late entry from Darlington...
Dec. 28th, 2003 04:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ventaHaving been neatly organised by some friends, I finally made it this year to see Magpie Lane's Christmas show at the Holywell Music Rooms. Magpie Lane are a very traditional folk group, who, every year, put on an evening of Christmas carols and regional songs. Having not been before, I wasn't 100% sure what to expect.
For a start, I was confused: I thought there were 3 of Magpie Lane. Only it turns out there've always been 4 or 5 of them, and now they've picked up Benji Kirkpatrick as well (or, according to Angi, "the beautiful boy with the big bazouki" - but Ang had been at a work Christmas do since lunchtime, so isn't to be regarded as reliable). So, six people sort of ambled onto stage, and began singing in six part harmony.
And this is what occasionally catches me: the apparent effortlessness of it. Some of them had hands in pockets, none of them looked like they were trying, yet out came this wonderful, complex sound. And throughout the course of the evening it became apparent that as well as singing, each of them plays one, two, three, maybe more instruments. Very well. Talented bastards.
And they sang assorted carols and wassails. And various songs which are traditionally sung at Christmas despite not being apparently Christmassy (like Babes in the Wood (bloody miserable) and Bells of Paradise (one of my favourites)). And a fair few carols which I think of as well-known, but experience has shown me are hardly ever sung out of folk-clubs, like On Christmas Night All Christians Sing (aka Sussex Carol, if you've ever used Carols for Choirs). Lovely, too, to hear the tunes I grew up with for some carols - I never have got used to the damn fool tune the entire rest of the world sings for the Holly and the Ivy.
However, someone should tell them that there is never any need for The Twelve Days of Christmas. Ever. Grrr.
Did you know that the Holywell Music Room was the first auditorium purpose-built for singing ? I didn't. I had, however, worked out that it's conveniently close to the King's Appendage for the interval :) Don't trust the KA's mulled wine though, I can make better myself.
Leaving the concert, I trundled home, packed up the car, and headed north. The theory was that, leaving at half eleven, the roads would be clear.
They were, and I boldly went forth. By the time I'd got to Tibshelf (just over half way), I was beginning to wonder... I'd started to feel really quite sleepy. I'm not usually in favour of short naps, but thought I'd give it a whirl, and snoozed for half an hour in the service station car park. Then trotted inside, to discover that it was impossible to buy tea, coke, on indeed anything caffeinated, in a take-awayable container. Idiots.
Fortified with a smoothie and a cheese sandwich, I also decided that, fond though I am of the Pixies B-sides album, it's not ideal driving-at-2-am music. Never mind, I knew exactly what I wanted to listen to - but sadly, I still don't actually own a copy of Love & Glitter, Hot Days & Muzik, so it wasn't an option. Still, I had the next best thing, and Manuskript did indeed see me safely the rest of the way home.
Finally landed a little before 4am, and was dead popular - I'd forgotten to pick up my doorkey before leaving Oxford :)
Christmas Eve in our house is a matter of tradition - anyone wanting to know what I've been up to should consult last year's entry. The only controversial thing this year was the location of the Christmas tree - since Time Immemorial (or c.1983) the tree has stood on top of my toybox in the dining room. Sadly, earlier this year my parents finally booted out the toybox to replace it with a computer desk... the tree is in the front room on top of the cupboard. Which meant that the crib scene was ousted from its usual place, and has gone to live on the telephone table in the hall... Such are the implications when everything has its place.
But it is remarkably nice to be back at home, where the Christmas routine fits like an old, comfortable dressing gown. Sometimes even the dialogue is familiar, with the same jokes sitting very easily in the conversation:
Dad: I'll go and set the fire...
Me (coming in): Where's Dad ?
Mum: Oh, he's arson about somewhere.
I have a cold. Really quite an impressive one. So, I figured I'd better bow out of singing in the choir this year. I headed down to the afternoon crib service on Christmas Eve, intending on remaining in the congregation, but made the mistake of wandering over to say hello to the choir as they finished their practice.
"Hello...". I wonder why the choirmaster is handing me a sheaf of music ? But I've got a cold... Oh, I'm singing, am I ?
Apparently I was, they were short of bodies. And I would be there for midnight communion, wouldn't I ? Apparently I would, yes. So, a scuffle ensued while I ransacked the cupboards in the vestry, trying to find a cassock and surplus which were not too large, too small or too disreputable. Then suddenly there we were, lined up neatly to process in singing Once in Royal..., looking for all the world as if I belonged there.
Home for cullen skink, some more decorating, and the yearly family delusion that I'm capable of manufacturing a competent wreath out of offcuts from the Christmas tree, some ivy, and our hapless evergreen bush. Then out to meet the more reprobate end of the choir in the pub. Having collected Claire en route into town, we discovered to our dismay that our pub of choice, Twenty2, was closed. Panic. Never mind, we could go to the Quaker Coffee House. Which is, I hastened to explain as Claire looked horrified, a very fine pub these days, not a coffee house.
