Oriana goes on record, and Christmas finally ends

Last weekend Oriana went on a religious retreat. For hours we stood together, in silence, heads bowed, praying that God would send us the light. The little red light that signified “we are now recording”. And when God spaketh unto us, through the Holy Speaker of Gentle Criticism, it was in a mellifluous, timeless BBC voice. Dimbleby-esque, in fact, as you would expect from a deity. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that God was actually called Alex, looked about 19 and was (annoyingly for one so young) a top producer for Decca. A God for our times, I think.

The bulk of Oriana had decamped to a church in Hampstead to record our Christmas CD, because January is the new December. And we had a pretty ambitious recording schedule, truth be told. We were recording some fiendishly difficult carol arrangements by our own David-the-Conductor, plus a few of our favourite Christmas-themed choral pieces by other composers which were also pretty hard going. And wehad to record more than an hour’s worth of music in a mere two days, which is rather more than a professional choir would expect to do. However, if there’s one thing to be said about Oriana, it’s that we like a challenge, and we bounced around punching the air and stamping our feet in a suitably positive and energetic manner. Admittedly this was only because the church was freezing and we were trying to keep warm, but it made us look like a force to be reckoned with all the same. Alex-the-God was, I’m sure, quietly impressed.

David-the-Conductor threw us in at the deep end with “Angels from the Realms of Glory”. Loyal blog readers will recognise this as our regular Christmas Oriana Audience Challenge, where the audience has to hold the tune throughout the carol while we do everything we can to put them off. We actually did rather a good job of the piece without the audience there getting it all wrong (apologies, loyal Oriana audience! You’ll be amazed at how it’s actually supposed to sound though – buy a copy of the CD immediately). But recording it took us some time, and when we’d finished we were well over an hour behind schedule, with only one piece recorded and another 25 or so to go. Gulp.

David-the-Conductor panicked not, and onwards we determinedly went. And as more and more pieces made it into the can, our confidence began to rise and our devotion to Alex-the-God began to recede. Sorry Alex, but if I ever again hear the phrase “Splendid! Can you just give me one more from the top?” I may have a psychotic break. I was the soloist in Leighton’s Nativitie, and I swear there were so many takes of that solo that they can probably take one note from each take and still have enough left over to create a short tone row piece in the style of Schoenberg. At least I wasn’t singing the Gaudete soprano solo; Margaret-the-Soprano had to sing a top C solo over and over while David-the-Conductor and Alex-the-By-Now-Fallen-Angel commented on her diction and asked for slight differences in her tonal shading. I honestly don’t know how she did it, she is a hero among sopranos everywhere.

But the weekend progressed and we just got better and better. There were moments of glory (the sops top B at 8 o’clock on Sunday after two gruelling days was pretty damn impressive), moments of annoyance (largely induced by the wind messing up take after take – it felt a bit like we were recording in a wind tunnel), moments of knackeredness (Allain’s Christ’s Love Song – my voice gets itchy just thinking about it), moments of comedy (Mike-the-bass forgetting where he was and shouting “Yeah!” loudly into the mikes after the sopranos’ aforementioned top B), and moments of Alex-the-God trying to outdo David-the-Conductor in the unusual-but-evocative-descriptions stakes (“It’s all a bit Eeyore. It doesn’t have to be Tigger, but if it could at least be a bit Piglet…”).

And hour after hour, we revelled in glorious, impressive singing. We made it through to the end of Sunday, only 15 minutes over time, and with all but one piece recorded. Unbelievable. I feel like we put everything we had into the recording, and I can’t wait to hear the CD! I hope you’ll join me in rushing to HMV and demanding they stock it at once. Or, possibly, when next Christmas comes around.

