The Eternal Note

First I have a confession to make. I plan to do an episode regarding a musician every day, but my right hand started hurting and I mean excruciating painful. I worried about what to do, and realized if I continue to overdo it on an already injured hand/ I would have serious problems. I thought about giving up this podcast altogether but eventually decided to take a day by day approach. It seems to be getting much better than it was yesterday, so if I notice improvement I will certainly do a podcast/. I have already written the Scripps with voice control on the Macintosh, so I didn’t really need to use my hands that much in what I consider the hardest part of doing a podcast, but there’s no way that you can really use Voice control with an audio program.  So I’ll just take it one day at a time, and I’m asking you to bear with me.

Second,When I recorded my episode on Monteverdi, something unexpected happened. I’d worried I might not have enough to say, but as I began speaking in his rhythm — my approximation of his  lilting Italian cadence — the words seemed to sing themselves. I found myself moving my hand in slow circles as I spoke, and somehow the motion gave the voice its own kind of melody. The pauses stretched naturally, almost like rests in a score. What I thought would be a short reflection became nearly forty minutes, not because of the facts or analysis, but because Monteverdi’s spirit reshaped the way I spoke.

That experience stayed with me. It reminded me that a voice can be musical, even when it isn’t singing — that the phrasing, the breath, the stillness between words are as expressive as the words themselves. And that’s the insight I’ve carried with me into Purcell — another composer who understood that silence, rhythm, and human feeling are inseparable.”

Today, we move forward in time — from Venice to London — to meet another spirit who carried that torch into a new century. Henry Purcell took the lessons of Monteverdi and shaped them into something deeply English yet profoundly human: the marriage of reverence and drama, sacred and stage.

If Monteverdi taught us how to breathe through music, Purcell teaches us how to speak through it — to find the eternal note that echoes across time.

Transcript

Welcome to Celebrate Creativity - episode 379 . The Eternal Note

First I have a confession to make. I plan to do an episode regarding a musician every day, but my right hand started hurting and I mean excruciating painful. I worried about what to do, and realized if I continue to overdo it on an already injured hand/ I would have serious problems. I thought about giving up this podcast altogether but eventually decided to take a day by day approach. It seems to be getting much better than it was yesterday, so if I notice improvement I will certainly do a podcast/. I have already written the Scripps with voice control on the Macintosh, so I didn’t really need to use my hands that much in what I consider the hardest part of doing a podcast, but there’s no way that you can really use Voice control with an audio program.  So I’ll just take it one day at a time, and I’m asking you to bear with me.

Second,When I recorded my episode on Monteverdi, something unexpected happened. I’d worried I might not have enough to say, but as I began speaking in his rhythm — my approximation of his  lilting Italian cadence — the words seemed to sing themselves. I found myself moving my hand in slow circles as I spoke, and somehow the motion gave the voice its own kind of melody. The pauses stretched naturally, almost like rests in a score. What I thought would be a short reflection became nearly forty minutes, not because of the facts or analysis, but because Monteverdi’s spirit reshaped the way I spoke.

That experience stayed with me. It reminded me that a voice can be musical, even when it isn’t singing — that the phrasing, the breath, the stillness between words are as expressive as the words themselves. And that’s the insight I’ve carried with me into Purcell — another composer who understood that silence, rhythm, and human feeling are inseparable.”

Today, we move forward in time — from Venice to London — to meet another spirit who carried that torch into a new century. Henry Purcell took the lessons of Monteverdi and shaped them into something deeply English yet profoundly human: the marriage of reverence and drama, sacred and stage.

If Monteverdi taught us how to breathe through music, Purcell teaches us how to speak through it — to find the eternal note that echoes across time.

Ghost sound

Oh and here he is - the ghost - or if you will the spirit - of the English composer, Maestro Henry Purcell.

“Ah, Mr. Bartley, I am pleased to appear, though I must confess, I never expected to converse with mortals three centuries after my earthly demise. But here I am, and it seems my music, much like my spirit, refuses to stay silent.”

“Perhaps we should start at the beginning — tell us about your early life, and how you became the composer we know today.”

