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Program notes - "There Let the Pealing Organ..." |
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A Note from the Artistic Director
But let my due feet never fail There let the pealing organ blow, John Milton (1608-1674), from Il Penseroso, 155-166 As seen in the strains by Milton above, the pipe organ is inextricably linked with the Christian church. It has been both blessed and cursed by this close association. Being by far the most expensive instrument to build and maintain, it is perhaps a blessing that there is a large and fairly wealthy institution to fund its continued use and prevalence in our society (although this is being seriously challenged by the wholesale abandonment of “traditional” music in churches in favor of pop culture, as well as the advent of electronic and digital instruments that imitate but do not wholly succeed in equaling the true sound of a pipe organ in good voice). But the organ’s close association with the church has also been a curse, in that the sound of the organ is now very nearly equated with religion. Mozart’s pronouncement that the organ was the “King of instruments” cannot be evaluated in an untainted light, because so many people are mentally transported into a pew at the first sound of an organ, and their opinion of the instrument is inextricably entwined with their opinion of religion, their personal experience of church, or their views of the most proper music for liturgical use. This close association also means that, while there exists a small repertoire of music for solo organ or organ and other instruments that is not religious in nature, there is virtually none for organ and choir. So this concert will unavoidably perpetuate this link between the organ and the church, containing almost a dozen works, all of which have a religious text. Yet while my words may so far ring of a disclaimer, I must admit that I couldn’t agree more with Milton in his description of a “pealing organ” sounding with “full-voiced choir” as capable of “dissolv[ing] me into ecstasies,” and “bring[ing] all heaven before my eyes.” That my passion for choral and organ music should have taken 12 seasons to produce a concert devoted entirely to it may surprise many, as indeed it does myself. But I hope to make up for lost time with this concert by way of the programming, wherein I have attempted to present a varied and diverse grouping, from high-flying sonic fireworks to calm and elegant intimacies. This concert brings St. Martin’s 12th Season to a close. My heartfelt thanks for your continued support and loyal concert attendance; and I wish you all a very relaxing summer before meeting again in our next season! Timothy J. Krueger Hail, universal Lord, George Dyson (1883-1964) Like the quotation used for the title of this concert, the text of this anthem is by John Milton, the great 17th century English poet. As demonstrated both by the strains quoted above, as well as this anthem, Milton had a penchant for music, and this may in part be due to the fact that his father (John Milton Sr.) was a composer. Witness these lines: “Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light/Angels, for ye behold him, and with songs/And choral symphonies, day without night,/Circle his throne, rejoicing...” I personally marvel at his use of the words “choral symphonies,” as this sort of thing had not even been conceived of in the 17th century. Haydn, often considered the “father of the symphony,” would not be born for another 60-70 years when Milton penned these lines; and Beethoven, the first person to conceive of the “choral symphony,” would not actually compose it (his 9th) for another 150 years! This anthem shares something with the final work of the program, Britten’s “Rejoice in the Lamb,” in that they were both commissioned by the Rev’d Walter Hussey (1909-1985) for the choir of St. Matthew’s Church, Northampton. Much has been written about this amazing man and the art (music, poetry, sculpture, stained glass, liturgical vestments, etc.) that he personally commissioned and inspired as Vicar of St. Matthew’s, and later as Dean of Chichester Cathedral, including not only the two works mentioned above, but also Finzi’s “Lo, the Full Final Sacrifice,” and Leonard Bernstein’s “Chichester Psalms,” among many others. He also notably commissioned works of poetry from W. H. Auden, stained glass windows from Marc Chagall, and was described by Kenneth Clark as “the last great patron of art in the Church of England.” Remember for Good, O Father, Francis Jackson (b. 1917)Francis Jackson, organist choirmaster at York Minster from 1946 to 1982, wrote this anthem on the 15th anniversary of the Battle of Britain, in 1955. It is a slow and contemplative anthem, many parts reminiscent of a funeral dirge (especially at the final reappearance of the words, near the end, “Remember for good, O Father, those whose names we commemorate before thee”). The altos, tenors, and basses begin the work alone (in a cathedral choir, these would constitute the men’s parts, a nod to the men who served and gave their lives in the Royal Air Force), and the sopranos (the boys) join at “They went through the air and space...,” an effective use of word painting, the first use of this higher register to illustrate the text. God is gone up, Gerald Finzi (1901-1956) Finzi pairs the words of Edward Taylor (which themselves allude strongly to Psalms 47 and 24, long associated with the Christian