Starlight of Wonder in a Christmas Rainbow

Christmas comes but once a year. Unless you’re in Oriana, in which case Christmas happens 3 times over a period of a month and a half. Yes indeed, having performed not one but two Christmas concerts in December, we are now rejecting the Gregorian calendar and all its works, and will be recording our Christmas CD in line with the Julian calendar Epiphany on the third weekend in January. Excellent! I always mistrusted that new-fangled Gregorian nonsense, and this will allow us to reach out to new audiences in such Julian calendar stalwarts as Ethiopia, the Ukraine and the Republic of Macedonia. After all, how can two million Macedonians be wrong?

The Christmas CD will be, as I understand it, pretty much a full replay of the Christmas concert, which I very much hope you attended. It was a smorgasbord of Christmassy delights, many of them original arrangements by our very own David-the-Conductor, all sung with a level of gusto that made me proud. Particular highlights were David’s arrangement of Star of Wonder (which frankly I am prepared to campaign hard to make Christmas Number One next year – it’s great!), and of course the marvellous Starlight (which I rave about in the blog every year so there’s nothing new there). Lowlight for me (apologies to the children’s choir and any other fans of this piece) was the Rainbow song. If you missed it, the song goes something like this:

“We’ll send you a rainbow for Christmas,
oooh, aaah,
a rainbow message of loveliness and joy and soft fluffy animals,
oooohh doo beeee doooh,
wear your knitted santa jumper from your grandma with a smile because Jesus loves you,
shooby doo wop,
together we’re a rainbow!”

To their credit the children’s choir sang marvellously (as did Oriana of course), and the song seemed to go down incredibly well with the audience, but frankly I could barely keep my head out of the sick bucket long enough to join in. Shudder.

But I’m not sure why I react so strongly to this piece, when Starlight (which to be fair, could also be considered “a bit naff”) is the very height of Christmassy joy for me. Isn’t it interesting that carolling “we’re reading a message by Starlight, and the message is love” makes me grin and caper, but singing “we’ll send you a rainbow for Christmas” makes me want to rupture my own vocal chords so as never to have to sing it again. I am the Scrooge of the rainbow song. Together, the rest of you may be a rainbow, but I am a little black cloud of grumpiness and I shed cold water on your message of burbling cheer.

Anyway, having to occasionally sing something that you hate does go with the territory in Oriana, and is a worthwhile price to pay for the chance to sing such a diverse range of music. And to prove it, we also had some superb and challenging choral pieces in the mix, which offset the froth enough for me to make it through the Rainbow Song alive. Leighton’s Nativitie in particular is a glorious and reflective piece of choral beauty, and while we weren’t quite perfect we certainly did justice to the mood of quiet awe. It sent shivers down my spine. Allain’s Christ’s Love Song, too, is a warm and shimmering piece of built-up harmonies and two-choir rivalry. (Choir one is the best! Nyah nyah nyah choir 2!) I’m really looking forward to doing them both the justice they deserve on the recording. And I hope all our stalwart Oriana fans will support us by: a) pledging to buy the CD; and b) keeping their decorations up until the CD recording is over. It’s still Christmas in the Ukraine everyone! Do it for global harmony!

Chriiiiiistmas tiiiiiime, festive greenery and alcoholic beverage

It’s Chriiiiiiiist-maaaaaas! Well, nearly. And Oriana are into our annual Christmas concert rehearsal melee. Christmas, in the immortal words of Sir Cliff, is a time for living, a time for believing, a time for realising that we’re singing a LOT of music and we don’t really know it that well. Ooooh, mistletoe and wine. We always seem to pull it out of the bag in the end, though, and the audience get to roar along with a few carols while the choir try and put them off by harmonising in different keys and occasionally bursting into a different carol altogether, so it is always a fun and interactive experience.
However, one thing that always worries me about Christmas is the way it reveals my populist musical bent. Everyone else loves singing In Dulci Jubilo and frightening things in 13/8 by Russian men in horn-rimmed glasses, but for me its “Frosty the Snowman” and Giles Swayne’s “Starlight” every time (“People of planet Earth, hear what I say!”). Try as I might to raise a sardonic eyebrow as we belt out “We’re sending a message by Starliiiiiight, and the message is Luuurrrrrrrrve”, I can’t help but grin widely and dance a little bit.
So you can imagine my despair when I was looking up “In the Bleak Midwinter” for blogging purposes, and came across the following list of Best Carols of All Time, as voted for by assorted respectable musicians and choirmasters. They are thus:
1) In the Bleak Midwinter
2. In Dulci Jubilo (See? Told you)
3. A Spotless Rose
4. Bethlehem Down
5. Lully, Lulla
6. Tomorrow Shall be My Dancing Day
7. There is No Rose
8. O Come All Ye Faithful
9. Of the Father's Heart Begotten
10. What Sweeter Music

