LONDON To come across the British naturalist and broadcaster David Attenborough in the audience for The Sixteen's all-Handel BBC Prom concert at the Albert Hall in London on Aug 12 seemed entirely appropriate. There he stood, the greatest public educator of his generation, only this time not giving but receiving, enthusing like a student over the works of the greatest public musician of his own or any other era. And Attenborough was not alone. The vast hall was packed.

What is it about Handel that connects with Britain and its people so potently? I know what the answer used to be. A century ago Handel and his music were collective British institutions. In industrial cities audiences flocked to hear his oratorios performed by casts of thousands, most of them amateurs. They stood in reverence whenever the Hallelujah chorus was performed. At home they played his Largo on their parlour pianos and listened to 78s of John McCormack singing Where'er You Walk on their wind-up gramophones. In Wales they even named their sons after him.

Yet today? Most of that old world has been grassed over now. The busts gather dust in charity shops, and in Wales boys are more likely to be named after footballers. The oratorios, particularly Messiah, are still at the heart of the dogged, neglected localism of British music-making, especially in the churches. Many audiences continue to insist on standing for the Hallelujah chorus. But the unique, culturally binding industrial-Britain reverence is mostly a thing of the past. The mass Protestantism that found itself expressed in Handel performances has withered away.

The thousands who used to perform these works have given way too, to much smaller, more specialist forces like The Sixteen (despite their name there are more than 60 of them for a Handel concert). As far as I know, no one ever took up George Bernard Shaw's call for the House of Commons to pass a law making it a capital offence to perform Handel oratorios with more than 80 performers in the chorus and orchestra. Yet Shaw's law has become standard performance practice all the same. Today, you are also more likely to hear a Handel opera than one of his oratorios. English Touring Opera is taking no fewer than five Handel operas around southern England this autumn, inconceivable a generation ago.

Since the civic culture and the Protestantism have so emphatically disappeared, this enthusiasm can only be explained by the character of the music itself. Today's Handel revival is therefore all about the notes and the way Handel put them together and coloured them. It's about the truthfulness of his art. You may not trust politicians. You may even have occasional doubts about journalists. But when George Frideric Handel speaks - and he has had a lot to say in this 250th anniversary year of his death - you can always believe him. This is emphatically not true of all composers, and it sets Handel apart. He is music's great communicator.

But the desire to be a communicator also marks a difference between Handel and many professionals of the modern era. Like Benjamin Britten in the 20th century, Handel wanted to be a useful and practical musician. Where is that impulse today? Too many composers prefer to tread water in the academy. Who now gets up in the morning aiming both to please and elevate the public as David Attenborough does - and as Handel did each day? —Dawn/The Guardian News Service