We assembled there (8 guest ales, all around the £2 mark) - Pintwatch was initially a little confused by, but eventually decided it liked, the cranberry Christmas beer - and set the world to rights, before heading off for a quick choir practice. Which went reasonably well, given that various of us had been in the pub, various of us only turn up once a year, and we had to cope with heckling from the bell ringers climbing the inside of the tower.
Half eleven, and the choir is in its red and white, lined up, holding lit candles, the image of serenity and calm.
And it goes like this: sing Once in Royal David's City on autopilot, get to the stalls, make sure the trebles don't set anyone on fire. Snuff out their candles properly, put them somewhere safe while saying the prayer of preparation with half a mind.
Catch a glimpse at the hymnboard, the next one is number 41. Look it up in the hymnbook, it's Hark the Herald Angels. But we don't use the harmonisation in the hymnbook, need to find the other version. Kneel for the confession. Almighty God, our heavenly Father, fortunately the words are engrained, I don't need to read them. Hark the Herald is page 39 in the green book, we have sinned against you flick through the pages looking for it and against our fellow m... Bollocks! While I've been away they've stopped using Series 3 words, and started using Common Worship words, and all the prayers have changed subtley. We don't say "against our fellow men" any more, it's "against our neighbour" these days. I need to find a copy of the service: rummage in stalls, find yellow book, fudging through the words as you go, find place in it in time to hear the absolution pronounced.
Stand for the Gloria. Organ intro, damn, I realise I haven't got the music. The intro sounds like St Chad's setting, rummage in stalls for dark red book, long use makes it fall open at the right page, Glory to God, God in the highest.... Brief breathing space for the Old Testament reading...
And everyone is where they should be on time, and mostly the congregation never realise that the choir spends most of the Eucharistic prayer shuffling its amthems for communion into order. No, I don't imagine this is how they go on in King's College, Cambridge.
And so, under-rehearsed, unprepared, and definitely unfashionable, I slip over into the 25th. But I'm among family, and friends, doing things I enjoy. This is my Christmas, and I wouldn't change it.
For a start, I was confused: I thought there were 3 of Magpie Lane. Only it turns out there've always been 4 or 5 of them, and now they've picked up Benji Kirkpatrick as well (or, according to Angi, "the beautiful boy with the big bazouki" - but Ang had been at a work Christmas do since lunchtime, so isn't to be regarded as reliable). So, six people sort of ambled onto stage, and began singing in six part harmony.
And this is what occasionally catches me: the apparent effortlessness of it. Some of them had hands in pockets, none of them looked like they were trying, yet out came this wonderful, complex sound. And throughout the course of the evening it became apparent that as well as singing, each of them plays one, two, three, maybe more instruments. Very well. Talented bastards.
And they sang assorted carols and wassails. And various songs which are traditionally sung at Christmas despite not being apparently Christmassy (like Babes in the Wood (bloody miserable) and Bells of Paradise (one of my favourites)). And a fair few carols which I think of as well-known, but experience has shown me are hardly ever sung out of folk-clubs, like On Christmas Night All Christians Sing (aka Sussex Carol, if you've ever used Carols for Choirs). Lovely, too, to hear the tunes I grew up with for some carols - I never have got used to the damn fool tune the entire rest of the world sings for the Holly and the Ivy.
However, someone should tell them that there is never any need for The Twelve Days of Christmas. Ever. Grrr.
Did you know that the Holywell Music Room was the first auditorium purpose-built for singing ? I didn't. I had, however, worked out that it's conveniently close to the King's Appendage for the interval :) Don't trust the KA's mulled wine though, I can make better myself.
Leaving the concert, I trundled home, packed up the car, and headed north. The theory was that, leaving at half eleven, the roads would be clear.
They were, and I boldly went forth. By the time I'd got to Tibshelf (just over half way), I was beginning to wonder... I'd started to feel really quite sleepy. I'm not usually in favour of short naps, but thought I'd give it a whirl, and snoozed for half an hour in the service station car park. Then trotted inside, to discover that it was impossible to buy tea, coke, on indeed anything caffeinated, in a take-awayable container. Idiots.
Fortified with a smoothie and a cheese sandwich, I also decided that, fond though I am of the Pixies B-sides album, it's not ideal driving-at-2-am music. Never mind, I knew exactly what I wanted to listen to - but sadly, I still don't actually own a copy of Love & Glitter, Hot Days & Muzik, so it wasn't an option. Still, I had the next best thing, and Manuskript did indeed see me safely the rest of the way home.
