tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59025935741251434962024-02-07T08:00:38.167-08:00Can Bass 1I'm a (lay) choral-vicar in a 'not-too-bad' cathedral choir. That means I sing for a living. And when I'm not singing, I'm trying to teach others how to sing. It pays the rent. Ho hum.Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-27935989188811532482010-03-01T06:10:00.001-08:002010-03-01T06:30:40.778-08:00I know, I know...However I cannot <em>but</em> post on the following subject. Mr (yes, dear reader) Stanley Vann, erstwile organist of Pizzaborough Cathedral, co<img class="gl_italic" border="0" alt="Italic" src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" />mposer, conductor, choir-trainer and church musician <em>par excellence </em>has just celebrated his 100th birthday. He will, no doubt, have received some form of congratulatory communication from 'Her Majesty'. (Probably a text-message or a tweet or something similar, but no matter.) What he will not have received, but so richly deserves, is a Knighthood.<br /><div></div><br /><div>Now let me be quite clear: I am not one to advocate the bestowing of gongs on those for whom achievement seems to be synonymous with longevity. There is no especial merit in avoiding the inevitable shuffling off for longer than your neighbour. But Mr (oh dear) Vann has achieved so much in his century, far more in fact that all the obsequieous, toadying boobies in Whitehall for whom a Knighthood seems to be the equivilent of the long-service carriage clock. And he has achieved a great deal more than certain foul-mouthing, masticating, cheque-book wielding, referee-abusing managers of Association Football clubs whose enoblement has so debased the currency of our British Honours. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So why no public recognition? Is it that Mr (ooooh) Vann laboured for so long in the unfashionable habitations of the East Midlands? (I refuse to call it Cambridgeshire; Peterburger is not and never has been in Cambridgeshire; it is part of Northamptonshire. One simply cannot go around shoving cathedral cities into neighbouring counties on a whim. Mind you, one shouldn't go around re-naming cathedral cities either, but they renamed the rather splendid Gildenburgh... But that's another matter.)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So let us join forces and wish Mr (how much longer?) Stanley Vann if not many, then at least a few more happy returns of the day. (One has to be realistic in such matters.) And let us agitate as a matter of urgency for the great man's long overdue recognition. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 250px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 314px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443670849868932658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFReHQLsEAisxGbddX4K-ywkFgkLd4k99GXaz3S__HkvE7NrOiJHx-0mVV7mhP9Hy1g28R0IDhbzXmLyAQLREMDV7CQC_JY_3TSmjG8BBzHKvsFoLrPeRHEJ7J95ZUebPyrW-CMkpUnuFb/s400/stanley_vann.jpg" /></div>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-69789638871585593732009-07-12T01:48:00.000-07:002009-07-12T02:01:57.126-07:00Hello again!<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Oh, I know I know. I have been so neglectful of late. There are, of course, a thousand excuses but I shall spare you every one of them. Suffice to say that yesterday our choristers were 'read out' (a strange ecclesiastical term meaning that the choir is no longer required until September) and I therefore have a Sunday off. Imagine that! A Sunday without some darned 9.30 Eucharist, 11.30 Mattins and 3.30 Choral Evensong. Don't get me wrong. I love my work, at least some of the time. But one can have too much 'Cathedral' (especially the bloody clergy - don't they realise how well off they are? There are parishes out there, Mr Sub-Dean, if you don't like what's on offer here!).<div><br /></div><div>But I digress. As usual. No. My purpose in writing today (for the first time in a while) is merely to inform you of the anniversary of one of my favourite composers, George Sainton Kaye Butterworth, MC, born on the this day in 1885. If you have a recording of any of his music, put it on the gramophone today. And as you listen, reflect for a moment on 'what might have been' had Butterworth lived to fulfill his undoubted potential. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was killed by a sniper's bullet on August 5th 1916. RIP.<br /><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKmoULiKgmmX4OP6UOxgn9ozr9vHziGYmI6NSP7s5pBdlEYXKEoSkltbirJKQjEAkt8D-eUk5WFJohwghZabqEZrMu5bb4ixbfhE1W2sYYZvUeCYthOAguTpcuxkgD69QIDO02BaYFoy_/s320/butterworth.jpg" /></div></div>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-68421606954609380782009-05-11T06:14:00.000-07:002009-05-11T07:56:38.815-07:00To blog, or not to blog...... that is the question.<br /><br /><br /><br />Never mind the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, any fortune wouldn't come amiss. When I began my foray into all things blog (at the behest of a cheeky young choral-scholar) I did so, I am rather shamefaced to admit, in the hope of gaining some form of pecuniary advantage. Suffice to say, this has not been the case. No extra pupils, no solo bookings, no multi-million pound book deal or advertising revenue. Nothing. Not a sausage.<br /><br /><br /><br />Of course, having such a means of venting one's spleen does have some advantages. Unfortunately, none of them are financial. My singing duties here at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Wilchester</span> benefit from a modest stipend; I teach one day a week at a local girls' school; I have a few (generally unmusical) private pupils. That's it.<br /><br /><br /><br />Things haven't quite got as desperate as this, however. Would one like fries with that?<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334579916539598818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 265px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC4osYfMvgMxvxAqXDc6qjCFDx2yMmqOH49OoFG30mJint9oTsB8M8xQXRySvICrMsLBJ3beuAJoyOjwvjY9IHo3AzWVSHDDj5rlF2J4V0rmEsjRzqzyV8j_TQ3jqtD0s0KrVcTkb-UAM_/s400/Hm+at+Mcd.jpg" border="0" />Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-55486297407775620192009-03-27T04:41:00.000-07:002009-03-27T05:13:10.745-07:00What's in a name?'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.' So said The Bard. But I sometimes wonder, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">y'know</span></span>. Would we be any less likely to admire our national poet if he wasn't called 'Jeremy'? And what of our assistant organist? If he hadn't been Christened 'Roger' we'd have had to change his name by deed-poll. And as for the Dean... well, suffice to say there has never been a better 'Geoffrey' since Bungle, Zippy and Co. were unceremoniously expunged from our moving television screens.