Time Will Tell (8 page)

As director, Emma's control over the project was total, although she called upon the singers for advice on matters musical. Thus began a gradual shift towards a more collective mode of working which would characterise her work with the concert group, but when it came to matters of staging she dispensed with the democracy of musical co-operation and her say was final. The three opera singers and two actors had some experience in movement and were used to taking such instruction, but the remaining four – Ollie, Marco, Peter and Susan, the core of the future concert group – had no such experience and were worryingly stiff on stage, particularly the men. It was Emma who had to berate them for their stagecraft, direction that maintained a professional separation between them.

When the London run began, she regarded her cast as colleagues, though not necessarily as friends, and the trip to New York was to bring them only slightly closer together. The constant flow of celebrities and famous theatrical people who beat a path to Emma's door kept her further apart from her cast, so much so that she didn't know that Ollie had begun a trial separation from his wife. For herself, she was quite content to be single. She was free in the day to shop, sightsee and plan her next move without any encumbrance of personal commitment, and occasionally free in the evening to take in plays and musicals, the latter a medium which increasingly interested her.

Such independence also afforded her plenty of time to consider her past and plan her future, one in which she was certain theatre would play no part. There were many factors in her decision, yet crucial to it was the realisation that of all the aspects of production – staging, lighting, acting, writing, the music and its performance – it was music that surpassed everything else. It
excited
her emotionally and, as she'd abandoned her Ph.D., it provided an alternative intellectual outlet. Now she could indulge her interest in history and performance
and
travel the world. She was not blind to the rigours of touring and took advice from several people, but new possibilities had opened up before her and she was determined to embrace them. By then she had also developed an exaggerated contempt for actors – hardly a good basis for a life in theatre. It was no accident, she thought, that dressing rooms were ranged with mirrors, the actors' reflections multiplied in an endless celebration of self. Actors were constantly, unhealthily aware of how they appeared to other people, possessed of a narcissism which never seemed to switch off. Their voices at dinner were affected, their honeyed tones reflexive, rather than those of the singers' which were released from their physical constraints after the show – drinking, laughing and shouting – as a woman might loosen her corsets. They had experience of touring and knew how to do it; the singers were, quite simply, more fun to be with.

When the New York run ended, Emma invited Ollie, Marco, Peter and Susan to dinner at her flat and announced her intention to re-launch
Beyond Compère
as a concert group. She explained that, although she could not promise anything definite, she was confident that she could organise an American concert tour and that, in time, European bookings would come. The three opera singers were unsuitable, their voices too heavy for ensemble singing, and Emma needed four singers of similar ability and voice-type to each of them: respectively Soprano, Alto, Tenor and Bass.

Two weeks later, four singers were duly appointed, all of them known to one or more of the group and to Emma from their various recordings. The group was reborn; the new eight-voice Beyond Compère rehearsed two programmes and the first concert took place in a small church in Berkeley, California. All music was sung from memory, which allowed more theatrical elements to be incorporated into the conventional concert format. Movement, lighting, and singing from different parts of the building and in various combinations were distinctive novel features that would become the group's trademark. The approach demanded of the singers commitment and considerable private study, something which those who were used to the defined limits of session singing – where one turned up, read the music, and went away – found challenging. The US tour was a great success, the reception from West Coast to East Coast ecstatic, which only added to the almost narcotic rush they got from being in America. Ollie and Marco were the only ones who had toured the States before (with The Tallis Scholars and The Sixteen) but now they were part of a new group – founder-members, even – thus more involved and better rewarded, feted and honoured in this, the New World. Rave reviews were passed like trading cards amongst the group at breakfast and at airports, and Emma's confidence as a presenter grew. She kept her delivery fresh by pretending she was addressing the group that sat behind her, not the concertgoers in front. It both relaxed her and gave her material a lightness of touch that had audiences eating out of her hands.

