Sunday, September 16
Thrilled to be back in the loft with my dear friends and colleagues, helping to lead worship once again this Sunday. We have a wonderful season of music planned and, it should be said, are OPEN TO ALL regardless of prior singing experience. Join us!
Our introit is the same piece we’ve opened the fall with for the last four years of my tenure at Trinity – the Houston composer David White’s mystical, magical Spirit moving over chaos. The text and music convey the welcoming of God into our presence through song, with tinkling bells and a newly composed hymn tune that serve to remind us of our work in the choir loft and the joy we take in it.
The anthem is short and sweet (necessarily so, since today is also our first rehearsal of the new season!). It’s a harmonization of an Orthodox chant setting a line from the Galatians reading today, where Paul compares being baptized in Christ to putting on new clothes.
If you’d like to give us a try, there is no audition and no prerequisites! Simply email me and show up at 9:30am next Sunday!
– Justin Smith
Sunday, August 9
The choir will be back in the loft one week from today, but today, we highlight instrumental music, brought to you by our wonderful organist Shayne and our choral scholar Donovan, who also happens to be a marvelous young clarinetist. They’re offering three of the five Bagatelles by the twentieth-century British composer Gerald Finzi, a staple of the clarinet repertoire.
By the outbreak of World War II in Europe, Finzi’s technical facility as a composer had developed considerably; on the cusp of 40, he felt more in command of his skills than ever before. Although he believed Britain had no alternative but to fight the Nazi menace, he felt intensely frustrated at the prospect of looming war service which would interrupt his composing, just at this moment of new confidence. Nevertheless, in the spring and summer of 1941 he grabbed the moment for a burst of composition before he was drafted to work in the Ministry of War Transport that July. Among works completed were three character pieces for clarinet, using, according to Finzi, ‘20-year-old bits and pieces’, which he had been working on since 1938. Together with a fourth, completed in January 1942, they were given their first performance on 15 January 1943 at one of the renowned National Gallery daily lunchtime concerts that did so much to hearten war-weary Londoners.
A bagatelle, in music, means a lightweight trifle of a piece without serious or heavy musical implications. And though these pieces are fairly unserious, charming and light in tone, they are also wonderfully constructed and deeply satisfying, each embodying a particular characteristic.
Finzi was attracted to the deep-hued sound of the clarinet and, in the Bagatelles, demonstrated a highly effective exploitation of the instrument. The ‘Prelude’ (Allegro deciso) is the longest, showing the influence of Bach on Finzi; indeed, it might be likened to a two-part invention.‘Romance’ (Andante tranquillo) has a peaceful, slightly otherworldly character, with a melodic line in which triplets are prominent and a song-like middle section. The ‘Carol’ (Andante semplice) began life as ‘a little carol for Ursula Mary Howells’, composed on 16 December 1925 for the daughter of the composer Herbert Howells. It lay dormant for over a decade until Finzi took the melody up again for this bagatelle. Marked by a simple, tender clarinet melody, the final verse embeds the melodic phrase from the song in the piano as a tiny refrain, heard at the words ‘Christus natus hodie!’
– Justin Smith
Sunday, May 24
This Pentecost Sunday, we are trying a new style of worship. All music today is drawn from The Sacred Harp (1844), a landmark of early American hymnody also known as shape note singing. Shape note singing took root in eighteenth-century New England and soon spread to the American South, where it took firm root. To this day, many churches in rural Appalachia sing from this body of music. Today’s service is modeled on the traditional worship style of American South churches in the late eighteenth and mid-nineteenth centuries. Sacred Harp worship endeavors to be a truly democratic experience. There are no rehearsals, and there are no separate seats for the congregation. Worshippers sit in a “hollow square” formation, all facing inwards, so we can see and hear each other in true musical and theological equity. Traditionally, there is no conductor – rather, congregation members are invited to come up one by one, announce the tune of their choice, and begin leading.
Concepts like singing in perfect tune and blend are alien to shape note singing. This style encourages a bright, reedy sound, swooping between pitches, and general liberties with the notes themselves. If you don’t know the music, that’s fine – simply fake it the best you can, and there will be no judgment! We will also spend a little time before service starts to teach some simple tunes.
