Yesterday I was chopping veggies for an epic stew for our dinner party, and humming along with the radio. Suddenly I stopped in mid-chop, enchanted. A glorious countertenor had begun a solo by Bach.
Flashback! I remembered another time, in England in the freezing spring of 2010 (I’d been living alone there for a second consecutive winter, working to restore my flooded-out family home.) By sheer luck I experienced-
Vocal Heaven in Easter Week
England was freezing. My family home, set on a hilltop overlooking the Welsh Black Mountains, was blanketed in white. Monday my brother and I had conducted a ceremonial scattering of my mother’s and her beloved husband’s ashes in the forest behind the cottage amid two inches of snow, where legions of daffodils had poked their green heads up through the whiteness just an inch or two, waiting hopefully for one decent spring day so they could spring up and unfold into gold.
One afternoon just before Easter I decided to stay at the Dragon hotel in Hereford, needing warmth, cleanliness and tasty food. It was difficult to get about in high town, as the wind cut through my light jacket and easily penetrated my sweater. (March in the British Isles usually registers in the high 50s; this piercing cold was unusual, and had caught me unprepared.)
After obtaining a room I decided to re-explore one of my favorite places- Hereford’s magnificent eleventh century cathedral. I loved its architecture, and often browsed its charming gift shop, which is set among 16th century tombs lining the walls and stone floors.
I made my way through the cathedral’s enormous entry doors-- and was immediately stopped in my tracks by live music so lovely it brought tears to my eyes. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe. Rooted to the spot I closed my eyes and let its beauty wash over me. Someone was singing, accompanied by a solo violinist and a small orchestra. But this sound was very different- certainly not a boy chorister rehearsing a solo for the coming Easter Sunday services. I was hearing an aria- ‘Erbarme dich, mein Gott, um meiner Zahren willen!’ (‘Have mercy, my Lord, behold my bitter tears!’)- from Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, sung with full, rich alto tones, and radiating an ineffable sadness. The glorious music echoed throughout the giant cathedral. I leaned against a massive pillar, lost in awe.
Just two minutes later the music ceased, and there came rustlings of musicians collecting their music and donning their coats. Oh, No! I’d happened upon the end of a rehearsal.
Who! had been singing?
I peered around the pillar. Seventy feet away a tall, athletic-looking young man in his late twenties was standing just below the high altar, chatting with the conductor about some musical point. He was dressed in comfy brown corduroys and a warm sweater, and possessed thick, wavy dark hair worn just a bit long, which suited him perfectly. He was that rare and special thing- a countertenor. Wikipedia defines it this way: (It’s a)…’type of classical male singing voice whose vocal range is equivalent to that of a contralto or mezzo-soprano voice type. A pre-pubescent male who has this ability is called a treble.’
It’s a notoriously difficult sound to master; there seems always to be a place or two that causes the voice to ‘break,’ or go out of falsetto. To position- and hold- the vocal cords exactly where they must be is an exasperating art. This man seemed undaunted by the usual countertenor haunts. He was, in two words- magnificently oblivious- to the vocal danger, or so it seemed to me. There was no hesitation, no delicately careful placement, just a rich, warm power, and seemingly effortless control.
He was a natural.
I’ve heard these unique singers a few times. (One countertenor sang a carefully delivered solo in Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana in the ‘80s to an appreciative audience.)
But this voice was so solid and strong. And oh, his range!
Every note had been perfectly placed; his breath control was astonishing. He sang with great feeling, and I sensed that mastery of this elusive art was a source of joy for him.
His name- discovered when I scoured the evening program notes- was William Towers. He’d read English at Cambridge University before entering the Royal College of Music. Wouldn’t it have been marvelous to be a mouse-in-pocket when the Admittance Committee heard him audition!
Now he spoke briefly with the orchestra, then donned a warm coat and scarf and walked briskly down the side aisle of the Cathedral, still quietly rehearsing phrases. I couldn’t help myself; I ran after him as fast as I dared, finally caught up, and touched his sleeve. He turned, surprised.
(Idiot! You’re bothering him! What will you say?) But there was no annoyance; he only looked startled, then curious.
I stared at up him, speechless with admiration. He had perfect English skin, was incredibly handsome, and his glorious hair, a dark halo of waves and curls, framed his face.
Finally, I managed to blurt, “I have never heard anything so beautiful.” (I wanted to say 'heard and seen,' but didn’t dare, though it would have been the simple truth.)
His sudden grin showed me he was pleased by the compliment. I relaxed slightly.
“Well, thanks very much!”
I stammered on. “You’re a countertenor, aren’t you? The best I ever heard.”
He grinned again. “ Yes, I am. And thanks again! Do come to the concert. It’s tonight, you know.”
I nodded, still word-poor, and groaned inwardly. But, taking pity on me, he offered another radiant smile; we cheerily wished each other a good day, and he left the building.
Tongue-tied, are we, you silly old twit? I muttered, at once amused and embarrassed by my codfish-like gaping. But good heavens, he was a stunner. And gracious to boot.
I dashed into the Cathedral Gift Shop and bought a ticket. I wouldn’t miss this evening for anything.
“Get here at 6:15 for a decent seat; the cathedral will be packed,” commented the clerk. “The concert begins at 7.”
Winter concerts here test one’s endurance; this stone and granite church is notoriously cold in weather like this. I’d attended many events here over the years, and had always left numb. Tonight I’d sneak a pillow out of my hotel room, as the benches were rock-hard. The concert would last over three hours, including a twenty-minute intermission to allow singers, orchestra and audience to huddle next to huge, jet-black heaters shaped like giant boilers. These thaw-machines, scattered around the cathedral, have long, vertical metal fins that radiate heat toward grateful patrons.
And that’s exactly how things unfolded. I came promptly at 6:15, staked out my seat, and settled in. At intermission all of us were like penguins in the deep Arctic winter: an inner circle of frozen folks would snuggle up to one of the monster-sized heaters and toast blissfully for a minute or two. Then they’d rotate toward the back so the people behind them could move close and toast…and so on, for nearly twenty minutes, until the warning bell sounded for the second half.
During the concert the lady next to me shared her generous, thickly fleeced lap rug, which kept my legs and torso more comfortable. My feet, though clad in thick socks, still froze.
But nobody complained. The evening was magical. Singers, instrumentalists and the cathedral’s choristers- thirteen boys ages 7 to 14- gave flawless performances. The soprano, tenor and bass soloists were outstanding.
For me, though, William Towers was the Zenith. Just hearing that one solo again was worth the trip to England. The same lovely, slim violinist stood up and moved with the melody as she played for him, backed by the little orchestra. The two of them were lost in Bach’s luminous music. What a supreme moment!
The concert finished at 10:45 p.m. Fortunately, my 11th century hotel was just across the street from the cathedral grounds. Numb-toed I hobbled, exhausted and exhilarated, up to my room. It would be impossible to sleep until I thawed my feet. Shedding shoes and socks I sat on the edge of the enormous old bathtub and, still bundled up, turned the faucet to ‘hot’ to pummel those poor digits with warmth until they regained consciousness. It took ages, and hurt.
The whole time, though, I was wreathed in smiles.