No energy today.
I’m posting a bit of Herbert Howells instead.
No energy today.
I’m posting a bit of Herbert Howells instead.
I’m slowly digitizing all of the published writings that I have in my files — book reviews, CD reviews, articles, columns, and a journal article on Herbert Howells.
From 1999, my review in Choral Journal of Paul Spicer’s biography of Herbert Howells:
Herbert Howells was born 126 years ago today.
Happy birthday, HH!
I find no better way to relax after two days of faculty meetings, totaling nine hours of time with colleagues, than to listen to choral music of Herbert Howells.
Tonight, it’s the Requiem, perhaps my favorite work by HH. I have this newish recording by Conspirare and Craig Hella Johnson, and it’s delightful indeed.
Our faculty meetings were fruitful. Tiring. Enlivening. Productive. Nine hours of meetings over two will never be fun, but enough humor allowed us to break and laugh, and we spent time charting the next few years of the Webster University Department of Music.
Meanwhile, I fell on Sunday. In my yard. On my tush.
And while nothing is broken, I’m sore, and all this sitting today has left me feeling poorly tonight.
Alas. The joys of getting older.
My second doctoral recital in April 1998 featured music of Britten, Naylor, and Howells.
I conducted the Howells.
The program notes: docrecital2
Good morning from London.
I arrived last evening at dusk and had a quick jaunt through HM Border Control and Customs, and then onward to the Heathrow Express and central London.
My AirBnB is a delightful ground-floor flat less than two blocks from the Lambeth North stop on the Underground. A Tesco and a Sainsbury’s are both adjacent to that Tube stop, so grocery shopping is easy.
I’ve had my breakfast of scrambled eggs and seedy toast with strawberry jam. (I do love bread that seems to include pine cones and squirrel droppings. In my opinion, the heartier the forest products in the bread, the better.)
Now 9.15 a.m., I need to figure out what I’m doing today, but I think it will include (since rain the order of the day) a day indoors, including some Herbert Howells research at the Royal College of Music.
Here’s the view from my bedroom this morning:
And this view from the Austrain Airlines flight includes the Thames Barrier and the O2 Dome:
These massive, double-decked Airbus jets always amaze me:
Today is the 121st anniversary of the birth of Herbert Howells. Last year on this day I attended an all-HH Evensong at Gloucester Cathedral.
Today, I am saying a memorial Morning Prayer with intentions for HH, listening solely to his music (including Daniel Bara and East Carolina University’s performance of his Requiem), and reading a chapter of the new HH compendium.
HH is the on-going life-work research subject. May he rest in peace.
There’s nothing like a 30-minute each-way walk in the southwest England heat to get the blood going!
I visited this afternoon St. Mary Redcliffe, an old local parish with an incredibly preserved Gothic structure. Herbert Howells wrote music for this parish, so I simply had to visit.
Getting ready to leave, I noticed that Evening Prayers would commence in five minutes, so I joined the lector in the Lady Chapel for a 25-minute prayer service. My friends and colleagues in the GHTC choir were named aloud, with prayers offered for safe passage, and for peace of heart and mind, as they must surely be tremendously frustrated and tired at this point.
Those of us who are here in Bristol will join for dinner in an hour’s time. I understand that we’ll be going to Exeter tomorrow to be tourists and sing Evensong no matter what. The KC contingent is to arrive at Manchester in early morning, but they will be wheezing in to make it by time for Evensong, and then will surely be exhausted as well.
No matter. All will be well, as God is in heaven, and as my birthday will come ‘round no matter who is here to celebrate and make merry.
Twigworth, in Gloucestershire, is the final resting place of Ivor Gurney and Michael Howells. Gurney, a life-long friend of Herbert Howells, never was the same after being gassed and shocked in World War I. His place in English poetry and music, though, is assured. Michael Howells, son of Herbert, died at age 9 in 1935, leaving his father bereft and limp, and forever changing the course of Howells’ compositional and creative life.
I visited the Twigworth churchyard on Wednesday.
I’m just back from the Barbican Center, where I witnessed tonight a triumphant, energetic, all-out performance of Elgar’s First Symphony.
But first, Cambridge . . . .
Morning Eucharist today, on the Feast of St. Luke the Evangelist, was appropriately enough in the Nurse’s Chapel, more properly known as the Florence Nightingale Chapel. I loved the window and the oil lamp. (Click on that link; the window is the third picture from the left.)
And then I made my way via the Circle Line up to King’s Cross to take the 9.45 a.m. train to Cambridge. Once I arrived, I spent the next couple of hours at Trinity College and at King’s, in addition to a couple of shops. Now, I love Cambridge so much. It’s everything that I envision a British university town to be. And since it’s the first of those towns I visited, way back in 1995, it’s also idyllic and romanticised in my feeble imagination. (Like that British spelling?)
The King’s Chapel is the single most beautiful room in the world. Period. Nothing comes close to the centuries-old wonder and splendor of the fan vaulting and stained glass in this most amazing place. My poor pictures cannot do it justice.
A short cab ride took me to the home of Sir David Willcocks and his wife Lady Willcocks (Rachel). We were joined for luncheon by an old friend of theirs, Elizabeth, who was up from London for the day. Luncheon itself was truly splendid, and Sir David was in great form with stories and reminiscences. We later filled an hour and ten minutes talking about his life, and of course about Howells. I have the whole thing on a memory card. Let’s just say that when I left their home around 4 p.m., I felt like I’d been on Mount Olympus listening to a god.
Sir David is in his 90’s, but has amazing recall of events and places and people. Their two dogs, Bonnie and Clyde, long-hair Corgis both, took an instant liking to me. I missed Samson the Feist terribly all of a sudden. My thank-you gift to them was a jar of homemade apple butter. Lady Willcocks indicated this was something new to them; I do hope they enjoy it. And of course I had Sir David autograph his autobiography for me.
After the 50-minute train ride back to London, I made my way to the hotel, ate a couple of samosas I picked up along the walk from Waterloo Station, took off my tie, and then set out for the Barbican.
This was to be a concert conducted by Sir Colin Davis, but he pulled out of this gig a few days ago. I instead saw the youngish Russian conductor Vasily Petrenko. And damn, he was smoking on the podium tonight. This guy, all 36 years old of him, knows how to handle an orchestra. I regret that I didn’t get a chance to see Sir Colin at 85, as this was likely my last chance to see him conduct, but I’m glad for the concert tonight!
It’s now 11, and I have another start tomorrow, so the rest must wait.