GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL

A Barber's Son Who Preferred Keys to Combs

I was born in Halle in 1685, in a corner of the world that belonged to Brandenburg-Prussia at the time. My father was a barber-surgeon who served courts, and he had no plans at all for a musician in the family. The story goes that I sneaked off to practise on a small keyboard in the attic, though nobody knows whether that really happened. What I do know is that I learnt the organ from Friedrich Wilhelm Zachow, my only teacher as far as anyone can tell, and he taught me remarkably well.

Opera, Italy and a Good Entrance

In 1703 I moved to Hamburg to play in the opera orchestra, and before long my first operas were being performed there. In 1706 I travelled to Italy, because I wanted to grow as a composer and as a performer, and it turned out to be the best schooling I could have asked for. Then in 1711 my opera Rinaldo was staged in London, and the audience took to it immediately. After an evening like that, it is hard to go back to being unknown.

Hanover Hired Me, London Kept Me

In 1710 I was appointed Kapellmeister to the Elector of Hanover, which was a very respectable position for a young man. But England kept pulling at me, and in 1712 I decided to settle there for good. In 1717 I wrote the Water Music for a royal water party for King George I, and it was played on the Thames one July evening, which is a far nicer way to hear music than in a stuffy room. I became a British citizen in 1727, and from 1723 I lived at 25 Brook Street, a house I never left.

The Chorus Everybody Stands For

In the late summer of 1741 I wrote Messiah in under a month, using words that Charles Jennens had put together from the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer. It was first performed in Dublin in April 1742, and the audience there gave it a warm welcome. The Hallelujah chorus is the part that everyone knows: the singers call out that one word again and again, the lines tumble over each other, and the whole thing grows into a great shout of joy. People say that King George II rose to his feet when he heard it, and that this is why audiences stand today, but there is no convincing evidence that he was even there.

When the Lights Went Out

My eyesight got worse over the years, and by 1752 I was completely blind. A surgeon named John Taylor had operated on my cataracts, and the operation did not work. For a man who spent his life reading and writing notes, it was the cruellest turn I can imagine. I never married, so music was the closest thing I had to a family, and I held on to it.

A Quiet Ending in Brook Street

Before my sight went, in 1749, I had written the Music for the Royal Fireworks, which was meant to be heard outdoors and to be heard by everybody. Afterwards I stayed on in Brook Street, the house where I had lived for thirty-six years. I died there on 14 April 1759, at the age of 74. A week later I was buried in Westminster Abbey, which was an honour I could never have imagined as a barber's son from Halle.

What I Left Behind

I introduced oratorios in English, which are big musical stories sung without costumes, sets or acting, and people liked them straight away. It turned out that you do not need scenery when the music already paints the picture. Messiah has been performed ever since, and choirs and audiences everywhere still share it year after year. A man who was born in Halle ended up as part of English musical life, and I am still proud of that.

My Gift to You

I would like you to hear the Hallelujah chorus as if it were the first time, without worrying about whether you know anything about classical music. You do not need to know how it is built, because you only need to listen as the voices pile up and the joy keeps growing. If you feel like standing up while it plays, go ahead, whether or not a king ever did. That feeling of being lifted off your chair is all I ever wanted to give you.