Reaching the parts that other music cannot reach; music for the soul.

There can be few of last night’s audience leaving the Laudate Domiunum  concert in St Peter’s Church, Ruddington who did not disappear down the church drive and into the Saturday night Ruddington air humming or whistling – or maybe even singing – one of the musical gems that we had enjoyed from the Ruddington & District Choral Society and the Ruddington Chamber Ensemble. This was a quite magical concert – a treasure trove of  sacred music’s best; from items known and loved by generations of music lovers to a work which, for most of us, was almost certainly quite new. This was a beautifully constructed programme performed by singers and musicians at the top of their respective games.

The concert gets underway

From works that in many ways define the sacred music repertoire – Bach’s Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring, to Mozart’s exquisite Ave Verum Corpus & Laudate Dominum  we moved to  Brahms’ deeply reverential rendering of Psalm 84:  How Lovely Are Thy Dwellings Fair from his German Requiem and thence  to Schubert’s great Mass in G . And, to put the icing on this delightful musical cake, in the midst of these musical masterpieces we enjoyed (if that is the right word for so haunting and deeply felt work) a work that was for me – and I suspect many others – a revelation: Josef Rheinberger’s Stabat Mater  - undoubtedly one of the evening’s many high spots. I don’t think that I was alone in thinking, I’d like to hear more Rheinberger, can I get a CD or stream some of his music through the wonders of modern technology?  And throughout it all the Ruddington Chamber Ensemble provided not only talented and hugely enjoyable accompaniment but an accompaniment that was both sensitive to the choir and soloists and to the nature of the occasion. The Ensemble, too, had their own opportunities to shine – and shine they did – with two of music’s best loved works: Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik  & the Air from Handel’s Water Music Suite.

Soaring sopranos!

So many of the works that we enjoyed are works that many in last night’s appreciative audience will have grown up with; many I am sure appear in Classic FM’s annual top 300 hit parade – but that doesn’t lessen their greatness or their deserved place in the sacred choral music tradition. As I walked  out of the church at the end of the concert I was mentally humming Bach’s Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring – a work that I came across first as a 13 or 14 year old when for reasons known only to Mr Hornby, the school music teacher, (in a decision which still amazes me) he somehow selected me to sing in the school choir at a concert at the Public Hall in my home town, Preston, where I grew up. The event was attended by many school choirs in the town and each had the opportunity to sing two works – our two were Mendelssohn’s O for the Wings of a Dove and Bach’s Jesu Joy of Mans Desiring. I don’t think it was a competition (had it been so then I am sure that I would not have been selected!) but the works stayed with me. Nor did I put myself forward for choir membership because of any great choral or musical love or even knowledge of these two masterpieces – they were complete unknowns. No, my reason for asking to join the choir was much more prosaic, perhaps dubious and the same as that of my several friends who also pleaded their case – there were girls in the choir who we callow, spotty youths wished to impress! But, whatever the reason, one of those works – the Bach - gained a special place in my life that lasts to this day. Shortly after the competition I found, in the storage compartment of the ancient piano stool that sat in front of the second or third hand piano that we had at home, a much used, somewhat grubby and dog-eared piano score for Jesu Joy – it had obviously come with the stool which, I suspect, my mother had bought at a house clearance. I was, at the time, rather unwillingly learning to play the piano and although this was far too difficult for me to play my experience in the choir encouraged me to  stick at it and over the next few months and years I slowly became a little more proficient. Bach’s great work, and indeed all Bach, “stuck” – it has been so for the rest of my life. Throughout my time working in primary schools I would often, if I needed to relax or have a quiet few moments, sit in the hall at playtime or before school and play Jesu Joy on the school piano. The sheet music was not necessary, my fingers by then were on autopilot, occasionally finding the right notes as I produced some kind of Eric Morecambe like “hitting the right notes but not necessarily in the right order” rendering of Bach’s masterpiece. But for me it didn’t matter, I loved the work and as the choir last night sang I was transported back sixty years or more to a time long gone, to that event and experience that, in a small way, made me what and who I am today.

Concentration from the violins!

And this is what all music (be it classical, pop, sacred or heavy metal) can and should do – take us back in our own life to particular events, connect us with life’s joys and tragedies, remind us of our short life's markers, recall long lost friends, or great loves and fulfilled or broken dreams. In short give us a context for our very humanity. And it does something else, equally important; it connects us directly with times that are unknown or long lost to us.  When we hear Mozart or Bach, or Schubert or, when I sat in Nottingham’s Royal Concert Hall on Friday evening being quite overcome by Nottingham’s own son the wonderful young cellist Sheku Kanneh-Mason perform arguably the world’s greatest cello concerto – the Elgar – we were hearing exactly the same sounds that people heard years – often centuries before we were born. We were connecting with the ideas, events, feelings and the people of an age long gone.  As Kanneh-Mason played he was taking us directly back to the immediate aftermath of the Great War – apposite in this November month a century after the war ended – and forging a direct link with Elgar and the emotion and sense of loss felt by the composer and wider society following the terrible events between 1914 and 1818. This is important, it gives a context for our own small lives –  reminding us of who we are, where we and where our society has come from - and where, perhaps, it is going. In short, where we fall in the great scheme of things. This is what all music does and it is what last night’s concert in St Peter’s Church did so wonderfully.

The two wonderful young soloists: Rebecca Sarginson 

& James Farmer

One of the problems that I am sure that faces any orchestra, soloist or choir – even the superstar musicians of the great concert platforms – is one of familiarity. When Kanneh-Mason played the Elgar on Friday night to a packed Nottingham Royal centre I would guess that every single member of that audience knew the work almost as well as the performer and consequently will judge it in relation to their own perception or experience of hearing others play it. Was Kanneh-Mason’s rendering as “good” as the Jacqueline du Pre performance of half a century ago -  a performance that has become a classic in its own right. For me, I was judging Friday night’s performance against the Paul Tortelier renderings of the Elgar which for me are sublime. Others will have different ideas. Additionally, as well as personal “taste” there is the inevitable human reaction to pick up on every small detail; after all we “know” the work so well that a wrong note or missed beat or lack of synchronisation or empathy  between soloist, choir or orchestra will be there for all to see and hear – there is little space for the performer to hide! And so it was with Saturday’s concert in St Peter’s – we all knew so many of the works and when that happens then there is, I suspect, an added pressure on the performers not only to bring out something new, something to set their rendering apart and make it special and memorable but for it to be perfectly performed so as not to offend the preconceptions of the listeners.

Praise the Lord- Laudate Dominum!

Last night’s concert fulfilled, for me at least, all these requirements. From the gentle and reverential opening work (Laudate Dominum) to the final bars of the Schubert Mass in G  the singers and players put their own stamp on the works. If there was a common, and  perhaps unintended theme running through the evening it seemed to me to be that these were all calm and reflective pieces and the choir, soloists and orchestra brought this out to perfection. In an increasingly brash world of 24 hour news, Brexit strife, rampant individualism, materialism and inequality, man’s inhumanity to man, instability and uncertainty each of these works had something to say – in Biblical terms it was the “still, small voice of God”. And if you were a non-believer then the works still spoke to you – it was the “still, small voice of calm” in an increasingly mad, mad, mad world.

