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In one of his most memorable songs， Frank Sinatra sang： “Regrets， I’ve had a few， but then again， too few to mention”. I share that sentiment with him. Life has generally been kind to me， but my greatest regret is that I was not blessed with the intellect of expert musicians， nor do I have the manual dexterity to play musical instruments as I would like to. True， I had a decent voice at one time， and I could play a tune on a flute or guitar， but never well. I’m not the kind of person to spend time being envious of other people， but I do recall how I envied one of my fellow-students at Edinburgh University， when he came into the student bar each evening， sat down at the piano and played jazz， and consequently never had to pay for a drink –an appreciative audience always bought his beer！
In many respects， music is a very mathematical art-form： it is highly dependent on repetition， on predictability and on its audiences’ recognition of themes that remain in the memory precisely because they are not random. The classic example of this concept is in the ringing of church bells in the Anglican tradition， where the ringing patterns of between five and twelve bells are planned in a highly mathematical way， in repetitive sets that permit them to be rung continuously in a full “peal” for more than three hours. Indeed， peals as long as 17 hours have been known！
Therein lay my problem， I concluded， because I was never strong in mathematics （despite being a professional accountant for a few years – that’s a worrying thought！）. As I grew up， this realisation conveniently explained that my neurological functions were not designed for music， but perhaps were geared to other forms of artistry that would serve me better in life， and which might even be appreciated by other people. So my sense of loss was quickly replaced by an understanding of that word “appreciation”. If we can’t be good at all things – and no human could possibly be – there’s great value in learning to enjoy what other people are able to achieve. And so， as time passed， I continued to sing， albeit infrequently and I developed an increasing interest in orchestral and choral concerts， in addition to my daily fare of rock music.
Today， in my mature years， I have the good fortune to be able to hear superb choral and organ music in my new“office”， Ely Cathedral； I am Chairman of a world-class chamber orchestra， Britten Sinfonia； and I still go to see Jessie J and the rock band Status Quo in concert. But what are the common threads that bind those musical forms together in my mind？ Curiously， I suspect that one of those threads is diversity， rather than commonality. What I mean by this is that music takes so many different forms that it can be endlessly fascinating to try to understand them and to decide whether one actually likes what one is hearing. It is often said that， in a world where there are several hundred spoken languages， and possibly thousands of dialects， there is only one truly universal language ….. and that is music！
I disagree with that view for two reasons， the first of which is that music has so many different personalities（as I think of them） that they can’t be considered as one language. Those personalities， like linguistic dialects， are often dictated by the place in which the music is performed. They are， if you like， national characteristics. Thus， the music of much of the African continent is highly rhythmic， dominated by an assortment of drums which drown out the voice of the flutes and stringed instruments. Their beat serves the particular purpose of encouraging communal dancing， clapping and a range of vocal sounds that are not necessarily intended to be tuneful.
