The drums roll, hollow and ominously persistent. Then come the trumpets, in a minor key, sepulchral, eerie, penetrating. ‘Just imagine,’ interrupts Donald Macleod, ‘the sense of shock mingled with a kind of disbelieving horror of those who performed that music in November 1695.’ Macleod was introducing his Composer of the Week, which as part of Radio 3’s Baroque Spring has been Purcell.
It was a startling way to begin. Purcell was only 36 when he died, very suddenly, the cause unknown and variously suggested as TB, flu, or food poisoning — perhaps after eating some tainted chocolate. He had composed the music that was played at his funeral only eight months earlier, for the funeral of Queen Mary, which took place in the same venue, Westminster Abbey. The bathetic splendour of these ‘Funeral Sentences’ still commands our attention.
To have five distinct hours dedicated to solid Purcell, as the epitome of English Baroque, is a treat only Radio 3 can offer. It’s taken years to perfect that fusion of conversation and music, creating programmes that get us thinking about the music, where the sound comes from, how it was written, when it was written, what was going on at the time. It’s like attending a mini-masterclass, but listening at home, as we chop the vegetables, our ears attuned, our minds taken elsewhere, and into Westminster Abbey as Purcell’s cortège was solemnly carried through the nave.
By beginning with the end of his life, Macleod gave us a blast of pure Purcell, the full sensurround experience, before exploring in the rest of the week the key elements that make up his fabulous musical accomplishment — from that solemn, deeply moving religious music to the bawdiest of Restoration songs. Such versatility now seems astonishing. It would be as if Andrew Lloyd Webber could also come up with the resonating spirituality of John Tavener’s The Protecting Veil. Somehow in the west in the intervening three and a bit centuries we have lost the ability to take in the sacred and the secular at the same time, to be both intensely serious and extremely light-hearted, even rude, without loss of genius in either form.
Perhaps this is something to do with the intensity of the moment. Purcell, explained Macleod, was writing music in very unstable times, as William and Mary took over the English throne (from the Catholic James II) and made certain of the Protestant ascendancy. This political, religious and social upheaval makes our current political tensions and social dilemmas seem like infant tantrums.
It’s as if in his music, and whatever the genre, Purcell had to make sure that everything was in its right place and that every note should count. There was also no division in his mind between writing for the Church, as part of his job (as organist of Westminster Abbey), and writing for the theatre, for the Court, or for his own amusement. His music is multilayered, embracing all these contrasts and confusions, yet it’s set within a framework that ensures balance, and harmonic equilibrium. You feel restored by what you hear, and enhanced to become more than yourself.
Which is more, much more, than can be said after listening to the latest episodes of The Archers. If you’ve been lucky enough to miss out on the latest drama, there’s been yet another dramatic rush to intensive care. This time it was to Felpersham General, and, most alarmingly, by air ambulance, the sound of the chopper’s rotors echoing across the valley of the Am. No wonder the NHS is in such crisis: it’s being overworked by the natives of Ambridge.
This time it’s Chris the blacksmith who’s fallen victim to the whims of the scriptwriters’ conference. He foolishly married outside his class, has been doomed ever since, and is now facing almost certain death after being hit in the chest by a feckless horse. As I write, though, Chris still lies suspended between soap heaven and hell while the rest of the Archer clan twiddles in disbelief. Will he, won’t he survive?
It’s just not good for the blood pressure. You knew something bad was coming. Heavy hints were dropped. Chris and his wife Alice were quarrelling. She flies off to Canada looking for a job. He drives recklessly (which turns out to be a cruel feint). He goes to the Bull to get drunk. His Dad advises him to stop. The resident joker, Jazzer, takes him home and puts him to bed. He goes to work the next day, hammer and anvil at the ready. You keep on listening in awful anticipation, and gasp with horror when the inevitable happens, like your worst fears are being realised.
If it is the end of Chris (as seems likely — it would be such a convenient way for Alice to get rid of him and to get back on track as an Archer), then it’s definitely all over with me. No more Archers. Absolutely no more. I only came back because of misplaced loyalty and a sense of responsibility to this column. But I’ve been advised I should abandon Ambridge if these extreme high-pressure dramas continue — for medical reasons.
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