All's well that ends well...?

This is it.  I was never really sure when I started how or when this would end, but I think we're here.  Complex, not complicated.

I haven't written for a long time, really.  Things have gone off the boil recently, not to mention a certain state of emotional volatility that has come from trying to find my place in this Brave New World of Lay-Vicarship.  Turns out that actually, being a Lay-Vicar is almost just exactly but not quite the same as being a choral scholar.  Boozy Friday nights giving out to hung-over Saturdays, the weekly responsorial psalm roulette (altos not included, of course), Sunday nights spiraling wildly out of control and ending (almost inevitably) in the Qdos Karaoke...



The thing is, things have changed.  The tagline at the top, "Love, life, and the poor end of the stall" are no longer really... Appropriate.  Let's deconstruct:

I consider myself formally retired from actively pursuing any sort of love life.  Isn't that sad?  Isn't that dreadful?  What a woeful cry for help!  No.  Sorry.  I know it looks stupid but after how miserable the last break up made me, and how, well...bad I've been at being attracted to people who are either already attached or have no interest in me.  Or seem to but are having some sort of mental crisis... Or even might just be but like to insult me on a continual basis.  Basically...yeah, terrible.  Also, I have no real idea with how to engage with the whole business of successfully showing any sort of romantic interest, and even less with how to successfully interpret it, so I'm out, you guys.  Sometimes I do get dreadfully lonely, and it isn't helped by the feeling that I couldn't actually do anything about it.  This is the no-win situation though, and there isn't a get out, as far as I can see.  Maybe my priorities are all wrong at the moment, witless navel gazing aside.  I do catch myself suddenly caught by the sight of some gorgeous vision... Before remembering that I have no idea what I would actually do.

My life... Well, yes, my life.  I suppose things are going well, actually!  I am pleased to report how well my domestic arrangements have continued to improve, to the point where I naturally refer to the gentleman whose house I lodge in and pay rent to as my house mate, rather than land lord.  Lessons in Verdi, Don't Tell the Bride, tech support and sharing bottles of Budweiser at the start of a weekend have proved far superior to well... Almost everything in fact.  Now a mere 7 minutes away from the outer Crypt door rather than 2, things are very fine in the Georgian terrace I now call home.  I may not have found any permanent work, but bits and bobs here and there keep the wolf from the door, and socially I've been doing much better, hosting a few dinners here and there, including a triumphal roast beef supper for Swedish guests particularly.  But life with the magnificent Dr. N suits me exceptionally well.

And the Stall?  Things could hardly have gone better this year!  Not only have I fulfilled my aim of joining the back row of a Cathedral Choir once again as a full member of the foundation, but I have been accepted by choir, congregation, and most importantly, the Director.  Somehow, my excellent boss seems to have grown to put up with my... Eccentricities, including but not limited to singing all the Christmas descants, and a constant hum of chatter and giggling from the Decani altos.  While I don't get every solo on the books, I don't feel there's anything to complain about, and I've found a real niche being the mainstay of the Alto line - still no days off!  Although I was forty minutes late for rehearsal one Sunday, in a freak occurrence that has both never happened since and left me deeply paranoid about my alarm system.  Thankfully, I was forgiven.  I fit in well with "The Team", I'm sure there are aspects of my game I can pick up on, and the opportunity to develop my skills in a safe environment that I can misbehave in occasionally is nigh-on perfect.


And perhaps this is another reason that writing has gone off the boil - it's like I've ticked it all off.  Basically, the true and original purpose of this blog was to distract me from just how depressed I really was, and thinking back it was certainly one of my darkest hours.  I managed to hide almost everything, but at least I had this to use as a vent when things became particularly overwhelming... Many people have said over the years how admirable a coping method this has been, but let me raise the iron curtain on that one for you folks - I've never been able to cope, and probably never will.  It's all about managing, getting by.  If I can succeed at that then I'm a step ahead really.  Or at least I feel as if I am.

So?  What now?  As the house lights slowly dim, I've already considered that I'd like the show to go on, but on a different stage.  There are a lot of things, personal things, that make me dreadfully angry.  In fact, I tell people that I am almost permanently angry - but mostly with myself; as soon as you understand that, things fall into place a little better.  There are beginnings of long form articles bouncing around in my head, and really the Songman's Rest is no place for a lot of them: video game theory, Historically Informed Performance discussion and that piece I've always wanted to write about Truro Cathedral's Father Willis Organ.  For context, the heading picture is the west end organ of Derby Cathedral, one of the most surprisingly versatile and impressive organs I have had the fortune to serve under.  Short form, be it a weekly bulletin style, or maybe really bad poetry that was scribbled out on some screwed up napkin, or even some thoughts on that film I went to see also don't really belong here... And these are the things that I want to write now!  I also really, really want to get stuck into a thesis on the Orgelbewegung... Actually it's probably for the best that I keep that to myself.

 So, as the curtains finally close, I feel almost close to tears.  Such sentimentality!  Such melodrama!  It's certainly been a journey, and it even looks like my writing has improved, if even a little.  I even managed to crap out at least 1000 words a day last May!  When I set my new page up, I'll post links in the appropriate places.  I do still enjoy writing, after all.

Such fun.

At time of posting, this is the 230th post, and the 163rd to be published, with 13,087 page views  After three years, eight months and twenty days, and a couple of hundred thousand words, it's time to lay this to rest.  Thanks for sticking by me through all the dross and dour sentiment.  

And of course, I'll be back soon enough.  May you be sealed and inscribed for a good year!

Vignette Finale

Everything ends.

Thanks all the same though.


The curtain falls,

The lights go down,

Theatre empties.

It's been a good run.  But everything has to come to an end, after all.  What comes up must come down.

Tomorrow, it could be you.

Killer isn't Dead?

Coming out of retirement to write about video games.  It feels so cliched... How long has it been?

Recently, I decided to just take the plunge and buy a game brand new off the shelf.  No, it isn't Arkham Origins (which we'll get on to in a minute), but instead the latest and greatest horse from SUDA51's venerable stable, Grasshopper Manufacture, Killer Is Dead.  I followed all the development news and watched all the trailers that I could until its eventual release, which I then promptly missed due to the small matter of going on choir tour to Sweden.  I finally purchased it last week (Friday, I think) and have been spending some quality, early morning hours working through the predictably incomprehensible story.  Now, even though I've still got Flower, Sun and Rain somewhere with me, the last SUDA51 game I actually completed was Killer7, to which I will be making many comparisons, and also comparing with Platinum Games' seminal action comedy brawler, Bayonetta. 

Killer Is Dead is the timeless tale of an amnesiac executioner, who after waking up with a robotic arm falls on his feet by finding employment with a state-funded assassination firm.  The deeper we delve into the plot, the stranger everything becomes, with villains invading dreams, government cloning conspiracies, and the eternal battle between light and dark.  Also, the Moon.  Yes, the Moon has always been a prominent part of the Grasshopper oeuvre, and this game is certainly no different.  In fact, you can't seem to get away from it this time.  The gameplay itself is simplistic hack-and-slash, with a projectile secondary weapon, so no real surprises in store here.  The levels comprise mostly of fighting through corridors of generic enemies who require their own specific strategies to defeat... but this mostly boils down to dodging, entering witch bullet time, and mashing the attack button.  It's certainly more involved than Killer7, anyway.  The protagonist's name in this case (just the one protagonist this time too) is Mondo Zappa, the stoic and duty obsessed, katana expert executioner.  Originally named Mondo Smith (although in Japanese this would have sounded just like Sumio Mondo from Flower, Sun and Rain), his name is doubtlessly inspired by Frank Zappa.  Or possibly Moon Unit Zappa?  Don't forget the Moon.

