Archive for the ‘Fallen’ Category

It’s all about attitude

Saturday, February 17th, 2007

In (the five months) between the last two posts, I have been astonishingly busy with all sorts of musicological and non-musicological activity, which is, of course, why I have failed to post. It wasn’t that it was all boring, just very time-consuming. I’ve transcribed a whole book of madrigals, written two articles, finished transcribing a book of motets and completed an eye-bleedingly, mind-numbingly complicated touring grant application to the Arts Council. My Beloved Husband and I created a truly lovely website for Fallen to pull the promoters in to the tour. I’ve also started an anti-bullying campaign at my workplace and become an occasional pundit on Radio Solent reviewing the newspapers on the odd Saturday morning. Plans for the next few months include a trip to Austin to have a look at/listen to my friend Randall’s Connie Boswell collection, and to have a small Boswell jamboree at UT; recording Alessandro Grandi’s Motetti a cinque voci (1614) and the rest of the music from Fallen with Musica Secreta; a conference in Cork organised by the lovely Mel (for which I still have to write the paper) and a whole lot of digit and limb-crossing to ensure the success of the touring application. So that’s me.

But before I close this little update, I feel I have to mention the issue of attitude, specifically the attitude of arts promoters. In the course of putting together the application, I emailed and phoned literally dozens of promoters here in the UK, presenting to them the opportunity of putting on Fallen with financial assistance from the Arts Council. Not asking for commitment, mind, just an expression of interest that could go into the application. Some receptive, forward-thinking people got it straight away – that here was a way of drawing new audiences into the concert hall, and doing something utterly different than a stand-and-deliver concert with dry-as-dust programme notes and evening dress. And this wasn’t just for established venues with plenty of funding and regular audiences. Hooray for them! Sadly, though, others took the attitude that it would be “difficult” – oh, where would we get a choir, how could we sell it to our existing audience, yadda, yadda. All very valid concerns, I’m sure, but these are the same people who grumble about the dwindling audience for early music – an audience that is literally dying off because new people aren’t being attracted in. They will moan, but they won’t make the effort – and when artists such as us make the effort for them, they are too craven to change their ways. Humbug, I say!

But the one that beats all is the festival administrator that is too busy even to consider putting it to the programme committee. I speak to the local university, who say they would love for their students to get involved; both I and my co-director (who is also a festival director, so knows this person professionally of old) email acknowledging the university’s interest and offering the possibility of putting it on with a subsidy if they express enough interest to put it in the funding application. I’m fobbed off several phone calls, and then finally I get the message from a minion that the administrator ‘has my details, and will ring when s/he is ready’. Guess that’s a no, then.

All over, bar the shouting…

Sunday, October 15th, 2006

Well, it’s done. Again, for the last few weeks I have found myself a combination of too busy and at a loss for words to even think about posting. But last night was the premiere of Fallen, and twenty-four hours later I feel enough at liberty to begin posting again.

This has, without a doubt, been the busiest month of my life. First Peru, then the induction of the 2006 intake at work, then Fallen. It’s enough to make a grown woman cry, and that’s what I’ve been doing, on and off, since about 9pm last night. I began to weep before the end of the last music cue (do understand that the band weren’t wholly visible behind the scrim), more from relief and gratitude than anything else, then burst into tears as soon as we got backstage. And I have been on the verge ever since, with stupid things setting me off – Barber’s Adagio on Radio 4’s Desert Island Discs this morning didn’t help at all!! But that was after I had dropped off the incomparable Mel at the airport, which was cause for tears enough. I blame the hormones, myself.

In truth, it went as well as I could have hoped for, and far better than I expected. There were a few sound hiccups, which was a shame, but from my point of view as MD, pretty damned good for a first run through (at the dress rehearsal, we didn’t even make it to the end, so on the night we were doing the close of the show for the first time). It could have been more precise in terms of synching with the film, and the band and choir were commendable for reading my mind, rather than my down beat, but we got from one end to the other in tune, together, and with feeling. All in all, a job well done. We had to change the veils at the last minute – too much faffing around at the dress rehearsal. I had tried to make them look like Sofonisba Anguissola’s portrait of her sister, with a little starched peak at the centre, but in the end we went all Nativity-Play-cum-Life-of-Brian and stretched them over our foreheads, pinned at the back.