The two young soloists, mezzo soprano  Rebecca Sarginson and baritone James Farmer blended sympathetically and beautifully with the choir and the orchestra and when, in the Schubert, conductor Paul Hayward unexpectedly turned to the audience and took the tenor part I think everyone in the church was both surprised and delighted. Paul Hayward was a man of many parts: choral conductor, orchestra conductor, organist (a wonderful rendering of Mendelssohn’s Organ Sonata No 3, perfect for the occasion and to get the second half of the programme off to a fine start) and tenor in the Mass. This young choral director pours so much of himself – his enthusiasm, his musical know how, his industry and his commitment - into the choir and their concerts that it is little surprise that the concerts have been so well received under his stewardship. But additionally, the choir has made, and continues to make, huge steps in their performance, breadth of repertoire and sheer choral quality – Paul Hayward can  deservedly take much of the praise for all this. As always, Hayward was more than ably assisted and, I’m sure, advised by accompanist Michael Overbury  whose musical pedigree is impeccable and skills on the keyboard – be it organ, piano or harpsichord - in a league of their own. As he played the Fugue on Bach’s Magnificat  there was  a palpable tension in the church, the audience mesmerised as his fingers danced on the keyboard. This complex work showed off Bach’s and Overbury’s technical brilliance and musicality to perfection – it was little wonder that he received one of the evening’s warmest rounds of applause.

Michael Overbury - the maestro of the organ!

This was an evening of hushed, atmospheric, reverential music;  Mozart’s Ave Verum Corpus, although well known to all the audience, was a perfect piece for a November concert in a village church – and the choir’s rendering was one to set the spine tingling. This was continued with a gentle and lyrical rendering of Brahms’ How Lovely Are they Dwellings Fair  and following this, the audience were delighted by the Ensemble’s performance of the Air from Handel’s Water Music. The mellow, warm and richly textured sound produced by  the Ensemble was perfect for both the occasion and the work; even though we sat in a church on a misty November evening I’m sure that many, like me, were transported to a summer evening glide down the Thames listening to Mr Handel conducting his new work for the pleasure of King George I three centuries ago. It was the same with the Ensemble’s second offering the Romanze from Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik: the delicate, precise playing of the Ensemble produced a pure, gentle and relaxing sound, a rendering in keeping with the reflective nature of the other works. This was music to close your eyes to and relax while, at the same time, gently think on great things; if the spirit of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was sitting high amongst the St Peter’s rafters last night I’m sure that he would have approved greatly.

And so to the two major works: Rheinberger’s Stabat Mater and Schubert’s Mass in G. As noted above for many, including me, Rheinberger’s Stabat Mater was an unknown – but what a discovery! The interval conversations over cups of coffee and glasses of wine bore witness to the fact that I was not alone in finding this work a real joy. This hauntingly lyrical work which within it contains a huge range to test both choir and players is music to encourage listeners to ponder and reflect upon life’s great mysteries. Within it are contained some truly lovely melodies, serene passages and moments of power and huge emotion.This allowed the basses and tenors to show their depth, strength and richness while the altos and the sopranos could soar above them. And soar the whole choir did – the sound that they made  a fitting end to the concert’s first half and as the final notes died away one couldn’t help noting the many in the audience turning to their neighbours to express their delight and surprise in this little known but lovely work.

Choir & players in perfect harmony

The well known and joyful opening to Schubert’s Mass set the scene beautifully for a memorable performance by the Ruddington & District and their accompanying Ensemble. Although gentle and reflective in nature the Mass also gives choirs the opportunity to give full voice to their singing – and this they did. The result was that Paul Hayward extracted every last ounce of expression and emotional intensity from his choir – his singers were with him all the way, their faces and voices advertising both their enjoyment and musical input into this great work. The applause at the end was due recognition of not only a superbly performed work but of a hugely successful, enjoyable and lovely evening.

Conductor & choir director Paul Hayward takes on

another role!

But, last night’s concert was not only supremely enjoyable, it was for me – and I hope for others - important. In this brash, uncertain and unstable modern world it seems increasingly that we are losing (maybe have already lost) the willingness to talk about things like virtue, love,  goodness, faith, honour, righteousness or the other dimensions of our inner self that go into making our very basic humanity. In a world obsessed with self and where we increasingly ask only what is it worth, does it work, how much does it cost, or   what’s in it for me we increasingly define our world and our relationships only in pragmatic or economic terms. We have created a gradgrind world where wealth and power are too often the only yardsticks by which people and events are judged. One needs only look at the way in which the Brexit debate has been consistently framed by all politicians to see the truth of this. Never have the politicians driving the debate concerned themselves with the question what kind of people - either individually or nationally - do we want to be: a welcoming, tolerant, open society or a closed, intolerant, isolationist nation? These are not unimportant questions, they go the very fabric of who and what we are both as individuals and a society.  We have not been asked equally important questions: is the proposed Brexit is culturally worthy, socially acceptable, morally justified, in keeping with our responsibilities to those who have gone before us or who will come after us,  or desirable in terms of our wider relationships with our friends in Europe.  No, the name of the game has been only power and economics - will it make us economically richer or poorer, will it give us an economic advantage over other nations? It is the manifestation of our own selfish individual and national ambitions to become richer or more powerful in the world's crude rat race to the top - or, maybe, in reality it is a race to civilization's bottom.  The whole depressing spectacle proves what our society in general and our leaders in particular have become: we know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

In writing this I am reminded of Oliver Goldsmith's great and damning poem The Deserted Village decrying the same national atmosphere that clouded our country in the get rich quick days of the mid eighteenth century when a small aristocratic elite got richer and richer at the expense of the huge mass of the population: this was the age of the Enclosure Acts when common land was "enclosed" by the nation's great families and ordinary workers lost their homes and livelihoods. Forced to leave the land that they had worked for generations they often fled to the growing towns seeking work the great factories and mills of the growing industrial revolution. There they fell prey to unscrupulous mill owners and the spiral downwards continued:famine stalked the land, obscene poverty was rife and insurrection  imminent. Against this backdrop Goldsmith wrote in his searing poetic commentary:"Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay". Quite. 

Ready for the second half to begin - we await our conductor!

And today, as then, the only game in town is the acquisition of wealth and power; society can no longer be bothered or interested in asking the great, unanswerable questions: who am I, why am I here, what’s life about, how should I act, what’s the right thing to do? We less and less talk of ideals and instead talk more of ambitions, thus prioritising personal wants over  humanitarian deeds and human thought and action. The President of America, arguably the most powerful  man in the world (not the wisest, or most devout, or most humble, or most thoughtful President - American voters have moved on from these real qualities and qualifications for national leader when they moved on from Obama), pours forth drivel of enormous proportions such as "I think if this country gets any kinder or gentler, it's literally going to cease to exist." and millions vote for him. These same people - and others - see nothing wrong when he talks of “beautiful deals” with little or no awareness of what the word beauty implies. The nonsensical drivel that Trump espouses is, it seems, endless but he should not be judged too harshly - he is not the cause but merely the symptom. Flick through any social media platform and one will read mind numbingly banal posts from otherwise perfectly "intelligent" people: on Facebook as I look at my mobile phone screen at this moment I am reading two memes:"Stay calm, eat cake" and "Why is it that meteors always land in craters" - these being passed on as profound wisdom or insightful commentary. We truly are in a race to the bottom; we have become increasingly uncaring in our use of language and consequently in our thoughts.  No longer, do we consider what we say and how we say it. No longer, I fear, do we ask is an idea or thought or action good or worthy or decent or just or of good report or any of the other facets of humanity that make us who and what we are and what we might or should be; we simply reflect back the brash, pragmatic, banal and increasingly non-sensical world that we are creating and inhabit.