The graphical style of this game is much like Killer7's, cel-shading with three main colour tones, but improved for a HD generation.  Looking at Mondo stood in a room with Wires (this game's Heaven Smiles) ambling towards you is possibly (and lamentably) as close to a Killer7 remake (or refresh) we're going to get.  As mentioned above, and with most Grasshopper titles, the actual gameplay is a bit... tacked-on.  It's just a means to an end, the end being to prove how utterly insane this all is.  But there's a bit of a problem as well.  It's almost as if this game is saying "Look at me!  Look at me!  I'm from SUDA51, and I'm CRAZY!", before leaping around the room...and not always with any real justification.  Okay, I haven't finished the game yet, but it is sadly less compelling than previous efforts.  It's almost too aware at times, especially when there's a pre-boss cut scene that details that there must be a fight as 'there would be complaints from the gamers' if there wasn't.  Thankfully, in a flash of much more familiar tones, Mondo is riding an elevator as part of a later mission and having a radio conversation with one of the other characters about ethics.  He is asked whether he thinks the game is ethical, to which he replies it isn't his job to worry about that, just to execute the targets given to him.  Don't get me wrong, I'm still enjoying the game very much, but it's exchanges like the former that are much more common than the latter, which doesn't really have much more than pure entertainment value, rather than actually making you think.  Sure, you're controlling a merciless professional assassin killing numberless faceless grunts before the boss (which, tweaked, is every action platforming game ever), but just because you're funded by the state... Does that make it right?  It's certainly not in the "What is a country?" stakes, but it's a shining moment in an otherwise dull scene.  There's more than enough commentary been written about the infamous 'Gigolo Missions', which are a really odd addition to the game, as they serve so little purpose.  Badly scripted portals for teenage-style tittilation, It's a shame something so directionless was included.  The best thing about the whole sequences has to be the banging techno beat that starts once you equip the x-ray glasses.

Speaking of what a country is, let's look at Killer7 for a moment.  2005's insane supernatural future noir psycho-political horror thriller has got to be one of my favourite games ever made.  It's like a book rather than a game, with a control scheme pared down to the very bones, simple logic puzzles and set pieces all designed to do one thing and one thing alone: further the plot.  Part first-person-shooter, part puzzler and part mind-bender, the stupefyingly simple controls actually help draw you in to the scenario.  Rather than having to remember complicated buttons combos, it become almost a reflex to draw your weapon, scan for enemies and then reload.  Also, you have infinite ammo.  Handy, eh?  

It also contains some of the maddest things to ever be included that just seem to work: the pigeon that helps you win a boss battle, a Luchador who headbutts a bullet into submission (that's one thing that has disappointed me about Killer Is Dead, no Lucha Libre references), and of course, the dead man with all the answers from the very start (spoilers! lol), Travis.  Serioulsy, I can't tell you how much I love that guy.  There is so much that defies expectation that you simply have to accept it in order to move on - the suspension of disbelief.  The setting, basically a modern cold war between the United States of American and Japan, is the theatre for conspiracy of the highest order, national identity, orphan trafficking, and of course, an assassin with an identity crisis.  The Moon is featured here, but without explanation as a loading screen.  It's never explained...like much of the game, in fact.  It helps that it isn't an action game (in the conventional sense), that navigating the levels is basically done for you so you can focus on the matter of unraveling what is actually happening behind the scenes (make sure you speak to Travis every time you see him!).  Killer7 is much deeper than your usual offering, 2005 or not, and it feels like Killer Is Dead wants this depth so desperately but just... Misses.  The soundtrack helps, making every different level and area easily recognisable by sound alone, not to mention the bizarre sound effects when you solve puzzles or collect items. 

What I really can't criticise Killer Is Dead for actually, is the audio.  The voice acting is well implemented, even if the script oscillates wildly from overly serious to completely inane, and the actual soundtrack is sufficiently interesting and engaging in parts.  As I said, the script is sometimes mad-cap, and other times takes itself way  too seriously - the bizarre office scenes before and after each mission starring alien Doctors, a musician with no ears and a ghostly artist are just mental.  Mondo's strict recitation of the game title at the start and end of the playable mission serve no purpose to remind you THAT THIS IS A GAME OKAY.  Mondo's sidekick, Mika, is the comic foil to all this terminal seriousness brought about by our central hero, what with what must be the world's most annoying voice and quasi-school uniform.

Anyway.  I want to turn to an action game from a different studio as a kind of...second opinion.  Anybody who's seen Bayonetta in action can confirm how utterly ridiculous  it is, in terms of setting, action, really dreadful casual sexual banter... Bayonetta is a game of extremes, right down to the button-mashing boss fights.  While the fourth wall is far more sacred, its perfectly aware of its existence as a truly ridiculous game, and clutches this to its healthy (but not quite heaving) bosom.  Alongside the main platforming sections, there are motorbike driving levels and even a rail shooter section to complement the high-octane action that's the mainstay.  Having not only read all about, but also experienced the Gigolo Mission of Killer Is Dead, Bayonetta really knows how to play the the titillation game.  Cheesy, sexually suggestive script writing, played for the most groans available, coupled with the scantily clad protagonist (that catsuit is made out of hair, don't forget), it rides a line of acceptability - if you take it too seriously, there's plenty to take issue with, but really, the entire premise is completely ridiculous that this is the level it should be taken on.  The concise but effective combo system (dodge, vertical attack, horizontal attack) has enough timed strikes in it to make it better than your usual mash-a-thon (Killer is Dead, I'm actually looking at you), and worth getting used to for the Boss battles (especially Jeanne's).  By dodging at the last second, you can enter a slo-mo state known as witch time, which of course aids your combos and avoids damage.  Bayonetta straddles a line between embarrassing and enjoyable, but but lives in that space anyway, and triumphs because of it.  Not only does it succeed as an action game, but it also succeeds in presenting an innuendo-charged atmosphere, which is where Killer Is Dead falls down.

Hiatus

I finally finished Killer Is Dead earlier.  I say finally, but the main campaign isn't very long at all.  Assessing it as a pure action game, it falls down compared to Bayonetta and even (or should that be especially?) the Devil May Cry series, the 4th of which I am most familiar with.   As a Grasshopper Manufacture game however, it still holds its own at least.  The reliance of chess symbolism and the centre stage placement of the Moon feels very heavy handed though, and it's more the memory of these elements being mindbending rather than the game presenting events that use these symbols (like the chess scenes from Killer7) where other things are happening that carry you through instead.  As a huge SUDA51 fan, I have enjoyed my first playthrough, and will play more, but I can see why somebody who isn't as great a fan would feel let down by the almost deliberately incomprehensible scenario, the less-than-helpful controls, and quite frankly, the voice of the main character's assistant.  Even then, the lack of luchadors is simply disappointing.