<br /><br />Anyone still following this erratic nonsense will recall that - last November - we admitted female choristers through our ancient portals for the first time. The boys choir continues to decline, both numerically and musically; the distaff side were forever burning their bras and banging on about equality of opportunity, and the choir school recently went co-ed. It was only a matter of time. There were those of us on the back row who expressed disquiet at the move. Rodney still refuses to sing anything lower than an 'E' when backing girls, on account of some misguided musical gentility; <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Drane</span></span> (my opposite number on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Decani</span></span>) engages deputies more frequently when the men and girls are teamed up and the Boy (Roger) is allowed free-reign (rather literally) with the girls' choir on account of the fact that the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">DoM</span></span> regards himself as 'above' that kind of thing.<br /><br />But. But. If truth be told (and where else if not here?) these gels are rather good. They can actually sing. And they are an awful lot more fragrant than the farting boys. And is it, reader, a coincidence that their names are so... exotic? Here is but a small selection: Roxanna-Libby; <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Constanza</span>; <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Emilina</span></span>-Daisy; Clarissa; Grace-Olivia; <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Justinia</span></span> and - my own personal favourite - Abigail-Louise, or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Abi</span></span>-Lou. What lovely, sophisticated m<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">onikas</span></span>. What wonderfully evocative labels. No wonder Roger cannot keep his hands off them, with names like that to whisper ticklishly in adolescent ears. <br /><br />And just compare them with the boys: Jack, William; John; Oliver, and Eric.<br /><br />How can one in all honesty regard <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">oneself</span></span> as musical in any shape or form with a name as dull as that? I have no wish to cause offence to anyone thus maligned. But I fear Shakespeare may, for once, have been a little wide of the mark. Is it any wonder the traditional boys' choir is in such a sorry state?Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-6439954087581299032009-03-16T13:32:00.000-07:002009-03-16T13:39:14.983-07:00Still hereBut rather neglectful. I had considered 'giving up' blogging for Lent, but was so infuriated by the nonsense about cricket that I simply <em>had</em> to post. But now, mid-way through this period of abstinence, I find myself at a loose end, wondering why the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">DoM</span> chooses such drivel for the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Lentern</span> Sundays music list (Sundays don't count in Lent; they are all festivals of the resurrection, therefore should be celebrated with appropriate music and not the turgid nonsense he insists on us singing). Honestly, you'd think that one of the clergy would disabuse him of his mistaken notion, but they probably don't know any better. So, what have I given up for Lent? Giving up, that's what. It's simply too much trouble.<br /><br />Cheery-o!Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-46705105925120928042009-03-02T12:28:00.000-08:002009-03-02T12:38:18.213-08:00Damned impudence!Can you believe it? I mean, I ask you - can anyone in their right mind possibly consider even for a moment that it's true? Those blasted pinkos at BBC HQ have really gone and done it now. Oh, I am utterly distraught. I cannot bring myself to even contemplate the enormity of it all. I feel the need to lie down in a darkened room with a plentiful supply of Plymouth gin, Noilly Prat and ice. Yes, lots and lots of ice.<br /><br />I am utterly at a loss to even for a moment consider a rational explanation. I still cannot believe it. No, not that damned silly parlour game presided over by Mr Sneer. (Although, come to think of it, one might conclude that this, too, is a decision borne out of those limp-wristed, namby-pamby goodfornothings at the BBC. I mean - Manchester! Good Lord above.) Oh no, no, no. The source of my discomfiture, the origin of my anxst is much more serious. I cannot tell you. You will have to <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/7919429.stm">read it</a> for yourself.<br /><br />Bloody Belgium?<br /><br />I don't believe it!Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-65468668832876772722009-02-24T01:57:00.000-08:002009-02-24T02:15:28.823-08:00Well, well!<div>For just about the first time in my existence, I seem to have been ahead of events. A mere senight ago I remarked on the ferocious intelligence and lightening button-pressing of the captain of the Corpus Christi team on the television quiz show, University Challenge. And this morning - after her triumph in the competition yesterday evening - she is being feted as possibly the cleverest woman in Britain. Well, you heard it here first. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Interestingly, even Mr Paxman seems to have warmed to the young woman's charms. And the announcer-wallah's tone rose audibly as he fairly screamed the girl's name - "Corpus Christi Trimble!" - every time she won her starter for ten. And what a pleasant, modest, demure and - yes, intelligent - young woman she appears to be. Dear God, when I survey some of the half-dressed, extravagently-coiffured and utterly ignorant young ladies I have the misfortune to instruct in singing on a weekly basis, I despair. With their gum-chewing, tongue-piercing, high-heel clicking, bovine yeah-whatevah-ing manner one could be forgiven for assuming that the female youth of this city had emerged as a result of some rather unfortunate genetic experiment. A failed genetic experiment, at that. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So let us laud and magnify the fair Gail as she and her team emerge in triumph from the lair of the dragon Paxman. Let peals be rung, let poets (Laura - are you 'on your marks'?) write heroic odes and let choirs sing. In tune. And with the beat. And something that's worth singing. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Well, there has to be a first time for everything.