After it was all over, we celebrated with a glass of wine and a slice of the Ferrarese delicacy, pampepato. This is a rich chocolate fruitcake, coated with a thick layer of dark chocolate, originally devised by the nuns at Corpus Domini. I iced four of them on Friday morning before the dress rehearsal, having laid them out on cooling racks with sheets of paper towel underneath to catch the drips of chocolate. Mel and I seriously considered staying at home and sucking the paper towels instead of driving two hours to Brighton and being professional performer-musicologists….

So, now I’m totally wiped out – my shop is not so much closed as raised to the ground. Today I was treated to coffee in bed (having laid there lazily, listening to Pete downstairs, labouring away at the ancient coffee grinder clamped to the kitchen table). However, as he presented me with said coffee, Son 2 barrelled into the bedroom behind him, and sent the coffee all over himself, the pillows and the rather too expensive chinese rug. C’est la guerre. So instead of a lie-in, I’m treating scalds and carpet stains before 9am on a Sunday morning. But all was forgotten as we had lunch at a beautiful little New Forest pub, the Royal Oak at Fritham, before a long walk in the unseasonal sunshine through a wood that Son 2 insisted was Endor. We fended off arrest by several Imperial platoons, identified mushrooms eaten by Ewoks, and hid in the undergrowth from Imperial spies before safely making it back to our starship. Fantastic – at last, after what seems like eternity, I could just breathe the air and marvel at how many different kinds of moss one can spot standing still in the forest. I know that the rest of my life will start again tomorrow, but I’m in no hurry.

Pete has just told me that I should take tomorrow morning off, and just blob around the house. OK, I said, but maybe I’ll tidy my office, too. No, no, said he, just rest, otherwise we all will suffer. !. Then he said that the only way he could get me to relax was to make me feel guilty if I didn’t. Oh, right. So now he’s a psychologist.

Are the guns loaded?

Saturday, September 30th, 2006

The other evening, I was making dinner and listening to Rainer Hirsch’s programme on Radio 4 about Spike Jones, the wholly inimitable musical comedian. His son was talking about the huge undertaking that was Spike’s live show, which involved boxcars-full of props and stage gear, microphones, lights and (of course) a sizeable orchestra. Apparently the rider in the contract specified that the only equipment the promoter need supply on stage was a bathtub and a chair. Spike Jr was heard saying (or words to the effect),”Oh, yes, it was very complex. We had to make sure the audio was right, the visuals were right, the guns had to be loaded…”

Last night we had the tech rehearsal for Fallen, and for the first time we got an inkling of what it’s going to be like on the night. The scrim, painted in a pale blue cloudscape, is at least 20 feet high, and as wide; when the film is projected on to it, the images just seem to be floating in the church. When we work out how to get the DVD controls off the projected image, we’ll be in business. Also, I have to get down to the secondhand bookshop today and buy a cartload of old leather-bound books that can substitute for breviaries.

The habits were a little difficult – not only had I not provided long enough bits of rope to go round the collective bulk of waists and the vast acres of vile cloth, but the buknuks and the veils are heavy and slippery. Need to think of a solution PDQ, lest we all look like comedy nuns. And we just have to get used to singing in the headgear – having all that cloth over the ears plays havoc with blend and volume, let alone time-keeping. I’m still finding conducting with one hand and playing figured bass with the other challenging, but that’s because I’m inescapably left-handed, and it’s damned awkward to play bass lines with the right hand, conduct with the left, and still manage to face the choir. When I was at the National Theatre years ago, I had this completely sussed, but I do remember I had to practice and practice – and I never had to wear a habit.

I suppose I could always keep a starting pistol up my sleeve.

