The Second Time Around

The Second Time Around—I remember that phrase as a song title from the 1960’s—“Love is lovelier the second time around…” Frank Sinatra and other singers of that era recorded it, and it seemed to be on the radio constantly—at least, on the stations my parents listened to. It has become an occasional ear worm as Chorale rehearses Shchedrin’s The Sealed Angel, not because it sounds like Shchedrin’s music, but because of the pleasure I find in returning to Shchedrin’s work, which we studied so intensely, as a previously unknown composition, back in 2012. In general, my feeling about repeating a work is, if it isn’t worth repeating, it wasn’t worth doing in the first place. If I don’t grow, and feel differently the second time around, either I am becoming stale, or the piece is akin to the shallow soil in the parable of the sower—the seeds come up quickly, but can’t withstand the heat or the drought. The Sealed Angel is good soil. Back then, it was really daunting for me to make sense of it—to find structure, guideposts, and to find the best way to conduct it. The score is bewildering—as I wrote last week, Shchedrin cares little for regularity or consistency; he writes down what he likes, and then may write something different in what one would expect to be a parallel place, the next time around, because he feels differently, and wants something else instead. I struggled to “get inside his head,” to feel and understand the motivation behind the changes and the nuances which constantly tripped me up when I first approached the work, to discover the overall sweep and direction of the piece. I find now, six years later, that I have internalized what I learned back then, and am far more comfortable with the work, and with Shchedrin’s idiom. My score—the same one I used then—is full of markings, of rhythmic groupings, of “eyeglasses” and other warning signs; and most of these are still “right”: I feel now as I felt then, and can make use of many of the decisions I made then. Some groupings and phrases change, and my understanding of dynamics has been somewhat refined, as I work with a different group of singers (one size really does not fit all)—but mostly I feel right at home. I am comfortable enough to feel less constrained by some of what he has written—his instructions are vague, even contradictory, and I agonized over this six years ago, fearful of doing the work injustice. I feel less constrained now. Numerous recordings which have come out since testify to the need for each conductor, each ensemble, to take its own stance relative to what Shchedrin calls “ 50 percent stupidity”—to find, and go with, what works. Steeped as I am in the tradition of J.S. Bach, I found it very difficult to just take off and do as I felt (exactly as Shchedrin himself does)—but I feel bolder, now.

Chorale has sung a lot of Old Church Slavonic since 2012—major works by Rachmaninoff and Steinberg, plus a number of smaller pieces by Chesnokov, Grechaninov, and Golovanov. Our singers are more familiar and comfortable with the sounds of the language than they were in 2012; and though the transliteration system used in the Shchedrin score is far different than that used by the editors of those other works, we recognize the equivalents, and learn quickly. Our language coach, Drew Boshardy, has become adept at working with us, at anticipating our difficulties and focusing on them, which is also a big help. And the singers are more familiar with the overall vocal approach required by the music-- so different from the lighter sound required by much of what we sing.

This relative comfort—on my part, on the choir’s part—allows, even invites, more freedom, and more enjoyment, in preparing the music. Time seems to fly by, in our rehearsals. We hope you’ll come to hear us, whether you heard us the first time around or not—find out for yourselves that this music is lovelier the second time around.

Guest Post: Chasing the Unicorn

By Managing Director (and soprano) Megan Balderston

Sometimes it is really easy to go into default mode, and default mode is a danger zone for singers. We had an exasperating rehearsal a couple of weeks ago because of it.

Some rehearsals are tough but satisfying; you work efficiently, people are focused and on the same page, and you leave feeling that you accomplished something. Then there is the unicorn rehearsal: that one that seems like a fantasy but does in fact occasionally happen—when everything inexplicably goes right and you leave on a high of fellowship, musicianship, and fun. Not two weeks ago. We went over and over things we ought to have known; I’m sure we didn’t get to everything; none of the voice parts were completely on. Boy, did it show. And our pronunciation—the vowels for which we hope we are known—were not there yet. The music by our June composers is individually compelling; together it will make a gorgeous concert. In our “e-blasts” and blog posts we talk a lot about what makes for good singing, most particularly language. I’ll get back to that later.

Learning music involves a lot of kinesthetic detail. It takes diligence, and precision, and intellectual curiosity. There may be people who don’t think about it that way—but I’m not one of them, and I share the stage with 60 people who feel the same way I do. There is, of course, learning the notes. Notes are important, certainly…and wrong ones are sort of beside the point. But we also have to feel an internal rhythm—the bones, so to speak. I had a college professor who used to have us march or dance along to music, just so that we would internalize all of the inner subdivisions of rhythm in each note. Bruce has his own tricks to make this happen. But the final thing upon which transcendent performances hinge, is communicating through our language. We can’t rely on the first two to make a complete choral work.