</div><div> </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306305414207504914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 385px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 185px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj290nbwVBIlbUb308G9m43jo2BorfmP-J8nB8JgGh1KFyYPJYQ_CsCEXz2JZ-RGi3RJCaGPGYFkO37FCDTJ99bagAPJ__-RtSpuwLUeg8aw8JwJYH09uAtVLEpqVF4fRuOlzoeZWHOzUzj/s400/Gail-Trimble_492179a.jpg" border="0" /></div>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-35033487798879660652009-02-16T12:20:00.000-08:002009-02-16T12:49:22.229-08:00University ChallengeI have, again, wasted thirty minutes which could usefully have been spent financially-assisting the landlord of <em>Ye <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Olde</span> Wisdom of Solomon</em> watching the most ridiculous so-called quiz on British, nay, world television. Whoever conceived of the nonsense of gathering teams of university students together and asking them the most arcane so-called general knowledge questions ought to be subject to a solo half-hour grilling from the archbishop of arrogance himself, Mr Jeremy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Paxman</span>. And then taken out and shot.<br /><div></div><br /><div>Fortunately, next on the moving television machine is that most erudite of shows, the Book Quiz (which I can now receive thanks to the donation of something called a set-top free-to-air receiving machine from one of the choral scholars). Ah, questions about books, and poets, and thing that matter rather than the number of digits with a common initial letter or the value of 'x' if p is equal to the square root of 7 and the score at half-time was 0-0. I mean. What possible use can such knowledge ever be? And even if it has some practical application in a dark and dismal corner of human endeavour, it should stay firmly hidden and not paraded on the television screen for all to see. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And another thing. Half the bloody teams are Irish! Who keeps letting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Jonny</span> Foreigner take up valuable space in our most hallowed groves of academe, for goodness sake? I'll tell you who. Bloody money-grabbing vice-chancellors. I am particular bitter about this at the present time, as we have had 'foisted' upon us by the Prime Minister a recently-retired university vice-chancellor as Dean-elect of this cathedral. So, expect an influx of Gaelic clergy and musicians, doing unto us what they have so successfully done to English seats of learning everywhere. Thankfully, at least a nice English team from my own <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">alma</span> mater - Oxford - won this evening's competition. And captained by a lovely little girl with more than a hint of the young Felicia. And, my word, is she hot on the button! I shall no doubt tune in next <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Monday</span> evening to see how she gets on. But in the meantime, I have an urgent financial bail-out plan to execute at the pub. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Toodle</span>-pip!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303500029428021954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAxYYjGr8NSFczwfw6mLnXVtvs-mnHWlgDIwlxzpLwqjGR1JyeJDmbrzdhb_f-Ert6tddvT1NnHJNIQ1nPGNsnltNgnlr4nf4oDE8Pjz494DD3S5LfXXLYAiiX8K3g6ngctv8q0_grrsm2/s400/IMG_0030.JPG" border="0" /></div>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-15135972424225375432009-02-10T06:19:00.000-08:002009-02-10T06:40:35.429-08:00Clarification!Of course, when I questioned the necessity of choral conductors in my last posting on this site, I was referring specifically to our own rather talentless DoM. There may be others of that ilk who perform their duties without the histrionics, without the flailing of arms and jangling of song-school keys, without the scowls and the tut-tuts, and most importantly of all, without the complete and utter obfuscation and annoyance of the singers, who are worthy of that title (although I'm bound to say I haven't met many, and in my humble and unsolicited opinion the vast majority are no more than charlatans, poseurs and megalomaniacs, but there we are).<br /><br />Consider just a few examples:<br />Mr Harry Christophers, conductor of 'The Sixteen'.<br />When not swishing his crimped coiffure from side to side, this chap seems to regard conducting as a series of arm-swirling whooshes, rather in the manner of those Chinese dancer-chappies with their ribbons. No wonder members of his choir don't look at him. But then, he doesn't know that. His eyes are always closed.<br />Mr Stephen Aloysius Cleobury.<br />Another whirling dervish of a choir director, although of necessity rather more retrained than Mr Christopher. And why does he look so bloomin' <em>miserable</em>? The man has the cream of English choral youth at his disposal (not to mention the English clergy) and yet his lugubrious expression and drooping jowls give the impression of someone trying desperately hard to stay awake, or at least hold back the tears. And we are not, gentle reader, referring here to tears of joy.<br />Dr Philip Moore.<br />Actually, Philip Moore is alright. But what of that other chap, John Scott-Whitling? Has anyone ever looked so uncomfortable conducting? Actually, yes - our DoM (who must remain nameless) but enough of him. It seems to be that Richard Scott-Whiteley should remain in the organ-loft, along with the rest of them. Apart, maybe, from one.<br />Rodney. Ah, dear Rodney. I told you that my comments weren't a blanket condemnation of the entire profession. Rodney, Rodney, Rodney. Latent homosexual, snooker fan and conductor - par excellence - of the Wilchester Choral Society. Rodney knows how to wield a baton! And I would, of course, be honoured to be following his beat in their next performance - of Vaughan-Williams Sea Symphony. Now <em>that</em> takes some conducting skill.Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-64052452387396260362009-02-04T03:33:00.001-08:002009-02-04T04:04:16.291-08:00A spot of BotherFirst of all, my thanks to all of you for your for your recent good wishes. My voice is now 'in the pink' as-it-were, and I am fully functioning in my duties as cathedral musician. Which is a good job really, as getting hold of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">deputies</span> (many of whom live several miles away) in the recent inclement weather would have been a real problem. In fact, the snow even created problems for the regulars, myself included. What? I hear you cry. But you live within spitting distance on the great west doors, do you not? Indeed I do, dear reader, but I also occupy a basement flat, accessed by a small flight of ancient stone steps, and the subterranean space which makes up my front entrance was buried up to a depth of several feet when I awoke on Tuesday morning!<br /><br />Oh yes, we have certainly 'had the snow' here in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Wilchester</span>. But did we close the cathedral? Did we cancel evensong? Did we fail to 'show up' for work? Actually, several of us did. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Drane</span> telephoned on Tuesday morning to insist that he would be incapable of turning up that evening, the boy was clearly 'holed up' somewhere with some girl or other (his flat was empty, and his car-parking space unoccupied) and even Rodney cried off, citing some concern over his aged mother. All of which was grist to my mill, as it meant I got the bass solos. We did Stanford in G, too! So you see, every cloud has a silver lining (even though the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">DoM</span> was in a foul mood having been forced from his usual prancing perch before the choir to the anonymity of the organ loft. We seniors (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">dec</span> and can) conducted - in as much as any of us needed it - and the effect was a considerable improvement on the norm, though I do say so myself. Well, there we are. A conductor-less choir. No more than some of us were used to in days of yore. In fact, talking of silver linings, it is m<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">y</span> fervent hope that this credit recession will finally persuade the Dean and Chapter to see sense and dispense totally with the Director of Music. As long as there is somebody to play the organ, and others of us to sing, what possible use is there for somebody to wave his arms about and distract everybody? And given the rather high proportion of wrong notes evident at evensong on Tuesday, it would not be our young and talented assistant who would 'get the boot', but our older and rather more expensive Director of all things Musical who would 'cop it'. In fact, I feel duty-bound to suggest it to the Dean, in my capacity as Senior Lay-Clerk. And I shall 'keep you posted' as to the outcome.<br /><br />In other news someone - apropos my last post - wants to know how virgins can be purified. (All I can say is, try finding one these days! They're hardly an abundant commodity here, even in the serried ranks of the cathedral girls choir, by all account. But then, the assistant organist has probably taken personal responsibility for that.) Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Candlemas</span>! First, the name comes literally from the 'blessing of candles' which took place on that date; second, the purification of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">BVM</span> refers to her ritual cleansing after childbirth (of course); and the third name for the festival - presentation of Christ in the temple - refers, quite obviously, to the presentation of Christ in the temple. Any other small doctrinal matters anyone wants explaining?Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-65113968919118115792009-01-30T02:44:00.000-08:002009-01-30T02:55:26.111-08:00Occupational HazardOf course, it's alright for an organist - or indeed, any instrumentalist come to that. But my prolonged absence from the blog-o-sphere has coincided with an enforced absence from the choir-stalls thanks to bloody laryngitis or vitus gerulitis or whatever the quack wrote down instead of 'sore throat'. Honestly, these medic-Johnnies seem hell-bent on the complete obfuscation of the masses through means of archaic and exclusive language. But that's another story. This one is about my inability to sing (which the beastly Director of Music sarcastically suggested was an on-going problem when I telephoned to inform his of the Doctor's diagnosis. Honestly, the man's a cad!). <div><br /></div><div>Thankfully thing are at long last 'on the mend' (as we lay-men say; no doubt the quack would want to tell me that the symptoms are abating, or somesuch drivel). But no work means next-to-no pay (not that there's much of that to start with) so I feel a return to the stalls approaching. And this Sunday's music isn't bad; it's Candlemass - one of the oldest of Christian festivals - and we're doing a lovely little mass by Oldroyd and an anthem by one Otto Goldschidt. Nothing too heavy, in terms of singing. I shall exercise my vocal chords a little later on today and find out if they're up to it! Toodle-pip! </div>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-4557494888562937902009-01-18T20:58:00.000-08:002009-01-18T21:37:43.796-08:00Land of HopeThe trouble with choral scholars, I find - apart from the fact that they can't hold their drink and are permanently skint - the trouble with choral scholars is, and I am telling you nothing I wouldn't tell them, nay, haven't told them to their faces - no, the trouble with choral scholars is that they are too <em>enthusiastic</em>. They are like a litter full of restless puppies, bouncing up and down behind the song-school super-desks and bobbing up and down in the choir-stalls as keen as mustard. They make anyone with slightly older bones look tardy, jaded and cynical. And call me what you like, I am certainly never tardy. (My punctuality is second to none; it helps, of course, living within a gnat's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">crotchet</span> of the cathedral, but no matter.)<br /><br />We have two new choral scholars this term. I shall call them Ben and Michael, chiefly because those are their respective names. Now let me say here and now, once and for all, that the two aforementioned striplings are perfectly decent fellows. They are fresh of face and sweet of voice, clean-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">shaven</span> of cheek and modest of coiffure. They are also wet behind the ears. And damned keen.<br /><br />For a start Michael has assumed responsibility for giving out and taking in the music. You might recall my mentioning in a previous post that this is customarily a task <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">incumbent</span> upon the newest lay-vicar. But Michael volunteered, first to help and thence to do the job completely. And Bernard Wiggins, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Decani</span> Alto II, was hardly likely to demur. And as for Ben, if there are pages to be turned in the organ loft, he's your man. Or boy. Because, dear reader, it is most definitely a sign of age when choral scholars start looking younger. You can forget the grizzled old faces of the county constabulary here in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Wilchester</span>; take one look at a cathedral choral scholar and it's like looking at a beaming, fresh-faced third-former, which is of course what most of them were a mere twinkling of an eye ago.