Shape note music’s power lies in its emphasis on a democratic, community-focused worship style in which all are welcome to praise God. This is full-body, ‘shout-it-out’ singing: the music of a young democratic nation finding its place in the world and creating its own hymn-singing style out of whole cloth. The harmonies are stark and haunting — raw, even. In Sacred Harp, you don’t want a sweet sound. As one shape note singer told NPR, “it might not be the most traditionally beautiful music in the world, but it can be the most powerful.”
It’s our hope that the story of Pentecost, with its wind, fire, and speaking in tongues, finds resonance in this very different, but deeply devout, worship style.
– Justin Smith
Sunday, May 2
Herbert Howells, a British composer, conductor, and teacher who lived from 1892 to 1983, used to refer to himself jokingly as the reincarnation of a Tudor-era church musician, referring to the period from the late 15th century through the entire 17th century, when composers were experimenting with new forms of polyphony and particularly benefited from Henry VIII’s proclamation that his devoted musicians were to write hymns, anthems, and service music in English rather than Latin.
Howells’s affection for the earlier period notwithstanding, his music showed that he was a thorough-going modernist, and his anthem, “Like as the hart desireth the waterbrooks,” resonates with his personal and artistic grounding in the early and middle 20th century.
Composed in a single day, January 8, 1941, “Like as the hart” is one of four related pieces that Howells labeled simply “Four Anthems,” but, as several commentators point out, they might have been better titled “Four Anthems in the Time of War.” His native Britain had just suffered through and eventually won (at great cost) the Battle of Britain, enduring wave after wave of attacks by the Luftwaffe. Europe was in the midst of widespread conflict, and the United States was teetering on the brink of joining the war.
In this tumultuous scene, Howells found solace in the words of Psalm 42, which he used as the text for the anthem. The music for “Like as the hart” envelopes this text with elegant passion. The anthem opens with a simple but powerful unison tune sung by the men’s voices, after which the entire choir comes forth with an intensely composed question, “When shall I come to appear before the presence of God?” The women’s voices emerge with a simple tune to convey the refrain, “My tears have been my meat day and night,” indicating that the psalmist’s suffering has been longstanding, leading to the final plea, “Where is thy God?”
– Justin Smith
Sunday, March 29
Today, we come to the end of our Lenten traversal of this marvelous work.
Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Christ, one of the composer’s most profound works, has its genesis in an unusual commission. Haydn himself explained the details of the circumstance in his preface to one of the first editions of the piece:
“About fifteen years ago, I was requested by a canon of Cadiz to compose instrumental music on The Seven Last Words of Our Saviour on the Cross. It was customary at the Cathedral of Cadiz to produce an oratorio every year during Lent, the effect of the performance being not a little enhanced by the following circumstances. The walls, windows, and pillars of the church were hung with black cloth, and only one large lamp hanging from the centre of the roof broke the solemn darkness. At midday, the doors were closed, and the ceremony began. After a short service, the bishop ascended the pulpit, pronounced the first of the seven words (or sentences), and delivered a discourse thereon. This ended, he left the pulpit and prostrated himself before the altar. The interval was filled with music. The bishop then, in like manner, pronounced the second word, then the third, and so on, the orchestra following on the conclusion of each discourse. My composition was subject to these conditions, and it was no easy task to compose seven adagios lasting ten minutes each, and to succeed one another without fatiguing the listeners; indeed, I found it quite impossible to confine myself to the appointed limits…”
Haydn’s task was to supply music to fill the intervals between these moments of silent prayer and the celebrant’s return to the pulpit to continue with the next of the Seven Words. The commissioned work was performed on Good Friday in 1787 (with “previews” in other cities ahead of the official premiere at the chapel in Cadíz).
The Seven Last Words comprises an overture-like introduction, seven slow movements corresponding to the seven words, and a musical depiction of the earthquake following the crucifixion. It exists in several versions: for orchestra, for orchestra and chorus, and for string quartet, all approved by the composer. They are remarkable, highly unusual, and almost experimental works, without any real precedence or comparable piece in the Classical period.
