The Lark Ascending, by English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams, is my favourite piece of music. I’m not alone in this; it’s widely known to be the nations’ favourite. It has topped Classic FM’s Hall of Fame numerous times. But listening to this masterpiece feels different in the wide-open space of the countryside than the confinements of London, where I’ve mostly lived. It’s the same difference I expect you hear in the song of a caged bird compared to the song of a bird that’s in the wild.
The other day I felt very fortunate when The Lark Ascending was played in a concert in my Welsh village. It was the first time I had heard the piece played live. I felt a strange connection to the lead violinist, as if he was the Pied Piper of classical music. Perhaps it was a shared sense of how special this piece of music is that connected me to him. And when I looked around at the audience, they, too, were lost in reverie.
Since living in the Welsh valley, I have been surrounded by music. I have attended many local concerts, often performed in old churches. Composers have been celebrated by cellos and violins against the backdrop of stained-glass windows. Audiences, full of farmers accompanied by their wives and other local people, have had their lives enriched by the work of those who have long left this green Earth, but who temporarily possess and enliven the hearts and bodies of musicians who are very much alive.
It was interesting to listen to this quintessentially English piece in Wales. The Welsh are known for their choirs and sonorous singing voices. It has made me wonder whether living among lush green valleys makes wanting to sing a natural inclination.
In the film The Sound of Music, Julie Andrews’s Maria joyfully sings that “the hills are alive with the sound of music/ With songs they have sung/ For a thousand years.” Living among hills, I am surprised to say that I can now relate to Maria’s unbridled joy. The mountains have their own feelings—in bad weather they are shrouded and solemn, in good weather they are optimistic and bright. And the hills also respond to my emotions—they speak to me in my dark and morose moods, holding me in an open palm that closes in to protect me. They whisper, “your pain is mine”.
The countryside has its own song; only playing to an attentive audience. I have heard it many times and recognise its call. I am beginning to understand why the Welsh are known for their singing and music. There is a natural propensity to make music where there are valleys and hills. It is a musical response to the valley’s very own symphony.
There is a compositional technique of song called, “call and response”. A lead singer puts out a “call”, a song or phrase, and the second party responds to it in music or verse. Perhaps this is why singing is so much part of the Welsh culture. They are responding to the call of the -valleys; a sublime conversation between the landscape and the Welsh people. A reverberation of sound that’s been echoing for thousands of years. When we’re so deeply moved by the natural world, the compulsion is to respond.
