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Music for My Love, Volume Two

Posted by Martin Anderson on
 December 28, 2018

EXPLORE

Yodit Tekle was born in Asmara, the capital of Eritrea, on 29 December 1977, and came to the United Kingdom as a refugee from the harsh internal policies of her native country. We were introduced by a mutual friend at a concert on 13 April 2008, and she stopped the breath in my throat – I hope you know the feeling when you first see someone and know that’s where you have to be – and, but for a hiatus of a few months, we spent the rest of her short life together. In the autumn of 2014 Yodit was diagnosed with stomach cancer. That kind of news throws everything into perspective and so the first thing I said to her when I went to see her in hospital was: ‘I hadn’t realised I loved you so much’. Quick as a flash, she answered: ‘So where’s the ring?’ I countered: ‘But what happens if we get married and you survive?’ We both laughed loudly – because neither of us thought for a minute that she really might die. Even so, on the bus home that evening I didn’t require much reflection to understand what needed to be done, and as soon as I got in, I went online and bought a ring. We duly got engaged on Christmas Day, when Yodit was so full of life and happiness that even now, years later, it doesn’t seem possible that she had less than five months to live.1

This project of 100+ new pieces for string orchestra had its origins in a Skype conversation with the composer Steve Elcock just after that first shocking diagnosis. Steve said that he was very sorry to hear the news and that he didn’t suppose that there was anything he could do to help but, of course, to let him know if there was. Off the top of my head, I said, yes, there was: could he write Yodit some music to bring her some comfort in her illness. I expected perhaps some jolly little tune to cheer her up; instead, to my surprise and delight, the very next day Steve sent the score of his deeply felt, deeply moving Song without Words for Yodit (we later streamlined the title as Song for Yodit)2, along with an electronic realisation so that she could hear it. I immediately e-mailed the two files to her in hospital. She texted me back her reaction, which began: ‘Wow Wow!’; she described it as ‘healing music’.

In spite of a brief window of hope, it wasn’t long before chemotherapy was doing as much harm as good. Over the course of the spring Yodit slowly lost strength and she died on 24 April 2015, aged only 37, and leaving our five-year-old son, Alex. The courage she displayed in her illness left me open-mouthed with admiration – it was a side to her character I had barely glimpsed before then. Only twice did I see her give in to despair, when tests confirmed there was no hope – and even then her sole concern was for Alex: ‘But I have a child!’ Not once did I hear her ask ‘Why me?’ By the same token, she refused to let us show any weakness in her presence: the slightest sign of tears brought a frown and a rebuke. We understood, of course – if you wake from morphine-induced sleep to such a terrible reality, the last thing you need to see is a wall of weeping faces – but it was bloody difficult all the same. And it was made the more difficult by Yodit’s determination that, aided by the God she so believed in, she would survive. That meant that we could not discuss with her the possibility that she might die: it would have been betraying her astonishing resolve. And so, in front of her, at least, we had to maintain the proverbial stiff upper lip and talk as if she would indeed recover.

Because I therefore had to put an optimistic spin on the awful reality of our future, we naturally discussed its more appealing possibilities – like taking a real holiday together, all three of us, since we had never spent more than a few days away as a family. And then, given the pleasure that Steve Elcock’s piece had brought her, an idea came into my head: given that Yodit and I had met at a concert at Cadogan Hall (just off Sloane Square in central London), I would ask some other composer friends to write companion pieces to Steve’s Song for Yodit and put on a concert there – on 29 December, her birthday. I meant it, too, and told her about it. A few years earlier I had forgotten her birthday – it just went completely out of my mind. Of course, I was horrified when I did remember, a few days afterwards, and apologised with a forest of roses. Yodit said it was OK, it didn’t matter, but she must have been hurt. Now I reminded her of that and told her I was going to overcompensate and put on a concert in her honour: it would consist entirely of music written specially for her and last for an hour or so, so that family and friends could then convene downstairs for a birthday party – ‘and all you have to do is be there’. She gave me a you’re-bonkers kind of grin, but you could tell that she really tickled by the idea, even though she was already too weak to discuss it in any detail. In my mind, it would also have been an upbeat, optimistic opportunity for her family, scattered around the world, to come together and say goodbye to her. That’s when I started writing to my composer friends, one after the other, to ask if they would consider writing a piece – for the concert, and so I imposed, rather imperiously, an October deadline.3 I had expected most people to say: ‘Sorry, I’m too busy – I have a commission from Aldborough, Tanglewood, wherever, and so can’t make your deadline’. Instead, almost no one answered along those lines; the responses were overwhelmingly supportive of the idea. In parallel, it was becoming increasingly obvious that Yodit was not going to live much longer and so this concert was going to have to be a memorial event – but even before she died, I already had too many pieces for it.

