Dream on, Gerontius

Given that I can’t get the blessed music out of my head, day or night, awake or asleep, I might as well blog about it and compound the agony or, should I say, “the double agony of man”. I shouldn’t describe it as agony, to have something of such sublimity playing with my head like an ethereal pinball machine but, honestly, if ever the adage ‘less is more’ should apply, it’s with the rattling around of this piece of work. And what a piece of work it is.

I have the honour of singing with the altos as a member of Stewkley Singers when we perform The Dream of Gerontius later this month in Leighton Buzzard. It’s extremely difficult: a flat note, a missed entrance and a breath-out-of-place waiting to happen. We’ve had to practise like mad to the point that we’re all, not just me, OCD about it.

Some say Gerontius is Sir Edward Elgar’s (1857–1934) masterpiece. He was also responsible for the best ever cello concerto (sorry, Dvořák), Pomp and Circumstance Marches, Enigma Variations and much, much more. Therefore, elevating Gerontius to numero uno should not be done lightly and requires justification.

The Dream of Gerontius (a name derived from the Greek word geron, meaning ‘old man') is a work for orchestra, soloists and chorus set to a poem of spiritual discovery by Cardinal John Henry Newman (1801 – 1890). It tells the story of a soul's journey through death to his judgment before God and ending up in Purgatory. Considering Gerontius was a good, pious man, if he can only get halfway to Heaven when he dies, there’s not much hope for the rest of us.

Here’s a 90-second synopsis of Elgar’s 90 minutes of blood, sweat and tears. It opens with Gerontius (tenor) realising he’s close to death. Some friends (chorus) pray and meditate with him, and the first part ends with the Priest (bass) administering the last rites. In the second part, Gerontius wakes up in a space-less, timeless existence and is joined by an angel (mezzo-soprano). After a bit of a chat, they head towards the judgment throne. They pass a group of demons (chorus) and bump into choirs of angels (same chorus), just like walking up Stewkley High Street. Finally, Gerontius confronts God (or is it the other way round) who passes judgement in a single moment; He’s obviously a Guardian reader. The Angel lowers Gerontius into Purgatory with a final blessing and promise of a re-awakening to glory. She failed to get him to Heaven this time round, so I hope he fires her and hooks up with someone more capable pdq.

While the storyline is a bit so-whatish, the words and phraseology are delicious. Here are some of my favourites I get to sing (slightly different from the original poem):

From thy frown and thine ire;
From the perils, the perils of dying,
Lord, deliver him.

Go on thy course;
And may thy place today be found in peace,
And may thy dwelling be the Holy Mount of Sion.

Here come the demons! As the Angel explains to Gerontius, who by this time is quaking in his slippers, the demons assemble near the judgment-court, “Hungry and wild, to claim their property, And gather souls for hell.”

To which Gerontius remarks, as anyone would, “How sour and how uncouth a dissonance!”

The demons then throw their hissy fit, including:

Dispossessed,
By the sheer might
Of a tyrant’s frown, 
Aside thrust,
Aside. 
Dispossessed,
Aside thrust,
Chuck’d down, 
Dispossessed, dispossessed, by a tyrant’s frown.

Whenever my broadband goes wobbly now, I sing, “Disconnect! Disconnect! My tech’s gone down!” I also love this demonic bit:

What’s a saint?
One whose breath
Doth the air taint
Before his death; 
Ha! ha!

Being demons, the chorus has to look and sound really evil, and we’ve been told the more northern the better: “Channel your inner northerner!” Bloody cheek. For those of us who are northern, that instruction is redundant. And you’d be amazed how difficult southerners find it to sing ‘Ha!’ as in ‘Hat’ instead of ‘Har’ as in ‘Hard’. Then we have to switch to being angels – talk about schizophrenic. Lots here is glorious and here’s a couple of examples:

To be his Viceroy in the world
Of matter, and of sense;
Upon the frontier, towards the foe
A resolute, a resolute defence.

And in the garden secretly,
And on the cross, the cross on high, 
Should reach His brethren and inspire
To suffer and to die.
O gen’rous love!

O glor’ous lyrics!

It’s a bit more difficult to explain how the music is as passionate and captivating. The Bee Gees said they relied a lot on minor 7ths, but I’m not sure I should be comparing Elgar with the Brothers Gibb. I’m not a musicologist, as you’ll see by my flying by the seat of my pants. I don’t think the magic of the music is just about the melodies or the harmonies; it’s in its systemic relationship with the words -- a mutually reinforcing drama. The situation – someone dying and heading into the afterlife – is dramatic, but also reflective and of course emotional. The poem encapsulates all this, and the music reflects all of its nuances as it frequently shifts key, rhythm, tempo, dynamic, and delivery. There are surprises, familiarities, one-offs, discords, contradictions all designed, it seems, to ambush professionals and amateurs alike. Indeed, the first performance of Gerontius in 1900 was an unmitigated disaster, as was our first rehearsal. But when we get it right, when we climax in the right place and drift away to the right extent, the audience feels the emotion rather than hears it. That’s the genius of the piece.

Having got to know Gerontius quite well – he’s like an uncle now – I can say it’s my favourite choral work. But I said that about the others when I’ve sung them: Carmina Burana, Mozart’s Requiem, Brahms’ German Requiem. I think what elevates Gerontius is the context of performing it with soloists from BBC Singers whose future is threatened by BBC demons. These ignoramuses would deny heavenly music to the masses because a lot of it was written by colonial-era white men: so passé, darlings, and must be cancelled. Seen it. Done it. Got the T-shirt. And come back fighting. I feel your pain, Elgar!

I must, however, leave the last word to Gerontius himself:

There will I sing my sad perpetual strain,
Until the morn.
There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast.
Which ne’er can cease
To throb, and pine, and languish, till possest 
Of its Sole Peace.