In conclusion, I certainly don't regret my purchase... But only just.  Having lived with both Killer7 and Flower, Sun and Rain, I'm used to the madness and often inhibiting controls.  Maybe though I've been spoiled by the Arkham series, with its seamless combat that makes no demands on the player; 4 button combat has never been better.  
At the end of the day, I have enjoyed my journey to the dark side of the moon and back, and maybe, just maybe, the next game from Grasshopper Manufacture can reclaim that sense of wonder and utter madness of previous titles without having to make compromises.  Hell, even when you boil it all down, Super Meat Boy  was one of the most addictive and rewarding games of the previous generation, the spirit of which was picked up on by Black Knight Sword, which added to the classic platformer recipe with its unique kabuki theatre art setting.  

Oh well.  Until next time... Tomorrow, it could be you.

Out of the Deep

To say that I've kept this blog at arm's length for the past month would be an understatement.  

I've been struggling with block since the new choir year started actually, not least because moving out was dreadful, but also the impact of actually being a "grown up" (in the loosest usage of the term to date) is quite... disquieting?  Is that what I mean?  It's new and unfamiliar, like learning to walk again.  The refreshing sensation of being able to leave the Scholary behind outside the east gate is still a novelty, this only being the second month of living away compared to the previous twenty four.  Even though I am yet to fulfill any societal concepts of adult life, I feel much more positive on the whole.  Things have improved, and continue to do so.  

Something that I recently identified that was having an negative effect on my writing is how deeply attached I am to the outcome.  This is not fiction (sadly?), and knowing that friends and acquaintances regularly read sometimes makes me dreadfully nervous.  I never used to be afraid.  Well, not so much.  Years spent trying to keep all the people happy all of the time have wasted what emotional strength I do have, and in fact when I am not able to do so I feel disappointed in my own self.  The monster may no longer stare back out from the mirror, but who is there now?  A sycophant?  Please.  How awful.  Even though I am no stranger to controversy or confrontation, it is almost as if I shy away deliberately these days.  It's like I am trying to project an image that I simply have no right to.  Oh spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I go hence and be no more seen!  Even after three years, no names and a slew of cultural references, I am still worried that people might find out not just what I think, but also what I feel - almost seeking out mediocrity as a mode of expression to keep all the secrets from everyone.  Including myself.

Of course, the outcome that I fear the most is rejection.  An almost paralysing fear that keeps me from taking any sort of chance you could imagine: financial, professional, dietary... The most mundane things.  The biggest fear of course, is being rejected in a romantic way (sorry this is stilted but I'm trying to search for a better expression).  It's one of the things I try to keep secret from myself, with questionable success rates.  I go through awful psychological loops where I can even feel ashamed sometimes to be attracted to somebody.  Why bother even looking?  What woman would ever look at me?  I am the lowest of the low, but still haven't hit Tyler's "rock bottom".  Of course, long time readers and fans of the Captain will point out that in the past things have worked out, but really they haven't worked out for very long and have shown increasing patterns of (ding ding you guessed it) borderline sycophancy on my part.  Maybe self destruction is the answer!  All the time running in the background is that critical fear of rejection.  Of upsetting the status quo.  It makes me weak, and dreadfully so.  It is as if I have nothing to be proud of.  Boo hoo how sad!  It remains far easier to hide in the shadow of platonic and familial relationships with men than actually admit to one's desires for a woman.  I'm sure I can't be the only human being who feels like that, let alone the only autist.  Sometimes, normal people don't have every thing easy after all, which I am slowly learning. 

Vomit.  How close to the truth we came but swerved away!  I'm sure we'll be back here soon, as once again, it's the biggest problem on my mind.  Even living in a climate of self-imposed austerity isn't actually that much of a problem, and as luck would have it have often found time and place to earn a quick buck to keep the booze rolling in.  Turns out that what could charitably be described as Truro's one and only Dive Bar found so far has just as much place in destroying my liver as does the classy cocktail joint where everyone knows my name.  My domestic arrangement continues to improve, and I'm pleased to say I get on very well with my Landlord!  As much as I would like to live in my own place rather than just a rented room, there have been a few episodes already where having another person to talk to has made all the difference.  Critically, I do not feel lonely even half as much as I have before.  It is like I've finally got chance to sure up the walls of the cracked edifice that I am, which is a true Godsend!  Even though the weather is dreadful, things are looking up, but don't worry!  I'm not going to finish on some sort of blitheringly hopeful note.  It's more the fact that...

...It isn't that bad.

Postscriptum

New schedule coming.  Alongside singing every day, I've taken to transcribing une grande messe d'orgue to fill up my time.  I'm trying to finish it in time for the Chief's birthday, so fingers crossed!  In the meantime, I think I'm finally going to try my hand at a little fiction, and might even publish that epic in Haiku form I've been working on...

Tabula Rasa

See, the thing about having a block when you're me, is that flashes of inspiration come and go, making their arrival unannounced and often unwelcome, perhaps in the middle of putting a knot in a necktie, or perhaps waiting for tea to brew to the optimum point, or even (most annoyingly), the fine mean-tempering of my Tenor Banjo.

This is not one of those times.

This is one of those times that I think that actually I just need to sit down and actually get something out and published because Jesus Christ I am supposed to be writing a regular blog and did you know I managed to set out at least a thousand words a day in May, and it's been all quiet for a month.  A month!  Terrible.
The short answer is that a hell of a lot has happened, and actually, I don't really know where to pick up.  Where could I even begin?  I've moved house, received promotion, welcomed a new cohort of scholars, installed a harsh yet justified financial regime... But what's really interesting about that?  Obviously a lack of interest in even reviewing my own situation, let alone anything else, is indicative of some kind of... primordial unhappiness, and to be honest, having only moved in a month ago to my new lodgings I'm actually hardly surprised.  Things are still deeply chaotic, and compared to previous moves, much more stressful.  I bloody hate moving, and I will not move from that platform.

However.  Why not try something... New age?  Dip into the pot of pop psychology and focus on the positive HA HA but no, actually things are pretty okay.  Although things are...less than ideal at my new lodging (household animal companion allergy and hit and miss with the hot water), I am very happy with my new domestic lodging.  I am looking to expand the ancient feast of the Thursday night curry, with the help of a small subscription fee and the dining room to bring new levels of culinary excellence and the fellowship of having a good meal together.  Hmm.  What else is good?  The new Scholars!  Yes. 

I am fond of telling people that things are different this year.  All sorts of things taken for granted in former years have fallen away: the frequency of curries, which bars we visit post-evo, even down to the fact that there's no television in The Scholary!  Everything changes, I suppose, even we who hate change.  I am now, as previously stated, a Lay Vicar of the Cathedral Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary in Truro... but to be perfectly honest spend almost every evening with the Scholars.  Things are different this year, with the Scholars being much younger on the whole, with only one member being incumbent of his post.  We have a new, slightly international flavour to this year, with scholars coming from as far afield as Sweden, Canada and most notably, Oxford. The house has seen some improvement, and while the current denizens are still working out the kitchen, the atmosphere is much clearer generally (which may or may not have something to do with the use of air freshener in the toilet...).  On the whole, voices are quieter than they have been the last two years, but the blend hasn't suffered for it; if anything, the back row's tuning has improved across the board, even if the front row is still raising blood pressures all round.  Of course, my behaviour as a probationer was dreadful as well, and there's no point from shying away from that... But I do remember being clipped round the ear, which is somewhat unfashionable these days.  Or illegal.  I don't know.

