“I normally write things in response to people’s requests,” says Fr Chris Willcock SJ. “It’s rare that I’ll sit down and say, ‘I’ve got to write a string quartet today,’ or ‘I must write my next opera’. None of that happens.” Photo: David McMahon
Early this year, when Fr Chris Willcock SJ opened a letter to find out that he had been named a Fellow of The Royal School of Church Music in recognition of his liturgical, psalm and service compositions, his reaction was simple. “I am humbled by this recognition,” he said in an email to his fellow Australian Jesuits.
A few days later, when he sat down in a café to talk about the honour, his responses to the first three questions were not quite what one would expect.
When he’s composing, does he ever – in the absence of an orchestra or a choir – whistle to get a rough idea of what it sounds like?
“I can’t whistle. Really. I cannot whistle.”
He purses his lips, emitting a single tremulous note to prove his point. “That’s the best I can do. But that’s not whistling, that’s making a ‘tweet tweet’. I’m sure if I sat down and really wanted to learn how do it and had someone who could teach me, I’d manage something. But I can’t say it’s ever been one of my driving ambitions.”
Time for another incisive question. What is his earliest memory of music?
“I don’t think I’ve asked myself the question, which means I probably don’t have an answer,” he responds with a broad smile.
Cue the next highly cerebral question. What was his first experience of composing?
“I should have asked myself that question, but I honestly don’t have an answer. I just don’t know. I remember writing as a young person, but I have no idea how old I was.” The smile has escalated to a full-on, hearty chuckle.Is there a difference between writing music and composing?
“Well, I think it’s just the form it takes. There are some people who can’t read music and hence some people who can’t write music. There are probably some composers who said, ‘I can’t compose unless I’m sitting at a piano and playing notes on a keyboard.’ That’s the way Stravinsky composed. He could not compose except when he was at a piano. What I find is that the fingers go the way they’ve gone before, because of muscle memory. I’d much rather try mental powers of invention to get it down first. And then I put my ideas down on paper.
“I used to use a fountain pen for my fair copy, but now I just use a biro. What I’ve found now is that I’m still faster than a computer program in doing the first draft. There are too many parameters on a page of music, although this might not be true in about five years’ time or less. I’m sure computers will beat the human brain in terms of the speed at which first drafts can be prepared.
“After I’ve done my handwritten draft, I then transfer it from that notation form to the computer. At this stage, you get all the advantages of using a computer, much as you would if you were dealing with text. You can edit, rather having to do it all again. You can cut and paste, you can do this, you can do that. You have so many options. In the end, my fair scores are done on the computer and I spent a fair bit of time making sure that they look absolutely magnificent.
“I normally write things in response to people’s requests. It’s rare that I’ll sit down and say, ‘I’ve got to write a string quartet today,’ or ‘I must write my next opera’. None of that happens. It’s normally in response to a request from somebody or some group or some organisation. I’ve set a fair bit of non-religious poetry to music. Sometimes people will say ‘It would be great if you could have this done in, say, two months’ time.’ But there has been the odd occasion where they say, ‘Can you possibly have it done by tonight?’ Yes, it’s been known to happen!”
Read the whole story here: Psalm pilot.
Banner image: Stickasa, Canva.