Symphony No. 7
(Ancient Cry For Freedom)

A compelling and truly pioneering symphonic structure…

Heard of a volcano disguised as a multiple prayer wheel?

For any new listener to this work after my large and turbulently dramatic Symphony 6, this extraordinary tightly-controlled and seemingly ritualistic work could come as quite a shock. Where's Goddard's drama gone? — But yet, if the listener holds on there and continues to listen and really pay attention, (s)he will discover that the drama's in the magma, which is awaiting its two big moments in the work… And then on subsequent listenings you'd realize that the drama is in the whole work after all — but just camouflaged until those big moments.

When I composed this work I'd briefly come under the spell of Tibetan Buddhism, because reading a particular book about that had actually triggered my crossing 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. — Except that at that time I also came to the conclusion that most of the extended choral works I was composing then were best added to my list of symphonies, so that the title then became subtitle of the particular numbered symphony.

Then in late 2008, having had major cause to discard the whole concept of 'spirituality' as anything supposedly worthwhile or beneficial, 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. At that point I changed the (now) subtitle to the current one, which much more faithfully represents what's really going on in this work.

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 some sense of 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's a re-creation of a work that had previously been composed an unimaginably long time ago, elsewhere than on Earth. For more about this, please see Musical Influences on Philip Goddard's Music & Literary Works.

For this reason, as with my Symphonic Ancient Mantra Dances, the word 'ancient' in the title has a very special significance, for in these cases it means very likely pre-dating our Solar System and indeed much, much older than most people could ever get their heads around.

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 a pervading timelessness within which there nonetheless exist 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. However, following my more recent understanding of the great harmfulness of Tibetan Buddhism — a veritable hotbed of dark practices dished up as something supposedly positive — I'd actually now favour the mantra being sung with whatever pronunciation would come from the language of the specific choir singing the work, based on the spelling om mani padme hum, and actually discourage use of the Tibetan pronunciation that's in the score, except possibly where Tibetan Buddhists are performing the work (highly unlikely, I'd have thought! ).

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'm 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.

The first person to whom I played my MIDI file of this work remarked on its being like a large multiple Buddhist prayer wheel slowly rotating, while secondary prayer wheels mounted on it are also slowly rotating. Although I didn't think of the work like that until he remarked on it, I can certainly see the resemblance. — But then again, it's also like a smouldering volcano, which eventually erupts. Some prayer wheel, that!

One thing that confuses some listeners is a transient passage in both main climaxes, which sounds rather like a quote from the first phrase of the British National Anthem. In fact I can be quite categorical that the resemblance is pure coincidence. That phrase as heard in this work is simply based on the three opening ritualistic notes of the work, which are declaimed on antique cymbals and tubular bells, and keep reappearing as a motto throughout the work. However, my amusedly noticing that when I was composing the first half encouraged me to strongly hype-up its reappearance in the final climax — with (for me) wonderful, electrifying effect.

As I see the work now (i.e., now that I'm 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's thus not a religious nor devotional work, but it does, as a sort of ongoing baseline, portray people in a devotional state.

It's 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's 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 variant 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 turned out to deliver, in an important sense, a damning indictment of religion and what it's doing to people.

First-time listeners to my recording of the work tend to be a bit puzzled at what sounds to them like a slight fault in the sound at the beginning of each entry for the choir sections. It's actually not a fault but a bit of precision-thought-out scoring! Look at the score excerpt further below, and you'll see how the choir's entries begin, each with a staccato prefixed off-beat sixteenth-note. This isn't just me being a weirdo, but me being a practical old sod (to put it politely!), having sung as a choir member in many choral performances (albeit, sadly, not of any of my own works).

That arrangement of mine with the prefixed note forces the singers then, using diaphragm control, to articulate and emphasize the 'real' (i.e., on-beat) first note in a way that even a high-ranking professional choir would otherwise likely not be able to do strongly enough without sounding unnatural.

Because each entry starts on 'Om', its crucial first note wouldn't readily be heard in the overall sound. Indeed, that wouldn't come out much more clearly even if the choirmaster directed the choir to come in with an accented 'Hom'. So, I've directed them to sing a rapidly articulated 'O-hom', with a slight accent on the 'hom'. And, what's more, in order to sound that sixteenth-note properly one has to kick it off with a glottal stop, which really livens up the sound. There should be no second glottal stop, though — just the naturally accented 'hom'.

That should be relatively easy for the choir to do, at least with a little practice, and it forces them to put just the right weight on that crucial first on-beat note of each entry. Additionally, that little figuration adds a subtle dance-like quality into the sound, which counters what otherwise could give a dreary and stodgy effect. This gets picked-up on in the second main section, where the sense of ecstasy comes most to the foreground, and the chanting comes to sound increasingly dance-like.

Another great benefit of that little touch is that it would greatly liven up the experience for the singers and help them to keep their pitch and overall 'liveness' of tone.

The following excerpt shows the choir parts of 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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Related works

• Symphony 8 (The Ferryman)
  

• Symphony 9 (Orb of Life and Death)

• Symphony 10 (Journey of Awakenings, Joys and Sorrows)

• Clarity of a Mountain Sunrise

• Sunrise on Ama Dablam

• Tears of Avalokiteshvara

• Symphonic Ancient Mantra Dances