George wanted to be a musician. He was born to a working-class family. His mom was the daughter of a minister. His dad was a barber.

His mom supported her son’s passion, but his dad was deadset against it. Music was a waste of time. Frivolity. George’s dad wanted him to be a barber, just like his old man. He prohibited any music in his household.

So George’s mom took matters into her own hands. She secretly bought a secondhand keyboard and placed it in the attic, where George’s father couldn’t see or hear it.

George would practice when his father was at work. Sometimes, spending all day practicing scales in the attic.

As an adult, music became George’s career. He actually became quite famous. He wrote for important people. He performed in prestigious places. But the life of a musician is an unsteady one. Audiences are fickle. Trends move fast.

As he aged, George’s career took a downturn. Nobody wanted his brand of music anymore. It was too old-school. Audiences wanted young blood, new talent, rebels with weird hairstyles. Not old-geezer musicians who looked like your dad’s barber.

Before long, George was washed up. Work disappeared. He was drowning in debt. Soon, he was accepting donated food just to survive.

Sometimes he wished he’d listened to his dad. But it was too late to become a barber now. God knows, he was no spring chick. George was 56. This, during an era when average life expectancy for males was 45 or 50. People George’s age were considered seniors.

He downsized. He relocated to Ireland with his proverbial tail between his legs. Maybe he could find work there. Earn some money. Perhaps, rebuild whatever career he had left.

He was forced to take a job as an organist for a small Irish church. Also, he accepted charity gigs performing for places like local hospitals, prisons, and institutions for the mentally ill.

But one day, a real job presented itself to him. George was approached to put on a fundraiser concert for a local hospital. It would be a big concert.

He jumped at the opportunity. Finally, some REAL work.

He got so excited he went straight home and started writing. He wrote all night. Then, he wrote all day. He wrote scores until his hands gave out, revising his work at the keyboard constantly.

Soon, his hands grew to tired, so he hired copyists to take dictation. George paced the room, in a feverish fit, humming melodies to the transcriptionist and shouting, “Quickly! Write this down!” He stayed up for days on end. He wrote his entire choral work in 24 days.

The concert took place one balmy April, with a choir of 26 boys and five men from local churches. The lyrics came straight from the Book of Isaiah. His performance left the audience in awestruck speechlessness.

Local ministers wept. Some were caught in such reverie, they spontaneously applauded at the wrong times.

It would become his masterwork. One year later, he would perform this piece for King George II, who was so moved he is said to have risen to his feet during the performance—a tradition which still exists today.

George’s 3-hour masterpiece would become, and remains, the most performed choral piece in global history. Today, the work is performed nearly 20,000 times per year during the Christmas season.

Ludwig van Beethoven called him the greatest composer who ever lived “…I would uncover my head and kneel before his tomb.”

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart said, “[He] understands effect better than any of us.”

And Johann Sebastian Bach said, “The only person I would wish to see before I die, and the only person I would wish to be—were I not Bach—is George Fredrick Handel.”

So anyway, now you know the rest of the story.