Back in May, Jamie Sansbury, Musical Director of the Glasgow School of Art Choir, shared a selection of music which he was enjoying during the Coronavirus lockdown. Nearly six months later, he shares some more works.
Who would have thought, when I wrote Listening in lockdown back in May this year, that the situation wouldn’t have changed as much as we would have liked by now? Although progress has been (and continues to be) made, I am not alone in finding my personal circumstances much the same as they were back then: working from home, not allowed to see other households indoors, not allowed to visit restaurants and, sadly, not yet allowed to resume choir rehearsals.
The GSA Choir is not silent, however. We are rehearsing each week over Zoom, and have been working on the first two Composeher works: Margaret’s Moon, by Ailie Robertson, and Within the Living Eye, by Rebecca Rowe. You can read more about these – and the other works – by going to the blogs page on the Composeher website, and I strongly recommend doing so: learning about the creative processes of the seven composers is a fascinating education.
Rehearsing over Zoom is not any substitute for the ‘real thing’, of course, and I long for the day when the choir can stand together in the same space, take a communal breath, and sing that first note. As things stand, it will be the first live music I have heard since the middle of March (the longest period I can recall in my life during which there has been no singing) and, as a result, recorded music – especially vocal and choral music – has become more important to me than ever.
O splendidissima gemma
To my mind, of all the instruments, the clarinet is the one closest in tone to the human voice. In Stef Conner‘s arrangement of O splendidissima gemma a solo clarinet soars above a choir of upper voices, sounding an ecstatic descant – much freer in melody, almost improvisatory – over the chorus.
The lyrics constitute a prayer for the Virgin Mary, and the work is infused with a warmth; like sunlight illuminating the inside of a great cathedral, casting its glow across the stillness. In this huge space the clarinet weaves its way above the choir, heavenward, like a free spirit above the earth-bound singers.
Lux aeterna
Nadia Boulanger’s Lux aeterna sounds so very French to my ears; I adore the work for this reason. It’s a short piece, but one full of hope and optimism: the treble chorus is so delicate above the organ, and the piece is infused with the quality of a lullaby. It’s hard to imagine much wrong with the world whilst listening to this, which makes it perfect lockdown listening.
DANCE: III. in the middle of the fighting
This is another work by British composer, Anna Clyne (who featured in my first Listening in lockdown blog). DANCE is, basically, a cello concerto, and the work takes its five movements from the lines of a poem by Rumi:
‘Dance, when you’re broken open. / Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off. / Dance in the middle of the fighting. / Dance in your blood. / Dance, when you’re perfectly free.’
I would encourage anyone to listen the entire work but, if you only hear one, my choice would be the third movement, in the middle of the fighting. It forms a pause in the centre of the piece – a moment of calm in the middle of the storm – and is, quite simply, heartbreakingly beautiful. There is something about the tone of a solo cello against the backdrop of an orchestra which seems so emotional, it can bring me to tears.
Stabat Mater
Julia Perry’s Stabat Mater is scored for contralto soloist and string orchestra. The twenty-minute work, vast in scope, is a dialogue between soloist and orchestra, and exemplifies Perry’s striking atonal style. The work is high drama, with the strings at times plaintive, at times vicious, in this depiction of Mary suffering at the foot of the cross.
String Quartet No. 5: III. Lento espressivo
My favourite form of instrumental music is the string quartet, and I have always been fascinated with the way in which composers can create such a huge variety of sounds and emotions from just a few (relatively similar) instruments. A full orchestra may provide an immense canvas where it is evident – even visually – how different each of the instruments are (and therefore what scope exists for variety and contrast), yet any truly worthwhile string quartet distils down the essence of the orchestra, providing a microcosm as rich in possibilities, whilst retaining the emotional heft. Four individual voices, of equal importance, with endless possibilities.
Elizabeth Maconchy returned to the string quartet time and time again (she composed thirteen of them during her lifetime) and the third movement of her String Quartet No. 5: III. Lento espressivo is one of my personal favourites. The movement always feels like the calm after a storm yet, for all the superficial peace (for example, the sustained major chords in the lower instruments) the haunting melody creates such a feeling of unrest. A feeling of not quite being out of the woods just yet.
Like all great quartets, I find myself forgetting there are only four instruments being played in this movement: instead a far more complex sound world emerges, with the upper strings sounding – at points – like interjections of human voices into a barren landscape.
Dubnová Preludia: 3. Andante semplice
The work of Czech composer, Vítězslava Kaprálová, has been a lockdown discovery for me. Her output was hugely varied (and includes several works for full orchestra) but it is this small piece for piano solo which I would recommend as an introduction to her fascinating, kaleidoscopic style.
Materna Requiem: 10. In Paradisum: If I Should Go
Rebecca Dale‘s Materna Requiem (Requiem for my Mother) is an epic work for soloists, choir and orchestra which travels through light and dark, and encompasses the entire dynamic range available with the forces: from the quietest, most tender of melodies to a full-on wall of sound. There is something truly cinematic about this work, yet it is the quiet final movement, In Paradisum – If I Should Go, which affects me the most. The melody (played during an earlier movement by the string orchestra) returns to be sung a cappella (unaccompanied), this time paired with words by Joyce Grenfell. They offer hope and solace, perhaps now more than ever:
‘If I should go before you do / Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone / Nor speak in a Sunday voice / But be the usual selves that I have known / Cry if you must / Parting is Hell / But life goes on / So sing as well.’