When David Heard
by Jill Mitchell
Written after a late-December Lacock course directed by David Allinson a few years ago
D Major’s good to start the daily drill,
It’s choc-a-bloc with healthy Vitamin C
For hangovers, F major is just brill!
Depend on that, and take it straight from me . . .
Let’s drop the notes into the little sack
That nestles at the bottom of the back,
And fill with air right down to base of spine;
With this balloon of ballast, you’ll be fine.
Some vowels are good to tone and flex the lips,
But Elvis-rolling loosens up the hips.
Now limbered-up, the job is halfway done,
Alert, prepared, we’re ready now to run . . .
The Tallis needs a frame of mind that’s ZEN –
It is a vast steam-roller of a piece –
But William Byrd is something else again,
Quicksilver, madrigalian caprice!
For Byrd you must be primed and circumspect,
Agility of mind and speed of eye,
Or only realise in retrospect
You missed the moment as it scudded by. – But THAT was Byrd from Poundstretcher, not Heal’s
Or Harrod’s. Give full measure. No cheap deals!
Perk up, you chaps: you’re moving at the speed
Of motorways upon Bank Holidays.
Take off the handbrake! Purposefully feed
Into the traffic-flow with no delays.
You’re fumbling in your pockets for your change.
Commitment-time! These notes are in your range! – Aargh! THAT was like a neck-less Cheshire cat!
Don’t overshoot. Take care on that E flat,
You Tenors – there, the tuning was . . . exotic –
Moreover, the effect is quite quixotic
When you produce your own polyphony,
Unaided by the rest – calamity!
I’m sorry, Ladies, you have sat around
For ages while the gentlemen rehearse;
But it was vital to evolve a sound
Not like a sow’s ear but a silken purse.
Princesses’ mattresses have peas beneath,
Not hunks of rampant rhubarb from the heath. – It still is somewhat rustic, yes indeed,
Evoking lorry-loads of chicken-feed,
And yet just now we’ll make no further move,
But put it under a wet towel to prove.
Make sure the ET is truly anacrusic
Or you will simply not be making music,
For all the sense and shape goes out of joint,
When FILIUS that’s DATUS is the point! . . .
While BENEDICUS breathes an air celestial,
The PLENI’s almost jaunty and terrestrial!
It must really swagger, like a catwalk dolly –
Not limp, like a crone with a tartan trolley.
The spiky lines should scamper, hover, sprint,
The consonants should fly and flash and glint. – Ah, that was splendid. That was really good –
Here have a refill of this lemon pud.
I need a rather less sand-papered brand
Of sound on top, Sopranos – rich and oaky;
Don’t do anaemic-pale, but boozy-smoky.
HERE, Seconds, on the Bakewell you’re the cherry:
This cadence, then, is extrovert and merry!
C Naturals THERE are eyebrow-crinkling stuff,
Sopranos; milk them more. It’s not enough.
Now brush some olive oil across that phrase
And leave it on the oven shelf to glaze . . .
We’re mortified: we’ve dropped a minor third,
We’re quite done in; our tuning was absurd.
And, like a mournful foghorn, Andrew* blows
The unforgiving sackbut to expose
Relentlessly, so that we writhe and twitch,
The hideous discrepancies of pitch.
Just fling those phrases, Altos, round your head
Like wildly drunken aunties at a wedding,
Not hanging back, as waiting to be led,
All tentative, and cautious where you’re treading.
Toss out the notes insouciantly! Risk it!
That’s better: have yourselves a chocolate biscuit.
Your bottom F, though, had a luscious tone,
Perhaps you’ve earned a bit of Toblerone.
So, warts and all,
We’re on the ball.
With knees that spring,
And hearts that zing,
We’re set to sing;
From head to toe replete with jeu d’esprit,
When we take off anon for Malmesbury**!
*Andrew van der Beek
** to sing at New Year’s Day Eucharist in the Abbey.
Jill Mitchell
First published in November 2018 Newsletter