Finally landed a little before 4am, and was dead popular - I'd forgotten to pick up my doorkey before leaving Oxford :)
Christmas Eve in our house is a matter of tradition - anyone wanting to know what I've been up to should consult last year's entry. The only controversial thing this year was the location of the Christmas tree - since Time Immemorial (or c.1983) the tree has stood on top of my toybox in the dining room. Sadly, earlier this year my parents finally booted out the toybox to replace it with a computer desk... the tree is in the front room on top of the cupboard. Which meant that the crib scene was ousted from its usual place, and has gone to live on the telephone table in the hall... Such are the implications when everything has its place.
But it is remarkably nice to be back at home, where the Christmas routine fits like an old, comfortable dressing gown. Sometimes even the dialogue is familiar, with the same jokes sitting very easily in the conversation:
Dad: I'll go and set the fire...
Me (coming in): Where's Dad ?
Mum: Oh, he's arson about somewhere.
I have a cold. Really quite an impressive one. So, I figured I'd better bow out of singing in the choir this year. I headed down to the afternoon crib service on Christmas Eve, intending on remaining in the congregation, but made the mistake of wandering over to say hello to the choir as they finished their practice.
"Hello...". I wonder why the choirmaster is handing me a sheaf of music ? But I've got a cold... Oh, I'm singing, am I ?
Apparently I was, they were short of bodies. And I would be there for midnight communion, wouldn't I ? Apparently I would, yes. So, a scuffle ensued while I ransacked the cupboards in the vestry, trying to find a cassock and surplus which were not too large, too small or too disreputable. Then suddenly there we were, lined up neatly to process in singing Once in Royal..., looking for all the world as if I belonged there.
Home for cullen skink, some more decorating, and the yearly family delusion that I'm capable of manufacturing a competent wreath out of offcuts from the Christmas tree, some ivy, and our hapless evergreen bush. Then out to meet the more reprobate end of the choir in the pub. Having collected Claire en route into town, we discovered to our dismay that our pub of choice, Twenty2, was closed. Panic. Never mind, we could go to the Quaker Coffee House. Which is, I hastened to explain as Claire looked horrified, a very fine pub these days, not a coffee house.
We assembled there (8 guest ales, all around the £2 mark) - Pintwatch was initially a little confused by, but eventually decided it liked, the cranberry Christmas beer - and set the world to rights, before heading off for a quick choir practice. Which went reasonably well, given that various of us had been in the pub, various of us only turn up once a year, and we had to cope with heckling from the bell ringers climbing the inside of the tower.
Half eleven, and the choir is in its red and white, lined up, holding lit candles, the image of serenity and calm.
And it goes like this: sing Once in Royal David's City on autopilot, get to the stalls, make sure the trebles don't set anyone on fire. Snuff out their candles properly, put them somewhere safe while saying the prayer of preparation with half a mind.
Catch a glimpse at the hymnboard, the next one is number 41. Look it up in the hymnbook, it's Hark the Herald Angels. But we don't use the harmonisation in the hymnbook, need to find the other version. Kneel for the confession. Almighty God, our heavenly Father, fortunately the words are engrained, I don't need to read them. Hark the Herald is page 39 in the green book, we have sinned against you flick through the pages looking for it and against our fellow m... Bollocks! While I've been away they've stopped using Series 3 words, and started using Common Worship words, and all the prayers have changed subtley. We don't say "against our fellow men" any more, it's "against our neighbour" these days. I need to find a copy of the service: rummage in stalls, find yellow book, fudging through the words as you go, find place in it in time to hear the absolution pronounced.
Stand for the Gloria. Organ intro, damn, I realise I haven't got the music. The intro sounds like St Chad's setting, rummage in stalls for dark red book, long use makes it fall open at the right page, Glory to God, God in the highest.... Brief breathing space for the Old Testament reading...
And everyone is where they should be on time, and mostly the congregation never realise that the choir spends most of the Eucharistic prayer shuffling its amthems for communion into order. No, I don't imagine this is how they go on in King's College, Cambridge.
And so, under-rehearsed, unprepared, and definitely unfashionable, I slip over into the 25th. But I'm among family, and friends, doing things I enjoy. This is my Christmas, and I wouldn't change it.
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no subject
Date: 2003-12-28 09:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-28 01:32 pm (UTC)(Oh, and: Call those car troubles? Pah! ;-)
no subject
Date: 2003-12-28 02:03 pm (UTC)Anyone fancy a dress-up-as-a-christian-and-go-to-church-anyway carol event next year?
no subject
Date: 2003-12-28 04:05 pm (UTC)No, I don't imagine this is how they go on in King's College, Cambridge.
If "the Boys" are anything like they were 30 years ago when my parents were there, they probably spend it setting fire to the tenors.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-29 04:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-29 07:40 am (UTC)