Program notes for this weekend's "Sealed Angel" concerts

Rodion Shchedrin (b.1932) composed his nine-movement cantata, The Sealed Angel, to commemorate the millennium of Russia’s conversion to Christianity. Despite the official atheism of the Soviet era, Shchedrin’s family had retained its religious identity--- his grandfather was an Orthodox priest, and he himself had been secretly baptized. At age twelve, he was admitted to the Moscow Academy of Choral Art, where he received a rigorous choral music education, singing sacred works both by Russian composers and by Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Schubert, but with nonreligious texts—“awful, new, especially written words by terrible poets—about the wonderful weather, the birds singing, the grass growing, praising the Motherland—just terrible!” In an interview with David Wordsworth, Shchedrin says that he had long wanted to compose a major religious work in the Russian choral tradition, exemplified in the major works of Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky, “but for the great composers of the time, Shostakovich and Prokofiev, for instance, this was impossible; such religious feelings could be punished very seriously. They had to write choral works called ‘Hymn to Stalin,’ ‘Hymn to Lenin,’ and such things. I finished my work in 1988 and wanted to call it a ‘Russian Liturgy’ but knew even then that it would not have left my desk, despite perestroika, so not even a religious title. I had no commission and no choir in mind at all.” He instead entitled the work The Sealed Angel, after a well-known story by celebrated novelist Nicolai Leskov (1831-1895). Leskov's story concerns a community of "Old Believers," a conservative sect that sought to keep sacred icons and texts free from the influence of modern reforms. The community’s greatest treasure is an icon of an angel, believed to provide healing and guidance.  Outsiders come to know of this angel, and the community is denounced to state officials, who confiscate the icon, coat it with wax, and emboss an official seal onto the angel’s face.  Ultimately, a famous painter of icons named Sebastian is able to restore the icon to its full glory and power. Though Shchedrin’s cantata borrows very little from the story’s actual content, his choice of the story’s title is far from random—the restoration of the icon in many ways reflects the restoration of Orthodox faith and practice, during the period of the Soviet order’s disintegration; and Shchedrin’s text features liturgical texts and prayers Leskow mentions in his book. One particular passage, “Angel of the Lord, may thy tears be poured forth wherever thou wilt,” heard in its entirety in both the first and last movements, and in abbreviated versions elsewhere, and set to the dominant musical theme of the work, comes directly from Leskov’s story—it is a prayer said before the icon by one of the story’s characters.

Fortunately, Shchedrin’s timing was good, and the degree to which his title hid his religious intent, sufficient. He was able to organize a performance of the work in Moscow’s Tchaikovsky Hall in 1988, the year of its completion, and the performance was well-received. Just four years later, in 1992, he and his cantata were awarded the Russian State Prize, by President Boris Yeltsin. The first American performance took place in Boston, in 1990, under the direction of Lorna Cooke de Varon.

Musically, as well as religiously, Shchedrin’s work looks backward at least as much as it looks forward-- backward toward the remarkable musical flowering in the realm of Russian Orthodox liturgical music during the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, which in turn was based upon the traditional chant of the Russian Orthodox Church. This chant, which can be traced back to the 11^thcentury, consisted only of unison voices singing sacred texts, clearly and continuously, with no accompaniment, harmonization, or musical procedures such as polyphony or canonic imitation, which might obscure audibility or meaning.   But contact with western European music and musicians in succeeding centuries weakened this practice; by mid-19^th century, Russian choirs generally sang four-part harmony, following prevailing Italian and German musical styles. Harmonized according to the western system of functional tonality, the modal system of the ancient chants lost its integrity, and the resulting music lost meaning and interest. Composers, conductors, and church officials, aware of this, worked in the waning years of the century to develop a new style of church music, which revealed and preserved the nature of the ancient sources, while adapting the best of what had come from the outside. This music reached its peak in the compositions of Rachmaninoff, Chesnokov, Grechaninov, and others, and was halted only by the Revolution of 1917, when the composition and performance of church music was banned.

The Sealed Angel clearly owes a great deal to this liturgical tradition. Though newly composed, rather than based on pre-existent chants, Shchedrin’s music sounds comforting and accessible to listeners familiar with the pre-revolutionary style-- his melodies and their modal harmonizations, the voicing of his chords, the free metrical nature of his rhythms, unabashedly hark back to the music of his models. At the same time, he adds much that is outside the strict liturgical tradition: broadly expressive accelerandos and allargandos, extensive atonal passages, and unpitched screams, along with foot-stomping and hand-clapping. More importantly, he uses a solo instrument (forbidden in traditional liturgical music) both as accompaniment, and as a character in the drama—perhaps voicing the spirit of the angel, or the spirit of God. Shchedrin says of this instrument, in his interview with Wordsworth, that he had wished to use a Russian folk instrument, “a sort of Russian pipe, maybe like your recorder,” which would evoke the Russian folk tradition, “the music of the countryside, the Russian peasants I heard around me as a boy.” He concluded that the instrument he had in mind “would create pitch problems for the choir and is not able to play fast music, a very primitive but beautiful instrument, but many technical limitations. So I decided to use perhaps the nearest Western equivalent, the oboe, but this can also be a flute.”

Shchedrin accomplishes his purposeful combination of traditional elements with modern sounds, techniques, and procedures, so smoothly, and so unselfconsciously, that the listener is not jarred or confused by the result-- the music sounds very much of a piece, and unified in its impact. One senses that its stature will only grow over the coming years, as more choirs and audiences learn of it and experience it.

Better all the time

A few weeks ago, one of my private voice students (who also sings in Chorale) spoke at some length with me, about his reasons for returning to private study. He is established in his life’s work, and does not seek to sing professionally; but he has sung pretty well for a long time, is appreciated and in demand as a choral singer. As he ages, he has come to realize that his technique is flawed, that he is doing some things, habitually, that lead him in the wrong direction, and that these problems will become more pronounced with passing time. He will not be a good singer for as long as he’d like, and this worries him—not just as a matter of personal accomplishment, but because he realizes he is not doing the repertoire justice, not fulfilling the composers’ demands. Through the course of our discussion, it became clear that this thoughtful singer understands that he is in partnership with the composer--- that the composer needs his good singing, as much as he needs the composer’s good music. Without performers, a composer’s work is lines and dots on a page. He realizes that the more profound and compelling that music is, the more it demands of the singer. The relationship stimulates both partners—both are challenged to rise to the level of the other.

Over the course of this discussion, I was reminded of my own path to being a performer. When I graduated from college I was directionless, with no vocational plans; I drifted into singing because it was something I knew how to do, something that could pay some bills and provide me with a social outlet. I had the good fortune to run into conductors, teachers, mentors, who were committed to great repertoire, and were happy to work with me and point me in the direction they knew best—toward honest performance of worthy music. Beginning with Howard Mayer Brown, at the University of Chicago, I began to think about, and feel, that the beauty of the music itself, and the genius of the composers who had brought it life, were reason enough to want to sing-- and that doing a good job with their music was sufficient stimulation for me to want to be a better singer. Through Howard I made contact with the Baroque Performance Institute at Oberlin Conservatory, where I came under the influence of August Wenzinger and Max Van Egmond; at the same time, I began to pursue study with Gérard Souzay and Dalton Baldwin, focusing on art song of the 19^th and 20^th centuries. A few years later, I began to participate in choral programs under Robert Shaw and Helmuth Rilling. In each of these cases, I was stimulated by the teacher/mentor’s commitment to faithful performances of great repertoire; I grew more than I ever could have, had I focused purely on vocal production or choral conducting technique. Repertoire brought me to life.

