Starting the day off right, with coffee and good music. This time it's back to the Baroque, and a set of concerti written in the German city of Dresden by Johann David Heinichen. I know, I'd never heard of him either and after listening to these marvellous discs over and over and over I can only wonder why.
More of Heinichen's music is gradually re-appearing and it's long overdue!
This particular set comes from DGG's Archiv early music label, and features the ensemble Musica Antiqua Köln under the direction of Reinhard Goebel. The set of Dresden Concerti includes eleven full concerti, a sonata, and an independent movement, for a total of 2 hours 15 minutes of music.
And what marvellous music it is! Heinichen's work is melodious, sprightly, and obstinately memorable. As court composer to the wealthy Elector of Saxony at the Court of Dresden, Heinichen had access to one of the finest orchestras in all of Europe, with multiple players of all instruments at his disposal. His works reflect that fact, with constant shifts in the instrumentation from movement to movement. You can listen right through the whole 2 CDs of this album (and I often do) with no sense at all of any repetition or formulaic writing.
Although I haven't got them yet, the DGG catalogue includes two more Köln/Goebel collaborations on Heinichen's music: a collection of sacred music, and an anthology of concerti composed for Dresden by various composers. Both of these are on my shopping list, and all are available for download at www.deutschegrammophon.com.
If you love Baroque music, you owe it to yourself to investigate this composer without delay!
Monday 30 April 2012
Friday 20 April 2012
Charming and Lively Chamber Music
Luigi Boccherini was born in Italy in 1743 -- but he lived most of his life in Spain, composing for several different noble and royal employers. He was a tremendous cellist, and wrote much for his own instrument. But he also composed numerous symphonies (more even than Mozart) and a profusion of chamber works.
The works I want to mention today are six quintets for strings and oboe. These pieces first came to me back in the days of the cassette (anyone remember those?) in a release from the Musical Heritage Society. The original recording was made on the Decca Records Argo label in the late 1970s. The Allegri String Quartet and Sarah Francis, oboe, were the performers.
The music has, from the opening notes, a kind of sunny brightness that never fails to put a smile on my face. I find this to be ideal listening for the kind of gloomy, cloudy weather when nothing much else can get me to brighten up. In the space of an hour, you'll hear a wealth of diverse styles and charming, memorable melodies. This is lively, sprightly music that dances along with with a spring in its step at all times. If you can possibly find a copy of this gem, grab it!
The works I want to mention today are six quintets for strings and oboe. These pieces first came to me back in the days of the cassette (anyone remember those?) in a release from the Musical Heritage Society. The original recording was made on the Decca Records Argo label in the late 1970s. The Allegri String Quartet and Sarah Francis, oboe, were the performers.
The music has, from the opening notes, a kind of sunny brightness that never fails to put a smile on my face. I find this to be ideal listening for the kind of gloomy, cloudy weather when nothing much else can get me to brighten up. In the space of an hour, you'll hear a wealth of diverse styles and charming, memorable melodies. This is lively, sprightly music that dances along with with a spring in its step at all times. If you can possibly find a copy of this gem, grab it!
Saturday 14 April 2012
A King Like No Other
Imagine a dark evening, a high-vaulted cathedral dimly lit by candles, a choir of adult voices chanting quietly in Greek, a children's choir answering, and then the two bursting out in a fortissimo hymn of acclamation as their King and Queen enter. That's the first five minutes of Karol Szymanowski's remarkable opera King Roger.
From that powerful and dramatic opening the opera continues to grow and turn in the most unexpected directions. Orchestra and voices alike create a series of luminous, shimmering textures shot through with vivid colour. The sound is rich, even lush, but I defy you to name any other composer who sounds at all like this one.
The story outlines a confrontation between the Norman King of Sicily and a Shepherd who preaches the worship of a new god, a god of joy and celebration, of passion and power. It is plain as the story unfolds that the god in question is Dionysus, the Shepherd himself perhaps even being the god rather than just his messenger. It is also clear that a much of the power in the Shepherd's presence is a strong charge of sensual, even erotic, energy. The Queen, Roxana, succumbs to the Shepherd's fascination but Roger does not -- turning, instead, to embrace the Apollonian sunrise which concludes the work. What exactly all of this might mean is something which the composer wisely left to each listener to decide for him or herself.
The result of this heavily psychological conflict is that much of the drama in the opera is internal, rather than external. As such, it's almost as well suited to concert or semi-staged concert performance as to a full opera-house production. Indeed, the requirement for three lavish and quite different sets for a 3-act opera lasting barely 80 minutes has probably had a lot to do with King Roger's relative neglect on stage.
The splendid 1998 EMI recording conducted in Birmingham by Sir Simon Rattle was made in conjunction with a series of concert performances. The principal singers, with the exception of American baritone Thomas Hampson in the title role, are all from Poland and the entire work is given in the original Polish text. The wide-ranging digital sound captures every nuance of the score with only one difficulty: the quiet passages are simply too quiet. The opening gong strokes and chanting are recorded so quietly that you have to crank the sound up a long way to hear anything, only to turn it back down again a couple of minutes later as the choir and orchestra roar out their hymn of praise at top volume! A small price to pay for such a vivid re-creation of such a wonderful opera.
From that powerful and dramatic opening the opera continues to grow and turn in the most unexpected directions. Orchestra and voices alike create a series of luminous, shimmering textures shot through with vivid colour. The sound is rich, even lush, but I defy you to name any other composer who sounds at all like this one.
