A Full Nelson

Missa in Angustiis

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

 

I am in All Saints, Burnham Thorpe, the church where Admiral Lord Nelson’s father, Edmund, was rector from 1755 to 1803.  Joseph Haydn’s

Mass in D Minor, originally entitled Missa in Angustiis (Mass for Troubled Times) but better known as the Nelson Mass, is raising the rafters.  

 

First performed in Eisenstadt, where Haydn was under the patronage of the Esterházy family, in September 1798; Austria was under threat from the French and had lost four major battles against Napoleon in a year.  What Haydn did not know, however, when completing the mass, was that on August 1^st of that year the French Navy had been thrashed by Rear-Admiral Horatio Nelson and his jolly tars in Aboukir Bay, at the mouth of the Nile.  Then, when in 1800 Nelson and Lady Hamilton visited the Esterházy Palace, they probably heard this mass, and certainly met Haydn, and the appellation Nelson Mass was adopted.

 

Kyrie, eleison - Lord, have mercy

 

Earlier that week we were 288 steps, 66 metres (217 feet), above ground level atop the West Tower of Ely Cathedral.  Completed in 1322 the tower has magnificent views over the city and across the watery fenland that surrounds us.

Following an incident in August 2015, when two Base Jumpers leapt from the tower and parachuted onto Palace Green, we had to leave our climbing gear below, and so were unencumbered above the Cathedral roof.  

But, Lord have mercy! One does feel exposed. The clouds are within reach and heaven is only just above our heads.  The experience is breathtaking.  Uplifting.  You can only have respect for those who constructed this landmark.

 

Within the glorious nave below, for some reason, perhaps a ghostly premonition of his imminent death, Tom Lehrer’s Vatican Rag comes to mind as I  

 

get down on [my] knees,
Fiddle with [my] rosaries,
Bow [my] head with great respect,
And genuflect, genuflect, genuflect!

 

Is that sacrilegious?  I know not....  Just thinking of those 288 steps – and Lehrer:

 

Do whatever steps you want if
You have cleared them with the Pontiff.
Everybody say his own
Kyrie eleison,
Doin' the Vatican Rag.

 

 

Gloria in excelsis Deo – Glory to God in the Highest

 

I move from minor to major, from allegro moderato to allegro.  Oh lord, I beseech thee to take away my guilt.  And back home in Snettisham I rise with the sun and celebrate the glory of the world, rejoicing in the beauty of the morning.  Although I have no faith (mea culpa, mea culpa), I celebrate the light of the world, and am increasingly moved by and fond of our country churches,  St Mary’s Snettisham being a prime example. It was here, two years ago, that I was privileged to be asked to be official photographer for two concerts arranged by Music in Country Churches, one of which was visited by its Patron, King Charles.  

 

Since 1989, Music in Country Churches has arranged concerts in over 60 country churches and made donations of more than £600,000 to the churches that have hosted its concerts. It now regularly holds concerts in 14 counties. The King has taken a keen interest in the Charity and the causes it supports, and often attends concerts, such as that held in Snettisham in 2023 and at St Mary the Virgin, Wiveton on Tuesday, July 22^nd this year.

 

Which brings to mind Van Morrison, of course..... 

 

G.L.O.R.I.A. (Gloria)
G.L.O.R.I.A. (Gloria)
I'm wanna shout it ev'ry night (Gloria)
I'm wanna shout it ev'ry day (Gloria)
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, all right

 

 

Credo – I believe

 

But, sadly, I don’t.... believe that is, but I am happy that others do, and so, in D major and with allegro spirits I make my way, again kindly invited to be the official photographer, to another evening of fine music organised by Music in Country Churches.  This is at the early fourteenth century Church of St Mary the Virgin overlooking the Glaven valley, towards Cley, at Wiveton.

 

A summer’s evening in rural Norfolk.  Possible showers.  Floral frocks and lightweight suits.

Pol Roger and quails’ eggs at the reception.  Security in force.  The people line towards the country church.  A big, black, German car arrives.  

A man, carrying his allotted years with confidence in a sharp blue suit, alights.  He shakes various hands, and speaks, smiling.  

He approaches a group of local onlookers.  He pats a dog, then returns to the planned itinerary, escorted, via handshakes and pleasantries.  A baby extends to him her pink blanket.  He generously declines the offertory, and enters the church, the packed pews attendant in their standing. Musicians at the ready.  Blue and yellow light falling from the high windows.

