04.10.2024Interview Paul Mealor
“It’s a piece about belief, about standing strong in what you truly and firmly believe in, whatever that may be. And being prepared to lay everything on the line for what you think is right. I believe that’s really what the piece is about.”
Dear friends,
today, October 4th, 2024, The Zurich Chamber Singers and I release our new album, featuring the choral opera The Light of Paradise by the celebrated British composer Paul Mealor. Together with the sonic.art Saxophone Quartet, we premiered and recorded this brand new work in January 2024. In this exclusive interview, I spoke with Paul about this special piece, his musical upbringing, and his thoughts on being a composer in the 21st century. Enjoy!
Christian Erny: Paul, we’ve been waiting a long time for this day because today the recording of your new work, The Light of Paradise, is finally out. What’s the story behind this new piece, and what makes it special for you?
Paul Mealor: Well, there are a lot of things that make it special. Firstly, it’s perhaps the biggest choral piece I’ve written. I’ve written larger works, but they’ve been more orchestral-focused or operatic. But this is the largest choral piece I’ve done, lasting about an hour. It’s also a kind of hybrid piece. It’s not really a choral work, and it’s not really an opera. It’s a mixture of all these things, so I’ve called it a choral opera. There are fourteen movements, which I call “devotions” in this piece. For me, it’s a whole new way of structuring a choral work. There are some pieces by other composers that come close, but nothing quite like this. So, I think it’s new in many ways, not just for me.
Oh, for everyone! Also, it’s unusual because of the story it tells…
Yes, the subject is incredibly important. Margery Kempe, whom The Light of Paradise is about, was a medieval English mystic, and the piece is based on her own writings, The Booke of Margery Kempe. It’s the first autobiography by a woman ever published. That alone makes it incredibly important. I took her life, which she details in the book, and her persecution by the Church because she was a woman, her love of the Trinity, and her actual, as she believed, close relationship with Jesus Christ—so close, in fact, that she marries him. In essence, all nuns marry the Church and their God, but she believed she had a personal relationship with Christ. So, in many ways, the subject is truly extraordinary. It’s really something I’ve never tackled before.
The story of Margery Kempe is not an easy one and must be understood and examined from multiple angles.
I think you’re right. This is the first piece of music, if we start there, about Margery Kempe. And that’s not surprising because for hundreds of years, she was an incredibly controversial figure. It’s only really in the 20th century that women have started to be allowed to have their own voices. Before that, the church and society really didn’t like women having points of view, so she was controversial for that reason. It’s not surprising that no one had written anything about her musically until now.
For me, it’s important that your work is not seen as sacred music, but rather as a human drama. What aspects do you feel are most important for the audience to understand?
Oh yes, that’s another important aspect of this piece—it is, as you say, not necessarily sacred music. It’s not church music at all, really. There are only a couple of movements that you might perform in a church service; the rest you really wouldn’t dare because they just wouldn’t fit. What I wanted to do, because the book charts her life, which is a journey of pain, acceptance, and prayer, was to create a piece of music that also felt like a journey. As I was thinking about that, I also started considering the Stations of the Cross, Christ’s own journey, which is a journey of pain toward his death. Her book, in a way, mirrors this. The two parallels seemed to be an important way to structure the piece. So, the 14 movements symbolize the Stations of the Cross. It is a journey. For me, if I were to guide the audience, I would ask them to imagine being this woman in the 1400s, who suddenly realizes she has something to say—that she sees Christ and religion in a very different way from the men around her. At that time, such views were not allowed to be expressed, but she did. The strength she gathers in her self-belief throughout that journey is what this piece is really about.
Today, of course, we must also look at it from a modern point of view and critically review the things she says.
I think you’re right. We do look at it with some skepticism and ask questions. But we must realize that what she wrote and what she says is, in her view, the truth. She believes so strongly in what she says that she’s prepared to die for it. But that, of course, doesn’t mean it’s the truth. So, you’re right; we have to question her, and in this piece, we do. The piece itself questions her. Like any piece of music that’s worth its salt—a good old English saying—it should be open to different interpretations. You should be able to listen to this piece without feeling indoctrinated. In many ways, it’s not really a piece about faith. It’s a piece about belief, about standing strong in what you truly and firmly believe in, whatever that may be, and being prepared to lay everything on the line for what you think is right. I think that’s really what the piece is about.
The Zurich Chamber Singers | Foto: Sandu Cucui
«I first thought I was being drawn to become a priest, but the world’s glad I didn’t.»
Writing choral music has always been an important part of your career. How did your strong connection to choral music develop?
Actually, the story I’m about to tell you sounds a bit like a chapter out of Margery Kempe’s book. It’s a little surreal. When I was a child, I was hyperactive, and I had to take medication to calm down. One of the things my family thought would help was getting me outside a lot, which I still love today. My brother, who is quite a bit older than me, would often take me out into the countryside. This one time, when I was about nine, we were standing by a lake in Wales. Being hyperactive, I couldn’t stand still and wanted to try the water—I fell in. At that point, I couldn’t swim, and I was drowning. I realized I wasn’t going to get out, that I was going to die. And the most amazing feeling came over me, one I’ve never felt again—a kind of inner warmth, that what was about to happen wasn’t so bad. It felt almost inevitable, like slipping into something else. It was a very strange feeling. Anyway, I was rescued, as you can tell by this interview (laughs). When my parents came to find me, I told them what had happened. I didn’t have the words then to describe it, but I wanted to understand what that feeling was. My dad said the only thing he could think of was to take me to the cathedral to talk to the dean. When we went to the cathedral, the choir was rehearsing. I heard in that choir the warmth I had experienced in the river. So, when I met with the dean, I told him all this and that I was drawn to join the choir. I thought I was being drawn to become a priest, but the world’s glad I didn’t—I’d make a terrible priest (laughs). So I joined the choir. We sang three services a day. Then I learned piano and organ, as well as trombone and cello, and I took voice lessons. That’s how it all started.