Cough, excuse me? What? No Hark the Herald Angels? No Little Donkey? No …. (sob) … Starlight? Admittedly Bethlehem Down and Lully Lulla are nice pieces, but they’re not exactly the kind of thing Santa would burst out of the chimney to, are they? And what’s all this stuff about roses?? Where’s the holly and the ivy? This is Christmas with the Christmas taken out of it, as though sleighbells and chocolate and happy songs about snow are beneath our musical intellect.
However, even these stuffed shirts pale into insignificance next to “Hymnologist and theologian Ian Bradley” who according to Wikipedia has questioned the theology of “In the Bleak Midwinter” thusly:
"Is it right to say that heaven cannot hold God, nor the earth sustain, and what about heaven and earth fleeing away when he comes to reign?"
What?????? It’s a Christmas carol, not a PhD thesis in bible studies. Similarly can it be right to exhort the hooved and probably tone-deaf Little Donkey to “ring out those bells tonight”?*. Is it correct form to expect Jesus to arrive on no less than three sailing ships on Christmas Day? Of course it isn’t, but what’s wrong with a bit of festive licence? Honestly, when did Christmas become the time of pernickety fuss-budgets? (Try rhyming that, Sir Cliff)
Well if you can’t beat them, join them. I typed intellectual Christmas carols into Google, and would like to announce that my new favourite Christmas Carol is “Listen, the celestial messengers produce harmonious vocalization”. We may not be singing this at the Oriana Christmas concert, but we will be regaling you with “Embellish the Interior Passageways”, “The first person nominative plural of a triumvirate of far eastern heads of state”, and happily, “Obese personification fabricated from compressed mounds of crystalline structures”**. Bet you can hardly wait now.

*If Simon Funnell points out that it’s actually Bethlehem and not the donkey that is supposed to ring the bells, you will be ruining my favourite and most enduring Christmas image and therefore getting your name on the Fuss-budget List.

**With thanks to Christmas Songs for the Intellectual” http://www.oocities.org/timessquare/8965/newsonga.htm

The chaos of flats

I had my second experience of being an audience member at the Oriana concert early this month. And once again they were marvellous without me. This is starting to get disturbing. In the a capella pieces they were full and sonorous, and in the accompanied pieces they manfully ignored the organist’s occasional attempts to throw them off by playing a different piece entirely, and stayed with David-the-Conductor throughout. It was a tour de force of singing, and I was very proud of them.

Particular highlights were Byrd “Sing Joyfully” – what an amazing rendition – and Purcell “Hear My Prayer” which was stunning. And if there were any lowlights, for me it would have been Wood and Ireland and their anthemy ilk. David-the-Conductor will hate me for saying it, but seriously, get a choir to sing some traditional English Pantserie and throw in an “um-cha” organ and we might as well have been promenading in Blackpool on a bank holiday weekend. I could practically see the front row getting out their buckets and spades. The choir still did an amazing job of course, so at least we can now move on to more interesting repertoire feeling like we’ve shown Songs of Praise how it should be done.