Reaching the climax!

So, as we race to the bottom last night’s concert and the music chosen for the programme was an important and timely reminder; not only did it remind us of these essential and deeply personal aspects of our humanity but it also reminded us of the importance of calm reflective thought, of beauty, of reverence, and of recharging the human spirit. Music can elate, enrich, sadden, inspire, deepen one’s understanding of the world and mankind; it can provide huge solace or great joy at important moments in our lives. As the old lager advert once said “It reaches the parts that the other beers can’t reach” – well last night’s concert did just that and more: the music and the programme last night reached the inner-most parts of our humanity, our souls  that perhaps many other  works might not have  reached!

Applause all round for a wonderful and inspiring programe & performance

For as long as there have been men and women on the planet they have made music and they have pondered the great mysteries of life. The music that we enjoyed in St Peter’s last night in a small way enabled us to continue this age old examination of ourselves; in the words of St Paul’s letter to the Philippians, to “think on these things”; to without embarrassment or fear of being thought old fashioned or "out of touch" with the "real world" to think great thoughts, talk of beauty and decency and love and virtue, to ask the questions that we need to occasionally ask of ourselves: who am I, what am I doing here, what is the right thing to do, what is really important in life?  Indeed, St Paul’s words would have been a perfect sub title for last night’s concert; they would have captured not only the unwritten theme of the programme but the measure of the performance: “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things”.

So, thank you Ruddington & District Choral Society, Ruddington Chamber Ensemble, Rebecca Sarginson, James Farmer, Michael Overbury and Paul Hayward – you gave us so much more than two hours of nice music.  You gave us music to Praise the Lord - Laudate Dominum  and in doing so an opportunity to refresh the soul, recharge the spiritual batteries and re-engage with our inner humanity in these dark, uncertain and worrying times.

Laudate Dominum: "Praise the Lord"......Come and join us at an evening of some of the world's great sacred music at St Peter's in Ruddington

Laudate Dominum – "Praise the Lord" is the theme of Ruddington & District Choral Society's upcoming concert on Saturday, November 24th at St. Peter's Church in Ruddington.  The programme promises much - some of the greatest, most loved and exquisite examples  of sacred music; great choral works all of which, in their different ways, "praise the Lord". The concert covers a wide spread – from the Baroque repertoire through to the late nineteenth century and includes both the great names of the choral tradition: Bach, Mozart, Brahms, Schubert, as well as the lesser known Josef Rheinberger’s  magical, haunting and intensely reverent Stabat Mater. And to add to this cornucopia of profound and lovely sacred works there are much loved orchestral and organ works by Mozart, Bach and Handel from the Ruddington Chamber Ensemble and organist Michael Overbury which are sure to brighten and enrich a November  autumn night.

Although Saturday's programme is an evening of sacred music one should not forget that devotional music has long played a wider part in the development of all music. Today, we can easily listen to our favourite music by switching on our CD player, tuning in to Classic FM or maybe even streaming our music from a Spotify App. We can pop along to the Royal Centre to enjoy one of the world’s great orchestras or live life to the full rocking to the music of one of the world’s pop stars playing a gig at the Nottingham Arena. But it has not always been so. It was devotional music that so often provided the bedrock of musical performance before technology, theatres and opera houses became an established part of people’s lives, so the role of sacred music – choral, organ or any other – was crucial in the wider development of the western musical tradition. For all composers in the days before "instant music" - records, CDs, radio, theatres and the like - devotional music was not simply a recognition of their own religious beliefs and perspectives it was so often a money earner and, to use a modern phrase, part of their professional CV.

So come along to St. Peter's in Ruddington (7.30 pm Saturday November 24th), you'll not only be made very welcome but enjoy some of the world's most beautiful, inspiring and uplifting music such as: 

Laudate Dominum:  Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756 – 1791)

Mozart’s sacred music was the least important part of his output. His relations with the church were troubled, and unlike Bach, he lived in a milieu where the profoundest musical ideas of the time were not practiced in church. At the same time, however, Mozart composed remarkable, profound, never to be forgotten, sacred works.

While in the service of the  unpleasant and autocratic  Archbishop  Colloredo, Bishop of Salzburg, Mozart was required to compose devotional works and in doing so  wrote some of his most remarkable sacred pieces  - amongst them the Vesperae solennes de Confessore (Solemn Vespers) K. 339. This masterpiece foreshadows  the two great unfinished religious works of his Vienna period, the Mass in C Minor and the Requiem.

The work was intended for the celebration of an undisclosed saint's day and its six movements were interspersed with readings. The text consists of five Psalms and the Magnificat canticle that concludes every Vespers service. Just before the final dazzling Magnificat  is the exquisite and much loved Laudate Dominum  for soprano and chorus. Mozart’s love of the soaring soprano voice is amply displayed in long, luxurious lines over a simple accompaniment. One of the most lyrical soprano solos Mozart ever wrote it is a work beautiful enough for a place in any of his operas but at the same time has a inward spirituality perfectly appropriate for a church service. 

Ave Verum Corpus: Wolfgang Amadeus  Mozart (1756-1791)

The exquisite Ave Verum Corpus was written only six months before Mozart’s death at age 35. At a mere 46 bars, it reflects perfectly Mozart’s ability to say something profound in the simplest possible way; once heard, its otherworldly and sublime melody is never forgotten. Composed for his friend, choirmaster Anton Stoll, for the Feast of Corpus Christi, it is a radically pared down example of Mozart’s determination to create a new type of church music based on clarity and emotional directness rather than the often florid counterpoint of high Baroque.

Ave Verum Corpus (Hail True Body of Christ) dates from the 14th century and has been set to music by many composers. It is possible that Mozart composed his work mindful of the Imperial ban on elaborate sacred music, or it is equally likely that he was writing with the limitations of Stoll's choir in mind. Whatever, his setting is remarkable for its compact simplicity - an approach that would have suited the reform-minded Austrians where textual clarity and brevity were all-important in church music.  

Written in 1791, the same year as his Clarinet Concerto and the opera Die Zauberflöte – each pinnacles of Western music. American composer Aaron Copland said of these three works: “....they fill us with awe and wonder, not unmixed with despair. The wonder we share with everyone; the despair comes from the realization that only this one man at this one moment in musical history could have created works that seem so effortless and close to perfection.”  Pianist and musicologist Artur Schnabel famously described the work as “....too simple for children and too difficult for adults (after all, simple music like this exposes any lapses of rhythm, intonation, or ensemble)...... the music seems to encompass a universe of feelings in forty-six short bars”.

Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring: Johann Sebastian Bach (1685 – 1750)

There can be few works from JS Bach’s vast musical output that are so easily recognisable to the man or woman in the street as Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring. The work derived from the 10th and last movement of the cantata Herz und Mund und Tat und Leben, BWV 147 ("Heart and Mouth and Deed and Life").

Bach's duties as cantor at St Thomas's school, Leipzig required the performance of a cantata on Sundays and feast days. As the Thomaskirche had no repertoire of cantatas when Bach arrived in 1723, he had to compose a new work each week. Cantata No. 147  was first performed on 2 July 1723 and is known to be based on an earlier lost work from 1716. It is this work that includes the chorale Jesus Bleibet Meine Freude, also known as Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring. Bach scored the work for voices with trumpet, oboes, strings, and continuo but in the intervening years the work has been arranged for countless combinations of instruments.