The story outlines a confrontation between the Norman King of Sicily and a Shepherd who preaches the worship of a new god, a god of joy and celebration, of passion and power. It is plain as the story unfolds that the god in question is Dionysus, the Shepherd himself perhaps even being the god rather than just his messenger. It is also clear that a much of the power in the Shepherd's presence is a strong charge of sensual, even erotic, energy. The Queen, Roxana, succumbs to the Shepherd's fascination but Roger does not -- turning, instead, to embrace the Apollonian sunrise which concludes the work. What exactly all of this might mean is something which the composer wisely left to each listener to decide for him or herself.
The result of this heavily psychological conflict is that much of the drama in the opera is internal, rather than external. As such, it's almost as well suited to concert or semi-staged concert performance as to a full opera-house production. Indeed, the requirement for three lavish and quite different sets for a 3-act opera lasting barely 80 minutes has probably had a lot to do with King Roger's relative neglect on stage.
The splendid 1998 EMI recording conducted in Birmingham by Sir Simon Rattle was made in conjunction with a series of concert performances. The principal singers, with the exception of American baritone Thomas Hampson in the title role, are all from Poland and the entire work is given in the original Polish text. The wide-ranging digital sound captures every nuance of the score with only one difficulty: the quiet passages are simply too quiet. The opening gong strokes and chanting are recorded so quietly that you have to crank the sound up a long way to hear anything, only to turn it back down again a couple of minutes later as the choir and orchestra roar out their hymn of praise at top volume! A small price to pay for such a vivid re-creation of such a wonderful opera.
Sunday 8 April 2012
Holy Week Part 5
Last post of my series on music for Holy Week -- two rarities for Easter Sunday.
Actually, it's not all that surprising that Bach's Easter Oratorio hasn't attained the popularity of the Passions or the Christmas Oratorio. For one thing, it's 50-minute length contains only 1 choral movement plus one duet with choral interjections. The rest is only solo numbers. That diminishes its interest for choirs!
So why bother? The opening Sinfonia with trumpets and drums is as festive a piece as you can find in any of Bach's works, and also forms the thematic basis of that first duet-with-choral-support. In between them is a beautiful adagio for orchestra. That opening sequence is exhilarating enough, in combination with the final chorus of praise and thanksgiving, to make the work worth hearing.
In recent years, a number of recordings with authentic instruments have come forward. Call me old-fashioned, but I greatly prefer Bach played in a full-blooded manner, and far too many of the authentic recordings sound washed out, faded pastels in place of brilliant primary tones. In a grand movement like the opening of the Easter Oratorio, that washed-out effect is fatal to the power of the music.
So, old-fashioned me, I am completely content with Karl Münchinger's 1968 Decca recording from Stuttgart, with a starry roster of great soloists of that day: Elly Ameling, Helen Watts, Werner Krenn, and Tom Krause are all featured. It comes on CD with a lovely fill-up in the form of Cantata # 10, also known as the German Magnificat, and the two pieces together make a wonderful combination.
The other work is much more recent -- first performed in 1973 and given its premiere recording in 1996 -- and yet at the same time has a much more timeless, other-worldly quality. In this respect it reminds me a bit of the Berlioz Requiem as a work where the composer has created a uniquely mystical and eternal atmosphere. The piece in question is the 9th Symphony, entitled Sinfonia Sacra, by English composer Edmund Rubbra. In spite of the pleading of the program notes in the recording, I find it hard to approach this work for choir, three soloists, and orchestra as a symphony. At the same time, it is much more concise than your average oratorio and does fall into four distinct sections.
The symphony begins at the moment of the crucifixion on Good Friday, and continues to depict the entombment of Christ, the Resurrection, the appearance on the road to Emmaus, and the Ascension. The main sections each conclude with a setting of a Latin (Roman Catholic) hymn followed by a Protestant chorale. The parallel to Bach's Passion settings is unmistakable.
The critical difference comes with the choice of a contralto voice as narrator (not a tenor), and the consequent tilt of the sound picture towards the dark colours of low voicing, especially as the soloist frequently sings at the lower end of her range. In spite of this dark colour, the music still glows and pulses with radiance and light. It's a remarkable achievement. The writing eschews any obvious theatrical gestures and yet, as you get more familiar with the music, its dramatic power shows through more and more.
The meeting on the road to Emmaus is depicted by a short but wide-ranging orchestral movement entitled Conversation Piece, which uses several key motifs twined together to create the effect of different voices in discussion. This leads on to the final section where the mystical dimension of the writing comes foremost in the final hymn and chorale.
The performance by the BBC National Chorus and Orchestra of Wales under Richard Hickox is exemplary, as is the singing of Della Jones in the key role of the Narrator. Lynne Dawson and Stephen Roberts also contribute effectively in their shorter solo passages. The rich sound of a typical Chandos recording is perfectly judged for Rubbra's rich, dark textures. As if all that weren't enough, the disc opens with a substantial bonus, a major motet for choir and orchestra called The Morning Watch to a poem by Henry Vaughan.
Actually, it's not all that surprising that Bach's Easter Oratorio hasn't attained the popularity of the Passions or the Christmas Oratorio. For one thing, it's 50-minute length contains only 1 choral movement plus one duet with choral interjections. The rest is only solo numbers. That diminishes its interest for choirs!
So why bother? The opening Sinfonia with trumpets and drums is as festive a piece as you can find in any of Bach's works, and also forms the thematic basis of that first duet-with-choral-support. In between them is a beautiful adagio for orchestra. That opening sequence is exhilarating enough, in combination with the final chorus of praise and thanksgiving, to make the work worth hearing.
