Reading Phoenix Choir, Christopher Enston, accompanist January 2002 - January
2014.
When still a school pupil, I happened to turn on the television one evening to catch
the tail end of a choral competition called Let the Peoples Sing. As I watched,
the winning choir was about to sing the programme out and off air, and that was
my first ever glimpse of the Reading Phoenix Choir, conducted by Norman Morris.
My current association with RPC can be traced back to January 2000. I had just
started my new job as Director of Music at Bearwood College, and literally ran
into Norman two weeks into the new term. He was in Bearwood Theatre starting off
an evening rehearsal for Bearwood Opera, and I was in the classroom next door
teaching a late GCSE revision group at 7pm. I turned around to close the
classroom door and there he was, seeking me out. He knew of my appointment
before I even knew he lived around the corner. He got straight to the point and
asked if I would be available as an organist for the choir if he needed one. I
agreed, and I next heard from him in the summer term asking me to attend a
rehearsal in June in anticipation of a BBC broadcast for September. This was to
be a live broadcast on Radio 4, from Bearwood College Chapel, of a service led
by John Bell of the Iona community.
These occasions don't half concentrate the mind, and that pesky little red light
summoning everyone's attention is a source of utter, cold fear. When it is on,
you are live across the United Kingdom and beyond, and boy, don't you know it.
Your brain snaps to attention and you alone are responsible for your own
salvation at the stroke of 8am and your fingers hit those keys. It really does
take self control to keep calm , even when a producer waves a card in front of
you giving silent instructions to note that a prayer is coming next, not a
reading, before your final organ solo. All did go very well on September 9th and
off we all trotted to Mary Sefton's for breakfast, to listen to the recording
and feel pleased with ourselves. This was the first of several broadcasts with
Phoenix, some recorded for Radio 2's Sunday Half Hour, with producer Claire
Jaquiss, and another live one on Radio 4 for Christmas 2001. By this point, I
had become familiar with choir members and Norman had been waging a relentless
campaign to get me to join the choir, but up to now I had successfully resisted.
However, everyone's clear friendliness, and Norman's demands for attractively
high choral standards wore me down and I joined in January 2002. So began a 12
year period with an ambitious choir, two demanding conductors and countless
venues I would otherwise have missed, not to mention the many friendships I have
made. Exciting opportunities came with the BBC'S Songs of Praise programmes,
three of them in fact, with the endless takes and the perfect Phoenix diction
very characteristic elements of these occasions. The reward, I found, was seeing
my name whooshing up the TV screen in the programme's closing
credits!
The sheer volume of activity of, and the necessary commitment to, Reading Phoenix is
only to be understood by its
members. This was a good way too, it seemed to me, to employ my musical skills
and experience productively and add to them further with a choir and conductor
who knew what they were doing. My role has constantly been to juggle between
remembering where to stand on the risers, what to sing next and when to get off
and find the piano or organ for the next piece. No exceptions are ever made with
accompaniments, you just play what you're given.
The instruments have varied hugely in the many venues, some pianos too loud, some
too old and the organs have posed even greater challenges. Many has been the
time when - up to my last day with the choir - when a clear sight line from David
Crown to the organ has been a challenge. More recently, playing completely
'blind' has made a virtue out of necessity, resulting in some unexpectedly good
ensemble work between David' s conducting, the choir and my playing, despite
not seeing one another! Norman's style, with complete sang
froid if he couldn't see me, was first to talk to the audience, then shout
in full voice down the church, "Are you there, Chris?" to which came the reply
from behind a huge Victorian pillar, " Yes, Norman!"
An accompanist's work has its moments of unscheduled anguish and terror too - no
matter how much you practise beforehand. Norman made endless arrangements, in
his own hand, photocopied and stuck together back to back with tape. One such
was 'Love is the sweetest thing.' We were a good way through it, I turned the
page and, oh bother, the tape had come apart through frequent use, the papers
divided to reveal........ two blank pages! My panic was like a bomb going off,
turning back and forth the wrong way compounded things and Heaven alone knew
where I was meant to be. The choir carried on as my hands improvised something
which didn't quite fit. Lovely.
Norman and David were happy to allow me to play organ solos during concerts. One of the
first 'good' venues I found for this sort of thing was Douai Abbey. There, the
audience can see you, and for once, members of the choir could watch all the
pedal action too - which came as a
complete surprise to some. Dermot said I looked like I was "kicking a football
around down there!" In Axeminster, the organ yet again was completely hidden
behind several tons of monumental gothic masonry. My solo, Bach's Komm Heiliger
Geist, came to an end, and then.....and then..... complete silence. Had they
gone home? Was my playing just too awful? I threw caution to the wind and - what a cheek
- I started my own applause! By tradition, the choir does not applaud its
own soloists - something I've never agreed with, but there you are, you do your
work in public and some acknowledgement, no matter from where, is always nice.
