On presentation

One thing a composer discovers after having achieved any degree of success (ie getting stuff performed) is that the process of editing and preparing parts takes nearly as long as writing the work itself.  That is to say, it should if done correctly.  This will stem from having a professional work ethic: performers need clear and  considerate parts, with the reward for spending hours making them so being they are more likely to appreciate your work after a smoother read-through. At the moment I am preparing a full set of orchestral parts for The Sun Rising, as well as making minor revisions to the piece before rehearsals start.  This involves (in no particular order):

- Deciding where to place rehearsal marks
- Adding cues
- Adding instrument changes (in this case percussion and between Oboe 2 and Cor)
- Removing collisions between objects
- Laying out parts to provide suitable page turns
- Checking transpositions
- Checking use of mutes/horn stopping
- Checking parts lie within an appropriate clef (viola/bassoon/cello/d.bass/trombones)
- Splitting wind and brass parts sharing a staff in the score to provide a separate part for each of the players
- Adding a second staff for sufficiently differing divisi passages within string sections


Why am I bothering to do all this?  Partly because the performance is the final of a competition and I want to give best possible impression of my work, but also because I have no desire to inflict on others what I have had to deal with myself over the years.  Sibelius is a very useful tool in many of the above tasks: it allows one to edit the parts without affecting the score, will check clefs, mutes and changes for you, and will transpose everything with one button.

I have many pet hates when it comes to poorly presented music.  Mainly these are things that have been devised by penny-pinching editors without any thought to the performer.  In orchestral music we have to read things very quickly, often sight reading on the afternoon of the performance, and untidy or unhelpful scores do no favours for anyone.  For my own instrument, copyists who are unfamiliar with or unwilling to use the tenor and treble clefs in high passages are particularly frustrating, especially those who clearly know of the conventions but use them inconsistently. In the violoncello part of Mahler's Ninth symphony, a bar is erroneously written in the bass clef, with every pitch consequently requiring several ledger-lines.  However, the next few bars jump into the treble, even though the range of this next passage is lower overall than the previous bar!  The fact that older 'arranged' parts or pieces that were originally for band may need to be played by other members of the ensemble offers no excuse, for those instruments most likely to be cued, the bassoon and trombone, also read the tenor clef.

Actually, excessive cues (mercifully found only in older parts, it seems) are nearly as bad as wrong clefs, due to the clutter caused by trying to fit the cello and the bassoon/viola/tuba or whatever other part on to one staff.  A cue is useful if there is likely to be any difficulty in the player knowing where to enter after a rest.  Printing another instrument's part in case it might just happen to be missing is not, especially as very few orchestras above school level will lack whatever it is shown in small font.  Older publishers also tend to have a particularly Puritanical outlook about using as little paper as possible for the part, which only adds to the lack of legibility.  I remember playing Liszt's Faust Symphony (a Kalmus reprint of a nineteenth-century lithograph plate; get it for free on IMSLP) which featured almost unimaginably squashed staves, with dynamics encroaching on neighbouring staves and thirty-two semiquavers forced into a bar less than an inch wide.  (The handwritten part of the Shostakovich symphony I was also doing at the time, of equal length, did not suffer from these problems and was well thought-out).  One can only suppose that musicians in previous ages were simply used to playing from poorly-printed copies - after all, even the most crudely engraved lithograph edition was probably neater than most copyists' pen and ink, and far quicker and cheaper to produce many copies of.  Blunders which can occasionally be found in surviving sets of parts from earlier centuries include chronic laziness, manifested as an absence of time and key signatures after the first line of a piece, or a complete absence of bar numbers and rehearsal marks.  Either that, or rehearsal marks are placed every ten bars rather than at places where is would be useful to re-start the piece from.  I also dislike jazz-style 'repeat bar', and worse, 'repeat two bars' signs (another symptom of 'note-cramming').