I'm looking forward to how this year pans out.  All six of the new scholars, including (or should that be especially?) the Organ Scholar, have their own strengths to bring to the table.  This is my third year in Truro after all, and who even knows where I'll end up (will it be here just like my forebears?), perhaps I'll manage to get back to England one day or just maybe I'll make it across the Atlantic.  If I'm ever going to get anywhere, I really need to address this utterly fatal lack of confidence that I have.  It's almost as if I never quite manage to catch a break and really get everything back together before the next wave comes along or I need to put my social face on and go and do the Lay Vicar thing or even go and work in the Office all day... I dunno.  Finding a balance is difficult.  More difficult than you think.  But... That's my life.

So!  This hasn't been too bad.  Perhaps a month hiatus is what I needed to pass the birth pangs of the new age.  One thing that I did think about as I was buttering toast last week was that I can't really write because I have no idea what I am, or what I'm doing.  Last year I was a Scholar who hung around with the Lay Vicars, and this year I'm a Lay Vicar who hangs around with the Scholars.  Living off a pittance, but this time so I can actually pay off my overdraft and not spend the rest of my life languishing in student debt.  Hopefully, I might find more chance to actually flex my writing muscles.  One of the biggest issues in my life is having to acknowledge my disability, which is something I am taking a huge amount of time to come to terms with.  Even elementary social cues still escape me, after all this time and all this effort I'm sure you could understand how frustrating that could be.  

Back to the grindstone though, as once again I must awake the first Cello Suite and get back to preparing the second for Lent.  I would much rather prepare Banjo recitals than sing, because anybody can go hear some Countertenor hoot through some hit parade of classics... But Bach suites on a Banjo?  You heard it here first, folks.

Gigue

The Gigue is up!  The pigeon has landed!

La Gigue in the G major is slightly rough around the edges compared to the manners of the galanteries and Sarabande, and better off for it.  Recalling some of the motifs in snatches from the dances gone before, let's look back at the tour...!

It's been... 31 hours since departure from Strängnäs.  I'm beginning the extremely lengthy process of uploading all the pictures I took onto Facebook, so let's try to consolidate the trip as best we can...

A stupefyingly early departure, a sleeping Organist, the TARDIS, free wine, Government off-license, The Chlamydia Cave, 10 quid for two pints, beautiful women on the streets of Örebro, roof raising concerts with standing ovations, the ghost of a choir gallery, pasta alfredo, the murder capital of Sweden, the Ur-Touristen, frozen gin, "Is it a sing-song language?", more luck with women in the last two days than in the last year, more hateful lactose than I could take, and 80 pictures OF A BOAT.

I'm really not sure where to start.  I didn't even take my phone with me when we went to Eskilstuna... The journey there and back though, absolutely ridiculous: the 4am departure from Cornwall over a week ago was nothing short of horrific.  Dreadful doesn't even cover it.  The 8:30 from Strängnäs was much more acceptable.  Short flights and marathon coach rides, in fact, marathon coaches from Strängnäs to everywhere else, Örebro and Eskilstuna for concerts, and Stockholm for the last full day in Sweden.  Thankfully, the choristers were a number of kilometers away in a B&B.  Myself, two of the Lay-Vicars, 1st and 2nd in command and the Choral Bollards in swish diocesan accommodation.  Well... I say swish.  There were beds and electronic locks on the exterior doors.  Swish enough.  The shower room in the house that I stayed in didn't have a curtain, and converted to indoor swimming pool after every time it was used. 

If you have money in northern Europe, you build your churches out of brick.  Strängnäs and Eskilstuna were prime examples of this tradition, with Eskilstuna's Klosters kyrka still 16 years away from its first century of standing.  They were incredibly compact, Klosters especially seeming grand inside (with its great west end gallery with one organ in from of another), but with quite a short nave.  It might even be about the same length as Derby Cathedral.  Klosters was built primarily as a new seat for the diocese, an ambition that matches the scale of the building.  In Örebro, the church was much smaller, and only the upper third of the tower was brick, but it was no less fine a building (with a very fine choir organ, oh yes!)

The atmosphere in Sweden is very different to here.  Even the texture of the air is completely different!  On the last day during our trip I intentionally got lost in Stockholm without a worry at all, London's polar opposite.  Örebro, being a major university city, was full of young people (including a Swedish version of Scotland the Brave), bicycles everywhere, and quite a wide range of racial minorities, in stark contrast to Truro's incredible WASP majority population.  The delicious (yet paralysingly creamy) sauce of the Pasta Alfredo after our concert (and the obligatory walk through the city) complemented by the excellent beer served all throughout Sweden was remarkably ordinary - I don't mean boring, more that it was business as usual.  We were aided by the weather (which one of the Ronettes on the boat trip told me was unseasonally good), however, and I'm sure that a winter tour might well have ended completely differently...

Eskilstuna, supposedly a more, er, industrial town, was fine really.  Being full of folly, I followed the Ur-Touristen in what amounted to an unrewarding circle, so didn't really saw anything of the town itself!  I'm sure it actually is a very fine place.  There's some sort of fashion for 'cool' cars, in the shape of old American cars, some rusted to high hell, poling around the streets of all foin ur towns and cities.  A vehicle that must have been no less than 20 feet including the fins crawled passed us in Örebro, while a pack of rdecaying Cadillacs raced around the roundabouts of Eskilstuna.  I hardly noticed any in Stockholm (maybe they're not that cool after all?), but perhaps that's because I was more focused on avoiding the city's silent killer, cycle traffic.

Saturday and Sunday nights brought us into contact with young persons of the Swedish Church.  To say "culture shock" would be a small understatement, and I was unprepared for people to tell me that they genuinely enjoyed church.  Does that make me a bad person?  Or more a reflection of the cynical lifestyle I lead?  Although congregations are indeed falling in Sweden as well, it seems that youth is far more engaged: the youth group who attended a dinner laid on for us all in the Bishop's Palace on Saturday (who also came to Eskilstuna) appeared to be a more powerful part of church than could be expected over here in the Church of England, perhaps more similar to an Evangelical or Methodist Youth Bible Studies group in operation.  They also had a more involved role in church matters, which is something I've never felt reflected in CofE groups.  One girl even said that they had a hand in financial matters, that they were involved and connected with where the substantial resources of the Swedish Church are going.  I'm sure that it's a reflection of being quite seriously invested in the Choir since a young age.  Instead of going off for Sunday School, I would be helping to lead congregational worship with the rest of the trebles and the Songmen.  Same road, different lane.  A few of the girls on Saturday night were tattooed and one must have had about 8 piercings in each ear, something else that's rare over here in the Church scene.

Sunday night's boat cruise on the beautiful Lake Mälaren with the Dean of Strängnäs (with his fashion defying orange jacket) was another exercise in hilarity, meeting a trio of girls who earned themselves the name "The Ronettes" after joining the on-board entertainer for a traditional Swedish song.  After perilously navigating a buffet supper (seriously who the hell makes potato salad with cream cheese?), the Choral Scholars (2012-13) sang together for one last time, fisting our way through Blue Moon and Goodnight Sweetheart for the amusement of everyone up on deck.  Although going on a boat cruise is certainly no everyday occurrence, there was that same feeling of calm that accompanied the evening in Örebro, a welcome sensation of no stress.  It was a really great start to the week. 