That’s why and when it became a recording project – but it didn’t stop there. Although I decided right at the start that I would not ask any composer with whom I didn’t already have a personal connection, I kept thinking of friends whom I really should ask. And I honestly wasn’t aware that I knew so many composers. I suppose that, after some four decades’ activity in classical music, first as a writer (often reviewing performances and recordings of new music), then as a publisher of books on music, as Toccata Press, and, since 2005, as Toccata Classics, I should have realised there might be quite a few – but you don’t sit down and add up the number of economists or doctors that you know, do you? And with the memorial concert no longer an issue (it turned out that the Cadogan Hall was already booked on 29 December, in any case), there was no restriction on numbers. Now, as soon as I thought: ‘Oh, yes, I must ask so-and-so’, off would go an e-mail – and in came one acceptance after another; I think I had only four refusals, and almost all because of the pressure of existing deadlines (one composer had just broken his wrist, his wife explained, and he wasn’t going to be writing anything for anyone anytime soon). And because the series was growing incrementally, one name at a time, I didn’t realise how big the whole thing was getting.

For a few months, the project had the title ‘Music for Yodit’, because that’s exactly what it is, but it soon became clear that Yodit was too exotic a name – although it is only the equivalent of Judith (and Yodit was calling herself ‘Judy’ when we first met). ‘Music for Helen’ or ‘Music for Miranda’ would have been clearer, but no one understood that Yodit wasn’t a village in Uganda or a Japanese transcendental technique, and so the public face of the undertaking became the more universal ‘Music for My Love’, in the hope of getting the message to the widest audience – but in my mind, of course, it’s still ‘Music for Yodit’.

The basic aim, of course, is that Yodit should be remembered in music: she was pleased by the idea that some more pieces might be written for her in succession to Steve Elcock’s Song for Yodit – although she would have been embarrassed (and, I hope, touched) by the size the project has now reached. A further hope is that, since I don’t think so much music has ever been written for a single individual (practising musicians like Rostropovich and Ysaÿe apart, of course), it will help sustain Yodit in Alex’s memory. Since he was five when she died, he does have a clear grasp of who she was, but if in years to come he can look on what ‘Music for Yodit’ has generated and think to himself: ‘My mum was such a wonderful person that all these composers have written music for her’, I’ll be well pleased (even more so, of course, he also thinks ‘because my dad asked them to’, but that was no part of my design). Perhaps he’ll attend a concert where one of these pieces is performed; perhaps, indeed, since he is now in his third year of violin lessons, he may even end up playing in one of these pieces himself.

It wasn’t until I listened to Chi-Chi Nwanoku on Desert Island Discs on 16 February 2018 that another important aspect of ‘Music for My Love’ struck me. Chi-Chi is the Nigerian-Irish bassist who founded Chineke!, a London-based orchestra that exists specifically to give a platform to gifted black and minority-ethnic musicians, and on Desert Island Discs she discussed her work in bringing Chineke! to life. All of a sudden, it struck me that not only had all these ‘Yodit’ pieces been written for a civilian, a non-musician: they had been composed for a black African woman. I had supposed that this project was probably unique in the history of music; in view of the identity of its central figure, it almost certainly is, and I hope that, like Chineke!, it can do something to expand the audience for new classical music beyond the boundaries that convention has set.