One particularly annoying convention relating my instrument only can be found in Dvorak, Bruckner and a few others, which was to write the cello part up an octave when it went into treble clef, a convention which is utterly pointless.  Apart from having suddenly to remember to transpose, the player often had to read as many ledger-lines above the treble staff as he would had the copyist kept the same notes in the bass clef!  Stern warnings against trying to revive this absurdity are printed in most good orchestration books, all of which I heartily endorse.

Modern editions, of course, are largely free from the problems endemic to fuzzy ink-and-blotting-paper technology.  A Barenreiter, Carus, Boosey (usually), Wiener Urtext or modern Brietkopf part is a thing of beauty prepared with due regard for the convenience of the performer.  And yet...despite the neatness of the laser-printed staves issues still arise. On one memorable occasion a symphony required the cello section to divide in two at the bottom of a page, during a passage in which we were fairly prominent.  For the uninitiated, orchestral strings share a stand between two players. In the cellos, the player on the right  (left in the first violins; left in the violas; left in the second violins unless they are sitting opposite the firsts) is always the one to turn the page.  This requires them to stop playing momentarily.  Similarly, when the section divides into two, the same player who turns the page takes the lower of the parts.  You can probably see where this is going.  Placing a page turn whilst the cello section was divisi resulted in the lower line dropping out entirely whilst those formally playing it reached to turn the page. The section could get around this by dividing the two lines between alternate desks, but it should not be necessary to do this (as it involves rehearsal-time-wasting discussion amongst the section).  If the publisher had simply pushed the staves away from the page turn in the overall layout, the problem would disappear.

Things which are simply inconsiderately composed, of course, are no fault of the publisher, and we shall deal with the multitude of sins from even the great composers in a future blog post.  In the meantime I shall return to trying to make orchestral player's lives slightly easier.

The River Itchen (Part 2)

Shawford to Winchester (5 miles)

Last time, we bid farewell to the Itchen at Shawford, well into what geographers call the river's middle course (where it's neither a shallow trickle struggling to merit inclusion on OS maps, nor a sprawling channel supporting the luxury yacht industry). A defining feature of this stage is that the river valley tends to stay rather flat, as any bumps have been removed by the water's erosive power ever since the glaciers retreated. The Itchen has had some assistance in this from the London and South Western Railway, the watercress trade (the two were bedfellows for a considerable chunk of the industrial era) and the canal builders. But that doesn't mean there are no hills nearby, particularly here.

It's impossible to agree on where a particular geographical area begins and ends, but in the case of the South Downs, Winchester is regarded as the the south-west corner. Standing on the platform at Shawford station, you can just see above the trees green peaks heading off the to east, although I had to wait until my train pulled out to do so. Admittedly this didn't take long, as there was only myself and one other passenger getting off from the five carriages to Waterloo, a peak-hour supplement to the hourly two-coach diesel. You have to be in the front carriage to actually get off here, as the platforms are so short the guard will only open one door. Last time I was here there was a diversion in place due to riverbank maintenance, and although the section had re-opened the works were still going on a few hundred yards further on, so I still had to take a detour. This meant crossing the river over a narrow concrete slab, on the foundations of what had clearly once been a much larger bridge at a canal lock, then trying to locate laminated card direction signs, which wasn't easy. Even when I was certain I'd found the right path, my progress was slowed to a crawl by muddy craters at periodic intervals along the track.

The din of the M3 was very close by now, and although some thought had clearly been put into disguising the motorway from the surrounding landscape its presence was very obvious.
Having reached a relatively mud-free stretch the huge cutting at Twyford Down becomes very prominent, and the Itchen Way finally goes under the M3 with the river. Having built the motorway south as far as the A34, and a stub from Bassett to Otterbourne, this bit round Winchester was the only remaining impediment to a non-stop Southampton-London journey, especially as a woefully inadequate 1930s bypass was linking the two loose ends. Unfortunately, the land in the way was variously a Site of Special Scientific Interest, a prehistoric settlement and a pretty significant chalk hill. What was more, the land was owned by Winchester College, who refused to sell it. Having ruled out a tunnel on cost grounds, the motorway planners then attempted to carve a 100-ft deep slice through the entire mound, much to the anger of campaigners, who proceeded to cause an almighty stink and occupy the site. The environmental protests set the project back by years, led to the resignation of the principal of Winchester College, and cost the road builders millions of pounds extra - in fact by the time the costs had been paid for, they came to more than the tunnel originally considered too expensive, (although no doubt that would have been objected to as well). The section between junctions 9 and 11 is reckoned to save traffic twelve minutes.

Hockley Viaduct, the 'Spitfire Bridge'

And yet it's not all bad news. The construction of the motorway meant that the old bypass could be removed, and there's little trace of it now (save for the slip roads on its course). This means that the river is once again peaceful thanks to the main road being the other side of a huge slab of chalk, and a chunk of St Catherine's Hill removed in the 1930s has been replaced. Seven hectares of grassland have been created to replace the one and a half lost on Twyford Down. The only relic of industrialism is the narrow embankment of the former GWR Didcot, Newbury and Southampton Railway. The viaduct where it crosses the river is locally referred to as 'Spitfire Bridge' as a stricken fighter is supposed to have crashed into it during the war. It's worth remembering that railways were as objected to in the nineteenth century as motorways are today.

I didn't follow the Itchen Way exactly along this section but climbed the ridge, and then up St Catherine's Hill. This was the reason the M3 had to go through Twyford Down - an ancient hillfort was an even more outrageous route for the motorway. It's at the centre of a strange circular valley, like a water splash in slow motion bouncing up from a green pond. The sides are pretty steep, so a long wooden stair system has been constructed up to the top, from where there are some marvellous views of Winchester. To the west is St Cross Priory, whilst to the north and east hills formed an undulating horizon. Only looking south, back where I had come from, did the motorway and a huge park-and-ride site blot the view. It's strangely quiet up here and as other folks tend to take a while to puff their way up the steps it's not hard to get the place to yourself for a bit.

Coming back down St Catherine's, all that remains is to make way into the city itself. After an uneventful stretch of riverside, the path comes to a road and then by the side of the playing fields of Winchester College, where there was football practice going on. This bit of the Itchen is still in the navigable section and the water was flowing very high over the weirs after all the recent rain. After the college itself the next important building is Wolvesey Castle, where Mary Tudor had her wedding breakfast, although it's a ruin today (thanks, Cromwell). The walls were most likely built over the boundaries of the Roman city of Venta Belgarum, and there's a tiny piece of Roman stonework under an arch further up. Shortly after this the Itchen runs under another bridge and through City Mill, reaching Durngate Bridge a little further on. It's here that I decided to leave the bank (considering it a good start point for the next stage) and go through the town to the station.

Winchester High St

Winchester is considerably nicer than Southampton, having escaped serious war damage, and retained its old buildings. Even the fire station is 1930s deco, rather than the postwar police HQ opposite. There's the cathedral, of course (been in a million times; dislike the turnstiles) and the town hall, and the High St (pedestrianised) with its large clock and up-market clothing retailers (Jack Wills-yes; Joules-yes; Edinburgh Woolen Mill-yes). Even Boots is half-timbered (possibly Victorian fakery) whilst my luthier has a shop in the side streets. At the top of the street is the Westgate, Winchester's equivelent to Southampton's Bargate, and Winchester Castle, which contains the possibly not genuine King Arthur's Round Table.

Next time, we'll be turning east and travelling further up into Hampshire. I might possibly even reach the river's source, but not until the weather here improves...

Good stuff

I was going to finish the account of the river Itchen today, but the ITM press has had to be held for some very good news. I had a phone call last night from the staff at a major Scottish university to tell me that the orchestral piece I'd submitted to their competition had been shortlisted in the final four. Whether I win overall or not, it will now be performed on 21st April this year as part of their 600th anniversary celibrations by the Music Society orchestra, which actually feels like the more valuable prize. What's more is that the judging panel has some pretty big names on it, including Sally Beamish, so I'm getting my work seen by professionals.

Now all that remains is to send the parts and book a Southampton-Edinburgh flight (and finish the orchestral piece for my old uni orchestra).

The River Itchen (part 1)

As every local primary school pupil is taught, Southampton's long history as a port is thanks to it being at the confluence of two rivers. The fact that the Itchen and the Test converge here is largely a matter of geology, as the relative hardness of the chalk downs to the north has been responsible for directing the water's flow over millions of years. Even into the city, the landscape is considerably undulating.

I should know. I live half way up the highest hill in the city, one that incoming flights have to dodge the pub at the top of as they go over. Surprisingly though, I'm only a hundred yards or so from the river, and there's a footpath for its entire length, 32 miles from the beach at Woolston to the National Trust-owned house and gardens at Hinton Ampner, via Winchester. So it seemed logical to try and follow it.

The Itchen takes a sort of walking-stick route, heading north from the source and then gradually turning round a hundred and eighty degrees by the time it hits Winchester. The 'official' start of the Itchen Way is Sholing station, but as it's nowhere near the river and probably only for travel convenience, the bottom 'corner' of the river at Weston Shore is a more logical place to start.

Stage 1: Woolston - Shawford (12 miles)



Woolston is not the most picturesque of places. Across Southampton Water, Fawley oil refinery and all its associated sea traffic obscure any view of the New Forest. The area suffered the closure and subsequent demolition of the Vosper shipyard (which re-opened in Portsmouth) and it shows in the form of the empty expanse of riverside land and the general run-down feel of the place. There were grand plans for this space a few years back, with ideas including the Solent's first mini-skyscrapers, a multi-faith worship centre and 'community spaces', none of which have progressed beyond shiny computer simulations. A short while later the river flows under the enormous concrete span of the Itchen Bridge, which was thrown up in the 1970s to replace an elderly but efficient ferry. You can still see the slipway, but I refrained as most of the characters down there were in the trade for 'Mexican agriculture'.

The next few miles are rather boring, mostly side streets and cutways where the only view of the river is momentary, and the other bank occupied by a wharf or scrapyard. There's a faintly pointless loop around Bitterne Manor where the route meets itself again on the other side of the street, but it's worth mentioning the Roman site of Clausentum by the water here (no sizable remains today beside the odd denarius). Eventually we reach Bitterne Park and get to follow the river by the park that gives the suburb its name. I grew up here, and save for the exact names of the takeaways little has changed in that time. The chemist retains its art nouveau green tiles, whilst the boatyard still hasn't been turned into retirement homes. The clock tower on the traffic island known as the Triangle is nicked from elsewhere: it used to stand in the city but was moved when motor transport became sufficiently fast that accidental demolition was likely.

Riverside Park itself has a decent-sized miniature railway, which I remember being enlarged with a second track, sidings and a proper grown-up looking station with a footbridge. If you're a six-year-old wanting to ride behind a 1/10th scale live steam loco, there's no better place to be on a Sunday afternoon.

The Itchen started off looking fairly purposeful, drawing big wide curves as it cuts the east side of Southampton in two. But by only two miles upstream, at the top end of the park, it's shrunk to barely a road's width, and from here on only about half of it is original, thanks to various diversions and artificial channel caused by the watercress industry, railways, motorways and the building of an airfield. In the woods on the opposite bank was Woodmill outdoor activities centre, where Year Tens learn why modern boatbuilding has progressed beyond oil drums and pallets. I'd been to here many times as a child, on Boys' Brigade trips to the pitch and putt, but Mans Bridge had been as far as we'd ever gone, so it was rather more interesting on the other side of the A27. From here to the north of Winchester, the river had been deepened and straightened to allow watercress and other goods to be carried by water, and the water splits into several channels, with the main one heading off left round the back of the White Swan and the garage where I bought my car. The footpath, however, carries on roughly northwards into the woods, following the former canal towpath, swerving round the approach lights for Southampton Airport's runway, until it hits the biggest obstacle so far - six lanes of the M27. As is so often the case, the path has to follow the motorway along to the nearest underpass and then double back on the other side. Here it follows a flat piece of flood plain between the airport and the Itchen Valley Country Park. The noise of various turboprops spooling up and down could be heard beyond the trees at regular intervals, whilst on the other side the river wove a ragged trail across the meadows.

Eventually the path goes under the Eastleigh-Fareham railway line via a pebbly bridge, and bypasses Eastleigh itself. The town was built almost entirely on the back of the railway works here, and although one can't see them from the river the builds are still largely terraced workers' houses and industrial-age public buildings. The leafy riverbank avoids most of the waiting ballast trucks and auto wagons and instead heads for the the suburban park.

A quick loop under the London main line and back again, and open countryside reappears, albeit with the railway close by. The Itchen Navigation is almost dead straight for several long sections here, with only the occasional kink or wobble at bridges on minor roads. The original river veers whimsically off into villages and over fields, returning periodically to its parent like an inquisitive child.

Presently the footpath crosses to the western bank and gets very close to the railway line on its embankment. This is Shawford (the main village is some way to the east) with its station on a brick viaduct. There's not much that stops here, even at peak hours, so I had time to wander around a little, lucky as the only ticket machine is well hidden. There are some delightful cottages by the minor river channel and a pub, and going under the railway lines leads to a sloping area of open land, on the other side of which is the M3. The motorway has had a rather considerable effect on the landscape from here, and there's no avoiding it, as we shall see.

And tomorrow, we'll be going the rest of the way to Winchester.

Some cartographic esoterica

(Click the map, then click the magnifying glass to enlarge)

The name of each county, plus a few cities, is replaced by an appropriate piece of music - if not one that contains the area in its title, then with some connection to the county. Naturally, some were easier than others to devise. Wales, for all its rich musical traditions, is frustratingly short on songs or instrumental works that can be linked to any of the smaller regions. In particular, the number of bands originating from Cardiff is inversely proportional to the number of song lyrics actually mentioning the city. Devon proved equally difficult, and the somewhat ersatz 1920s song here is a desperate attempt to pin something on its cream-scone-and-beverage tourist industry. Mercifully, as the map shows only ceremonial rather than postal counties or unitary authorities, I have been spared some even trickier selections. What on earth would I have put for Rutland, for example?

Unsurprisingly, British composers account for the majority of entries. Vaughan Williams is the most represented, with three counties and a 'sea'; Walton, Bax, Holst, Elgar and James MacMillan are the next most common (3 each). A few 'foreigners' make it (Mendelssohn, Nicolai, Korngold, Grainger) as well as region-specific folk songs or traditional styles.

A few allocations require explanation, mostly due to their link being tenuous at best. Bedfordshire's and Hertforshire's most notable musical sons are the Renaissance composers John Dunstaple and Robert Fayrfax, respectively; whilst 1960s pop hit 'The Locomotion' for Cleveland is a reference to the Stockton-Darlington railway, upon which Robert Stevenson's engine 'Locomotion', ran. Northampton may seem even more of a puzzle unless the observer is aware that Silverstone racetrack lies (at least partially) inside the county. You've probably heard Fleetwood Mac's 'The Chain' without knowing what it was - it's the famous bass-guitar melody used as the title music to BBC motor racing broadcasts. And 'Bridge Over Troubled Water' is surprisingly appropriate for Humberside, given that the county as an administrative entity has never been politically popular. Furthermore, before the building of the Humber Bridge councillors regularly faced a hundred-mile journey between governmental centres. 'I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles' refers specifically to John O'Groats, for obvious reasons.

The more geographically pedantic will by now have spotted that 'Fingal's Cave' is incorrectly positioned, for the 'Hebrides Overture' actually refers to an island in the Inner Hebrides (Staffa, if you must know) and not the 'Outer' Isle of Lewis. (The sea shanty given to the Isle of Man, however, is merely a bad pun).

Four notable omissions: London, shaded red, has enough music written in its honour to merit a map of its own, which will be forthcoming in the future. Northern Ireland is also absent (I really couldn't think of anything besides the 'Londonderry Air') as are the Shetland Islands (much the same reason) and the other Channel territories (Scilly, Jersey, etc). Any suggestions?