Last summer, as a part of Chorale’s current strategic plan, our members were polled about what aspects of the Chorale mattered most to them. Overwhelmingly, they mentioned repertoire-- the quality of the repertoire Chorale programs, and the growth they experience through learning to sing this repertoire. The Chorale experience is a big challenge for the singers, as well as for the conductor: we take on some pretty knotty stuff, and work very hard to turn it into presentable performances. What we do is not for everybody, or for every singer. But at our best, we build bridges of technical accomplishment and understanding between ourselves, our listeners, and our composers: bridges which enable the growth and exchange of spiritual perception, intellect, and emotion. As we wrestle with our music, and argue with our composers, we grow both inwardly and outwardly. The performance of great music is like the burning bush-- it burns but does not consume. It makes us better all the time.

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.

Rodion Shchedrin Discusses his Compositional Process

The following is excerpted from an interview Bruce Duffie conducted with composer Rodion Shchedrin (composer of the oratorio we are currently preparing, The Sealed Angel), when the latter came to Chicago twenty-eight years ago, in October of 1990, for performances by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra of a new work.  The entire interview is available at http://www.kcstudio.com/shchedrin3.html. “[Shchedrin] was a delight to talk with.  He shared a big smile, lots of laughter and a few tears.  His speech was a mixture of Russian-accented English with a better knowledge of German.  Indeed, he dropped German words into his responses on several occasions and freely admitted that he speaks English in a primitive manner, adding, slyly, that his Russian is much better.  But when listening to him – with concentration – it is easily possible to understand his thoughts and ideas…. I have left many of his mannerisms, awkward constructions and sentence fragments in the text.” Bruce Duffie.

“Shchedrin: I think music must be clever.  50 percent.  And 50 percent must be stupid.  But altogether it’s clever. Our poet, Pushkin, said that poetry must be a little stupidity.  Then this is really great poetry.  But I think because music is some part of mathematic, not only your feeling.  All, without any exception, genius work, possible to make mathematic.  Without this, this is just impossible.  This is just improvisation.  This is difference between improvisation and real composer, if you give some mathematic.  But if it’s only mathematic, this is not music.  This is something very difficult to explain, but I think that music must be clever. I think just with the inspiration, impossible to be real good musical work.  And without mathematic, also it’s impossible.  I think that Bach music is maybe 75 percent of mathematic and 25 percent of inspiration. I think this [the music of Bach] is highest point of music.

“I think that my score which is the best, that somebody dictate to you.  Somebody, I don’t know who, told me this.  The few of my works which I like the best, somebody dictate it to me.  I just was little machine. Just write this because somebody, I don’t know, inside my head or outside, maybe in the sky, dictate me.  Nothing else.  But this is happy and lucky moment. Something, somebody, I don’t know, maybe is God, maybe is one of his friends.  Something like this.

“In the process of the work, usually you must be satisfied, because in other case you stop it immediately.  But after you know something may be wrong, you need clean piece of paper.  Always is better like you write of him because the best idea and best realizing [of the] idea, best of all on the clean piece of musical paper. This is ideal.  And you know, “Ahhh, this must be fantastic, great, unique”; and then you write, and something uncomfortable “Ahhh, something it’s a little wrong,” so you try a little change in something.  This is difficult to explain, like make love – how is possible to explain how you make love?  It’s impossible!  It’s really some feeling, some … This is emotional thing.  Yes, yes.  It’s difficult to explain it, yes.

“It’s two things very important for me:  first is reaction of orchestra, or if it’s not for orchestra, for chorus.  I see and look how they react.  If they just snoring and just want sleep it’s not good.  But if you see that the eyes is fire and they like it, then is good.  And second what is important for me:  the reaction of audience.  If I feel I took audience in my hand, that nobody cough, that everybody full of attention, then I think I win.  And then critics say, “Ohhh, this is not too good, [uses syllables the way an American might say “da-da-da-da-da” or “yadda-yadda-yadda”]  du-du-du-du-ze.”  For me it’s important, of course, ’cause I am human being!  But the two things most important for me is my relationship in rehearsal of the performance, and reaction of the concert hall audience.  Because then you decide, this is a live music or this is artificial music – this is just notes on the five-lines score.

I reprint this because I find Shchedrin’s explanations helpful in understanding The Sealed Angel, especially in relation to the music of J.S. Bach, which has been so central to Chicago Chorale's repertoire.  That extra 25% of “stupidity/inspiration” he assigns to his compositional style, compared to Bach’s, is important to keep in mind:  while he places Bach at the very pinnacle of composition, he places himself much more in the inspired moment. I doubt Bach could have produced anything like even his known output, had he been waiting for dictation, or depending upon blank sheets of paper and the reactions of his performers and audience.  And the resulting music, and our experience of it, reflects this difference.  Bach’s genius shines from within, and even in spite of, a regular, pre-determined approach to composition (the 50%), and reflects a communal, even bureaucratic, motivation for music-making in the first place: Bach built music the way other people build buildings or roads. This aspect of Bach’s music makes it easier to understand, prepare, and perform. If one learns the rules and techniques, and follows his blueprint carefully, one will have music.  Shchedrin cares little for regularity, consistency, “blueprint”:  he writes down what he likes, in the moment, and hopes others will like it, too.  At one point, a given phrase will end with a whole note; the same phrase will end with a half note on the following page, “just because.”  Tempos are likely to change every few bars or so, and to change inconsistently—he indicates tempo according to his feelings at the moment, rather than in relationship to motivic materials.

None of this makes for better or worse; it just makes for different.  What a “romantic,” emotional performer might do with Bach, in response to his feelings or the mood of his audience, Shchedrin himself builds into his own music.  Sometimes this seems tyrannical– but the results are undoubtedly very beautiful and emotionally evocative.

Reawakening The Sealed Angel

Chorale is now two weeks into rehearsals for our June 9-10 presentations of The Sealed Angel, by Rodion Shchedrin (b.1932).  We learned this work back in 2012, when we performed and recorded it—and it has sat in the back of my mind ever since, quietly demanding that it be heard again. Then, the relative obscurity of the work, and its strange title, were somewhat daunting: would audiences even be willing to listen to it? I remember first reading through it in rehearsal—singers were surprised and relieved to discover that it was hauntingly beautiful, promising lots of satisfying emotional and vocal involvement for them. Over the course of performing and recording it, we found that it also afforded a rare, thrilling experience for listeners; indeed, those performances were some of the most rewarding we have ever done, and earned a stellar review for us from Lawrence Johnson of Chicago Classical Review, who wrote, “Friday night’s performance of The Sealed Angel at Hyde Park Union Church offered one of the most transcendent, beautifully sung and immaculately directed choral performances of this or any other year.” A month later, our performance was designated Top Classical Performance of 2012. It is risky to commit ones group to a virtually unknown work, gambling that your risk will pay off three months down the road; presentation and marketing can turn into a major financial loss, if you guess wrong. Fortunately, we guessed right. And we are beyond happy to be working on it again, this spring. Singers who were not with us in 2012 are in for a wonderful musical experience. Shchedrin, one of Russia’s premier modern composers, wrote this nine-movement cantata in 1988, in commemoration of the millennium of the conversion of Russia to Christianity.  It received its premier that same year, and was awarded the Russian State Prize in 1992 by President Boris Yeltsin.  Originally titled Russian Liturgy, the hour-long work references pre-1917 Russian Orthodox worship, with its sacred, Old Slavonic texts, chant-based melodies, and modal harmonies. Shchedrin comes from a religious family, which maintained the forms and habits of its faith through the Soviet era; his goal in composing this work was to enable a  reawakening of orthodox Christianity, within the changing but still officially atheistic state.  But rather than promote a literal resumption of this tradition, Shchedrin suggests a new approach to it, represented through his use of instrumental accompaniment, which would have been forbidden in traditional orthodox worship.

As the date of the work’s premier approached, Shchedrin became cautious concerning official censorship, and he changed the work’s title to the relatively harmless The Sealed Angel, after a well-known story by the celebrated Russian novelist Nikolai Leskow (1831-1895), thus veiling the work’s liturgical basis.