In recent years, a number of recordings with authentic instruments have come forward. Call me old-fashioned, but I greatly prefer Bach played in a full-blooded manner, and far too many of the authentic recordings sound washed out, faded pastels in place of brilliant primary tones. In a grand movement like the opening of the Easter Oratorio, that washed-out effect is fatal to the power of the music.
So, old-fashioned me, I am completely content with Karl Münchinger's 1968 Decca recording from Stuttgart, with a starry roster of great soloists of that day: Elly Ameling, Helen Watts, Werner Krenn, and Tom Krause are all featured. It comes on CD with a lovely fill-up in the form of Cantata # 10, also known as the German Magnificat, and the two pieces together make a wonderful combination.
The other work is much more recent -- first performed in 1973 and given its premiere recording in 1996 -- and yet at the same time has a much more timeless, other-worldly quality. In this respect it reminds me a bit of the Berlioz Requiem as a work where the composer has created a uniquely mystical and eternal atmosphere. The piece in question is the 9th Symphony, entitled Sinfonia Sacra, by English composer Edmund Rubbra. In spite of the pleading of the program notes in the recording, I find it hard to approach this work for choir, three soloists, and orchestra as a symphony. At the same time, it is much more concise than your average oratorio and does fall into four distinct sections.
The symphony begins at the moment of the crucifixion on Good Friday, and continues to depict the entombment of Christ, the Resurrection, the appearance on the road to Emmaus, and the Ascension. The main sections each conclude with a setting of a Latin (Roman Catholic) hymn followed by a Protestant chorale. The parallel to Bach's Passion settings is unmistakable.
The critical difference comes with the choice of a contralto voice as narrator (not a tenor), and the consequent tilt of the sound picture towards the dark colours of low voicing, especially as the soloist frequently sings at the lower end of her range. In spite of this dark colour, the music still glows and pulses with radiance and light. It's a remarkable achievement. The writing eschews any obvious theatrical gestures and yet, as you get more familiar with the music, its dramatic power shows through more and more.
The meeting on the road to Emmaus is depicted by a short but wide-ranging orchestral movement entitled Conversation Piece, which uses several key motifs twined together to create the effect of different voices in discussion. This leads on to the final section where the mystical dimension of the writing comes foremost in the final hymn and chorale.
The performance by the BBC National Chorus and Orchestra of Wales under Richard Hickox is exemplary, as is the singing of Della Jones in the key role of the Narrator. Lynne Dawson and Stephen Roberts also contribute effectively in their shorter solo passages. The rich sound of a typical Chandos recording is perfectly judged for Rubbra's rich, dark textures. As if all that weren't enough, the disc opens with a substantial bonus, a major motet for choir and orchestra called The Morning Watch to a poem by Henry Vaughan.
Saturday 7 April 2012
Holy Week Part 4
The Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday can often seem like a "dead space" between the important events in the Western Christian tradition, but in the Orthodox Church it marks the start of the All-Night Vigil which lasts through to the morning of Easter Sunday -- one of the central rituals of the church year.
In the late 1800s and early 1900s a dedicated research effort was underway in Moscow and St. Petersburg to recover the true and ancient traditions of Russian church music. Almost every composer of substance in Russia composed music for the Russian Orthodox services, and a number of them made settings of the canticles of the All-Night Vigil. Some were more successful than others.
By general consent the greatest of all musical settings is that composed in 1915 by Sergei Rachmaninoff. Although it is commonly known in English as the Rachmaninoff Vespers, it is correctly a setting of the complete All-Night Vigil (with the Vespers service forming only a part of the whole). As required by church practice, Rachmaninoff used traditional chants as the basis of 9 numbers. He then created what he called "conscious counterfeits" of the traditional chants as the basis of the remaining 6 pieces. The 15 canticles, all sung unaccompanied, are full of soaring melodies, echoes, bell sonorities, richly harmonized chords, and deep bass lines that only a Russian choir can render with full justice.
This extraordinary and powerful music languished in obscurity through much of the Soviet era, due to the official atheistic policies of the Communist regime. The first recording was not made until 1965! And even then it was not publicly circulated within the Soviet empire, but was only available for musicologists to study. It was not until 1973 that EMI Records made use of its marketing agreement with Melodiya to pry the recording loose and circulate it in the West.
I have a copy of that legendary premiere recording, and for me it still surpasses all of the numerous later efforts. The RSFSR Academic Choir conducted by Alexander Sveshnikov was the lineal descendant of the old choir of the Imperial Chapel, and the Orthodox tradition was in their blood. Not only that, but the alto and tenor soloists were both ideal -- Klara Korkan sounding like the very personification of Mother Russia. The acoustic was rich and resonant without blurring the sound, and the intensity of the performance bore witness to the historic nature of the recording sessions. However, unless and until the Sveshnikov performance is re-released, one must go with a substitute. The recording by the St. Petersburg Cappella under Vladislav Chernuchenko on Chant du Monde is a good second-best -- again with the authentic sound of true Russian voices.