Touring itself proved to be a very different kind of bonding exercise to the stage show. The shared experience of constant travel and daily uprooting to a new city brought them closer together, their individual exhaustion displaced into expressions of care and concern. Each of them saw tiredness only in others, their senses dulled by a constant flow of caffeine, alcohol and adrenalin. Exhausted as they often were, tempers were nonetheless kept and an addictive, wild-eyed enthusiasm for experience prevailed as if this was their first and last tour. Virtually every night there was a post-concert party of some kind, organised by local choirs eager to rub shoulders with the famous English singers: in Jackson, Mississippi, they ate cornbread and barbecued ribs washed down with beer and mint juleps; in Boston it was a keg of Sam Adams and lobster; in San Francisco, Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and sushi at a private house with glorious views of Alcatraz and the Golden Gate; and on the final night in New York the group itself hosted an impromptu party for an amateur choir in a suite that Allie had been assigned through the hotel's clerical error. Between the concerts, the parties and the travel, they managed to fit in seal-watching in Monterey, wine-tasting in Sonoma, a visit to Graceland, a trip to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, and a late-night helicopter ride over Manhattan.

It was then, reminded as he was of the starlit flight over New York in
Superman
, that Ollie had recited to Emma the whole of Lois Lane's monologue, ‘Can you read my mind?', a gesture that hinted at the dawning of a new intimacy. Even in retrospect Ollie maintained that it was only the indiscriminate romance of touring that had inspired him, not any nascent desire, but the following night Emma had stayed up late talking with him about his marital problems, an event which for others at least was freighted with significance. Time might yet confirm the interpretation that Peter was eager to offer – that Emma and Ollie were meant for each other – but the protagonists themselves believed that it was only the persuasion of coincidence that lent these episodes a poetic lustre.

It was with unprecedented sorrow that the group parted company at Heathrow. The next dates in the diary were not until the summer, a run of concerts at various festivals in mainland Europe and Britain. Until then the singers would be working with other groups, either as session singers or as early-music specialists, and some – like Ollie, Allie and Peter – would be returning to their day-jobs as singers – at Westminster Cathedral, St Paul's, and Westminster Abbey respectively. The group knew, as they hugged and kissed each other in the artificial light of the baggage claim area of Terminal Four, that there would never be a tour quite like that again. Never would such a gruelling schedule be endured with such equanimity, nor would they be so willing to draw upon their own resources in the spirit of camaraderie to buoy up others when spirits threatened to sink them.

Over the next two years the group flourished, and a regular pattern of concerts and recording was established. Touring in Europe and Britain was, by virtue of its brevity, more circumscribed by the realities of individual professional and domestic life, and Beyond Compère's status as a second family was less keenly felt. The blueprint for most engagements was a hectic twenty-four hours of travel, drinking and eating, somewhere in the chaotic midst of which they would give a performance to an anonymous audience. If the American tour was responsible for fusing the different identities of nine people into a functioning social group, it was the following two years that revealed the fault lines of social organisation and more personal agendas, which had only been dimly sensed on that mythological tour. The Wet Set was soon established: Susan, Claire and Peter were the first to leave the post-concert celebrations, whatever form they took, and Emma was grateful for their sober example. Marco and Charlie assembled an inventory of cultural and historical landmarks, a partnership of shared interest for the daytime hours, and in the evenings they formed a triumvirate with Craig who otherwise kept himself to himself. Emma, depending on her mood and directorial duties, spent time with all of them, but the Allie/Ollie alliance, one forged in beer and emotional reserve, proved to be the most durable and the most problematic.

The two were almost an item, their behaviour on tour as well-matched as ‘Aglio e Olio', Marco's nickname for the pair, appropriate enough given that
Spaghetti aglio e olio
was a late-night dish favoured by drunken men, and not to everyone's taste. After a concert they would emerge into the fresh air, lift their noses into the breeze and follow a scent that led them directly to the nearest watering hole. There they would order beer, the stronger the better, a beverage chosen in part for its prolier-than-thou image, then pass what remained of the evening in silent companionship. They could be garrulous at times, chatting with members of the audience or with other members of the group and, both family men, were talkative at home and adored by their children. Yet together they shared some unspoken understanding that rendered conversation inessential. Communication in rehearsals was likewise minimal. Agreed nuances of musical expression were implemented without discussion, a process that, to the lay person and even to their fellow singers, appeared telepathic. They shaped the musical lines in exactly the same fashion and anticipated each other's breathing, producing effortless, consentient phrasing. Allie was a Catholic (‘Lapsed – there's no other kind,' he mournfully remarked once) and could not only translate the Latin texts, but also, to use the biblical phrase, understand them in his heart. Ollie channelled his colleague's religious response like a good method actor and learned from his example. Together they created a unique sound and provided a template for others to follow. When required – or if they felt it appropriate – they would ratchet up the dynamic of the whole group, creating a sense of an expectation fulfilled, rather than inappropriate individualism.