Leskow’s story concerns a community of “Old Believers,” whose greatest treasure is an icon of an angel, said to perform miracles of healing.  The prohibited sect is denounced to the state, and the official seal is embossed onto the middle of the confiscated angel’s face.  Though Shchedrin’s work is not programmatic, it explores the most ancient practices and liturgies of the Orthodox Church in its musical materials, and features liturgical texts Leskow mentions in his book. In both its monumental dimensions and subject matter, The Sealed Angel is rooted in the tradition of large-scale liturgical compositions, particularly all-night vigils, which were prominent up to the time of the Revolution, particularly as set by such composers as Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninov, Gretchaninoff, and Chesnokov.

The work is set for chorus a cappella, soloists, and “svirel”– a generic term for Russian folk woodwind instruments. The notes in the German edition from which Chorale is singing, translate “svirel” as ”Flöte,” and, indeed, most of the recordings of which I am aware utilize obligato flute, though a small-print footnote in the score states that “the actual instrument, whether a flute or a reed instrument, [is] open to choice.”  I have decided to use oboe, rather than flute, for a couple of reasons.  From a practical standpoint, an oboe is far easier for singers to tune to, than a flute, especially in the acoustically rich spaces in which we will sing; in addition, I find the somewhat straight and plaintive sound of the oboe more folk-like, than the rich, cultivated sound of a modern flute.

Three motets for Passion Sunday

In Mozart’s day, church music was not composed with concert performance in mind. Masses, vespers, requiems, passions-- all were composed for use in divine worship; divisions into separate sections, internal beginnings and endings, corresponded to the texts, which had specific functions in their respective liturgical observances. Composers were not thinking in terms of “movements” as we know them today; nor were they composing large-scale works which would take up an acceptable and convenient concert-length amount of time. Mozart’s Requiem is no different. Depending on the completion utilized, a complete performance, without inclusion of any extra-Mozartian liturgical materials, lasts between forty and fifty minutes. Modern audiences expect a somewhat longer concert; so the Requiem is usually paired with other, shorter works, sometimes by Mozart, sometimes not. Chorale has chosen to sing three a cappella motets by modern composers, settings of texts appropriate to Holy Week, which have a musical and acoustical character particularly appropriate to St.Benedict’s Catholic Church, the venue for our concert.

Two of these motets are by Knut Nystedt, who spent most of his life in Oslo, Norway, where he was organist at Torshov Church and taught choral conducting at the University of Oslo. He also founded the Norwegian Soloists' Choir and conducted it for forty years. But he is most recognized for his choral compositions, which are mainly based on texts from the Bible or sacred themes. Chorale presents two of his best-known works tonight. In Immortal Bach he instructs the choir to surround the concert hall in a single line, divided into five separate choirs, and sing the first eight bars of J.S. Bach’s setting of the chorale “Komm, süßer Tod;” then, through strict rhythmic augmentation and the resultant harmonic overlapping of the melody and harmony in the further course of the work, he creates a soundscape reflecting the eternal value of Bach’s music, as well as Bach’s Christian view of immortality. “O crux” sets a meditation on the cross by Venantius Fortunatus, 6^th century poet, priest and Bishop of Poitiers, and is Nysted’s most beloved and performed work, especially during the Triduum, the three days between Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday in Western Christianity. Nystedt explores the widest possible range in volume, pitch, and harmonic density, alternating between dissonant polyphony and rich, diatonic block chords, in expressing the pain and ecstasy of the crucifixion.

Our third motet is by Latvian composer Ēriks Ešenvalds, one of the most performed choral musicians working today. His complex, multilayered compositions, sometimes in eight or even sixteen parts, currently enjoy enormous popularity with choirs all over the world, with their rich, diatonic tonal color and lyrical melodic lines. He has a very busy schedule of commissions and public appearances, in addition to teaching composition at the Latvian Academy of Music. O salutaris hostia, a gentle setting of a portion of a eucharistic hymn by Thomas Aquinas (1255-1274), is one of Ešenvalds’ most successful pieces. Originally composed for female voices, the version for full choir Chorale will sing was completed in 2009. Two soprano soloists share the melodic material over a hushed accompaniment for full choir, alternately imitating and echoing each other.

We expect that the inclusion of these pieces on our program will not only enrich the listening experience for our audience, but will set Mozart’s very special, eighteenth century art in bold relief, against music composed two hundred year later, in a much different world.

Mozart Requiem Housekeeping

Last week I wrote about a conductor’s biggest decision, in planning a performance of Mozart’s Requiem: which edition/completion? But there are other choices to be made, as well. Pitch level: it is thought that A equaled approximately 424 in Mozart’s time—about a quarter tone above what we now accept as baroque pitch (A=415), and a quarter tone lower than accepted modern pitch (A=440). These numbers were somewhat approximate and variable in their own times, as they are now—modern orchestras, for instance, seeking greater brilliance and excitement, edge up toward A=450, and even higher (much to the consternation of singers, especially tenors and sopranos, who are thus forced to sing higher than the composer intended, and cannot simply tighten the pegs on their voices). As a practical matter, instruments, and players, are available to play at several different levels; but they are rare, and not just waiting down the street; a presenting organization has to be willing to spend a lot of money to import such players with their instruments. The most difficult such instrument to account for is the continuo organ—instruments now are commonly built to be transposable between modern and baroque pitch, due to the burgeoning popularity of historically informed performance (HIP), but an instrument that is easily transposable to A=424 is rare; and it is difficult, and dangerous for the instrument, to manipulate such tuning on an instrument not built for it.

This adds up to lots of money and complication, and increased risk of failure. Chicago Chorale performs as authentically as our forces and finances allow: we present our Baroque oratorios at A=415 and import appropriate players and instruments if they are not available locally. But an A=424 Mozart Requiem is beyond our means. So we will perform it at A=440, with modern instruments which play in authentic classical style.

Latin pronunciation: traditionally, American choral ensembles have pronounced Latin according to Roman ecclesiastical rules. HIP, in addition to introducing us to a wider variety of pitch levels and instruments, introduced us to national and chronological variations in Latin pronunciation. This can be an incredible can of worms for a larger chorus: which Latin this time—German, English, French, Italian? And is it the Latin of the 15^th century, the 18^th century, or the 21^st century? And do we really know the specific practice for which the composer was setting his text? This is especially problematic with Austrian music, sandwiched as it is between German and Italian practice, both geographically and religiously. The majority of my experiences with Mozart’s Requiem were under the baton of Helmuth Rilling, who insisted on modern German pronunciation (even this has variations in it, and Helmuth’s pronunciation reflected his Swabian origins). But Robert Levin, who authored our completion of the Requiem, was often present for Helmuth’s rehearsals, and invariably begged to differ with his choice. He based his own opinion on North/South, Protestant/Roman Catholic issues: Salzburg and Vienna were Catholic cities, with Italian voice teachers and vocal style, implying, for Levin, that linguistic practice would have been Italianate. Mr. Rilling politely ignored Mr. Levin, and we pronounced the text according to German practice; but I have decided, for our coming performance, to go 100% Levin, and use the Italian pronunciation.

So many choices…

Mozart's Requiem, completed by Robert Levin

Why does the “Completed by” line, following “Composed by W.A.Mozart,” matter so much, when we consider Mozart’s Requiem? Scholars have long struggled to determine just how much of the Requiem actually belongs to Mozart. The composer’s final and unfinished work, it was commissioned by Count Franz von Wallsegg, who wished to have it performed, as his own composition, in memory of his dead wife. Mozart died before completing it; his wife Constanze decided to have it completed in secrecy, so that she could present it as Mozart’s work and collect the commission fee. Four musicians—friends and students of Mozart—aided in the hasty work of finishing the piece. Foremost among these was Mozart’s assistant, Franz Xaver Süssmayr (1766-1803); he was aided by Jakob Freistädtler, Joseph Eybler, and Abbé Maximilian Stadler. Their completed version of the Requiem was sent to the Count under a forged signature in Süssmayr’s hand, after Constanze had it copied. It is in this version that more than two centuries of listeners have encountered the Requiem.

