THANK GOD FOR THE ABC.

OR   LET TIMBREL AND HARP PRAISE THE LORD.

It was a gentle waking after a very satisfying sleep, splashed with snatches of pleasant dreams.

My morning ritual swung into rhythm: a glance at the digital clock, a sigh of contentment that I’d clocked near nine hours, a languid reach over my head to turn on the companionable Sony for the first music offerings of the day. Being Saturday it was “uncle” Bob Maynard, an incomparable announcer, leading his audience through those first bright hours. I caught the last of his introduction to the next song and felt happy I’d not missed the ‘Mystery Tenor’ segment. No, I didn’t know this particular tenor. He was Czeck with a strength and depth and warmth to his voice. Along with a boys’ choir he was singing a Czeck Christmas carol. Wonderful! Those boys, like the Vienna boys’ Choir, possess a quality that, even with our best choirs in Australia just don’t match.

Then it struck me, with some force, just how blessed I was to share this passion for classical music. How blessed we are to be able to indulge 24/7 on ABC FM CLASSIC or a little way up the dial, MACQUARRIE MUSIC. It’s been a life time journey of discovery into realms I would not have thought possible In some way I’d like to write a “paean of  praise” for this gift from the gods, but realise I’m not really capable of coping with such a challenge. It will be a pot-pouri, or like opening some magic treasure box and trickling the jewels and diamonds, and even the odd bauble through my fingers with great delight and wonder.

As a family of six we showed no musical talent. Unlike our cousin Patricia, who learnt the piano we shunned such aspiration. In fact I can recall mum threatening us.

“If I had enough money I would make sure one of your boys learnt to play the piano.”

Maybe we were blessed, because it was decades later that Pat told me she hated it. Apart from popular songs on the radio, or a movie musical like “Road to Morocco” where Bing Crosby sent hearts aquiver the musical landscape was pretty bleak.

Ah, but there was a dawn. The Brothers had us school boys learn songs for contests or concerts. Music became fun. I still wonder at the ambition of Br. Peter Carrick, our principal at Eastwood who would coax good performances from us with the likes of Tales from Vienna Woods, Liberstraum and Mapari  a haunting aria from Norma. No cheap stuff this. Strauss, Lizst, Bellini became our companions you might say. Why, I even used lull my cute baby sister Carmel off to dreamland with Braham’s lullaby!

A whole new world opened up at Mittagong in our Marist training. The highlight of the week was Saturday night, when some 120 of us “juniors” would cram into classrooms, with the glass partitions rolled back and enjoy community singing and some classical music. It was a rollicking good time. We ranged from folk songs from Ireland, England, France Germany, Italy, America, Australia and others. We enjoyed rounds and part singing as the Brother would lead and teach us. Gilbert and Sullivan were always popular. I kept my song book for many years and bequeathed to my younger brother, David, who still treasures it, supplemented by his own favourites.

For some thirty minutes we then listened to classical records. The gramophone, like some sacred altar on a stand, was unveiled to reveal a gleaming masterpiece- a gift from some benefactor I presume. Twelve inch records, His Master’s Voice or Decca were lovingly slid from their sheaths of brown paper and laid on the turn table. Brother then “cranked” up the machine with a few twirls and then the wonder of recorded orchestra would flood the room. Silence, of course. Some would listen intently, most would read or play draughts or doodle. Mostly, I read as most of the music bored me. “Shrieking sopranos”  or dirges like “Valse Triste” could be painful. Every now and then I would look up and some little flames would dance in my mind as some tune or snatch caught me. I can recall the very first real classical piece that set me singing and I knew I had crossed a threshold. It was Weber’s “Invitation to a Dance.”                                               

The worst time of the week was Monday after school, and also Wednesday and also Friday, when we small group of boy sopranos, or “scola” were corralled into the side chapel and for near and hour would struggle, bumble our way through Gregorian antiphons or Masses. We were practically living a monastic life with such a regular prayer and liturgy program that it made a certain sense that the supreme church music from the Middle Ages should permeate our lives. But a heavy, dreary load fell on us boy sopranos in scola. I could barely lift the LIBER USUALIS, 1000 page “monster” with every church tune ever invented! Every Sunday, every feast of every saint, and a score of feasts for the Blessed Virgin, with near twenty commons of the Masses demanded our services. Our role was to intone, or lead with antiphons. And so, while the rest of the boys were enjoying a work period , we suffered the pain and ignominy of attempting to follow those black notes climbing descending, dancing, drudging between those four black lines. The minutes straggled by on leaden feet. Now, and again there were some pleasant tunes like Missa Angelis, but mostly I felt constrained and frustrated as we probed and wobbled around the notes.

