ONE of the most extraordinary anomalies in contemporary Scottish music is exposed next week in a symposium and concert at Glasgow University celebrating Edward McGuire's 60th birthday.
In Thursday's lunchtime concert, members of the Edinburgh Quartet perform a sequence of works intended as a mini-retrospective of McGuire's music. It includes pieces ranging from his first-ever commission – Martyrs for solo viola (1973) – to the more
recent Guest Quintet.
The symposium on Wednesday 13 February will be an opportunity to hear a discussion of McGuire's music by his contemporaries. The ever-modest McGuire will not be attending. "I'm following the example of the professor of poetry who said the last thing he wanted to be part of was a discussion about his own poetry," he says.
McGuire is something of an enigma. On the one hand he is a quiet man, living a simple life that has hardly changed since he resettled in his native Glasgow 35 years ago, after formative years spent studying in London and Sweden. He has pursued a dual career as serious composer and active folk musician (flautist and clarsach player with the Whistlebinkies), the fruits of which have interacted to fascinating effect in a compositional output that is far more extensive than his grossly underestimated reputation.
But, as John Purser observed recently in his monumental published history of Scottish music, McGuire's "apparent innocence should never be presumed upon", adding that the composer "has made a place for himself in Scottish music which is a practical example of the ideals to which he subscribes".
What is it about McGuire that has made him a pioneering force in Scottish music over the past three decades, yet never appropriately acknowledged as a prophet in his own land?
An outline of his major works points to a man of significant accomplishment. These include a Glasgow Symphony, a major chamber work, Euphoria, for the Edinburgh Festival, a ballet for Scottish Ballet (Peter Pan), and a particularly beautiful chamber opera The Loving of Etain for the Paragon Ensemble.
Political ideals touch every aspect of his behaviour. Not the thuggish approach of Steve Martland or early James MacMillan, but a more tempered ideology with its roots in Marxism. He joined CND when he was 14, marched at Aldermaston with his flute, and prefers to have his music distributed by the Scottish Music Centre "because I'd rather be part of a public institution than a private company".
His politics lean more towards intellectual depth than jingoism. The Spirit of Wallace, composed for the 700th anniversary of the Battle of Stirling, is quintessentially reflective. "It was my way of putting a troubled spirit to rest rather than a glorification," he says.
Sure, there are aspects of his musical style that may have put big publishers off – a propensity for melody and tonality that could be perceived as naïve, but when positioned with that other characteristic of his musical language, explosive dissonance, is crushingly dramatic. But there is also an irresistible charm.
His earliest influences might seem unlikely. "I always had a love of classical music, but that was violently interrupted by rock'n'roll between the ages of eight and 12. When I was nine I appeared onstage at the Hamilton Community Centre miming to Elvis and Bill Hailey with a home-made guitar," he recalls.
On taking up the flute, his infatuation turned towards Debussy and Ravel, where he discovered softer tonal palettes that were to inform his own writing. "Rather than practise, I found myself writing my own tunes and playing them." Rooted in these was his later affinity for folk music.
To what extent, though, has his folk involvement informed his serious composition? Are the meandering modal characteristics of his early experimental Music for pianos – the entire material of which is confined to the white notes of the piano – straight reinterpretations of folk figurations? And what about his groundbreaking 1976 work for bagpipes and symphony orchestra, Calgacus, his only music to be played at the London Proms? Is that just another piece of tartan kitsch in the manner of Peter Maxwell Davies's Orkney Wedding with Sunrise?
In both these works, McGuire exercises artistry that rises way above mere gimmickry. The piano works are studies in tonality parallel to what was happening in American minimalism. "I wasn't actually aware of Steve Reich when I wrote them in Sweden," he says.
As for Calgacus, its fascination lies in its avoidance of cliché. McGuire is not a fusionist, and certainly not one of the plunderers of folk music. "I disapprove of composers like Vaughan Williams who took folk melodies but didn't acknowledge them," he argues.
In a rather interesting way, McGuire has kept his two lives apart. As a composer he works quietly in isolation, producing music that is distinctive and always hand-copied with exquisite calligraphic skill. He hates computers.
As a folk musician, performance provides a social outlet. "All composers should experience direct contact with an audience. Mozart was the prime example," he says.
But if anything has marked McGuire out as a significant artist of his generation, then it was his decision to live and work in Scotland at time when that was completely unfashionable. His ideals drove him to it, and still do today. McGuire is quietly content with his simple life. Maybe that's why he rarely makes the headlines.
• Edward McGuire's 60th birthday concert is at Glasgow University, 14 February, 1:10pm. The Symposium is on 13 February at 5:15pm. Tel: 0141-330 4093
