Huddersfield Town Hall is ground zero for the Huddersfield Choral Society singing the Messiah. It is to the Messiah what Bayreuth is to Wagner. But with this difference: that Wagner chose and created Bayreuth, whilst it was the men and women of Huddersfield that chose and created this Messiah. It is their expression of themselves, of their communality, and of their faith (though in what need not be too closely investigated).
The place is, of course, packed, though tickets are expensive. Black tie is common for the men, and in the Mayor's Box some johnny has got himself up in white tie and medals - a foreigner, we all agree. The choir troops in, great solid phalanges of sonic potential, stretching up to the highest blocks at the back. A bald and very solid looking elderly man sits at the organ. The surprisingly small orchestra comes on, and you wonder how they'll cope with the forces ranged behind them. The soloists, serious and self-regarding as they should be, though they are not the stars of the show, as will become clear soon enough.
It starts with a hymn - everyone on their feet, and this is not a place for holding back, so the hymn is sung. Back down again, squeezing into your seats, and we wait for it to start. 'Comfort ye, my people!'
And then the tenor starts in on 'Every valley shall be exalted' and it strikes me for the first time ever, that, of course, this includes the Colne and Holme valleys in particular. That what's being sung here is an affirmation and a promise, of present worth and future prospects. Every valley shall be exalted, even these grim and raining valleys where the mills are (or were) running lights into the night. And then the moment arrives, and the Huddersfield arise en masse, suck in great tides of air, and sing 'And the glory, the glory of the Lord, shall be revea - ee -ee-ee-led'.
And they could be said to be proving their point. Listening them sing, the first shock is of the huge and (you think) potentially inexhaustible power they are keeping in reserve. Later, as things go on, there's something more - the quite extraordinary nimbleness and sheer amazing skill and vocal dexterity on display. 'He trusted in God that he, would deliver him, let him deliver him, if he delight in him' is taken at a lick that I seriously doubt even the Sixteen would have contemplated, and it's a breathtaking slalom run, riotous and mischeivous and deadly serious.
If listening to the Sixteen do the Messiah was like watching a Ferrari tackle the swerves and curves and power-straights of a Grand Prix circuit, listening to the Huddersfield do it is like watching a massive and muscular racing Bentley do it at the same pace.
And so the evening passes. Each time the chorus rises, there's a thrill of anticipation, almost always rewarded with something jaw-dropping. Up we all go for the Halleluyah Chorus. We listen, critically (for this is, among other things, probably the most critically aware audience in the world - there are people here who've heard in 20, 30 times, and still bring in the score to check all is being done properly), as the soprano tries to sink into the utter quiet and simplicity of 'I know my Redeemer liveth' which, it strikes me, is the emotional and spiritual core of the whole work. She manages it, just about, by the end. And then it's on, on, willingly carried away on the tied of sound that is Part III.
By the time we get to 'Worthy is the Lamb that was slain' we have resolved all complexity, and it's now time for solid muscular declaration. All this stuff about the Lamb, of course, is lapped up here in the mill towns, the wool towns - maybe another reason this is Ground Zero for the Messiah.
We have reached the Amen chorus. After all, it starts tentatively, wanderingly, only to build up in confidence, complexity, volume and density until - and the morning after, this barely seems like an overstatement - you feel you are listening to the voice of heaven itself. The audience is on its feet, clapping and cheering, even whilst the voices are sustaining the last Amen.
This is the triumph of the common man, the little man, us, who've built this town out of these valleys, out of these outcrops, against the weather and reason. The women don't for the most part look glamourous in their unflattering blue dresses. The men in black tie look solid, but older and weatherworn - you know them because they pass every day on the street, hat down, collar up against the weather. Yet tonight they have pulled off, as every year, another miracle, another triumph, another mighty affirmation of themselves. We stand and cheer, and its ourselves we're cheering. The soloists and conductor come back on, and of course, it's their job to be cheered, but it's the chorus we're here for, and they've done us proud. For one night, every year, they've turned this hall into a communal rite, a triumph all can embrace, and we are rightly grateful.
This is a musical experience as authentic as any anywhere. As we crowd out into the raining night, I wonder 'Is Huddersfield Town Hall, with its wonderful acoustics, modelled on the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam, perhaps?' And outside, in the carpark, as we swap notes and raptures with strangers, just now friends, I point my children to the hulks against the skyline: the old mills, their shapes still clear, if not their purpose. 'That's what did this' I tell them.
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