After near three years, my voice

“Terry, I think your voice has broke and it would be best if you left scola.”

I wept….with joy.

But I was not out of the woods yet. In the novitiate Gregorian become deadly serious for all of us. By comparison the Juniorate was tiddly winks. Just up the hill, behind a barricade of pines, we were “incarcerated” for eighteen months and ‘licked into shape’. The focus was on formation as Brothers, to be able to live and cope with the challenges of a community life, living out our call as vowed men of poverty, celibacy, obedience. No small task. So, the prayer schedule was more rigorous. Playing a key role in this was Gregorian chant, ratcheted up so fully, that we would have outsung the Benedictine monks of Solemnes. By now, I was a little more at ease and with a certain skill but it was still demanding. The high point of the year was Holy Week in which we sang Tenebrae in the evening. It lasted for hours, with a triangle of some fifteen candles, each to be extinguished after a psalm. And each demanded an ANTIPHON. And there were prophecies to sing as well. The climax was in a darkened chapel when the doleful CHRISTUS FACTUS EST sent ghosts flitting around

There was a certain comedy about it with the inclusion of our Irish chaplain, Fr Galligan who never discovered a note in his life. Alongside him was Dom David, s shaven monk from Solemnes, Belgium where the purest Gregorian was sung. He never winced once during Gallley’s fiasco. But he was less pleased with my performance.  For the first time in history we were to SING the Passion on Good Friday. In Latin of course. A hand picked group of three were to assist Dom. While Brother Gerard, with his sonorous bass voice was a most impressive Christus,

(taking the words of Christ) I failed. I was the crowd or the villains of the tragedy. As such I had to sing in a shrill, edgy voice.

In the practice I barely coped. Come the big occasion I had a “fall back position” in case of problems. Sure enough, after the first shrill I realised I would have to improvise. I dropped just one octave. It was enough to take out the drama of the story. I could see that Dom was most displeased.  I make a quick getaway and so escaped his wrath.

The glorious sun of the risen Jesus flooded hearts as we exalted on Holy Saturday night. Triumph surely as we soared into Haec Dies!

But I did not escape a certain trial and load during the novitiate. While there was no scola there were four cantors who shouldered so much of the leading. As head cantor, or lead singer, along with Tom and Brian and Lenny, we had to sweat those evening practices and soak up the glare. I remember wildly seeking some pine apple juice to ease the throat on the big nights, as I was told that helped. No dice. But I did find some honey and I reckon that eased the pain a little as our cantors led the novices through the labyrinth of the music which told the story in such a soulful way. All that ended with the profession of vows on July 2^nd 1951, when we were in glorious voice with TE DEUM and TAKE BACK RECEIVE O LORD.

Sadly, there was no community singing or enjoying gramophone delights during that time. There would be time later.

My next enchantment came in the strangest circumstances. For six turbulent months I taught at Marist Parramatta. In fact I can claim a record that I believe is unequalled. We four young Brothers arrived for lunch on July 3^rd 1951. Around the lunch table, feeling very uneasy and like new chums to the savvy “monks” gathered, the genial “boss” Br. Ethelred suddenly asked:

“By the way do any of you know Latin?”

I raised a feeble hand.

“Right”, he said briskly, “you’ll be taking 2A at 1.30.”

And so I was introduced to a wild bunch, barely three years younger than me, with the helpful comment from smiling Br. Dermot:

“And give Brother a fair go boys.”

It was a baptism of blood and fire.

And so I began teaching high school, briefly.

Strangely, the easiest group were a 3B class of some thirty, 15 year old boys, on a veranda upstairs. I taught Geography, very poorly. But they were compliant, easy-going, and even a little interested. I do think the shadow of Br. Lawrence and his supervision from an adjoining room added some pressure here.