There was no emotional resonance and none of the personal detail to be found in the brief précis of the group's history provided in the article in
The Gramophone
. The story of the group was too clear, too glib, the random narrative twists and turns appearing predetermined rather than the result of chance. But for good luck, Emma might still be working on her Ph.D. in some library carrel, and America and Europe places she pondered visiting for a holiday if she ever got a job.

Reduced to virtual bullet points, her life seemed paradoxically empty and purposeful. ‘Intelligent and determined', she had ‘failed to complete her degree' and ‘lived alone'. And, as if to compensate for her personal shortcomings, the rise of the group had been made to sound inevitable, the result of her ‘obvious aspiration'. What reference she had made to ambition was in the context of the group and not herself. But maybe that was how the amateurs of the first production saw her? Perhaps the actors and opera singers whom she had ‘let go' thought of her as a neurotic, loveless, pushy woman who, when she wasn't hogging the limelight, was plotting the next phase of her career. There were two sides to every story.

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

Frevier 13, 1524

On a day like today I can be glad that travel has never been a part of my life. As I stood on the bridge this morning, watching the boys with their rods angled at the Loire, fishing for perch or carp, I traced my history in the skyline of Tours: from my birthplace east of the Cathedral of St Gatien towards the church of St Martin in the west where I served as a choirboy,
chapelain
and
chambrier
. My entire life was contained within the single sweep of my gaze.

My physician, Gillet Cossart, lives close by the Abbey of St Martin and, as I had all but finished the tincture he had given me, I decided to arrive unannounced. He comes highly recommended. He accompanied the King's troops in the Italian campaign [1486] where he met Compère (a brief meeting and one which left him slightly puzzled about the composer's reputation). It was on his travels that the surgeon developed new techniques for amputation. That, he told me, was work for a young man: cutting through bone and gristle requires a singularity of purpose closely allied to physical strength. His current occupation in the City of Tours was, he declared, more suited to a man of his age and temperament, and he was glad to have put away the larger of his surgeon's tools. Aside from the occasional accident, he had not been called upon to perform an amputation for some twenty years.

He was thus, by his own admission, not entirely qualified to deal with my condition. The quality of honesty is rare in a physician and led me to place my trust in him. He had some experience dealing with something similar in another patient whom, he explained with due severity and concern, he had been unable to save. Surgery was not an option, the stomach and its contents being so delicately and harmoniously arranged as to make any kind of invasion dangerous. I should expect the growth, already visible beneath the thin skin of my stomach, to increase over the coming months. The treatment he would offer would be twofold: accommodating the pain (which he told me would increase) and managing the worst of the symptoms. He would make poultices and tinctures for me, the one to be applied externally, the other to be ingested as and when required. His aim was to keep me as comfortable as he could. Thus far he had provided me only with a green liquid to be taken both before and after eating, and whenever the warning signs of vomiting came upon me. Its primary taste was of mint, though the heat that it produced in my mouth also suggested the presence of fermented liquor.

The Doctor was dismayed that I had finished the tincture and advised me that I should take less in future. It was, he said, the kind of medicine the effectiveness of which would diminish the more I took it. Suffer the symptoms, he said, and pay no heed to traditional mealtimes. Eating was important to maintain my constitution, but it would be better to eat small things at odd hours rather than one large meal at midday; I should follow the example of the cattle who graze, not the dog which eats everything all at once. Whilst on the subject of food, I explained to him that I was writing a
Mémoire
and asked him what I might eat to help me recall events of the past. Avoid red wine and garlic, he said, and take cumin and ginger in an infusion of hot water.

