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.

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.

Standing Stone, recorded by the London Symphony Orchestra, and conducted by Lawrence Foster, is available on EMI Classics.

Steve Newman

Aficionados of Classy Classical will surely know by now that 2007 is the 150th anniversary of the birth of Sir Edward Elgar.

We have already published here Steve Newman’s play on the great man, A Summer Garden.

Now BBC Radio 3 is to broadcast David Pownall’s Elgar drama tomorrow, Sunday June 3, at 9pm BST (8pm GMT). You can hear this play wherever you are, as the BBC now puts its radio programmes on the internet.

Go here to listen : http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio3/

You may need to download a free Radio Player to hear it, but once you have, you’ll be able to listen to all the other Elgar features planned during the summer, and much more besides.

If you miss the actual broadcast, there’s a button to “Listen Again”.

We hear Delius’ “A Song Of Summer” and see Delius and Elgar sitting at the table. There is a painters’ easel to one side with a large canvas. Joe is sitting to one side. We then hear the music from Delius’ Florida Suite in the background.

DELIUS : You should have taken up fencing Edward. We fought well.

ELGAR : I fear not, Fred. Prefer the gun. ( PAUSE ) I have to say Leipzig didn’t seem conducive to music-making somehow.

DELIUS : The ideal place for a conservatorium of music. Outside the building there was no music whatsoever. If this were a café in Dresden there would be a string quartet playing Beethoven, always Beethoven. And there were no starving musicians busking on the streets to put students off. I insisted that father send me there. And only one music shop. Ideal.

ELGAR : That was the trouble with Worcester – music was everywhere. Without music I wonder if so many would have gone to church? I wonder if religion itself would have survived?

DELIUS : Edward. In America, especially in the South, the Negro churches almost worshipped their music, as a god. But what music, Edward, what harmonies. Strange how we should collide like that in the street.

ELGAR : Both with copies of Greig’s String Quartet in G.

DELIUS : But you were the one with a beautiful girl on your arm, who for some inexplicable reason takes one look at me and runs off.

ELGAR : Helen. Oh that. Shock I expect. She was pretty. Her father ran a shoe shop. She was a student at the Conservatorium if you remember?

DELIUS : Yes. And your father?

ELGAR : A music shop, on the opposite side of the road.

DELIUS : Music everywhere? A toast?

ELGAR : Yes, to?

DELIUS : To beautiful girls.

ELGAR : Beautiful girls.

Elgar helps Delius to drink.

Helen enters. The music fades. Helen then sings, with piano or guitar accompiament, the original version of G.H.Clutsam’s ‘Ma Curly-Headed Babby‘. Elgar and Delius listen…

HELEN ( SINGING ) : Oh ma babby, ma curly-headed babby
We’ll sit below de sky,
‘An sing a song to de moon.
Oh ma babby, ma little nigger babby,
Yo’ daddy’s in de cotton field,
A workin’ for de coon.

So, lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, by by,
Does yer want de moon ter play wid?
Or de stars ter run away wid?
Dey’ll come if you don’t cry;

So, lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, by by,
In de mammy’s arms be creepin’
An’ soon yer’ll be a-sleepin’,
lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, by by,
Oh ma babby, ma curly-headed babby
I’ll dance yer fast to sleep
An’ lub yer so as I sing.
Oh ma babby, ma little nigger babby,
Just tuck your head like little bird,
Below its mammy’s wing.

So, lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, by by,
Does yer want de moon ter play wid?
Or de stars to run away wid?
Dey’ll come if yer don’t cry;

So, lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, by by,
In de mammy’s arms be creepin’
An’ soon yer’ll be a-sleepin’,
lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, lul-la, by by,
So by –

Elgar applauds, and Helen joins them at the table.

HELEN : Thank you, my dear?

ELGAR : That was delightful. Fred, meet Helen Weaver, my fiancée.

DELIUS : Helen, you have a beautiful voice.

HELEN : Thank you.

ELGAR : Fred has spent a good deal of time on an orange plantation in Florida. Heard a good deal of Negro music there, especially in the churches…

DELIUS : May I call you Helen?

HELEN : You may?

ELGAR : Fred is a composer too. He intends to study here in Leipzig.

HELEN : May I call you Fred?

Delius nods.