Hiatus

Predictably, it's now Thursday.  Trying to boil down a week's worth of experience into one post is almost impossible, especially when you don't take notes!  I'm really, really glad that I went.  For all the flipping back and forth, in retrospect I would have been upset beyond belief had I not gone.  It was something of a tonic, a real holiday - a week away from all the stress of housing and searching for a new job and opening the next chapter of my life with Truro Cathedral... Any worries about that last one boiled away to nothing over the last week.  Not only is this the most I have felt apart from the Scholars (although I subsequently discovered that it was a deliberate measure), but also spending more time with the "adults" and while indulging in alcohol but not what might be termed 'laddish' behaviour marked a real change in the tide.  I found myself less stressed and far more able to interact socially than... well, ever really!  Except for the almost impenetrable language.  Good Lord.  I even felt ashamed that I couldn't even find a foothold in spoken Swedish.  I was struck by a theory that perhaps the shape of the Scandinavian tongue is different, in order to achieve what can only be described as...unfamiliar vowel sounds, almost inimitable themselves (Örebro seemed to have different pronunciations depending on who you spoke to at different times in the day).

The Gigue is up.  I'm packing up every last thing and soon I will move out of this ruined kingdom.  I must abdicate from the Scholary.  The trauma of moving is mitigated by having a week before term starts up again, a chance to unpack more than anything else!  It's almost time to go, and shed my Scholar's skin and transform, as Le Gregoire so eloquently put.  

Spending a week away though must have been one of the finest points of an already stellar tenure with this establishment.  Even though there are many, many hurdles ahead of me, this tour has shown that for all my fragility I am capable, and really it's time to put away all of my self-doubt.  Maybe... Maybe I even grew up a little.

Page turn

Oh I'm a cop-out and you know it...

The truth of the matter is that it is 3am on departure day.  The rest of the suite is constructed and ready to go.  All that remains is the gigue to go, and I've had an idea that will benefit the both of us.

Now, this immediate moment (in reality, not reading...) I will finish the preparations and finally pack the last into my case and then just get changed a little.  I think I'll bring that leopard print throw, so I can use it as a blanket and then fold it into the case as necessary.  I think I've got everything already, I just can't be sure...

Saving the close until I get back will solve the problem I've faced with not having enough to write about, as nothing has actually happened yet!  By the time anything interesting  does occur, I'll be far too fat from my laptop to do anything about it.  How sad. 

Maybe the Gigue will be a grande finale, unifying both tour and my very pretentious scheduling of posts.  I can hear noise from below me, so it's time to go I'm afraid.  The tour awaits.

Menuet II

It's time for the long-promised secret of why I hate everything. 

I teased it a little while back, but on my recent London tour, I think I finally cracked it. Of course I don't hate everything everything, so stop being so facetious. It finally hit me while I was in the Royal Albert Hall at the Prom: I feel completely inadequate all the time. It makes me hate everything around me, everyone around me, and importantly, it makes me hate myself more than you could possibly imagine. Sometimes I feel dreadfully alone, and I hate that. Other times, I feel socially uncomfortable, and I hate that too. I hate how inadequate being awkward makes me feel. Sometimes, I hate it that I wasted my childhood because I was too anxious all the time to do anything constructive.

I look at the problems I've faced over the past two years, and unsurprisingly that makes me feel inadequate too. The way I feel at the moment, I will never be good enough to have a meaningful romantic relationship with...anyone. I see people that I'm attracted to, and I just remember how much of a failure I am. What can I offer to somebody else other than disappointment? Is that sad? Is it? That's how it works in my head these days. If I never try to get together with anybody ever again, I can never be a disappointment to anybody. I'm sure that there are perhaps people out there who read this with a certain relish, that I should feel like a failure. It's difficult to mount an effective defense! I'm sure you can imagine.

I hate people who are happy, who are successful and who don't need to worry about money...but as soon as I have those things myself, I hate me, because I believe that I don't deserve any of it. And that's the crux of it all. I hate everything because I feel inadequate all the time, but as soon as I have it I hate myself because I don't deserve it. I actively shun acclaim or compliments of any sort so I don't have to feel awkward in trying to accept them even though I don't believe any of it. I'm good at what I do, sure, but what I do is so specific that nobody else would even need to repeat any of my actions because that's how my life works.

There had to be a reminder of the rainclouds. I draw these galanteries to a close by repeating the opening statement: Almost home now though.

Menuet I

It's almost done now. Almost home though.

The Galant dances, the Menuets, the Bourees and the Gavottes were Bach's tribute to the more modern dances that were appearing, by placing them in his suites. As we come toward the end of the tour in reality, I will pull these two back to what's happening now. 

Right now?  Right now, this minute?  This minuet?  Sat in bed.  It's still 2am of the 21st of August here.  I'm still trying to pack effectively, something I find immensely difficult.  I look around at the partial destruction that has befallen my room, from having taken a trip to London previously, now this week, and then moving out.  I've just about managed to convince myself that this tour will be fine.  It's certainly been a long time since I've sung seriously before this morning's rehearsal that preceded the afternoon concert.  I must have everything?  Lunch is ready to go, the washbag's packed, I've got my cassock, all the shirts I'm bringing are in the case... Can't help but have that nagging feeling though...

Thankfully, the house is all but empty.  Although one still sleeps in the front parlour, as long as I'm quiet I can go about my business in the house both undisturbed and without disturbing anybody else.  The Boss is coming to pick us up at 3:30am; as long as I'm packed and ready I don't really care.  Or, more accurately, I've managed to convince myself that I don't.  Peering about my surroundings I still can't really believe how much of my stuff is here, even though all the books took up a good 6 crates altogether.  And the Bass Guitar.  And the little Banjo.  At least I don't have any furniture to take out this time OH WAIT THE BED.  

See, generally I am okay nowadays!  No really please believe me.  Honestly.  After the complete mental anguish of losing my phone (after all the troubles we went through to sort it out as well), I'd say on balance I've probably felt more delicate but have therefore made more of an effort to stay balanced, and I guess it's worked out well.  However, still not having actually become resident in my new abode is... Frustrating.  Trying to balance everything else along with me is taxing, and I can only hear people say "take one thing at a time" so much more before I flip.  Of course I understand that's the point!  It's just very difficult for me to process in order of ease, or prioritise, and that inability frustrates me immensely as well. (Only an hour til pick up at this exact moment.)

I really wish I could shift this nagging feeling though.  I'll have to get up in a moment to sort the water bottle out, so I can put paid to it then.  The biggest hurdle of this entire tour for me is the travel itself.  Follow this with the dread I have for moving everything else and myself after getting back, and I'm not looking forward to the next fortnight very much from that perspective.  I'm sure the process itself will be very simple.  I suppose that really I'm looking forward to it.   It'll be a new rhythm, and s fresh set of walls to get used to.  Gone will be the days of Scholarship, where people would barge into my room (that's what happened at boarding school), or hoot and giggle as they ran naked up and down the stairs at 2am. 

The one thing I must not do now though, is fall at the last hurdle, and go to sleep.  Not for another hour yet.  Come on...

Sarabande

The Sarabande is the centre of the suite, emotionally and musically, and Saturday, the historic Judische Shabbas, is the centre of this tour, perhaps in exactly the same manner!

Today is another concert day. Another hour without interval, and with any luck, a welcome audience. The evening will reach its culmination in dining with the Bishop... Maybe our Bishop will be there as well? Quite a few of the clergy are coming after all, it wouldn't surprise me terribly much. (It'll be the Bishop of Strångnås, calm down).

The one thing I'm most worried about is the climate, in all honesty.  In taking a cut-down case, I'm putting faith in the weather being similar or even better than here.

