Category Archives: Church Music

My delight in church music and how I, a non-musician, became involved in it.

The Water Poem

M e, I’m a versifier. Give me a subject, any subject within reason, and I’ll write a bit of verse for you that rhymes, has a definite beat and, after you’ve read it, leaves you with something to ponder on. There are limitations, of course. First, I need to know something about the subject. I need time. I need time to think about it, obviously. Then I need time to start getting something on paper or, in my own case, screen.

I need time to get rid of the lot and start again. And when I have finished it for a second time I need time to show it to someone not involved to see how it strikes them. I then need time to start again.

Sometimes, the request is easily met and flowers are strewn in my path. Sometimes I get a blinder that sends me rushing to my room and my comfort blanket and drawing the curtains.

Once, this did happen. Not the comfort blanket bit but certainly the rushing to a small room – I forget which one. The chap on the phone said actually he not only wanted the poem to be on a specific subject, he had to have it by the following weekend.

The specific subject was water. The chap – just one chap – who wanted it was the Speaker for the Sunday service at a rather well-known church, and his subject was Water. And he wanted it to be in the form of a hymn. He wanted words for singing. For singing by the church congregation and the Choir. And set to some already well-known tune.

I could not swear to it but I daresay I slept fitfully that night. And the next. I bubbled and possibly squeaked and was very hard to get on with for several days. Draft followed draft. But I made it; I not only made it but also received a very nice note of thanks from the Speaker.

Why am I telling you this? Because I am preparing you for one day a little while from now when I shall be able to tell you about a brief given to me for a hymn on a subject so utterly un-hymnlike, so foreign to any church congregation anywhere in any kind of church that you can think of, that you will scarcely believe me.

Watch out.

Charles Wesley: two thoughts

I‘m afraid, for this bit of fun, the reader has to know something about Charles Wesley, the English hymnwriter of the 19th century, and in particular his love for – and his extraordinary skill in using – the English language. In his well-loved hymn, ‘O thou who camest from above’ he uses the word ‘inextinguishable’. At first sight it looks unsingable. Then you find that, with absolutely no effort, you’ve just sung it. Wonderful.

Mr Wesley, of hymnnody, King,
Once did a remarkable thing;
    'Inextinguishable'
    Is six syllablesful
Yet it's awfully easy to sing.

And, in passing:

Charles Wesley liked to use the pun
   But most of all the metaphor;
And managing the two in one
   I’m sure he felt much better for.

words ©paul wigmore 2013

Samuel and Granddad

Lake MacDonald, Quebec

It was 1994. I was in a small apartment on a mountainside in the Laurentians. I was taking a bath. I knew I had plenty of time to soak before doing my talk to the assembled masses. The water was hot, wonderfully soothing after a gruelling transatlantic flight, London to Montreal.

I stirred the glorious water around me and shut my eyes. The local time was early evening but brain and body were way ahead of that, ready for bed and sweet dreams. The boy who had escorted me up the track said he would come later on and give me a knock when the assembled boys’ choir was ready for me.

I was at ‘Cammac’. Or, as it appears in the literature, CAMMAC. It’s been there, on the edge of Lake MacDonald, for sixty years.

CAMMAC stands for Canadian Amateur Musicians Musiciens Amateurs Canadiens. It welcomes groups, adults or children, interested in learning from highly experienced, bilingual instructors how to get the most out of their musical skills. The guests who had arrived for this week were choristers and leaders from the MBCC – the Montreal Boys’ Choir Course. This is sponsored by the Anglican Diocese of Montreal and affiliated with the US Branch of the Royal School of Church Music.

I had been commissioned by the Royal School of Church Music to write the libtretto for a cantata, which the choir would perform in the enormous cathedral-like church of St George, Montreal. After consultation with choir and composer I chose the story of Samuel. The story: the boy Samuel and the strange voice he heard in the night. And now the time had come to listen to a choir of boys and men rehearsing it. In a week’s time, we would be listening to its first performance in the huge St George’s.

Dr Alan Ridout, was the composer. Throughout this week, Alan and I would be sitting somewhere at the back of the rehearsal room listening intently, he ready to offer musical advice should the conductor ask for it, and I to make any small changes to the words should they find bits that needed editing in order to make them sound better when sung.

Now, as I lay in my bath, eyes closed and sleep taking over, the choir and staff would be finishing their evening meal and starting to prepare for the preliminaries, which included an introductory speech from me. But, sleep having won, I was unaware of everything.

I was woken by a repeated knocking at the door. I sat up.

‘Hello? Yes?’

‘We’re ready for you now, Mr Wigmore.’

‘What? Already? But -’

‘Just as soon as you can. Thanks. See you down there.’

I leaped out of the bath, hit my knee on something very hard and fell over. I only half-dried myself and you may know yourself how very difficult dressing is when you’re damp.

I looked for my notes; they ought to have been in my case, but weren’t. I found them in my flight bag. I ran out of the house and down through pine trees, tripping over a root. (I should say here that I am speaking of 1994. The setting is now still in the same place but completely re-styled.)

I entered the room just as the choirmaster was saying, ‘He ought to be here by now’ and, as I panted my way to the front, everyone began clapping.

After some fun, telling them what had just happened, I told them the story of Samuel. The 12-year-old boy who was in the protection of Eli the priest, and who one night was woken by the sound of someone calling him. He scrambled to his feet and ran to Eli, for he thought it was Eli who had called. Eli said he had not called and told him to go back to his bed. Again he was woken by the voice. Again he ran to Eli. ‘No, I did nor call you, Samuel. Now go back to your bed and sleep.’ But after some minutes had passed the voice came again. ‘Samuel! Samuel!’ He ran to Eli and said, ‘Master, you did call me!’ Eli then knew that something very important was happening. It was God who called the boy. He told him gently to go back to his bed and, when the call came again, to reply, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant hears you.’ And Samuel obeyed. The message God had for him was the beginning of a life he had never expected.