DELIUS : Or Fritz, whichever. The word ‘nigger’ is increasingly frowned upon in Europe, Helen. And rightly, don’t you think?

HELEN : No, I think I’ll call you Fritz, like a favourite dog. I have to say I have not given the word much thought.

DELIUS : Perhaps you should, perhaps we all should.

HELEN : But why should it be frowned upon? Perfectly harmless surely? Edward?

ELGAR : Fritz has a point I think, Helen…

DELIUS : Surely, in the latter part of the 19th Century, we cannot use such words to describe another human being? Words can be the weapon of hate. Used badly and no group of people, no single person, will be safe.

HELEN : I did not mean to offend you, Fritz, and of course you are quite right. I just thought it a lovely song. We hard it last night at Edward’s hotel didn’t we Edward. A young man was entertaining the diners from below the terrace; busking I believe they call it.

ELGAR : So much for Leipzig and music, Fred.

HELEN ( TO DELIUS ) : Have I heard any of your music?

DELIUS : I doubt it. Very little to hear. Although I could bring my accordion around this evening and serenade you at dinner.

Helen laughs.

ELGAR : We could both serenade the diners, Fred. I have my violin, and Helen can sing. Probably make some money. What do you say, Fritz?

HELEN : You are joking, Edward?

ELGAR : Yes, my dear.

DELIUS : Champagne, Helen?

HELEN : Please.

Elgar pours champagne.

ELGAR : I remember my brother and I playing under your father’s bedroom window. Do you remember that, Helen?

HELEN : How can I ever forget. Poor father.

ELGAR : I thought it was your window. Frank and I had both had rather too much to drink at The Feathers. We’d been rehearsing upstairs in their function room. I started scratching away at some tune or other, and Frank is blowing and bubbling away on his bassoon. Suddenly the bedroom window flies open, and there’s Helen’s father in his nightcap – and he’s just about to throw the contents of his chamber pot over our heads - when he sees Frank’s bassoon and for all the world thinks it’s a gun! Ha! Your old man put his hands up in the air and shouts out, “You can have my money, although there ain’t a lot, but you can ‘ave it. But please God don’t shoot, I’ve a wife and daughter to look after, and I’m only a poor shoe-mender!” I tell you we ran as fast as our legs would carry us. Caused quite a stir when the local paper printed a piece about Mr. Weaver the shoe shop owner being held up in the middle of the night. He drank out on that for weeks after.

HELEN : He did not, Edward, you know father doesn’t drink.

ELGAR : So he tells you and your mother.

HELEN : Anyway he still doesn’t know it was you. And unless you’re very good to me I shall tell him.

ELGAR : I shall be very good.

DELIUS : You are a lucky man, Edward. What would you do if I took Helen away from you? Persuaded her, with my undoubted charm, to run away with me to the southern ocean… to Tahiti perhaps? What do you say, Helen?

HELEN : We could visit Robert Louis Stevenson. I believe he lives with the natives. But no Fritz. I think you may have said that to too many girls already?

DELIUS : Ah.

ELGAR : You’re a cad, sir! A dual! Pistols! You blaggard. Pistols at dawn.

DELIUS : Too late by then, old chap.

ELGAR : Gone you mean? A toast then… to?

DELIUS : Robert Louis Stevenson… and the natives.

They all drink.

Lights go down and Helen gets up and joins Joe. She becomes Hildegarde.

JOE : How old was your father when he died?

HILDEGARDE : Killed.

Joe nods.

HILDEGARDE : Oh, twenty-six, twenty-seven, something like that.

JOE : God awful place.

HILDEGARDE : You were there?

JOE : Verdun? No. But I hear it was a bloody massacre, but old Frenchie put up a fight and no mistake.

Pause.

JOE : I’m sorry, Hildegarde. It was no picnic for the Bosch. I know that. Was your father…?

HILDEGARDE : They never found him. ( Pause ) Five hundred men disappeared into thin air… a huge explosion.

JOE : A mine I expect, land mine, the whole of Verdun was a death trap.

Pause.

HILDEGARDE : Where did you learn German, Joe?

JOE : Oh, here an’ there. Spent a lotta time in Bavaria…

HILDEGARDE : Saxony is very different.

JOE : Is that so? ( Pause ) You like it here, with the Delius’?

