The Lark Ascending: The Music of the British Landscape
by Richard King
A review
In the past years, particularly in Britain,
there seems to be a widespread urge to reconnect to the landscape and to the nation’s
rural past. Is this an escape from the
stress of 21st Century urban life? Does it stem from disillusionment
at the current political scene? Is it an expression of a search for an alternative
spiritual source, outside the norms of mainstream religion(s)? Is it simply another facet to contemporary
ecological concerns? I will hazard no
guess, but this cultural phenomenon is inescapable and manifests itself in a
myriad of ways: from the newfound popularity
of travel and nature writing to a rediscovery of ancient pilgrimage routes,
from a resurgence of interest in folklore and traditional music to a renewed
obsession with folk horror in literature and cinema.
Richard King’s The Lark Ascending taps
into the zeitgeist. Its title refers to a composition for violin and
orchestra by Ralph Vaughan Williams, possibly the composer who did most to wed the
tunes of British traditional music to classical forms. Inspired by a poem by George Meredith, RVW’s famous
work portrays the flight and song of the eponymous lark through soaring
folk-tinged melodies. King takes this
piece as a starting point for an exploration of 20th Century British
(mainly English) music and its connection to landscape and rural life. In particular, the book provides intriguing
insights into how the landscape has been politicised across the decades of the
last century. It may come as a surprise,
for instance, that between the wars, the concept of the “land” was glorified at
either end of the political spectrum: on
the one hand by left-wingers who believed in public access to the land and, on
the other hand, by right-wingers for whom the “call of the land” chimed with
the “blood and soil” mentality influenced by Nazi Germany.
After the war, the land became a veritable (and
in some cases, literal) battleground reflecting wider class struggles. History tends to repeat itself and, in the
book, a pattern start to establish itself – fringe communities settling in rural
outposts (such as the Travellers converging on Stonehenge) and being broken up
either by the authorities (as in the infamous Battle of the Beanfield) or,
sometimes even more effectively, by their own popularity (as in the case of the
open-air free raves of the 1990s before they entered the capitalist
mainstream).
Throughout this intriguing, alternative history
of Britain’s landscape, there is the sound of music, weaving in and out of the
narrative, acting sometimes as subject and at others as commentary. King’s choices reach far and wide – from good
old Ralph, that “least typical of typical Englishman” (as he is described
in the acknowledgments section at the end of the book) to the folktronica of
Ultramarine and Boards of Canada, via the folk/prog rock of the 60s and 70s,
the experimental works of Gavin Bryars, Brian Eno and Michael Nyman, the “stateless
world music” of the Penguin Café Orchestra, the lyricism of Kate Bush and much
more. As mixtapes go, there can hardly
be a more eclectic one than that compiled by Richard King.
Every traveller follows their own itinerary and
I am quite sure that different readers may have approached the subject through
different choices of music depending on their background. In my case, for instance, the choices would
have veered more towards the classical music world. Ralph Vaughan Williams is just one of several
composers of the “pastoralist” school. George
Butterworth and Gustav Holst come to mind, but they only get a passing mention in
the book – the less lucky Gerald Finzi gets none. Benjamin Britten was one of the major figures
in 20th century English music and his oeuvre is shaped by the bleak
coastal landscape of Suffolk and the town of Aldeburgh which he made his home. He is not featured. King mentions the rock
artists who moved to rural Wales and Scotland but does not refer to Peter
Maxwell Davies, Master of the Queen’s Music, whose musical style changed
radically when he settled in remote Orkney.
From the jazz scene, I’m rather
surprised at the non-inclusion of John Surman, an ECM label stalwart who has
combined the seemingly disparate influences of John Coltrane and English folk
in albums such Road to St Ives and Saltash Bells. On the other hand, much as I enjoyed the chapters
on Gavin Bryars and the Penguin Café Orchestra, I also felt that their link to
the “landscape” theme was, to say the least, tenuous. But I’m not complaining – I do appreciate that
Richard King’s book is a very personal one, and therefore also bound to reflect
personal choices.
I also couldn’t help feeling that some of the
musical movements portrayed in the book – especially in the final chapters –
tend to be rather over-romanticised. It
is, obviously, natural and just, that one should sympathise with fringe groups
such as the travellers who were often the victims of aggressive, heavy-handed
and – indeed – illegal actions by the police and the authorities. However, there were also less savoury aspects
to these groups. These include prevalent
drug use, which, in this book, tends to be shown in a benign light – either as
a contributing factor to the “spiritual” aura of open-air music festivals or,
at worst, as an unpleasant but excusable side-effect of the injustices suffered
by these ‘outsiders’ at the hands of the law.
Whether one disagrees or not with certain
aspects of the book, including the choice of featured music, The Lark
Ascending is essential reading and not just for music-lovers. Its distinctive mixture of nature writing,
music criticism and cultural history, spiced with elements of memoir and psychogeography,
never fails to be original and fascinating.
Hardcover, 346 pages
Published June 6th 2019 by Faber & Faber
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