feast of Ascension) with fiery music, the organ part characterized by fanfares played prominently on reed stops (trumpets, tubas, trombones, oboes, etc.). Everything tends upwards in this piece, from the opening motive, the sweeps of 16th notes in the organ at certain moments, to the key relationships and modulations. As is often the case with the works in this concert, the text itself refers to musical things – here, as in “Hail, universal Lord,” to the music of angels (“heaven’s courtiers,” in this case), singing “Heart-cramping notes of Melody,” “Mixing their Music, making every string/More to enravish as they this tune sing.” I think the alliteration on the consonant ‘m’ in this section pays homage to that consonant most associated with music, not only because it is the first letter of ‘music,’ but because it is the sound of humming. Geistliches Lied, Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) Faithful St. Martin’s concert-goers (who read all my program notes) are certainly aware of my personal veneration for Brahms, so I needn’t go on much about that on this occasion. Let me merely point out the Amen of this work, which is one of the most “heart-cramping” (to allude to the text of the previous work) moments in all of choral music. My thanks to Heather Kohl, our first Mark Sheldon conducting intern, for her work with St. Martin’s this last season. Evening Hymn, H. Balfour Gardiner (1877-1950) Perhaps it is perverse of me placing my two favorite Amens in all of sacred music adjacent to each other. But that’s one of the fringe benefits of being the director of St. Martin’s! Where the Brahms is meltingly beautiful in a gentle, Komm, süßer Tod kind of way, the Gardiner is an exultant Amen of sweeping lines and arching dynamics, more likely to bring goose-pimples and a quasi-ecstatic (dare I say orgasmic?) sensation than the gentle sorrow and enravishing melancholy of the Brahms. When the whole heart of man, Alec Rowley (1892-1958) This is the second performance by St. Martin’s of this work, the first performance of which was almost certainly the American concert premiere of this piece, and conceivably even the world premiere! Here’s the story: About five years ago, the librarian of the Westminster Abbey choir, Rodney Williams, happened upon a single dusty copy of a manuscript stuffed between two boxes on the shelves. It was a handwritten copy of a treble anthem by the well-known British composer Alec Rowley, dated September, 1918 (the last month of World War I), when Rowley would have yet been young and relatively unknown. It was inscribed “To the Choristers,” presumably referring to the boys of the Abbey. The copy had a library number stamped on it, suggesting that there had once been multiple copies of the work and a permanent place on the shelves. This single copy, however, was all that remained, and the library number had been reassigned to some other anthem. Rodney consulted the Abbey music lists, to see if the work had ever been performed, but could find no mention of it. It is not published, nor, to our knowledge, included in the list of his complete works. Rodney sent me a xerox of the manuscript, and I performed it first with my church choir at St. Andrew’s, and shortly thereafter in concert with St. Martin’s. We are rather confident that these two performances represent, as stated above, the American premieres; but it is also conceivable that they were the world premieres! Perhaps it is only musicologists like me who get excited by such things, but it makes me feel like I have a sense of ownership in this piece, and, albeit quite small, a place in music history. Te Deum from the Collegium Regale service, Herbert Howells (1892-1983) “Collegium Regale” refers to King’s College, Cambridge, for which choir this full setting of the canticles for Morning Prayer, Communion, and Evensong were written in 1950. The Te Deum is the first of this long set, being the opening canticle for Morning Prayer; but the Te Deum is also thought of as one of the greatest hymns of praise and celebration in the Christian church. It is frequently associated with great national celebrations, as the Te Deum has normally been sung in churches upon the news of great military victories, of the ending of a war, or the beginning of the reign of a new monarch. There are hence two different kinds of Te Deums written – those for big celebrations, which tend to be multi-movement works of great duration and calling for large forces; and those for routine liturgical celebrations, where economy is called for. This particular setting, to my mind, is the greatest of the latter category, being one of the most spine-tinglingly exciting Te Deums that can be sung in under 10 minutes. According to Anglican practice, it is in English, and Howells unifies the long and seemingly rambling text by the use of a simple motive, first heard by the voices singing in unison at the very beginning of the piece. He brings this motive back at the beginning of every major section of the text; and the last time you hear it is in the pedals of the organ while the choir is holding the final chord of the piece (I’ve asked Richard to use the absolutely loudest registration of the whole evening at this point, especially in the pedal, where you will hear all possible pedal reeds thundering)! If the final minute of this work does not “dissolve [you] into ecstasies, bringing all heaven before [your] eyes,” in the titular words of Milton, then I’m not sure it’s possible!