It looks like there's plenty of time not only today, but also on the tour generally. It's almost more of a holiday! This is a short post, so read it slowly. Enjoy the space and... Go for a walk? As the day draws to a close here, I'm sure the hostelries of Strångnås will appreciate the Kronor we bring them...

Postscriptum

This is extremely short, and especially for me.  But so is BWV 1007 iv.  Writing for the future, especially when so much could happen in a few short days, is tricky at best.  Come back tomorrow for some more modern tunes.

Courante

Thank God it's Friday? Right? Haha...

Today on the Schema, we're off to Gustavsvik, where the other Choral Bollards will be heavily invested with the Adventure Pool, and I will interest myself with some shopping for the two hours we have to ourselves. This will be the perfect time for me to fist my way through some Swedish language, and I will try and purchase some delightful souvenirs for goodlie friends and other swche persons. Maybe a postcard or two, I dunno.

After that, we will perform one of our one hour concerts (without interval), so I will obviously find joy in work, after Evensong the night previous (even though it's Howells' Gloucester...). It's quite difficult writing with the future in mind, as I have precious little idea how it'll all go really. What's the weather going to be like? How much will everything really cost? Isn't it... Exciting! I'm trying not to get too nervous about the trip, staying pretty buoyant and importantly, hopeful. I have a lot of hope, actually, not just for the year ahead, but just this week! Touring is always a difficult thing for me, it's not something I do often, and this is the first choir tour I'll be on that won't end up in Germany... And that's exciting enough in itself.

As my mood has spent most of this year oscillating violently back and forth, and I almost told the Boss that I wasn't going. I could have quite easily sacked this one off: as I don't go on tour, or fly very often, it isn't something I would miss terribly. But as the year sped on by, I eventually thought that in all truth, it would punish the Boss more than punish myself, and for saying that I'd never wish to do anything to trouble the man (who has already been good enough to put up with me in his choir), I re-evaluated my position, and thought that if anything it would be a sad way to end the year. I only want the bitter tang to be left in my mouth, not anybody else's!

It is with hope that I queue this. Hope for a good Friday, hope for a good weekend ahead, and hope for a fun time on tour, and I mean that wholeheartedly. As uncharacteristic as it is for me to be hopeful... Just go with it.

Allemande

After looking forward yesterday, it's time to see what's actually going well. Things are really still in motion, not least because I'm on my foreign trip, and once I return I'll still need to pack up every last thing that I own in Truro and shift it the 1500 yards to my new abode. It'll take a good week to settle in altogether; thankfully that'll be the week before term, and (or perhaps but?) I'll be working at the Cathedral Office. It might force me to act more responsibly, especially as I'll be on very reduced funds to begin with. Character building. That's what it is. But let's talk about my Lay-vicarship.

What you really need to get hold of is the Lay part of this title. Not the Vicar part. Please. For God's sake I AM NOT ENTERING THE PRIESTHOOD. The amount of times I've had to explain this concept is ridiculous, and also hearing the answer “oh well that's silly isn't it, why isn't it called something else” which in all honesty I do wonder why we're not... Oh, I dunno, Songmen or something, but that's what the tradition is here. Possibly the only unbroken choral tradition in an Anglican Cathedral... But only because we're a Victorian Foundation.

There was no way I ever thought I was even remotely good enough to qualify as Lay-Vicar. It's always been the dream to once again be a Songman (of any other name!), and it's come very soon! I thought I'd at least need another year as scholar somewhere else and then look to somewhere else again for vacancies... Turns out, that might have worked in a way, with a vacancy at Guildford and also Carlisle coming up near the end of the year... But, in all honesty, I'm happy at Truro. I can't really imagine doing any less than evensong every day now, and to be perfectly honest I'd probably enjoy slightly more services (I told you I was ill), but here, I am happy. The Boss likes me (the best Boss in the world), and that's the biggest part in staying as far as I'm concerned. If the management likes me, and I like the management, that's half the battle. The other half is of course, the music. The standard at Truro is superb, and I'm proud and pleased to be a part of that. I like to think that the alto line is taken care of if I'm there, and with the “full team” of altoids, we make a mighty noise and can handle anything.

This is my vocation. This is the life that chose me, and I accepted it. There will be a way to make things work, and I will most probably just have to stop going out, and break the habits of the last two years in order to survive financially, even if I do get a job. I suppose I've made worse sacrifices before though.

Prelude

Ah, there we are. Welcome to the other side! Now, where I will be by the time this goes out is an imprecise guess at best. According to this draft itinerary, we ought to be on the way to the boys' accommodation, arriving in a further hour and a half. Trying to predict my mental and emotional frame is difficult at this point, as there are so many factors at play: being in a confined space in the immediate vicinty of both choristers and the other Scholars exeunt (all of whom I haven't seen all together sing the middle of July all together), after many tedious hours travelling. I'll probably be hungry, thirsty, in need of a stiff drink... But who am I to focus on possible detractions? Oh yes, me...

But this is the beginning of a great week. A week away! Singing the same old stuff in a different Shed (substantial IV/P in the north side, red brick style church. Lots of pictures to follow) will be pretty good, he says in hope. I'm actually almost completely certain everything will be excellent, EXCEPT FOR THE PRICE OF ALCOHOL which is legendarily high. We'll have to see what it's really like when we get there, but I think that the £120 I have for Kronor at time of writing won't be quite enough.

This is the last hurrah I will have as a Scholar in the choir of the Cathedral of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Truro. It is itself a prelude to Lay-Vicarship, a more permanent tenure in this Cathedral. I remember when the offer was made, very early in the year... I think shock was the first emotion I managed to successfully express.

I suppose the Lay-Vicarship is a prelude itself too, because I have already thought about moving. It's sad in a way that one has to plan so far ahead in order to do anything (train fare hikes notwithstanding), but I'm looking to the States for post-graduate study. I've always said I don't want to go through London, and having been around just Ealing for a few days can say that given the choice, I don't want to even now. The size, the roads, the brain-meltingly expensive public transport, the price of EVERYTHING for that matter... Is it really worth it? For me?

America's a big and ambitious move, but I have always had the ambition to carry me places. To Norwich, where I bucked the trend of autistic students and moved out to a private rent; in fact, even having the ambition to move out (and stay moved out) in the first place! To Truro, where a successful audition landed me the Lay-Vicarship two years later. To play in organ recitals, to sing solo in front of audiences unfamiliar repertoire with a voice not originally intended for, and to perform a Cello Suite on the Tenor Banjo.

So, here's to the future. I know it's quite unlike me to look forward to things, but cogs have been moving in positive directions really, even if I have become intimately familiar with my limitations... But unless you push, you'll never know. And really, I can't stand being bored. Some people are happy to accept their limitations and live below their means. I'm not quite advocating a Tyler Durden style temple of destruction and fight anonymous strangers, but it's better than sitting on your arse, ain't it?

Don't forget to keep tuning in!

A Suite, or Sett

After the last week, with two major posts, I'm actually happy to be back and merrily typing away. Seeing as I'm off to Sweden for the following week I shan't be connected at all. I have finally decided that I'm not taking my laptop because I need to learn to stop taking so much. I'm going to write in advance. How exciting! As I have been saying for a long time now, I'm off to Sweden with Truro Cathedral Choir for the week from Wednesday, and I thought I'd do a short series and set them to publish themselves, one a day, for the next week. That's a lot of work in one go sure (I am sat on the train from Worcester currently STILL, so I have the time), but they shouldn't be too long.