Today, it is as popular as ever and often performed at wedding ceremonies, as well as during Christian festivals like Christmas and Easter. One of the most famous transcriptions was that of the English pianist Dame Myra Hess (1890–1965).  In 1926 she published piano solo - and later a piano duet version of the work and when the Second World War broke out she raised the profile of the work to new heights when it became a firm favourite of her wartime concerts at the National Gallery in London.  The government had closed London's theatres to avoid mass casualties in the event of bombing raids and the National Gallery's position made it vulnerable to attack. Concert pianist Myra Hess had the idea of using the Gallery as a venue for lunchtime classical music concerts. She approached the Director of the Gallery, Kenneth Clark, and he gained the necessary permission from the government. Chairs were borrowed from any available source and the Gallery – empty of its thousands of art works which had been removed to a place of safety - was hastily converted into a concert venue. Myra Hess and friends from the world of music staged concerts at 1pm from Monday to Friday, every week of the year during the Blitz.  Her aim was to raise the morale of Londoners and make classical music available to all. The concerts were a roaring success – long queues formed outside the Gallery and were attended by a total of 750,000 people over six and a half years. Bach’s Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring played by Hess became the work most associated with the concerts and a wartime favourite. It has held a special place in the hearts and minds of English music lovers ever since.

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How Lovely Are Thy Dwellings Fair: Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)

This well known and beautiful melody, a working of Psalm 84, forms the central section of Brahms’s A German Requiem.  The Requiem is a large scale work for chorus and orchestra and soloists.  Although it sets scriptural words to music the work is non-liturgical.  Brahms assembled the libretto himself from the Lutheran Bible, focussing purposely on omitting Christian dogma. It is important to point out that it is not, as the title might suggest, a nationalist work of any kind, Brahms wrote that he would gladly have substituted the word ‘German’ with the word ‘Human’

The Requiem, composed in 1866 is considered to be Brahms’s greatest choral work. Although he was already an established composer, the piece established his international reputation. It is a work equally respected by scholars and beloved by performers and audiences, engaging listeners through its broad range of expressive styles - from sombre and tragic, tender and lyrical, to triumphant and sublime - and speaks to them through its spiritual approach to the inescapable human experience of grief, both with its acknowledgment of despair and provision for hope.    

After the death of his mother in 1865 Brahms wrote the Requiem and there is no doubt that he found some consolation in this.  By April 1865 he had sent two movements (‘Blessed are they that mourn’ and ‘How lovely are thy dwellings fair’) to the pianist Clara Schumann (widow of composer Richard Schumann) with whom Brahms had developed an intensely emotional relationship following her husband’s death.

Although their relationship probably never developed beyond intense friendship Brahms relied upon her judgement and advice on all musical matters.  In the accompanying letter with the two movements he wrote, “It’s probably the least offensive part of some kind of German Requiem. But since it may have vanished into thin air before you come to Baden, at least have a look at the beautiful words it begins with.”

He could not have been more wrong. Clara was lavish in her praise for the two pieces and they became central to the whole Requiem. “How Lovely Are Thy Dwellings is a simple, gently lyrical and serene contemplation of heaven and has been described as “...an oasis of seemingly-uncomplicated melodies that turn the work toward life after death.”   Both the Requiem and this beautiful movement quickly became established and much loved parts of the choral tradition.

Stabat Mater: Josef Rheinberger (1839 – 1901)

Josef Gabriel Rheinberger born in Liechtenstein and resident for most of his life in Germany, was an organist and composer. His father initially opposed his pursuing a musical career, but was finally persuaded to allow his prodigiously talented son – he performed publically at age seven and was declared a “child prodigy” - to study in Munich. He was involved in the rehearsals for the first performance of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde which took place in Munich in 1865. In 1867, he was appointed professor of organ and composition at the Munich Conservatory, where he remained for the rest of his career.  Rheinberger was influenced by a range contemporaries such as Brahms and by composers from earlier times, such as Mendelssohn, Schumann, Schubert, and, above all, Bach. He was a prolific composer composing many works in different genres. They include twelve Mass settings, a Requiem, tonight’s Stabat Mater, several operas and symphonies and many works of chamber music. Today he is remembered mainly for his many organ compositions, which include two concertos. His organ sonatas have been called the most valuable addition to organ music since the time of Mendelssohn.

A young contemporary of Anton Bruckner, Rheinberger held several important posts including conductor of the Royal Choir in addition to his Chair at the Munich Conservatory. He was a composer who often turned his back on popular styles of the day, relying largely on well established musical craft and technique to create some of the most masterful pieces of the late nineteenth century. A distinguished teacher Rheinberger counted amongst his pupils the composers Englebert Humperdink and Richard Strauss and the German conductor Wilhelm Furtwangler – widely regarded as perhaps the greatest interpreter and conductor of the 20^th century symphonic and operatic music.

The Stabat Mater is a 13th-century hymn to Mary portraying her suffering as Christ's mother during his crucifixion. The title comes from its first line, Stabat Mater dolorosa, which means "the sorrowful mother was standing". Rheinberger’s Stabat Mater was composed in 1890 and is a follow-up to his concert version of the same text that was composed in 1864. Its size and restraint  shows that it was intended for use within the liturgy and is representative of how Rheinberger approached his sacred works.

The work originated in somewhat strange circumstances and as the result of the generally poor health that Rheinberger suffered throughout most of his adult life. For many years, he suffered a disability of his right hand, making composition increasingly difficult. In the first half of 1884, however, the hand became badly ulcerated making writing virtually impossible. In desperation he sought therapy at the health spa town of Wildbad Kreuth. The treatment was largely successful and greatly eased the pain and  when he returned home Rheinberger told to his wife that he had made a vow to the Mother of God that if his health improved, he would compose a Stabat Mater in thanks to build upon the one originally composed in 1864. The result was tonight’s work.

Eschewing the flamboyant church music of the day Rheinberger sought to create works that reflected, in part the sixteenth century polyphonic ideals as seen, for example, in the works of Palestrina. In his day, Rheinberger was a strong advocate of the movement to simplify and purify liturgical music. The Stabat Mater is scored for strings, organ and chorus; there are no sections for soloists. Despite the simplicity and purity of the score the work is emotionally powerful both in its music and in the poetic text. It coveys a wealth of emotional styles – from its dramatic opening theme sounded by the men of the choir and lower strings to the beautiful duet sections of the Eja mater, to the majestic fugue that ends the work.  The work is a brief, but brilliant foray into this deeply moving text. A contemporary review of the first performance declared the work to be: “One of the most beautiful works which the present time has to offer. Its breadth of conception and its noble tonal effect, combined with its rich polyphony reaches the masterpieces of the old Italian school.” 

Mass in G: Franz Schubert (1797 – 1828)

The Mass in G Major was written early in 1815 when Franz Schubert was just 18 years old and first performed in the same year in the small Viennese parish church of Lichtental. Astonishingly it was composed in less than a week (March 2 - 7). The year 1815 was an astonishing one; it saw the completion of Schubert’s second and third symphonies, two full-scale masses, several chamber works, and an astonishing one hundred forty-four songs. At a time when much of the world was celebrating Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo, Schubert was quietly producing dozens of compositions, many of which would become staples of the classical repertoire. His works from that time demonstrate a remarkable depth of expression and level of compositional maturity and in a musical culture that centred almost exclusively in Vienna, Schubert stands out as a rarity. Unlike Mozart, Beethoven, and a handful of other successful composers whom the Viennese gladly claimed as their own, Schubert was native to that city, and remained there until his brief life was cut short by typhoid fever in 1828.