Anyway, I’ve been mulling over something David-the-Conductor said in rehearsal a few weeks ago, when once again we were struggling to keep the pitch up on a dreary October evening. Anyone that has ever sung in a choir will have experienced this challenge. David kept yelling and doing his upwards finger-point, but we stayed flat as a souffle. (I am no cook, it must be said). Finally, in despair, David said that he didn’t know why choirs drop the pitch so often, but maybe humanity is just attracted to the chaos of flats. Isn’t that rather a lovely idea? But it’s an interesting point; why do choirs go flat rather than sharp? I decided to do some investigating, and found a veritable smorgasbord of finger-pointing to explain the reasons. Ready?

1) It’s physical. There seems to be a strong lobby for pitch depending on good support and breathing, so that pitch will drop when your muscles are tired. Or it could be that the barometric pressure is low. Or your muscle tension is too high. Or you haven’t laughed enough that day, so your soft palate hasn;t been raised enough.

2) It’s the key signature. C major and F major have come up as keys that humans just aren’t designed to sing in. Damn F major.

3) It’s the conductor! I had a good laugh over the following passage by Margaret Nesse:

“Some choral directors have a tendency, especially during performance, to point upward surreptitiously with a finger when the choir as a whole, or a particular section, is singing flat. Blackstone notes that a conductor who points his finger upward encourages singers to tilt their chins back, thereby constricting the vocal mechanism, causing a squeezed sound, and increasing, rather than decreasing, the likelihood of a poor intonation.”

Sound familiar, fellow Orianites? Tee hee! But I’ve just remembered that I have to re-audition for David-the-Conductor this year, so I’d like to point out that it is DEFINITELY not David’s fault when we’re flat, and furthermore, he is the best conductor ever in history. Moving swiftly on...

4) It’s all lies! Choirs can go sharp just as easily as flat, but sharpness tends to be heard more as overtones and threrefore brightness of sound, meaning that the listener notices more if the choir is flat than if they are sharp. Isn’t that interesting?

5) I knew we’d get here eventually – it’s the sopranos! we go flat at the top and drag everyone else down with us. I would have been offended at reading this, except that I’m friends with enough altos to have heard it all before. But how’s this for an argument as to why this is the case?

“No one has yet brought up what I have found to be the MOST common reason for choirs, and sopranos in general, to go flat. U.S. society values a low speaking pitch rather than a high one in women (attributing idiocy and flightiness to women with high speaking voices), and most singers are sufficiently sensitive to this to keep their speaking voices down. Unfortunately, if in singing the vowels are placed in the same place they are in speaking, the head resonance will be insufficiently active and the notes around the register break at the top of the treble staff will SOUND flat from a lack of upper overtones. (Try them against an oscilliscope. They won't test out nearly as flat as they sound.) This makes it harder and harder for the soprano to sing up into the top of her range, and she will tire quickly - all of which contributes to further flatness of pitch. THE OTHER SINGERS IN THE CHOIR HEAR THE APPARENTLY FLAT PITCH, AND PROMPTLY MATCH IT.”

Ooooh. So…

6) It’s society’s fault! I blame the government. What’s the solution?

“Promise the sopranos that no one in the group will impugn their intellect, and exercise sufficient tyranny to make that stick.”

Heh heh heh! I love it!

Sorry, who am I? Where is this? Choir, you say?

I’m not quite ready for choir restarting after the summer break. We’re now nearly three weeks in to the autumn term and I’ve been at rehearsal in body, but I don’t think my spirit has quite got the point yet. David-the-Conductor stands at the front and waves his hands about, and I sit and watch vaguely as though he’s just doing modern dance. All these women are sitting around me, and they keep all singing in unison, and I sort of jerk to attention and mumble along. It’s like being at a Communist rally. And I was plagued by a nagging suspicion all the way through choir last Wednesday that there was something I’d forgotten – other than all my music (oops). And then I realised this morning, rather belatedly – of course! The Blog!

