The Fredösphere

"Of course, this sort of music's not intended for an audience, you see," Welch said as he handed the copies round.  "The fun's all in the singing.  Everybody's got a real tune to sing -- a real tune," he repeated violently.  "You could say, really, that polyphony got to its highest point, its peak, at that period, and has been on the decline ever since.  You've only got to look at the part-writing in things like, well, Onward, Christian Soldiers, the hymn, which is a typical ... a typical ..."

"We're all waiting, Ned, Mrs. Welch said from the piano.  She played a slow arpeggio, sustaining it with the pedal.  "All right, everybody?"

A soporific droning filled the air round Dixon as the singers hummed their notes to one another.  Mrs. Welch rejoined them on the low platform that had been built at one end of the music-room, taking up her stand by Margaret, the other soprano.  A small bullied-looking woman with unabundant brown hair was the only contralto.  Next to Dixon was Cecil Goldsmith, a colleague of his in the College History Department, whose tenor voice held enough savage power, especially above middle C, to obliterate whatever noises Dixon might feel himself impelled to make.  Behind him and to one side were three basses, one a local composer, another an amateur violinist occasionally summoned at need by the city orchestra, the third Evan Johns.

Dixon ran his eye along the lines of black dots, which seemed to go up and down a good deal, and was able to assure himself that everyone was going to have to sing all the time.  He'd had a bad setback twenty minutes ago in some Brahms rubbish which began with ten seconds or so for unsupported tenor -- more accurately, for unsupported Goldsmith, who'd twice dried up in face of a tricky interval and left him opening and shutting his mouth in silence.  He now cautiously reproduced the note Goldsmith was humming and found the effect pleasing rather than the reverse.  Why hadn't they had the decency to ask him if he'd like to join in, instead of driving him up on to this platform arrangement and forcing sheets of paper into his hand?

The madrigal began at the bidding of Welch's arthritic forefinger.  Dixon kept his head down, moved his mouth as little as possible consistent with being unmistakably seen to move it, and looked through the words the others were singing.[...]

"Yet by, and by, they'll arl, deny, arnd say 'twas hart in jasst," Goldsmith sang tremulously and very loudly.  It was the last phrase; Dixon kept his mouth open while Welch's finger remained aloft, then shut it with a little flick of the head he'd seen singers use as the finger swept sideways.  All seemed pleased with the performance and anxious for another of the same sort.  "Yes, well, this one's what they called a ballet.  Of course, they didn't mean what we mean by the similar...  Rather a well-known one, this.  It's called Now is the Month of Maying.  Now if you'll all just..."

A bursting snuffle of laughter came from Dixon's left rear.  He glanced round to see Johns's pallor rent by a grin.  The large short-lashed eyes were fixed on him.  "What's the joke?" he asked.  If Johns were laughing at Welch, Dixon was prepared to come in on Welch's side.

"You'll see," Johns said.  He went on looking at Dixon.  "You'll see," he added, grinning.

In less than a minute Dixon did see, and clearly.  Instead of the customary four parts, this piece employed five.  The third and fourth lines of music from the top had Tenor I and Tenor II written against them; moreover, there was some infantile fa-la-la-la stuff on the second page with numerous gaps in the individual parts.  Even Welch's ear might be expected to record the complete absence of one of the parts in such circumstances.  It was much too late now for Dixon to explain that he hadn't really meant it when he'd said, half an hour before, that he could read music "after a fashion"; much to late to transfer allegiance to the basses.  Nothing short of an epileptic fit could get him out of this.

-from Lucky Jim, by Kingsley Amis