“Very well. I was born in Westminster in 1659, a London boy in a household where music flowed as naturally as the Thames through the city. My father, also Henry Purcell, was an organist in the Chapel Royal in London. From my earliest days, I was immersed in music — singing, learning to play the organ, reading scores, and absorbing the sacred tradition. By eight, I was a chorister at the Chapel Royal, learning counterpoint, figured bass, and the art of composition. [Cue: subtle organ underlay, one measure] It was rigorous training, but it shaped me.”

“As I grew, so did my ambitions. I studied under John Blow, a master of the English style. He taught me not only the craft of composition, but how to marry practicality with creativity: composing for both church services and theatre. My first odes and anthems were functional, written to honor the crown and God alike, yet I sought to make the music speak, not just decorate the occasion.”

Maestro Purcell, you certainly seem to be a person who responds to the stimuli around you.

Yes Mr. Bartley, the England of my time was a crossroads of musical ideas. French elegance, Italian drama, and English sacred tradition mingled in a rich, sometimes chaotic tapestry. I observed and adapted, always ensuring the text remained clear. I firmly believed that the words must always carry the heart of the matter. I strove to blend these influences so that my music could satisfy both king and audience, clergy and theatre-goers alike.”

Fascinating observation, Maestro Purcell, but could you reflect on your younger years - your days as a chorister at the Chapel Royale.

Ah, Mr. Bartley —For a boy with ears wide open, the Chapel Royal was a treasure house. There was solemn devotion, yes, but also pageantry—the sound of trumpets at great occasions, the mingling of liturgy with royal power. It gave me a sense that music was not merely adornment, but something that could shape the heart of a nation, that could move both king and commoner.

And though we choristers were young, I dare say we felt it. The grandeur of the service, the responsibility of singing before God and monarch—it gave me both humility and ambition. I left those years with a conviction that music could be both intimate and monumental. That conviction stayed with me all my life.

Maestro Purcell - could you tell us what the typical day at the Chapel Royal was like?

Very well. Imagine a much younger version of myself - scarcely taller than the pews themselves, rising early in the pale light of London. The day began with prayers and a chant, often at 6 or 7 in the morning, in the Chapel Royal itself. The choristers gathered in their small stalls, robes hung neatly, voices trained to blend as one. Discipline was strict: every note had to be precise, every syllable enunciated, every gesture proper.

After the morning service, there would be rehearsal—sometimes one-on-one with the Master of the Children, sometimes in the full choir. They would practice psalms, anthems, and motets, copying out music by hand if needed, learning the works of English composers like Byrd or foreign masters like Carissimi. I would've been tasked with copying scores, memorizing lines, and even improvising small embellishments under watchful eyes.

Meals were brief, and afternoons were often spent in additional study or rehearsal, particularly when a royal occasion approached. Festivals, coronations, or visits by foreign dignitaries meant extra duties: the boys might sing before the king and court, sometimes accompanying processions or pageants. Imagine the excitement—and the nervousness—of standing in gilded stalls before courtiers, trumpets blaring, knowing the monarch himself listens.

Evenings might include private instruction in composition, keyboard, or violin, depending on talent. And I must admit that I absorbed these lessons eagerly. And yet, despite the rigor, there were moments of delight: the joy of harmonizing with my fellow choristers, the thrill of a particularly daring ornament, the quiet pride when a challenging anthem was sung perfectly.

It was a life of discipline and exposure, where devotion and artistry were inseparable. In those few years, my musical imagination was formed: the blending of voice and instrument, the sense of ceremonial grandeur, and the dramatic impulse that would later flourish in my theatre works.  I hope that answers your question, Mr. Bartley.

As for the schedule of the day, Breakfast was brief—bread and cheese, washed down with ale diluted for the boys—and then it is back to rehearsal. We practice scales, ornaments, and counterpoint exercises, sometimes under the sharp eye of the Master, sometimes copying out music for an upcoming service. And I must admit that I tremble with excitement as I sees my preparation own penmanship creating scores that others will perform.

By mid-morning, the boys are sent to study theory or composition. I read a piece of music by William Byrd, tracing each line of harmony with my finger, imagining how the voices will converse in sound. I experiment quietly, singing a soft ornament here, a daring interval there. The master glances over his shoulder, nods slightly, and my heart leaps: small praise, but deeply cherished.

