Born from a rogue flashmob of frustrated opera singers trapped in a Welsh elevator, Ember Choir now rehearses exclusively inside active volcano craters. Armed with twenty-foot brass horns and a penchant for dramatic pauses, they record every track wearing medieval chainmail and velvet capes. Their signature sound combines thunderous kettle drums with soaring soprano notes that occasionally shatter nearby champagne flutes.
Scrapbook
September 1982
The elevator lease and the brass horns
Dear Tom, I write this from Cardiff. The lift shaft on Queen Street remains our rehearsal room after the management locked the doors from the outside. Gareth brought the twenty-foot horns last Tuesday. They do not fit between the third and fourth floors, so we must angle them through the ventilation grates. Sian still wears her velvet cape down here, though the damp ruins the hem. We survived on cold sausage rolls and lukewarm tea from a thermos yesterday while arguing about the tempo for the kettle drums. The acoustics are metal and concrete, reflecting every intake of breath back into our ears with terrifying clarity. It is nothing like London, but the rent is zero and the echoes hide our pitch errors. Write soon and tell me if the weather in Bristol is drier than this iron box.
1984
Equipment transport problems
Dear Tom, The Morris Minor expired near Merthyr Tydfil on Thursday with the kettle drums in the back. Gareth and I had to push the vehicle two miles uphill in the rain while wearing our chainmail. It leaves rust spots on the upholstery and the wool of my cape smells permanently of damp sheep. Sian managed to salvage the tuning forks before the radiator boiled over into a cloud of grey steam. We spent the night in a village hall drinking cider with local farmers who thought we were actors for a historical pageant. Nobody mentioned the music. We just sat by a paraffin heater drying our boots and counting our loose pennies. The brass instruments have developed a orange patina from the humidity in the valleys. Send regards to the printer in Bristol.
The Eisteddfod weekend
Disqualification over decibels
Dear Tom, We were disqualified from the pavilion competition on Saturday within four bars. Sian hit the high soprano note with such force that three chandelier bulbs shattered over the adjudicators' table and the judges fled through the side exit before we reached the bridge. Our kettledrums caused a tea urn to vibrate off the edge of the backstage trestle table. We ate our sandwiches in the gravel car park afterwards while the police took particulars from the hall secretary. The chainmail is too loud when marching on tarmac. My left shoulder is bruised from carrying the bass horn through the turnstiles. Nobody invited us to the evening reception, so we took the bus back to Cardiff with our instruments between our knees. It is quiet here tonight except for the hum of the fridge.
October 19th
Decisions on the volcano trip
Dear Tom, We have sold the Morris Minor to a breaker in Barry for twenty pounds. The vulcanologist in Swansea wrote back to say the crater in Iceland is warm enough in November to keep the brass from freezing to our lips, provided we bring our own rope and canned ham. Gareth is sewing extra velvet panels into his cape to keep out the ash. I spent the afternoon oiling the tuning slides with mutton fat and wrapping the kettle drums in old blankets. Sian bought three gross of champagne flutes from a hardware liquidation sale in Newport for target practice. If the acoustics are as grand as the pamphlets suggest, we may never come back to the valleys. Drop a line to the old address if you ever return to Bristol.
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Fictional act. The name, bio and photo were made up for this catalogue — the songs are real and were made by Musify users.