 

Sanctus – Holy or Sacred

 

An introduction to the purpose of this concert from chairman Matthew Rice. The initial success of MICC was due to the friendship between its founder, Ruth, Lady Fermoy, then 80 years young, and its main sponsor Sebastian Walker. After her brother Sebastian’s untimely death in 1991, Mirabel Cecil became a Trustee of Music in Country Churches. When the much-loved Lady Fermoy died in 1993, her grand-daughter, Lady Jane Fellowes, became Chairman until 2000. Now the Charity is fortunate to have the artist and author Matthew Rice, himself a pianist, as Chairman.  Mirabel Cecil died in 2024, and this concert is in part a celebration of her life.  

 

An introduction to the music from the conductor, internationally recognised as a leading interpreter of Italian baroque music, Adrian Chandler, 

unable to play his violin having recently suffered a fall in the Brecon Beacons.  Crossing Borders – eighteenth century travels across the Italian border.  The music strikes up.  

Hailed by the Telegraph as one of Britain’s best-loved chamber orchestras, La Serenissima play vigorous music from baroque Italy, and associated disciplines. Brescianello, Vivaldi. Telemann.  International soloist Tabea Debus

trills more notes from a recorder than seem possible in Ignazio Siber’s Sonata for Recorder and Continuo No 8. 

Then, all rise. It is the interval: 

more Pol Roger by the apple trees. Introductions for some of the great and the good, 

and smiles in the summer evening, then back in the church, more Vivaldi and Telemann. In fine much applause, more handshakes, and the great black car rolls away into the sacred lipstick sunset....  Adagio, adagio.....

 

Benedictus - Blessed

 

And so, in D minor, and allegretto, to blessed Burnham Thorpe, the next day, where Nigel Short 

conducts his virtuosic award-winning choir Tenebrae, and the Music in Country Churches Chorus, accompanied by acclaimed violinist and conductor Steve Bingham’s Ad Hoc Sinfonia Strings in a spirited rendering of the Nelson Mass, or Mass for Troubled Times. 

And, though a tranquil evening in rural Norfolk is far removed from the turbulence of the troubled world, there are pertinent reminders of difficult times in the church which dates from the 13th century and which has the unique right to fly the white ensign, the official flag of the Royal Navy, from its tower. Timbers from Nelson's flagship, the HMS Victory, were donated by The Admiralty and were used to build the altar, lectern, and rood screen. 

And filling the heavens, hanging at the west end of the nave are flags flown by HMS Nelson, and one used by HMS Indomitable at the Battle of Jutland. 

 

Agnus Dei – the Lamb of God

 

So, from D major to G major, initially adagio, then back to D major and vivace, the mass ends with Dona nobis pacem – grant us peace – splendidly filling the luminous interior of the church, the trumpets rising above the thunderous timpani as the combined choirs fill the air with a plea for peace.  

It is triumphant, and, despite the title, it is optimistic.  There is something joyous about the sound as it rolls around the church walls and out into the evening sunshine, as the performers and congregation stroll down the lane to the Church Hall for refreshment en plein air, 

smiles catching the sun as it begins to cast long shadows.

 

As we leave the village, my hero, Horatio Nelson, waves his arm and winks his eye in my mind, living beyond his days.  It has been glorious; victorious....  And we pray for peace, the image of a lamb so innocent and vulnerable and right.  And the opening line of Twelfth Night comes to mind....

 

Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other Lords,
[with Musicians playing.]

ORSINO 
 If music be the food of love, play on.

 

If only.....

 

 

May the Great God whom I worship Grant to my Country and for the benefit of Europe in General a great and Glorious Victory.....  For myself individually I commit my Life to Him Who made me.....

 

Amen.  Amen.  Amen.

 

Horatio Nelson

October 21 1805

With many thanks to Dr Philip Burnett (Director of MICC) who invited me and to the others who made it all possible.

Player Piano

Anyone who had a heart

One of Stephen Cox's sarcophagi (Interior Space: for Cheops)
at Houghton

I have returned to Houghton Hall of an evening.  It is delicious summer - panamas and linen, chambray and crepe - the style doesn't matter, it's how you carry yourself, darling.  So, though initially I feel that perhaps my faded jeans may be inexcusable, I begin to think I could, just, maybe, fit in.....

Anyway, I am not here for the craic.  Nor to flaunt.  Nor to engage.  I am here, seriously, for Illia Ovcharenko to test my hearing aids with his digital dexterity (and pedal power.....)