A few years earlier, another remarkable work of religious music was produced by Alexander Grechaninov. The Seven Days of Passion is a setting of prayers drawn from throughout the Orthodox church rituals for the whole of Holy Week. This is a must-listen for anyone who knows and loves the Rachmaninoff Vespers. Again, all 13 movements are sung unaccompanied. The musical language is similar, too -- even without the constraint of having to follow traditional chants, Grechaninov worked within the tradition. The difference lies in the more dramatic approach that Grechaninov was able to take with what was designedly a concert work rather than a liturgy for church use. Nowhere is this plainer than in the tolling bell-figures and ecstatic reiterations of "Alleluia, alleluia" which crown the final pages of the last movement. What this composition shares with the Vespers is that extraordinary radiance or luminosity that causes the music to glow inwardly.
The premiere recording of The Seven Days of Passion had to wait until 1994! Chandos Records captured the complete 60-minute span of the work during sessions in the Moscow Conservatory, with the Russian State Symphonic Cappella under the direction of Valery Polyansky. This conductor and choir made a huge impression at the International Choral Festival in Toronto four years earlier with a complete performance of the Vespers, and this beautiful and moving recording fully confirms their ability to get right inside the music and realize its remarkably rich sonorities.
These austerely beautiful pieces couldn't be more different from the music of the Western tradition that I've been discussing earlier in the week, but once you come to know them I think you'll find them impossible to put aside.
In the late 1800s and early 1900s a dedicated research effort was underway in Moscow and St. Petersburg to recover the true and ancient traditions of Russian church music. Almost every composer of substance in Russia composed music for the Russian Orthodox services, and a number of them made settings of the canticles of the All-Night Vigil. Some were more successful than others.
By general consent the greatest of all musical settings is that composed in 1915 by Sergei Rachmaninoff. Although it is commonly known in English as the Rachmaninoff Vespers, it is correctly a setting of the complete All-Night Vigil (with the Vespers service forming only a part of the whole). As required by church practice, Rachmaninoff used traditional chants as the basis of 9 numbers. He then created what he called "conscious counterfeits" of the traditional chants as the basis of the remaining 6 pieces. The 15 canticles, all sung unaccompanied, are full of soaring melodies, echoes, bell sonorities, richly harmonized chords, and deep bass lines that only a Russian choir can render with full justice.
This extraordinary and powerful music languished in obscurity through much of the Soviet era, due to the official atheistic policies of the Communist regime. The first recording was not made until 1965! And even then it was not publicly circulated within the Soviet empire, but was only available for musicologists to study. It was not until 1973 that EMI Records made use of its marketing agreement with Melodiya to pry the recording loose and circulate it in the West.
I have a copy of that legendary premiere recording, and for me it still surpasses all of the numerous later efforts. The RSFSR Academic Choir conducted by Alexander Sveshnikov was the lineal descendant of the old choir of the Imperial Chapel, and the Orthodox tradition was in their blood. Not only that, but the alto and tenor soloists were both ideal -- Klara Korkan sounding like the very personification of Mother Russia. The acoustic was rich and resonant without blurring the sound, and the intensity of the performance bore witness to the historic nature of the recording sessions. However, unless and until the Sveshnikov performance is re-released, one must go with a substitute. The recording by the St. Petersburg Cappella under Vladislav Chernuchenko on Chant du Monde is a good second-best -- again with the authentic sound of true Russian voices.
A few years earlier, another remarkable work of religious music was produced by Alexander Grechaninov. The Seven Days of Passion is a setting of prayers drawn from throughout the Orthodox church rituals for the whole of Holy Week. This is a must-listen for anyone who knows and loves the Rachmaninoff Vespers. Again, all 13 movements are sung unaccompanied. The musical language is similar, too -- even without the constraint of having to follow traditional chants, Grechaninov worked within the tradition. The difference lies in the more dramatic approach that Grechaninov was able to take with what was designedly a concert work rather than a liturgy for church use. Nowhere is this plainer than in the tolling bell-figures and ecstatic reiterations of "Alleluia, alleluia" which crown the final pages of the last movement. What this composition shares with the Vespers is that extraordinary radiance or luminosity that causes the music to glow inwardly.
The premiere recording of The Seven Days of Passion had to wait until 1994! Chandos Records captured the complete 60-minute span of the work during sessions in the Moscow Conservatory, with the Russian State Symphonic Cappella under the direction of Valery Polyansky. This conductor and choir made a huge impression at the International Choral Festival in Toronto four years earlier with a complete performance of the Vespers, and this beautiful and moving recording fully confirms their ability to get right inside the music and realize its remarkably rich sonorities.
These austerely beautiful pieces couldn't be more different from the music of the Western tradition that I've been discussing earlier in the week, but once you come to know them I think you'll find them impossible to put aside.
Friday 6 April 2012
Holy Week Part 3
Continuing a survey which might be titled "Stabat Mater through the ages...."
The first setting of this beautiful mediaeval poem which I ever encountered was Dvořák's beautiful romantic cantata. I'm listening to it as I write. It was on Good Friday in the late 1960s, at St. Paul's Church on Bloor St. East in Toronto, and the director was the great Canadian conductor Sir Ernest Macmillan, then nearing the end of his long life. Sir Ernest had to conduct sitting down, but there was no mistaking the depth of feeling in his interpretation.
Dvořák's setting is one of the most "personal", inspired as it was by the deaths of three of his children. At the same time it is one of the most "public", a very large-scale work for concert performance. It calls for four soloists, chorus, full orchestra, and lasts for about 80 minutes.