<br /><br />Now they are perfectly decent fellows, the sort any father would happily allow escort his youngest daughter to the local <em>tea <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">danson</span>, </em>or for a bite to eat at a Lyons Corner House. I myself, if I were blessed with female progeny, would happily allow either one of Michael or Ben (or is it Ben and Michael, for they are deuced difficult to tell apart from one another?) to accompany my daughter to a showing at the moving <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">kinematograph</span>. I have nothing whatever against either one or both of them personally, musically, socially, or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">bibulously</span>. No. But if only they would refrain from beaming so ecstatically whenever the Organist announces he would like one of them to do a solo; if only they wouldn't drool over the music list; and if only they wouldn't spring up like be-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">cassocked</span> jack-in-a-boxes whenever it's time for us to sing. But then, I suppose, if they struggled to their feet at the first chord of the hymn, if they cursed the appearance - yet again - of Dross in D for evensong and if they rolled their eyes at the thought of the extra (unpaid) work required in some interminable Restoration verse anthem, I suppose there would be little to distinguish them from your own correspondent. And as he relies on them to be technically savvy, perhaps he'd better not complain too much. After all, we were each of us young once I do believe. Even Can Bass had his salad days. Oh yes. And he could tell you a thing or two about them, too. But not now, dear reader, not now. For it is time, I fancy, for a little nap. Because the real problem with other people's enthusiasm is... it's so damn <em>tiring</em>.Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-91577896051024537772009-01-08T13:17:00.000-08:002009-01-08T13:21:13.905-08:00Your adversary the devil...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2y1HS9OMkBg2ra_muJnMnuKizliGO9YqQ0agqWwaCfdeATjVurkabITEEyJCfB_u5sZ3Br5ed5MLMq6BuNchqJLhOrdfL160k-oySAaWobSsfy8YOqQx695IoFVZcDoG6zZMoCg32nyYB/s1600-h/kissedagirl.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289035587875445874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 225px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 169px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2y1HS9OMkBg2ra_muJnMnuKizliGO9YqQ0agqWwaCfdeATjVurkabITEEyJCfB_u5sZ3Br5ed5MLMq6BuNchqJLhOrdfL160k-oySAaWobSsfy8YOqQx695IoFVZcDoG6zZMoCg32nyYB/s400/kissedagirl.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div>So take care!</div>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-73382779816505287972009-01-01T04:15:00.001-08:002009-01-01T04:41:28.409-08:00Happy New Year!Well, we've had Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, the Feasts of both Stephen and John, the first Sunday of Christmas, Holy Innocents and today, Christ's Circumcision. Only Epiphany to go, and then things will return to normal. And I, for one, will be glad. At times like this one can get heartily sick of the cathedral (having practically lived there over the last fortnight) and possessed of a yearning for anything other than Christmas bloody Carols. Lest anyone should misunderstand, let me here and now point out my deep and heartfelt love of this most ancient form of devotional music. But, like the Christmas turkey, one can have too much of a good thing. Once January 6<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> has passed and we have sung the Wise Men to and from the manger, we can return - musically speaking - to normal. And I can return to my normal frequency of blogging. I have neglected this poor site over the festive season, of necessity, being extraordinarily busy. But as I consult my new <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Shinglers</span> of Sutton 2009 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Ecclesiastical</span> Robes diary, I find the blessed pages bereft of appointment, bookings, concerts and other engagements and filled only with such gentle and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">uplifting</span> entries as...<br /><ul><li>Jan 1 1970: the half-crown ceases to be legal tender in the UK (boo!)</li><li>Jan 2<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">nd</span> 1946: King <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Zog</span> of Albania deposed </li><li>Jan 3rd: Lord Haw-Haw born, and</li><li>Jan 4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">th</span>: Donald Campbell killed on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Coniston</span>.</li></ul>I think you get the picture.<br />Happy New Year!Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-30865290156562122192008-12-17T03:24:00.000-08:002008-12-17T03:41:25.588-08:00Mid-Winter BleaknessI have an announcement to make. News that 'In the Bleak Mid-winter' has been voted the nation's favourite Christmas carol is misleading, inaccurate, economical with the actualities and downright duplicitous, if you ask me (and I know you didn't, but I'm going to tell you anyway)! Why, I hear you asking? Allow me to explain. 'In the Bleak Mid-winter' might only be one poem (by Christina Rossetti) but it is TWO carols. Yes! One is a setting by Gustav 'The Planets' Holst (my personal preference) and the other is the popular setting by Mr Harold Darke (of whom none of you will have heard unless, like me, you have spent a lifetime from the age of about seven-and-a-half singing in damn choirs!).<div>Where was I? Ah yes, Harold Darke. I feel certain it is this version that the masses in their wisdom have seen fit to send to number one. What I find mildly irritating (ok then, damned annoying) is the assumption - borne, no doubt, of ignorance - of the massed ranks of telly, radio and newspaper journalists that 'In the Bleak Mid-winter' is a carol, singular. In my opinion they should sack the lot of 'em, especially those obsequious, ingratiating, falsely-smiling, ha-ha-ha-ing ones. And Aled Jones. <br /><div>In the meantime, have a listen to <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/fivelivebreakfast/2008/11/what_is_britains_favourite_car.html">Cantabile</a> singing twenty-eight carols in a little over two minutes if you've had enough of this stuff to last you until next year. </div><div>Bah, humbug!<br /></div></div>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-68980126122731290562008-12-08T13:35:00.000-08:002008-12-08T13:43:43.699-08:00Busy, busyYes, dear reader, yes. You read correctly - I am busy. And I'm earning money. I do so love this time of year. Every choral society in the county has a Christmas concert; there aren't enough basses to go round and a few strategic sneezes at my fellow choral-vicars can lead to even more paid work. In the next two weeks I've got Bach's Christmas Oratorio, Vaughan-Williams Carol Fantasia, a Messiah and a bit of Purcell -Behold, I Bring You Glad Tidings. And He does! I am solvent. Why, I might even be able to afford to send some Christmas cards! What? You think it underhand of me to gain extra work by strategically spreading the common cold? Why, God Himself wasn't averse to a little bit of germ warfare every now and then. It's there for all to see in his biography. And talking of the Bible, it's amazing how far some people are prepared to go to spread the word... <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277537598760949218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 312px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nY67hQhNohE0bNsT3lB6y2RzNRRtG5P5rNW0Of6K0hODf0VyZ4JfasX7WmPofs5f3PBRCwytz5ZsSC8llESCn-gSyvvGaZv2jF5l1-HerA8erqSdl9rHZm3kEmMvQaVTgqGZ07gJeXko/s400/tramp_stamp_biblical_love1.jpg" border="0" />Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-22737959910884448372008-11-29T12:05:00.001-08:002008-11-29T12:06:31.623-08:00International No Shopping Day - Hurray!Now, this is more like it! An entire day devoted to the studied avoidance of consumerism; twenty-four hours of not being deluded into thinking that the route to happiness lies in conspicuous consumption. In the midst of International Week of the Keyboard, World Nest-Of-Tables Day or the European City of Plywood Manufacturing, this is a day whose cause I can subscribe to wholeheartedly; this is a issue worthy of a good deal more attention.