The composer Avril Coleridge-Taylor always felt the burden of her parent’s heritage. As the daughter of the celebrated composer Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, one of the prominent British musicians of the 1900s, the composer’s identity was shrouded in the lingering obscurity of the past.
In recent months, I reflected on these shadows as I made arrangements to produce the inaugural album of the composer’s piano concerto from 1936. Boasting emotional harmonies, soulful lyricism, and bold rhythms, Avril’s work will offer audiences valuable perspective into how she – a wartime composer who entered the world in 1903 – imagined her world as a woman of colour.
However about shadows. One needs patience to adjust, to perceive forms as they really are, to tell reality from misinterpretation, and I was reluctant to address Avril’s past for a while.
I deeply hoped the composer to be a reflection of her father. To some extent, this was true. The idyllic English tones of her father’s impact can be observed in many of her works, for example From the Hills (1934) and Sussex Landscape (1940). But you only have to examine the names of her father’s compositions to realize how he heard himself as both a champion of British Romantic style and also a representative of the Black diaspora.
It was here that parent and child began to differ.
White America evaluated Samuel by the mastery of his art rather than the colour of his skin.
As a student at the renowned institution, the composer – the child of a Sierra Leonean father and a white English mother – began embracing his background. At the time the poet of color Paul Laurence Dunbar visited the UK in 1897, the 21-year-old composer was keen to meet him. He composed this literary work into music and the next year used the poet’s words for a musical work, Dream Lovers. Then came the choral piece that put Samuel on the map: Hiawatha’s Wedding Feast.
Inspired by the poet Longfellow’s The Song of Hiawatha, Samuel’s Hiawatha was an international hit, notably for Black Americans who felt vicarious pride as American society evaluated the composer by the excellence of his art as opposed to the colour of his skin.
Recognition failed to diminish his beliefs. During that period, he participated in the initial Pan African gathering in England where he encountered the Black American thinker this influential figure and witnessed a range of talks, including on the subjugation of African people in South Africa. He remained an advocate to his final days. He kept connections with pioneers of civil rights like Du Bois and the educator Washington, delivered his own speeches on equality for all, and even discussed racial problems with the US President while visiting to the US capital in that year. As for his music, Du Bois recalled, “he made his mark so prominently as a composer that it cannot soon be forgotten.” He succumbed in 1912, in his thirties. However, how would her father have thought of his child’s choice to work in the African nation in the 1950s?
“Daughter of Famous Composer expresses approval to apartheid system,” appeared as a heading in the African American magazine Jet magazine. This policy “seems to me the right policy”, the composer stated Jet. When asked to explain, she qualified her remarks: she was not in favor with this policy “in principle” and it “should be allowed to work itself out, guided by benevolent people of all races”. Had Avril been more attuned to her parent’s beliefs, or born in the US under segregation, she might have thought twice about this system. Yet her life had protected her.
“I possess a UK passport,” she remarked, “and the government agents failed to question me about my ethnicity.” Thus, with her “fair” appearance (according to the magazine), she traveled within European circles, supported by their admiration for her renowned family member. She presented about her father’s music at the educational institution and directed the broadcasting ensemble in the city, programming the inspiring part of her Piano Concerto, named: “In remembrance of my Father.” Even though a skilled pianist herself, she never played as the lead performer in her piece. On the contrary, she invariably directed as the leader; and so the apartheid orchestra performed under her direction.
She desired, in her own words, she “may foster a transformation”. However, by that year, things fell apart. Once officials learned of her Black ancestry, she could no longer stay the nation. Her British passport failed to safeguard her, the British high commissioner recommended her departure or be jailed. She came home, feeling great shame as the scale of her inexperience was realized. “This experience was a painful one,” she expressed. Compounding her embarrassment was the 1955 publication of her ill-fated Jet interview, a year after her forced leaving from the country.
As I sat with these memories, I perceived a recurring theme. The narrative of identifying as British until it’s revoked – that brings to mind African-descended soldiers who defended the UK during the second world war and survived only to be not given their earned rewards. And the Windrush generation,