Small in stature (he stood less than 5’2”) and prone to bouts of illness, Schubert never married, devoting himself instead to composition, teaching, and salon performances. His widespread fame and respect largely arrived posthumously; during his lifetime he laboured under the shadow of Beethoven and the fanatical popularity of Rossini.

With a small but committed circle of friends and fellow artists, he supported himself through teaching and publication, living in relative obscurity. A gifted composer with an exquisite sense of melody and drama he was the consummate creator of Lieder – or art song - tone poems, and artistic works in almost every musical genre. His music ultimately came to embody a unique Classical-Romantic style, steeped in the formal traditions of the eighteenth century but deeply imbued with the harmonic and expressive spontaneity of the nineteenth.

The score of the Mass in G Major, for string orchestra and organ in addition to soprano, tenor and bass soloists and choir was not published until decades after Schubert’s death. The soprano solo line was undoubtedly written for Therese Grob who Schubert adored. It is the shortest and simplest of Schubert’s seven masses and perfect for the small church at Lichtental where it was first performed. It is an exquisite, lyrical Mass that exudes an overall devotional mood.  Schubert was not an orthodox catholic but was a deeply religious man. He wrote to his father, “People have wondered at the piety I express in a hymn to the Virgin Mary, which seems to move every soul and to dispose the listener to prayer. I think that is because I never force myself to pray and, except when devotion involuntarily overpowers me, I never compose that kind of hymn or prayer -- when I do, then the piety I give voice to is genuine and deeply felt.”

This gentlest of masses illustrates that Schubert was familiar with and accomplished in the latest  musical developments of the age. The intimate character of the Mass is heightened by its chamber scoring, the marked absence of lengthy polyphonic passages, the absence of long instrumental interludes and the lack of textual repetitions that are common in larger works. In many ways the piece challenges many of the accepted religious aspects of the mass in being deliberately understated. The soloist passages are lyrical and unpretentious, the texture is largely homophonic, and the harmonies are smooth and restrained. But Schubert’s Mass is no pedantic exercise: passages of soaring lyricism abound and the piece ends not on an energetic finale but on a warm and tender Agnus Dei. Its melancholy and mournful melodies enriched with profound harmonies underscoring the young composer's maturity. Dennis Shrock the internationally acclaimed teacher, scholar, and performer of choral music has commented that “....within this gentle, understated work there are periods of driving intensity interwoven with the most profound soft, reflective moods. There is majesty and inner joyousness and through it all runs an overriding serenity...”. 

Eine kleine Nachtmusik:  Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756 - 1791)

Composed in 1787  Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (A Little Night Music) can claim, with some justification, to be Mozart’s most popular work. Despite this, however, little is known about its origins. We do not know for whom he composed it or whether he intended it to be played by an orchestra or by single players. There is no record of a performance during Mozart’s lifetime and musicologist Alfred Einstein has suggested that Mozart might have composed it purely for his own enjoyment.

We do know that Mozart composed  the piece while working on the second act of Don Giovanni and we also know that in Mozart’s own catalogue he indicated that he had written five movements although now we now only have four. It’s a matter of conjecture as to whether it was Mozart or someone else who discarded the missing movement. The four remaining movements, however, are sufficient; the Eine Kleine Nachtmusik is considered a supreme example of Mozart’s mastery of balance and economy. Some experts think Mozart cut out the movement himself to preserve this balance. There is no doubt that the tunes themselves and the sound Mozart creates have a unique “rightness” which immediately appeals to the listener and ensures the piece’s perennial popularity.

At first hearing, as well as for the one-thousandth time, no music sounds simpler than Eine kleine Nachtmusik. But this is a sophisticated simplicity, which Mozart could achieve only after completing some of his most complex works, such as the operas The Marriage of Figaro and Don Giovanni, the great piano concertos and the string quartets. With such experiences behind him, Mozart knew how to limit himself to the bare essentials and to say the most with the fewest possible notes. For anyone quite new to Classical music, there is no better place to start to explore the world of the classics. The music student, trying to grasp the elements of classical forms  such as sonata, minuet, or rondo, could hardly find clearer examples. And even the seasoned music lover and the professional musician must marvel again and again at a musical perfection that almost defies description. Such is the Eine kleine Nachtmusik.

Air from the Water Music Suite in F: George Frederic Handel (1685-1759)

On July 19, 1717, two days after the event, the London Daily Courant carried the following report: “On Wednesday Evening, the King [George I] took Water at Whitehall ... and went up the River towards Chelsea. Many other Barges with Persons of Quality attended, and so great a Number of Boats, that the whole River in a manner was cover’d; a City Company’s Barge was employ’d for the Musick, wherein were 50 Instruments of all sorts, who play’d all the Way from Lambeth ... the finest Symphonies, compos’d express for the Occasion, by Mr. Handel; which his Majesty liked so well, that he caus’d it to be plaid over three times going and returning.”

Handel based his Water Music on similar compositions that had become popular for the al fresco suppers and barge excursions at Louis XIV’s Versailles. The Water Music, like those French works, is simple in texture, dance-like in rhythm, graceful and majestic in spirit; many of the movements recall the dance forms that are the basis of all Baroque suites. The slow sections – of which the Air is arguably the most well known – reflects perfectly the limpid, flowing operatic arias of which Handel was the undisputed master. Of this much loved music, American musicologist Martin Bookspan wrote, “It need only be said that for sheer entertainment and joy, the music that Handel composed for the King’s on that summer’s evening has few rivals in the whole repertoire.” Few would disagree.

Fugue on the Magnificat: Johann Sebastian Bach (1685 – 1750)      
       
In the autumn of 1705, the young Bach requested four weeks’ leave from his employer in Arnstadt to travel to Lübeck and learn from Dietrich Buxtehude, the greatest organist of the age. He made the 280-mile journey on foot not returning until late  February, by which time he was severely rebuked by the Arnstadt Consistory for his prolonged absence. What Bach learned in Lübeck changed him forever. Contemporary accounts tell that his organ playing changed dramatically; his employers complained bitterly, referring to his “improper playing” by making “curious variations in the chorale” so that the congregation was “much confused” by it!

The Fugue on the Magnificat (BWV733) dates from this period. It has been suggested that the work might be that of Bach's student, Johann Krebs but whatever the pedigree the work is a fine, and brilliant, composition requiring consummate skill both for the composer and the player. In musical terminology a fugue is a contrapuntal composition in which a short melody or phrase is introduced by one part and successively taken up by others and developed by interweaving the parts into a complex whole. Bach is the undisputed master of this form.

The Magnificat is a canticle (a hymn or chant forming a regular part of a church service) also known as the Song of Mary.  Bach’s Fugue on the Magnificat is based upon Martin Luther’s German translation of the Magnificat and would have served as a prelude to congregational singing, an adornment to the choral melody, or perhaps more likely it would have preceded a singing of the Magnificat.

Now, if all that doesn't whet your musical appetite and set the musical taste buds tingling then there is really no hope for you! So, come along, support your local choir, listen to and enjoy live music and enjoy a musical feast at St Peter's as Ruddington & District Choral Society praise the Lord - Laudate Dominum!