<br />I am well-known, in those circles where I am well known, for my frugality of lifestyle. Not for me the flash cars and the fancy meals; not for me the monogrammed, designer cassocks or the patent-leather chasuble. Oh no. When one is in receipt of a modest stipend, supplemented by the odd (decidedly) half-hour of teaching and some solo singing at fifty quid a pop one needs to live within one's means.<br />Many times in these financial straitened months have I been asked to 'share the secret', as it were. It is with increasingly regularity that I am petitioned for advice on matters of financial frugality. People are clearly 'tightening their belts' a little, and who better to go to for advice than someone used to half-a-lifetime of living on next-to-nothing. So, here is Can Bass's Guide to the Credit Crunch:<br />1. Live within your means<br /><br />2. Treat shopping as a necessity rather than a hobby;<br /><br />3. In supermarkets, look above and below the 'eye level' shelves;<br /><br />4. Use a weekly market, if you have one;<br /><br />5. Put on an extra layer of clothes, and turn the heating down.<br /><br />And that's it!Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-15565772524314116782008-11-22T00:42:00.000-08:002008-11-22T02:24:12.096-08:00St CeciliaToday cannot pass without mention of the Patron Saint of Music. Little is known of St Cecilia, but by all accounts she was a tough old bird (not unlike the Chapter secretary). Her martyrdom was a long drawn out affair, involving all manner of indignities. Her 'early bath' was followed by not one, not two, but <em>three</em> attempts at decapitation! Understandably affronted, Cecilia retired to her chamber and lived for a further three days - singing the Almighty's praise, if you please! - before the great conductor in the sky reached the final downbeat.<br /><br /><div align="left">But enough of all that nonsense. It has long been a tradition in this sceptered isle of ours to celebrate the day with a setting of John Dryden's Ode to St Cecilia. You know, the one that begins...<br /><br /><em>From Harmony, from heav'nly harmony<br />This universal frame began... </em><br /><br />You don't know it? Well, you should. And in my humble and uneducated opinion the likes of Professor Stephen Hawkwind, Dickhead Dawkins, not to mention Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton, Werner Heisenberg, Max Planck, Ludwig Log, Niels Bohr, Erwin Schrödinger and the entire host of particle cosmologists or whatever they choose to call themselves could have saved themselves a good deal of time sweating over impossible mathematical calculations if they'd merely read John Dryden's Ode first, as it effectively says everything there is to say about the origin of the universe, only with a great deal more poetry and none of the difficult sums.<br /><br />However. My own favourite setting of this noble Ode comes from the pen of one Giovanni Battista Draghi. Oh, there are others, including many from great Englishman like John Blow, Henry Purcell, Frederick Handel (who said he was German?) and Benjamin Britten (ok, so he was a homosexual, but we must not hold that against him). So why, I hear you cry from the vastness of cyber-space, is your favourite setting from the pen of an Italian? Well it isn't, or at least he wasn't. Not really. He was certainly as much of an Englishman as Handel. Why, I feel certain he would have been born on these fragrant shores if only his parents hadn't been unspeakable dagos. But no matter. It is, quite simply, the finest setting of this admirable text known to man. Or woman. And not just because it has some spectacular bass solo's, either.</div>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-12502821616840542812008-11-14T02:53:00.001-08:002008-11-14T03:27:36.805-08:00Dramatis PersonaeI have been talking (that is, face-to-face and not through the medium of the computer screen) with friends who have read these intermittent missives and have asked for further information. The gist of their request is this: 'Can we have a list of the various characters referred to on your blog so that we can keep up with the story, as-it-were?' My response was somewhat equivocal at first; for I am bound, by reasons of confidentiality (not to say the laws of libel) to keep the identity of many of my fellow travellers here in the cathedral choir a mystery. Where I have used names these have, of course, been changed. Rodney, for example, is not Rodney - middle-aged, balding homosexual tenor and conductor of the local choral society. Well of course he <em>is,</em> but he's not called Rodney. Neither is Drane called Drane (although he sounds like one, and therefore should be). As for the Dean, the Precentor, the sub-Dean, the Chancellor and the Canon Treasurer - well, they're ten-a-penny at cathedrals up and down the country, so no danger there. The same goes for the Director of Music, of DoM (although a few cathedral still appoint at Organist to run the choir, which makes no sense whatsoever. Why should someone, by means of instrumental virtuosity, be deemed qualified to teach choristers to sing? It would be like assuming that the Dean, by virtue of his theological credentials, knows anything at all about Christianity, or the Treasurer, money. No, far better to appoint a singer, in my view. Just not the lamentable failure we seem to have 'copped' for here!) Where was I? Ah yes, the DoM. Well, nobody could recognise <em>him</em> from my descriptions. There are at least half-a-dozen other likely candidates within a fifty mile radius of the gentleman in question. But what about the 'Boy', the Assistant Organist - Robin to the DoM's Batman? Could any other cathedral have a serial shagger in the organ loft? And dear Lord above, haven't they gone and given him the cathedral girls choir? The girls choir, for the love of God! Girls! And Shagger Stephenson! Can you imagine? (Well, I suspect a number of you can, which is why I am about to draw a veil over proceedings. And no, Stephenson is <em>not</em> his real name! Really, what do you take me for?) Speaking of the girls, though, I must say how well they have, ahem, 'performed' on their recent outings with the Boy. What a fine, melodious sound the Assistant Organist has managed to coax from their adolescent breasts. What purity of vocal harmony has he procured from their delicate, teenage lips. Oh, there can be no doubt about it. The Boy's got talent. No doubt once he's made his reputation (provided he hasn't ruined it first) he'll be seeking his fortune as a DoM at one of the great cathedrals of the realm. Oh yes, dear reader, on the evidence thus far he has a great future ahead of him. Provided, that is, he conserves at least a little of his prodigious energy. Honestly, I've never known a fellow quite so... busy!