A fascinating story. And quite unusual—I wasn’t expecting that answer.
Yeah, very much so. But it didn’t feel unusual to me.
«In a choir, you can’t hide anything. Every single note, every single gesture, every single line is immediately audible to anyone with a good pair of ears.»
Brahms himself said that writing choral music was one of the most difficult things for him. Which particular challenges of that genre would you highlight?
For me, it was summed up by the great Finnish composer Magnus Lindberg. I had a couple of lessons with him when I was a student. He was a great composer of orchestral music and a wonderfully intelligent person. I was showing him my choral music, and he said, “I find it very difficult to write choral music because there’s nowhere to hide.” I didn’t quite understand what he meant at that point because I was only 18, but I do now. In an orchestra, you can have textures that are somewhat hidden in the harmony. In a choir, you can’t hide anything. Every single note, every single gesture, every single line is immediately audible to anyone with a good pair of ears. So if you’re writing for choir, you really have to know what you’re doing.
Oh yes. Voices have scopes and limitations that orchestral instruments lack in some ways…
That doesn’t mean you can’t push it, of course. You can push choirs to their limits, which I think we do in this piece as well. But I think understanding gesture, harmony, breathing, counterpoint, when voices are at their strongest, when they’re not at their strongest, how to make words sometimes rhetorical or meaningful—all those kinds of things you don’t have to worry about in an orchestra. And of course, you have to deal with language and all the great challenges that come with anything related to language.
The discussion about what new music is or should be is often controversial and charged. There are some people in contemporary music who would definitely reject your style. In your opinion, where is modern music currently at, and what does it take to find your own voice as a composer today? What’s important to you when you write a new piece of music?
When I was growing up, I was always drawn to things that I could sing. To lines supported by harmony that made you, as a singer, feel good. And of course, I was in search of this warmth that I mentioned at the beginning. When I was a student in the 80s and 90s, you weren’t allowed to write tonal music—you had to write serial music. And I’ve never liked serial music; I’ve never been drawn to it. There are beautiful works by Schoenberg and Berg that I appreciate, particularly their more free-spirited approaches to serialism. But I didn’t want to write that kind of music. Somebody had already done that. I wanted to work with tonality and diatonicism and find my own way through that.
And you really did find it—how was that journey?
As a student, a lot of people didn’t like what I was doing. I didn’t win any competitions or anything like that because the competition pieces were very avant-garde. But I managed to find an audience that liked what I was doing. I was quite surprised because that wasn’t the case when I was a student. I decided to continue writing this music, regardless of the criticism. Yes, there are ultramodernists who might not appreciate what I do, but I often enjoy their work if it’s done well. I think in the 21st century, we should be able to listen to Stockhausen’s Inori and be in awe of its majesty in space and time, and at the same time, turn to Arvo Pärt’s Fratres and appreciate the beauty of simplicity. I believe you should be able to appreciate both and everything in between if you’re a person of intellect. People often get caught up in their own little worlds and only think that what they’re doing matters, but that’s not the case. That’s where I stand on it.
Taking this one step further: you’ve been a professor of composition for many years. What do you teach your students? I assume there is a fine line between having an impact on them and not making everyone sound like Paul Mealor.
I think a good sign of any composition teacher is when their students don’t sound like them. Nadia Boulanger is a great example of a teacher whose students didn’t sound like her, which is an amazing accomplishment.
So what can you teach?
Well, you can’t teach someone to be a composer. You can’t teach someone to be a writer. You can’t teach someone to be a dancer. You just can’t. What you can teach is technique. I can help them bring form to the material they’ve shown me. I never try to change anybody’s voice. What I do is take what they’ve given me and try to help them find their way through it. There are so many things you can do. What do you choose to do? I try to ensure that whatever material they’ve decided to use, we use it in the best way possible. I also encourage them to listen to music, read widely, be interested in the world, read the best poetry, look at great artwork, watch outstanding films, attend top plays, and engage with leading scientists and thinkers. Engaging with the world as a living part of it and being inspired by it is crucial. I believe that’s what an artist has to do.
Paul Mealor | Foto: Jillian Bain Christie
That brings us back to The Light of Paradise—when I first opened the score, I was pleasantly surprised by how different it was from what I’ve heard from you so far. Do you consciously reinvent your writing from time to time?
No, I think if you actively try to do that, you fail. You do what you do, and it changes because you change as you get older. I’m nearly 50 now. How you see the world evolves. And of course, when I’m writing vocal and choral music, the text is what influences me the most. If you’re setting words, you have to respond to them. You can’t respond to Margery Kempe in the same way you would to Ave Maria. The music is drawn out of the text. So I didn’t consciously try to do something different; it just happened.
Working with Paul was a deeply inspiring and fulfilling musical experience for me, and I am excited to hear what you all think about The Light of Paradise.
Follow this link to listen to it on Spotify!
Or order the physical CD here which is the best way to support The Zurich Chamber Singers directly.
Email me your thoughts and opinions; I’m looking forward to hearing from you! And – as always – I highly appreciate you recommending the newsletter to your friends by forwarding them this link.
Warmly,
Christian