Maestro, this is most impressive! Please go on

The afternoon brings preparation for a royal service. Trumpets are polished, candles trimmed, and I rehearses my part with the full choir. The court will arrive soon, and I can feel the thrill of standing beneath gilded carvings as the king’s eyes sweep the chapel. When the service begins, we sing with all the precision and passion that Young boys can summon. I feel the music ripple through me celebrity—the solemnity, the grandeur, and the living pulse of sound.

Evening comes with a much quieter study. Perhaps I play the organ, experiment with a harpsichord, or work on a composition assignment from the Master. My small hands move swiftly over keys and parchment alike. Though tired, I am extremely exhilarated: every day brings new music, new challenges, new glimpses of the world that I hope to shape through sound.

Finally, night descends, and I lay down, my voice quiet but not gone—its echo remains in memory, in dreams of melody yet to be written. Outside, the city murmurs. Inside, the Chapel sleeps. And in my mind, the future of English music begins to take form, note by note, breath by breath.

Maestro, your comments are most insightful - especially those about the future of English music.  But could you comment on something as comparatively mundane as the occasion when you're voice first broke?

Ah, yes—the inevitable breaking of the voice. It is both a sorrow and a liberation for a young chorister. When my treble was gone, so too was my place in the choir stalls. Yet I was not cast adrift. The Chapel Royal, in its wisdom, kept me close, for I had already shown a keen hand at copying music and a restless mind for invention.

So, what began as a seeming loss—the end of my boyhood voice—became the seed of my true vocation. I was no longer a voice among many; I was learning to become the hand and mind that shaped the music itself. And in truth, I never ceased being a chorister in spirit. That discipline, that reverence for the power of the human voice, lived on in everything I later composed.

Could you comment on some of your teachers - perhaps Mr. John Blow, 

in particular, because John Blow was both a mentor and later a kind of friendly rival?

Ah, John Blow—how can I not speak of him? He was both guide and rival, stern tutor and later brother-in-arms. At first I sat beneath his shadow, learning the craft as he wielded it with such command. He taught me that music is not only invention but architecture—that every anthem, every ode must have its pillars and arches, its grand spaces and intimate chapels.

Yet rivalry there was too, a friendly one. His music bore a gravity, a nobility of line, while mine—if I may say so—often leaned toward passion and invention. The court, the theatre, the chapel—we both served them, sometimes side by side, sometimes in contrast. But I think it fair to say that without Mr. John Blow, I should not have found my voice so soon, nor so surely.

Fascinating!  Would you care to reflect how those early lessons with John Blow shaped your theatrical music—the balance of reverence and drama?

Yes, that might be most instructive.  It reminds one of the theater - and there, the lessons of the Chapel Royal and of John Blow found their flowering. You see, the Chapel taught me solemnity, how music could lift the soul heavenward. John Blow, in his turn, taught me structure and patience, how to give weight and dignity to sound. Yet within me there burned a love of drama, of human passion in all its turbulence.

When I set pen to paper for the stage, I did not forget the chapel stalls. Every recitative, every chorus, bore the discipline of that training. But I let the passions speak more freely—love and jealousy, triumph and despair. Where the anthem seeks to glorify God, the theatre seeks to mirror humankind, with all its frailties and grandeur. I strove to let both dwell in my music.

So when Dido sings her lament, or when a chorus thunders in praise of a king, you will find both the Chapel and the playhouse intertwined. Reverence and drama—they are not so far apart. Both seek to move the heart, to elevate the spirit, to remind us that music speaks where words falter. That was the true inheritance of my early years, and the gift that John Blow, and the Chapel itself, left me.

Would you care to reflect on how you imagined himself “speaking” - so to speak - through other singers and players, even after he no longer sang himself?

Ah, my own voice—how curious it is to lose it in youth, and yet to discover it anew in the mouths of others. When my treble was gone, I thought for a moment that I had lost the very means by which I could pour out my soul. But in truth, I merely exchanged one instrument for many.

A singer on the stage, a boy in the chapel, a soloist before the king—they became my voice. Through them I learned to speak again, but now in many registers, in tones both delicate and thunderous. I would sit in rehearsal and hear a phrase I had imagined in silence come alive in a human throat, and I knew—that is me speaking there. Not my lips, not my breath, yet my heart and mind carried outward, multiplied.