Chant changes lives; or, you learn something new every day

Wednesday, September 13th, 2006

This morning at God’o'clock I walked downtown to do an interview on Radio Solent, about the Peru trek and APEC. I had to be there at 6.45, so set off around 10 past 6, iPod at the ready to get me in the mood for some swift walking. As usual, I needed something loud and funky to wake me up, so after considering the Foos (not funky enough) and Missy Elliot (not loud enough), on went the RHCP. Thanks, guys, for another job well done – I got to the studio in record time, nearly two miles in twenty minutes.

I will not be taking my iPod to the Andes as there is no point – nowhere to charge it, and I can’t be fussed with one of those little battery chargers. But not having music electrically supplied hasn’t been a problem during our weekend training hikes, simply because it’s going on in my head all the time. The only difference is that it tends to be one bit of music on a continuous loop (nearly wrote “continuous loup” just then – wonder what that would be like? Owwoooo…). A few weekends ago it was the Boswell Sisters’ “Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea” (someone else likes this one, too – click on http://katry.blogspot.com/2005/07/between-devil-and-deep-blue-sea.html). Last week it was the chant Regnum mundi et omnem ornatum saeculi contempsi from the profession rite for a Clarissan nun – one of the chants featured in Fallen.

Now, as I’ve said before I’ve never really been into chant: not my kind of thing, no no, just the boring bits you have to sit through before you get to the swingin’ polyphony. However, I have to say, since starting to research Fallen I’ve fallen in love with it, especially with singing it. I find myself humming little snatches of chant tunes as I’m filing in my office, or tidying the bathroom. It was great to sing it in ensemble when we had our first chorus rehearsal last week; incredibly calming, and grounding, and quietly energizing. Being a Quaker sympathiser, I guess strictly I’m not supposed to be into hymns and the like, but I’ve retained an affection for the good old tunes since my church-job days (excellent for giving it some welly when digging the garden – “HE who would valiant be, ‘GAINST all disaster”), and now I’m just going to have to admit chant into my pantheon of weaknesses. If nothing else, it helps make low-level housework more bearable.

3/10 – could do better

Sunday, September 10th, 2006

Well, I see it’s been weeks since I posted anything in my blog. Hardly a sterling effort. Well, I’ve been busy. Really busy, and I know it’s not an excuse, but there you go.

What I want to know is, how many completely different activities can one keep up with before just going into overload? Son 2 has come up with a brilliant expression that says it all. In response to his father asking him to do something, at the end of a long and stressful day, he just looked up balefully and said, “My shop is closed, Daddy.” I know how he feels.

Thinking about what I’ve had to cope with over the last month – major projects a-gogo, and only summer-time childcare (so five hours a day if I’m lucky) – it’s hardly surprising that I’ve had to resort to relaxation tapes just to get to sleep. I know I’m my own worst enemy, but I’ve had to juggle Fallen, training for my charity trek, organizing the induction of all the new first-year intake at work, and submitting the manuscript of She’s So Fine. So one minute I’m trying to get 18 habits cut out of the vile cloth with increasingly blunt scissors, the next I’m pounding up and down the South Downs Way, followed by frantically rescheduling events because the campus policeman wants a 27-minute DVD to be shown in a 20-minute slot in front of the new students, and all the while carting the Chicago Manual of Style under my arm. And even writing this is displacement activity, because really I should be writing the instruction manual for the house and boys so that my mum (who’s babysitting when Pete and I are in Peru) will know where the spare lightbulbs are, who to phone if the dryer breaks down for the third time this week, and what to do if somebody comes home from school with nits. Who ever said being a musicologist and a person, at the same time, was easy?

And then, there’s all the stuff that comes along that is oh-so-interesting-and-don’t-I-want-to-spend-all-day-thinking-about-it. I note that one huge event I didn’t write about was taking Son 1 to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers at Earls Court in July. What a trip – we’ve seen them before (Hyde Park 2004), and I’m not sure which was the better gig, but still it was fab. AND Patti Smith showed up for a jam, which was truly wonderful and good for the soul. But ever since I’ve been thinking deeply about the gig and the album, and how they seem to be working their way through the 60s (having done girl groups, now they are on to Simon & Garfunkel and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young), and wouldn’t it be great to write an article on that. And then there’s all the archival work in Ferrara that I’d love to do to find out more about my Renaissance nuns. Not to mention girl culture and Star Wars. So much academic rant, so little time. My shop is closed.

