My life as an amateur singer

(in seven tweets)

Stephen Cleobury, CUMS chorus, Spem in alium rehearsal, 1985-ish:
"Girl in the yellow shirt, you are singing *too* *loud*."

Tim Brown, Fairhaven Singers rehearsal, 1988-ish:
"You're sticking your head forward like a chicken."

Martin Freke, Fairhaven Singers post-rehearsal pub session:
"Your voice has an almost tactile quality."

Francis Steele, consort singing course, 2005-ish:
"Beck, we can always hear you. You don't need to worry."

Robert Hollingworth, Company of Musicians workshop on Peter Phillips, 2008-ish:
"You sang an absolutely straight note that blossomed into something rather lovely."

Eamonn Dougan, chamber choir course, first sing-through of Gombert's Media vita, Poitiers, 2011
"What a nice voice you've got, Beck."

Robert Rice, strolling through Kensington and responding to one of my wilder suggestions:
"As your singing teacher I advise against it."

Oooh, and Edmund, who told me that my Victorian drag performance of 'Burlington Bertie from Bow' was better than the Julie Andrews one. I thought so too!

My lifelong thanks to:

Dave Howells, who founded Yateley Choral Society in 1979 with me as an alto, my dad as a bass, and later my mum as another alto (and changed my life – my first choir (my school was crap)).

Ian De Massini, who founded Cambridge Voices with me as a soprano, and enriched my life for thirteen years.

Anne Roberts and Francis Steele, who started Verte Musique music courses and invited me to the first one (a week that changed my life – I was that marketing quote).

Berty, who took me on as a pupil. And, uniquely, isn't fazed by *any* genre of music.

Singing to sleep

Someone on Twitter asked what lullabies we sang to our children, and I thought I'd copy my answers here for posterity. I deliberately chose songs that I liked very much, started singing them to my bump before Sasha was born, and kept to a limited number of songs, in the hopes of creating a Pavlovian response. 

My songs were: 'Grey Funnel Line' by Cyril Tawney, learned from the 'Silly Sisters' record made by Maddy Prior and June Tabor (I used to swing this in an abridged version at baby and toddler group, and Sasha was especially chuffed to always get the extended remix version with two extra verses).

And 'Morningtown Ride' by the Seekers. Learned from my grandmother's record. She had three singles: the Seekers with that and Georgy Girl, I think; Edith Piaf singing Exodus / Milord; and Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini (what was the B side??). All her LPs were Slim Whitman albums. She was a strange woman. 

One of my fondest memories is of singing a carload of children to sleep. It's a powerful thing to do, isn't it? And sleeping children smell so lovely. 

Sasha, now 14, starts crying if I sing just the first four notes. "Don't mind the rain..." Actually, so do I. Sniff.

Giving up the Holy Ghost

Hilary Mantel's autobiography 'Giving up the Ghost' is one of the most interesting books I have read for a long time. This is possibly one of the more mundane bits, but I have lots of friends I think will appreciate it. 

" 'When the last tear, the forerunner of my dissolution, shall drop from mine eyes, receive it as a sacrifice of expiation for my sins; grant that I may expire the victim of penance, and in that dreadful moment, Merciful Jesus, have mercy on me.' 

Note that excellent semicolon. People ask how I learned to write. That's where I learned it." 

Mantel was born in 1952; I was born in 1965, and like her brought up as a Catholic: I went to a Catholic comprehensive for my secondary years. But by that time, post-Vatican II, there was no poetry in the religion at all. I don't think I ever heard a phrase that captured my imagination. 

Possibly the beginning of John's gospel, but I remember my father (C of E) talking to our priest and being very appreciative that he'd read the older translation in mass, because the new version was so awful. At the last church service I went to, at Christmas (C of E: I was there to sing), it was misquoted, and I came home to check I'd got it right: I had. 

Even if it I'd been born early enough for the Catholic services all to be in Latin, I doubt I'd have been seduced for very long: words have always been the thing I care most about, and you can't care about words without caring about their meaning. 

I was an agnostic by thirteen years old, and an atheist by fifteen. But it would have been good to have got something out of the experience other than a huge burden of guilt. It was only a few years ago, learning about Buddhism, that I realised what a foul black stain it leaves. 

As for me, I learned my semi-colons from H G Wells, along with a hefty dose of science.