Not long after, however, Süssmayr and Constanze came clean about what they had done, claiming that other than a “few scraps of music” which Constanze had handed over to Süssmayr, those portions of the original manuscript that were not in Mozart’s hand, were completely Süssmayr’s work. This prompted counter-claims from outside observers, who declared that Süssmayr was not a good enough composer to have produced this music. On the one hand, they acknowledged such Süssmayrisms as clumsy voice leading; thick, muddy orchestration; and conflicts with normal 18^th century church music practice; but the fundamental nature and quality of the music, and the integration of musical motives throughout the work, were not similar to that on display in Süssmayr’s other works.

Spurred by Wolfgang Plath’s unearthing in 1960 of one of the “few scraps of music,” a number of musicians have attempted to eliminate from the Requiem the deficiencies introduced by Süssmayr, replacing them with music that is more in keeping with the Mozartean idiom. These “completers” include Robert Levin, Franz Beyer, H.C.Robbins Landon, Richard Maunder, and Duncan Bruce. Each has focused on universally acknowledged problems, proposing interesting solutions. Levin’s completion has gained considerable traction among top tier performing groups; Levin presents convincing arguments for the decisions he has made, and his finished completion acknowledges both the work’s traditional reliance upon Süssmayr, and the findings of more recent musical scholarship. This is the completion Chorale will present at our March 25 performance.

Süssmayr was no Mozart, to be sure. Still, we have little reason to doubt that Mozart discussed the Requiem with Süssmayr, and may even have given him detailed instructions concerning the unfinished sections. If nothing else, Süssmayr’s completion is an authentic 18^th-century work with 200 years of performance tradition behind it. For these reasons, Levin is at pains in his 1996 completion “to revise not as much, but as little as possible.” Levin, a Mozart pianist (on the fortepiano) renowned for his spirited piano concerto recordings and brilliantly improvised cadenzas, approaches the Requiem with the goal of clarifying the choral component by thinning out the excessively dense texture of much of the orchestration completed by Süssmayr et al. Levin’s lighter, more transparent instrumentation places the voices at the expressive center of the piece. Levin has also composed an entirely new Amen fugue for the close of the Lacrimosa to end the Sequence, based on the recently discovered “scrap of music.” This new fugue follows 18^th-century practice in that it is non-modulating, and completes a structure in which each major section of the Requiem culminates in a fugue.

I personally have sung the original Süssmayr, the Beyer, and the Levin completions on numerous occasions. I can promise that the spirit of Mozart reigns over each of them. Caught up in this spirit, neither the listener nor the performer stands outside of the work, observing or judging the completion at hand. The shattering impact of this music exists outside and beyond such viewpoints, valuable though they are.

Weaving gold from straw

From grad school on, I worked with a very successful, recognized voice teacher. He was a good pedagogue: he had a good ear for vocal health and production, he recognized talent, he had an instinct for appropriate repertoire; he seemed to be able to predict a voice’s development, and to guide his students accordingly. He was insightful, empathetic, and fundamentally kind, and was able both to encourage his singers, and to let them down gently, but firmly, when they didn’t make the grade. He attracted top prospects to his institution and his private studio; his better students won competitions, and were cast by major opera companies; and he was adept at placing those who wished to teach, in good positions. He seemed to make good choices, and to position himself strategically in a very competitive market. I frequently arrived early for my lessons, and would take advantage of the opportunities to watch him teach. A particularly talented soprano often preceded me, and I enjoyed hearing him interact with her. She had her own ideas about what she wanted to sing, about the singer she wanted to be-- and was frequently at odds with her teacher. She would bring in arias he did not assign, and sing them inappropriately—and he would have to bear with her, talk her down, try both to help her sing better, and to be more realistic about her talent. One day, shortly before the Met regional auditions, she brought in “Ach, ich fühl’s” from Mozart’s Magic Flute, and announced that she was going to sing it for the competition. He had her sing it, worked on a few passages, and then told her it was not her aria. I remember so clearly the gist of what he said:

Every soprano wants to sing this aria. It is absolutely perfect, musically and dramatically-- the Holy of Holies; if you nail it, you’ll have everyone swooning. But the opposite is also true: if you don’t absolutely nail it, everyone hears that, as well. You will be compared to every soprano they have ever heard, judged on your ability to sing it as perfectly as the greatest soprano that ever sang it—and inevitably you will fall short. Almost no one wins with this aria—and you certainly will not.

 I have thought a lot about this incident over the years—both about the teacher’s response, and about singing Mozart. He was being practical, calculating-- she was talented, and might do well, given the right repertoire—something that would allow her more breathing room, that would make a virtue of her idiosyncracies and imperfections, that would allow her to color outside of the lines without penalty. But Mozart’s music simply does not allow this: it must be sung with complete control and fidelity, and with no hint of the heavy lifting that lies behind that fidelity. Mozart must always be in control; the singer is the beautiful conduit for Mozart’s voice, not for his or her own.

As Chorale prepares Mozart’s Requiem for performance on March 25, I obsess about this fidelity. As I admonish the choir during rehearsals-- the lines and voices at this point in our learning process sound like “twine”-- they are present, they work, but they have lumps in them, they have strands escaping from the central thread, they have weak stretches and frayed ends. Woven together, they yield a thick, opaque texture, far from the crystalline purity Mozart requires. Our goal, our necessary end product, is a transparent, shimmering structure, woven of silken threads—functioning individually, and in tandem, to express Mozart’s vision. Mozart challenges us to leave ourselves, and the weight of our imperfections, behind. Effectively, we weave gold from straw.

As Salieri expresses in the movie Amadeus, life is not fair. We can’t all be Mozart. But Chorale is doing its best to be a worthy vehicle for his voice and vision. We hope you’ll come on March 25, and share that vision with us.

Chorale at the Merit School of music

Last Saturday, Chorale performed for the student body at Chicago’s Merit School of Music, in the west loop. Many music lovers, even in Chicago, don’t know anything about this school; I know I was surprised when I came to their facility and saw what was going on. From the school’s website meritmusic.org: Alice Pfaelzer and Emma Endres-Kountz founded Merit School of Music in 1979 in response to the elimination of music education from Chicago’s public elementary schools. Alice and Emma devoted themselves to helping young people realize their musical talents; use their musical skills to gain access to college; and become productive, compassionate, and responsible members of society. As personal role models they demonstrated that self-esteem and success comes from hard work and achievement. For more than three decades, Merit has advanced their vision.

Chorale sang for the conservatory students, described elsewhere on the website:

The Alice S. Pfaelzer Tuition-free Conservatory is the culmination of Merit’s instructional continuum and represents the best of Merit’s talented student musicians…For 26 Saturdays during the academic school year, Conservatory students receive instruction from Chicago’s finest music educators in large ensembles, instrumental and vocal technique classes, music theory classes and a variety of elective classes, including chamber music, composition and piano as a second instrument—all tuition free. At noon each week, the entire student body comes together for Live from Gottlieb, a concert series featuring world-class musicians from Chicago and beyond.

That’s us, in that final sentence. The concert occurs right before lunch, and lasts about half an hour. One might expect 350 adolescent-age kids to be restive and disruptive at that particular time of day—but at Merit, one would be pleasantly disappointed. They were completely engaged in our performance—one could have heard the proverbial pin drop, when we weren’t actually singing. We presented music from our Autumn concert, which we refreshed for this particular gig, and the students responded with enthusiastic applause at the end of each piece.   I was very impressed, not only by their behavior, but by their appreciation.