John Derbyshire: A Quiet Prestonian, My Hero & The Stuff Of Family Legend

John as a young man

My great uncle, John Derbyshire, was my hero. I had always liked him, even as a young child when I helped him pick peas (popping most of them in my mouth!) from his vegetable patch. The fact that he was then well into his late middle age was irrelevant – I suppose that you can say we just  clicked. As a youngster, to me he seemed exciting and a bit different. A lifelong bachelor he was a bit of a “man about town” and although he dressed in his working clothes whilst he tended the garden and did other jobs, when he went out each evening for a quiet pint of beer he would look, to my young eyes, rather smart and dashing in an old fashioned sort of way – trilby, stiff collar, tightly knotted tie, highly polished brown shoes, gold watch chain on his waistcoat. 

John lived nearly all his life with his mother, my great grandmother, in a house – now gone – in the Fishwick area of Preston. Shortly after his mother, Jane, died, well into her 90s, and John himself was retiring age he moved, in the mid 1950s, to a little wooden bungalow that he had bought some years before on the A6 at Cabus near Garstang, about 10 miles north of Preston. The house in Preston where he lived for so much of his life overlooked the area of the town called Fishwick Bottoms (locally as known as the “Loney” or the “ Bonk”)  and from its land you could look down to the distant River Ribble. For anyone who knows the area the house (I suppose it might have been called a smallholding, although it wasn’t farmed in my lifetime) had a considerable area of land around it containing barns and greenhouses and the like.  It stood at the point behind what used to be Fishwick Secondary Modern School (which I attended in the mid 1950s) where Church Avenue bends round to became Neston Street. In the distant past the house must have been very much at the edge of Preston -  almost in the "countryside" I guess - but as the Callon Estate, Fishwick School  and other surrounding areas were built and the Preston urban area spread in the 1920s and 30s it became part of that urbanisation. From the side door which was on Church Avenue and always used (never the front door!) one could see the nearby St Teresa’s Roman Catholic Church. Strangely, the actual house address was 9 Manning Road since the front door was actually on the unmade track that was, at that time, the continuation of Manning Road just off New Hall Lane.  I presume that when the Fishwick School playing fields where put down in the late 1930’s the effect was to cut Manning Road into two – one end at New Hall Lane and the other at the end of Church Avenue. When I made a visit a few years ago I realised that the unmade track that was Manning Road in my childhood and before has been made into a proper street with houses and has been renamed and terminates as Church Avenue.

John (standing) and his older brother Joe, my 

granddad, in about 1908

The house had been in the family for a long time and for John’s father (James, my great grandfather who died many years before I was born) it was his place of work as a blacksmith and iron moulder. James Derbyshire and his wife Jane (née Fisher) had originally come from the Bolton-le-Sands area near Morecambe Bay and moved to Preston sometime at the turn of the century  but by 1915 they were established in the house in Preston with three children: Joe (my grandfather, born in the Bolton le Sands area in the early 1891), Annie (who became Annie Nicholson and lived in Garstang) and John, born in 1897.  At the side of the house was James' workshop a large, earth floored shed filled with ancient iron tools, workbenches, a forge and a vast selection of horse tack - old saddles, huge numbers of rusting horseshoes, bridles and other items I could  not name; as a child I can remember playing in this wonderland! Here in Nottingham in my porch I still have a cast iron door stop moulded into the shape of a lion made by my great grandfather probably in the early years of the 20^th century – it’s a nice little link with my past. But if the smithy was a wonderland so, too, were the surrounding grounds of the house. My friends Jack Greenhalgh and Jimmy Kellett (who both lived nearby) and I played hide and seek, soldiers, cowboys & indians and a thousand other boyish games for hours in the old tumbledown barns and greenhouses.  One day I vividly remember we all three chased a huge rat that we saw near a barn. The animal disappeared into the barn but our bravery stopped there – although we threw stones into the barn none of us were brave enough to venture inside. Presumably by then the creature was down in its lair – but we weren’t prepared to find out! On another occasion we were playing hide and seek and I decided to stand on top of an old oil barrel to look for my pals. Unfortunately the barrel was riddled with rust and I fell straight through gashing my thigh badly; my great grandma had to bandage me up with a piece of old shirt that she tore into strips. The scar is still there today, almost 70 years later; I suppose in this day and age I would have been whizzed off to A&E with flashing blue lights but we were made of sterner stuff in those days so a few strips of one of my Uncle John's old shirts had to do!

I have many happy memories, too, of the house. It was a large detached house but the kitchen and the attached outhouse were the only rooms ever really used. The rest of the house always seemed to me to be an unused, bleak affair filled with an ancient grandfather clock, great Victorian sideboards and other old furniture and faded carpets. I remember, too, that the rest of the house always seemed unlived in and cold - fires were never lit there, curtains left drawn so that the rooms were gloomy and many of the pieces of furniture were covered with dust sheets. The outhouse, which adjoined the kitchen, and through which every visitor came to get into the house (I don’t think that the front door of the house had been opened in years!) had a lavatory and several old tables usually filled with windfall apples, bowls of eggs from the few hens that were kept, or various vegetables that were in season and had been grown in the largely overgrown garden. There was a huge old stone sink, a dolly tub, and a selection of aging  kitchen  implements and apparatus – especially an old mangle which, as a child I loved to test my strength against by  turning the huge wooden rollers.  On rainy days my great grandmother would hang her washing up on the wooden airing rack which was suspended from the outhouse ceiling.

From the pungent smell of windfall apples and damp washing in the outhouse one stepped into the kitchen – the house proper - with its huge black shiny kitchen range and  roaring fire, always warm and welcoming whatever the weather. Although there was an old, working gas cooker in the outhouse, the soot blackened kettle was always boiled on the fire and my great grandmother seemed to cook everything in the oven at the side of the fire. 

As a young child I was often taken to visit  “Grandma and Uncle John” on a Saturday evening; we would walk up New Hall Lane from Caroline Street where we lived and I would sit - being seen and not heard - on the ancient, hard and very lumpy chez lounge near the kitchen range and the fire  while the adults talked and my very old (to my young eyes) grandmother sat in her rocking chair. Then, just before we left, she would open the range oven door and pull out a steaming bowl of rice pudding left over from lunchtime. This would be presented to me with a spoon and she would say “I’ve saved you the toffee (the thick skin of the pudding) – it’s the best bit, eat it up Tony it's good for you". And I always did – although I’m not a pudding lover, I’ve loved the “toffee” on a rice pudding ever since!

Me with my great grandmother at the house 

in Church Avenue. This would be in about 1946.

St Teresa's church is in the background

Then, at about nine o'clock, as we set off for home; Uncle John would appear dressed smartly in his old fashioned brown suit complete with waistcoat and gold watch chain, don his trilby, and he would walk with us down Church Avenue to where it joined New Hall Lane. We would carry on down the Lane bound for Caroline Street but he would disappear into the Hesketh Arms pub for his Saturday night half of mild. I know that John would go for his “quiet half” most evenings – sometimes to the Hesketh Arms, other nights further afield – especially the Bull & Royal in the middle of Preston.