Over the six weeks of Lent and Palm Sunday, we will sing one movement each Sunday, and Nick and Rebecca will preach on each of the seven words. Regarding the use of “word” in this context, it applies to what are, in fact, statements (and one question): the final sayings of Jesus on the cross, which are spread across the four Gospel accounts, though not contained in any single one. Each movement begins with unaccompanied, chant-like singing of the “word” in question, followed by a long exegesis of its themes.
Today, the final word is the most plaintive and tragic: “It is finished.” In its brevity and resignation, it is perhaps the most poignant of all the words. But Haydn is not done when the Words are complete – he has one more trick up his sleeve. This is the great “Terremoto” movement, depicting the earthquake that rends the temple veil in two after Christ passes. Imagine sitting in that darkened Spanish sanctuary for more than an hour, listening only to slow, mournful music, followed immediately by this dramatic depiction of the earthquake. It must have been a powerful moment, and to this day stands as one of Haydn’s great musical masterstrokes.
– Justin Smith
Sunday, March 22
A reminder that this afternoon at 3 pm, we welcome the UNC Charlotte choir under the direction of Jason Dungee as part of our Trinity concert series. You won’t want to miss this! The concert is free, and we will serve dinner afterwards.
To celebrate, Dr. Dungee is here in the loft this morning to sing the glorious spiritual “Were you there?” for our Offertory.
Today is the fifth movement of our traversal of Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Christ.
The Seven Last Words, one of the composer’s most profound works, has its genesis in an unusual commission. Haydn himself explained the details of the circumstance in his preface to one of the first editions of the piece:
“About fifteen years ago, I was requested by a canon of Cadiz to compose instrumental music on The Seven Last Words of Our Saviour on the Cross. It was customary at the Cathedral of Cadiz to produce an oratorio every year during Lent, the effect of the performance being not a little enhanced by the following circumstances. The walls, windows, and pillars of the church were hung with black cloth, and only one large lamp hanging from the centre of the roof broke the solemn darkness. At midday, the doors were closed, and the ceremony began. After a short service, the bishop ascended the pulpit, pronounced the first of the seven words (or sentences), and delivered a discourse thereon. This ended, he left the pulpit and prostrated himself before the altar. The interval was filled with music. The bishop then, in like manner, pronounced the second word, then the third, and so on, the orchestra following on the conclusion of each discourse. My composition was subject to these conditions, and it was no easy task to compose seven adagios lasting ten minutes each, and to succeed one another without fatiguing the listeners; indeed, I found it quite impossible to confine myself to the appointed limits…”
Haydn’s task was to supply music to fill the intervals between these moments of silent prayer and the celebrant’s return to the pulpit to continue with the next of the Seven Words. The commissioned work was performed on Good Friday in 1787 (with “previews” in other cities ahead of the official premiere at the chapel in Cadíz).
The Seven Last Words comprises an overture-like introduction, seven slow movements corresponding to the seven words, and a musical depiction of the earthquake following the crucifixion. It exists in several versions: for orchestra, for orchestra and chorus, and for string quartet, all approved by the composer. They are remarkable, highly unusual, and almost experimental works, without any real precedence or comparable piece in the Classical period.
Over the six weeks of Lent and Palm Sunday, we will sing one movement each Sunday, and Nick and Rebecca will preach on each of the seven words. Regarding the use of “word” in this context, it applies to what are, in fact, statements (and one question): the final sayings of Jesus on the cross, which are spread across the four Gospel accounts, though not contained in any single one. Each movement begins with unaccompanied, chant-like singing of the “word” in question, followed by a long exegesis of its themes.
Today’s fifth word, “I thirst,” is set without the harmonized plainchant that all the other movements begin with; instead, it’s set to a plaintive tenor solo, giving it immediate poignancy. As in all the other movements, the degree to which Haydn is able to maintain musical interest, given that the music needed to be slow and mournful throughout, is extraordinary.
– Justin Smith
Sunday, March 15
Today is the fourth movement of our traversal of this marvelous work.
Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Christ, one of the composer’s most profound works, has its genesis in an unusual commission. Haydn himself explained the details of the circumstance in his preface to one of the first editions of the piece:
“About fifteen years ago, I was requested by a canon of Cadiz to compose instrumental music on The Seven Last Words of Our Saviour on the Cross. It was customary at the Cathedral of Cadiz to produce an oratorio every year during Lent, the effect of the performance being not a little enhanced by the following circumstances. The walls, windows, and pillars of the church were hung with black cloth, and only one large lamp hanging from the centre of the roof broke the solemn darkness. At midday, the doors were closed, and the ceremony began. After a short service, the bishop ascended the pulpit, pronounced the first of the seven words (or sentences), and delivered a discourse thereon. This ended, he left the pulpit and prostrated himself before the altar. The interval was filled with music. The bishop then, in like manner, pronounced the second word, then the third, and so on, the orchestra following on the conclusion of each discourse. My composition was subject to these conditions, and it was no easy task to compose seven adagios lasting ten minutes each, and to succeed one another without fatiguing the listeners; indeed, I found it quite impossible to confine myself to the appointed limits…”
Haydn’s task was to supply music to fill the intervals between these moments of silent prayer and the celebrant’s return to the pulpit to continue with the next of the Seven Words. The commissioned work was performed on Good Friday in 1787 (with “previews” in other cities ahead of the official premiere at the chapel in Cadíz).
The Seven Last Words comprises an overture-like introduction, seven slow movements corresponding to the seven words, and a musical depiction of the earthquake following the crucifixion. It exists in several versions: for orchestra, for orchestra and chorus, and for string quartet, all approved by the composer. They are remarkable, highly unusual, and almost experimental works, without any real precedence or comparable piece in the Classical period.
Over the six weeks of Lent and Palm Sunday, we will sing one movement each Sunday, and Nick and Rebecca will preach on each of the seven words. Regarding the use of “word” in this context, it applies to what are actually statements (and one question): the final sayings of Jesus on the cross, which are spread across the four Gospel accounts, though not contained in any single one. Each movement begins with unaccompanied, chant-like singing of the “word” in question, followed by a long exegesis of its themes.
Today, the fourth word starts in Hebrew: “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” or “Father, why have you forsaken me?” As the fourth of seven, this movement is in the middle of the overall structure, and thus of great importance. Unlike other movements, which move into major keys in some passages, this movement stays entirely in the funereal key of F minor throughout, emphasizing its weight and importance in the overall work. There are also some striking solo violin (or organ, this morning!) lines which eschew any harmony, twisting and turning by itself in poignant fashion.
– Justin Smith
Sunday, March 8
Today is the third movement of our traversal of this marvelous work.
Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Christ, one of the composer’s most profound works, has its genesis in an unusual commission. Haydn himself explained the details of the circumstance in his preface to one of the first editions of the piece:
“About fifteen years ago, I was requested by a canon of Cadiz to compose instrumental music on The Seven Last Words of Our Saviour on the Cross. It was customary at the Cathedral of Cadiz to produce an oratorio every year during Lent, the effect of the performance being not a little enhanced by the following circumstances. The walls, windows, and pillars of the church were hung with black cloth, and only one large lamp hanging from the centre of the roof broke the solemn darkness. At midday, the doors were closed, and the ceremony began. After a short service, the bishop ascended the pulpit, pronounced the first of the seven words (or sentences), and delivered a discourse thereon. This ended, he left the pulpit and prostrated himself before the altar. The interval was filled with music. The bishop then, in like manner, pronounced the second word, then the third, and so on, the orchestra following on the conclusion of each discourse. My composition was subject to these conditions, and it was no easy task to compose seven adagios lasting ten minutes each, and to succeed one another without fatiguing the listeners; indeed, I found it quite impossible to confine myself to the appointed limits…”
Haydn’s task was to supply music to fill the intervals between these moments of silent prayer and the celebrant’s return to the pulpit to continue with the next of the Seven Words. The commissioned work was performed on Good Friday in 1787 (with “previews” in other cities ahead of the official premiere at the chapel in Cadíz).