In a cheap move, so I don't have to worry about my own witty titles (even though I know how much you love my witty titles), I'm going to use the seven movements of BWV 1007, the suite for Cello in G major (ahhh... Sunny Sol majeur) which I performed almost a year ago (bloody 'ell) in St. Mary's Aisle of Truro Cathedral. Wow...

I'm going to set them all for half past five in the afternoon, GMT, and each day will be a different movement, which I will try and imbue with the character of the movement in Bach's Suite: Saturday will be the spacious and calm Sarabande, while the following Monday will be the minor Menuet II. I remember in drafting programme notes for the suite that I saw the G major as a day and its weather: the wide broken chords and rising scales of the Prelude ending with those high chords being the dawn into a fine and sunny day, the Sarabande's gentle breezes across an afternoon, the Menuets showing a passing downpour and return to sunshine later in the day, before the eventide Gigue takes us to the fading light. Ahhhh... such poetry. Okay, enough laughing at the back there.

Because I'll be off in Dyvers other lands, I doubt I'll have any Facebook or Twitter access (Jesus Fried Chicken, how will I survive?), so you'll just have to remember for yourselves that all this week, at 17:30 Greenwich Meantime (12:30 EST, 11:30 Central), there'll be a post drop.

Turn on, tune in...and don't forget to drop out.

Postscriptum

Predictably, I didn't get everything finished on the train.  Just like my packing, I've left everything til the last moment.  Oh well... At least I got the saddest one all done and sorted.  I must see to the sunnier of the two galanterys, however... If there's one thing I've always done with this blog it's pull it through.

The Grande Tour part 2

So! This time I'm on the train home. It's gonna be a long trip, I can tell you that: not only is the original arrival time at TRU 20:10, but we're 4 minutes behind. Four minutes?! Maybe we'll make the time back, I dunno.

Friday and Saturday has been a lot packed into two days as well. More organ playing, wandering around Ealing, Cider, Cards Against Humanity, Oafs on tour, and finally, Worcester! Don't worry, I actually took lots of pictures this time, which will all go up in the fullness of time, which might even be after Sweden because of how long messing about with Facebook will take... Anyway, even though I've had an excellent time, it really is all right and good to go home now. I've got a week long tour to Truro's link Diocese to prepare for, and also actually moving out of the Scholary itself yet to come. I'm going to need all the suitcases to pack my clothes up, I just hope my future wardrobe (possibly still in flatpack form at the time of writing) is enough to hold my great variety of suits and shirts. When I actually step back into the house, I hope that Ireland's finest export will be there to greet me, before reporting to the bar for pints of soy sauce.  

Last night's drinking was completely different, finding myself enjoying the taste of a pint of Thatchers Cider in Ealing's fabulous local JD Wetherspoons establishment, the Sir Michael Balcon. There I reposed and finally took the weight of my feet after a long afternoon of traipsing round the Ealing Broadway Centre. Even though there was the sheer novelty of there being a Primark(!), I couldn't find anything that really suited my purpose. Something I've noticed recently is the arrival of the 26” waistline in men's departments (what women's size equates to a 26, I wonder...). It's been a good few years since I was a 26” on the waist, and it's now no use to me at all! Not only could I not find any vests, but all the shorts were far too small. I was distraught (no not really). I also found myself in TK Maxx, which is just about as exciting as you would expect, and almost bought a pair of shorts that had a waxed appearance, which I then rejected as they had no back pockets. Huh! Surprisingly picky.

That was yesterday evening, however. The morning was once again taken up by much Organ playing on the fine T.C Lewis and company instrument that St. Mary's on the Hill is so lucky to have. The devastation provided by the pedal Trombone was excellent: Thursday's Buxtehude and yesterday's Piece d'Orgue were well serviced by the foundational character and sheer power of the pedal, which, in finest Neo-Classical registering tradition, remained uncoupled throughout. Over the past few days having the Grand Piano to practice on and visiting the Church for hours at a time have made me feel much better about the state of my keyboard skills. I might even hazard that I feel confident! The choir Tierce, though distant in comparison to the Great chorus (aided by a hefty mixture), still made its presence felt, that characteristically reedy tang just there in the background. After a lunch composed primarily of the worst pre-packed Stressco's sandwich, with added donuts, the day progressed quietly until I ended up in Ealing Broadway, dealt with previously. Let us progress to the barely remembered night...

Yes, of course there was booze. Quite a lot. As I mentioned earlier, I opened my bidding with the relatively novel taste of apple Cider, Bulmers then Thatchers, before toddling off to meet my chum at the Wheatsheaf. The Wheatsheaf, Ealing, is a fine public house tended to by Fullers, itself none too far away. In the fridge, bottles of Pride, ESB, Honeydew and London Porter; on the taps, Pride, ESB and Chiswick Bitter. Wot, no Guinness? The hell am I paying for Guinness in London. Pints of Pride and ESB set me back £3.65 a piece, and that's more than bloody enough. It's becoming more and more expensive to drink almost everywhere now, sadly. I'm just looking for a chemical barrier between reality and my senses that might end up in irreversible liver damage... Is that too much to ask for? Honestly. Anyway, like I was saying, the Wheatsheaf was a pretty nice place, actually. Critically, it felt like a pub. It didn't have any sort of quirky theme or anything, but it was as rammed as hell. I met my chumrade at the bar, and there the journey to inebriation and beyond began.

We were joined by an ex-scholar of Worcester, and then, at some length by the Chief himself. After his abort on coming down to me last week, it was at long last that we met again, and in such fine surrounding. The party started, we moved on to the main event: Cards Against Humanity. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this game, allow me to describe:

• Each participant takes 10 'answer' cards.
• A 'question' card is drawn, and placed in the centre of proceedings
• From the 10 answers, the funniest and/or most inappropriate is chosen
• A vote is taken (nothing formal, like), and the winner is appointed!
• Continue until you reach a natural end. (Death not necessary)

It became clear that the Chief had the most wicked eye, and won the good majority of the rounds. The only answer card I can remember is “pooping back and forth endlessly”, which even out of context should give you an idea of how ridiculous it is. 10/10, will play again. After wrapping up, we drank even more, and I think we left at closing time, to walk through Ealing back to base. Here, Kebab was both sought and enjoyed, and I made some friends in the shape of two very lovely girls, one of whom was having her very first kebab! I was gifted the name “Mr. Kebab”, and they even took my picture. God knows what they'll do with that though. We three oafish characters, stumbling through the Broadway, made a huge racket singing the opening of the Vierne Messe Sollenelle Kyrie (because obviously it would have to be the Vierne), which appreciably utterly wrecked our voices.

Once morning had broken after a short slumber, we sprang into action and departed in peace from the Ealing Mansion. Making a short detour to pick up our other comrade, elect of the LSE, we began our road trip to Worcester! Hurrah! The Chief's car, an exceptionally comfortable vehicle, served us with speed and stability, as it ferried our loathsome corpses across the country. I became more and more aware of how hungry I was, which alongside the developing headache, proved to be quite a challenge to my patience. My hunger went unsatisfied until about half past two this afternoon, and we must have only left London at around 11am. In those frustrating hours, everything became a problem, and I became remarkably more grumpy than usual. A trip to Phat Nancy's, a top-class sandwich joint solved that thankfully, and I remain convinced that Horseradish Mayonnaise is proof that God exists and he loves us. Of course, no trip to Worcester is complete without visiting the Cathedral, and many pictures were taken: the new organ cases, what's left of the Hope-Jones with its magnificent painted pipes and full length 32's, the choir screen, various tombs and memorials... What a fine place it is! I am of course spoiled by the Neo-Gothic of Truro, and the understated Baroque of Derby, but the Norman fabric made quite an impact with the nave completely devoid of chairs. It is here that my friends will attend the wedding of a University friend of theirs tomorrow. Mazel Tov!