I was glad, C. Hubert H. Parry (1848-1918) The text for Psalm 122 has always been sung at the entrance of the monarch into Westminster Abbey at his or her coronation. For over a hundred years, the setting employed was one by Henry Purcell (1659-1695), organist of Westminster Abbey, originally written for the coronation of King James II in 1685. This was used at every coronation from James II to Victoria (1837); but for the coronation of Edward VII (Victoria’s son and successor) in 1902, a new setting was called for, and Parry did not fail to satisfy with this opulent, celebratory setting, which has been used ever since. The anthem needs to be of some length, as it greets the monarch’s entrance from the narthex into the nave of the Abbey, and it must accompany his or her procession through the nave, into the choir, and to the east end where he or she will be seated. Mid-way through the anthem, as the monarch enters the choir, a curious thing happens, and it is reflected in the anthem. In 1685, James II gave the scholars of the Westminster School the right to greet him as he entered the choir with shouted acclamations, in Latin, of “Long live King James!” This privilege has continued ever since. Rather than having the scholars shout their acclamation over the anthem, Parry decided to incorporate the moment into the anthem. This portion is naturally omitted when singing the anthem for liturgical use; but I have chosen to incorporate it here, as it is a concert. And I promised the singers of St. Martin’s that I would explain this in the program notes: I have asked them to intentionally pronounce this portion in the peculiar way that the English pronounce Latin (i.e., Vivat is “vy-văt" instead of "vee-vaht".)" As these acclamations have no conceivable use outside of the coronation of a British monarch, it didn’t make sense to me to have the choir pronounce it in “classic” Latin. So, in case any of you would be apt to think that St. Martin’s mispronounces Latin, I have done my duty by the choir members, and preserved their reputation! Prelude et Fugue sur le nom ALAIN, Maurice Duruflé (1902-1986) Duruflé was a man of few works – his complete works run to but 26 opus numbers – but each was a masterpiece in its genre. He studied with the French organ masters of his time – Tournemire, Gigout, and Dukas – and himself later filled his place in this legacy by becoming an instructor at the Paris Conservetoire. His untimely death in 1986 from injuries sustained in an automobile accident caused outpourings of grief from across the organ world. God’s own descent, John White (b. 1931) As so much of St. Martin’s raison d’etre surrounds its premiering of new works, it is only fitting that this concert, too, have its world premiere. “God’s own descent” is the middle movement of a three-movement “sonata” by John White for chorus and organ, each movement carrying its own dedication. The text is poet Robert Frost’s musings on the idea of the Incarnation – the blending of spirit and flesh – and John’s setting is fittingly numinous. One of my favorite moments is the brief phrase “Spirit enters flesh,” where the delicately interwoven rhythms portray the mystical sewing together of our physical bodies with our souls. This same musical device is used at the end of the work with the words “…of the soul’s ethereal into the material.” Rejoice in the Lamb, Benjamin Britten (1913-1976)The Rev’d Walter Hussey, who as Vicar of St. Matthew’s, Northampton, commissioned Britten to write “Rejoice in the Lamb,” described the author of the text, 18th century poet Christopher Smart, as “deeply religious, but of a strange and unbalanced mind. ‘Rejoice in the Lamb’ was written while Smart was in an asylum, and is chaotic in form but contains many flashes of genius.” And Britten captures many of these flashes in equally inventive music. It makes use of the organ in a very colorful and, in many ways, unconventional fashion (an echo of Smart’s unconventional use of language?). Its complexity derives chiefly from its rhythms – the second section (“Let Nimrod”) contains changes of meter in almost every bar – 7/8, 6/8, 9/8, 5/8, 4/8, for instance, most of them assymetric – and even the slow third section (which is identical to the final section of the piece – “Hallelujah from the heart of God”), although it seems gentle and flowing, is largely constructed on quintuplets. The alto solo, “For the mouse is a creature,” presents rhythmic challenges to both organist and soloist, especially when considering it is in D flat major. And, following on the theme I pointed out early in the concert, regarding texts that themselves have something to do with music, I was drawn by the words of the final section in this regard, “Hallelujah...from the hand of the artist inimitable/and from the echo of the heavenly harp/in sweetness magnifical and mighty.” If we imagine the singers as the “inimitable artists,” and the organ as the “echo of the heavenly harp,” we have come full circle in assisting Milton in painting his sonic picture: There let the pealing organ blow, © 2006 Timothy J. Krueger |