For me the18th century is a time of unequalled potential and vitality in Britain’s history. London’s streets were a vibrant, exciting and diverse place to be.
This playlist is representative of the century both in spirit and reality. I hope you enjoy it
as much as I enjoyed compiling it.
Handel – Zadok The Priest
Everyone, but everyone has heard Zadok the Priest, Handel’s coronation anthem for George II, first heard in 1727. It is an astonishingly powerful piece of music and I often try to imagine the
impact it would have had on the huge audience. The words are simple, taken from the Book of Kings:
Zadok the Priest, and Nathan the Prophet anointed Solomon King.
And all the people rejoic’d, and said:
God save the King! Long live the King!
May the King live for ever,
Amen, Allelujah.
More than any other, this piece of music sums up the Georgian period: power, majesty, community and exuberance.
The Kings Singers – Fine Knacks for Ladies
So, you wake up in your garret near the Hungerford Stairs, near where Charing Cross now stands. It is a chill autumn morning and the wind blows in from the River as you walk out to find your
breakfast. Heading up to the Strand, a pedlar offers you a ribbon and a garter for your girlfriend from his crates of tricks on the street corner. (This is the song the pedlars have
sung since the Elizabethan period, sometimes shorter versions, sometimes longer and it is one of the famous ‘Cries of London’. Here it is sung by the wonderful King’s Singers.)
Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new! Good pennyworths – but money cannot prove. I keep a fair but for the fair to view. A beggar may be liberal of love. Though all my
wares be trash, the heart is true, The heart is true.
Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again; My trifles come as treasures from my mind. It is a precious jewel to be plain. Sometimes in shell the orient’st pearl we find. Of
others take a sheaf, of me a grain. Of me a grain.
Within this pack pins, points, laces and gloves, And divers toys fitting a country fair; But in my heart, where duty serves and loves, Turtles and twins, court’s brood, a heavenly
pair. Happy the heart that thinks of no removes! Of no removes.
Claude Goudimel Ensemble – Psaume 128, “Bienheureux est quincoque“
Sausage in a roll procured, you head down to your work in the goldsmith’s
shop near the Savoy Chapel. As you unlock the front door and let yourself in, the sound of Psalm 128 from the Huguenot chapel drifts through the derelict Savoy palace next door. It is
the song the French refugees sang in the face of persecution, and frequently heard across the Strand and Soho French quarter. (This version is set to music by Goudimel, a favourite amongst
the Calvinist Huguenots.)
Rachel Unthank and the Winterset – Blackbird
The shop is quiet in the mornings, except for repairs and the apprentices messing about. The milkmaid calls around eleven, dropping off a large can for the boys to drink straight and for the
rest of the company to drink in tea. She is from the provinces, like most of the milkmaids, and as she walks her endless daily round she sings folk songs. ‘Blackbird’ is always the sign
to put the kettle on.
Tu Shi – Chiao – La Mercede (Canzonette Italiane, Martín y Soler)
Just before lunch, a tall, dandyish man appears in the shop. He wants a new watch chain. One of the boys recognizes him as the castrati currently entertaining everyone at Burlington
House. The buffoon is delighted to be recognized and starts singing, in the middle of the shop. You are vaguely relieved there are no other customers as the man seems to run through
half his repertoire for the amusement of the apprentices, who creep out of every part of the workshop to hear his shrill, high voice. (Clearly, castrati aren’t ten a penny these days.
Google Michael Maniaci for a modern day castrato – his voice has never broken and is as close as we will now hear to an 18th century castrato.)
Tim Van Eyken – Barleycorn
After a dull morning, lunch beckons in the Bell on Wych Street. You look briefly at the books on the second-hand stalls but none of it appeals much, and the
call of a pie and a pint is alluring. Inside the dim interior of the pub is a man selling broadside ballads printed on thin paper. He is singing John Barleycorn, the ancient English
tribute to beer, which seems particularly fitting as you order. (I love this version by Tim Van Eyken – his voice is timeless and the arrangement holds just the right note of pride and
invitation. The perfect song about our national love of beer.)
Roger Norrington – Music for the Royal Fireworks: IV. La Réjouissance
On the way back to the shop, there is a loud boom from down by the River warehouses. You sigh: since the new firework factory set up there, there’s hardly been a quiet moment. The shout
goes up as a rocket shoots into the grey afternoon sky and another series of bangs follow on. Glancing at your watch, you realize there’s time to go and see what’s happening, and head down
the hill towards the River. Since the Royal Fireworks, there’s scarcely been an event without the damned things. The warehouse is already burning and a large crowd has gathered.
You sit for a while on a low wall, talking to your neighbours, mainly about the state of business, but watching the fire engine being hauled up the street and set up to pump water from the
Thames onto the flames. There a huge roar and one side of the warehouse collapses. Everyone moves further away and in the crowd you see one of the apprentices from the shop, no doubt
sent out to gather information for the others. There is no point scolding the child for curiosity and together you go back to work.
Samuel Arnold (1740-1802) – Magnificat, From Evening Service In A
The afternoon is busy and it doesn’t seem a minute until it’s time to lock the shop. Just as you turn the key there is a knock on the glass and you see Ann pulling a cheeky face through the
window. She’s early. But then she always is. Seamstresses don’t work in the fading light, particularly good ones like Ann. Upholstery is her living, the fine stuff, for Mr
Chippendale. Outside, you walk through the brisk air up towards Covent Garden. You pass one of the smaller churches where a choir is rehearsing, and music for a much grander setting
spills into the street. Ann stops to listen. She loves Samuel Arnold. You pull her onwards. Tonight’s tickets didn’t come for nothing.
Igor Oistrakh – Vivaldi: Concerto grosso for 2 violins, strings and continuo in A minor, Op.3/8 , RV 522 – 3. Allegro
You make it to the timber hall off Longacre with only a minute to spare and slip into the seats. The poor old place is a bit shabby, and you used to play 5-aside football in here until your
knee started to feel it. Still, the goldsmiths were never beaten by the tailors in your day. The musicians are a touring company and very fine they look too, despite the setting.
Apparently they are playing at Court next week. All the music is Italian. Where this craze for Italy comes from suddenly, you’ll never know. It used to be everything French,
now it must be Italian. Still, Vivaldi’s nice enough, especially the earlier stuff.
Yo-Yo Ma – Unaccompanied Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, BWV 1007/Prélude
The concert over, you walk back towards Covent Garden. Ann doesn’t like passing through the Piazza at night on her own so much, as it can get rowdy, but when she’s with you she’s happy to
loiter, looking at the scrambling marmosets dressed as sailors, the brightly-dressed street-walkers, the drunks, the market traders and the fine lords and ladies on their way to and from the
theatre. You buy chips in smudged news-sheets from a woman with a pot of oil boiling over a brazier and then wander about looking at the illegal stalls of the nightmarket. There is a
boy with a cello on the steps to St Paul’s church, his father watching from nearby as the child plays. Ann drags you over to listen and you feel the request for you to put your hand in your
pocket approaching. You laugh as the boy launches into Ann’s favourite piece of music by Bach. It is like her: pretty and cheerful. You put your hand in your pocket for a penny
but instead your fingers find the find the ring that has sat there for far too long. Ah well, it’s time to get on with it you think, for it’s been three years and the Devil takes the
hindmost. And this piece of music always makes her cry anyway.
You can listen to the playlist HERE
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