It will be good to get to the Andes – we leave on Thursday – and be unable to do anything. Five days during which I don’t have to see anything that plugs in, do any washing or answer any telephones – all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other. Not so much blisters as bliss.

The woman who lost her identity

Thursday, July 20th, 2006

I’ve lost a veil. Lord knows how, between Bethnal Green and Southampton Camilla’s veil has gone missing. But it’s been one of those days. I get another letter from the bank, telling me that the documents I sent weren’t adequate to prove my identity, and after a very long, trying conversation with the nice but not overly helpful string of representatives at the bank, I establish that my credit score wasn’t sufficiently high enough. Excuse me? They require me to send in a certified copy of my passport or my driver’s license. After pointing out a few anomalies on the sheet of instructions I was originally sent, I establish that actually it’s not up to the bank, it’s something to do with the credit agency. So I get the number of the credit agency, and call them, all set to vent my spleen. I get a recorded menu, no option of which will allow me to speak to someone real. I find their website, and choose to view my record online. I fill out all the little boxes, then fill them out again (your password needs to be between 6 and 8 characters; we do not recognise that address; please re-enter your password) and again, only to be told that they cannot verify me at my address, so I need to send in – you guessed – a copy of my passport and my driver’s license, plus two recent utility bills (not mobile phone) or bank statement. I find another number, I ring again. This time I’m told by the equally cool but not very helpful lackey that they cannot verify me at my address – despite having access to all my bank details and the electoral register.
- So someone else is using my identity from another address?
- I’m sorry, madam, we can’t tell you why we can’t verify you at your address, that’s why we want the identification.
- But I’m very concerned about this.
- I’m sorry, but I can’t alleviate that concern.
- So if I send you the documents, you will tell me what’s happening?
- We cannot tell you why we cannot verify you at your address. Once we have verified you at your address, then we will let you know that the matter has been resolved.
- But will you tell me why you could not verify me at this address?
- If we told you that, madam, then there would be no point in our security procedures [in other words, "If we told you, we'd have to kill you."]
Nearly bent double with frustration, I say goodbye. Politely. Then scream at the top of my lungs, for a very long time.

Singing, but no supper

Friday, July 14th, 2006

Clearly, I contracted the exploding bug. I’m still unable to eat anything, and today Deb and I had to make a final revision to the music cue recordings – more chant, more polyphony. I stand well clear of her so I don’t pass the bug on, consequently you can barely hear me singing. But that’s just as well. The bank have written to me asking for more identification and proof of address. I don’t need this, I need a chequebook! I’ve already virtually cleared out my own account paying for fees and materials for the show, and my VISA card is bending under the weight. So I drag out some more documents and put them in the post. Early night tonight.

Too much excitement (if you like that sort of thing)

Thursday, July 13th, 2006

So, yesterday we all met up in a rehearsal studio in London for the first read-through. Hugely exciting and, of course, I’m late courtesy of SouthWest Trains and exploding children – Son 2 was up all night with tummy trouble, and we fear he won’t make it for his class assembly. I leave the house with trepidation, and guilt. When I arrive, everyone’s there, probably for the first and last time before we actually perform the piece – Sue, Eugenia, Jamie, Anthony, Perrin, Fiona, Deb and me. I’m awestruck by the experience. The script couldn’t be more perfect, the actors and directors more committed. Have to sit through our frontroom recordings of the music, cringeing inwardly. I bring out the buknuk and demonstrate how it looks great as a wimple – Perrin demands that we have a tour wimple with “Fallen 2006″ on the back. He’ll regret it. I then talk too much about early modern nuns, women, courts, priests and porn etc. It’s OK to push the crap button, as my PhD supervisor calls it, but I don’t know when to stop. Or, at least I realise about five minutes too late. “Sorry, I’m crapping on again, aren’t I? I’ll stop talking now,” and I fold my hands in my lap and stare at the floor. To be fair, no one was looking bored, but they’re actors, right?