One anticipates an engagement like this with all kinds of trepidation: how will the hall be? Will the acoustics be decent… How will the piano be… in tune at all? Will the kids laugh and interrupt and throw paper airplanes at us? Will the singers tense up, lose confidence and good will, and be unable to perform well? Over the years I have participated in concerts at public and private schools, both, where all of these things, and more, were a part of our regular experience. Administrators can say, or write, anything they want, about the high level of their students and institution; you find out for yourself when you walk on to the stage, and face them. I walked out Saturday noon with my fingers crossed, for sure.

But my trepidation was completely unwarranted. These are clearly very special kids, involved in a very special program. (And the piano was a beautiful Steinway concert grand.) I was able to talk about the music, and the singers, from the stage, without fear that the listeners would immediately start fidgeting and tune me out; they seemed genuinely interested and responsive. And their support for the singers was palpable—resulting in a first rate performance from the group.

Much of what Chorale does, serves as an educational experience for the singers, themselves. Singers learn a lot of music, a lot of poetry, learn to pronounce a variety of languages, learn to sing with better vocal production. Their musical skills are sharpened all the time. And we always hope that our regular audience will appreciate, and be enriched by, our programming. But last Saturday was something special for us, something I hope we get to do again in the future.

Advent Vespers 2017

This Sunday, a select group of Chorale’s regular singers will sing the choral portions of Solemn Vespers for the Second Sunday in Advent, along with the monks of the Benedictine Monastery of the Holy Cross, in Chicago’s Bridgeport neighborhood. We do this each year. This service provides us with the opportunity to learn repertoire we would not normally do in a concert setting, in a peerless, unearthly acoustic space; it gives us the experience of singing this music in the sort of setting for which it was originally intended by its composers; and we are happy to work with the monastery, which has so graciously supported our programs in the past, and allows us to record in their chapel.   December 10, this coming Sunday, at 5 PM, we will sing music by Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina: his double motet Canite tube/Rorate caeli; his setting of the Advent hymn Conditor alme siderum; and Magnificat in mode 8. In the velvety, enveloping acoustics of the monastery’s chapel, it should be a timeless break from the everyday stresses and obligations of our daily lives, to just sit still, let Palestrina’s glorious music surround and enter us, and ponder the mystery of the Advent season. The service (it is not, strictly speaking, a performance) is free and open to the public. We do invite donations, to support the work of the Monastery and of Chicago Chorale. After a break for the Christmas and New Year holidays, Chorale will reconvene in January to begin rehearsals for our March 25 (Palm Sunday) presentation of Mozart’s Requiem, in the completion by Robert Levin. Mozart died while in the midst of working on this masterpiece; his wife, Constanze, had the work completed in secret by Mozart’s assistant, Franz Xaver Süssmayr, in order to collect the commissioning fee which had been promised for the completed work. Later scholars and musicians have questioned Süssmayr’s work, and it has become a cottage industry, to imagine, and execute, what Mozart himself must have intended. Helmuth Rilling and the Internationale Bachacademie of Stuttgart, with support from the Oregon Bach Festival, commissioned Harvard theorist Robert Levin to do a completion, which has gained a good deal of recognition and favor amongst musicians in the years since it was published and made available. As a member of the Oregon Bach Festival chorus, I participated in early performances of Levin’s version, with Mr. Levin present, advising us, making changes, consulting with Mr. Rilling . I also performed it on tour in Israel with the Gächinger Kantorei and the Israel Philharmonic, under Mr. Rilling’s baton, in concerts commemorating the 250^th anniversary of Mozart’s birth, in January, 2006. I am sold on Mr. Levin’s completion, and am happy to have this opportunity to present it to the Chicago audience. We have a stellar quartet of soloists: Tambra Black, soprano; Karen Brunssen, alto; Scott Brunscheen, tenor; and David Govertsen bass; and an outstanding orchestra, contracted for us by Anna Steinhoff.

Sunday, March 25, 3 PM, at St. Benedict’s Parish, 2215 W. Irving Park Road. Things become very busy at that time of year, and schedules fill up; be sure to put us in your calendar now. You won't want to miss this.

'Tis a gift to be simple

Only one piece on our upcoming O magnum mysterium concert was composed before 1900: Cantique de Jean Racine, by Gabriel Fauré (1864-65), written when the composer was only nineteen years old. Fauré had been a student at the school of church music Ecole Niedermeyer for ten years, and entered the piece in the school’s composition contest, receiving first prize. He dedicated the work to composer César Franck, who conducted it in concert in 1875; it was published soon after this, and has been a part of the standard repertoire ever since. The young composer was still under the influence of such romantics as Mendelssohn and Gounod, which one recognizes in the long, sweeping melodies and climactic cadences; but Fauré’s strong musical personality shows through, in the simplicity and restraint of the setting, as well as in his respectful and appropriate text setting. The text is a paraphrase, by playwright Jean Racine (1639-99), of a Latin hymn from the breviary, Consors paterni luminis, published in 1688:

Word of God, one with the Most High, in Whom alone we have our hope, Eternal Day of heaven and earth, We break the silence of the peaceful night; Saviour Divine, cast your eyes upon us!

Pour on us the fire of your powerful grace, That all hell may flee at the sound of your voice; Banish the slumber of a weary soul, That brings forgetfulness of your laws!

O Christ, look with favour upon your faithful people Now gathered here to praise you; Receive their hymns offered to your immortal glory; May they go forth filled with your gifts.

Fauré chose to set the florid, artful French translation, rather than the original Latin text, and named his composition after Racine, rather than use the Latin title. Later, as a mature composer, Fauré was noted for the subtle brilliance and craft of his settings of the French language, which became a hallmark of his composition style in the twentieth century. His setting of the Racine text is so assured, so idiomatic, that one is almost unaware of it—until one deals with a less successful composer. This aspect of Cantique alone would point the way toward Fauré’s future stature, even if the musical elements were not equally assured.

The final piece on Chorale’s program is The Road Home, a 2005 adaptation by Stephen Paulus of the hymn tune “Prospect” (also listed as “The Lone White Bird”) from Southern Harmony (1835). The words are a newly-written text by poet Michael Dennis Browne, who frequently collaborated with Paulus on his vocal and choral settings. The Road Home was commissioned for the Dale Warland Singers by Timothy and Gayle Ober in 2001, with matching funds provided by the National Endowment of the Arts. The original tune is pentatonic, and has the stark, timeless quality associated with that scale; Paulus allows a more lush, modern sound in his accompanying harmonic setting. The result is a perfectly balanced evocation of wandering and the search for home, and contemporary sentiment, which has resonated with listeners throughout the world. In the years since its publication, it has become one of Paulus’ best-selling works, and has been recorded numerous times.

These two pieces, by Fauré and Paulus, share a restrained, modest simplicity, a lack of decoration or adornment. Both composers also composed larger, more ambitious works, works more difficult and demanding to perform. But it is interesting to note that Fauré, over the course of his musical life, strove more and more to find the simplest and most straight-forward approach to illuminating his carefully chosen texts; and Paulus’ legacy seems to be expressed, as well, in his simplest compositions.

Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen

Chorale’s major new project this fall has been learning the Clytus Gottwald a cappella choral arrangement of Gustav Mahler’s famous song, Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen. Number three in Mahler’s Rückert –Lieder cycle, completed in 1901, the song is often heard with piano accompaniment, but was originally was intended for orchestra, and has a dense, almost symphonic texture.   Gottwald (b. 1925) a German choral conductor, composer and musicologist, is noted for his rich, creative choral arrangements of symphonic repertoire, often for a cappella choral groups with up to sixteen different voices.   Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen (1985), his most famous work in this genre, first came to the attention of the choral world through performances by the Swedish Radio Choir, conducted by Eric Ericson. It has since been performed and recorded by many of the world’s leading choral ensembles. The poet, Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866), was a favorite of German Romantic composers from Schubert forward. He wrote in a wide variety of genres, but is best known today for his mystical, shrouded, Asian-influenced poems, which inspired many of the best songs of such composers as Robert Schumann, Josef Rheinberger, Gustav Mahler, Richard Strauss, Hugo Wolf, and Alban Berg. The poem in question is typical of his output and subject matter:

Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen I have become lost to the world, where I used to waste so much time; It has been so long since it heard from me, that it may well think that I have died! I don't care if it thinks me dead, for I really have died to the world. I have died to all the world's turmoil, and I rest in a silent realm. I live in solitude in my heaven, In my love, in my song.

Mahler’s song setting is one of his very best—long, unhurried melodic lines, slow-moving harmonies, and sustained petal tones, reinforce the restful, exalted theme of the poem, but never become static; melodic fragments escape the body of the accompaniment ecstatically at times, enlivening the forward movement of the solo vocal line but never interfering with it. Gottwald’s arrangement passes the solo melodic material from voice to voice, emphasizing particular phrases by adding two or three voices to the principle material and using fragments of this principle material as accompaniment. The resulting work is difficult to sing, but rewarding both because of the beauty of Mahler’s music, and because of Gottwald’s admirable craft in putting it all together.

The song become a popular favorite when it was used as the underlying theme in the 1989 film, le Maître de Musique, starring Belgian opera singer José Van Dam.  We hear Van Dam's heart-stoppingly beautiful rendition of the song during the course of the film, and Rückert's poetry comments on the theme and mood of the story, and of the maître's retirement from his career and former active life.

In the bag

Chicago Chorale’s 2016-17 season has ended. The books are closed, and we are on break from our rehearsal/performance schedule, taking stock of last year and planning the 2017-18 season. A small army of volunteers recently moved our choral library, which had been housed in my musty basement for the past three years, into a new, better, more convenient space, where the printed music will be better protected from changes in humidity, and in which our librarian, Amy Mantrone, can do even better work than she has done up to now. Printed music is one of the few tangible things a choir actually owns; music purchases, and storage, account for a significant portion of our annual operating budget. Chorale is fortunate to have an experienced professional taking care of our investment. In addition to re-auditioning the alto section (each section of the choir endures this torture every four years), I have been hearing new auditions since the middle of May, to replace singers who are leaving. Each season we turn over seven to eight singers this way. I have also been auditioning, since March, singers for our summer project, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which we will present August 18-20, with the films, the Lakeside Singers, the Chicago Children’s Choir, and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, at the Ravinia Festival. We have sung for each of the films in past summers, as separate events; this summer, all three will be shown and performed, as a mini-festival. Learning all three scores is a mind-boggling amount of work for our singers, many of whom have not participated in the past; rehearsals will begin July 31, and take up nearly every evening until the actual performances.

Early summer is also the time when we finalize repertoire choices for the coming season, and order new music. All year long I keep a file on my computer screen, to which I add ideas, individual pieces, concert themes, as they occur to me. Somewhere around January I propose three broad ideas for the coming season, and we begin working out budget, dates, venues. Often, though, I don’t choose specific pieces, or plan their order in the program, until my head is clear from the preceding season. Music choices can depend upon available venues, as well as influence choice of venue; they can also depend upon the make-up of the choir, which may not be clear until halfway through the summer. Serendipity plays a role, as well: I may happen upon a new piece, hear it in performance or on Youtube, respond to a friend’s suggestion-- and change something I had thought was set. I allow myself to be somewhat mystical and mysterious (read: irresponsible) about final choices; I want to be open to the new and the unexpected.

As of now, though, our repertoire for the 2017-18 season is set. November 17 and 18 we will present a program of eleven major, important, well-known works from the past century, by such composers as Fauré, Pärt, Lauridsen, Gjeilo, Mahler, Rautavaara, Esenvalds, Paulus, Nystedt—some living, some dead, all of them major figures in the choral music genre. Two of the works will feature our accompanist, Kit Bridges, on piano.

Then, on March 25 (Palm Sunday), accompanied by the Haymarket Opera Orchestra, we will present Mozart’s Requiem, in the completion by Robert Levin. Stuttgart’s International Bachakademie commissioned this completion, at the urging of Helmuth Rilling, who then “tried it out” at the Oregon Bach Festival. I participated in this “try out,” and in several subsequent performances under Mr. Rilling, and am happy to report that repeated exposure only increased my satisfaction with Mr. Levin’s completion of this glorious work, left unfinished at Mozart’ death. I am happy to have this opportunity to present it again to Chicago audiences.

On June 9 and 10, Chorale will repeat Rodion Shchedrin’s The Sealed Angel, an oratorio for unaccompanied choir and obbligato oboe. When we last presented this work, Lawrence Johnson of Chicago Classical Review hailed our performance as "revelatory and transcendent," and named it one of the Top Ten Classical Music Performances of 2012.

In conclusion—“in the bag” never means “the bag is closed.” We work all the time to provide our audiences, and our singers, with the best and most uplifting musical experiences possible: the best repertoire, the best venues, the best performances. Details about dates, venues, tickets and subscription packages will be available shortly. I hope you will put Chorale on your calendars now, in preparation for the wonderful season ahead.

Left Behind

We named our upcoming concert “Left Behind” on a whim, last summer—we needed at least a placeholder, as we prepared promotional materials, and no other title presented itself. The name grew on us, however-- because it expressed, more clearly than anything else we came up with, the peculiar and tragic circumstances surrounding the music we had decided to program. I spent a good portion of my summer reading, and rereading, War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910). I was struck forcibly by Tolstoy’s grand, romantic, nationalistic vision-- his portrait of what he regarded as the true Russia, shining through the accretions of other, assumed, foreign cultural influences. His was a very important voice, in the immense surge of Russian nationalism which overwhelmed the country, politically and artistically, during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries—a surge so complicated, so contradictory, so inevitable, culminating in the Bolshevik Revolution which began in 1917. The Russian Orthodox Church was, at first, a major part of this surge—resulting in a fundamental rebirth and revitalization of the chants and other musical material from the historic past, and a purging of Western European musical influences which had crept in, along with other foreign influences, during the preceding several hundred years. It was a heady time for the composers and performers of church music, mostly centered in Moscow and constituting a group now known of as the New Russian Choral School—they produced a virtual explosion of new choral compositions, based on old models but with modern vigor and excitement, and fostered a vital, thrilling approach to choral performance, appropriate to these compositions.

The best-known name to emerge at this time, to us Americans, is Sergei Rachmaninoff, who composed two major choral cycles for the Orthodox church; but he was by no means alone. Other names include Pavel Chesnokov, Alexandre Grechaninov, and Nicolai Golovanov, who, along with a host of others, produced an immense body of repertoire over a very short period of time, about fifteen years, until they were cut short by the revolution, in 1917. The Orthodox church was ultimately closed down by the officially atheistic state, and with it, church music. Many of these composers left Russia while they could, but were unable to continue composing church music outside of their familiar context; others remained in Russia, but turned their skills toward composing instrumental music, or secular, nationalistic music for the state. Copies of their church music slowly became available in the West, at first in English translation, but more and more commonly, now, in the original Church Slavonic; the entire repertoire has become an important part of the world-wide canon of choral concert music. Very little of this music, however, was composed after 1917; its context had disappeared, as surely as the context for Bach’s cantatas has disappeared, and the music exists today as art music. That particular mode of composition, as a living expression of worship, was choked off, and left behind, in 1917.

