A Piece That Nearly Wasn't Written

When I decided to create an album of Christmas music for piano, it was already October, so there was no time to waste. I went straight to work and committed myself to writing one arrangement a day for twelve days in my studio next to the ocean in Haleiwa, Hawaii. It was an intense but deeply enjoyable process, and at the end of each day I would play what I had written for my mother, who had also been my piano teacher. Her opinion mattered to me, and I valued her approval. Thankfully, she loved everything I was doing.

I chose the traditional carols that I had grown up with and felt a natural connection to. There was a sense of familiarity and nostalgia in each one, and even small details mattered to me, such as using the old English spelling for The First Nowell, just as it appeared in the hymnbook I knew so well from England, Hymns Ancient and Modern. The project felt grounded in my own musical upbringing, which made it all the more meaningful.

There was, however, one piece that stood apart from the rest. It was a carol that I had not encountered during my years in England, and one that both my mother and I only came to know after spending time working in America. That piece was Carol of the Bells.

Its popularity surprised both of us. It seemed to appear everywhere, and yet neither of us had any real affection for it. We even joked about it on more than one occasion, questioning why choirs were so drawn to what we felt was a rather repetitive and monotonous piece. My mother in particular had very strong feelings about it and made no attempt to hide them.

By the eleventh day, with nearly the entire album complete, she said to me quite firmly that she hoped I was not planning to include that dreadful carol. Even now, at the age of ninety, she remains wonderfully direct and unmistakably English in her opinions. I understood exactly how she felt, but I also had a different instinct. I felt that if I was creating a Christmas album, then this was a piece people would expect to hear.

At that point, I had already begun sketching ideas for another piece that would later become Incantation. One of those ideas was a distinctive left hand pattern that had caught my attention, although I had not yet found its true purpose. When I finally sat down to work on Carol of the Bells, I decided almost on a whim to try that same pattern. The moment I did, everything fell into place. What had once felt repetitive suddenly came alive with energy and direction. The arrangement seemed to write itself, and before long it was finished.

Looking back, it is remarkable how close I came to leaving it out entirely. It would have been easy to follow my mother’s advice and move on, but something told me to trust my own musical instincts. I am very glad that I did. That arrangement went on to become one of the most successful pieces I have ever written, selling tens of thousands of copies of sheet music and reaching millions of listeners online.

It serves as a reminder that sometimes the pieces we are least certain about can become the ones that resonate the most. Had I dismissed it, I would have missed out on something truly special.