The way those boys listened was rewarding. Serious faces were practically motionless all the way through the story. They were the perfect audience. And, after all, they were a hard-working one. I had already attended other RSCM events and knew the high standards insisted upon.

Inspiration
Concentration

Culmination

(These three b/w pictures from the 1999 Course by courtesy of MCCB)

The week seemed to fly past. In the well-timed breaks for relaxation the boys kicked footballs, flew kites, messed about and enjoyed themselves. On the final morning Alan and I sat side by side as usual, listening. Every now and then he would nudge me and whisper ‘Perfect!’ or ‘Ah, that was so good’ and I could see he was beginning to relax. It was going to be good.

And then, to crown what had been a wonderful week, I had an unforgettable surprise. As they sang I was aware of a door opening at the top end of the long room. The Secretary emerged. I watched as she moved quietly out and stood, trying to catch the conductor’s eye without actually interfering.

Eventually he spotted her and stopped the choir. She went up to him and said something quietly. He turned to face the room.

‘Is Paul here?’ he called, then, ‘Ah, Paul! You’re wanted on the phone.’

I could feel my throat going dry as I walked to the secretary’s office. Was it bad news? Some accident to my wife, Barbara? Our kids? The Secretary closed the door behind me. I picked up the phone. It was Barbara calling from England.

’Congratulations!’ she said, ‘you’re a Grandfather!’ The rest of the conversation was blurred by my astonishment – not that I didn’t know the great day was getting close.

I came out of the office trying to get my head round the fact that I had a granddaughter and found Alan standing by the door, looking anxious.

‘Everything all right, Paul?’ he said. And I told him, hardly hearing my own voice. He gave me a hug then turned and called to the conductor and the whole room.

‘I say! Paul’s a grandfather!’

The applause from the singers finished me off. The lump in the throat came and, so far as I can remember, I simply raised a hand in appreciation and stumbled back to my seat, with Alan in tow.

It was a week of sheer heaven; I was immersed in fine music and excellent company and I enjoyed myself utterly, thanks to the commission from the RSCM.

The birth of our first granddaughter, Eleanor, crowned it all. I dedicated the cantata to her.

No Small Wonder: another view

The church of All Saints, Turvey, Bedfordshire.

It has been gratifying, to put it mildly, to hear from the distributor of Paul Edwards’s and my Christmas carol for choir, ‘No Small Wonder’, that the sheet music is now in a great many of the world’s choir libraries. From the very first time I heard it I had the feeling that this could not possibly be of the kind that just slip through the sieve and disappear. It had soul.

The first hearing was when I played the LAMMAS CD shown in the illustration, LAMM 1390. (You can still buy it, or you can download it.) It was sung by the Concord Singers under the direction of Mary Bainbridge, with the composer, Paul Edwards, at the organ of All Saints Church, Turvey.

Being a Rev

M ost new jobs come with their big surprise – new arrivals find that they’re supposed to know about at least one quite unconnected activity; in the RAF, for example, I was a photographer yet I found myself, a non-driver, driving everyhing from Jeeps to three-ton Dodge trucks. And I was amused and puzzled to hear a little while ago that a Vicar has to know about granite, and the difference between ‘Blue Pearl’ and ‘Arctic Blue’.

Little more than a handful of years ago I would cheerfully and confidently have said that the job of a Church of England vicar is to stand up in a pulpit every Sunday and address the people sitting in front of him on the teachings of Jesus Christ. And of course to conduct all weddings, funerals and christenings. And to be prepared to make the occasional visit to those in need of personal counsel. I admired the vicar of our own church for the diligent and approachable way in which he did those things.

But then the truth was revealed. A son of ours became one.

Every week we see a copy of his ‘to do’ diary, covering every activity in the two parishes for which he is Vicar. (Or, in his own case, Rector – fundamentally the same thing but with certain fine historical distinctions.)

He has one day off in a week. In the mornings, afternoons or evenings of the six working days he will be either leading or supervising events in both parishes. These will include the various informal church groups, those for the very young, the teenagers, the parents and the elderly people. Intertwined with all these there are organisational meetings for the discussion and confirming of church matters, generally and specifically.

People come to him – parents, single people, young couples, each one asking for advice or help in matters of all kinds.

And, yes, the services of wedding, funeral and christening, all of them being given the personal touch. Then come the Sunday services with the preparation of sermons, of talks for the children (these sometimes illustrated with his remarkably astute puppet called Bonzo who argues the toss with him – very popular) and the hymns and songs.

But in his own family he has the sort of practical support that makes all the difference: a wife who looks after correspondence and shares leadership in the events, and two brilliant children who willingly, during some of their free time, take on any jobs that come their way.

So what about Blue Pearl and Arctic Blue? They are two popular types of granite used for headstones. Headstones in churchyards are required to complement the surroundings, so Blue Pearl might be appropriate in one but Arctic Blue in another. And it’s the Vicar who has to know which one is which when an application lands on his desk. He will be held responsible for mistakes.

All of what I’ve written is about just one Rev’s activities. There may be other, different examples. I suppose you could have one who doesn’t bother about all these things but I doubt if that one would last for long. Unless there was a bullying young puppet to crack the whip, of course.

Musings

by Paul Wigmore