A particularly poignant tragedy took place in the musical life of Maximilian Steinberg, a contemporary of the composers named above, who lived and worked in St. Petersburg, rather than in Moscow. Inspired by hearing a performance of Rachmaninoff’s All-Night Vigil, he determined that he, too, would contribute to this repertoire, and he set to work composing a similar cycle, Passion Week, based upon historic chants and models. He continued working on it through the early years of the revolution, completing it finally in 1923. The anti-church stance of the revolutionaries had not started out as absolute, and Steinberg had hoped that his composition would be performed, at least as a concert piece; but by the time he had finished it, the work was condemned by the authorities, and the composer never heard it performed. More profoundly than for his Moscow colleagues, Steinberg’s work was left behind. He managed to get a copy of it to Paris, where it was published, with its text translated into several different languages, inviting performance by anyone who might be interested; but there is no evidence that it was ever sung. Fortunately for the musical world, Russian-American conductor Igor Buketoff (1915-2001) owned a copy of this Parisian publication, believed in the work, and pressed for its performance over the course of his life. Finally, after his death, the work received its first performance on April 11, 2014, in Portland, Oregon, by the Cappella Romana. It was performed in New York in an “open reading” by the Clarion Choir on the same weekend. Finally, just last week (October 24-29), it received it’s Russian premier, first in St. Petersburg, then in Moscow, in performances by the Clarion Choir. “Left behind” did not ending up meaning left forever.

In this together

September is an important, milestone month in Chicago’s “classical music” world. Calendars, venues, and programs were set months ago; now, the brochures are out to the public, and email blasts are a regular feature of my morning’s email perusal; Facebook is liberally larded with news of upcoming concerts, special ticket deals, artist bios, previews, the beginnings of critical review notices-- we are doing what we can, imaginatively and creatively, to draw attention to ourselves, to renew support amongst our regular followers, to attract new listeners, to stand out amongst the community of our competitors and colleagues; to signal, universally, that we have something special, unique, to offer-- come hear us and be surprised, be uplifted, find a new home for your ears, your eyes, your dollars. Altogether, our vocal music community of artists/ensembles/presenters is really very small. We cover everything from the Chicago Symphony Chorus and Lyric Opera to Bella Voce, Haymarket Opera Company, and the Newberry Consort-- repertoire that ranges from the 14^th century to the present, ensembles that range in size from the hundreds, down to five or six, venues that range from tiny churches in gentrifying neighborhoods to Orchestra Hall and the Civic Opera House. Our singers traverse all the territory between the sonic power of dramatic soprano Christine Goercke, to Ellen Hargis’ intimate, nuanced interpretations of music and poetry from the time of Shakespeare. Our ensembles range from the highly-trained and -paid choristers of Music of the Baroque, to the amateur volunteers who people the majority of the city’s choruses.

Somehow, we all know, within the community described above, that we belong together, that we occupy the same subset, that we pursue the same audiences and similar goals. We know each other, we receive one another’s promotional pieces in the mail, attend one another’s concerts, peruse one another’s donor lists. We assume essential common ground between 16^th century madrigals, Wagner’s Ring, and the most recent tintinnabulations of Arvo Pärt. We see many of the same faces in all of our audiences; we are reviewed by the same critics. We can’t quite define it, but we know what is us and what is not—and so does our audience.

Great thinkers and writers ponder this question, as well as marketers and promoters, and young performers attempting to find a professional direction, and the amateur singers who wonder whether they should spend their limited time away from demanding work and family schedules at a karaoke bar, or seated on a chancel with sixty other singers, attempting to conquer the difficulties of Old Church Slavonic: if a barful of inebriated listeners will loudly cheer and applaud you—why isn’t that enough? If one sold out rock concert at a major venue could fund most of us for an entire year—why don't we put our eggs in that basket? Who is to say that Christine Goercke is more worth listening to than, say, Lady Gaga? Or that there is anything to be gained for her, through working so hard at what she does.

Cost/benefit analysis really doesn’t help us much here-- unless we are willing to accept gut-level responses to what we do, and to what others hear us do. Somehow, the high aspirations of our art, the refined craft of composers and performers, the care we take to get it just right, the thrill we experience on all levels—ethical, emotional, intellectual, spiritual-- is worth it to us. We understand, innately and through experience, that the music we present is humankind’s highest achievement, that it contains revelations, even some answers, about how we should live our lives, about what is truly meaningful and worth pursuing at great personal cost. We are privileged to experience first-hand, as well as from the other side of the podium, that which, indeed, makes us human at all.

We should never forget, in the midst of trying to steal listeners and donors from one another, that we are in this together—and what a great privilege “this” is!

The Fat Lady and the Boy

Two literary figures accompany me, one on either shoulder, whispering in my ears, when I make music. One is Seymour’s Fat Lady, from Salinger’s Franny and Zooey; the other is the little boy in The Emperor’s New Clothes. I think we all know some version of this latter story: the Emperor, convinced that he is invincible, manipulated and puffed up by those round him, parades down the street clothed in what he imagines to be the finest outfit in the world, something so sublime that only those of special taste and understanding can appreciate it (or even see it). Those who see only his nakedness, blame themselves for being of a lower order, and go along, pretending to see the glory of his raiment, shouting his praises. The innocent (perhaps snotty and obstreperous) child speaks the truth: “But he’s naked!” The whole sham caves in and sanity takes over—but as adults we suspect the kid is actually taken out back and whipped, and that the charade continues long after the book’s cover has been closed.

Franny, a brilliant and promising young actress, at the end of her emotional rope, returns home from college to have a nervous breakdown. Her older brother Zooey, also an actor, tries everything he can think of to break her out of her self-absorption. He finally dredges up their shared image of the Fat Lady, a figure invented by their older brother, Seymour. The Fat Lady has thick, veiny legs, sits on a porch all day in the heat in an awful wicker chair, sweating, swatting flies, listening to the radio full blast; she probably has cancer. Seymour has told both Fanny and Zooey-- privileged, talented, special children-- to “do it” for the Fat Lady—to shine their shoes even when no one will see their feet, to perform their hearts out, to communicate. On the book’s final page, Zooey says to Franny, “There isn’t anyone out there who isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady…don’t you know who that Fat Lady is?... It’s Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.”

The presentation of great music is immensely, deeply challenging. It is difficult to do well. We are often tempted to deceive ourselves, our colleagues, the public, by settling for the appearance of a good job, which we then promote the heck out of with expensive publications, flowery prose, gorgeous venues, and broad claims about our competence. And this can work; the boy isn’t always present to pull us up short. Throwing glitter in their eyes can be very effective. Why not? We may not even be aware we are doing it; we may feel this is the way it is done. As Robert Shaw opined in anther memorable one-liner: “Anyone can buy a ticket; not many actually hear the music.”

But the Fat Lady really gets to me. Salinger is by no means considered a Christian writer—far from it. He uses and freely adapts ideas and images from many religions. Here, he pinpoints a central question with which all of them grapple: who are we to one another? How do we live together and care for one another? Does it matter? Franny has everything; but living for herself, focusing on her personal salvation, is not enough. It is in sharing her best with the lowest and least of these, that she refinds herself. And, presumably, is motivated to go on with her life, doing the best she can with her gifts.

The Fat Lady and the boy, in my mind, feed and support one another. Neither is complete without the other. If we believe that honest, face-forward immersion in the arts transforms our world, and reminds us that it is worth saving, then we have to believe that the Fat lady deserves them, needs them, as much as the rest of us.

Guest Blog: Sam Martin

Singing the Rachmaninoff All-Night Vigil is a uniquely physical challenge among Chorale’s repertoire. Every composer brings different obstacles: Bach requires mathematical precision to get “the grid” (as Bruce calls it) of notes and rhythms just right, while modern composers like Schoenberg ask singers to come in with perfect intonation on difficult intervals and non-traditional harmonies. No one tests the singer’s posture, breath, and vocal technique quite like The Rach.

