Time Will Tell (20 page)

Emma exploited whatever dramatic effects were available in each new venue, even if, at times, the possibilities afforded them were few, or the local helpers' commitment overzealous. On two occasions, careful advance planning had not prevented the concert from descending into farce, misadventures which had since become part of the group's mythology.

In Poland, a local film director, with access to various machines and keen to impress upon Emma his understanding of her vision, swamped the stage and the audience in choking oil smoke. The basses, closest to the source, began to cough first, closely followed by the tenors, and the carefully tuned
a cappella
rendition had sounded more like
musique concrète
than Renaissance polyphony. To clear the fog, which by now obscured the performers from the audience's view, the director had switched the wind machine to its highest setting, blowing away not only the smoke but also part of Susan's outfit. Fortunately it was only a small shawl, but it wrapped itself around her head and her desperate struggle to remove it had made both Allie and Ollie laugh out loud.

In the interval, the festival director had apologised for the behaviour of his overeager staff and Emma had been assured that the second half would proceed without incident. In one sense at least it did: it took place without any lighting at all, the crew having taken umbrage and left, taking all the fuses with them. That night, Emma finally won over the remaining doubters in the group who preferred to use copies rather than memorise the music. Without sufficient light to read the music, the concert would otherwise have been abandoned and, as if to confirm her aesthetic vision, during the last piece a sunset burst through stained-glass windows and flooded the interior of the church with a chromatic fantasy of red, green, orange and blue.

The second incident occurred in a small Italian village. It was a small, almost private festival, run by one man with limited finances and immense enthusiasm, and what he failed to provide in the way of a fee he made up for in hospitality. The group arrived at the village around noon and were taken to a small hotel where they were the only residents. Lunch was served
al fresco
on crude wooden tables in the shade of the trees: a display of beautiful, rustic dishes. Course followed course and wine was freely dispensed from rough pottery carafes; any attempt to moderate intake was dismissed with the assurance of
la sosta
, the Italian word for siesta. After lunch, everyone duly retired to his or her basic room for two hours of sleep. The church, which could only be reached by a small path that wound its way languidly through olive trees, seated about eighty people, but that night Emma reckoned it held nearer a hundred and fifty, most of them standing. The lighting board was manned by three twenty-year-old lads who talked loudly and waved their hands at each other. Despite their excessive animation, the lighting states were moody and imaginative, with lights placed on the floor to cast abstract shadows on ceilings, and red and purple gels throwing rich whorls of colour onto the white walls.

All went well during the first half, the boys on the lighting desk adopting a simple code: brighter for the secular pieces, darker for the sacred pieces. In the second half, though, they began to orchestrate the lights, responding to the words of the mass (Josquin's
Missa Pange Lingua
) that, as Catholics, they knew so well.

The Kyrie was a simple affair, the three movements complemented by the subtlest of changes. During the Gloria, though, there was a hint of what was to come. As Charlie intoned the incipit –
Gloria in Excelsis Deo
– darkness descended, save for a single low light at the back of the church. Just as people were beginning to wonder if it was a power cut, all the lights came on at full brilliance for the polyphony. Believing the confused reaction of the audience to be appreciation of their creativity, the boys began to experiment with bolder gestures.

Allie had the best view of all of them and his version of events, honed by repetition, possessed an unadorned simplicity that lent his version the solemnity of a received truth. With laborious deliberateness, he would explain that one of the boys had raised a fader for the gels as the other had lowered the control for the low-level lighting, and the third had played the master control. They looked, he would say, as if they were piloting an aircraft. An aircraft that was crashing.