<br /><br />Ho hum. I shall, in due course, add a cast list to what Blogger calls the 'side-bar'. I hope it helps. Until then, let me introduce you to the remainder of the choir...<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268469167590761010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 269px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCE7YJsIstnzZ7aJCpX-4hmIgFo2CkV826IykUDgDJNgmUJ20hqWyw6Bvl0J8hJbgDK79T2-RMxReow43hLj_G-NxJr8sBncOeh3Uu_EXDT3JpPTde5V46W6tff93QVfp-1vJswne8bPb/s400/The_Choir.jpg" border="0" />Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-92138212984620417692008-11-09T03:03:00.000-08:002008-11-09T03:11:13.227-08:00Age shall not weary them...The yearly cycle brings us to Remembrance Sunday. Some comment on the increasing irrelevance to a generation so far removed from the two enormous conflicts of previous century. Personally, I find it all immensely moving; the boys, too, seem to find a mood of genuine solemnity within them. And this Sunday, for the first time, we had girls too - singing Mark Blatchley's 'Fall the Fallen'. Even Rodney commented on how moving it all was.<br /><br />Sixteen thousand men and women have been killed in battle since the last shot was fired at the end of World War Two. If that doesn't make the whole thing relevant, I don't know what does. And let us not forget the words of Eric Blair, either...<br />“People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”<br />Pity his son Tony didn't take more notice, really.Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-46349419808505274062008-11-03T04:38:00.001-08:002008-11-03T05:10:25.481-08:00Tag timeI have been tagged, apparently. Not once, but twice: first, by Miss <a href="http://lucyfishwife.blogspot.com/">Lucy Fishwife</a> (a most unfortunate name) and next by Mr <a href="http://chantree.blogspot.com/">Gadjo Dildo</a>. Having prevaricated long enough, I have today decided to 'take the plunge' as it were. It's either that or tell you the Virger's All Saints Day joke. So here goes. I am required, under the terms of this game, to reveal six random facts about myself. Here they are:<br /><ol><li>It involves sustained use of the diaphragm, with which the girl regularly struggles;</li><li>Mr Anthony Wedgwood Benn, and his son Hillary Wedgwood Benn;</li><li>Approximately six and a quarter inches (in my stocking-ed feet, that is);</li><li>Mind your own bloody business;</li><li>The Head Virger's ferret, allegedly;</li><li>Never, not even on a Sunday!</li></ol><p>There. Having thus disharged my duty, I reluctantly suggest the following people pick up the baton: <a href="http://robclacksblog.blogspot.com/">Mr Bones</a>, <a href="http://wwwoldfogey.blogspot.com/">Mr Fogey</a>, <a href="http://thepoetlaura-eate.blogspot.com/">Miss Laureate</a>, <a href="http://consolemutterings.blogspot.com/">Mr Saw</a>, <a href="http://brothertobias.blogspot.com/">Brother Tobias</a>, and <a href="http://sirmonocle.blogspot.com/">Sir Monocle</a>. </p>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-71429452418572776722008-10-30T13:01:00.000-07:002008-10-30T13:45:00.304-07:00Autumnwatch<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263050393518705010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 198px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNEtdcYgzgsTwWfUlaGm3CNjFu8KfhshgJw9akabTzei126u30Mq2VmuNQ7SJ_DuHN1_AlVYdH3Mg6cbeBRKHnoy0HvC0Tqn-YrF1KKfiuA9q65MJRV8D4NuOzJPeCvAMrGKej479oNO4P/s320/autumnwatch1.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>I am not normally an aficionado of natural history programmes on the moving television screen; if one wants wildlife, one only has to spend one's life in the Church of England and for nature red in tooth and claw, an English Cathedral. No matter. I am not, in point of fact, normally a viewer of very much the telly has to offer (largely because it has so little). But one can't paper walls forever, one has to wait for paint to dry and in so doing this week I have become rather taken by this programme. This has been helped, no doubt, by watching it in conditions not unlike those endured by the presenters seated by their braziers or else being buffeted by North Sea gales. All the windows of my flat have been wide open (decorating fumes are terribly bad for singing) and thus, the heating has been turned off (I'm not paying to heat the Precentor's patio!) and the lights, too, as a money-saving measure. More of that anon. But I cannot let this week's revelations pass without drawing to your attention the small matter of the deer rut. For the programme has proved beyond reasonable doubt that success in, ahem, the small matter of what gentleman and women (or gentle deers and does) get up to in the privacy of their conjugal terrain (that is, when not under the intrusive gaze of Simon King!) is due not to the size of antler (or the size of whatever the equivalent in human terms might be) or strength and fearsomeness in battle, not even on physical appearance or prowess. No. Success 'with the ladies' is attributed to none of this. At least not among the fallow deer. No. What lady deers admire, what makes them prick up their furry little ears, what turns their delicate heads and positively gets them queueing up for the attentions of a stag is... the man's voice. Yes. The sound he makes. And the deeper, the better. Personally, I've always found it rather strange that opera composers cast the male lead as a tenor, a fact no doubt attributable to the fact that so many of them must be homosexual. Now we know, thanks to the BBC, that deeper is definitely better. And I shall now lose no time in apprising dear Felicia of the fact. In person. Toodle-pip!