Now, I still have just under three hours left on the rails. In fact, just pulling into Tiverton Parkway right now. I'm aware of being rather worn out, actually, but home isn't that far away! Pulling away from the station at Taunton, Gothic church towers rise from the town, before passing into the mist. In a few short hours, the Three Spires will rise to greet me, as I remind myself that “I can see my house from here”. Only three whole days until the 4am departure for Strangnas once I'm back, and we get to go all over again... But by coach, this time. And then by plane (how exciting). Once that's all done and dusted, the final steps of moving out before I can start the new year in a new place, with a new title.

Not that it's in any way indicative of a “new me” or some other such rubbish. Thank God.

The Grande Tour part I

It's early in the afternoon on a Thursday. I'm sat in the kitchen of my friend's house, slightly aware of the drizzle that's formed outside, accompanied by a pernicious breeze. A typical English summer, and nothing less. Aside form the fact that I'm in Ealing, London... Nothing is too different!

Already, this Grande tour des Londres has been a trip of firsts. Last night I attended my very first concert Henry Wood's Promenade series, or the BBC Proms as they're now ubiquitously known, and earlier that afternoon found myself behind the wheel trying desperately to find the biting point on the clutch of a manual car. What a time to be alive! Suffice to say I will be endeavouring to find myself an automatic when I finally take serious driving lessons (will I even be in this country though?), as the critical lack of spacial awareness that means I can't use the pedalboard correctly also takes a serious toll on my ability to use three pedals in a car. Laugh all you like (as I'm sure many of you do), but I literally have no idea what's going on at the end of my legs. It's ridiculous.

Anyway. The Proms. After queueing for what seemed like less than a half hour, and possibly recognising and being recognised myself (I could be more certain, and their expression seemed to indicate that they'd seen a ghost), we entered the Royal Albert Hall, a building I have never set foot in before. The late Prom last night was the Tallis Scholars, singing a program of motets by Gesualdo, who is remembered as not only an Italian noble and composer, but also an insane murderer, and the Missa Gloria Tibi Trinitas by John Taverner. Gesualdo is most famously known even outside of madrigalist circles as the composer of some of the most chromatic and chaotic pieces in the repertoire; in fact, it would not be a completely ridiculous statement to say that this kind of approach to chromaticism and treatment of harmonic texture was repeated until the early twentieth century. In the late 16^th and early 17^th century in Italy there was an experimental approach to chromaticism and temperament, as can be seen in the works of Claudio Merulo and Girolamo Frescobaldi, most notably in their organ works, where the sustained tone and transparent ripieno chorus was well suited to allowing the shifting nature of the temperament to show its own colours, rather than those developed from the pipes themselves. Anyway, I'm getting away from the point.

Taverner's Missa Gloria Tibi Trinitas (hereafter GTT) is one of the great works of Old England, and I do mean old. Just like his other masses of note, Missa L'homme Arme and “The Westerne Wynde” mass, it is a 'Cantus Firmus' mass, where the melody it is named after forms the core of the points of imitation, a popular technique of his time. For whatever reason, the plainsong melody that begins the 'In Nomine' (in the alto, of course) section of the Benedictus became something on its own, and spawned the In Nomine genre, very specifically English, which lasted itself for around 150 years as an unbroken tradition. The 'In Nomine' melody was set as the point of imitation for polyphonic compositions, called fantasias, both consorted and solo instrumentation. Many of these survive in the Mulliner Book, where the consort fantasies have been transcribed (originally onto one great 12 line stave) for keyboard. Notably, Thomas Tomkins, the 'last Elizabethan', was responsible for many keyboard settings (not only of the In Nomine but also of other plainsong chants that had long fallen out of fashion) alongside his fine consort settings, and John Dowland even set it as a Lute Fantasia, called “Farewell In Nomine”. Orlando Gibbons' infamous piece for viols and voyces in consert, The Cries of London, is also an In Nomine.

On first hearing without a score to follow, the GTT is quite amazing. It sounds very much like the lower voices are more together in their tessitura, but then this terrifyingly high treble part is sat on top. The effect is frankly staggering. I would say that the complexity of the mass itself on the whole is not beyond the average Cathedral Choir, just a matter of treble stamina! This of course reminds me once again of the great pitch standard debates, and having subsequently looked at the score (where the high thirds in the Treble part are in fact F sharps), can't help but wonder at why in God's name they transposed up...

The only real detraction from the effect was that it was performed in the truly cavernous acoustic of the RAH. Say what you like about the size of the acoustic in Lincoln Cathedral (where the GTT would have doubtlessly been sung), I doubt the polyphony and counterpoint would have got quite as lost as last night. I'm sure listeners to the simultaneous broadcast on Radio 3 would have got the most benefit from it. It may not be chamber music, but maybe it should have been a chamber prom. Who am I to criticise, anyway? It was certainly quite an experience,even if I didn't get one of those plush looking seats to park myself in. Oh well. Maybe next time? Will there be a next time?

The greatest problem I actually faced last night was in fact that I had to leave my phone (which of course is camera and media player in one) behind on charge, and thus took no pictures of the night at all. What a shambles.

Hiatus

It is now Thursday evening. The weather has cleared up somewhat, and I'm back at the keys. Today was entirely more sedate than yesterday with its 7am start and four hour journey. This time, we attempted to access the Speech Room of Harrow School, high on the hill (pardon?), but were thwarted once more by locked doors! Instead, we made to to St. Mary's of Harrow (on the hill), a rather nice church with an exceptionally fine organ inside it, a very complete 3 manual and pedal Lewis: Cornet Separe on the choir (also enclosed), 16/8/4 high pressure reeds in the Swell box (but available on the Great), a devastating pedal Trombone, a top notch Great and a pleasing Swell chorus (shame about the lack of 16 in the box though). A crisp and responsive Electro-Pneumatic action, and a Pedalboard that I could at least agree with. Plenty of pictures taken and even a few of me! At present, I'm taking in some fresh air in the Garden, while waiting for a dinner of kebabs and rice, before striking out to a local public house later this evening. The plan today was to go to the Great British Beer Festival, but at £10 for entrance things could have gotten out of hand quickly, and I'm in no position to allow that. I haven't changed any sterling to the mighty Swedish Kroner... There isn't even that long now until the tour, let alone once I get back. I'm looking forward to it, if a little disappointed that there isn't that much to sing: Two services and two concerts. I am however, a noted workaholic as far as choral service is concerned. Remembering the tour to Exeter I took with Derby many years ago, the 8am rehearsals were actually rather enjoyable! I just hope I don't get too bored, with not terribly much singing and that visit to a water park (oy gevalt) that's timetabled.

That's quite enough for now. There's another entire day down here, and then the trip along to Worcester on Saturday...and then the 6 hours on the train back to Truro! Plenty of time to do more things and look back. Just as long as my phone doesn't run out of battery again.