The Seven Last Words comprises an overture-like introduction, seven slow movements corresponding to the seven words, and a musical depiction of the earthquake following the crucifixion. It exists in several versions: for orchestra, for orchestra and chorus, and for string quartet, all approved by the composer. They are remarkable, highly unusual, and almost experimental works, without any real precedence or comparable piece in the Classical period.
Over the six weeks of Lent and Palm Sunday, we will sing one movement each Sunday, and Nick and Rebecca will preach on each of the seven words. Regarding the use of “word” in this context, it applies to what are actually statements (and one question): the final sayings of Jesus on the cross, which are spread across the four Gospel accounts, though not contained in any single one. Each movement begins with unaccompanied, chant-like singing of the “word” in question, followed by a long exegesis of its themes.
Today, the third of the seven, a meditation on the third word, “Woman, behold thy Son.” The text’s focus on Jesus’s mother occasions some of Haydn’s most poignant and expressive writing for the treble voices in the choir as well as the soprano and alto soloists. This focus on the upper parts is a unique highlight of the set of seven movements; its particularly anguished writing makes this movement a personal favorite.
– Justin Smith
Sunday, March 1
Today is the second movement of our traversal of this marvelous work.
Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Christ, one of the composer’s most profound works, has its genesis in an unusual commission. Haydn himself explained the details of the circumstance in his preface to one of the first editions of the piece:
“About fifteen years ago, I was requested by a canon of Cadiz to compose instrumental music on The Seven Last Words of Our Saviour on the Cross. It was customary at the Cathedral of Cadiz to produce an oratorio every year during Lent, the effect of the performance being not a little enhanced by the following circumstances. The walls, windows, and pillars of the church were hung with black cloth, and only one large lamp hanging from the centre of the roof broke the solemn darkness. At midday, the doors were closed, and the ceremony began. After a short service, the bishop ascended the pulpit, pronounced the first of the seven words (or sentences), and delivered a discourse thereon. This ended, he left the pulpit and prostrated himself before the altar. The interval was filled with music. The bishop then, in like manner, pronounced the second word, then the third, and so on, the orchestra following on the conclusion of each discourse. My composition was subject to these conditions, and it was no easy task to compose seven adagios lasting ten minutes each, and to succeed one another without fatiguing the listeners; indeed, I found it quite impossible to confine myself to the appointed limits…”
Haydn’s task was to supply music to fill the intervals between these moments of silent prayer and the celebrant’s return to the pulpit to continue with the next of the Seven Words. The commissioned work was performed on Good Friday in 1787 (with “previews” in other cities ahead of the official premiere at the chapel in Cadíz).
The Seven Last Words comprises an overture-like introduction, seven slow movements corresponding to the seven words, and a musical depiction of the earthquake following the crucifixion. It exists in several versions: for orchestra, for orchestra and chorus, and for string quartet, all approved by the composer. They are remarkable, highly unusual, and almost experimental works, without any real precedence or comparable piece in the Classical period.
Over the six weeks of Lent and Palm Sunday, we will sing one movement each Sunday, and Nick and Rebecca will preach on each of the seven words. Regarding the use of “word” in this context, it applies to what are actually statements (and one question): the final sayings of Jesus on the cross, which are spread across the four Gospel accounts, though not contained in any single one. Each movement begins with unaccompanied, chant-like singing of the “word” in question, followed by a long exegesis of its themes.
Today, the second of the seven, a meditation on the second word, “Verily, I say unto thee: this day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.”
In addition, throughout Lent, we will also feature solo arias from another great Passion work, Bach’s St John Passion. Today is the great Baritone lament “Betrachte meine Seele,” where the soloist laments Jesus’s suffering on the cross over a gnarled, dissonant accompaniment. It’s a perfect bit of Passion in miniature, clocking in at barely under two minutes.
– Justin Smith
Sunday, February 22
Today, we begin our Lenten traversal of one of the great sacred works in the canon.
Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Christ, one of the composer’s most profound works, has its genesis in an unusual commission. Haydn himself explained the details of the circumstance in his preface to one of the first editions of the piece:
“About fifteen years ago, I was requested by a canon of Cadiz to compose instrumental music on The Seven Last Words of Our Saviour on the Cross. It was customary at the Cathedral of Cadiz to produce an oratorio every year during Lent, the effect of the performance being not a little enhanced by the following circumstances. The walls, windows, and pillars of the church were hung with black cloth, and only one large lamp hanging from the centre of the roof broke the solemn darkness. At midday, the doors were closed, and the ceremony began. After a short service, the bishop ascended the pulpit, pronounced the first of the seven words (or sentences), and delivered a discourse thereon. This ended, he left the pulpit and prostrated himself before the altar. The interval was filled with music. The bishop then, in like manner, pronounced the second word, then the third, and so on, the orchestra following on the conclusion of each discourse. My composition was subject to these conditions, and it was no easy task to compose seven adagios lasting ten minutes each, and to succeed one another without fatiguing the listeners; indeed, I found it quite impossible to confine myself to the appointed limits…”
Haydn’s task was to supply music to fill the intervals between these moments of silent prayer and the celebrant’s return to the pulpit to continue with the next of the Seven Words. The commissioned work was performed on Good Friday in 1787 (with “previews” in other cities ahead of the official premiere at the chapel in Cadíz).
The Seven Last Words comprises an overture-like introduction, seven slow movements corresponding to the seven words, and a musical depiction of the earthquake following the crucifixion. It exists in several versions: for orchestra, for orchestra and chorus, and for string quartet, all approved by the composer. They are remarkable, highly unusual, and almost experimental works, without any real precedence or comparable piece in the Classical period.
Over the six weeks of Lent and Palm Sunday, we will sing one movement each Sunday, and Nick and Rebecca will preach on each of the seven words. Regarding the use of “word” in this context, it applies to what are actually statements (and one question): the final sayings of Jesus on the cross, which are spread across the four Gospel accounts, though not contained in any single one. Each movement begins with unaccompanied, chant-like singing of the “word” in question, followed by a long exegesis of the themes therein.
Today, we begin with the first of the seven, a meditation on the first word, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
In addition, throughout Lent, we will also feature solo arias from another great Passion work, Bach’s St John Passion. A dark and imposing masterwork like the St. John needs a moment of joyful reprieve. That reprieve comes in the form of the soprano aria ”Ich folge dir gleichfalls mit freudigen Schritten” (I too, follow you with joyful steps), in which a solo flute provides some levity.
– Justin Smith
Sunday, January 25
The ancient chant tune “Ubi caritas,” whose origins are unknown (likely from at least the fifth century), serves as the basis for the anthem’s message this morning. The lovely, comforting text assures us that where we find love and charity, we may also find God. The chant melody, with its gentle, sloping contours and haunting poignancy, has served as the basis for countless “Ubi caritas” settings by composers (Maurice Duruflé’s is perhaps the best-known).
The Anthem this morning is the opening and closing passages from a fairly recent setting of “Ubi Caritas” by the young, emerging Norwegian composer Ola Gjeilo, who is quickly becoming a hot property in choral music. Speaking in a musical language both new and ancient, full of that particular kind of Scandinavian coolness and sophistication, his setting starts with the chant melody sung unadorned and gradually expands to more modern harmonies and spacings, erupting in a kind of triumph on the words “Timeamus, et amemus Deum vivum” – let us fear and love God. It’s a deceptively simple setting, to be sure, particularly the concluding Amen, which is a lot more complex – and difficult – than it may sound.
– Justin Smith
Sunday, January 18
Franz Schubert’s Mass in G Major, composed in a mere six days in March 1815, is modestly scored for soprano, tenor, and bass soloists, mixed chorus, organ, and strings. Gentlest of Masses, it was intended for performance in Schubert’s parish church, in which his earlier Mass had been well-received. The Mass is compositionally conservative: the soloist passages are lyrical and unpretentious, the texture is largely homophonic, and the harmonies are smooth and restrained.