And not only singers—players too. A trumpet’s clarion call, a violin’s sigh, the stately tread of the organ—all were ways of extending myself, of conversing with the world after my own small voice was stilled. I became, if you like, a ventriloquist of the soul—finding expression in every instrument available.

I would surmise that such feelings would carry an incredible emotional weight - hearing your own music sung back to you, almost as if the music was part of a conversation.

Ah… there are moments no composer forgets. To hear one’s own music sung back—not merely the notes, but the breath of another soul clothed in one’s invention—is like standing before a mirror that answers back.\

I recall the first time I heard a boy at the Chapel sing a verse I had written. His voice was unbroken, pure as morning light, and in it I recognized something both mine and not mine. My hand had given him the notes, but his heart gave them life. It was as though I were conversing with myself across a distance, hearing my innermost thoughts reflected in another’s timbre.\

And later, in the theatre, when an actress sang Dido’s lament, I felt the air grow heavy with sorrow. The notes were familiar, yet when borne on her voice they pierced me afresh, as though I were audience as much as author. At such times, I almost doubted whether I had written the music at all—it seemed to come from some deeper well, borrowed through me and then returned, magnified, by another.

this, I think, is the greatest privilege of a composer: to plant a seed, and then to hear it bloom in voices and instruments beyond one’s own reach. It is humbling, and it is haunting. For in truth, each performance is a dialogue—between myself, the performer, and the mystery that lies in the silence between notes.

Maestro, in my opinion such feelings are kind of reflection on immortality - that through others voices, your voice can live forever.

Ah, immortality… a word we hardly dare utter when alive, yet every composer feels its whisper. When I first lost my boy’s voice, I feared silence. Yet when I heard others sing my music, I realized that silence need not be the end—it could be filled again, not by me, but through me.

And so I came to believe that a composer does not die as other men do. His body fails, his breath ceases, but his voice—if it has found true lodging in the hearts of others—goes on. Each singer who takes up a phrase of mine lends me breath anew. Each player who draws bow across string gives me a pulse once more. It is as though I continue to live, dispersed, scattered among countless voices and instruments.

In this way, I am still the chorister I once was—part of a choir far greater than the Chapel Royal, a choir that extends into centuries I shall never see. And if my music is worthy, perhaps some yet unborn will hear it, and in their hearing I will speak again. That, I think, is the closest to immortality we poor mortals may claim.

Think of a song as a small lamp. Left alone it will gutter; set it near another flame, and it burns brighter. So bring my airs into places where light already lives: the breakfast table, the workshop, the quiet evening when two friends sit with a cup between them.

Preserve gently. Keep scores and copies in places of care; annotate a margin with the memory of the first time you heard a line, the face that listened with you. These small notes—who sang, where, and why—are heirlooms. They teach those who come after not only what was played, but how it was felt.

And carry the music as you would a friend’s letter—read it aloud in the dark, keep it in a pocket for comfort, pass it on with a small note of your own. In these simple acts, my voice is not a relic beneath glass but a companion at the table. In your keeping, I continue to sing. And every note is a prayer.

Those are beautiful words, Maestro Purcell - and I would like for you to comment on your works for the theater - is it true that that is where your fame really blossomed?

“Indeed. Dido and Aeneas, for example, was written for a small girls’ school in Chelsea, and remains my proudest achievement. Here, I sought to let music fully carry the drama. Recitative advances the story, arias reveal the soul, choruses swell the action. [Cue: soft sample, 2–3 measures of “Dido’s Lament”] Ah, this lament — centuries later, audiences still weep. Semi-operas such as King Arthur and The Fairy-Queen allowed me to experiment with choruses, dances, and instrumental interludes. Every note served the story, every harmony bore emotion.”

“But I was no stranger to sacred music. Anthems such as My Beloved Spake, coronation odes, and birthday odes demanded majesty, precision, and devotion. Choir, organ, and instruments interweaving to convey reverence and beauty — that was my daily delight. Success came in many forms: royal favor, public admiration, and the knowledge that my works were studied by contemporaries and successors alike.”

Maestro Percel - Could you comment further on your classic work, Dido’s Lament.