There's no mistaking the grief-laden air of the first movement, symphonic in structure, style and conception -- it can easily be analyzed as an example of sonata form, on a very large scale (nearly 20 minutes long). Later movements alternate soloists and chorus in varying combinations, always with that gift of memorable melody which was so characteristic of Dvořák. In spite of the grief of the text, the composer's own irrepressibly cheerful temperament keeps sneaking in anyway -- most notably in the jovial "Amen" fugue which seems to be bringing the whole work to a rousing conclusion. But that is not Dvořák's way, and the meditative coda which gradually winds things down is an early example of a tendency that developed throughout his career.
To really hear this work as it deserves to be performed, look for Rafael Kubelik's Bavarian version for DGG. Kubelik had a remarkable feeling for the depths of this score, and the music glows in his hands like no other recording I have ever heard.
Polar opposite to Dvořák's setting is the version composed not many years later by Giuseppe Verdi. Where Dvořák is expansive, rich, and glowing, Verdi is austere, simple, and straighhtforward. He sets the entire text as a sequence of lines with virtually no repetition. The work is for chorus and orchestra with no soloists, and is as compact as could well be. Yet it is a sensitive setting, paying due heed to the meaning of all the poetic images. Contained in a set of late works known as the Quattro Pezzi Sacri, this Stabat Mater is usually performed and recorded as part of the complete group. I love Giulini's early London recording for EMI, a perfect pendant to his studio version of the Verdi Requiem from the same time period.
In the 1920s, Karol Szymanowski composed a striking cantata setting, not as long as Dvořák's but every bit as big, and very much a concert work. If you aren't familiar with his music, the Stabat Mater is an excellent place to begin. It's approachable, very listenable, and at the same time piques the ear with unexpected harmonic twists and turns and unusual orchestral colourings. I have a fine Telarc disc where it's directed by Robert Shaw with his Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and Chorus. It comes harnessed to Francis Poulenc's equally fascinating but very different approach to the same text. I'll be heading on to that one next.
And finally, the English composer Herbert Howells composed another large-scale Stabat Mater as a concert work in the 1960s -- the last major work he completed. Like many of Howells' major works, it takes as its point of departure the death of his son Michael at the age of 9 in 1935. The music is very typical of him -- that is to say, quite unlike anything else you've ever heard. Howells really deserves to have a post to himself, so here I will just say that his approach to harmony is distinctly his alone, and his handling of the orchestra and singers is also unique. It's pleasing to the ear, not aggressive modernism, and yet could have been written in no earlier time. The world premiere recording on Chandos was conducted, unexpectedly, by a Russian conductor (Gennadi Rozhdestvensky) but that fact serves to highlight that Howells is not a composer only for English listeners -- his music transcends merely national lines, as all the best music does.
The first setting of this beautiful mediaeval poem which I ever encountered was Dvořák's beautiful romantic cantata. I'm listening to it as I write. It was on Good Friday in the late 1960s, at St. Paul's Church on Bloor St. East in Toronto, and the director was the great Canadian conductor Sir Ernest Macmillan, then nearing the end of his long life. Sir Ernest had to conduct sitting down, but there was no mistaking the depth of feeling in his interpretation.
Dvořák's setting is one of the most "personal", inspired as it was by the deaths of three of his children. At the same time it is one of the most "public", a very large-scale work for concert performance. It calls for four soloists, chorus, full orchestra, and lasts for about 80 minutes.
There's no mistaking the grief-laden air of the first movement, symphonic in structure, style and conception -- it can easily be analyzed as an example of sonata form, on a very large scale (nearly 20 minutes long). Later movements alternate soloists and chorus in varying combinations, always with that gift of memorable melody which was so characteristic of Dvořák. In spite of the grief of the text, the composer's own irrepressibly cheerful temperament keeps sneaking in anyway -- most notably in the jovial "Amen" fugue which seems to be bringing the whole work to a rousing conclusion. But that is not Dvořák's way, and the meditative coda which gradually winds things down is an early example of a tendency that developed throughout his career.
To really hear this work as it deserves to be performed, look for Rafael Kubelik's Bavarian version for DGG. Kubelik had a remarkable feeling for the depths of this score, and the music glows in his hands like no other recording I have ever heard.
Polar opposite to Dvořák's setting is the version composed not many years later by Giuseppe Verdi. Where Dvořák is expansive, rich, and glowing, Verdi is austere, simple, and straighhtforward. He sets the entire text as a sequence of lines with virtually no repetition. The work is for chorus and orchestra with no soloists, and is as compact as could well be. Yet it is a sensitive setting, paying due heed to the meaning of all the poetic images. Contained in a set of late works known as the Quattro Pezzi Sacri, this Stabat Mater is usually performed and recorded as part of the complete group. I love Giulini's early London recording for EMI, a perfect pendant to his studio version of the Verdi Requiem from the same time period.
In the 1920s, Karol Szymanowski composed a striking cantata setting, not as long as Dvořák's but every bit as big, and very much a concert work. If you aren't familiar with his music, the Stabat Mater is an excellent place to begin. It's approachable, very listenable, and at the same time piques the ear with unexpected harmonic twists and turns and unusual orchestral colourings. I have a fine Telarc disc where it's directed by Robert Shaw with his Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and Chorus. It comes harnessed to Francis Poulenc's equally fascinating but very different approach to the same text. I'll be heading on to that one next.
And finally, the English composer Herbert Howells composed another large-scale Stabat Mater as a concert work in the 1960s -- the last major work he completed. Like many of Howells' major works, it takes as its point of departure the death of his son Michael at the age of 9 in 1935. The music is very typical of him -- that is to say, quite unlike anything else you've ever heard. Howells really deserves to have a post to himself, so here I will just say that his approach to harmony is distinctly his alone, and his handling of the orchestra and singers is also unique. It's pleasing to the ear, not aggressive modernism, and yet could have been written in no earlier time. The world premiere recording on Chandos was conducted, unexpectedly, by a Russian conductor (Gennadi Rozhdestvensky) but that fact serves to highlight that Howells is not a composer only for English listeners -- his music transcends merely national lines, as all the best music does.