Almost our entire group comes to the party with a flat, Midwestern speaking voice. It’s not particularly attractive, but it’s the dreaded default mode for most of us. Maybe you remember the Saturday Night Live “Da Bears” skit? Now imagine those actors singing the Schubert Ave Maria in character and you have an exaggeration of the default we struggle against every day. To make ourselves understood in speaking, we exaggerate certain consonants and vowels. The letters R and A are good examples of this. But sing them in an exaggerated way and you sound like Gomer Pyle, or those fictional Bears fans.

One of my favorite voice teachers once said to me, “Come ON! Singing…is just talking. But stupid talking.” If we talked our vowels the way we should be singing them, we would sound at best Grey Gardens pretentious, and at worst stupid. It’s hard to compete against what you do naturally 12 hours a day, for the 3 hours we come together each week.

So here we all are, learning our 15th anniversary program. A program that will show our long-time followers and friends just how far we have come. A program in which we sing English, like British choir boys; we sing Latin; we sing French. We have only one person in the ensemble that grew up in the United Kingdom. The rest of us work hard to get those vowels pristine. As Bruce famously said in a rehearsal several years ago, “Deep in my heart, I know you can pronounce French. The French do it every day.”

Chicago Chorale is special because of that human need to strive for more; to create more than even we think we can. All beautiful things require some form of hard work and concentrated effort to get them that way. If we have to “stupid talk” to get our vowels to ring along with the beautiful music we are singing, so be it. We are jolting out of our daily default, and as such, we were due a giant leap forward. Thank goodness for that. Last week’s rehearsal was efficient, fun, and rewarding. Sometimes you take a step back before going two steps forward. Next stop: having a unicorn rehearsal!

Closing in on our performance

Confronted with the issues I have explored in the preceding weeks, plus a host of others, Chorale and I have made a lot of choices.

Chicago Chorale normally consists of sixty singers.  Though enormous choruses have sung the Mass in B minor, and still do, the general trend has been toward smaller forces-- on occasion, just one singer per part.  Frequently, even when larger groups sing it, a smaller group, termed concertists, will introduce many of the movements, will sing particularly difficult passages as solos, will even sing the more intimate movements entirely on their own. Sometimes, these concertists will be members of the choir; alternatively, they may be the soloists who also sing the aria and duet movements.   This trend toward ripienist/concertist texture is supported by the scholarly literature.

Chorale is by no means a symphony chorus, but we are larger than ensembles which present the most praised, modern versions of the work.  We could have chosen to bypass the work altogether, in honor of scholarship and in acknowledgment of the fact that we do not reflect cutting edge performance practice research-- but then we would be deprived of the glorious experience of learning and performing the work, and our audience would be deprived of the opportunity to hear it.  So we chose to sing it, and to devote tremendous effort toward lightening our sound and articulation, while making the most of our full sound where it is needed and welcome.

We also chose to forego the ripienist/concertist procedure—which could have been interesting and appropriate for our forces.  Such a procedure feels “professional” in the worst and most manipulative sense of the word;  and I want Chorale to experience all of the music, each note, as an amateur event—an act of love.  As Robert Shaw said—music, like sex, is too good to be left to the professionals. Again, this forces us to be more careful in our control of texture and dynamics than we would be if those issues were resolved through controlling the size of the forces.

Chorale has chosen to sing the Latin text with a German pronunciation.  Most ensembles use the more common Italianate pronunciation, and have good results; and recent research indicates that the German pronunciation Chorale uses, based on modern German, is not necessarily the pronunciation Bach used or intended. So we can’t defend our choice on a secure, scholarly basis.  But our choice does suggest the music’s German background.  And I agree with Helmuth Rilling’s point that German consonants articulate more clearly than Italian, while German vowels narrow and clarify the vocal line, even for an entire section of singers, lending greater definition to Bach’s remarkably complex counterpoint.  This is particularly necessary with a group of our size:  clarity of pitch and line is far more important, in this music, than the beautiful, Italianate production of individual voices in the ensemble, which can actually work against an accurate presentation of Bach’s musical ideas.