He asked about the pain and I told him how it was at its worst at night and that the burning and stabbing sensations faded away during the morning hours. He advised me to build bolsters so I slept sitting up rather than lying down, adding that the ginger for my memory would help my digestion. He promised to visit me next week and I welcomed this. I know that in this way he will increase his fee, but money is no longer my concern.

Being told that I was going to die did not surprise me and, in many ways, I welcomed it. God has already been generous to me in granting me more than my three-score-years-and-ten. Jehan was old and infirm when he died, and there were times when I believe he would have embraced death if it were offered to him. I am now four years older than when Jehan's soul departed his body, and I understand better the blasphemous urge to end one's existence voluntarily. At least I am able to anticipate my end and I am provided with the time necessary to put all my affairs in order and to make my peace with God and my fellow man.

I am a widower: my wife, Marie, died some ten years ago. I have a servant who prepares my meals and keeps my home clean and tidy. My only son, Jehan (named after Jehan Ockeghem, one of his godfathers) now lives in Amiens, but rarely do I see him. In his early life he acted as a
clerc
to the Royal Household, and now he has taken up a position as an advisor to the Duc de Picardie. He is married and blessed with three children, though I have only met the oldest, Pierre, who, I am proud to say, is a
chantre
in the Royal Chapel. My son has promised that he will visit soon and, as Amiens is only a six-day journey on horseback, I am hopeful that if my condition worsens there will still be time for him to visit me before I meet my God.

Even if my thoughts seem focused only on the past, it is not my intention to crawl towards death's embrace. I try to walk every day; I spend time writing this account; I regularly attend Mass 
– 
all things that I have achieved today. After my visit to the Doctor, I walked towards the Abbey of St Martin for Mass. Arriving early, I said my prayers and then walked in the beautiful cloisters, which afforded shade from the wintry sun and protection from the wind. It was here that I would walk from the
schola cantorum
[song school] as a choirboy whilst the older
chapelains
would cast a critical eye over our deportment.

Being a choirboy was an exciting opportunity, which made men of children. Jehan, who, like all singers and composers, was once a choirboy, thought that it was an unnatural life and held it responsible for the ambition of many composers, particularly Desprez. For me, looking back, it nevertheless remains a time I remember with fondness.

The past is my friend in a way that the present has ceased to be. The memories, stored for so long, have become as a room full of pictures and treasures, each one catching my eye and urging me to consider them. I remembered the occasion when I had a hiccupping fit that I thought would never end, and the
tenorista
, Claude Martin, had caused it to stop by jumping in front of me, his hood over his head and his arms extended like a giant bat. I remembered the snowstorm – unheard of in these regions – that blew snowdrifts into the walkways of the cloister so we had to take a detour to the south side of the square; and the celebrations for St Martin, the patron Saint of the city and its Abbey, whose feast day fell in November and which would require us to process, singing plainsong hymns, occasionally stopping to sing a
Salve
. That was always the most tiring day for us as boys, severely testing the limits of how long we could sing. Our throats would seize up and we would return to the choir school and put a stylus into our mouths, pretending to create enough space for us to be able to talk again.

I had corresponded with the Archbishop, Martin of Beaunes, and, after several letters and a small payment, it was agreed that Mass today would be dedicated to the sick of the Diocese, and that my name should head the list for whom intercession was sought. Additionally a Mass of my choosing would be sung by the
chapelains
of St Martin for which I would compensate them. I instructed them to sing Jehan's
Missa Cuiusvis toni
, which many think of as in the old style, but it holds special significance for me. Recently all the news is of composers whose music I have never heard – Clemens and Créquillon, Mout
on and de Sermisy – music we do not hear now François I has moved the court to Paris. I am told by one singer, Charles de Saint Leu, that the new music is much richer and fuller, that they commonly use six, seven or even eight parts at a time, and that they have rediscovered the lower pitches of which Jehan was so fond. I had to smile when I was told that. If only they knew that Jehan had written in thirty-four parts.

