Christopher Churcher, composer

Who or what are the most significant influences on your musical life and career as a composer?

Influence is a funny thing for a composer. Thinking of influences always reminds me of Harold Bloom’s The Anxiety of Influence – as artists are we all ultimately defined by the relationships between us and our precursors?

I didn’t grow up in a musical family per se, but there was always music in the house – BBC Radio 3 or Classic FM on the radio in the kitchen. I definitely absorbed a lot without realising it at the time. Some of my earliest musical memories are of listening obsessively to CDs of Bach’s Christmas Oratorio or Mozart’s Requiem. Then, when I started composing, around eleven or so, I began by imitating: writing pastiche fugues, string quartets and so forth. So in that sense, I suppose I really had a very traditional grounding as a composer in the Western canon.

The real turning point for me came when I first discovered the American post-minimalist ‘canon’ – John Adams, Caroline Shaw, Nico Muhly, Timo Andres. I found their music incredibly exciting. The sense of pulse and rhythmic vitality combined with an infectious harmonic language – open, consonant, but still fresh – spoke to me and what I wanted to say through my own music. I think I probably do see my music as coming out of that lineage, and uncovering my own sound within it.

Alongside that, something that’s stayed with me as a deep influence on my music is my childhood love of nature. I grew up in the centre of Birmingham, but spent most weekends outdoors – I’d be out walking in the countryside, exploring the garden, watching nature documentaries. I was completely obsessed with wildlife. That sense of wonder in the face of nature never left me, and it feeds directly into my music now. A lot of what I write is, in some way, about trying to capture or respond to nature. And perhaps also to remind us of what we’re in danger of losing.

What are the special challenges/pleasures of working with particular musicians, singers, ensembles or orchestras?

One of the great pleasures is writing with a very particular sound in mind – not just an abstract “choir” or “ensemble”, but writing for a real group of people.

For my album ‘Moonrise’, nearly two thirds of the pieces were written specifically for Somerville College Choir in Oxford, and that was very special. Over time you get to know not just how a group sounds, but who they are – personalities, friendships, likes and dislikes. That all feeds into writing.

Somerville is especially interesting because it’s a non-denominational choir. Instead of singing traditional Anglican evensongs, we have a weekly Choral Contemplation, which is a more fluid, interfaith event, consisting of music, poetry and reflections. As a result, the choir draws people from very diverse musical backgrounds: some with prior experience of chapel choirs, but also many fabulous young singers who’ve come through musical theatre, jazz, and other traditions.

I think this gives the choir a very unique sound amongst Oxford choirs: warm, rich, flexible. It has given me a consistent colour palette to write for. It’s allowed me to build a body of work that feels cohesive, because it’s grown out of a very particular musical environment.

Of which works are you most proud?

It’s difficult to choose, but I’d probably say the Pride Motets. They are very much the heart of my album ‘Moonrise’, and they are probably the most personal thing I’ve written so far. All of my music is personal, but these pieces come out of an attempt to express my own experience as an LGBTQ+ person: learning to understand, accept and express that part of myself through music.

The cycle has three movements, each setting a different poem. The first is a sonnet by Richard Barnfield. He was a contemporary of Shakespeare, but wrote so openly about same-sex love and desire. The sonnet I set describes unrequited love, capturing the self-repression and shame that is often caused by a somehow ‘forbidden’ love – an experience many queer individuals can relate to.

The second sets an extract from Jay Hulme’s poem ‘Jesus at the Gay Bar’. It imagines what Jesus might say to a young gay man, dancing in a bar and struggling with his identity. He says: “My beautiful child, there is nothing in this heart of yours that ever needs to be healed.” It becomes a moment of self-acceptance and healing within the cycle, which then leads into the final movement.

That last movement is actually the first thing I ever wrote for Somerville – a setting of e.e. cummings’ ‘I carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)’. I simply think it’s one of the most beautiful love poems in the English language. For me, it captures that sense of completion, bliss, and almost ecstatic connection you feel when you meet someone you truly love.

How would you describe your compositional language?

Atmospheric, soulful, direct.

How do you work?

At the moment, not always as consistently as I’d like – the workload of an Oxford degree has a habit of getting in the way a bit.

But when I am working, it tends to fall into three fairly distinct stages. First there’s the initial spark: finding a title, an idea or a sound-world. Often I have a hazy sense of shape of a piece quite early on. Almost like a sculptor looking at a block of stone and deciding how to carve out what is within.

Then comes the planning stage. I think a lot about proportion when I’m planning a piece, plotting how the material will unfold over time, how different ideas relate to one another. I’ll sketch quite a lot at this stage, trying out fragments and working out how they might fit together.

And then finally there’s the actual writing stage, which is usually quite iterative. I’ll draft by through-composing, then go back and rework things – sometimes starting again from the beginning if something isn’t quite working how I’d like.

As a composer, what is your definition of success?

I feel I have succeeded if a listener comes away feeling genuinely moved by my music. My aim is always to write music that resonates with people. If someone takes away something meaningful with them after listening to my work, I feel I’ve achieved what I set out to do.

What advice would you give to young/aspiring composers?

Above all, write the music you want to see in the world. Don’t write to please anyone else or to fit a “sound” you think is expected of you. Write what you want to write.

What do you feel needs to be done to grow classical music’s audiences?

I think classical music has probably always been, to some extent, a niche genre. I’m not sure it’s realistic to ever expect it to be a dominant cultural form.

But, at the same time, there is clearly a huge appetite for it out there – just look at artists like Laufey (who is definitely hugely inspired by classical music) singing to 20,000 people at the London O2 or Jacob Collier selling out international tours. Similarly, performers like Yuja Wang or Víkingur Ólafsson have attracted very large followings.

What they all seem to have in common is a sense of authenticity and freshness – they don’t come across as formal or ‘stuffy’. If classical music wants to reach more people, it has to meet audiences where they are at, and present itself in a way that feels human and relaxed rather than intimidating.

What next – where would you like to be in 10 years?

If in 10 years time I am able to make a living as a composer – writing for ensembles across the world, continuing to grow and stay curious, finding new, fresh interesting things to say as an artist – I’ll feel incredibly fortunate indeed.

Moonrise, Christoper Churcher’s debut album as a composer with Somerville College Choir, Oxford, is released on CD and streaming on Resonus Classics on the 8th May.

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