When my great grandmother died in the mid fifties John moved to the little wooden bungalow that he had bought in Cabus, nearer to the Garstang Creamery where he had worked for many years. The bungalow was tiny and called "Woodlands" and was more or less opposite Dicky Dunn's Transport Café - more commonly referred to in those days as "Dirty Dick's"! "Woodlands", I think, is long gone now but it was just along the A6 road from what was the Mayfield Café. Mayfield, when I used to visit my great aunt Annie as a child in the late 1940s & early 50s was a bungalow and had been first  owned by Annie, John's sister, who was married to Bill Nicholson. Bill and Annie lived and farmed in the Garstang area throughout their married lives.  The original Mayfield bungalow had been planned and largely built by John and Annie's elder brother Joe (my grandfather) who earned his living in property repair and building. Annie & Bill started a business  at Mayfield - a café - on the A6, I assume that they thought that as car travel was becoming increasingly common in those 1930/1940s days this was a good business plan - it clearly worked and they soon had to extend the place. From serving teas in the bungalow they had a dining/tea room built. I can remember making frequent visits there in the 1950s with my parents and each time gazing at an old black and white framed photograph that hung on the wall. It showed my auntie Annie standing smiling in the café and sitting at a table complete with table cloth and cutlery King George V and Queen Mary each with a cup of tea in front of them. As I gazed at the photograph auntie Annie would again tell the story (as she did each time I visited!) of how the King and Queen were visiting Lancashire and travelling north. They had stopped at Mayfield for “refreshments” – my auntie had been warned the day before that this would occur and that the café must be closed so that His Majesty could enjoy his afternoon tea uninterrupted! Over the years it was further extended and became a well known  and used transport café in the 50s and 60s. Today it is  "Crofters" a large, gross and graceless looking "hotel & tavern" - whatever that might be - where casino nights, late night discos and other such dubious events take place – a far cry from King George V & Queen Mary! When Annie & Billy gave up Mayfield in the early 1950s  they moved just a few hundred yards along the A6 nearer to what then was the  Burlingham Caravans site. They had a large detached, bay windowed, house built, set back from the road and called their new home "Daybreak" which we often visited and seemed to my eyes very grand - the last time I drove past some years ago the house still stood there, much as I remember it from my childhood.

Mayfield in its original form - it later had an extension as it

became a café - later a transport café and now Crofters

I never revisited John's old house in Preston and left the area to live in Nottingham in the mid sixties. When I did return a few years ago I decided to make a nostalgic trip around the places of my childhood and I discovered that my great grandmother’s house was no more – instead there stood several well established houses bungalows. They had obviously been there for some considerable time, all evidence of the past use of the land gone forever.  

But as I stood there looking at the modern houses and bungalows now sited on the place where my great grandparents and great uncle had lived and worked  for most of their lives, and where I had enjoyed many happy childhood hours, I wondered if anyone knew of  the old house that had stood there half a century before. And I wondered if anyone had an inkling of a bit of history that had occurred there when, in a tiny way, my family’s history became part of the nation’s – a small, perhaps, insignificant event but one  which ultimately had a huge impact upon my own life and that of one of my children.

My great grandmother Jane Derbyshire, shortly 
before she died in the early 50s.

She is being presented with a bouquet as 
the oldest pensioner in

Preston at the time.

You see, I mentioned at the top of these ramblings that I loved Uncle John and much of my “hero worship” and respect for him was because of something that I knew of him:  he had run away to war when he was still a youngster! His older brother Joe had enlisted and John, several years younger and still only 17, broke all the rules and without permission "took the King's shilling" and joined up. I can remember my great grandmother sitting in her rocking chair in the kitchen in the old house and telling me, shortly before she died, that she had no idea where her younger son John had gone – except that he had gone off to war. 

It was 1915. John’s older brother – Joe – my granddad had signed up for the Loyal North Lancs Regiment in December (see my blogs: Touching the Past and A Little Bit of Preston Deep in a Foreign Field) and a few weeks later young John just disappeared – gone off to war. In those days many people didn’t have birth certificates so it was easy for someone to join up and lie about their age. The minimum age for joining up was 18 and for armed service overseas it was 19. John was just over 17½. Within weeks, however, he was in France, his mother and father desperately worried. Depending upon how you look at it he was lucky. It is estimated that about 250,000 boys served in France during the Great War – John was one of them. Until mid-way through 1916 the British army was largely volunteers (like my granddad) – men who answered the call. The army was desperate for men so they didn’t ask too many questions when someone like my great uncle turned up at the enlistment office. In 1916, however, the rules changed; conscription was introduced so suddenly there were a lot more men available for the army to draw upon and thus, the need to take on anybody and everybody lessened and the number of underage recruits slowly dried up. John must have been one of the last to be recruited in such a way.

John in France in the Spring of 1916 having 'joined up' under age. He stands on the back row extreme left. When  I look at this photo I am

appalled at the several innocent childish faces looking back at me. Some look dwarfed in their uniforms and caps. Soon after this photograph was taken John and his friends moved up to the front although he didn't actually see active service until the carnage of the first day of the Battle of the Somme on July 1st 1916.

Once his initial training was completed he was shipped off to France but his fighting days didn’t last too long. By the time John was 18 he was lying wounded in France and had lost his left eye when it was struck by shrapnel. On July 1^st – the first day of the Battle of the Somme he was one of the many thousands wounded. It was the worst day ever or since for the British Army when nearly 58,000 men were wounded and over 19,000 killed. John was one of those wounded. He was hospitalised in France and eventually shipped back to London. It was about a month later that his mother received the telegram informing her that he had been injured in France and would shortly be back to England

A few months later and John has lost his eye on the first day of the Battle of the Somme in July 1916.

 He is marked with a cross and wearing his 'blues' - the uniform given to hospitalised soldiers so that they would not mistakenly be identified as deserters.

At last, in late September 1916, word  came to James and Jane in Preston  that he was in hospital in London and his brother Joe, who happened to be on leave at the time, was sent off to the capital to find his younger brother. I can still remember both my grandfather and great uncle relating the story of how Joe searched the London hospitals for his injured brother. It was a huge problem; the hospitals were full to overflowing, administration and details about patients was scarce and, worst of all, John had his face bandaged up so was not easily recognisable. Eventually, however, he was found and some time later returned to Preston, his war service as a combatant effectively over.  He wasn’t officially discharged until the end of the hostilities but spent the rest of the war in England in non-combative duties. I do know that he received a severe reprimand from his mother and father – and I’ve often idly tried to imagine the scene in that little kitchen with the roaring fire and the shiny kitchen range as the young John, his eye heavily bandaged came through the door. I’ve often wondered, too, if that event  was perhaps a factor in John never marrying but living with his parents and then his widowed mother for the rest of their lives. I’ll never know, but the story both excited and intrigued me. To me, as a child, this was the stuff of dreams and high adventure and it gave this quiet, gentle, elderly man an air of mystery and excitement! This was further regularly heightened when, whenever we went to visit him he would take out what he called his “war souvenir” - his glass eye - and lay it on the mantelpiece! It was his party trick which always ensured gasps of horror or delight but thrilled me and made Uncle John very special.

He had only a very ordinary job – working at Garstang Creamery where, amongst other dairy products, Lancashire Cheese was made - but as I grew into  my teenage years it increasingly became obvious to me that he had  much more to him. He was well read and seemed to have important things to say; to my youthful mind he "knew stuff”. As I grew up I can remember having increasingly serious conversations with him about events in the news.  He was, I realised, both articulate and understanding, able to talk knowledgeably, it seemed to me, about anything; to my teenage eyes he was undoubtedly "on the ball". Each night he would listen to the Home Service nine o'clock news on the radio – an old crackly machine that looked as if it came from the Great War trenches! - and he would always comment on what he heard, saying things which to my young ears were very clever, thoughtful and wise. And, having listened to the news he would put on his brown trilby hat which matched his suit and with his watch chain across his waistcoat very smartly walk down to the Hesketh Arms on New Hall Lane or perhaps into Preston to have his nightly half pint of mild ale.