</div>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-70018588040505809932008-10-27T12:51:00.000-07:002008-10-27T13:13:58.670-07:00The atheist omnibusI am indebted to Mr <a href="http://robclacksblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/atheist-bendy-buses-for-london.html">Rob Clack</a>, sometime tenor and fellow blogger, for apprising me of the campaign to place adverts on the side of London buses opining that there is 'probably' no God. Quite apart from the fact that the wording seems to lack a little of the certainty that is supposed to be the case in atheistic circles (Prof. Dawkins springs to mind) I am all in favour of opening the debate. I have but one observation to make, and it is this. The organisers of the campaign could havbe saved themselves an awful lot of money if they'd simply paid a visit to our cathedral. For surely, if God did exist with all the certaintly that one of simple faith demands, He would take a little more care in the choice of those appointed as His representatives on earth? Consider the Dean, for example: a great man, in so many ways; an academic, an administrator, a whizz with the cathedral accounts, always with one eye on the main financial chance. Oh yes, the Dean is a very skilled operator indeed. (In fact, I am reminded of the recently returned Business Secretary in more ways than one when considering the Head of our foundation.) But as an example of Christian charity, forgiveness, kindness, magnanimity? Well, suffice to say the latter are qualities he manages to keep well hidden. Oh, give him a fundraising campaign, and the little glint returns once more to his good eye; or offer him the chance to hob-nob with some royalty, and he is obsequiesness personified. He would not be out of place running a large financial institution. (Indeed it is doubtful if our own UK financial institutions would be in the mess they're in now if The Dean were at the helm!) No, dear reader: the atheist fraternity need look no further than our Christian community for the grain of 'doubt' their adverts seek to sow in the minds of the public. I could furnish other examples. I may do at a later date. For now, let's hope the wallah's at atheist headquarters finally see sense and put the enormous sums so far raised to better use. Like re-decorating the Can Bass flat, for example, for that is the 'joy' awaiting me this half-term holiday.Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-47124125061471533592008-10-23T02:26:00.000-07:002008-10-23T02:54:15.485-07:00Choral EvensongThe more discerning amongst you will have noticed that the BBC's weekly broadcast of the Church of England's greatest contribution to world culture has reverted (after being 'mucked about' for years during which it appeared at one time - if at all - in the wee small hours of a Monday morning) to a weekday slot: Wednesday, at 4p.m. Of course, this cannot be other than 'good news'. For cathedral musicians, weekday evensong is the 'magnum opus' of their offering. True, Sunday morning Eucharist might liturgically be more important, but there is nothing to match the musicality of evensong nor - in my untrained opinion - the theology.<br /><br />Consider the structure, dear reader: an opening plea to the Almighty to 'open Thou our lips' followed by the chanting of psalmody (a practice pre-dating Christianity) and a reading from the Old Testament of the Bible. Then, we get the news of Jesus's arrival in the form of Mary's hymn - magnificat - followed by a reading from the book inspired by His ministry, and the thanks of Simeon (set, of course, to music) for being thus enlilghtened, after which it is seemly to recite the Creed. Prayers follow, and an anthem, and the service ends in the glory of a mighty organ voluntary. It never fails to move, dear reader, even when the choir outnumbers the congregation by a ratio of two to one, or when the congregation on a winter's evening consists merely of a couple of drunkards sheltering from the elements and clanking empties every time they kneel to pray. For 'whenever two or three are gathered together...' and all that. And it is right for such a service, glorying as it does in some of the finest of this country's musical offerings, to be broadcast by the BBC, and on a weekday, too. I have no problem with that. Far from it, if I had my way I would insist that the service was once more broadcast on a Friday, too, as was the case not so very long ago.<br /><br />These days, sadly, we only get one 'crack of the whip' so-to-speak. And that, as ill-fortune would decree, is on our dumb-day (our day off, in other words). So when the BBC descends with its miles of cabling and myriads of microphones (time was, you got one slung between the two sides of the choir and made the best of it) not only do we have to give up whatever ordinarily occupies our time in the middle of the week (in my case, teaching) but we have to go to the cathedral even earlier for rehearsals and for 'balance-testing' and then do the whole thing at four o'clock instead of the usual five-thirty. But worse, far worse, is the unworthy dross the DoM insists on bringing out of the music cupboard, the better to 'show off' his choir on the radio. Dear God, it is bad enough singing the stuff on the wireless, but we've already started to rehearse it and it's months before the BBC van will descend on the cathedral close. Vanitas, vanitatum (as the prophet said). Omnia vanitas.Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902593574125143496.post-3388997115537198162008-10-18T10:33:00.000-07:002008-10-20T04:40:39.749-07:00Railway Walks<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXbL93tM6Gi0t9cGFSRJ7IOO2fJfHh_SQwLEXR7XDVsLgRsY1FjJuDVAIsq63LUc04dvSpqJ2Q3bk-jOvsEcRvIxy2KwXtg4Cp93MCpYdQUjnCktGctYIe4RTIRb0g9UspE729-Fz3cFmN/s1600-h/julia_bradbury.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257841470314821298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXbL93tM6Gi0t9cGFSRJ7IOO2fJfHh_SQwLEXR7XDVsLgRsY1FjJuDVAIsq63LUc04dvSpqJ2Q3bk-jOvsEcRvIxy2KwXtg4Cp93MCpYdQUjnCktGctYIe4RTIRb0g9UspE729-Fz3cFmN/s320/julia_bradbury.jpg" border="0" /></a> I am not, nor have I ever been, remotely interested in either railways or walking. But I <em>am</em> enjoying Julia Bradbury's series of railway walks. There is so little of value on the moving television screen these days, and even less for a gentleman of discerning tastes (as I like to think I have). But Julia Bradbury.... I'll tell you what, dear listeners. Forget the favourite hymns for a moment - let's do favourite TV presenters instead. Top of my list, of course, would be Valerie Singleton, closely followed by Angela Rippon. And dear, dear Julia would certainly be in the top three. I quite admired Aneka Rice, but found the confounded nonsense she presented completely unintelligible. I'd happily watch Miranda Krestovnikoff and Alice Roberts walking round the English coastline, too. But I'd have to trade them all in for an evening talking music with the delightful Sara Mohr-Pietsch. And to think she won her job in a talent contest. Honestly, it provides a whole new meaning to the word.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257841616063585234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghw9OBbjRY0BpWrosZXk6s8FP7k1w2YIeNxaApNWYv1-2XVztlUUGQ-ZHupKFGgNPBMzXtzqwKf2wmYTSZjqwhsSteMMZEsvYge0bBX1UhCQKBPGntckTHNgQfwfyOZ9k2np3DZTPQ-CL-/s320/sara_mohr-pietsch_205x205.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Can Bass 1http://www.blogger.com/profile/10100615040661510511noreply@blogger.com16