Handel’s ‘Messiah’

Tuesday I went with two of my house-mates to a Messiah Sing-in at Old Cabell hall at the University of Virginia. Tickets were $5, and once at the door to the auditorium we were provided with a score (if we didn’t bring our own).

Walking into that place was like entering another world, a world I hadn’t been part of for a while. People came from all over Charlottesville to play or sing this great music, and excitement was in the air. Instrumentalists sat on the stage, and singers sat in the semi-circle of chairs where the audience would typically sit. The seats were divided into 4 sections, one for each voice part.

We made our way to the soprano section, clutching our slightly dilapidated music, and sat down in the front row — the only seats left available in the front section. At least in the front we get the benefit of hearing all the people behind us, I thought. One of my house-mates isn’t quite as much of a singer, so we were sopranos because that part is easier to pick out.

The conductor came on stage, we all applauded, and we began with the opening orchestral Sinfonia. Next up was And the Glory of the Lord. I had forgotten that the opening choral piece went up to a b-flat for the sopranos. Oops. That was a stretch for me, since I was quite a bit out of practice.

How can I describe the experience? The two of us who were singers felt (and, I daresay, acted) like kids in a candy shop. To be reading music again and singing with people who to a greater or lesser degree knew what they were doing, to be in a room filled with musicians, to be lifting our voices to make beautiful music (though an impromptu sing-in is by no means polished music!) was incredible.

Though we did not sing all of the Messiah, we sang a good number of the choruses, and it was delightful to sing again; it was good for the soul. There is something about singing such great music that is powerful in ways I cannot begin to describe. In college I was one of those choir nerds, and I still am at heart. I love being able to look at notes on a page and, with a group of people, translate those symbols into beautiful sounds that pierce the heart.

When we finally exited the building two hours after entering, I was energized and slightly hoarse, and felt that my Christmas season was closer to being complete. For a few short hours, I had been transported to a beautiful realm where my cares did not intrude and where worry had no place.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

E.M. Forster and Music

Last weekend I watched a movie version of E.M. Forster’s book, “A Room with a View.” I liked it more than I thought I would. There was something about the story that drew me in, and I identified with the main character, Lucy. It isn’t that I am in the same position of life as she, it is that I sometimes feel a bit like I could have lived in the Edwardian era: feelings should be somewhat suppressed, and certainly not expressed unless they are proper. There is some wisdom in not allowing oneself to express every emotion felt; that would be unhealthy. Nevertheless, I am wary of expressing too much emotion for fear I should get carried away… so I keep them rather under wraps and only occsionally they explode out of me. So I try to appear calm most of the time.

 

I found the text of a part I liked especially that expresses quite how I feel about the piano and my emotions. I almost think it could have been written about me. Almost.

 

‘It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions. Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.

‘She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at all like strings of pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate young lady, who performs so tragically on a summer’s evening with the window open. Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped between love and hatred and jealousy, and all the furniture of the pictorial style. And she was tragical only in the sense that she was great, for she loved to play on the side of Victory. Victory of what and over what– that is more than the words of daily life can tell us. But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay; yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy had decided that they should triumph.

‘A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her to do the thing she really liked, and after lunch she opened the little draped piano. A few people lingered round and praised her playing, but finding that she made no reply, dispersed to their rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep. She took no notice of Mr. Emerson looking for his son, nor of Miss Bartlett looking for Miss Lavish, nor of Miss Lavish looking for her cigarette-case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by the mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own; and by touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire.

‘Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this illogical element in Miss Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion at Tunbridge Wells when he had discovered it…. But before he left Tunbridge Wells he made a remark to the vicar, which he now made to Lucy herself when she closed the little piano and moved dreamily towards him:

‘”If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting both for us and for her.”’

 

–E. M. Forster, “A Room with a View”