Another personality that comes to mind is the militaristic style of music favoured in many of the Germanic countries， doubtless intended to stimu- late the kind of behaviour expected of the men of warrior nations！ Those same martial tendencies can sometimes be heard in religious contexts， but are often found in ceremonial music such as national anthems， as a call to unity and communal pride. A prime example of this art-form is the Hungarian anthem， known as “Hymnusz”， which is expressed in almost religious terms as a hymn to God. Written as 64 lines of poetry （though， thankfully， they sing only 8）， it is unique among national anthems in that it is the only one to mention wine in its text！ “In the grape fields of Tokaji you dripped sweet nectar”， it says； and if I seem to be mocking the people of Hungary， be assured that I am not， for the sweet white wines of Tokaji are among the very finest dessert wines in the world. I recommend them especially to my Chi- nese friends， who have a special fondness for sweet wine！ But I digress …
I have discussed one of two reasons why I do not regard music as the one universal language. The second is that it is frequently argued that love can more correctly claim to be the only universal language. Certainly， love is an emotion that is identifiable throughout humankind， but it is a curious language， in the sense that it does not need to be spoken or sung – it is something that can be felt without the need to be vocalised. But maybe William Shakespeare got it right： he gave us an insight into the close relationship that may exist between love and music， when Duke Orsino， in Shakespeare’s play Twelfth Night， says： “ If music be the food of love， play on！” Quite so： let there be music， and let love be the consequence！
In many respects， music is a very mathematical art-form： it is highly dependent on repetition， on predictability and on its audiences’ recognition of themes that remain in the memory precisely because they are not random. The classic example of this concept is in the ringing of church bells in the Anglican tradition， where the ringing patterns of between five and twelve bells are planned in a highly mathematical way， in repetitive sets that permit them to be rung continuously in a full “peal” for more than three hours. Indeed， peals as long as 17 hours have been known！
Therein lay my problem， I concluded， because I was never strong in mathematics （despite being a professional accountant for a few years – that’s a worrying thought！）. As I grew up， this realisation conveniently explained that my neurological functions were not designed for music， but perhaps were geared to other forms of artistry that would serve me better in life， and which might even be appreciated by other people. So my sense of loss was quickly replaced by an understanding of that word “appreciation”. If we can’t be good at all things – and no human could possibly be – there’s great value in learning to enjoy what other people are able to achieve. And so， as time passed， I continued to sing， albeit infrequently and I developed an increasing interest in orchestral and choral concerts， in addition to my daily fare of rock music.
Today， in my mature years， I have the good fortune to be able to hear superb choral and organ music in my new“office”， Ely Cathedral； I am Chairman of a world-class chamber orchestra， Britten Sinfonia； and I still go to see Jessie J and the rock band Status Quo in concert. But what are the common threads that bind those musical forms together in my mind？ Curiously， I suspect that one of those threads is diversity， rather than commonality. What I mean by this is that music takes so many different forms that it can be endlessly fascinating to try to understand them and to decide whether one actually likes what one is hearing. It is often said that， in a world where there are several hundred spoken languages， and possibly thousands of dialects， there is only one truly universal language ….. and that is music！
I disagree with that view for two reasons， the first of which is that music has so many different personalities（as I think of them） that they can’t be considered as one language. Those personalities， like linguistic dialects， are often dictated by the place in which the music is performed. They are， if you like， national characteristics. Thus， the music of much of the African continent is highly rhythmic， dominated by an assortment of drums which drown out the voice of the flutes and stringed instruments. Their beat serves the particular purpose of encouraging communal dancing， clapping and a range of vocal sounds that are not necessarily intended to be tuneful.
Another personality that comes to mind is the militaristic style of music favoured in many of the Germanic countries， doubtless intended to stimu- late the kind of behaviour expected of the men of warrior nations！ Those same martial tendencies can sometimes be heard in religious contexts， but are often found in ceremonial music such as national anthems， as a call to unity and communal pride. A prime example of this art-form is the Hungarian anthem， known as “Hymnusz”， which is expressed in almost religious terms as a hymn to God. Written as 64 lines of poetry （though， thankfully， they sing only 8）， it is unique among national anthems in that it is the only one to mention wine in its text！ “In the grape fields of Tokaji you dripped sweet nectar”， it says； and if I seem to be mocking the people of Hungary， be assured that I am not， for the sweet white wines of Tokaji are among the very finest dessert wines in the world. I recommend them especially to my Chi- nese friends， who have a special fondness for sweet wine！ But I digress …
I have discussed one of two reasons why I do not regard music as the one universal language. The second is that it is frequently argued that love can more correctly claim to be the only universal language. Certainly， love is an emotion that is identifiable throughout humankind， but it is a curious language， in the sense that it does not need to be spoken or sung – it is something that can be felt without the need to be vocalised. But maybe William Shakespeare got it right： he gave us an insight into the close relationship that may exist between love and music， when Duke Orsino， in Shakespeare’s play Twelfth Night， says： “ If music be the food of love， play on！” Quite so： let there be music， and let love be the consequence！