John in December 1956 (at the back on the left). He 'gave away' 

his niece - my auntie - Edna. When she married 

Joe Park at Ribbleton Avenue Methodist Church.

 John's brother Joe (Edna's father) had died 

three years previously. Edna was a weaver at Emerson 

Road Mill and her new husband Joe was a tackler there. 
My mother was a maid of honour and Joe's brother was best man.

As the years passed he became a firm friend and in the last year or two before I went off to teacher training college I would enjoy sharing a beer with him and my dad each Saturday night. My dad would pick John up at his Cabus bungalow and they would pop out for their “quiet halves" of beer – usually to the Patten Arms at Winmarleigh but occasionally to the Royal Oak in Garstang or perhaps further afield to Morecambe or Lancaster  and I would often go with them. We would sit there, a nineteen year old and a seventy year old enjoying each other’s company. Even though the years separated us we could always “connect”. Despite his bald head and advanced years he seemed to me to be a modern man and still young at heart with the capacity to talk to you and not at you. I can remember talking to him in the weeks following the Kennedy assassination and although by then he was in his late sixties I was thrilled that he wanted to know what I, a mere teenager, thought about that dreadful and - to those of my age and who lived through it - never to be forgotten event. "It's your world now, Tony" he said to me one Saturday night following the Dallas assassination of Kennedy "my generation have done our bit to make the world right so it's up to your generation to try now" - how thrilling is that when you're a teenager, a kind of passing of the generational torch, guaranteed to inspire and make you feel good - and for me at least, it was a coming of age thing which without any shadow of doubt gave my life some sort of meaning and goal. When I talked to him he always listened intently and responded – not always agreeing, but picking up the nuances and wanting to explore and think about what I thought and said - and in doing that it seemed to me  (and still does) that he was implicitly recognising my opinions as worthy of consideration.  He once asked me - and he was genuinely interested -  as we sipped our beer “Now come on Tony tell me about these Rolling Stones (this was in the early 60s!) why do you youngsters like them?”   I can remember him talking of the first great Liverpool football team created by Bill Shankley as they succeeded in Europe and telling me “that’s the way that football is going to be played from now on, like a chess match – none of this kick and rush stuff that we've been used to”. To me, as a teenager, used to my parents and older people putting teenagers down this was music to my young ears. And I still vividly remember, when I was about to go off to college and (much to my mother’s disapproval) I had opened a bank account complete with cheque book (an unknown item in my family in those days). He spoke up for me when my mother expressed her strong disapproval – bank accounts and cheque books weren’t for “folk like us” she argued . “Now, Doris”, he said “I’ve been reading in the Daily Express  that in a few years time we will all be paying for things with little plastic cards. Tony’s a young man now he has to be modern and move with the world”. I can still hear him saying those words and my mother huffing and puffing while I quietly raised my eyes to heaven and silently whispered a quiet “Thank you, God”!  Paying with plastic cards! – I wonder if even Uncle John could have comprehended how the world would change? No, my great uncle John seemed to me at the time – and still does - to have had his finger on the pulse, to have thought things out and was his own man. As a callow teenager all those years ago, to me he was worldly wise, ahead of his time – to coin a modern phrase a “cool dude”!

American poet and author Maya Angelou once wrote: "I've learned that people will forget what you did and that people will forget what you said. But people will never forget how you made them feel" - that expresses exactly what I felt about uncle John, both all those years ago and still today. It is a gift given to few but he had it by the shed load - the ability to make people feel valued and good about themselves. Now, today, I am older than John was when he died, but his impact is as strong as ever - rarely a day goes by when I don't at some point think, "What would uncle John think, what would he do, what would he say?" .And, as a I ask myself this, from somewhere deep inside me I hear his long gone voice and somehow get the answer that I am seeking.

The boy who ran off to war remained a young man at heart up until he died in 1974 and I have often reflected that it was through him that I learned much about growing up and being an adult. He wasn’t loud or brash or talkative – indeed, if we sat in the pub, him enjoying his half pint, he would usually say little, but what came out was always quietly said and worth listening to.  He had no agenda and just quietly got on with the life that fate had dealt him. I have no idea why he never married but lived with his mother until she died  but whatever the reason for his bachelorhood he was a lovely and much loved man.  Although quiet, retiring and undemonstrative his love was unconditional. He was what you saw and you learned not only from what he said but from what he did and how he behaved. He had a quiet and gentle authority and I loved and respected him not because he demanded it but because of who and what he was - and especially because of the obvious value that he placed upon me and my young beliefs and feelings. He listened, and such advice as he might have wanted to impart to me he did without expectation or insistence. I don’t know whether he saw himself as older and therefore wiser (although he clearly was) but he never thrust that experience down my throat.  Whatever experiences and wisdom he had gleaned from his life was passed on without it being a lesson or a homily and I soaked up his wisdom like a sponge – he was the supreme teacher - but never knew it.

John as I always remember him.

No airs and graces - just a gentle

decent man who had lived a good

and worthy life. But to me, a
man ahead of his time and with
a story to tell.

Uncle John died in April 1974 and when my own son was born a few months later in September 1974 there was only ever going to be one name for him – John. And even today, all these years after my great uncle’s death I still think of him and those quiet conversations and half pints of mild ale that we shared in the Patten Arms at Winmarleigh - a teenager and a pensioner, separated by half a century in age but by a much bigger gulf in life experiences and expectations. He was a child of Victorian England and had witnessed the horrors of the trenches first hand at the same age as I was when we sat together in the pub. Whereas I was a child of Attlee's "New Jerusalem" and the Beatles' "Swinging Sixties", comfortable, confident, with the whole world at my feet he had been born into generation who suffered huge hardships, wars and want that people like me could not begin to comprehend. As I sat next to him in the pub and still today, I imagine him as a young boy running off to war, a boy amongst men, involved in the horror and the blood of the trenches – a thing which both terrifies me and humbles me -  but which he just took in his stride – never boasting of his involvement or complaining about the injury that changed his life. Like others of his generation he just got on with things. Sometimes it seems a far cry from today when so many appear to wear their hearts on their sleeves and want to shout from the rooftops of their disadvantage and problems, or vent their spleen against life, society and its unfairness. I'm sure that John had many things that in the quietness of his own mind he could have complained about - the hardships of his life: two world wars, a great depression, never married, never had his own family, the terrible impact of the Great War upon him, perhaps broken dreams and ambitions, great sadnesses and all the other things that go into the lives of all of us. But I never heard him once complain – he simply got on with it. Maybe there's a lesson for all of us in that fact.

Uncle John was an honourable, brave, decent, courteous gentle and generous man. One can, I think, give no higher praise of any person whatever their background, calling, profession or standing in the world than to say he was a good man and lived a good life; John Derbyshire was such a person. He could not, I believe, have had any inkling that he would have such a profound and lasting effect upon and importance to me - and indeed still does. I don't know how he would have reacted to that but I suspect that he would probably have just smiled, nodded and looked into his beer glass and quietly and gently said, without looking up, “Aye , good - well that’s alright then”. But I'd also like to think that deep down he would have gained some quiet satisfaction that although he had no family or children of his own he had made such an impression on me and my life and ultimately my family and that his name and memory lives on in my son, his great, great nephew.