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For a start, I'm not the only arranger, nor do my arrangements have to be set in stone, we all do a bit! But I guess I'm usually the one who puts the notes down on paper, so that's what I tend to get known for. I would like to say that I use some wonderfully clever technique — I would like to, but it would be a total untruth.
So, how do I put down our songs? Well ...
To begin, I arrange and compose in pencil, on manuscript paper — the eraser is my friend! I could do it on the computer — well, no, actually, I couldn't. I rely on the other two for that sort of thing. Being the sad creature that I am, I find the actual act of writing the notes on the stave somehow satisfying. I enjoy drawing nice big oval minims, and little curly tails on the quavers — I know, I know, I should get out more!
When I start to arrange a piece, my own or someone else's, I don't get sounds in my head at first, I get pictures. All songs tell a story — all ours do, at any rate — and it seems important to me that I have a picture in my hear of what is happening, before I can get the notes down. The pictures, in some way, kick-start the notes.
For example, when I arranged "Rosebud in June" for two women's voices (Sophie's and mine, as it happens, but they could be anyone's) the picture in my head was like this: it’s Somerset, it’s the first really warm, fine spell after a long, cold winter and there are two girls working in a cowshed — either milking the cows, or feeding them, or mucking them out, or something — maybe they’re about to go out to pasture (the cows, that is, not the girls) — anyway, what the cows are doing isn’t really the story. Through the open doorway, they can see sunshine and blue sky: they can hear the blackbird, feel the new green of the leaves — at that point where spring starts to spill over into summer — and maybe the dog-roses are already in bud. Each girl is thinking — quite separately — soon it will be sheep-shearing time, soon we won’t be stuck in the cowshed, we will be out in the shearing pens, in the sun, in skimpier clothing ... with the lads. As they daydream, the whole thing: summer, sun, dancing, green grass, being close to the men they fancy, all comes together in their imaginations, and, at last, they look across at each other, realise they have both been thinking the same thing, and share a grin. Once I had seen and felt all of that in my head, I could put the notes down. It really is as childish as that.
The only technical consideration I have, really, for the voices, is that each one gets a part of equal significance that uses the quality of each particular voice. A tenor in an all-female group is far too valuable an asset to ignore (although Sue voluntarily absented herself from the cowshed, that’s why “Rosebud in June” is a duet!) Sophie and I have voices of equal pitch but very different timbre, so which of us takes the ‘soprano’ line is determined by what kind of sound I feel needs to be on the top of the blend. If I want a kind of a flute-like quality, then it’s Sophie’s voice that goes on the top; if the sound needs to be more of a trumpet, then it’s mine.
Well, that’s about it really. I just hope the other two are still speaking to me now!
© Mim MacMahon 2006
Well, as you will have realised by now, the album is taking shape, and , just to whet your appetite, we have prevailed upon Mim to put down on paper an outline of what you can look forward to, and some (but not all) of the titles.
There were two main themes for this album. One is the cycle of the seasons; the other, the outsider, Tom of Bedlam, as he wanders through the land and through the year.
The songs follow, basically, the seasons from one autumn to the next — from harvest to harvest, in the agricultural rhythm. Each song tells a story in itself: sometimes the underpinning story of Tom and his lover Magdalen, more often the stories of the people and communities Tom passes by on his travels.
Because our songs tend to be stories, arranging them comes easily; they appear in my imagination rather like tiny operas, except for "Shepherds Arise", which is a tiny oratorio; and "Leaves of Life", which is a tiny mystery play
We join Tom at the autumn equinox when the sun becomes less powerful, and the darkness and the moon take precedence over the autumn and winter months. Tom has a relationship with the moon — in a way, she is a friend to him. He speaks to her and he believes she speaks to him. Maybe he doesn't notice that in the world, as October fades into November, we are mourning our dead, in private grief and public ceremony; for millennia, in the northern hemisphere, we have known that his time of year belongs to them.
Tom passes. Time passes. Suddenly, almost jarringly, we have arrived at midwinter, with its seemingly incongruous festivals of light: Hannukah, Sol Invictus, Yule, Christmas. Humanity cannot bear too much sadness.
This section begins with a sudden wake-up call: the old gallery hymn "Shepherds, Arise" proclaims the rekindling of the light and the beginning of the progression upwards into spring and summer. Proclaims, too, the miracle of new-born life; yes, this may be the Christ-child, but anyone who has looked on a newborn baby feels some part of the exultation and wonder set forth by the anonymous writer of this beautiful mini-"Messiah" — the unexplained, intriguing little present under the Christmas tree, containing a carved rustic box; open the box, and out shimmers this exquisite, miniature Christmas oratorio, delighting us and brightening our hearts.
After the ceremony, the feast; after the feast, the story. "A sad tale's best for winter". For some reason, at Christmas, we like to draw close together in the glow of the hearth (or maybe the TV) and listen to something truly ghoulish. Traditionally, it would be a ghost- or horror-story, preferably one with a seasonal setting. "The Mistletoe Bough" fits the bill nicely.
Time passes. Tom passes. The year turns. As work resumes on the farms, apple trees are wassailed and blessed, to encourage them to bear a good crop, But the winter drags on, and so do loneliness, cold and desperation — not only for Tom. Despite the best efforts of her parents to provide for her future, the heroine of "The Trees They Do Grow High" is left, widowed and alone, to brood mournfully over what might have been.
February brings more cold, it is true; but also the first real signs of the strengthening sun, birdsong, sticky buds, polyanthus. And another return; Madgalen, Tom's former lover, has been freed from Bedlam herself, and is searching for him. He doesn't know it yet, but he is no longer alone.
At last, March. The vernal equinox. "Bright Phoeby awakes, so high up in the sky". The spring sunlight makes everything look better. They've certainly noticed it in the pub!
Good Friday comes, the dark and awful mystery of the cross. Calvary has replaced Bethlehem. But then Easter; the empty egg from which the bird has hatched, the empty tomb from which the Lord is risen. The dying god returns to the light again; we are saved; we are happy.
April comes, then May, We think of summer, warmth, love. "Rosebud in June" isn't really about sheep; there is a yearning loveliness in the melody that speaks of something more, as the two girls long to see again the men they met last year, shearing the sheep.
Midsummer: thunder; heat; fever. In Whitby, an old sailor dies and the people remember the grisly old tale of the Barghist Coach, the phantom vehicle that comes, inevitably, out of the sea to fetch the spirit of a sailor who had been buried on the land.
But it is summer: time to pick (and eat) strawberries! And haymaking is thirsty work, so perhaps another visit to the pub is called for?
The wheel of the year has turned full circle. July passes, and August. The sun begins again to weaken. But at the turn of the season, Tom and Magdalen meet at last, and travel on together as the cycle begins again. This time, Tom will not face the dark alone.
© Mim MacMahon, 2007