One morning I was startled as some glorious music wafting across the road, from Our Lady of Mercy College. An elite school surely, with a small boarding section and with a fine staff of the best Mercies around.  They had a string orchestra and I would be lucky enough on certain days when they were practising as a group. In fact, if I timed it just right, I could assign some work and drift down the back of the class, stand in the sunshine and drink in this divine nectar! It was probably my first encounter with Hayden. Since then, no matter where I am, I stop and let t the loveliness of Hayden’s serenade wash over me. (Of course, among the music literati it seems that it really was composed by Hofstedder).

I can’t recall that the community owned a radio. Even if it did, there was no community room where all might gather. After all this 1880 house was built for four Brothers and now, in a certain squalor, some thirteen crammed in, with three to a room and just one toilet and shower! Can you imagine the pressure after breakfast when it was action stations as we all scampered to be ready to face the horde of 700 students by 9.00 am?

The next year, 1952, I was delivered and saved from certain “perdition” in leaving the Brothers. I was one of the few who received teacher training. Music played an important role in all this. We were blessed in having Br. Ronald Fogarty, our Master, a rare mix of supreme scholar, a brilliant companion, and a musician. Yes, he played the piano as well as the violin. Besides he had a quality tenor voice and loved to perform. So, for a short time each evening we gathered around the piano, with Br. Tom Pollard on the piano, Ronnie on the fiddle and us ragged bunch belting out popular but classic songs. We even enjoyed Maurice Chevalier’s LA MER. Precious memories.

But it was at the State Demonstration School at Haberfield that I was launched into another orbit. Each week our long “hearse” car, a 1926 Hudson Super Six, would chug from

13 Drummoyne Ave

, with seven aboard  over to Haberfield Demonstration School. It was one of the diamonds in the crown of State Education. Here, with a superb staff of creative teachers we young trainee teachers would be agog as we were “entertained” by so many memorable lessons. No doubt, we would promise to model their teaching on this inspiration. I still remember some of the names of the teachers and noted years late, that some had achieved high status. It was here for instance, that I was touched with a certain fire to make poetry a rich and lively part of my teaching. I became aware that in most of my years, the teachers had managed to dumb it down so much, with an appalling choice of “Pommy” poems that had so little appeal for Aussi kids. Maths came alive as well, along with Social Studies. But a new experience for me was to revel in Music Appreciation. You could see and feel the students relive the story of that remarkable hero and crack shot, William Tell. Rossini’s overture had us storming down the mountain passes to liberate those enslaved Swiss. I would surely enrich my teaching with this. Acquiring records and a player would provide challenges in our threadbare classrooms where “chalk and talk” was the norm.

It was around this time that I had to admire our young brother, Denis. While Peter, the eldest of us five boys had lead us into realms of comedy with Peter Sellers and a few new musicals, Denis, still in his teens, had discovered and embraced the masters, specially Beethoven. He had even embellished his room with a bust of this genius. He was a few light years ahead of me.

FNQ – Far North Queensland was not a cultural heartland in the fifties. Remarkably I was able to acquire a radio for my classroom. While spending many hours preparing work in the classroom over the weekend I would cast a wide net for music of some value. Most of the country stations scattered up and down the coast and inland were totally involved with pop of various types. Hit tunes did have a certain attraction and I enjoyed humming or singing “Mocking Bird Hill” and the like. ABC was often turgid and somewhat masochistic! But then, one late Sunday afternoon, I discovered a gem. 4AY from Ayr had a thirty minute program of classical favourites. The signature tune, the intermezzo from Caviliera Rusticana by Mascagni still weakens my knees and brings on a swoon!  That half hour was the oasis during the week. Never to be missed.

There was one rare occasion with Queensland Symphony Orchestra entertained a packed Shire Hall with hundreds of restless country kids. The conductor was masterful in his crowd control and one jump ahead of mischievous types. As we were perusing the program he called our attention.

“Now, I want you to all stand. Now put your program on the seat behind you. NOW SIT ON IT!”

I still feel a glow when I hear and ancient record being played and hear: ”The conductor is Henry Krips.”

Returning to Sydney I grabbed the opportunity of introducing my sixth grade students to real, live classical music in Sydney Town Hall. It wasn’t easy organising those sixty twelve year olds, ensuring money, marching to Parra station, keeping together in the carriage, out at Town Hall and then seating with hundreds of other school children. But it was worth it. Through the ABC the Sydney Symphony would organise four programs during the year, each progressively demanding. There was lots of participation with kids involved in tympani for instance. I even met a giant in the music world, the conductor, SIR Bernard Heinz.

