When Sir Paul’s tone Poem Standing Stone was first premiered, and then released as a CD in 1997, it attracted a very mixed reception, which is fair enough. In fact I rather like to see the musical purists get their underwear in a bit of a twist when they try to tell us how bad something is, how derivative, how shallow, how it sounds as if it has been written by a committee, and, how dare you step over the musical boundaries and try your hand at ’serious’ music. In other words elitism at its worst. And believe me if there was a decree from No 10 and the White House tomorrow that all music be left in the hands of the purists, then music, all music, would die very quickly, and good riddance because none of it would be worth listening to.

And McCartney’s Standing Stone is worth listening to, and more than once.

Sir Paul’s first recorded effort at ’serious’ composing (as if composing hundreds of popular songs was not serious for goodness sake) was his 1991 Liverpool Oratorio which I remember as a tremendously moving piece of work that quite naturally showed the influence of Elgar (who made the oratorio his own in the early 20th century), but to my ears much more that of Vaughan Williams, Arnold Bax, plus a good helping of John Tavener and Malcolm Arnold, who were, and are, masters of assimilation, as is McCartney - you only have to listen to Sgt Pepper, the early Wings recordings, and some recent solo McCartney, to understand what I’m getting at; and without assimilation art, any art, cannot move ahead, cannot be creative.

And it’s the same with Standing Stone, McCartney’s first real stab at a symphonic piece. It worked in October 1997 when it was premiered and released, and it worked last night when, with Hilary, I listened to it again.

This is what McCartney has to say about Standing Stone in the liner notes to the CD…

” I’ve spent much of the last four years composing what has now become my second large-scale classical work, the symphonic poem Standing Stone. Unlike the Liverpool Oratorio which features prominent roles for four solo singers, Standing Stone relies entirely on colours and effects drawn from the orchestral and choral forces. With no soloists to propel the “story” and to help keep me on track throughout the writing of about 75 minutes of music I wrote a poem in which I try to describe the way Celtic man might have wondered about the origins of life and the mystery of human existence…”

And it is there that we have the secret of this piece of wonderful music - that of man wondering what life is all about. It’s the same secret we discover when we look at Anthony Gormley’s 100 iron men looking out to sea from Crosby beach - their solitariness, their stillness and their fortitude. It is what we hear in this music, especially in Part 9, where McCartney introduces a melody of such simplicity and beauty that it almost breaks your heart (which has come from a good deal of contemplation and experience), and what we hear too in the music of Sir Malcolm Arnold who, like McCartney, was criticised by those damned purists for being popular. And the more I listen to Standing Stone the more I realise that Arnold has undoubtedly been a greater influence (consciously or subconsciously) than any other composer on McCartney’s symphonic music, but not in a negative sense. The underlying echoes of Arnold (Sir Paul might disagree) come through to me as a kind of homage to a man who shared many of Sir Paul’s ideals and beliefs, and, like Paul, wrote music from the heart.

Then it occurred to Hilary - who has recently started a campaign to save Gormley’s ‘Another Place’ at Crosby - that McCartney’s Standing Stone is effectively the soundtrack to Gormley’s magnificent work on that haunted, industrial, almost derelict beach, and that McCartney’s wonderfully evocative, emotional music must, somehow, be performed there.

Any thoughts on how we can make it happen?

Standing Stone, recorded by the London Symphony Orchestra, and conducted by Lawrence Foster, is available on EMI Classics (USA link or UK link).

Sir Paul McCartney’s latest classical work, Ecce Cor Meum, Behold My Heart, a work for chorus and orchestra, will be premiered on Friday 3rd of November at the Royal Albert Hall, London. It is also available on EMI Classics.