HILDEGARDE : Oh yes, they are so kind, and teach me all sorts of things…

JOE : How to open champagne?

HILDEGARDE : Oui. Yes, and cooking, and reading English, the great novelists, like Edgar Wallace.

Joe laughs.

JOE : Sir Edward was tellin’ me he likes Edgar Rice-Burroughs, you know, Tarzan and all that stuff.

HILDEGARDE : Excuse me?

JOE : Odd? That the two greatest English composers like books like that?

HILDEGARDE : Ja, maybe they like them because it relaxes them, takes their mind off music, could this not be so?

JOE : Yeah. reckon you’re right there.

We hear Elgar’s ‘Sospiri’ again

HILDEGARDE : Is he a nice man?

JOE : Who? Sir Edward? Hell, I’ve only known him for a couple of hours, but he seems one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met, and no mistake. I was talkin’ to his valet, Dick, back in Paris and d’ya know, Dick was sayin’ when they came for Sir Edward’s horses in 1915 he cried like a baby, and Dick stood there holding them, and they were looking at him as if they knew, and Sir Edward said goodbye to each one, an’ he kissed ‘em and told ‘em to be good. And he told the army horse handlers to treat ‘em well, and they said “..yes, Sir Edward.” And then Lady Elgar led him inside. But Dick says he turned and waved after ‘em. I know how he felt, the old man kept horses in Arizona.

Widen lights.

HILDEGARDE : I had a horse once, when I was a little girl. My father was an architect in Kassel, but we had this country cottage alongside the Eder? Oh, I was only six or seven. But this Sunday he woke me up early and took me outside to the barn, and inside was this lovely white pony and he said it was mine and that we would go riding every weekend until I was good enough to join the Hussars! I called her Gretchen after my grandmamma, because she had white hair and beautiful eyes. And we did go riding every weekend just like he promised. ( PAUSE ) But I never joined the Hussars. Then the war came and daddy went away, and the cottage was sold, and one day my pony wasn’t there anymore, and mother took us away to relatives in Zurich. Soon after mother died, and I stayed in Zurich for a while…

Hildegarde breaks down sobbing. Joe goes to her and takes her in his arms and holds her…

JOE : Hey honey, come on.

HILDEGARDE : I’m sorry, Joe, forgive me.

JOE : Ain’t nothing to forgive honey. You’ve had your losses, close ones too. And I tell yer my own ma, when she headed for that happy gossip ground in the sky, there were many who heaved one hell of a sigh of relief I tell you, not least me, but she was missed by some. I remember this old guy came to the funeral, just stood there for a minute, took off his hat, turned and went. Often wondered who he was. She’d never mentioned anyone, but someone mourned her. Mystery. Reckon we’ve all got sorrows and secrets, best kept to ourselves. What do you say honey? Ain’t that best?

HILDEGARDE : Maybe. But it’s good to share sometimes. Madam Delius is a good listener, she has been like a second mother to me, Joe, has taken good care of me.

JOE : But I tell ya honey, there ain’t no one who ain’t been touched by sorrow and death these last few years, not one. ( PAUSE ) You lost your father, and your mother, I lost no end of fine friends in the war. Good friends too, friends you’d wanna mourn for the rest of your goddam life.

HILDEGARDE : Yes. Which part of America do you come from, Joe?

JOE : Florida originally, then a spell in Arizona before the family moved to New York. Hell!

HILDEGARDE : But why move?

JOE : The ol’ man got a job labourin’ on Brooklyn Bridge, paid good money, an’ we needed the money. There was me an’ my sister, an’ another on the way.

Music ends.

HILDEGARDE : Perhaps I will go to New York, Joe?

JOE : You could do worse, especially with this creep Hitler hollerin’ and such. Yep, reckon it’d be a good idea. Hell you could come back with me, how about that?

HILDEGARDE : Do you really mean…?

JOE : Sure. What’s to keep ya here? Look we gotta keep movin’ see, no point hangin’ in one place too long. My pa’s old man hung around in Louisiana too long, got drafted into the Grey Brigade and died at Gettysburg. He never saw my Pa, died afore he was born. Come back to Paris with Sir Edward and me, an’ we’ll get a boat from Cherbourg direct to New York…

We hear Duke Ellington’s ‘Saturday Night Function’

HILDEGARDE : But Joe…?

