ON APRIL 18, the Accrington-born giant and musical hell-raiser Harrison Birtwistle passed away. To say he was one of the largest voices in British music is an understatement. 

His music has had a resonance and reach which can only be compared to a few other British composers — namely Henry Purcell, Edward Elgar and Benjamin Britten.

The broad outpouring of sadness at his passing, combined with numerous hilarious anecdotes and stories, shows his connection to the world around him was as large as his music. 

The pianist Rolf Hind shared a short story on social media about an interesting encounter: “Most memorable was a talk he gave at Dartington, where a young composer with a question had the presumption to start by saying ‘In your day…’ The master replied. ‘It is my fookin’ day’.” 

The conductor Adam Hickox shared a similarly wonderful interaction: “During ENO rehearsals for Mask of Orpheus. After spotting a section where the entire woodwind section had a long, beautiful melody in unison, he turned to me and said: ‘You can only do that once in a lifetime’.”

The composer Thomas Ades poignantly said: “Harrison Birtwistle once said of Messiaen ‘when he dies the whole house of cards will fall down.’ I feel a bit like it has fallen today.”

I had only one interaction with Birtwistle, which was striking and still pops up in my head eight years later. He was the mentor composer in a workshop I participated in with Music Theatre Wales. 

Each composer prepared a short aria, and they were shared publicly. In my rehearsal, he was silent — worryingly so, to the point where I simply assumed he hated every second of the music and the rehearsal.

After his monastic silence, he slowly walked to me, firstly saying: “Now, you’ve given many notes with no real direction, let’s try this” — he leant over to the pianist and said “flowing” and directed the singer, Caryl Hughes, and pianist to play again — and suddenly the piece sprang to life. 

Then, in my strange daze, he presented me my score, saying: “Why’s this note here?”

I can’t remember what fluff I said, but he listened, looked me in the eye then said “I’ll buy it” and shuffled back to his seat.

Later in the public sharing of all the works, he carried on true to form, and compared a fellow student to milk.

His comments throughout my rehearsal and public concert have resonated with me for a long while — mostly the simple power of how that extra step “flowing” could add so much more to a piece, instead of just “giving many notes.”

He was cantankerous, and also deeply personable. Those who knew him well have lost a dear friend, and the large outpouring demonstrates his ability to affect people — and not just his friends and musical champions. 

Now I am not a great scholar on his music, and certainly would not even suggest I could give a real depiction of his musical life, but there have been some works that have struck me deeply, and I hope anyone reading them would give the pieces a listen. 

The first piece that is vaguely in my earliest musical memories is Panic which, was premiered at Last Night of the Proms in 1995. 

Though I’m not necessarily able to remember the premiere itself, for most of my early musical life when people discussed the “horrors of contemporary music” Panic was at the top of the list — almost like a strange tragedy which had the audacity to interrupt the usual pomp.

The work, as the title suggests, is manic, but the energy and influence of the saxophone soloist is incredible and the journey it takes you on is fascinating and daunting. 

A personal favourite is The Moth Requiem, premiered in 2012. The British premiere in the Proms was probably my favourite performance in the Proms that year, as it partnered this wonderful new work alongside Gustav Holst’s Hymns of the Rig Veda.

Drawing on texts by Robin Blaser and the Latin names of moths, we have this mystical sensation which flickers from the stabs and gestures from the flute and harps. The work draws you in and is serene, but not in a hippy manner, but in a more grudging manner. 

And finally, for me, the most important work is Grimethorpe Aria — a monstrous and truly original work for brass band.

It was commissioned for Grimethorpe Colliery Band by Elgar Howarth and is a rare occasion where “modernist” composers wrote for brass band. 

In 1977, an LP was released which featured Grimethorpe Aria alongside two other contemporary composers Hans Werner Henze and Toru Takemitsu, which shows how eager Howarth was to bring composers in to work banders.

What makes the work so fascinating is that it doesn’t tone itself down, because it is written for lowly collier men, but stays true to form and speaks in a manner that is relatable to miners. 

The work is dense, heavy and unrelenting but powerful and shows the strength and stubbornness of a brass band. At times, it feels akin to a pit-face collapsing or just the sheer vast mounds of earth shifting. 

This final work speaks to me on so many levels, and not least because Birtwistle himself was simply a lad born in Accrington. 

His parents ran a local bakery and he explored music because of his mother’s encouragement and initially playing in local bands. He, and the Grimethorpe Aria, are powerful demonstrations of what working-class people can do when they are stubborn, unrelenting and given the chance to engage with “higher” things. 

He was an intellectual. Though he did not speak much of working-class politics, he still showed what working-class people could do. 

And this is the saddest part of his death. The pianist Ian Pace put it succinctly: “Would someone of Birtwistle’s background stand any chance of achieving any success in today’s musical world?” 

The answer is increasingly becoming No, because we are losing so many of the avenues which gave working-class people a chance to be able even to explore the arts, let alone make a career in them. 

This should really be a galvanising call. With the death of Birtwistle a truly powerful way to honour his life would be to help give other working-class kids the chance to become the next voices of their community, and fight out this encroaching middle-class absorption of the arts with everything we have so working-class kids can, to paraphrase Harry, “have their fookin’ day.”