanatics alone. My late father revered him as much as he did Arnold Palmer. So it was almost a dream come true that, through circumstances too lengthy to explain here, Dad was Charlton’s exclusive host and guide at Trooping the Colour about ten years ago.

For this more senior fan, the highlight of the gloriously sunny day, was when Charlton suggested walking back to his hotel and accepting Dad’s request to escort him. It was probably about a mile, but every recognition was acknowledged, every request for an autograph graciously and patiently provided. It gave lie to the saying that you should never meet your heroes.

And whilst on the subject of his heroes, another, of a completely different kind, was John Henry Newman, (1801-1890) who converted from a Church of England priest to a Catholic one, and became a Cardinal. This Sunday, he will go a step or two further and  be made a saint. Newman was the writer of the poem The Dream of Gerontius, set to music by Elgar, and about which I wrote in April 2017 (see Archives, right). The poem tells of the passing of a man’s soul through death (the name coming from the Greek geron, old man) and its escort by a guardian angel to judgment and purgatory. The text includes words to the hymns Firmly I believe and truly and Praise to the Holiest. 

It is a magnificent choral work, (Elgar wrote ‘This is the best of me’ at the foot of the score) in which I once sang at the Royal Festival Hall, and today I am plucking out those few minutes as the soul, accompanied by the angel, approaches judgment with the mighty acclaim ‘Praise to the holiest’. It is about as confident an affirmation of belief as you will find in all music: the words of the hymn embody all that it is to be a Christian, with Elgar’s music building to this huge statement after the angel’s brief introduction. And it doesn’t stop there, but culminates in a massive and enduring note, with the line ‘Most sure in all his ways.’

It actually doesn’t matter what your religious persuasion is, or whether you don’t have one at all: neither will be a barrier to your appreciation of these few minutes.

A final, and personal, thought on birthdays. If my father were alive today, he would be 93; but he would also be celebrating his youngest sibling and my very dear godmother, Pat, reaching her 90th birthday – as well as joining two older sisters in their 90s. Funny to see how you can forge an unlikely link between Charlton, Dad, Newman, Elgar, and Pat: heroes all of them to me, but today this has to be for Pat. Happy birthday to my terrific godmother!

Click on the image – and don’t be shy with the volume.

‘Welcome back.’

It’s always struck me as an odd greeting when live programmes on television, such as the evening news, open with this phrase after a thirty-second commercial break. ‘I didn’t go anywhere, actually, you’re the ones who decided to leave, not me,’ is the thought that often crosses my mind.

So I shall go with ‘Hello again,’ for I have been absent for a couple of months. Moving into a new house with no wi-fi for eight weeks has tested patience to near breaking point, but the thrill of finally having sound again has reinvigorated my urge to share music with you at a time when it is much needed. We seem to lurch from one shambles to another.

Amidst all this chaos, music is the one enduring constant. What else has the ability to take us out of ourselves, to allow us to inhabit another space away from whatever life throws at us, to silence world noise for a few moments, and hence to put everything else around us on hold? Drink and drugs may do it for some, but the full benefits we get  from music come from dedicated and attentive listening, not merely hearing, thereby ensuring our willing surrender to it and the need to return for more.

And the need is very great just now, especially for an element of calm. Which is why I have turned to the French composer Francis Poulenc (1899-1963), a name which will be new to many, and might not be that well known to those it isn’t. Despite his output being prodigious, Poulenc (pronounced Poolank) has struggled to earn the respect and coverage he deserves, possibly because much of his early work, notably his songs, is seen as light-hearted, even frivolous; a perception which his later religious, and more serious pieces, helped to reverse.

Coming from a prosperous family, Poulenc was not expected to follow a musical career, but his mother was a decent pianist and music was always in the house. Both parents died while Francis was a teenager, and it fell to his teacher, Ricardo Viñes, to encourage the young man to compose, in the first instance by introducing him to Georges Auric who became a life-long friend and mentor. During his musical development, Poulenc drew upon all sorts of composers for his inspiration, old and contemporary, but in the end there is definitely a style which you can pin down as his own: it is one which combines his love of simple melody – with a dash of brief quirkiness thrown in to the mix.

Simplistic it may be to say so, but it is, perhaps, a reflection of his anything-but-straightforward personal life. He proposed marriage to one lady, but the combination of her involvement with another man and her discovery that Poulenc was gay, was never likely to have her rushing into his arms. He did, nevertheless, father a girl elsewhere, who, in a precursor to the fictitious Wilson-Pike relationship in Dad’s Army, grew up never knowing him to be her father. But his sexual predilictions were predominantly elsewhere and there were affairs aplenty.

Back to that style of tune and quirkiness. Here is the 2nd movement of his Concerto for Two Pianos. The whole piece can be seen as a combination of mild ridicule of the standard approach to concerto-writing with a reverence to those names he respected – Ravel, Stravinsky; and in this extract, Mozart. It’s a lovely, simple Mozart tune, the Elvira Magdalene reference clear, with eerie Poulenc dissonances thrown in here and there, before returning to a gentle, if abrupt, conclusion. The man had a sense of humour, but that does not make his output lightweight: dig out his Organ Concerto with Strings and Timpani, it is rivetting.

There is no dialogue between one piano and the other here, you cannot really tell them apart. It is just a case of two are better than one. The sound and picture qualities are not the finest, but I have chosen it to show you the man himself at the keyboard, even if perhaps past his playing best.

So leave the chaos for five minutes and just let go.

Click on the image –

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