So apologies all you hardy blog followers, nearly three weeks have already gone by and I have failed to report that once again Oriana are in full song, and sounding rather glorious. And good thing too, because this term we are doing three concerts, a TV appearance, recording a CD and going on tour to the Isle of Wight. Do we know how to challenge ourselves or what? (musically, that is – I’m not insulting the Isle of Wight which is, I’m sure, very lovely). So we haven’t got any time to rest on our laurels, and have got straight into the music.

Happily the music for the first concert is glorious. Really and truly amazing. It’s a bible-themed concert in some vague and murky way, which means fabulous text in many and varied arrangements by the full gamut of British composers. We were working on John Ireland’s ‘Greater Love Hath No Man’ on Wednesday, which set me to musing about Ireland. He seems to have been a man divorced from his geographical destiny. He started badly by being born in England (doh!) of Scottish descent (doh!), and spent much time flirting with visits to the Channel Islands before realising that they were spelt wrong. He was briefly excited to form a United Kingdom at the Royal College of Music when Britten arrived, but the two found it hard to overcome their musical differences and devolution was the only solution. At this point, desperate and broken, Ireland decided to branch out to the Netherlands and spent the rest of his life in a windmill.

He was basically the living embodiment of the EU, and I had a sudden urge as the music swirled around me on Wednesday to get this piece adopted as the European Anthem. However, it appears that some feckless German (or “fellow citizen of the EU”)was ahead of me with a rival campaign, as apparently the EU Heads of State have already opted for an Ode to Joy by someone called Beethoven. Well for heaven’s sake, what do they know?

Bloggiana is all proud of the Oriana choir at Gerontius

At its first ever outing in 1900, The Dream of Gerontius was a famous disaster, causing Elgar to declare "I have allowed my heart to open once – it is now shut against every religious feeling & every soft, gentle impulse for ever."
"Bit hysterical, old chap," murmured the rest of Victorian Britain, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot at this alarming display of feeling. "Stiff upper lip, what?"
Luckily Elgar's drama-queen moment stopped short of destroying all the copies of Gerontius in his despair. Otherwise I would have been watching the Oriana choir stand on the Barbican stage in communal silence for an hour and a half on Wednesday. Probably that would have got a bit dull about half way through.

This was the first time I've actually sat in the audience for an Oriana concert, and I was very much looking forward to viewing from the outside. Particularly as I'd seen all kinds of interesting instructions coming frantically around the choir email list in the days preceding the concert. Would the choir be able to gracefully split into two choirs during the performance? How on earth were the semi-chorus going to surreptitiously change into surplices while on stage? And how, pray tell, can a choir "stand demonically"? I couldn’t wait!

Well I have to say the choir surpassed themselves. Even drama queen Elgar would have been nodding contentedly in his grave. We'd been rehearsing the demons chorus pretty much every week since January, and come the night it was so sharp the audience was practically bleeding in the stalls. I didn’t notice any demonic standing, but there was definitely some snarling and I'm pretty sure I saw the tenor section trying to make off with some souls. And kudos to the semi-chorus - I had advance warning that they were going to change into surplices in full view of the audience, and yet I still didn’t see them doing it. It was a moment of glory when they suddenly appeared in bright white at the top of the ranks of choir dressed in black. How on earth did they manage it?? They must have laid down on the floor and shuffled into them sleeping bag-style.

But the bit I was looking forward to most was the choir attempting to split into two choirs during an orchestral passage of play in the sceond half. I was practically dancing on my seat with excitement at the prospect of the choir shuffling sideways with fixed grins, looking more and more nervous as the end of the orchestral passage approached, abandoning all restraint in the last two bars and diving through the wind section in order to make it across the stage in time. So you can imagine my disappointment when the choir came back on for the second half already split into two choir formation, the plan having been sneakily abandoned before the performance. Damn you, David-the-Conductor, for thwarting my enjoyment! I paid good money to see that.