This was turned on its head on the York tour with a concert at Huddersfield's St
Paul's Hall, and a fine, modern, glittering four manual organ. The host choir
applauded their solo organist, and
not to be outdone, Phoenix responded with moving spontaneity when I finished my
piece, all the sweeter for its rarity. The organ at Budrio, Italy, is the oldest
I have played anywhere, built in the year JS Bach died - there's a thought - in
1750. My page turner for this event, Silvia Hill, and I had the longest hike
ever to the console. An ancient stone corridor took us upstairs, out of the
church and back again. Still, it was worth it when the Toccata and Fugue in D
minor started up like a Ferrari. The Father Willis organ at
Cardiff's Eglwys Dewi Sant on the Wales tour is another highlight, a fine
instrument, cherished and well maintained. Christ Church Cathdral's 1971 Reiger
organ in Oxford last August, again a head turning instrument, was a joy to play
with its direct and powerful sound and with a chorus of reeds as blistering as
red hot irons. Another page turner, together with Sylvia, has been Cynthia
Crane. Both have helped me hugely by keeping a watchful eye and ear on the music
to turn a page of complex organ writing at the right moment - and it is not as
easy as some might think!
Latterly, David's undeniable achievement in raising the standard of the choir was not
wasted on anyone, least of all the accompanist. Witnessing the rising level of
demand expected from everyone in the choir soon made me aware that I had better
follow suit at the piano and organ and rediscover those qualities which make a
performance musically compelling rather than merely 'good'. There were
opportunities aplenty to match this challenge from the opening crescendo of
Evening Hymn and the stately procession of Zadok - all the right notes in the
right order no matter on what organ - to the rhythmic certainties of
Ching-a-Ring and Make a joyful noise. With Bach's Lobet came a transposition
test down a semitone thrown in for good measure, oh yes, reminiscent of the FRCO
exam. Solos too were given a good dusting down to present them at their best.
My final Phoenix concert at St Clement Danes, London, in January 2014 - a matchless
gem of a building by peerless Wren himself - seemed to crown (forgive the pun)
my time with Phoenix, with its majestic Harrison organ high in the gallery. Even
at the very end, with choir and conductor out of visual range of the organ's TV
monitor, I had to 'feel' when the choir breathed, phrased and finished the Irish
Blessing. Thank you, dear Phoenix, for outstanding musical moments too numerous
to count and which will be difficult to equal in the future.
v
2014.
When still a school pupil, I happened to turn on the television one evening to catch
the tail end of a choral competition called Let the Peoples Sing. As I watched,
the winning choir was about to sing the programme out and off air, and that was
my first ever glimpse of the Reading Phoenix Choir, conducted by Norman Morris.
My current association with RPC can be traced back to January 2000. I had just
started my new job as Director of Music at Bearwood College, and literally ran
into Norman two weeks into the new term. He was in Bearwood Theatre starting off
an evening rehearsal for Bearwood Opera, and I was in the classroom next door
teaching a late GCSE revision group at 7pm. I turned around to close the
classroom door and there he was, seeking me out. He knew of my appointment
before I even knew he lived around the corner. He got straight to the point and
asked if I would be available as an organist for the choir if he needed one. I
agreed, and I next heard from him in the summer term asking me to attend a
rehearsal in June in anticipation of a BBC broadcast for September. This was to
be a live broadcast on Radio 4, from Bearwood College Chapel, of a service led
by John Bell of the Iona community.
These occasions don't half concentrate the mind, and that pesky little red light
summoning everyone's attention is a source of utter, cold fear. When it is on,
you are live across the United Kingdom and beyond, and boy, don't you know it.
Your brain snaps to attention and you alone are responsible for your own
salvation at the stroke of 8am and your fingers hit those keys. It really does
take self control to keep calm , even when a producer waves a card in front of
you giving silent instructions to note that a prayer is coming next, not a
reading, before your final organ solo. All did go very well on September 9th and
off we all trotted to Mary Sefton's for breakfast, to listen to the recording
and feel pleased with ourselves. This was the first of several broadcasts with
Phoenix, some recorded for Radio 2's Sunday Half Hour, with producer Claire
Jaquiss, and another live one on Radio 4 for Christmas 2001. By this point, I
had become familiar with choir members and Norman had been waging a relentless
campaign to get me to join the choir, but up to now I had successfully resisted.
However, everyone's clear friendliness, and Norman's demands for attractively
high choral standards wore me down and I joined in January 2002. So began a 12
year period with an ambitious choir, two demanding conductors and countless
venues I would otherwise have missed, not to mention the many friendships I have
made. Exciting opportunities came with the BBC'S Songs of Praise programmes,
three of them in fact, with the endless takes and the perfect Phoenix diction
very characteristic elements of these occasions. The reward, I found, was seeing
my name whooshing up the TV screen in the programme's closing
credits!