Reflections on a country seat

Illia Ovcharenko is a Ukrainian pianist, currently living in Hanover, who recently won the Honens International Piano Competition in Calgary, which seeks to identify the Complete Artist....

Under the auspices of King's Lynn Festival (Artistic Director, Ambrose Miller) and with the cooperation of Lord Cholmondeley for the use of Houghton Hall, it is a magical evening.   

A quickly executed oil painting of Illia and his audience (photography was not permitted)

On another occasion I might have said that the interval, with chardonnay libations, was the high spot of the evening, given the chance to roam at will amongst Stephen Cox's stones and the enchanting environs of one of England's grandest country houses (constructed in the 1720s for Britain's first Prime Minister, Sir Robert Walpole)......  But (There is a but?  Ed) Yes, but, this is a concert to rival any (Oasis?  Glasto?  Ed). Yes, Ed, this is a concert to rival any.  

For a start, I was misled.  I mistook the piano for a Player Piano, and thought that perhaps we were to be subjected to rolls of punched paper honky tonk.  But, yes it was an innocent mistake - it was a Pleyel Piano, as grand as anything by Bechstein or Steinway.....

Manufactured using the skills built up over 210 years of existence and experience, Pleyel grand pianos are synonymous with French excellence in instrument making. Characterised by a romantic sonority which is the Pleyel hallmark, these instruments offer pianists unparalleled musical expressiveness.

Secondly, the setting was non pareil.  No Glastonbury Yurt could match the elegance of this room - from the decorations on the walls and mantelpieces to the views from the windows.  A perfect room for withdrawing, a perfect space for performance....

And the programme was out of the top drawer, too.  We started with Beethoven's Sonata  in B flat (Les Adieux), and then heard Liszt's transcription of the second movement of Beethoven's 7th symphony.  And then tripped toward the interval with Etudes by Schumann which took their theme from that same symphony by Beethoven.  I was spell bound as the notes spilled from the instrument, miraculously spun by the several hands and multiple fingers (or so it seemed) of the artist.

Outside the sun had begun to lapse into Lincolnshire and the evening reigned calm.  I saw the landscape as a continuation of the sculpture, or vice versa, and fell to wondering about the genius of creativity that gives us music.  

And I returned to photograph the shapes thrown by the artistry of Stephen Cox, my ears still full of Beethoven's astonishing deafness.  And I noticed how these converging slices of stone create a representation of an aorta, reminding me of the essence of life that is the circulatory system.  Dismiss this as spurious mental meandering, but as I have just got back from a serious consultation about my own sensitivities with a renowned cardiologist, I think I am entitled to some poetic licence.....

The aorta of life  (in stone)

We return to our seats, and Illia plays three pieces by his Ukrainian hero, Sergei Bortkiewicz, a composer to think of along with Chopin, and then, demonstrating his mastery of the piano, Illia finishes with Liszt's Piano Sonata in B minor, and I am struck by how this concert seems to fill all four dimensions.  The sound reverberates around the room, touching the lights, fluttering in the breeze that breathes through the open windows.  It is all around us, coming at us from different directions, totally different from the playing of music from a disc, in stereo or Hi Fi, this is in front of you, above, below, behind and beside you.  And then there is the fourth dimension.  Illia could be Beethoven, or Liszt, or Bortkiewicz....  The composers are revived and they play their music through Illia.  Time becomes meaningless as we experience an infinitely expanded present....

Illia Ovcharenko exits, stage left

You may well think this is over the top (You said it, Ed) but believe me I was overcome.  And, after the encore (a Chopin Polonaise) and after the applause had sputtered out like an exhausted candle, I made my obeisance to the piano.  But the piano was silent.  It was just a piano.  A Pleyel.  Not a Player. 

There are times when human ingenuity confounds.

And then, driving home, a lipstick sunset stains the sky behind the spire of St Mary's, and I fade to nothingness, my heart (which seems to be functioning adequately) filled with gratitude that there is love in the world.

Life would be flat without music. It is the background to all I do. It speaks to the heart in its own special way like nothing else. 

Ludwig van Beethoven

Note (Me neither, Ed):

Hermann Minkowski exploited the idea of four dimensions to discuss cosmology including the finite velocity of light. In appending a time dimension to three-dimensional space, he specified an alternative perpendicularity, hyperbolic orthogonality. This notion provides his four-dimensional space with a modified simultaneity appropriate to electromagnetic relations in his cosmos. Minkowski's world overcame problems associated with the traditional absolute space and time cosmology previously used in a universe of three space dimensions and one time dimension.

