On Sunday afternoons, I leave the cathedral around12:30, have something simple to eat -- a sandwich, a bowl of soup - and then walk through the underground city or along the streets for two hours, before rehearsal for Evensong begins. The walking is exercise for my shoulders and legs, to shake off the stiffness from holding a music folder while standing in concentration, but also for my eyes and head: long views instead of arm's-length, bright light, the busyness and movement and indifference of the city forming both a respite from, and a heightened awareness of our practice: a detailed focus on six or seven centuries of liturgical music, performed to the best of our ability. The city swirls around me, rushed, fragmentary, neon, bought, sold -- and I am in it, part of it, and also there, in that other place, where out of the gathered silence emerges the first note, an enormity.
An echoed experience here, albeit at an infinitely lower level; my score resting on a music stand and my singing doled out an hour at a time. It's the intensity of the sessions that leaves me exhausted, given that I cannot truly read music and must concentrate as if for my life on the bits of the score I can understand. This combined with the physical nature of singing brings about a special tiredness which I remember from choir-practice evenings as a treble and which sent me scurrying home for slice after slice of Marmite toast.
Hubris perhaps, misguided (given my age) perhaps, but no doubt a feeling of privilege. To retreat into a world where hearing and speech predominate except in one detail. My two sheets of score are too floppy on the stand and are supported by a more substantial score picked up at random by my teacher. A fairly lengthy vocal piece derived from the New World Symphony (not my cup of tea) but with a gracious proviso for the singer: one may or may not adopt the regional accent employed in the text.
My lessons occur at ten on Monday mornings; thus the week starts brilliantly and I drive through Herefordshire's narrow, winding roads in a state of pre-exhilaration which belies my age.
Posted by: Roderick Robinson | January 27, 2016 at 02:30 AM
What takes the place of the Marmite toast now, Robbie? I think it's fantastic that you're taking on this challenge (and why the hell not? I say) and have been enjoying reading about its highs and lows, so to speak, on your blog.
Posted by: Beth | January 27, 2016 at 03:15 PM
Meat-rich casseroles, piles of spag. bol., various cuts of Welsh lamb (the best in the world). Since I've been on the 5:2 diet for more than two years I need to fuel up on the off-diet days. No room for Veganism, I fear; I've also got a novel to write (now 12,000 words in).
Posted by: Roderick Robinson | January 28, 2016 at 02:35 AM
Beth, such painterly photos, especially the top one. And I love your words, your spirit, as always.
Posted by: Natalie | January 28, 2016 at 01:31 PM