My thoughts soon turned, too, to what further good the project might do. This first release suggests that recording all 100+ pieces will require around £200,000. If we can raise that amount in donations, anything the project earns can be directed elsewhere. l have five targets in mind, where any revenue will go in equal measure. Financial and practical help from Macmillan Cancer Support made Yodit’s last months easier: they paid for a bed in a private ward in Charing Cross Hospital and provided a special pressure-sensitive bed at home to help her rest. Winston’s Wish is a charity that supports bereaved children (every year, apparently, over 35,000 children in the UK lose a parent – more than 100 a day), and they gave me invaluable advice in preparing Alex for his mother’s death. With her diagnosis, Yodit and I naturally took a fierce interest in the state of cancer research, and Cancer Research UK is battling to find a remedy for this awful illness; some of any extra money must go to them. Fourth, I have set up a trust fund for Alex – and Yodit would have insisted that any project in her name must bring him some benefit. Lastly, given the open-ended nature of this project, Toccata Classics needs to be able to look after later commissions in the series.

I must thank all the composers who have found the time and inspiration to allow this venture to begin. It will be many years before it is concluded, but if in that time it enriches your life just a tiny bit as much as Yodit enriched mine, you will understand why I should want to commemorate such a wonderful woman. In life she gave me more than I can measure; in death she can receive.

Martin Anderson founded Toccata Classics and the publishing house Toccata Press after a degree from St Andrews University in mediaeval French and German. He spent twenty years of his professional life as an editor of economics, for the Institute of Economic Affairs in London and the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development in Paris. He writes on music for a variety of publications in Britain and abroad, with a special interest in Nordic and Baltic composers. 

  1. Some of the composers’ commentaries refer to Yodit as my fiancée and others describe her as my wife, and so a word of explanation may be required. Formally, we were indeed only engaged, but one day in late March 2015 (I think), as I was growing worried at the speed of her deterioration, I said to Yodit: ‘We ought to get married, you know’. She answered calmly: ‘We already are married’. That was good enough for me, and so I think of her as my wife. I did try to organise a ceremony in the chapel of Charing Cross Hospital but she was already too weak, and we had to settle for a blessing on our union from Yodit’s family pastor at St Paul’s, Hammersmith, delivered at the side of her hospital bed; I have been an atheist since I was a lad, but that semi-formal solemnisation meant much to me.
  2. Recorded by the Kodály Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Paul Mann on Volume One of this series, Toccata Classics TOCC 0333.
  3. To begin with, the idea of a birthday concert wasn’t so outlandish: halfway through Yodit’s course of chemotherapy, her oncologists told us that the results were so encouraging that she might have another year of life – but the reprieve turned out to be far shorter than that prognosis, which was itself shocking enough. In the event, her cancer turned out to be unusually aggressive.
Categories : Uncategorized
Tags : Martin Anderson, Music For My Love, Yodit
Paul Mann Rehearsing Music for My Love

A Debrecen Diary

Posted by Martin Anderson on
 July 28, 2016

Paul Mann Rehearsing Music for My Love

Paul Mann rehearsing the strings of the Kodály Philharmonic Orchestra in the first volume of pieces for “Music For My Love”

I’m in Debrecen, in eastern Hungary, for the recording of the first album of pieces written in memory of my beloved Yodit. Paul Mann – who has been here for a week already, recording music by Henry Cotter Nixon, also for Toccata Classics – is conducting the Kodály Philharmonic Orchestra in eleven new works for string orchestra by Brahms (arr. Ragnar Söderlind), Brett Dean, Steve Elcock, Andrew Ford, Robin Holloway, Jon Lord (arr. Paul Mann), Mihkel Kerem, Maddalena Casulana (arr. Colin Matthews), John Pickard, Poul Ruders and Ragnar Söderlind. They will constitute the first release in the project Music For My Love.

Day 1: 15 June

Since the Orchestra doesn’t have a recording venue of its own (using the concert hall would add considerably to the cost), the sessions are taking place in the Synagogue on Pásti Utca (Street), in the Jewish district just by the town centre. Inside the yard, on the other side from the synagogue building itself, is a wall recording the names of all 6,000 of the Jewish citizens of Debrecen who were murdered during the Second World War. An overhang in front has slots cut into it in different positions so that, as the sun crosses the sky, strips of light pick out individual names.