Wikipedia

Summer In The City

Time Loops

No sun will shine in my day today 

The high yellow moon won't come out to play

I said darkness has covered my light

 And has changed my day into night, yeah

Where is the love to be found?

Won't someone tell me? 'Cause life 

Must be somewhere to be found 

Instead of concrete jungle 

Where the living is hardest 

Concrete jungle

Man, you've got to do your best, oh, yeah

Bob Marley

Concrete Jungle

Am at the Photographers' Gallery, where there is an exhibition of photographs by Dennis Morris entitled Music + Life which highlights Morris’ early documentary work in the multicultural neighbourhoods of post-war London but also captures the spirit of some of the most pivotal moments in 20th-century culture, from the soulful vibrancy of reggae to the rebellious energy of punk..... His candid photographs of Bob Marley, both on stage and off, along with the raw, chaotic world of the Sex Pistols, illustrate his unique ability to capture the personalities behind the music, (from the Photographers' Gallery website).

It's only a tenuous connection - a coincidence perhaps, but when Dennis Morris first hooked up with Bob Marley I also met the great man. On April 28, 1973, Bob Marley and the Wailers came to play in the Great Hall at Lancaster University on their Catch a Fire tour.  I was helping my friend Terry with his band, who were the support act that night, and we spent quite some time in the dressing room, with Bob and Bunny and Peter Tosh and their record playing and a lot of strangely pungent smoke.  Although they had yet to reach the heights of international stardom that was to come, they had a buzz about them, a confidence that they knew where they were going, and they were enjoying themselves.

Trouble was, that, although I was then a very keen amateur photographer, I didn't have my camera with me at the time [A minor oversight, no?  Ed].  I wonder now whether or not Dennis Morris could have been there?  He, like me, would have been a hanger-on, although he was already an accomplished photographer..... 

Here are some photos I took that year:

Brother and sister, Moss Side, Manchester

Moss Side, Manchester

Hattersley County Comprehensive School

Hattersley County Comprehensive School

Hattersley County Comprehensive School

And here is one Dennis Morris took of Bob in Jamaica a year or so later.....

Strange how time loops back and forth, with memory and coincidence entwined.....  

But:

It's all in the something or other.....

I emerge into the stupor of the London streets.  It is hot,  It's the city.  I need a loving spoonful:

Hot town, summer in the city

Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty

Been down, isn't it a pity?

Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city

All around, people looking half dead

Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head

There is indeed a stifled listlessness on the air:

Pollock's Toy Museum, once a colourful and entertaining spot in Fitzrovia (founded in 1956 in Covent Garden, it moved here to take over what had been an Italian cafe in 1969) is now fading into history, since it closed in 2023 (though still exists in pop-ups in Croydon and Leadenhall market) (Never mind the Pollocks?  Ed)

Even the mural in Whitfield Gardens (off Tottenham Court Road) seems exhausted.....

And Edward Burra's ladies waiting for a bus to Tate Britain are decidedly drained:

But at night it's a different world

Go out and find a girl

Come on, come on and dance all night

Despite the heat it'll be all right

Yes, well.... Maybe not? Better to keep cool with a little water feature:

Or take a pew  and relax with friends in a street cafe:

Cool town, evening in the city

Dressing so fine and looking so pretty

And babe, don't you know it's a pity

That the days can't be like the nights

In the summer, in the city

In the summer, in the city

The Lovin' Spoonful

Summer In The City

I wander back down past the now closed Photographer's Gallery, and then up Argyll Street, where only a couple of weeks ago Eva Perón entreated me not to cry for her silver (Not sure you quite understand?  Ed).  Apart from a bare handful of similarly dissolute campesinos or barrienses that night was mine.  Now the crowds are etched into a platinum frieze and gawp in silent homage:

Yes, the city has melted and been moulded into eternity. There is no where to escape to, but, wait a minute, sweet Cynthia (the moon goddess) Erivo calls me from above the rooftops (with Herbie Hancock on piano at the 2025 Grammy Awards):

Fly me to the moon

Let me play among the stars

And let me see what spring (summer?) is like

On Jupiter and Mars

In other words, hold my hand

In other words, baby, kiss me.....

Etcetera

Bart Howard

Fly Me to the Moon

Man, you've got to do your best, oh, yeah

Dublin c1973

London 2025