Thursday 5 April 2012
Holy Week Part 2
Okay, this started out as a 3-part series but now it's starting to feel more like six parts! Today, the first four of a group of no less than seven choral works all based on the same relevant text.
In the 1300s we find the first documented use of the poetic sequence Stabat mater dolorosa, which meditates on the sufferings of the Virgin Mary as she stood before the cross of her son's death on the first Good Friday. Its author is not clearly known, but it is an obvious product of the glorious flowering of Marian devotion which characterized Western European Christianity in the Gothic age.
Centuries later (1727), the poem was formally adopted into the liturgy of the Roman Catholic Church, but it was informally and widely used and known long before that. The intense emotion and drama inspired by the scene -- and graphically described in the poem -- have long inspired composers.
Today I want to describe first three settings of Stabat mater dolorosa from the Baroque era. Conveniently, all three are grouped together in a 2-CD Double Decca reissue package.
The first is a renowned setting for soprano and alto by Pergolesi. What's unusual is that this is one of the very few works attributed to Pergolesi which he actually wrote! Obviously, his fame and his early death (age 26) conspired to lure many other composers to make money by composing music and publicizing it under his name! It's a richly dramatic work, popular with opera singers, but what I love about the St. John's College performance recorded here is the tasteful deployment of the soprano boys and male altos of the college choir in selected movements and passages. The musical value of the work is, I feel, heightened by the contrast between choir (in, for instance, the solemn and stately processional of the first movement) and the brilliant solo singing of Felicity Palmer and Alfreda Hodgson in the more florid arias and duets.
My personal favourite of the collection is the succeeding Stabat Mater by Domenico Scarlatti. The contrast is immense. Reaching back to the 16th century for his models, Scarlatti's setting is calm, pensive, even meditative -- a tone which truly suits the language of the poem. But then, at the end, the final "Amen" is a riotous fugal chorus in a dancing 6/8 tempo. Again, a huge contrast -- but since the final stanza envisages the soul granted entry to Paradise by the Virgin the rousing finale is entirely appropriate. It's also one of the most utterly memorable choral compositions of the Baroque era -- once you hear it, the bouncing fugue subject and the exhilarating final rushing scales are impossible to erase from your mind!
The third setting is by Antonio Bononcini. This is actually the earliest of the three to be composed, and was in fact written while the text was still barred from the liturgy since Bononcini died in 1726. It was written in Vienna where he lived for much of his life, and both the style and the instrumentation point clearly to northern Europe rather than to Italy. It's not as memorable as either of the other settings, but still beautiful music.
The collection is rounded out by a couple of motets by Alessandro Scarlatti, a resplendent and energetic Magnificat attributed to Pergolesi (probably wrongly), and a setting of the Crucifixus from the Mass by Antonio Lotti which is so gravely beautiful that it fully bears comparison with the more famous setting composed by J. S. Bach in his Mass in B Minor. All in all, as rewarding a collection of Baroque choral rarities as you could want to have in your collection.
Finally, as a pendant to this set, you should seek out a recording of Haydn's Stabat Mater to enjoy. Like all of Haydn, this lengthy cantata teems with memorable melodies. Nothing revolutionary here, but still a lovely addition to the choral repertoire. Anyone who has enjoyed either Haydn's Masses or his oratorios should certainly investigate this. Alas, I have no particular recording to recommend (my bad).
In the 1300s we find the first documented use of the poetic sequence Stabat mater dolorosa, which meditates on the sufferings of the Virgin Mary as she stood before the cross of her son's death on the first Good Friday. Its author is not clearly known, but it is an obvious product of the glorious flowering of Marian devotion which characterized Western European Christianity in the Gothic age.
Centuries later (1727), the poem was formally adopted into the liturgy of the Roman Catholic Church, but it was informally and widely used and known long before that. The intense emotion and drama inspired by the scene -- and graphically described in the poem -- have long inspired composers.
Today I want to describe first three settings of Stabat mater dolorosa from the Baroque era. Conveniently, all three are grouped together in a 2-CD Double Decca reissue package.
The first is a renowned setting for soprano and alto by Pergolesi. What's unusual is that this is one of the very few works attributed to Pergolesi which he actually wrote! Obviously, his fame and his early death (age 26) conspired to lure many other composers to make money by composing music and publicizing it under his name! It's a richly dramatic work, popular with opera singers, but what I love about the St. John's College performance recorded here is the tasteful deployment of the soprano boys and male altos of the college choir in selected movements and passages. The musical value of the work is, I feel, heightened by the contrast between choir (in, for instance, the solemn and stately processional of the first movement) and the brilliant solo singing of Felicity Palmer and Alfreda Hodgson in the more florid arias and duets.
My personal favourite of the collection is the succeeding Stabat Mater by Domenico Scarlatti. The contrast is immense. Reaching back to the 16th century for his models, Scarlatti's setting is calm, pensive, even meditative -- a tone which truly suits the language of the poem. But then, at the end, the final "Amen" is a riotous fugal chorus in a dancing 6/8 tempo. Again, a huge contrast -- but since the final stanza envisages the soul granted entry to Paradise by the Virgin the rousing finale is entirely appropriate. It's also one of the most utterly memorable choral compositions of the Baroque era -- once you hear it, the bouncing fugue subject and the exhilarating final rushing scales are impossible to erase from your mind!