Certainly, Mr. Bartley - now imagine, if you will, the dim glow of candlelight in a Baroque theatre. The audience hushes as a queen, betrayed and broken-hearted, prepares to meet her fate. This is Dido, Queen of Carthage, in the final moments of Henry Purcell’s opera Dido and Aeneas. Her aria, “When I am laid in earth,” better known to us as Dido’s Lament, is often called one of the most achingly beautiful expressions of sorrow in all of music.

Ah, Mr. Bartley - notice how I attempted to paint the text with music. The descending bass mirrors Dido’s final descent into death. Those “sighing” motifs in the melody—the small, tender downward steps—give shape to her grief. Even the suspensions, where a note lingers just long enough before resolving, seem to hold her torment in suspended air, as if time itself has paused to feel her sorrow.

Maestro Purcell - it sounds to me like a marriage of poetry and music.

PRECISELY!  I believed that I understood the power of expressive restraint: there is no need for grand gestures here. The lament is intimate, private, heartbreaking—and that intimacy is what makes it timeless. For over three centuries, audiences have been drawn to this aria, not just because it is musically exquisite, but because it speaks to the human heart, to betrayal, love, and loss, in a voice that feels both personal and universal.

My intentions was that when you listen to Dido’s Lament, you can imagine her standing there, alone, knowing that her life is ending, yet singing as only a queen might sing—with dignity, with sorrow, and with a quiet, heartbreaking grace. And though centuries might separate us from that candlelit stage, the music reaches across time, reminding my audiences and even my successors of the power of melody and text to convey the deepest of human emotions.

Beautifully, stated.

Thank you, Mr. Bartley

“Speaking of successors, you influenced many composers, correct?”

“Ah yes, Mr. Bartley. Frederick Handel studied my dramatic choruses and anthems.  And Benjamin Britten, three centuries later, drew upon my harmonies and melodic daring. Even during your era, Mr. Bartley, filmmakers call upon my music: Kubrick electrified my funeral march in A Clockwork Orange, Lanthimos draped The Favourite in my ‘Musick for a While’, Wes Anderson borrowed the Abdelazar theme via Britten, and most recently, Golda used my Dido’s Lament. [Cue: faint snippet of “Music for a While” under] I confess, it is curious to hear my music in such strange contexts. A synthesizer! Modern orchestras! Cinemas! Never did I imagine such things.”

Maestro Purcell, what do you feel when filmmakers borrow your work?

Mr. Bartley, when filmmakers borrow my work, it is because the music speaks where words fail. When audiences weep, or tap their feet, or feel moved in silence, it is the eternal human emotions I captured that resonate — not the fashions of 1695. My music travels freely through time because it honors the universality of feeling. “And so, whether in a royal court, a church, a theatre, or a modern cinema, my work continues to live. I am honored, amused, and occasionally bewildered by the places my compositions find themselves — from powdered wigs to streaming screens.”

“And there you have it — Henry Purcell, a composer whose melodies, harmonies, and dramatic genius still reach across three centuries. From Westminster boy chorister to ghostly presence in cinema and streaming, his music reminds us that true emotion is timeless.”

Join celebrate creativity in our next episode for episode 380 and a look at the great Antonio Vivaldi.

I’d like to end this episode with a very brief excerpt from Dido and Aeneas by Henry Purcell.

Audio attribution -

Concerto No. 1 in E major, Op. 8, RV 269, "La primavera" (Spring) — Movement 1: Allegro from The Four Seasons by Antonio Vivaldi. Performed 

by John Harrison and the Wichita State University Chamber Players. https://musopen.org/music/14910-the-four-seasons-op-8/#recordings, License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording).

Dido and Aeneas, Z.626 - Thy Hand, Belinda... When I am laid... With drooping wings, by Henry Purcell, performed by new Trinity Baroque. Source: https://musopen.org/music/11137-dido-and-aeneas-z626/,License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording).

They Shall be as Happy as They're Fair from The Fairy Queen, Z. 629. By Henry Purcell, Source: https://dl.musopen.org/recordings/772fa767-b1b9-4e34-9810-d11cb204f1e6.mp3?filename=The%20Fairy%20Queen%2C%20Z.%20629%20-%20They%20Shall%20be%20as%20Happy%20as%20They%27re%20Fair%20%28For%20Recorders%20-%20Papalin%29.mp3,  License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording).