Linda

A Walk in the Paradise Garden. . . with Apologies to Delius

I have always thought that the singing of madrigals is like walking through a beautiful garden. I am not talking here about singing with a choir, lovely though that is. This is singing a capella (without accompaniment) with one voice to each part. It is like walking with several companions through a lovely garden. Some people walk slowly, some more quickly. Some may stop to admire the view on the way, while others may stop and take a rest every now and then. There is indeed no guarantee that everyone will arrive together at the other end of the garden. The only certainty is that every path is full of beauty and interest, and that happiness will always be the outcome. For any person still reading this, a madrigal is a secular vocal music composition of the Renaissance and Early Baroque periods. It is polyphonic, usually unaccompanied, with the number of voices varying from three to eight. The term polyphonic describes music in two or more parts, each part having a melody of its own. Now the reader will see why it is akin to being in a lovely garden with several paths to follow. Unlike most part songs, there is no musical line which dominates the whole. The melody is passed back and forth between the singers, with each voice having equal importance. In the paradise garden all flowers are equally beautiful, and every path has its own merit. There is no rule that says that choirs may not sing madrigals, and I have enjoyed this activity countless times, but it does not approach that spine-tingling pleasure of singing with one voice to each part, and reaching the end together and in tune, with, preferably, no mistakes on the way. Many madrigals, particularly those by English composers of the period, are written for the usual four voices, known by many as SATB. Sometimes parts are split into firsts and seconds, and, even more exciting, sometimes there is a fifth voice thrown into the mix. This voice is known as quintus, and it is such a joy to sing, rather like being a little bit naughty and not sticking to the rules. The person following the quintus path would probably remove their shoes and have a paddle in the pond before drying their feet and proceeding in an appropriate manner to the end of the garden. Could the reason I like singing the quintus part so much be because I am quite addicted to paddling. The reader may wonder what subjects have inspired the composers of madrigals. Unrequited love is the most usual topic, with the pursuit of one’s inamorata coming a close second. Quite often they are in minor keys, obviously to portray the heartache of the composer. A well-known composer of lovely madrigals, John Dowland, is still followed around by his Latin tag ‘semper Dowland, semper dolens’, which in rough translation means, ‘John Dowland is always miserable’. It describes him well, as he never seemed to secure the object of his affections, and was always fading away into a G minor chord of misery. No walking in the paradise garden for him. Perhaps if he had pursued a less mournful course of action he would have done better in love. No-one really enjoys the company of someone who is always bewailing their misfortune. People are put off the singing of madrigals by the perceived difficulty of the task. It can be difficult and a trifle daunting to sing a part on one’s own, leaving the singer feeling very exposed and open to adverse criticism, but the secret is in the counting. Nowadays anyone wishing to read music has it easy compared with the madrigal singers of the Baroque period, in that we have bar lines to divide our written music into manageable sections, and time signatures to guide us along the way. All that was available as guidance to performers in those days was the tactus. This tactus was a principal accent or rhythmic unit around which everyone had to construct their individual parts, so not only did they have

1 to read their notes, but they had to count out everything to fit round the communal tactus. It must have been rather like walking through the garden with a machete and a pair of secateurs, picking one’s way through the undergrowth. Having said that, madrigal singing was a pastime beloved of many. It was the pop music of the day, and like all pop music one didn’t have to be talented to indulge in it, and it was surely all the better for that. It was fashionable to be miserable, and being a spurned lover was requisite for being recognised in the social scene. Their ‘Hey nonny, nonny’ was our ‘Yeh, yeh, yeh!’ I do love singing in choirs. The adrenaline rush one receives from singing fantastic music with many other like-minded people can last for days. That overwhelming feeling of being swept along on clouds of ‘O Fortuna’ or ‘Zadok the Priest’ is like drowning, but in a very good way. For me, though it could never be described as a walk in a paradise garden. That particular paradise can be found by singing with others, but following my own musical path through the joy of a madrigal. As a coda, I have always wished to own one of those pyramid-shaped wooden music stands which are designed for four singers to stand round, each person singing their own part. They are so satisfying to look at, and even better to use. I have seen quite a few for sale in antique shops, and I have several times been close to making a purchase, but I fear I shall never possess one, as sadly there is no stand for a quintus.

Linda Mottram Copyright

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