The third setting is by Antonio Bononcini. This is actually the earliest of the three to be composed, and was in fact written while the text was still barred from the liturgy since Bononcini died in 1726. It was written in Vienna where he lived for much of his life, and both the style and the instrumentation point clearly to northern Europe rather than to Italy. It's not as memorable as either of the other settings, but still beautiful music.
The collection is rounded out by a couple of motets by Alessandro Scarlatti, a resplendent and energetic Magnificat attributed to Pergolesi (probably wrongly), and a setting of the Crucifixus from the Mass by Antonio Lotti which is so gravely beautiful that it fully bears comparison with the more famous setting composed by J. S. Bach in his Mass in B Minor. All in all, as rewarding a collection of Baroque choral rarities as you could want to have in your collection.
Finally, as a pendant to this set, you should seek out a recording of Haydn's Stabat Mater to enjoy. Like all of Haydn, this lengthy cantata teems with memorable melodies. Nothing revolutionary here, but still a lovely addition to the choral repertoire. Anyone who has enjoyed either Haydn's Masses or his oratorios should certainly investigate this. Alas, I have no particular recording to recommend (my bad).
Tuesday 3 April 2012
Holy Week Part 1
For centuries European composers have saved some of the best of the best of their output for musical works (usually choral) inspired by the events of the week from Palm Sunday through Maundy Thursday and Good Friday to Easter Sunday. This is the first of several blog posts devoted to the rarer music surrounding these events.
The German tradition of musical settings of the Passion story reached its apex with the dramatic St. John Passion and the monumental St. Matthew Passion of Johann Sebastian Bach. But the tradition did not end there by any means. In the early 1800s, another German composer contributed to the field with an oratorio which has been often forgotten and certainly rarely heard. Beethoven's Christus am Ölberge ("Christ on the Mount of Olives") is a dramatic, almost operatic concert work lasting about an hour. It has solo parts for three singers: Jesus (tenor, a switch from the older tradition of a baritone voice), Peter (bass), and a Seraph (coloratura soprano). Also required is a chorus and normal classical orchestra.
Some people find the text rather lame. Beethoven himself seemed not to be overfond of it, but the music he produced is memorable indeed, and certainly deserves to be performed more often. All three soloists have great arias, and they join together in a marvellous contrapuntal trio near the end. The chorus must depict first the timidity of the disciples. Then, at the midpoint, they suddenly switch to the diametric opposite position, becoming the soldiers sent to seize Jesus. In one memorable number the singers switch from soldiers to disciples and back again on the turn of a beat, several times. Finally, at the end, the chorus raises a heartfelt hymn of praise to Almighty God for his redemption of humanity, and this number alone of the whole oratorio has received wider circulation.
I once had an EMI LP recording made in Bonn in 1970 to honour the Beethoven Year, and the highlight of this was the singing of Nicolai Gedda as Jesus. I now have a DG recording under Bernhard Klee dating from 1973, which was included in a 5-CD set of the complete choral works of Beethoven. Time to get it out again!
In the early 1900s, Edward Elgar in England fell under the spell of Wagner and set himself to write a trilogy of oratorios that would do for the English oratorio tradition what Wagner's Ring Cycle did for German opera. Fortunately, Elgar was too consummate a musician to allow Wagner to completely swamp him, but the results certainly did adopt some Wagnerian style features.
Of the two oratorios he completed, The Kingdom has been the more performed, but The Apostles is (for me) the greater work. Scarcity of performance is readily explained when you realize that this oratorio requires no less than six first-rate soloists -- plus large choir, children's choir, and orchestra. Indeed, the singers Elgar chose for the premiere included several noteworthy European opera singers rather than English performers -- he needed to have that kind of dramatic flair in the interpretation of his music.
There are so many marvellous moments in this score that I can hardly describe them all. But the most striking feature of the music is the constant sense of place as an element of the composition. The scene changes constantly, from a desert mountaintop to the roof of the Temple, from the Tower of Magdala to the storm-tossed Sea of Galilee, and finally from the Mount of the Ascension to the clouds of heaven. While every change is indicated in the score and text, the music faithfully illustrates every place as surely as it indicates the moods and needs of the characters.
Elgar used an authentic Jewish shofar to introduce the equally authentic psalm chant in Part 1 as the dawn chant of the priests, and this leads in turn to what I think is the most resplendent depiction of a sunrise ever given in orchestral music. The storm on the sea is depicted vividly in the orchestra as Mary Magdalene describes it, her words closely interwoven with the speeches of the disciples. In Part 2, at the emotional heart of the piece, we come to the marvellous aria of despair for Judas (bass), a masterpiece of collated text and intense music which ends with the quiet muttering of the singers in the Temple as Judas' body sways at the end of the rope.
The Crucifixion and Resurrection are both touched in lightly, almost as in an impressionistic pencil sketch. Of Golgotha there is no narration, no description, only the Virgin Mary singing mournfully as St. John tries to comfort her. The Easter sunrise scene begins with a reminiscence of the sunrise hymn from Part 1 and then continues with a female chorus chanting distantly to depict the angelic voices -- voices which fade away most realistically as the scene ends.