Generally, I would have to say, the level of musical appreciation among Brothers I have lived with, is mediocre at best. Sounds superior? Well, I can think of communities I’ve lived in and those who would enjoy classical music are pretty rare. That just makes me more grateful that I have been blessed, while professing feeling no superiority! But at Parra I was blessed by two, three Brothers who were outstanding. Buying a player or gramophone was verboten but Marty Smith got around that: he made his own.

Lucky for me, he updated and bequeathed his outmoded model to me. So there it stood, a large, unvarnished “cabinet” style in the front corner of the classroom.  From there I attempted to lead twelve year olds into the enchanting world of “good” music. Yes, Rossini got a Guernsey as well as Bizet, Handel.

One remarkable response to the question”

“What image comes to your mind as you listen to this?”

It was Grieg’s “Morning” in Peer Gynt suite.

“I can imagine a deer stepping down through the snow to nuzzle a drink from a pond”

I wonder if Christ Trew, now a teacher in his fifties, remembers that inspired response.

It was in 1975 that I faced a dismal situation where I would likely “die” from starvation or at least serious malnutrition from music deprivation. With a gun at my head, I had agreed to go to Solomon Islands on a new venture. I was well aware of the danger and so planned to cope. While, on my way, I stopped over with the Marists at Port Moresby. There, Fr. Pat Casserly, a pleasant Irish priest, who as a professional radio producer was able to advise me on a radio purchase. In Rabaul, I was able to pick up an impressive three band NATIONAL. So short wave would help me reach out around the Pacific, and Australia of course, to satisfy my musical needs. Pat also advised me in erection of aerials. And do I was quite optimistic when I was setting up at the Tenaru community. I was able to use some local talent to shin up a tall tree and string up our T aerial. But the results were only mediocre. While I could always get clear reception from wonderful Radio Australia with a wide variety of programs with a large following around Asia and the Pacifiic there was no classic music. Tragically, while there was clear “line of sight” from other islands, Guadacanal lofted an eight thousand foot range to block music from Oz. That was a blow.

We did have a player and a modest pile of records which did give me lots of pleasure. And around at Nazareth Apostolic Centre, Fr. Michael Cruikshank, a true musical aficionado had set up a quality playing station and had collected a range of records over the years. And so I was able to survive.

On my first leave back in Sydney I was determined to record enough music to see me through the years. In the meantime a musical revolution had occurred, FM STEREO had arrived. Over the weeks I was able to “download” on scores of cassettes, the best that the ABC had to offer. Over the years I continued to add to that. Why, in New York I discovered PBC, equivalent of our ABC. I never needed to hunger again.

When I finally returned home after thirteen years away I was able to embrace some wonderful experiences, especially over the summer time. SYMPHONY UNDER THE STARS and OPERA IN THE PARK were not to be missed. Being free gave an extra tang to it. Then there was Mozart’s 200 years since his birth. Sydney celebrated that “con brio”, with such gusto and style. Good planning and staking out our “posey” from 9 am we were assured of best situation. There we were, chomping on chicken and enjoying a chardonnay, or more likely, a Cabernet-Savignon when up popped just a few rows in front, a television crew. Carmel gawped.

“That’s my hero Clive James. I must get a photo with him.”

It was obvious that the director, a stern faced woman, had selected the most colourful groups for this special. The particular group wore black trousers, no shirt, and black tie- at least the blokes did. We pounced. Carmel quickly manoeuvred near Clive and I shot off two photos. By then Madame” Defarges” was onto us and we hustled off. Great.

My years at Joeys provided some priceless opportunities. Out of the nine hundred students, more than four hundred were learning musical instruments. The BR LOUIS MUSICAL CENTRE was always throbbing, bounding with music. I became good friends with the director of the music department. That had some great spin-offs. One was free ticket to four concerts at the Sydney Opera House each year. The program was called MEET THE MUSIC. This included accompanying a group of students to the concerts. As an introduction at the early time of 6 pm an Australian composer with a work that would feature that evening met us and walked us through his work.

