The Steady Light and the Space Between the Notes

There’s a moment, just before the first breath, when the room falls still. The singers stand motionless, the air hangs heavy with possibility, and the silence itself seems charged. In that moment, a choral performance begins - not with the first note, but with the depth of intention, connection, and history that each singer brings into the room.

Recently, I found myself revisiting a recording that brings this truth into sharp focus: The Steady Light by Reginald Unterseher, performed by Peterborough Male Voice Choir in the glorious acoustic of Truro Cathedral listen here. It’s a piece that has become something of a quiet anthem to those who lead choirs - particularly lower-voice choirs - where warmth, strength, and humanity are everything. 

The line that stops me every time is: “Let my shadow from this blessed sun shut no one from the light…”

A line about humility. About being part of something greater than oneself.. It’s where the choral journey begins.

A performance is never just about vocal technique or musical polish. For me, it begins with the people. A deep and personal relationship with every singer - knowing their stories, their losses, their proudest moments, their daily battles - is what transforms a group of voices into a community of choral artists.

Some of my singers arrive at rehearsal straight from hospital visits, others bring the weight of grief, or the quiet joy of becoming parents for the first time. Or, more often than not, the crippling reality of just another normal, humdrum day. Each one carries something real. And when that reality meets the music, something extraordinary happens.

My job is not just to wave my arms around in time. It’s to draw out what’s hidden, what’s vulnerable, what’s beautiful - and to give it a place to breathe.

Great choral singing always starts with the text. I’m obsessive about this. We spend time together reflecting on what the words actually mean - not just what they sound like, but what they’re asking of us. In The Steady Light, we hear the plea not to become an obstacle to others' hope and healing. It’s a profound reminder that singing in a choir is, at its heart, a communal act. No grandstanding, no ego: just collective purpose.

When a choir sings this text with honesty, it becomes a balm - for the listener, yes, but often even more so for the singers themselves. 

I learned this in a pew, not on a podium.

As a boy, I spent countless Sunday mornings sitting beside my wonderful grandmother at services in Truro Cathedral, absorbing the majesty of Anglican choral music under the masterful hands of David Briggs and later Andrew Nethsingha. Those hours taught me to listen deeply. To listen not just to the notes, but to the space between them.

Truro’s acoustic is more than a sound chamber - it’s a collaborator. You learn to give the music space to settle, to trust the building to carry you. And so when I now stand on a podium - especially back in that same cathedral - there’s a little boy inside me still learning how to let the music breathe.

My Cornish heritage runs deep, and it’s in the marrow of my musical life. The great tradition of Cornish male choir singing shaped me. The camaraderie, the fierce pride, the laughter in the pub after a concert - it’s all part of the performance. And no matter where I go, it comes with me.

It’s why I always feel a sense of homecoming when we return to Cornwall.

And speaking of homecomings, if you’re part of a male or lower-voice choir and haven’t yet made the pilgrimage to the Cornwall International Male Choral Festival, now is the time. It’s a glorious celebration of all that is rich and rugged and resonant in male choral singing.

We’ll be back next time with Peterborough Male Voice Choir, proudly defending our title as Festival Champion Choir: although I suspect I’ll be reminding the lads that they’re there to sing, not just to sample every pasty from Plymouth to Penzance.

So here’s to the music, the stories, the voices, and – most importantly - the space between the notes, because that’s where the magic happens.

See you in Cornwall.