All in all, though, it was a brilliant performance and I was very proud of the choir indeed. (Although my nose is slightly out of joint that they were so good without me. But probably it was all the sterling work I put in at rehearsals that made the difference. Yep, that'll be it.)

We're about to break for summer, so no blogs for the next couple of months. Thanks for following the adventures of the choir this year and see you all in September!

Way haul away to the Barbican

As rehearsal for our sea-themed concert started last Friday, one of the other sopranos sidled up to me, clutching her folder with a worried expression.
“How many pieces have you got?” she hissed.
I looked in my folder, just to recount one more time. “Five,” I murmured back.
She nodded, relieved, and I patted her shoulder reassuringly. This was the lowest number of pieces we’ve done at a concert in quite some time, as we normally like to challenge ourselves with at least 15 pieces, all in different styles. So we were all fighting the insecurity that our lightweight music folders were instilling. If we aren’t risking a hernia, it just doesn’t feel like an Oriana concert.

Luckily, what we lacked in sheer numbers of pieces, we made up for in complexity. The Bruckner is superb but it’s not easy to sing well, and we were all desperate to do it justice. The Willcocks was tricky in many places, and the Bingham (I just can’t hide my feelings here) is the stuff that pelagic nightmares are made of. And we were rehearsing with an excellent but entirely new brass, wind and percussion section, so precious rehearsal minutes trickled by while we tried to get used to each other’s sound.

So come the concert we were once again in the throes of panic, but as always we rose to the challenge and pulled off a passable performance. The Bingham was a little seat-of-the-pants, but falling back on an old Oriana stalwart trick, we plastered grins on our faces, picked any note at random, and sang it out confidently. The resulting dissonant clashes may or may not have been as written, but at least we sang something, and to be honest I think that’s more than the piece deserved. (Sorry Bingham. It might grow on me. Eventually.) And once it was over we got to reward ourselves with the Wreck of the Hesperus, which was loads of fun.

Even the stress of the Bingham paled into insignificance next to the tension at the interval, when we discovered that our changing room at the back of the balcony was locked, with all the second half music inside. What were the chances we could sing the Bruckner Mass from memory? We were hastily comparing notes (“Yes, it definitely starts with Kyrie …. something …..”) when the church verger calmly removed her shoes, scaled the walls of the church, abseiled from the roof, crashed through the changing room window, and blew the door with some plastic explosive.* She is clearly a true Bruckner fan. The second half was saved.

So we’re now into rehearsing for our final concert of the season – Elgar’s The Dream of Gerontius at the Barbican on June 22nd. Rehearsals have been going really well, and it is going to be a stunner of a concert. But just when we were being lulled into a false sense of security, David-the-Conductor was struck by a vision at Wednesday’s rehearsal. Part of the score is written for double choir, but due to the practical difficulties of getting a large choir to change formation on stage during a performance, it’s never really performed as a double choir. Well, as all our stalwart fans know, the Oriana laughs in the face of practical difficulty. Let’s face it, we began one concert with children lying in piles in front of us pretending to be dead, so do you really think a simple thing like shuffling about the stage is going to thwart us?

Unfortunately we don’t have a completely unblemished track record when it comes to moving while singing. Anyone that came to our Christmas concert will remember our efforts to process into the church while singing. The plan was to enter in formation, and surround the audience with the sops on one side, the altos on the other, and the men at the front. Or the back. Or something. We actually ended up with the sopranos in the middle of the bass section, which was quite a feat given that there are about five times more sopranos, and I didn’t see the tenors at all so I think they might have accidentally processed out of the church and into Costa Coffee next door. Let’s just say it wasn’t a complete success, so there is a certain level of nervousness about trying to manage another complicated manoeuvre with the whole Barbican watching. But I have every confidence. If we made it all the way to the end of the Bingham without stopping, we can accomplish anything.

*There may be an element of poetic license in this description.