Steve Newman

In 1890 RVW entered the Royal College of Music, which had only been in existence for seven years and had fewer than a hundred students who, in those early days were taught by Sir George Grove (who founded the college), Sir Arthur Sullivan, Hubert Parry, and Charles Villiers Stanford, with Parry and Stanford also professors of music at Oxford and Cambridge. As well as this connection with Britain’s two oldest universities The Royal College of Music also, through Sullivan, kept links with the stage and, through Parry, with the musical life of the Church of England, although, as RVW’s biographer, James Day, points out, training, “…a serious composer in the late nineteenth century meant training him (invariably a him) to write music for the organ-loft and the festival platform rather than for the stage. Sullivan’s operettas - the real beginning of the English musical renaissance in which Vaughan Williams was to be a leading figure - were ‘sports’, freak creations which it was regarded as neither desirable nor possible for a serious musician to emulate; even Stanford’s gallant attempts to write both heroic and comic operas met with consistent failure, not on account of the music, but on account of operatic organization in England, which was regarded as a rather peculiar business best left to foreigners. The young composer of those days often tended, quite naturally, and quite unconsciously, to envisage the orchestra as a kind of team version of the organ which accompanied lesser choral works within the framework of the Church’s liturgy. If he thought in terms of large-scale compositions, they were usually oratorios and sacred cantatas rather than works for the stage.” Ralph Vaughan Williams was to change all that.

RVW was taught initially at the RCM by F.E. Gladstone (a first cousin of the Liberal prime minister), who was himself an organist, and a teacher who made sure RVW worked his way methodically through Macfarren’s Harmony, a dry technical volume that RVW absorbed like mother’s milk and which, in later years, ensured he became one of the surest-footed orchestraters ever produced anywhere.

Ever since entering the RCM it had been RVW’s desire to study under Parry (who at that time was considered the greatest of all English composers) and after two terms with Gladstone, and passing with a Grade 5 in composition, he was able to do so.

As Day reminds us, Parry always “…tried to find out whether the music of his pupils had any individuality, if it contained something ‘characteristic’; not merely content, as so many teachers are, with pointing out faults, he also prescribed remedies for them which to him to suit the students personality.”

Sir Charles Hubert Hastings Parry (1848 - 1918) was born in Bournemouth and is perhaps best now remembered as the composer of the music for the hymn ‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind’ and the musical setting of Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’ (soon to be heard again on the Last Night of the Proms) the orchestration of which was completed by Sir Edward Elgar (a neighbour of Parry’s) when the Dorset born composer fell ill in 1916. Parry was a man of high principles whose politics for the times was highly radical (he half jokingly suggested that the House of Lords would be improved by the inclusions of a few criminals), with a highly developed sense of artistic integrity, who nevertheless disliked French opera (RVW became a great lover of Bizet nonetheless), but went on to write some fine music - most notably The Ode on the Nativity (1912) and Songs of Farewell (1916-18) - which influenced RVW hugely. Parry the radical and the methodical was therefore the perfect teacher for Ralph Vaughan Williams.

Gustav Holst, one of RVW’s fellow students in Parry’s class, was also the best friend the aspiring, eager, young composer could have.

To Be Continued…

Steve Newman

Beware the man who hath no music in his soul…

Listening to Ralph Vaughan Williams Serenade to Music first performed in the 1930s as a tribute to the conductor Sir Henry Wood, I am again struck by RVW’s complete openness as a human being, and by his generosity and humanity of spirit - to listen to his music is to listen to the Earth turning.

It is also to listen to the man himself bestriding the landscape in giant musical steps as if some great static construction has freed itself and is on the move; just listen to his 3rd Symphony, the ‘Pastoral’ (1921) to hear what I mean. This symphony - which is as much an ironic statement about the First World War as it is a musical description of the English countryside - was a watershed in RVW’s career, marking him out as a composer who was going to plough a very distinctive and idiosyncratic furrow, and by so doing create a body of work that is always fresh to the ear and to the heart (a vital element), which renews itself and the listener each and every time.

Ralph (pronounced ‘Rafe’) Vaughan Williams, the second son and youngest child of Arthur Charles Vaughan Williams and Margaret Susan Wedgwood, was born on the 12th of October 1872 in Down Ambney, in Gloucestershire, where his father was vicar.

But with Arthur’s sudden death in 1875 Ralph’s mother moved the family back to her sister’s home at Leith Hill Place in Surrey, which her father, Josiah Wedgwood III, had bought in 1845, and where the old man continued to live until his death in 1880.

