Count me one of the estimated two billion British royal wedding watchers. Sleeping in, I was content to view BBC America’s first rebroadcast of the event. A dedicated Anglophile and long-time admirer of the late, revered and lamented Princess Diana, I needed to see her son Prince William marry the amazingly fortunate commoner Kate Middleton. Guided by television’s vicarious eye and ears, I enjoyed imagining a stroll through Westminster Abbey and wallowed in the sumptuous tones of Anglican church and British classical music—Parry’s “Jerusalem” (lyrics by poet William Blake) anyone?—that punctuated the ceremony. Did I mention my addictions to British composers and poets?
The highlight for me was the choir’s performance of Paul Mealor’s motet “Ubi Caritas et Amor.” If you skipped the wedding but appreciate beautiful choral music, please listen.
Because I have forgotten much of the musicology I studied decades ago, I cannot tell you in technical terms why this composition so affects me. I cannot hear clearly all the words; I know just enough Latin to read “Where Charity and Love Are” in the title. Aside from reflecting upon these words’ allusion to that biblical staple of Christian weddings, I Corinthians 13, my emotions are manipulated by the chord progressions, the creation and release of tension that oscillates through the choir’s interplay of voices. Thanks to whoever uploaded the file and to YouTube for including a “replay” button, I have tried to overdose on Mealor’s motet, but the effect of the 20th hearing remains as tearfully visceral as the first.
Good—dare I say “great”—music is supposed to inspire and transport its listeners. We need not question why. Yet I am a curious creature, and so I embarked on a quest to discover what makes this composition so affect me. While I did not find the answer to that question, what I did learn reveals something delightfully human and slyly witty about the newlywed Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. If you are curious, too, please follow me.