It was their programmatic interpretation of the Credo text that hastened the final debacle. When the singers reached the words
visibilium et invisibilium
– seen and unseen – the lighting rapidly alternated full lighting with total darkness;
lumen de lumine
– light from light – was greeted by a single floodlight pointed directly at the audience, an assault against which many defended themselves by holding up their arms like Saul struck down on the way to Damascus. In the boys' hands, illumination now became a virtual weapon to turn upon the faithful as a judgemental reminder of original sin; when the words
Et resurrexit
– and he rose again – were sung, the three of them, as one, raised every fader on the small lighting board at the same moment. Already hot from overuse, the light at the back of the stage, which had cooled for a moment, burst into life and blew up. The crack made everyone, including the singers, jump, yet, true to the maxim that the show must go on, they ploughed onward. A chain reaction was well underway, though, and two other lights popped like gunfire. It was, as Charlie said later, like the 1512 Overture, the polyphony now accompanied by the sound of exploding bulbs. It was unclear quite who shouted fire and started a mad stampede for the exit. The singers, led by Allie and calm to the last, left the stage, followed by the promoter, and they exited by a door behind the altar. After half an hour, Beyond Compère once again took to the stage and completed the programme by candlelight, much to the relief of the traumatised audience.

After that Emma's policy was to make contact with a local lighting designer directly and well in advance, charging them with lighting three different locations to which they could always add a fourth with no lighting rig at all. There was no need for the singers to see the music, the only requirement being that they could see each other. Certain pieces worked particularly well with the singers out of sight, inviting the audience to consider the architecture which some of the music deliberately echoed in mathematical or metaphorical design. And the various movements of the Catholic mass, where the expression was one of praise, glory or supplication, were much easier to appreciate without the immediate presence of the singers to distract them.

Here in the Cathedral of St Gatien in Tours, the first position would be the traditional concert address with the singers facing the audience. It rendered the listeners a congregation, fittingly liturgical for the sacred motets with which the concert would begin. For a short sequence of mass movements, they would move behind the audience to be out of sight, and Emma would surrender the architecture to François's artistry. The third location was vetoed almost immediately by the singers – a place high up in the Triforium, the area at the top of the Nave, with no protective rail and a dusty, vertiginous walk to get there, which no one, not even Allie, had been inclined to try. François, who had spent some time rigging lights up there, was disappointed, though by no means surprised.

In the second half they would repeat the running-order of the second CD of
Ockeghem Gems
, beginning and ending with the two laments: the first Ockeghem's on the death of Binchois, and, for the final piece, Josquin's lament on the death of Ockeghem. These would be sung from the very centre of the audience in an isolated pool of light, almost like a cage within which the singers would face each other. It would make the audience witnesses to private grief, the darkness around them a contrast to a tightly defined, secretive space, a
mise en scène
designed to evoke in the audience a feeling of voyeuristic embarrassment. With the music sung so close to them, the listeners would benefit from a more immediate acoustic like that of a small hall, the lofty cathedral forgotten and the details of the more intricate polyphony more clearly etched. The Requiem Mass, though, would fully exploit the large space of the church with the different sections sung from various locations, and the audience vaguely aware of figures moving around them in the candlelight.

With so much to do, the rehearsal was inevitably too short and the long day began to catch up with the group. François usually worked for the Grand Théatre de Tours, and he was the calm hub to which Emma returned again and again, grateful to devolve some of her responsibility to someone else. Despite his prior communications with her, he remained aloof, casting his hazel eyes levelly over each arrangement with an air of tranquil satisfaction. Aside from the occasional squint of disapproval followed by a soft, monosyllabic instruction to his workers, he seemed quite disengaged, as if he'd been placed there as an advertisement for cashmere jumpers rather than to oversee a project. Yet he listened carefully to anything Emma said and paused at the end of her sentences to allow time for any revision or further explanation she might want to give: a Zen-like approach that at first had her filling the silence with apologies and expressions of thanks but which, as she became attuned to his habit, she came to enjoy and appreciate. When she told François that she wanted the plume of light within which the laments were to be sung to be as contained as possible, with no spill onto the audience themselves, Marco, who'd witnessed the exchange, was confused by François's unstirring response, and leapt in with the offer of translation. Emma shook her head. François uttered two brief instructions into his walkie-talkie, and the soft pool of light magically transformed into a brilliant, rigid column.

‘He's goooood,' said Marco.

With the lighting arrangements complete, Emma and the others turned to the music and the acoustics. Their thorough rehearsals in London had prepared them well, but the music always had to change to accommodate the buildings in which it was sung. And, as well as the basic choreography, the singers always wanted to address particular musical moments. Susan wanted to sing a piece because of the high notes it contained to assure herself that the notes were ‘there'; Ollie wanted to tackle a change of tempo; Craig needed to remind himself of the words he kept forgetting; and everyone – having spent the last few hours surrounded by French speakers – felt they could improve on their pronunciation. The unfamiliar building presented other problems: some of the faster tempi didn't work in the larger space, the acoustic was more favourable for the lower register, presenting issues of balance between the voices, and, in some parts of the Cathedral, it proved difficult to hear each other. And, of course, the anxiety of the evening's performance and more personal neuroses inevitably needed to find some sort of an outlet. There was truth in the adage that a good final rehearsal meant a poor concert for, if nerves didn't manifest themselves in the rehearsal, they might instead return during the performance. When things went badly in rehearsals, when stress and irritation showed, Emma was always privately pleased. Aside from it being a sign that nerves would ultimately be contained, it reminded everyone that the only people who could help them in the performance were each other.

After an hour, everyone was satisfied. Emma told them all to enjoy the concert and to get some rest if they could.

‘I know that if Ockeghem were here, he'd love it. Just do it for him,' she said. ‘You're his singers tonight.'

The Memoirs of Geoffroy Chiron: Livre V
ed. Francis Porter

Martius 13, 1524

Jehan was not born in Tours, but he lived nearly all of his life here. He once explained that, like its famous wines, he did not travel well, and he was grateful that, as Treasurer of St Martin and Baron of Châteauneuf, he never needed to seek employment outside of his adopted country. His friend Dufay travelled to Italy, but ultimately even he acknowledged the importance of his homeland by returning to the same city where he had served as a choirboy: Cambrai. That same road to Italy was a familiar one to the younger composers – Compère, Desprez, De La Rue and others, all of who learned their trade in the Cathedrals and churches of the North. Jehan had much sympathy for them and, whenever he could, he endeavoured to bring them back to their own country.

After the death of Louis XI, Jehan navigated the difficult straits between the funeral of an old monarch and the coronation of the new. A young man when he came to the throne, Charles VIII was different to his father in every way. Nevertheless he showed himself to be a shrewd judge of men and, like Louis before him, appointed Jehan as an advisor and
premier chapelain
. Thus entrusted, Jehan immediately began recruiting new singers and composers so that the glory of God and France would once more shine forth from the Royal Chapel.

The two composers whom Jehan most wanted to invite to Tours were Compère and Desprez. I cannot be sure, but I believe that even then he hoped to make peace between them, not that Compère was even aware of the enmity that his younger colleague felt for him. Desprez was at this time working in Milan for Cardinal D'Ascanio Sforza, his fame and reputation assured, and Jehan did not think that he would be interested. And, of course, there had been no communication since Desprez's composition for Louis XI had been rejected by the dying King. So Jehan first wrote to Compère. As fortune would have it, Compère had recently returned to France after working in Milan. Now forty years old, his thoughts were turning to the issue of where he might spend his last years, and soon he was ordained as
chapelain
to the royal chapel [1485].

And then, quite unexpectedly, Jehan received a letter from Desprez requesting a meeting. Desprez would be travelling to Paris and he wanted to discuss several matters; if it pleased Jehan, he would bring with him some compositions. Jehan, generous as ever, invited him to stay in the official Treasurer's residence. He also informed the younger man that he would honour him with a small party to which he would invite the singers of St Gatien and St Martin so they could meet the famous composer and learn of life in Italy. A letter came back saying that Desprez was greatly moved and that he looked forward to the event.

I had never met Desprez before, but Jehan's descriptions had to a degree prepared me for his lack of grace. My first sight of him was across the great chapter house of St Martin where the official reception was held. He was being talked to by a pair of singers from St Gatien. His skin was dark, more like a native of Italy than France, and his small black eyes flicked around the room rather than engaging with his two young admirers. They seemed uneasy, drinking quickly and nervously, a sign that their conversation was awkward. Indeed, Desprez's contribution was but two words and he never once drank from the goblet that he gripped in his hand. It was clear that the singers were in awe of him, and equally clear that Desprez had only contempt for them. He was looking around the room for someone more important, or perhaps more interesting, and his eyes settled on me. He saw my
caputium
[hood of a gown], noted my status as a Doctor of Law, and held my gaze for a moment. It was as if he was weighing up whether I was worth talking to or not. His decision made, he broke eye contact and continued his search.

Later that evening Jehan introduced me. There was no acknowledgement of our earlier visual exchange, and Desprez gave me a curt nod. Jehan was always extremely adept in such situations, able to relax people through his natural grace and gentle indiscretions, telling harmless stories about famous
men. Yet even talking to Jehan, the most important person in the room, Desprez still continued to study the other guests, perhaps hoping that the King himself might enter. I tried to start a conversation by asking Desprez about Milan, but he volunteered nothing, as if to do so would be an act of charity. The only way I could provoke a response was to frame questions in such a way that they required only a one-word answer. It was no good saying, ‘I gather that Milan is the richer city, that the women are fairer and the streets better kept.' I had to break it down into smaller sections, asking if the city was bigger (‘No'), if the women were fairer (‘No'), and if the streets were better kept (‘No'). Even when Jehan asked Desprez about his own music, the younger man's distrust hampered natural discourse and the conversation limped along like a crippled dog.

The Chapter had provided funds for the party and the sp
read of food and drink was impressive. Laid out on a table in the centre of the room were breads, Parma tarts, fish from the Loire,
chaudun de porc
and two
jallayes
of wine. The real party, though, was to be held, as always, later in the evening, when we could divest ourselves of our gowns and, with them, our better behaviour. The
magister puerorum
of St Gatien, Nicolas Avalle, hosted the festivities in his own home and another
jallaye
of wine awaited us, bought at a special rate by Jehan with money collected by the singers themselves. This would be the chance for Desprez to entertain us with stories of intrigue and Italian politics; to offer us tales of the famous painters and sculptors who worked in Milan, Rome, Florence, Venice and Ferrara; to show us some of his new compositions and tell us of the new musical styles he had encountered across the mountains. It would also be a chance for the younger singers to present him with their own compositions or merely to ask for advice, in much the same way that Desprez had approached Jehan thirty years earlier in Cambrai. But Desprez was not Jehan. As we sat in Nicolas's house, sipping wine and talking amongst ourselves, I could see Jehan becoming more and more agitated. I asked him what troubled him.

‘He's not here. And I would wager that he's not coming. Did he say anything to you?' he asked.

I admitted that Desprez hadn't and volunteered to go back to St Martin to see if he had got lost or, as we both suspected, had gone back to his room. Jehan thanked me for my kindness and instead sent one of the junior members of the chapel to run to St Martin and see if there was any light in Desprez's chamber. If there was, he was to knock and discover the composer's intentions. The young singer returned soon after. Desprez was
in his chamber and had retired for the night, complaining that the food had disagreed with him.

That was the closest I ever saw Jehan come to losing his dignity and composure. He held his face in an attitude of restraint as he struggled to hide his feelings about the arrogant guest.

The following day, as we walked together to his office at the Treasury to meet Desprez, Jehan told me quite how angry he had been. I knew already that he viewed the recent custom of payment for composing a dangerous new path. The result of this new respect for the maker of compositions was fame and fortune. They were sought out by rich patrons, pampered and courted in foreign countries with no friends or close colleagues to curb their excesses. Jehan believed in the old ways, in the informal confraternity of singers and composers, like the guilds of workmen. It was the duty, he said, of any
maître
to guide his pupils. Music was a shared experience that could not be achieved merely by instruction; it was a living art, and one in which a sense of the family of man and the spirit of community was essential. Any refusal to partake in that spirit of community was an affront to God and to man. More than that, such hospitality required that one repay the kindnesses shown by attending any event hosted in one's honour, however lowly. Jehan told me stories of the generosity of Dufay and Binchois to those beneath their station and, although he was far too modest to offer his own behaviour as an example, I knew it to be equally true of him. Some of them, he said, left behind not just their friends and families when they travelled, but also their good manners; and Desprez had yet to find them again.

Desprez was waiting for us. He offered no thanks for the previous evening or apology for his absence, instead saying that, before continuing his journey (he was going to St Omer where he was to have discussions at the church of Notre Dame) he wanted to meet the King, Charles VIII. It was with a small smile that Jehan informed him that the King was busy.

This displeased Desprez and his sombre face became darker still, as if a thundercloud had appeared in an already overcast sky. For a moment it seemed that he wanted to say something, but he remained silent. Then he spoke the longest sentence I had heard him utter on that visit: would it please the new King to receive a chanson in honour of Margaret of Austria to whom he was betrothed? Jehan told me later that he wanted to respond with one word: no. Instead, he explained to Desprez that the music had already been decided. In his capacity as
premier chapelain
, Jehan had instructed someone else to write a chanson: Compère.

It is difficult for me to describe the effect that this new information had on Desprez. Even the mention of the name Loyset Compère inspired in Desprez the blackest of moods and now I feared that he would strike Jehan, his countenance was so fierce. However, once more he maintained his composure and excused himself to pack his few belongings. Desprez was more splenetic than usual that day and, rather than leaving behind him inspiration and guidance for the younger singers, and the memory of a wild party, he merely confirmed his reputation as a difficult and self-centred man.
Ingenium
[talent] some say: rudeness, say I. 

 

Josquin returned to Milan and the employ of Duke Gian Galeazzo Sforza, and soon after that he joined the Papal Choir as a singer in the Pope's private chapel: the
Cappella Sistina
[1489]. I hoped he would stay there.

Music, such a central part of Jehan's life, was now secondary to his responsibilities as Baron de Châteauneuf and Treasurer of St Martin, and, when time permitted, he felt that his worship of the Lord could better be expressed through his dedication to pastoral care and attendance at services. It was not that he stopped composing – sometimes I could see that faraway look in his eyes and knew he was writing in his mind – but he had no time for the careful labour of dictation and revision that I so much enjoyed.

Thus I was surprised when, early in the new year with the frantic collection of Christmastide payments behind us, he approached me one day after Vespers and asked if I would be willing to help him with a new composition. It was, he explained, a piece on a scale that he had never written before: a motet, but for thirty-four different parts. This was the grandest of all of his plans and on a scale that I could not imagine; I couldn't say no. Surely, I asked in my excitement, there were not thirty-four different notes that could be sung at the same time?

‘You are right, of course,' he replied, ‘though a note that will ascend is different to a note that will descend.' I had failed to appreciate this nuance, for a singer indicates with his voice not just the note that he has left, but where the next will be. Distracted as I was by the possible design of such a composition, I had forgotten to ask him for what occasion the piece was being written. He enlightened me anyway. The Cathedral of Saint Quentin where Compère had trained as a choirboy (and where he would spend his final years) had granted Compère a benefice. Keen to secure his services, the Chapter had acceded to his request for a convocation of singers. With due deference to the man who had supported him in the past, Compère wrote to Jehan and invited him to attend. The company would be good, the music excellent, and there would be a great party to rival those of the past. And, if Jehan so desired, he could write something.

Compère's letter was dated Genvier 1, 1490, the significance of which did not escape Jehan. In the tradition of
éstrennes
[New Year's gifts], the invitation was Compère's present to Jehan, and a unique one at that: no one else would write a new piece for the occasion. Compère had included a guest list, and Jehan, astute as ever, noted that the names were ordered according to their voice type. It was not just a list of those whom Jehan had helped over the years: it was an appeal to write specifically for their voices. At the top were those who sang
en fausset
: De La Rue, Japart, Mouton, and others. Then the middle voices: Desprez, Faugues, Molinet, Van Ghizeghem, and Caron. Finally, the basses: Jehan, Morton, myself and others. There were over thirty singers, enough to make a huge sound, but Jehan's mind was not thinking in terms of volume alone; his plan was more intricate. He wanted each voice – each person – to have their own identity. This would be an historic gathering of the finest composers in the land, a great testament to France. And Jehan was aware, even though he never talked about it, that this might be the last time he would see many of these colleagues. It would be a gathering essentially in his honour and he was determined to attend. And thus he began to compose again.