The Mass concludes with the “Agnus Dei,” which we sing for the Anthem today and which hopefully resonates with the gospel passage on the Lamb of God. Romantic composers seized on the idea of the sacrificial lamb in Agnus Dei movements, often setting the words to music of tortured expressivity combined with peaceful lyricism. In this way, it expressed Christ’s sacrifice for us and the peace that mercy brings. Schubert’s setting is no different, alternating between soloists and chorus and thus expressing both collective and personal pleas for mercy.
– Justin Smith
Sunday, December 21
This morning, easily the choir’s favorite part of the music we took over to Oxford in the summer of 2024- Charles Villiers Stanford’s setting of the Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis texts, which we sang for Evensong at Christ Church in that magical city. The Magnificat, frequently set to music, is Mary’s exclamation of joy upon finding out that she would bear the Christ child – perfect for this last Sunday of Advent. The Nunc Dimittis is a song of farewell and benediction.
This pair of settings marked a significant step forward in Stanford’s setting of these two canticles. As a composer, he fully assimilated Brahms’s symphonic intellectualism and sought to adapt this compositional approach to settings of familiar canticle texts. By bringing an instrumental orientation to the music of the Anglican liturgy, Stanford challenged the accepted norm of ‘choral’ primacy, in which the emphasis was on the words, the clarity of their delivery, meaning, and, most of all, their comprehension.
This is not to say that Stanford (any more than his hero Brahms) ignored the textual dimension. Still, other issues, such as the sense of musical and structural cohesion, came to warrant equal consideration – thus the Evensong service became a quasi-symphonic experience, as was the case with most of the Romantic century. To add weight to this change of emphasis, the organ was emancipated from its customary accompaniment role, assuming a quasi-orchestral character; here, it is equal in importance to the voices in the musical argument, helping add excitement to Mary’s words of joy and expectation. More than anything, Stanford’s gift for flowing Romantic melody is on full display here, whether in the passionately upsurging line on “world without end” in the Magnificat, or the gorgeous tune that opens the Nunc dimittis for tenors and basses alone. The music closes with a quotation of the famous Dresden Amen, bringing the work to a glowing close.
– Justin Smith
Sunday, December 7
Camille Saint-Saëns (1835–1921) was just 23 years old when he composed the first six movements of his Oratorio de Noël in less than two weeks in December 1858. It received its first performance, probably at Midnight Mass, in the church of La Madeleine in Paris. He added four further movements over the following five years.
Some considerable time later, Saint-Saëns expressed how he felt about the first performance of the work in 1858; he was apparently very pleased with it, particularly with the “superstars” – as he described them – who sang the solo parts. By contrast, the performance was not reviewed in the press, probably because the work did not correspond with the taste of the time: Paris in the 1850s breathed the spirit of music theatre, and in the liturgical realm, at Christmas it was compilations of well-known Christmas carols (Noëls) which had been arranged into suites or cantatas with different scorings which had long dominated.
However, in the years since, the work has found a comfortable place in the repertoire. In some ways, it is the anti-Messiah: where that Handel work is dramatic and bombastic, Saint-Saens’ is intimate, introverted, and elegant – perfect for the hushed expectancy of Advent. Saint-Saëns shaped his own work in a similar sequence of scenes from the Nativity—beginning with the angelic announcement to the shepherds, passing through meditative and dramatic moments, and ending in communal rejoicing.
The opening Prelude in pastoral 6/8 sets a mood of expectancy, its lilting rhythm evoking shepherds’ pipes and candlelight. Labelled “Prelude in the Style of JS Bach,” it has the gentle rocking rhythms of a Baroque pastoral scene. The Christmas story then unfolds through a series of solo recitatives and arias, reflecting the French love of opera at the time. There’s a magnificent Quintet with chorus, and the work culminates in a vigorous, resonant finale whose jubilant “Alleluias” ring out with unguarded joy. What began as inward meditation ends in celebration. If the Baroque oratorio sought grandeur, Saint-Saëns achieves radiance through proportion and clarity—a Romantic tribute both to Bach’s architecture and to the season’s sense of renewal.
– Justin Smith