A drum sits inert in the lap of an old man. Kneeling before him, a younger man plays a sprightly tune on a viola. Two other musicians join in. Slowly, the beckoning rhythm, and a look of eager authority on the first musician’s face, prise the older man out of the wilderness. From somewhere inside his brain, a message is conveyed down an arm and into a weak wrist that starts to tap stick against drum. It’s a military sort of tattoo, three beats then a rest, suggesting, perhaps, some soldierly past. Not that anyone knows. The drummer — let’s call him Ken — has no relatives, and no longer speaks.

Ken sits in a circle of people. There are seven of similar years, several of their carers and a trio of classical musicians. In the middle of the circle is a stack of percussive instruments that go ping and tock and bong. It was on such instruments, once upon a time before the war, that these now old people would have been introduced to music-making as gap-toothed scamps with grazed knees. Now that reasoned speech has all but gone, this is their last means of communication.

Music for Life was started in 1993. Its philosophy is that music can, as the cliché goes, help to find the person behind the dementia. Its practitioners are not, it needs stressing, music therapists. The violist David Hirschman plays with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. There’s also Adrian Rowlands, an oboist from the pit of Les Misérables, and Sam Glazer, a freelance cellist. Other musicians trained by Music for Life include a tuba player and a harpist. Using their knowledge of chord structure, a trio’s task is musically to improvise a way past the barrier dementia erects. It doesn’t claim to be a cure; the goal is to bring participants back from private silence into a kind of community, even if only for an hour. Within its own para­meters, Music for Life works wonders.

We are in a nursing home in west London. This is the penultimate of eight sessions with these residents and their carers. As soon as the residents have arrived in their wheelchairs, on their frames and walking sticks, the musicians strike up a pre-improvised tune. Subtle, weaving and hypnotic, it’s designed to shift mood through tempo and dynamics. They go round their circle, singing a serenade of welcome to each person in turn. Grace is visibly seduced by the cheeriness of her greeting. “Thank you,” she whispers, smiling. “Hello, Sally,” goes a quieter greeting. “She’s here,” comes the loud reply from a woman whose problem is not making too little noise, but too much. Lester, an Afro-Caribbean man, stares regally from a chair without response.

It’s a far cry from the musicians’ regular work. “You have to leave behind a lot of the preconceptions you have about playing classical music,” Hirschman says. “We’re not just playing music at people. We’re trying to engage them in the process of making it. We hope they get some benefit from the music we have made together.” The opening tune stops, and Hirschman starts another. His colleagues join in, and now the percussion instruments are distributed: a triangle, a xylophone, maracas, bells, a drum for Ken. And round the circle the musicians go again, this time playing a different tune for each resident, designed to wheedle out a reaction. It is deeply moving to watch the shy ones open up and the less shy ones calm down.

For all the moving rewards brought to those living with dementia, Music for Life has ploughed a lonely furrow as a small organi­sation. Now, though, it is preparing to hand over its management to Wigmore Hall, in London. There are about 700,000 people with dementia in the UK. The idea is that, with the clout of a world-renowned venue to disseminate its values, more people will reap the benefits. “It’s now widely accepted that music can help people with dementia,” explains John Gilhooly, the director of Wigmore Hall. “We wanted to make an impact and felt the prestige of an international concert hall would bring a lot of attention that Music for Life might not otherwise get.”

Last month, there was a launch, attended by the charity’s royal patron, HRH Princess Alexandra, and the newscaster John Suchet, who recently revealed that his wife has dementia. Gilhooly’s desire to intercede was bolstered by experience of his father’s illness. “When we sang music he had taught us as children,” he recalls, “suddenly we could get his attention.” So far, 50 musicians have undertaken the training.

Back at the session, Hirschman and his colleagues have made significant strides. Sally has been persuaded to behave more like a church mouse. Grace is chattier than in previous sessions. But the revelation is left till last, when the music has stopped and the residents are leaving. More in hope than expectation, he asks Lester if he enjoyed it. And Lester starts to talk. “That was the biggest breakthrough,” Hirschman says. “The exchange we had at the end is unprecedented. We’ve never known him to be so lucid.”

Some names have been changed

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