As I was thinking about it last night, thinking about how this music (and modern English church music) is the music of my soul, I realized something. I wonder if there is, deep in me, almost a "Pandora" radio station on at all times, kind of a streaming thread of the Tudor greats through Purcell and on into the glorious 19th century giants of Parry and Stanford and Elgar, then Howells, Walton, Ireland, Britten, Leighton, Tavener and beyond, and then looping back to the beginning. There is a quality of beauty and clarity in this music that is my touchstone, my backbone, and for whatever reason, other musical genres barely move me. Singing it, as I did last night, I felt like myself for the first time in months, plugged in to the electric current of the Universe. I suddenly saw it as the "horizon" image that I worked with in painting for several years, an energetic ribbon moving through my own inner landscape. Things in my life that haven't reflected that musicality and resonance -- from jobs to people to places -- haven't lasted long because they were not an energetic match. Arguably I haven't been quote-unquote "successful" in the wider world because of this impossibly exquisite musical standard always flowing through my core. That's not a good thing (!!) but I think it explains a lot.
Renaissance/Tudor choral singing requires cooperation. Love. Sensitivity. An appreciation of beauty. Hard work. Intuition. Inner-centeredness/outer awareness. What it is not is competitive, hateful, self-righteous, cynical, outward-lashing or individualistic. At this exceedingly challenging moment in the world, this music has much to teach us. As I headed to the rehearsal yesterday, I had to convince myself that singing for an hour was even remotely relevant. Now, on some level, I understand that perhaps nothing else is.