 It was very enlightening and added a richer dimension to the music. It was a thrill to be part of a young, enthusiastic audience. There was no half-hearted and polite hand clapping. There was a storm of applause and I noted that the conductor and orchestra members were surprised and delighted at the response. They were swept up in a certain euphoria, which carried us along.

But now, I can carry a whole symphony orchestra with a repertoire of hundreds of compositions of glorious quality, enough to keep me ravished for days….in my pocket. Ah, technology has reached undreamed of heights even ten to twenty years ago. The advent of the IPOD burst through barriers that the wonderful WALKMAN imposed. Now, if anyone asked me:

“What is the most wonderful present, the one that has given you more pleasure than any other in your whole life, what would you say?”

I would have no hesitation.

“It’s the I pod that Marist Youth Care presented to me as a farewell present at the end of 2007”

It has been a constant, dazzling companion for three years and has accompanied me around the world and given me unending delight while walking, in planes, trains, buses and boat. And it has an almost infinite range. Some years ago I had amassed over a hundred CDs, a most impressive company or battalion in phalanxes along my desk. All of that and more has magically been spirited into this slim, silver magical machine.

 As well, some forty photo albums have likewise been miniaturised to share stories with scores of family and friends. And yet, this miracle has room for so much more. Surely, it boggles the mind and you do wonder how can anything improve on this, but it surely will happen. In the meantime, for a decade and more, my little Apple I Pod will continue to bedazzle and delight me.

A golden thread through all this marvellous journey has been Australia’s priceless gift, the ABC. For decades, either as background music or an experience in deeper listening has been ABC FM Classic, found at 92.9 on the Sydney spectrum. As a backup the Macquarie Broadcasting at 102.5 which can boast wonderful programs as well, and paralleled my lifeline in New York, PBS – both of what depend on public subscription.

The creativity in radio continues to bubble forth to cater for changing times and tastes. More recently there has been a surge in interactive programs and reaching out to children with competitions. So, over the last few years there have been programs to invite listeners to have their say. Programs to discover MOST POPULAR OPERA ARIA EVER, THE MOST POPULAR CONCERTO,  or SYMPHONY, or even, THE COMPOSITION I WOULD DIE FOR  or COULDN’T LIVE WITHOUT, all these built up great interest, excitement and momentum over the months. The grand finale in Opera House or Concert Hall in the capital cities were gala events. I was lucky enough to attend one in Sydney. The feeling in the Opera House was a “combustible” mix of expectation, excitement, fun, and wonder. Of course, it was the great masters who mostly took centre stage like Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Vivaldi, Schubert, Bizet, Dvorak, and Shostakovich. All of whom I love madly. But there is one who shines highest in that pantheon. You could say my admiration verges on worship and idolatry- but then he does shines forth with such power in reflecting the wonder and beauty and mystery of God. Ever since he “stole” that twelve piece classic, Allegri’s Miserere from the locked-down, Sistine Chapel and under the threat of excommunication I knew he was God’s gift to us. I still recall the ultimate accolade that Carl Haas, that legendary presenter who charmed, entertained and inspired us for forty years, paid Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

“There have been some, who, down the years, have attempted to downplay his brilliance and install him as just another composer. But, in mind,” (And at this stage his voiced hushed)

“ He was the greatest genius who has ever lived.”

I feel I’ve set out in a canoe to paddle around all the enchanting islands in the Pacific to give some idea of how grateful I am to share the gift of music. I’ve barely begun. And I’ve not even touched on sacred music except in passing. One has only to view the faces of singers in HYMNS OF PRAISE on Sunday TV to see how music can elevate us into a new dimension. Not to mention Taize chants with mantras that move us into mystic realms. And how could one celebrate Christmas without Handel’s Messiah?

 We have such a depth of tradition going back a millennium with Plain Chant. But surely it goes much, much further back that that. The Bible has inspired so much music. And in the book of Psalms there’s such abundance with practically a symphony orchestra involved, with harps, lutes, stringed instruments, timbrels and tympani. But then King David had his own poetic and musical genius. Now, I have to “deplore” the deprivation of Mary and Joseph and Jesus that their little home in Nazareth was not sparkling, glowing, bouncing with the delights of ABC FM Classic, but surely Mary was humming as she swept or washed or gathered water from the well, And surely Joseph whistled as he sawed and shaped timber. Jesus being a quick lad and learner was probably even making up his own ditties. And who knows? There might be echoes of those even now?