Funky renaissance music

After the Purcell debacle this summer, I am singing in Edinburgh Symphony Baroque's current season of concerts, beginning with a performance of works from Latin America. The final rehearsal is tomorrow afternoon - which, inevitably, I will be unable to attend - which means that the first time I get to hear the music complete with exotic percussion will be during the concert.

We've been warned about this percussion getting up to all sorts of strange things during the livelier numbers. I've a feeling it could all prove rather distracting ...

(I realise it's all rather short notice, but if you happen to be free at 8pm tomorrow evening - Saturday - do come along to the Canongate Kirk. Tickets (£9/£4 concessions) are available at the door.)

Almost cheerful again

A couple of months ago I realised that come this weekend, I'll have been a homeowner for a year and promptly planned a party to celebrate. In the immediate aftermath of my father's death I seriously considered postponing the party indefinitely, as I was understandably in no mood to celebrate anything - until I realised that I needed something to work towards. It's turned out to be just the tonic.

Of course things aren't back to normal as yet (the process is not one to be rushed) but during the course of the week my outlook has become more positive. The horrible experience of singing Fauré's Requiem on Sunday seems to have been my lowest ebb and I now feel I can move beyond mourning Father to celebrating his life. In fact, I've told my guests that I plan to toast his memory tomorrow evening, four weeks to the day since his death.

Not surprisingly, though, most of them are more intrigued by another line in the email invitation, which reads "bring your own mug." (No, I'm not telling - all will be revealed in due course.)

The pain continues

Tonight's service was described as a Commemoration of All Souls, structured around Fauré's Requiem. I viewed the occasion as means of celebrating my father's life, little suspecting that it would be the most difficult sing of my life. I'd sung the work twice before and found it little more than all right, but this time completely underestimated the effect it would have on me.

The seven movements of the work were spread throughout the service, separated by prayers and readings. I found the Introitus - Kyrie surprisingly moving, struggling at times to sing through complete phrases, and sang the Offertorium with a new-found appreciation for the emotions of the words. Then came the names of the departed, a long list split into three sets, my father's name coming between the Sanctus and a Pie Jesu which had me in tears.

Things started to get tough with the Agnus Dei, a lump now firmly in my throat as the emotion really threatened to overwhelm me. I considered sitting out the Libera me and true enough, did find it very difficult keeping things together. By this stage I felt so miserable my head was down all the time during the readings and prayers, and while the concluding In Paradisum did raise my spirits a little, I eagerly took up one of the soprano's suggestions of a stiff drink after the service. I couldn't return home feeling so dejected.

The sloe gin I had at the pub wasn't a patch on my father's, but was an appropriate choice. Had I known how hard the service was to be, however, I'd've thought twice about singing tonight.

Losing a parent

A couple of years ago, in my one my uncomfortably introspective moods, I considered the possible outcomes on my family dynamics depending on which of my parents survived the other. It wasn't a pleasant matter to dwell on, though oddly it appears my father had given it some thought too: according to my mother, he'd frequently said he didn't want to survive her.

As it happened, I'd reached the same conclusion, worrying how my brother and I would relate to him should our mother (always the one to hold the family together) die first. She, I believed, would find it much easier to adapt to life on her own after coming to terms with his loss, and I'm glad to say she appears to be coping well - or as well as anyone could, in the circumstances. The grieving process was always bound to be tough, but she's a strong character and I have every faith in there being light at the end of this particular tunnel.

I mentioned in the post I wrote following his death that our relationship hadn't been an easy one for a few years. It's some relief to learn it was of some concern to him too, as another thing my mother mentioned to me he'd once said was that the one thing he would NOT forgive me - I'm assuming this conversation took place after I'd come out to them - was losing touch with her if he were to die first. (I told my mother I'd find it difficult to forgive myself if that were to happen.)

Even before gathering this, I'd decided I would do my utmost to support Mother throughout his illness and beyond, if the worst came to the worst. My brother's shock on seeing him (again, as reported by my mother) and obvious discomfort at seeing him reduced to such a condition for prolonged periods only reinforced my desire to help in any way possible, and realising the importance my father placed on my relationship with Mother set the seal on it. It's a form of vindication.

In those final moments, as his life ebbed away in that hospital room, I'm sure I was not alone in speaking to him in my thoughts. Even as he lay in his coffin I reiterated my promise to look after Mother, come what may.