The first session begins with one of the most immediately moving of all of these pieces, Colin Matthews’ transcription of Maddalena Casulana’s Di vostro diparti, published in a collection of madrigals in 1583, the probable year Casulana’s own death (she was the first woman to have any music published). The text is highly appropriate:

Il vostro dipartir, donna, mi diede noiosa vita
E con si dubbia spene di voi, caro mio bene
Ch’alti si n’pera di ciò fia cagione
Le vostr’alme virtut’ al mondo sole
E rio timor mi spinge ond’ i miei lumi
Sembran d’amare lacrime duo fiumi

Your departure, lady, leaves my life insipid
And my hope for you is so unsure, my dearest,
That I aspire to nothing less
Than your soul, the only virtue in the world.
And fear brings tears repeatedly to my eyes
As if they were two streams of bitter tears.

(Translation by Colin Matthews)

And that’s how I reacted, sitting in the wings, being put through the wringer by the power of the music – something that will happen again and again in the coming week, I imagine. Colin presents the madrigal in a relative straightforward manner before unleashing the full power of the symphonic strings – and the effect is deeply moving. For me, of course, it puts Yodit at the very centre of my thought, and I wonder for a moment whether she might have found this entire project something of an exaggeration. It wasn’t meant to be on anything like this scale, of course: it grew naturally from the desire that she should be remembered in music. And she was thrilled by Steve Elcock’s Song for Yodit, written as a consolation for her in her illness. So I hope she would have understood the entire undertaking as a declaration of love – and it is a terrible irony that this declaration is possible only after her death. It’s a declaration that I should, of course, have made more often during her lifetime. A few months ago I wrote a poem which put it in a nutshell:

Twine

We learned how we should really love quite late in our love’s life.
We long lived arm in arm, it’s true,
But loosely, like clematis –
Until the knowledge that our love was lost
Pulled our lives tight,
Into a single twine.

Indeed, it’s during the initial play-through of Di vostro dipartir that the enormity of what I have undertaken really hits me – with the experience of the first of these pieces as living music, I can at last see why everyone else remarks on the ambition of the project. Because I’ve been on the inside of it all the time, while the project grew incrementally, it hadn’t really struck me that to commission and record 100 new pieces of music (and also publish most of them) is indeed a bit over-the-top. There are currently 97 composers ‘signed up’, so to speak. I was intending to take it to 99 and then write the last piece myself. But since there are still some composer friends I still haven’t got around to asking for a piece (I’ll feel guilty if I don’t), I guess that 100 will end up being a symbolic number rather than a literal figure. This might sound rather grandiose, but given that the impulse underlying the entire undertaking is to remember a lost love, it might, when it’s finished, be seen as a kind of Taj Mahal in music, if that doesn’t sound too pompous. Anyway, it’s not for me to judge.

The second piece to be recorded on this first day is Robin Holloway’s Music for Yodit – a simple title which undersells the quality of the music, which, like the title, understated and moving – a warm elegy, animated in its central section with the ghost of an English dance. By now I am indeed beginning to appreciate the enormity of this project: these first two works already are major additions to the string-orchestra repertoire. An audience halfway round the world and two hundred years in the future will open their programmes for that evening’s concert – and remember Yodit. And far sooner than that, our son Alex will attend a concert (who knows, he may even be conducting it) and know that this music was written for his mum. He has lost her physical presence, but he can take some pride in this echo of her life.

Last up on this first day is Andrew Ford’s Sleep, two minutes of static, rather ritualist music with high lines for the violins that suggest bright light. Andy is British-born but has lived in Australia for many years. Sleep brings back memories of a conversation with another Australian composer, Peter Sculthorpe, who told me that his music attempted to capture something of the special intensity of the light of the outback. This thought has just come to me when Paul tells the orchestra that Sleep is Coplandesque, and so I know I am on the right lines.

This is going to be some week.

Debrecen

The bronze wall outside the Pásti Synagogue where, over the course of the day, strips of light pick out the names of the 6,000 Jewish victims of the Holocaust from Debrecen

Categories : Debrecen, Recording Sessions
Tags : Debrecen, Recording Sessions
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