The boys who attend St Patrick's Cathedral choir school undergo a demanding daily routine of rehearsals, school work and singing duties. But, as Arminta Wallace finds when she joins them in class, they're also PlayStation-obsessed, standard-issue small boys.
Sunday morning service at St Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin. The choir and clergy have made their regal way into the stalls on either side of the altar. Hovering at the edge of the action, apparently reluctant to follow, are three well scrubbed and slightly anxious-looking small boys in blue and white robes. The congregation gazes at them, mystified. Are they going to sing by themselves? Or is this some kind of arcane punishment ritual? In fact, Daniel, Luke and Conor are about to be officially admitted to the choir. As the introductory hymn comes to an end, the cathedral's Precentor - the senior dignitary in charge of music - Rev Canon Robert Reed, steps forward. He asks the boys a series of questions, beginning with whether they are truly desirous of joining up and ending with whether, once admitted, they are prepared to submit to the authority of the Dean and to comport themselves in a suitably serious and sober manner.
Daft questions to ask the average eight-year-old boy, on the face of it. But these boys are well used to the ways of the cathedral. They are pupils at St Patrick's Cathedral choir school, founded in 1432, the oldest school in Ireland and the only choir school in the country. They have served as cassock boys and probationers, and neither the solemnity of the occasion nor the elegance of the language fazes them in the slightest.
Having answered with the ecclesiastical equivalent of "Affirmative, captain", they trot into the choir stalls and get on with the business in hand - which, as it happens, is Psalm 119. "I am thy servant, O grant me understanding/For I love thy commandments: above gold and precious stone . . ."
Commandments notwithstanding, it seems that singers at St Patrick's haven't always been entirely suitable boys. Some 300 years ago, when Jonathan Swift was Dean of St Patrick's, he was incensed by the carry-on of his adult choristers - including one who was given to "either rambling abroad or idling at home", not to mention taking "a frolic to neglect his attendance for two or three months together . . ." Another was "an infamous sot, who is daily losing his voice by intemperance and will become in a year or two more a burden to the church."
By the look of the innocent faces above the sky-blue bow-ties, such problems won't bedevil this particular batch of choristers for the foreseeable future. Always supposing, that is, that this particular tradition has a future. While those who attend services in cathedrals are invariably bowled over by the beauty of the music and the impression of centuries of unbroken tradition, those who organise them are concerned that the changing priorities of Irish society - and especially the huge demographic changes currently taking place in Dublin - may be placing this ancient institution in jeopardy.
"The very idea of a cathedral choir is quite an elusive one for people nowadays," explains Peter Barley, the organist and master of the choristers at St Patrick's. "When the cathedral was founded, everyone went to church. The week was organised around Sunday service, and there was a ready-made community there. Nowadays, social structures are more fluid and people are less likely to know about St Patrick's Cathedral - or indeed any cathedral." For this reason, a good deal of Barley's time and energy is devoted to explaining what the choir does - and how all sorts of people might play a part in it. "I visit schools and try to get the word out to parents in the area about the potential of coming here," he says. "I like to emphasise that I'm always at the end of the phone or e-mail.
"I think people often see the cathedral as something like 'Oh, I couldn't possibly be there', or 'I couldn't possibly be in that choir'. But if you have an interest and you're a reasonable singer, then it's worth a shot. You won't know unless you've tried."
Though its triangular bulk has graced the corner of Patrick Street since medieval times, St Patrick's no longer sits at the heart of Dublin city. These days, choristers are as likely to live in Phibsboro or Tallaght as Fitzwilliam Square or Temple Bar. On the plus side, a more fluid ecumenical situation means that in order to join the choir, it is no longer necessary to be a member of the Church of Ireland; all denominations are welcome. "Musical ability doesn't confine itself to one particular pocket of society," is how Barley puts it.
What, then, makes a good boy chorister? "Clearly an interest in music is a good start," he says. "And a reasonable voice. They don't have to be a little superstar, but they need to be able to sing a simple tune - Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star or something like that. If I play a note on the piano they need to be able to sing it back to me. General alertness is the other thing. Somebody who looks as if they're fairly on-the-ball. The heartening thing is that because of the daily training they get, we're always building on that basic ability - and, provided they're committed to the work, building at quite a fast rate."