The sheer volume of activity of, and the necessary commitment to, Reading Phoenix is
only to be understood by its
members. This was a good way too, it seemed to me, to employ my musical skills
and experience productively and add to them further with a choir and conductor
who knew what they were doing. My role has constantly been to juggle between
remembering where to stand on the risers, what to sing next and when to get off
and find the piano or organ for the next piece. No exceptions are ever made with
accompaniments, you just play what you're given.
The instruments have varied hugely in the many venues, some pianos too loud, some
too old and the organs have posed even greater challenges. Many has been the
time when - up to my last day with the choir - when a clear sight line from David
Crown to the organ has been a challenge. More recently, playing completely
'blind' has made a virtue out of necessity, resulting in some unexpectedly good
ensemble work between David' s conducting, the choir and my playing, despite
not seeing one another! Norman's style, with complete sang
froid if he couldn't see me, was first to talk to the audience, then shout
in full voice down the church, "Are you there, Chris?" to which came the reply
from behind a huge Victorian pillar, " Yes, Norman!"
An accompanist's work has its moments of unscheduled anguish and terror too - no
matter how much you practise beforehand. Norman made endless arrangements, in
his own hand, photocopied and stuck together back to back with tape. One such
was 'Love is the sweetest thing.' We were a good way through it, I turned the
page and, oh bother, the tape had come apart through frequent use, the papers
divided to reveal........ two blank pages! My panic was like a bomb going off,
turning back and forth the wrong way compounded things and Heaven alone knew
where I was meant to be. The choir carried on as my hands improvised something
which didn't quite fit. Lovely.
Norman and David were happy to allow me to play organ solos during concerts. One of the
first 'good' venues I found for this sort of thing was Douai Abbey. There, the
audience can see you, and for once, members of the choir could watch all the
pedal action too - which came as a
complete surprise to some. Dermot said I looked like I was "kicking a football
around down there!" In Axeminster, the organ yet again was completely hidden
behind several tons of monumental gothic masonry. My solo, Bach's Komm Heiliger
Geist, came to an end, and then.....and then..... complete silence. Had they
gone home? Was my playing just too awful? I threw caution to the wind and - what a cheek
- I started my own applause! By tradition, the choir does not applaud its
own soloists - something I've never agreed with, but there you are, you do your
work in public and some acknowledgement, no matter from where, is always nice.
This was turned on its head on the York tour with a concert at Huddersfield's St
Paul's Hall, and a fine, modern, glittering four manual organ. The host choir
applauded their solo organist, and
not to be outdone, Phoenix responded with moving spontaneity when I finished my
piece, all the sweeter for its rarity. The organ at Budrio, Italy, is the oldest
I have played anywhere, built in the year JS Bach died - there's a thought - in
1750. My page turner for this event, Silvia Hill, and I had the longest hike
ever to the console. An ancient stone corridor took us upstairs, out of the
church and back again. Still, it was worth it when the Toccata and Fugue in D
minor started up like a Ferrari. The Father Willis organ at
Cardiff's Eglwys Dewi Sant on the Wales tour is another highlight, a fine
instrument, cherished and well maintained. Christ Church Cathdral's 1971 Reiger
organ in Oxford last August, again a head turning instrument, was a joy to play
with its direct and powerful sound and with a chorus of reeds as blistering as
red hot irons. Another page turner, together with Sylvia, has been Cynthia
Crane. Both have helped me hugely by keeping a watchful eye and ear on the music
to turn a page of complex organ writing at the right moment - and it is not as
easy as some might think!
Latterly, David's undeniable achievement in raising the standard of the choir was not
wasted on anyone, least of all the accompanist. Witnessing the rising level of
demand expected from everyone in the choir soon made me aware that I had better
follow suit at the piano and organ and rediscover those qualities which make a
performance musically compelling rather than merely 'good'. There were
opportunities aplenty to match this challenge from the opening crescendo of
Evening Hymn and the stately procession of Zadok - all the right notes in the
right order no matter on what organ - to the rhythmic certainties of
Ching-a-Ring and Make a joyful noise. With Bach's Lobet came a transposition
test down a semitone thrown in for good measure, oh yes, reminiscent of the FRCO
exam. Solos too were given a good dusting down to present them at their best.
My final Phoenix concert at St Clement Danes, London, in January 2014 - a matchless
gem of a building by peerless Wren himself - seemed to crown (forgive the pun)
my time with Phoenix, with its majestic Harrison organ high in the gallery. Even
at the very end, with choir and conductor out of visual range of the organ's TV
monitor, I had to 'feel' when the choir breathed, phrased and finished the Irish
Blessing. Thank you, dear Phoenix, for outstanding musical moments too numerous
to count and which will be difficult to equal in the future.
v