And as the name Wedgwood suggests Ralph Vaughan Williams came from good patrician stock. On his father’s side the family was of Welsh extraction, with John Williams, Ralph’s great-grandfather, born in Job’s Well in Carmarthenshire in 1757. And as James Day writes, in his 1961 biography of Vaughan Williams, John Williams, after leaving Carmarthen Grammar School went “…to Jesus College, Oxford, before becoming a scholar of Wadham in 1774 and a fellow in 1780. He enjoyed a distinguished career at the bar – notably as a special pleader – becoming a Serjeant-at-law in 1794 and a King’s Serjeant ten years later. As a legal scholar he was famous mainly for his edition of Blackstone’s Commentaries and the Reports and Pleadings in the Court of King’s Bench in the Reign of Charles II, [with] his highly valued, shrewd and lucid notes and references adding greatly to the appeal and value of the latter book in particular.”

John Williams had three sons and three daughters (one of whom, Mary, married the sixth Earl of Buckingham), with Edward Vaughan Williams, RVW’s grandfather (the addition of the name ‘Vaughan’ came from Edward’s mother), born in Bayswater in 1797. He was educated at Winchester and Westminster before winning a scholarship to Trinity College, Cambridge in 1816, where, like his father before him, he studied law. After establishing himself as a lawyer he brought out a new edition of his father’s book, Note’s on Saunders’ Reports, which he followed with a treatise called On the Law of Executors and Administration which was published in 1832 and reprinted many times during Edward’s lifetime. In the year he became a judge,1847, he was also knighted and went on to become one of the most respected judges on the circuit.

Sir Edward Vaughan Williams married in 1828, and like his father had three sons and three daughters, with the earlier mentioned, Arthur Charles Vaughan Williams (RVW’s father), born in London in 1834. He was educated at Westminster and later at Christ Church, Oxford, where he obtained his BA in 1857. With a house already full of lawyers Arthur decided on a career in the church, and in 1860 was ordained deacon and sent to Bemerton, near Salisbury, where he served as a curate before becoming a fully-fledged vicar in 1865. He married the aforementioned Margaret Susan Wedgwood (who was also a niece of Charles Darwin) in February 1868, which takes us right back to the birth of RVW in 1872 and perhaps a larger understanding of the origins of his music - music that can, I feel, clearly be traced back to the Age of Enlightenment, and the newer, more caring, more liberal, and more tolerant - humanistic if you like - attitudes that his lawyer grandfather and great-grandfather brought to an almost moribund profession. Mix all of this together with the revolutionary theories of Charles Darwin (theories that must surely have permeated every corner of Leith Hill Place), plus the hugely influential creations of the Wedgwood family – and their own liberal attitudes to their workers - and you have an anvil of creativity, and not least care for your fellow human beings - that comes shining through every piece of music RVW wrote.

To Be Continued…

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Does classical music need superstars? Music critic and arts consultant Steve Metcalf writing in NewMusicBox.org thinks it does. “Or one, even,” he almost begs.

But what about Placido Domingo? Or the many great orchestras and conductors we have now, or does it go deeper?

Back in the 1950s, he writes, among performers, Toscanini, Heifetz, Maria Callas, and others, were known to almost everyone. Even as late as the 1980s, a classical performer could be truly famous. Now it’s different, he claims.

“If we speak of instrumentalists who can reliably sell out a house somewhere other than New York or L.A.,” Metcalf continues, “we have basically Yo-Yo (Ma). After that we have a roster of names that are known mostly to aficionados and the readers of Gramophone, but who are unknowns to everybody else. You don’t realize the extent to which this is true until you start working with and around people who pay no attention to serious music, which is most people these days. Try dropping the name Leif Ove Andsnes in your company cafeteria.”

Isn’t it great composers we need? There don’t seem to be many of those around now.

Stephen Walsh recalls the throngs that greeted the composer at concerts in America’s smaller towns and cities, not because they necessarily understood the music but because they wanted to see an icon.

Could crossover music have removed the gloss from the purely classical?