Committed is putting it mildly. Come 8.30 every morning during term-time, the 15 boy choristers arrive at the school for morning rehearsal. Coats are flung over desks and schoolbags dumped on the floor as small huddles form inside the classroom door, discussing such ordinary daily stuff as the latest cheats for PlayStation games. Within minutes, Barley has shifted them into plainchant gear. "Now what," he asks, "keeps you going, boys?" Hands shoot into the air. I half expect someone to answer "Weetabix", but their sustenance on this particular occasion is, it turns out, the first bar-line of the piece.
As they make their way through a selection of psalms, anthems and hymns, there is an occasional stifled yawn. But even at this hour of the morning, the young voices are heart-stoppingly beautiful. In the middle of a magnificent Magnificat a latecomer bursts in, shrugs off his sleeveless jacket, hauls up his trousers, wipes his nose on the back of his hand and joins in. A little later, when he's still fidgeting and jigging about, his neighbour calmly turns to him and mimes - his enunciation so clear I can read his lips from the other side of the room - "Shuuuut uuuup . . .".
It's just the beginning of a long and challenging day. After the 60-minute rehearsal, there's barely time to drop in to the classroom across the yard to hand up their homework before they're off to the cathedral to sing Matins. School proper begins at about 10am and finishes at 3pm. After a short break, often involving football, it's time for Evensong, which finishes at 6.20pm. "They stay late on Tuesdays, Fridays and some Thursdays," Barley explains. "We have a girls' choir which sings on Mondays and on alternate Thursdays. Saturday is a free day - then on Sunday they've got two services, which can be difficult for parents who are juggling different things."
The same parents will have to manage the juggling of extra events such as concerts, workshops and tours. This month the choir will join forces with the choir of St Bartholomew's in Donnybrook for a visit to London, where they will sing at Westminster Abbey and Southwark Cathedral; later in the year, the Patrick's boys are off to Germany. They may have the faces of angels, but these kids are made of steely stuff. "It's only for three or four years," Barley points out. "It isn't a life sentence." He insists that the purpose of the choir school is "not to turn out mini-Mozarts", and stresses that you don't have to be a chorister - or even want to be one - to attend.
"It's a special little school," is how head teacher Sandra Morgan sums up her tiny kingdom. "As well as the cathedral music, there's instrumental tuition and we also do classroom music - folk songs and so forth. Last year we put on a drama in which we created all the sound effects and made all the costumes ourselves; so it's not just the cathedral music which is important, by any means. Obviously it's the only national school of its type in Ireland, and because it's so small - we have 25 children in four classes - it's very family-orientated. Basically, we get children from all parts of Dublin and we knit them into a community here in the inner city.
"People think of small national schools as a country thing," she adds, "but actually there are a number of us in Dublin. There's another one in Chapelizod, one in Inchicore and one in Drumcondra. We cluster together for planning and so forth, which is very helpful."
St Patrick's Close, where the school is situated, also contains the grammar school, a secondary school to which the children transfer at the age of 12. The city-centre location means that both schools suffer from lack of access to sports facilities such as playing fields; but Barley - who was himself a boy chorister at New College, Oxford and a music scholar at Winchester College before going on to study music at King's College, Cambridge - is convinced that the educational advantages far outweigh the drawbacks.
"More than anything else, choristers learn how to work as a team," he says. "They learn to be responsible, and because they have more demands on their time than other schoolchildren, they also learn to be more organised about things. It's actually a very good model for a professional life." Rev Reed agrees.
"There's a certain confidence that choristers develop," he says. "They've performed for Bill Clinton, and President Mary McAleese comes quite often to the cathedral. There are also regular radio broadcasts. They have so many opportunities to meet various dignitaries that it can't help but boost their morale."
Another day, another set of canticles. Into the cathedral's faintly musty air drifts a series of collects, spun by the cantor with eerie perfection from a single musical note.
The effect is magical. It's also a rare musical - not to say liturgical - treat; according to Barley, this may be the last cathedral in the world to sing Matins every day during term time. As each short prayer comes to an end the note is taken up by the boys, who respond with a long, slow "A . . . men".
Not half an hour before, they had clattered up a well-worn stone staircase and into the robing room, where they donned their Harry Potter-esque outfits amid shrieks of dismay. "Look, Mr Barley - they've left chocolate all over the floor: and they wrecked our robes as well." What kind of creature, I inquire, could have wreaked such havoc since yesterday? Mice? "Girls!" comes the scornful reply. "The girls' choir. They're mental." It's a timely reminder that, when all is said and done, these are no angels but standard-issue small boys.