SYMPHONY No. 7
(Ancient Cry For Freedom)

When I composed this work I had briefly come under the spell of Tibetan Buddhism, because reading a particular book about that had caused me to actually cross the threshold of enlightenment while I was composing the final movement of the 6th Symphony. I therefore had a completely new outlook on the nature of myself and of reality, and now I was open to a completely new direction in my composing. So I composed this work, which at the time I persuaded myself was a sort of elaborated devotional work, which I called Supplication of Compassion. However, the sense of the work taking the listener on a journey that included powerfully dramatic elements was really inconsistent with my notion of it being a devotional or indeed Buddhist work, and really to call the work a supplication just didn't add up. After some soul searching in 2004 with regard to the true nature of my apparently religion- and 'spirituality'-related works, I decided to rename this work to acknowledge what I saw at that time as being its true nature, and so for four years it was called Ancient Chants of Compassion.

Then in late 2008, having had major cause to discard the whole concept of 'spirituality', it became time for me to expunge, as far as possible, all religious or 'spirituality' connotations from my works, and to point listeners much more consistently to their Nature-connected and life affirming nature and qualities.

My 7th Symphony marks a departure from my previous approach to symphonic structuring, and branches out into a new and rewarding area of my output. Unlike my previous works, this uses the singing of a mantra as its basis, and parts of it will inevitably draw comparison with relatively recent works of Arvo Pärt, although I composed the piece from first principles without any conscious emulation of other composers apart perhaps from early polyphonic church music - though it feels to me as though the work has come from a deep source in my consciousness that is much more ancient still, and indeed as though it is a re-creation of a work that had previously been composed an unimaginably long time ago, elsewhere than on Earth.

Nowadays I recognise religious chanting of mantras as actually being insidiously and seriously harmful, increasing people's connections with the dark force (the same is true in somewhat different ways for all religious texts, indeed including hymns). I therefore seriously recommend nowadays that people who perform or listen to this and other works of mine using mantras set aside from their mind any religious, 'spirituality' or metaphysical connotations of any mantra and regard the mantra repetitions as just being musical building blocks. Then they should be more or less harmless.

In contrast with my previous symphonies, this work may at first appear to be repetitive, with little rhythmic or tempo variation, no real animation and little play on dynamics apart from the two main climaxes - though it has nothing to do with the musical fashion known as minimalism. However, as you get more familiar with it and my other works composed in a similar way, that impression would give way to a realization that this work is in a completely different realm of experience, in which is an all enclosing or pervading timelessness within which there is all manner of change of details and opportunities for dramatic and visionary developments and contrasts.

The 7th Symphony is a highly structured multitudinous singing of the mantra known as the Six-Syllable Mantra or the Mani Mantra - om mani padme hum. In the score I use the pronunciation familiar in Tibetan Buddhism - om mani peme hung, where the e's in peme are both pronounced and 'u' in hung is the vowel sound of 'book' in Southern English.

This symphony's form and structuring set a precedent for other works of mine, including the succeeding three symphonies, in which canonic layering, often at more than one speed simultaneously, is used to build large blocks of sound, these latter then being used as much larger-scale building blocks that form each work's macro-structure.

The small orchestra is used minimally, the prime attention going to the choirs. It lacks violins, violas, the oboe family, trombones and tuba, though has a somewhat enlarged percussion section. Apart from a very few coloristic touches, the instruments themselves simply play the mantra melodies, sometimes doubling choir lines, sometimes independently. The two four-part choirs need to be separated between left and right, the sections arranged in the outside-towards-middle order of soprano, alto, tenor, bass; this is to emphasize all antiphonal effects and keep individual melodic lines as clear and separate as possible.

The form of the work owes little to any particular tradition of which I am aware. Its clear and quite strict logic simply came to me intuitively as I started experimenting with the melodic motifs and building canonic structures that had visionary qualities that were meaningful to me. The work is in two parts, which play without a break, the second being a repeat of the first but developing a greater intensity and elaboration of vision.

As I see the work now (i.e. now that I am clear of all the 'spirituality' confusions that I had when I composed the work), its starting point is a portrayal of people trapped in their religion, chanting the mantra as the only way they know how in which they can give voice to their longing for freedom - i.e. true and comprehensive freedom of the mind and whole being, as is found only through genuine self actualization, not religion nor 'spirituality' of any kind. It is thus not a religious or devotional work, but it does, as a sort of ongoing baseline, portray people in a devotional state. It is out of that baseline that the melodic lines of the 'chants' build up in close canon to produce a rapturous vision. This leads to a brief but tremendous and even explosive climax, which leaves no doubt that there was all along some deep frustrated longing, which was seeking expression - and then out it finally explodes in a brief paroxysm of a 'cry', before soon becoming constrained again by the religious straitjacket.

In the second section the corresponding climax is more elaborated and, just where you expect the 'explosion' to occur, something striking and quite unexpected happens, building the climax further, and then yet again, where you expect the 'explosion' to come, something even more unexpected hits us, seeming at last to be the real crux and climax of the work. At last, what has been hidden underneath all that religious straitjacket has burst out - in what is, musically, a near-quote from the final climactic passage of my 4th Symphony. It is as though here for the first and only time, the choir has at last managed to voice directly their real cry for freedom. Yet even here all they can do is repeat the mantra till their 'cry' from the depths of their being has exhausted itself. After that, the ensuing repeat of the explosive climax of the first section seems almost to be an anticlimax, and the work progressively withdraws back into the subdued and solemn religious chanting at the end.

This work - one of my most beautiful and telling compositions - thus contains absolutely no resolution of the problem that underlies its powerful vision. Thanks to religion, all the choir can do is cry out - and in a foreign language that nobody understands! Although I composed the work as 'pure' music without programme or agenda, in practice it has turned out to deliver, in an important sense, a damning indictment of religion and what it is doing to people.

The following excerpt shows the first passage in the work where canonic layering produces a wall of sound consisting of a shifting mix of thirds and major seconds (whole tones). The overall sound of the choir is full of clashes and yet has a haunting melodious and harmonious quality about it. The clashes, rather than making the music sound discordant, give an impression of a great intensity. This canonic layering is considerably elaborated in further sections as the work progresses.

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