The
Missa Cuiusvis toni
is not a difficult mass so long as you remember one thing: which mode you are singing in. The design of the piece ensures that, from a single written example, the music can take three different forms in sound and, in this variety, Jehan grants to the singer a freedom of choice and an openness of purpose that is a true reflection of his generosity. For Jehan, music was for God and for all of His children.

On the page, the
Missa Cuiusvis toni
looks simple and, indeed, it makes no particular demands. The notes are not over-fractured, ensemble is easy to attain and it has become a favourite of many. It continues to be used not simply because it is found in the choirbooks, but also because, written to be sung in three modes, it can be made to fit in with any chants that surround it; thus it is fit for every day and every mood. As Boethius, following Aristotle, says: the modes are possessed of their own qualities in much the same way that the days of the week have their own smell. Of course, I could have asked for something more flamboyant for my intercession, like the
Missa de plus en plus
, which requires much rehearsal, a clear mind and great vocal fortitude and, though they may not have thanked me for my choice, the singers would certainly have appreciated the extra payment they would have received for the additional preparation.

But my reasons for choosing the
Missa Cuiusvis toni were personal and date back to the earliest days of my friendship with Jehan. I had been appointed
sommelier de chapelle
[junior singer] some two years earlier, having served my apprenticeship as a choirboy and acquitted myself well. Though not possessed of the sweetest voice, I was quick with my studies, of sound memory, and was able to
cantare super librum
[improvise] with more certainty than many others. What I lacked in suavitude, I compensated for with application. When my voice broke, it was clear that I could no longer sing any of the high notes and so I developed the ability to sing
en fausset
[falsetto]. I had hoped that I could thus be part of the choir, but the
maître de chapelle
decided it would be better to have me sing the same part as some of the
chapelains
. Unfortunately the
chapelains
– or at least one of them, Pierre de Gilles – saw this as a challenge to his status. When he found himself standing next to me in a rehearsal and singing the same line, he stopped, waved his hand and confronted the
maître de chapelle
.

He was outraged; this went against the natural order, he said, a boy singing a man's part. It was not fitting. It was a challenge to him, to the choir, to the hierarchy of heaven and earth, and to God himself. That, in itself, was sufficient argument with which none could disagree. But then he made a foolish assertion that was a direct challenge to the authority of the
maître
. It was, asserted Pierre de Gilles, not something that would happen at Orléans. Orléans was the home town of the
maître
and it was rumoured that he had been passed over for appointment there.

‘Well, fuck off back to Orléans then!' was the
maître's
blunt retort.

Unfortunately for me, the result of this dispute – which was ultimately settled by a meeting of the chapter – was that I, a junior member, was made a sacrifice. Despite my innocence in the matter, I was required to leave the choir for a year until I reached the statutory age of sixteen. In that time I continued to sing at home or in the nave of the church where no one could hear me. It was there that I developed my adult voice. I taught myself by listening to the other singers, in particular Jehan Ockeghem who was recognised as the finest of them all. His voice could descend unnaturally low, but as it rose it maintained its shape and sound. He could sing in the range of the higher, contratenor voices without losing any of the distinct sweetness of his sound. My voice never had this higher register (other than by singing
en fausset
, something I was not inclined to do lest the other
chapelains
remember my failed usurpation and take against me) and, when I was appointed
chapelain
, I stood next to Jehan Ockeghem himself and sang the same part. Pierre de Gilles never addressed me directly, which in many ways was a relief.

Jehan was always kind to me, and encouraging. At that time, the choir was probably the finest in the land and hosted many other composers, amongst them Antoine Busnois. I learned much from Jehan, not simply through his understanding of the music, but from his example. His voice was always firm and clear and I watched the way he stood and breathed. Occasionally he would compliment me, not necessarily by direct observation but through acknowledging the choices I made. ‘That was a good place to breathe,' he would say when I chose to break a phrase at a particular point. Or, ‘This motet suits your voice.'