We chose to present the Mass at Rockefeller Chapel, on the campus of The University of Chicago, because the building’s size and grandeur reflect Bach’s music more accurately than other spaces available to us. The Hyde Park community, which surrounds the Chapel, represents, in a purer form than other Chicago neighborhoods, the combination of scholarship, idealism, and high culture which can support concerts like this.  A high percentage of Chorale’s regular audience are Hyde Park residents, and they often express appreciation for the level of Chorale’s striving and seriousness of intent.  And from a purely monetary point of view, Rockefeller Chapel seats a sufficient number of listeners that, if we sell tickets effectively, we can cover a significant proportion of our production costs (which are mind-boggling) with door receipts.

Our concert is in three weeks.  Sunday, April 3, 3 p.m.

We have rehearsed, and I have written about the experience, since the beginning of January.  The writing has focused my study, my reading, my thinking about the work; it has been a significant and helpful discipline for me.  I hope you will come to our performance; and I hope you will spread the word, and bring your friends.  I’m a believer; I am convinced that Bach’s Mass in B minor truly is “the greatest artwork of all times and all people,” and I’d like to show you why.

Kyrie eleison– Lord have mercy

A typical Bach score is black with notes. Harmonies outlined in the basso continuo rarely rest, and the pitches above them change constantly to keep up. Performers become accustomed to this-- one is always on the move, aiming for the next harmonic arrival point, then taking off again once it is reached. The overall effect is—page after page of notes, thousands of them; how does one organize them? Where does one begin in breaking them down into comprehensible groupings, in assigning emphasis, ebb and flow, in such a way that they all make sense, all get heard, all matter and contribute positively, without just canceling one another out in a cloud of sound? The first movement of the Mass in B Minor, Kyrie I, immediately plunges us into this “Bach problem.” After a 4-bar, homophonic introduction, the movement unfolds in thirteen independent musical lines, in addition to the continuo line. We singers aren’t accustomed to thinking much about instrumental lines-- we see five vocal lines, and figure our job is to make sense of those; it surprises us to learn that the instruments do more than just accompany us, and have their own, independent lines, weaving in and out of what we are doing. Fundamentally, there is no hierarchy; each line contributes equally to Bach’s structure and texture. We need to find hierarchy within our own lines—periods of higher energy, balanced with periods of relaxation; figures which require pointed, staccato or marcato emphasis, and figures with require legato; passages of a more soloistic character, and passages of background accompaniment. If we don’t find hierarchy within our own parts, relative to the rest of what is going on, we end up sound like a beehive on a warm day, lots and lots of buzzing.

A Chorale member mentioned that he had sung the B Minor with a college group, about sixteen years ago. Quoting him as nearly as I remember; “We just tried to sing the notes; we never did anything with all this articulation stuff.” I know what he is talking about: Chorale has worked through ten (out of sixteen) choral movements in the past two weeks, and even with a high percentage of singers who have previously performed the work, we struggle to find pitches and rhythms; vocal quality, articulation, phrasing, would be complete non-starters, were I not constantly stopping to point them out and work on them. It is not much help that our Bärenreiter piano-vocal scores are “clean”—they include very little that Bach himself did not notate in his own scores, and Bach did not customarily notate much in the vocal lines. The instrumental lines are fairly marked up, following Bach’s own score and parts, and many of these marks have been transferred to the piano reduction in the singers’ scores—but singers are not prone to look down to the piano line: following their own line is about all they accomplish at this point. So we transfer the markings to the vocal parts in rehearsal, and then rehearse characteristic phrase articulations, ornaments, etc.; we also listen to recorded examples, which I bring to rehearsal (we work with recordings by Gardiner, Herreweghe, and Rilling). In last week’s rehearsal we accidentally played the opening of Kyrie I excerpted from a recording by Robert Shaw—and it clearly was not what we were after; everyone in the choir immediately realized this. That in itself was a victory—we grasp the direction in which we are headed.

Taken by themselves, these articulations can seem pretty mechanical and not awfully graceful; they have to be performed with understanding and within the context of the vocal line, and this is extremely difficult-- Bach demands a great deal. I see and hear from the singers a certain satisfaction when they feel they have “got it down”—and at that point I realize how very far we have to go, to internalize these gestures and allow them to mean something, rather than just perform them mechanically. They have to flow; they have to alter in emphasis and adjust to the volume, the surrounding parts, the intensity of individual passages; and this requires far more than mechanical competence and repetition. But the mechanical accomplishment is a good first step; the rest will follow as the singers become more and more immersed in the music and it’s meaning, in the weeks to come.