Anthony, Perrin and I have a drink in the pub while sorting out finer points of the music, and then I set off for my friend’s, bottle of rose in my case. I arrive about 8.30, and it’s like we’re teenagers again. We talk until after 11pm – her kids are slightly older than mine, 14 and 12, so they just did their thing and put themselves to bed. She doesn’t have a copy of her book at home, but assures me that she hasn’t revealed anything untoward about me. Phew. We talk about relationships, kids, old times – I tell her that after 9 years I still fall in love with my husband every day. He rocks my world and I fancy him something chronic. We agree that this is something very rare, and that I’m very, very lucky indeed.

I woke up at about 6am, which is normal, feeling sick as a dog, which is not. I realised that the night before I had at least half a bottle of wine, on only a bowl of watery soup in the pub and half a mango with Suz. Not normal, either, but not unmanageable, or so I thought (maybe she was pouring more in my glass than hers without me knowing). By around 8am I was really feeling rough and couldn’t eat a thing. Suz kissed me goodbye and left the house with her kids, telling me to let myself out. I left at around 9, and moved very slowly back to the Silverlink station. By the time I made it to the studio, I could barely stand up, and ended up losing my tea. In a break I witter a little about Renaissance attitudes to the voice, and women’s voices in particular, but can’t sustain even that, and wilt into a peevish heap.

Eventually, being no use to man nor beast I left the rehearsal and made my way back to Waterloo. I bought Suzanne’s book at WH Smith and read it on the train home – no editing in my state. It’s highly amusing, and didn’t shock me a bit, regardless of its reviews. Although I could never imagine myself in any of the situations she gets into, I just kept thinking, “That’s my girl!” She seems happy, which is what counts. Pete picked me up and brought me home, and I collapsed into bed for the rest of the afternoon. Still feeling rough at the end of the day.

How much activity can you displace?

Tuesday, July 11th, 2006

Couldn’t wait to see what the fabric would look like washed and dyed, so before breakfast I cut up some lengths and got the washing machine going. It’s come up all matted and felted, and the colour of a mongrel dog. Perfect. Vile cloth, that’s what the Order of St Clare says! But the raw fabric, a brushed cotton, leaves lint all over the living room carpet that won’t hoover up, no matter how hard I try. Does every musicologist have to put up with this? I don’t think so. I’ve arranged to spend tomorrow night with my best friend from school, Suzanne (see previous post). We haven’t seen each other in ages, and I felt a bit cheeky emailing her and asking, but she rings back saying of course I can stay. She tells me she has written an erotic memoir, and is now in the top 50 bestselling list. “You’re in it,” she chirps. Blimey! And I google for a searchable copy on the web, but no such luck. Guess I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow night to find out what she’s said. But there does seem to be an awful lot of web coverage for the book. Good for her.

No music today…

Monday, July 10th, 2006

All the fabric for the nuns’ habits arrived this morning, as did the fabric dye. I got back from uni to find three enormous rolls of material in the hall, which I eventually dragged into the annex. I had spent the whole day packing up my office on campus, as I’m being moved down the hall. I’ll miss my spacious room – the new one is probably the same area, but longer and thinner – but I won’t miss baking all day from the heat of the sun. Took the opportunity to empty out files from the cabinets dating back to when I joined the university – 1994. Wow. It took some discipline not to spend too much time doing it – it was fascinating (for me at least). Sad, sad, sad. Tonight I have to go to a committee meeting for the after-school club. I really don’t need the extra work, but if the parents don’t run the club, no one else will. It’s a stipulation of having a place for your kid – you must be on the committee within two years of joining. Sigh. But at least we’re all in the same boat, and we conduct the meeting in an atmosphere of congenial, communal exasperation.