JOE : Hildegarde? Do you like dancing?

HILDEGARDE : Yes.

JOE : Come on then, if we’re going to New York you’ve gotta know how to dance.

Glitter ball comes on as Joe and Hildegarde perform a dance routine to Ellington’s very raunchy number from the early 1930s. We see Delius’ left hand tapping to the music. There is a smile on his face. At the end of the dance the lights go to black. Exit Joe and Hildegarde. Then as the lights slowly brighten we hear Delius’ “Over The Hills and Far Away” and as we hear the music we see Jelka enter and go to the easel and start painting. Gradually a soft golden light spills onto Delius and Jelka as she paints. Delius talks…

DELIUS : Jelka? I have been basking in the sunshine and enjoying this lovely place. The climate and the flowers are extraordinary, and the situation of my grove is right on the beautiful St John River; it is truly a paradise garden. We caught a young alligator yesterday, he must be about a yard long, and we have him in a barrel in front of the house. I am bringing a lot of snake skins back, I have killed so many. It is a pity I cannot bring some of the flowers or a piece of the moonlight, or some of the magnolia, and orange blossoms. The sunsets here are something remarkable, and the scenery is lovely and perfect for a painter. The house has a broad veranda facing the river, and stands in the middle of the groves. In front of the house is a garden with gardenias, hibiscus, and a few other tropical flowers I cannot name. Over the veranda there is an enormous honeysuckle, and a live oak shades a lawn of vivid green. I have not written any music, but will do so when I get back. How can one write anything other than letters in such a place.

Pause.

DELIUS : I must find her, find them. Albert says very little, only that she is well, but she has fears. Why would she think I wanted to take the child away?

I am so desolate Cynara…

Pause.

DELIUS : Jelka, I should be back in Paris by Mid-May.

JELKA : Grez is lovely Fritz, ideal for a painter. I fell I can get so much work done here. It is almost impossible for me to work in Paris these days, there are so many artists. Please say you will come down as soon as you can, after your return from Florida. It is a pity your lovely plantation is not in Grez.

Pause.

JELKA : Why does he not tell me about her, does he think I am a fool, that I would care what he had done, that the most important thing is that I love him, love him with all my heart. That I would give up this damned painting just to be with him. Do I care if he had a Negress for a lover, and a child by her. Why will he not have a child by me, what does he fear?

Pause.

DELIUS : Jelka I am in Norway, Christiana. Heiberg needed me at the last minute for rehearsals, but I fear some of the populace may very well lynch me for using the National Hymn. But the whole thing sounds fine. We managed to get 4 trombones at the very last minute. Spent a few hours with Ibsen two days ago, who is very interested in my music, and has promised to come to the play. Perhaps this is the start, Jelka? I will come down to Grez as soon as I can. Is that where Robert Louis Stevenson used to visit with that damn donkey?

Pause.

DELIUS : I think about her all the time, her golden body and dark hair, her sweet utterances and the way she bit my lip and laughed – not loudly. The child must surely be beautiful. Is it a boy or girl? No one will say. Albert knows, I am sure. But there can be no more children, not with anyone. The doctor has confirmed my condition. Like me he is worried about them, but there is nothing that can be done until they are found. I have left some money with Albert, and the doctor’s name.

Pause.

JELKA : I read that the first two performances went well. But is it true some of the audience hissed and had a real demonstration against the piece, and especially against the music? If that is true it means your music is worthy, true.

DELIUS : Half the audience applauded, the other half booed, what a wonderful noise, and all because of a play, and some half-boiled music! But every seat is sold out for months! Ha! But I am longing to get out of this place, Jelka. To come to Grez.

Pause.

DELIUS : I have been faithful to you, Cynara, in my fashion.

JELKA : Come soon, Fred, I need you so badly.

DELIUS : No-one speaks of the play anymore, now it is only my music. I have never experienced anything like it before. All the good artists are for the music, as are the left-leaning politicians, at least those that listen to music. All the bourgeois are against it. Ibsen is delighted with the state of affairs, I have never seen such a stern-looking man laugh so much, he has congratulated me most heartily. I do feel sorry for Heiberg though, his satire on Norwegian politicians is very good, and after all it was he that asked me to write the music. Now the music is all they speak of. Is that the lot of a playwright. Perhaps they should keep well clear of music and musicians?

