From one viewpoint, being is a one-way stream
that flows relentlessly forward, with no hope of stopping or returning.
Much has been said
and written about the transience of life, the irretrievability of youth
and the
ephemerality of everything we achieve or experience. Everything
progresses without
pause towards its end. You could even say that you begin to die the
moment you
are born. There would be incontestable evidence for that: children grow,
we age,
relatives die, cultures change. And yet, arguably, the starkest evidence
dwells
in the mind. Life is the more transient the more you think about its
transience.
And what a melancholy thought that is! It has been expressed by the
wordsmiths with
every degree of gloom, often with searing beauty, too. A random example
out of
a myriad is Atahuallpa Yupanqui’s speaking river: tú que puedes, vuélvete! -
“you who can, go back!”.
As a light to guide your steps along the path of life, however,
this thought is not very helpful. It can dim your spark and it can dull your
zest. To be blunt, it can depress you to death. Luckily, there are alternatives
to hand.
There is another viewpoint, a more helpful one: life is circular. The seasons keep returning, as it is a delight to see,
hear and smell in Northumberland at this time of the year. The calendar is a
repetitive cycle, and the web of experiences we weave on its loom reassures us
with the feeling that things do come back. We will them to return; we summon
them back by the power of that homecoming momentum there is in everything that
has a season or a date. Fortunately, for this, too, there is tangible evidence: the
sun brightens, the foliage greens, the bluebells blossom, the river stops
roaring to start singing again. And, in this regard, too, the main drive comes
from within, from our inner thoughts, knowledge, affections and desires: the long-cherished habits, the store we set by festivals,
holidays, anniversaries, birthdays. Our repetitive rituals give us the means to
relate to the wildness of time. We put a lasso around its neck and we ride it,
clinging to it for dear life until we can be convinced that it will come home, with us on its back. Many
a fall has been fallen in the course of this taming, sometimes causing injury
or worse. And yet we risk it. We crave it. We need time to come back. We celebrate
the return of that full moon, that spring, that solstice. The last water never
flows in this river. The last summer never shines. The last colt never bolts.
Lastness is not an acceptable notion in the circle of time.
My
late friend Oscar Uzín Fernández, priest, novelist and
music-lover, once came up with an appealing simile: the preordained
structure
of the day (dawn, morning, noon and so on) is the theme, whereas the
experiences with which we populate each day are the variations on the
theme. His precise words,
which I can no longer remember, were better than that. They were a
pleasure to
hear, until he told you that the music he had in mind was
Pachelbel’s Canon. Even in the callow age I befriended Oscar, I
had long been desensitised to any appeal Pachelbel’s Canon may have once
held. A potentially good simile was thus spoiled for me.
Perhaps that was unfair of me. We don’t quibble on the
musical merits of the Big Ben chimes, or Auld Lang Syne, or Happy
Birthday to You. We let them punctuate our hours and years and, if we have
performing privileges, we make sure there is a suitable variation to make each time’s
rendition special.
My Northumbrian Anthem is on the way to becoming a landmark
for certain times of the year, in my calendar at least. I could keep on wheeling it
out, as I will no doubt do every time it seems necessary. But, since I do have
performing privileges and, in this case, composing and arranging too, I might
also update it on occasion.
Here
it is, in an updated version. Instead of an organ
piece, it is now for brass band. That is certainly not an area of my
expertise;
if commissioned to do it, I might have had to bow out on grounds of
inexperience. But when the imperative is compelling enough many things
become possible,
even if leaving perhaps some room for improvement. I did learn about the
organ to write the original; I am learning about brass bands now. Brass
bands are a strong tradition in the Northeast of England; it makes every
sense for A Northumbrian Anthem to be heard through this medium. The keen
ear (does anyone listen with that kind of attention these days?) may spot other
differences, too. I may have to go back to the organ version and update it
accordingly.
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