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.