It is with the deepest sadness imaginable that we mourn Dr Simon Lindley, who passed away on 25 February, aged 76. He founded the choir in 1977 with his friend Harry Fearnley, and directed us until 2021.
Many of us somehow thought this would never happen. He had been a presence in Leeds for fifty years, involved in almost every musical occasion and the driving energy behind so many of them. A musical force of nature with an unquenchable appetite for making music, he shared his music with anyone and everyone, and most generously with those of us fortunate enough to work with him. His legacy, bequeathed to countless people, is an incalculable debt of gratitude for so many unforgettable musical experiences, and warm memories of an inspirational and generous friend.
Despite being one of the finest organists of his generation, there appeared to be little or no distinction for him between amateur and professional musicians. What counted was how you responded to the music, and he had an extraordinary gift for recognising and encouraging innate musicianship, and imbuing singers with the confidence to express themselves and make music with him. He was a wonderfully instinctive musician, with whom no two performances were ever the same, but with whom every performance bore his hallmark: a live and highly musical interpretation, full of passion, energy and feeling.
For St Peter’s Singers and others this meant the thrill of being drawn into spur-of-the-moment, unrehearsed responses to the music. This was partly because he led us to perform so much music that there often wasn’t time to rehearse it in detail. He wanted fresh, responsive performances and an understanding developed between us (and indeed those who sang for him in other choirs) that led to some very fine music-making. As the vicar of a parish hosting a recital once put it, ‘Ladies and Gentleman, we have just witnessed the mystical union that exists ‘twixt Simon Lindley and the St Peter’s Singers’.
His musical instincts were incredibly strong, but also highly informed both by his extensive knowledge about music and the work in question, and by the depth of his understanding of the usually sacred texts we were singing.
One occasion stands out in the memory – a Good Friday performance of Messiah the first time we collaborated with the National Festival Orchestra. Emboldened no doubt by the quality of their playing, the bass aria Why do the Nations so furiously rage together began with a larger than usual sniff from him on the upbeat (always the harbinger of some excitement) followed by an adrenaline-charged, unbridled gallop which had players and soloist clinging on for dear life (and at least one chorus soprano reduced to helpless giggles).
But what followed was so impressive – the energy was maintained and indeed grew through the succeeding numbers reaching an astonishing climax in an electric Hallelujah chorus – Handel’s and Jennens’ intent revealed afresh by a touch of genius, a deep understanding of the work, his relish for musical drama, and the intense rhythmic vitality he brought to all his music-making . His ability to pace performances of Messiah in ways that illuminated it differently was a revelation every time we performed it.
With the odd curious exception, such as Beethoven, Dr Lindley’s musical tastes were quite catholic, and we were fortunate to be drawn along for the ride as he explored all sorts of different musical avenues and untrodden paths.
Frequent performances of Messiah and other works by Handel, together with the B Minor Mass, the Passions, Christmas Oratorio and numerous cantatas by J S Bach revealed a strong love of these composers. But the Good Friday presentations he started at Leeds Parish Church (now Leeds Minster) also included multiple performances of Elgar’s Dream of Gerontius, the Stabat Maters of Haydn and Dvorak, and Brahms’ German Requiem.
He loved Victorian and Edwardian church music. He was a fine interpreter of his earliest predecessor at LPC, SS Wesley, and an authoritative one of the more recent Edward Bairstow, thanks in part to his longstanding friendship with Bairstow’s pupil and successor at York, Dr Francis Jackson. This friendship led to a commission and to memorable performances and recordings of Dr Jackson’s dramatic monologues Daniel in Babylon and A Time of Fire. Other revivals of neglected works included Somervell’s The Passion of Christ, and in 2005 William Lloyd Webber’s woefully underrated Cantata The Saviour. Under his leadership we commissioned a new work at least once every decade, and he was a strong champion of Matthew Oglesby’s remarkable Penthos.
But he had a deep love of 20th century French music too, and not just for organ or choir: this writer still remembers his exquisite impromptu playing (from memory) of some piano music by Ravel at the conclusion of an LPC Lay Clerk’s funeral in Huddersfield when the organ had also given up the ghost. His pianism was remarkable and made him an exceptional accompanist, especially in the English 20th century Song repertoire, as a number of us were fortunate to enjoy.
Dr Lindley had a genius for programming: who in their right mind would choose to follow Dvorak’s Stabat Mater with Parry’s Blest pair of Sirens, especially on Good Friday? But it proved a masterstroke, with the blazing optimism of the Parry foreshadowing Easter Day and rescuing us all from the immense sadness of the Dvorak. He was equally adept at making unusual selections of pieces that would work together, his last recital with us (a Carol concert at Bolton Priory in 2019) being a case in point.
All this adds up to an extraordinary legacy of musical experiences, many life-shaping, for all those of us who sang in St Peter’s Singers. But it only tells half the story.
Dr Lindley’s personality was strong, complex, eccentric and hugely charismatic. He was highly knowledgeable and articulate, with colourful turns of phrase and an engaging gift for public speaking. Rehearsals were both educational and entertaining. Anecdotes and quotes abound with phrases such as ‘Come on basses, it’s not Lutoslawski’ or ‘Well tenors, I’m glad you’re not guiding me around the dance floor’ enduring in the mind as characteristically humorous rebukes for poor sight-reading or rhythm.
Sometimes he could be exasperating, but those who got to know him will remember him above all for a generosity and personal warmth that transcended these moments. Despite taking on a punishing workload in support of causes he believed in, he was prodigal with his time and energy in support of others, not just young musicians whose careers (musical or otherwise) he would seek to further through advice, coaching or writing references, but also the many grieving families, whose funerals he would transform, compassionately, through his organ-playing, often for little or no charge.
He was deeply loyal and built personal relationships with all those whom he got to know, remembering details of family members and enquiring frequently after their wellbeing, a master of the personal touch. His generosity included a remarkable propensity to forgive, which often inspired those with whom he crossed swords to reciprocate.
Much of this stemmed from his Christian faith, instilled in him by his upbringing but completely absorbed and made his own, and founded on genuine humility, a humility that explains his desire for a very simple funeral.
It may somehow also explain his love of the simplicity of musical miniatures, such as Bairstow’s I sat down under his shadow, which characteristically somehow say so much more by saying much less. This simplicity characterises his own compositions, not least the Taylor Trilogy whose first performance, on the day he was finally taken ill, he sadly missed.
We could not be more proud to have commissioned this last work. His choice of words by Bishop Jeremy Taylor was highly personal and revealing of this warm and generous man, whom we now mourn with every passing breath. May he rest in peace.
Let’s sing Him up again !
Each man wind up his heart
To bear a part
In that angelic choir, and show
His glory high as He was low !
Let’s sing towards men good will and charity,
Peace upon Earth, glory to God on high
Hallelujah, Hallelujah !
Mysterious God, regard me when I pray:
And when this load of clay
Shall fall away,
O let Thy gracious hand conduct me up,
Where on the Lamb’s rich viands I may sup:
And in this last Supper I
May with Thy friend in Thy sweet bosom lie
For ever in Eternity.
Allelujah.
