Messiaen’s birds

I am incredibly fortunate in that the two activities I call Work (writing and conducting) very rarely feel like actual work, but some Work Projects are more time-consuming than others, and leave little or no headspace for the other kind of Work.

That was the case last weekend, when I stood in front of a large room full of musicians and tried to help them play Olivier Messiaen’s Turangalîla-Symphonie. This large and complex work became all-consuming in recent weeks – hence the absence of Things in your inbox. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

I wouldn’t normally trouble you with the ins and outs of my musical life. This bit of the Substack is, after all, supposed to be devoted to birds. But some of you will already, on seeing the name ‘Olivier Messiaen’, be thinking ‘oho – birdsong is it?’ (Don’t feel bad if you weren’t thinking this – 20th century classical music and birdsong are niche areas, and their overlap is even nicher.)

A great deal could be written (and has in fact already been written) about Messiaen’s relationship with birds and the influence of their song on his music (all-pervasive in some works, and matched only by the influence of his religious faith) – but I’ll content myself with just two little things from the weekend.

Thing 1

When I arrived at the rehearsal venue, Henry Wood Hall in South London, a blackbird was singing in the square. This seemed – especially in light of the above-mentioned connection between Messiaen’s music and birdsong – like a good omen.

Thing 2

While much of Messiaen’s later work (starting, coincidentally, with Le Merle Noir (The Blackbird), written a few years after Turangalîla) incorporates music based on his own accurate transcriptions of birdsongs, they play a lesser role in Turangalîla, and individual species generally aren’t specified – he contents himself with ‘comme un chant d’oiseau’.

But in the sixth movement, the lengthy and extremely peaceful Jardin du sommeil d’amour (Garden of the sleep of love), he wrote about the nightingale (from 0’20” in the recording below, and recurring throughout) thus: “Repeated heavy notes followed by a garland turned towards the treble… typical of the nightingale in love, during the month of May, in the beautiful days and beautiful nights of spring”. So if you’re going to listen to it, now really is the time.

Shortly after that first nightingale comes a blackbird (1’19” and also recurring throughout): “full of gaiety – a sunny, total and communicative gaiety: the little echo at the end is both a chuckle of pleasure, and a sort of phrase for ‘well done’ that the bird awards himself for the beautiful stanza he has just uttered: how well I just sang!”

Jardin du sommeil d’amour is apparently by far the most frequently streamed of the work’s ten movements, no doubt because of its calming effect, and I commend it to the house.

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To mark the publication of the paperback and audiobook editions of Taking Flight, I ran a giveaway across three platforms last week. Let me tell you here and now that the quality of entries here was far higher than on the other two (don’t tell them, though – they’ll be furious). There could only be one winner, though, so congratulations to Will for his tale of a peregrine casually showing off its hunting prowess. Apologies to everyone else – you can assuage your disappointment here.

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A few random bird-related things that have crossed my radar recently.

Firstly, this excellent appraisal of the national birds representing all the competitors in the forthcoming cricket T20 World Cup.

The North Island brown kiwi, the most common kiwi and a wonderful lad to look at, like if you crossed a shrew with an emu and gave it short chunky legs.

Birdwatching is good for your mental health. It’s official. Thanks to Greta, of the very fine Climate and Health Substack, for pointing me towards this.

Here’s a fun game to help you hone your listening skills. It features American birds, so you guys will have an advantage, but really it’s an exercise in matching sound to image.