I have spent my six working years since graduating from college working as a strength & conditioning coach, so I’m used to training for, and overcoming, physical challenges. Wednesday nights, during this rehearsal cycle, have become another workout. Rachmaninoff requires the baritone part (which I sing) to spend long stretches singing low notes: B, A, G, F—then builds quickly up an octave to Cs, Ds, and Es. There is a gravitational effect from spending a long time in the bottom of the register, and a high D never feels so high as it does during this piece. These vast shifts in register allow the singer no chance to rest his technique.

To survive this piece, one has to breathe correctly, and maintain enough intraabdominal pressure to be able to go big on a moment’s notice. In a lot of repertoire one can get away with more or less chilling out between difficult passages. Try that on Rachmaninoff and you’ll go flat and end up behind the beat, trying to figure out what happened.

It’s reminiscent to me of the CrossFit workouts I used to do that combined seemingly opposite tasks like heavy lifts with running. I’d come in after a run, breathing fast with a high heart rate and all of a sudden have to lock in my posture to keep my back flat while lifting a heavy barbell off of the ground. Even that was easier than singing Rachmaninoff, though. 

Why? Rachmaninoff combines the physical challenge of singing with the mental (and for the face, mouth, and tongue physical) challenge of correctly enunciating the nearly unpronounceable Old Church Slavonic language. I don’t sing in Chorale, though, because it’s fun or easy; I sing in Chorale because it’s worth it. On March 19th & 20th when this all comes together, it will be worth all the physical and mental labor it took to build.

Martin Luther King Day, 2016

A friend emailed me this morning, asking what I remembered about our college’s reaction to, and observance of, Martin Luther King’s assassination (we were first years at the time, and roommates). It was a huge event, certainly, and a big shock to all of us—one of a number of unsettling occurrences during our college years, which largely defined who we became. But I don’t remember the words, the speeches, the assemblies, the dormitory and dining hall discussions. It was a long time ago, and a lot of water has flowed over that dam. What I remembered, I found, when asked, is the music. I remember the songs we sang—both the informal community sings, of protest songs and spirituals, and the formal ”In Memoriam Martin Luther King” concert my choir later sang. I remember the people with whom I sang, and the music we sang—the words and the melodies; I remember the concert hall, and the look of the audience. I remember the highly charged emotions of our conductor, who spoke of King as though he were a close personal friend. I even remember the poster and printed program, nearly fifty years later, though I did not save copies. Music has this power. Especially, for me, vocal music. And especially the personal performance of music. Significant events, relationships, locations-- most seem anchored in my memory, and in my convictions, by the music that accompanies them. I suspect most people are like me, in this respect, and that this is not a function of special capacity or professional choice. I remember my 99-year old grandmother being called back to the here and now, when her pastor sang “Tryggare kan ingen vara” to her, unlocking a flood of childhood memories and stories, which she so eagerly shared. I will always remember the death of Tony Garner, announced to the choir just before Robert Shaw conducted a performance of the Howells Requiem, in Greenville, South Carolina. I remember my summers working as a counselor at Camp Buckskin, singing my cabin of ten little boys to sleep, night after night. And sitting on a point jutting into the water on Eddy Lake at sunset, singing “L’heure exquise” to myself as the sun set. Elsa Charlston and Steve Hendrickson performing “Let the bright seraphim” at our wedding. Holding hands with the singers on both sides of me while my college choir sang the Vaughan Williams Mass in G. Hearing my mother sob while ironing in the kitchen, listening to La Boheme on the radio. Singing to my daughter as she lay in a coma, after a car/bike accident during her senior year of high school.

I grew up surrounded by music, all kinds of music: some of it great, some of it not so good, all of it startlingly memorable. I realize now that the richness of my life’s experience, and my memories of that experience-- joy, sorrow, tragedy-- all live in my memory accompanied by music. The adults I knew best, and now care most about, were my music teachers and conductors; the high school and college friends with whom I have maintained contact sang in choirs with me. The younger people with whom I have been able to form relationships, have sung with me, or for me. It occurs to me that I would be almost nobody, inarticulate and disconnected, had I not music to create a life for me.

Facebook has featured Dr. King’s favorite song, “Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” several times today, along with the story about his calling Mahalia Jackson on the phone and asking her to sing it to him. Along with recording of both Mahalia Jackson and Reggie Mobley singing it. I’m sure these recordings, and this story, will become defining features of my remembrances, from now on. Music has that power.

Rihards Dubra and Vytautas Miškinis

Some of the composers featured in Chorale’s upcoming Arvo Pärt at Eighty concert are veritable rock stars in today’s classical music world. Pärt himself, John Tavener, and Henryk Gorecki, have cross-over appeal; CDs of their music sell millions of copies. Other composers on our program work in relative obscurity, but their music is no less worthy of consideration.

Latvian composer Rihards Dubra was born in Jurmala, on the Baltic, about 30 miles from Riga, in 1964. He studied at the Emils Darzins music school in Jurmala, where he now teaches, and the Latvia Music Academy, specializing in composition. He teaches theory, is organist of Mater Dolorosa Church in Riga, and is a member of the Schola Gregoriana Rigensis singers. Though he grew up in the secular milieu imposed by the Russians during the years Latvia was a member of the USSR, Dubra has devoted himself exclusively to the composition of sacred music, citing his admiration for the works of Arvo Pärt and John Tavener. He has written, “As faith is the only purity in this world, I cannot imagine anything better than to write only sacred music… I doubt that the energy I feel inside me is mine. I do not create music—I just write down what has been sent to me.” Elsewhere, he has written, ‘’Just as everyone has their own pathway to God, so every composer has his own pathway to emotion in music, and through that—also to God.” He says that for a long while he has had a great love of Gregorian chant and the music of the Middle Ages, and that these provide his favorite inspiration, but “through the view of a man who lives in the present century.”

Even before Latvia regained its independence in 1990, and public expressions of religious faith were once again allowed, Dubra was setting liturgical texts in Latin. These works were conceived for concert audiences whose experience of sacred music, due to the anti-religious nature of the Soviet state, was not informed by theological or liturgical understanding. Dubra feels that emphasis on careful text-setting would be largely meaningless in this context, and prefers to emphasize the spiritual and emotional aspects of his settings—“People should not always understand the text exactly because its meaning is encoded in the music … my main task is to work on people’s subconscious level, people’s emotional level.”

Vytautas Miškinis was born in Vilnius, Lithuania, in 1954, and is the Artistic Director of the Azuoliukas Boys’ and Men Choir, Professor of Choral conducting at the Lithuanian Academy of Music and President of the Lithuanian Choral Union. Although by training and experience he is primarily a music educator and conductor, his more than 700 choral compositions, both sacred and secular, have become increasingly well-known and respected in the twenty-first century. Unlike Dubra, who claims to care less for clear text setting that for a spiritual and emotional subtext, Miškinis’ works display close connection between music and text. He writes, “The essential for me is the meaning of the lyrics. The content. For that reason I accept any means of expression that refers to the meaning of a word.“

Like most current Baltic composers, especially those who specialize in choral music, Miškinis utilizes an essentially diatonic vocabulary, with much overlaying of harmonies and colored cluster-chords. His characteristic sound includes many perfect fifths and fourths reinforcing the harmonic series. Lithuania is largely Roman Catholic, and Miškinis was raised in this faith, to the extent that this was possible during the Soviet era. Although he does not consider himself a strong believer, he is drawn to sacred, liturgical texts for their universal ideals, their “unique poetry”. He sets primarily Latin texts, because they are the most universally recognized and accepted, and because he prefers Latin sounds for the singing voice.

Reviewing a recent CD compilation of Miškinis’ works, a reviewer in Gramophone wrote, “His music has a timeless and highly atmospheric quality. Textures and nuances are used with great perception … the effect on the listener is best summed up as being one of “contemplative meditation.”