Pause. Lights down on Jelka. Widen lighting of Delius and Elgar. Music fades.

ELGAR : A pretty young thing that Hildegarde.

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DELIUS : A pianola what?

ELGAR : In the attic, a pianola.

JELKA : A pianola? I do not understand.

DELIUS ( To Jelka ) : Ein speilen klavier, ja? Mit pedal? Pedal treten und musik…

Jelka cuts in.

JELKA : What the Americans call a player-piano, I know that.

DELIUS : Mein Gott. Do go on, Edward.

ELGAR : Well as I start to approach the pianola an elderly woman enters the room, sits at the instrument and lifts the lid. I can clearly see the makers name – Concertola, Birmingham, England. The elderly woman then starts to pedal and I can see the white piano roll begin to move upwards. And do you know as soon as the music started the dust that had covered the pianola vanished, and the wood shone as if newly polished, and sunlight poured into the attic from what had appeared to be a covered window, and the music rose and rose in volume. And then, standing in the sunlight, is a young woman in a bright pink dress, and in her hair a pink ribbon, and she is looking at me…

Yehudi Menuhin with Elgar

The lights go down, and a spot picks out Elgar, and another spot picks out a young woman in pink. We hear a piano version of Elgar’s ‘In Smyrna’…

WOMAN : Hello, Edward.

ELGAR : Who…?

WOMAN : Don’t you remember me?

ELGAR : Should I?

WOMAN : No, but I remember you. Along the banks of the Severn, always talking about music, about poetry, especially Shakespeare. And your father’s lovely shop, full of shining instruments and the latest music from all over the world, and the way the bell used to ring when someone opened the door and how one could smell freshly baked bread from the bakery next to my father’s shoe shop?

ELGAR : Yes.

WOMAN : You told me you loved me that day it rained and we took shelter in that barn, do you remember?

ELGAR : I remember the rain…

WOMAN : Edward! Why do you always tease me so?

ELGAR : I remember.

WOMAN : And you kissed me.

ELGAR : I did?

WOMAN : You did, and wanted more.

ELGAR : My Saxon warrior blood – Aelfgar. I expect you refused me?

WOMAN : I did not.

ELGAR : I know. And the rain turned to sun, and that most beautiful of smells – of wet earth, and of you…

WOMAN : Of us.

ELGAR : Of us.

WOMAN : We were young.

ELGAR : Indeed. I remember you now.

WOMAN : I know.

ELGAR : Is this a dream?

WOMAN : Not at the moment, but when you wake.

ELGAR : When I wake. Do I have to wake?

WOMAN : No, you can stay here with me, if you wish.

ELGAR : And after the rain?

WOMAN : Oh, we walked alongside the river for a while, I remember you sang to a swan - A Salut d’Amour - a lovely song. You said it was for me. But you gave it to another.

ELGAR : My swan. Do you mind?

WOMAN : Not now.

ELGAR : I read Walt Whitman to you.

WOMAN : Yes. We sat amongst some reeds.

ELGAR : God and eidolons
And thee my soul,
Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations,
Thy yearning amply fed at last, prepared to meet,
Thy mates, eidolons.
Thy body permanent,
The body lurking…

WOMAN : There within thy body,

The only purport of the form thou art…

ELGAR : The real one myself…

WOMAN : An image, an eidolon.
Thy very songs not in thy songs,
No special strains to sing, none for itself.

ELGAR : But from the whole resulting…

WOMAN & ELGAR : rising at last and floating…

Pause.

ELGAR : Wish I’d met him…

WOMAN : Edward?

ELGAR : Yes?

WOMAN : Why did you let me go?

ELGAR : But you were ill, my dear.

WOMAN : No, not ill.

ELGAR : But they said you had to leave, consumption, that you needed…

WOMAN : Not ill, Edward, do you not understand.

EDWARD : Not sure. It was very sudden, and so far away.

WOMAN : Oh, Edward, can you not see?

ELGAR : I see you now, that day in the rain. I feel you now that day in the rain. I am with you now that day in the rain, we are together now that day in the rain…

WOMAN : Oh Edward, my darling Edward, do you not see me now?

ELGAR : And she was gone.

Lights down to black. The music fades…

Go to Part 8.