The final scene moves at the moment of Christ's Ascension into a steady march rhythm which dominates the music through a long crescendo lasting for several minutes. An almost silent pause brings a beautiful litany of women's voices lightly accompanied, and then the march builds up again until it bursts forth at the final climax of the work with a throbbing triplet accompaniment that raises the emotional temperature several additional degrees. The work ends with a long radiant diminuendo down to a final chord that swells up and dies away, much like the concluding chords of Götterdämmerung or Parsifal. In some ways that is the most Wagnerian moment of the whole piece.
There are two fine recordings that I know of. In 1970 Sir Adrian Boult gave The Apostles its first complete recording for EMI. In 1996 Richard Hickox laid down his version for Chandos. Either one will serve very well. I'd give Boult a slight edge for his soloists and his apparent love of the score, but Hickox has the advantage of rich digital sound in the typical Chandos manner and this too is important. Take your pick, but do give The Apostles your time. I think you will come to love it as much as I do.
The German tradition of musical settings of the Passion story reached its apex with the dramatic St. John Passion and the monumental St. Matthew Passion of Johann Sebastian Bach. But the tradition did not end there by any means. In the early 1800s, another German composer contributed to the field with an oratorio which has been often forgotten and certainly rarely heard. Beethoven's Christus am Ölberge ("Christ on the Mount of Olives") is a dramatic, almost operatic concert work lasting about an hour. It has solo parts for three singers: Jesus (tenor, a switch from the older tradition of a baritone voice), Peter (bass), and a Seraph (coloratura soprano). Also required is a chorus and normal classical orchestra.
Some people find the text rather lame. Beethoven himself seemed not to be overfond of it, but the music he produced is memorable indeed, and certainly deserves to be performed more often. All three soloists have great arias, and they join together in a marvellous contrapuntal trio near the end. The chorus must depict first the timidity of the disciples. Then, at the midpoint, they suddenly switch to the diametric opposite position, becoming the soldiers sent to seize Jesus. In one memorable number the singers switch from soldiers to disciples and back again on the turn of a beat, several times. Finally, at the end, the chorus raises a heartfelt hymn of praise to Almighty God for his redemption of humanity, and this number alone of the whole oratorio has received wider circulation.
I once had an EMI LP recording made in Bonn in 1970 to honour the Beethoven Year, and the highlight of this was the singing of Nicolai Gedda as Jesus. I now have a DG recording under Bernhard Klee dating from 1973, which was included in a 5-CD set of the complete choral works of Beethoven. Time to get it out again!
In the early 1900s, Edward Elgar in England fell under the spell of Wagner and set himself to write a trilogy of oratorios that would do for the English oratorio tradition what Wagner's Ring Cycle did for German opera. Fortunately, Elgar was too consummate a musician to allow Wagner to completely swamp him, but the results certainly did adopt some Wagnerian style features.
Of the two oratorios he completed, The Kingdom has been the more performed, but The Apostles is (for me) the greater work. Scarcity of performance is readily explained when you realize that this oratorio requires no less than six first-rate soloists -- plus large choir, children's choir, and orchestra. Indeed, the singers Elgar chose for the premiere included several noteworthy European opera singers rather than English performers -- he needed to have that kind of dramatic flair in the interpretation of his music.
There are so many marvellous moments in this score that I can hardly describe them all. But the most striking feature of the music is the constant sense of place as an element of the composition. The scene changes constantly, from a desert mountaintop to the roof of the Temple, from the Tower of Magdala to the storm-tossed Sea of Galilee, and finally from the Mount of the Ascension to the clouds of heaven. While every change is indicated in the score and text, the music faithfully illustrates every place as surely as it indicates the moods and needs of the characters.
Elgar used an authentic Jewish shofar to introduce the equally authentic psalm chant in Part 1 as the dawn chant of the priests, and this leads in turn to what I think is the most resplendent depiction of a sunrise ever given in orchestral music. The storm on the sea is depicted vividly in the orchestra as Mary Magdalene describes it, her words closely interwoven with the speeches of the disciples. In Part 2, at the emotional heart of the piece, we come to the marvellous aria of despair for Judas (bass), a masterpiece of collated text and intense music which ends with the quiet muttering of the singers in the Temple as Judas' body sways at the end of the rope.
The Crucifixion and Resurrection are both touched in lightly, almost as in an impressionistic pencil sketch. Of Golgotha there is no narration, no description, only the Virgin Mary singing mournfully as St. John tries to comfort her. The Easter sunrise scene begins with a reminiscence of the sunrise hymn from Part 1 and then continues with a female chorus chanting distantly to depict the angelic voices -- voices which fade away most realistically as the scene ends.
The final scene moves at the moment of Christ's Ascension into a steady march rhythm which dominates the music through a long crescendo lasting for several minutes. An almost silent pause brings a beautiful litany of women's voices lightly accompanied, and then the march builds up again until it bursts forth at the final climax of the work with a throbbing triplet accompaniment that raises the emotional temperature several additional degrees. The work ends with a long radiant diminuendo down to a final chord that swells up and dies away, much like the concluding chords of Götterdämmerung or Parsifal. In some ways that is the most Wagnerian moment of the whole piece.
There are two fine recordings that I know of. In 1970 Sir Adrian Boult gave The Apostles its first complete recording for EMI. In 1996 Richard Hickox laid down his version for Chandos. Either one will serve very well. I'd give Boult a slight edge for his soloists and his apparent love of the score, but Hickox has the advantage of rich digital sound in the typical Chandos manner and this too is important. Take your pick, but do give The Apostles your time. I think you will come to love it as much as I do.
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