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Met was 2023. The vacation of a lifetime, in Australia, had begun, after two weeks at an Australian chamber music festival, where I played viola in several of my compositions. I worried about this for months, not really believing that I could sing and deliver on my own. Even as a full-time viola player in the 80s, I avoided playing solo – I was always at home in large chamber groups. But when my husband Peter and I left for our vacation, I was happy. I played with a wonderful young pianist Joseph Havlatis a well-known accordionist James Crabb and virtuoso trumpet David Elton – and everything went well.
But then I realized: I didn’t ask for the concerts to be recorded. This was a moment in my life that could never be repeated. And I hadn’t caught it yet. I stopped being upset. The fact that this is an example in my opinion did not make it hurtful: the more shocking the event, the more likely I was to find the sadness associated with it. It’s a destructive thought I’ve learned to live with, but for years I couldn’t figure out why my head seemed compelled to destroy every happy memory.
The plague changed many people. For me, the opportunity to stop and think, to compromise, was not a healthy thing. Insomnia increased, as I was thinking about the mistakes I made years ago, I remembered them as if they were yesterday. Hundreds of repeated miseries. Top of the list: a painting I missed (in 2005) in a local shop, showing auditions for the local company The Sound of Music. My daughter – nine at the time – and I, used to talk about the show. A precious childhood memory for me was going to see it when it first opened in the West End, with my aunt playing Sister Berthe. I was alone, in a crowded hall, five years old, they picked me up. For my daughter to miss these readings felt like an untold disaster. The only way, it seemed to me, was to write a song with enough 10-year-olds to be sure to participate.
Are any of these unusual? Perhaps the strangest part is that, 15 years later, I still remember the sadness, even though the show I wrote as compensation was duly performed the following year. My daughter got an episode with Shenachie reached the end of the TV Cameron Mackintosh’s Highland Quest competition, with my daughter in the team. He said it was the happiest thing that had ever happened to him. But how could I miss the picture? And why could I still not recover from the first feeling of complete disaster?
My experience with the epidemic led me to seek help, and during the course of cognitive therapy it was considered that I might be on the autistic spectrum. I was very surprised. Surely autism means lack of empathy, isolation? This was not me. However, there were also other characteristics that I recognized. Discomfort looking at the eyes. Inability to recognize faces – even family. Getting lost. Lack of understanding of others, desire to please most of the time. Too much social media, especially if you don’t have music, and blame yourself later for being known as fake. Extreme sensitivity to noise, the need to follow written rules.
I now realize that my violinist mother would have gotten the same disease. With determination, he taught me to read and write music at the age of four. On stage, he had some problems with lack of coordination. One day after a solo performance, he just walked off the stage without acknowledging the applause. My aversion to eye contact means it’s hard for me to look around me and interact with other players. This is more evident today, when young actors are looking good – the best. Body language is part of being on stage. But no matter how much I enjoy playing, to quote my friend who has autism, my guts never reach my face.
I wonder how I would have coped in life if I hadn’t been born into a musical family, with my grandfather’s pile of Beethoven sonatas on the piano for me to read for hours every day. I can’t help but wonder if all the musicians aren’t somewhere “in the game”. In fact, how many children stop having fun with their friends and stay indoors and practice an instrument for several hours a day?
If music is my autistic “favorite”, it really helps me correct mistakes and manage emotions. Childhood events were marked by music: it was my money for birthday presents, teacher’s presents, new babies. And for my processing. After my miscarriage in 1994, I wrote to my then-husband, Robert Irvine, a columnist for Gala Water. In a way, the birth of music comforted me through the loss of a baby.
Because of my high anxiety, I have to reframe every negative event into something positive. The theft of my beloved viola – Gabrielli – in 1989 led to the decision to stop playing and focus on production, which led to a major life change: moving from London to Scotland. I had to turn that tragedy into something I couldn’t do. And the move turned out to be very useful. In Scotland I found the space, support and inspiration to pursue a career as a songwriter – something I thought was only a dream.
Then, after more than 20 years, I started playing again. The child I was expecting when I sold my last viola grew up to be a great musician, and his first instrument was a viola modeled after the stolen Gabrielli.
Now I find myself with a disc in my hands: a direct result of my inability to organize Australian recordings. Feeling sad, I met Joseph Havlat and asked him if he would write with me. He proposed an approach to the Delphian symbol; he agreed, and suddenly this was a big job. A chance call from my fictional son Tom sparked the idea of asking him to write a piece. Well, of course, I ordered two other kids, Laurie and Stephanie – both singer/songwriters – full of enthusiasm to see what they could come up with.
My friend is my helper Gerry Mattock she had just passed away, and her last work was a role to be played by my husband Peter Thomson narrating: Songs of the Night. Encouraged by Gerry’s interest in being commissioned, I expanded my requests, and asked Joseph to write something. My friend Karin Rehnqvist contributed to Cradle Song – singing to a grandson; and Scottish fiddler and harpist Chris Stout and Catriona McKay, who I wrote for Seavaigers, gave me the gift of Sally’s Tune.
The album began to be made, showing many aspects of my life and friends. Its launch on my 70th birthday is now part of a week of celebration. The Academy of St Martin-in-the-Fields, which my mum and I played with, is doing a concert with the Seavaigers and Chris and Catriona, including my UK premiere of my basset clarinet concerto, Izakhi, played by Michael Collins. The concerto came from a visit to Peter’s family in South Africa, and shows how threatened the world is. Always, Tom’s team Celebrant playing at World Heart BeatLaurie has released a single with her band Middle Toe, and Stephanie’s first EP is due out on 5 June – a month after the arrival of her first child.
My diagnosis of Autism has been a blessing, as it helps me (and my family) understand my concerns. I can forgive my mother. I can be easy on myself.
It was only after the plans for the album had started that I got the recording he was actually made in australia…
Sally Beamish and Michael Collins’ 70th birthday concert is on St Martin-in-the-Fields, London at 11 June. His album A Wonderful House is released on 12 June on Delphian Notes.
