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.