A musician once told me an anecdote about hearing Bach
played by Frederick Stock (an early conductor of the Chicago Symphony
Orchestra—you’re too young to have heard of him…). Stock’s Bach was famous in
its day, and today would be infamous. The tempi weren’t slow, but sluggish. The
articulation was soggy, the vibrato was lush. And everything, of course, was
arranged—what did Bach know about orchestration?
Right—so today it would be scandalous, it would cause
shrieks of protest from the music purists. But in its day it had adherents. So
once, some early proponent of “authentic” performance on “period” instruments
had left the concert of the CSO performing Bach. And asked what he thought, he
said, “every note was wrong, every note was beautiful.”
I felt a little like that when I first encountered this
version of the Vespers of the Blessed Virgin of 1610, by Claudio Monteverdi.
Why? Well, we could start with the fact that it’s an actual LP vinyl
recording—yes, those eight or nine inch in diameter black things your
grandmother used to have. So you hear the crackle—though never disturbingly.
Then there is the slightly unsure way that musicians used to
attempt early music. It was often unsuccessful; music played through a “am I
doing this right?” filter. But here, in fact, the nod to early performance technique
seems perfectly unforced; the performance is assured, the music played
naturally and unapologetically. But listen for yourself, to one of the most
beautiful passages of the 90-minute work.
You might not have noticed, but you’ll smack your forehead
when I tell you; you’ve just listened to a 40-second stretch of music repeated
about a zillion times: on strings, on woodwinds or recorders, in one chorus or
another, in groups of soloists. It’s part of what gives the music its hypnotic,
lulling quality.
And actually, it’s an 8th century hymn called
plainchant, which just means that it’s one melodic line, with no accompaniment
or harmony. It’s derived from Gregorian Chant from the 3d century.
And the piece you heard, Ave Maria Stellis (literally “Hail
Mary, Star of the Sea”) is a traditional hymn to Mary.
What I didn’t know—time to fess up!—is that it’s one of only
two hymns that are specifically devoted to Mary (the so-called “Marian” texts).
Yeah? I thought the whole thing was devoted to Mary—why else call it the
Vespers to the Blessed Virgin?
Anyway, just to get this out of the way, here’s the second
Marian piece.
Well, I’m kicking myself—did I just say, “just to get it out
of the way?” I did indeed, and then listened to it and fell in love again. I
love, I absolutely love, the effect of the singer in the back of the church
answering the tenor at the front. It’s like owls calling back and forth, in the
night. And I love how the choir comes in, unexpectedly, and introduces new
material. Mostly, I love the echo of the church—this is not music for a concert
hall, this is a devotional work, and is set in its proper context.
OK—so we have two Marian hymns in the Vespers. So what else
is there? Well, there are five pieces derived from Psalms, of which the last
piece, the Audi Coelum is one. Here’s another one, the Nisi Dominus, from Psalm
127—so-called because the the Psalm starts, “Unless the Lord build the house,
their labor is lost that build it.”
And this piece is for double choir—which is to say that you
have one choir, usually in the front singing, and another choir in the back
answering the first. And here, the second choir is actually singing the same
material, just a couple of beats behind. It’s a fabulous effect.
Well, the Duo Seraphim is typical. It starts as a duo, and
then becomes a trio of three superb voices, subtly imitating (“responding,” is
the musical term) each other. But there’s something else that gives early music
its incredible beauty—the use of suspensions.
OK—think of “chop-sticks”; the first six repeated notes of
the piece sound awful. They're what we call “dissonant,” which basically means an
ugly sound. Though really not, because the dissonance causes this incredible
tension—which has to be released. In “chop-sticks” the next six repeated notes
sound great. (By the way, the following six repeated notes are consonant—the logical
opposite of dissonant—but there’s a problem. They cry out to lead to the final six
repeated notes. Try hearing it in your mind and stopping before final
six notes—it’ll make you crazy…..)
Right, so we’ve heard a couple of the Psalms, we’ve heard a
motet, we’ve done the Ave Maria Stellis. You may be wondering—what in the world
is this piece all about?
Nor can I tell you—Wikipedia says that musicologists are
still scratching their heads on what this piece is all about. Although the piece is
entitled Vespers to the Blessed Virgin, the motets are often derived from Song of Songs, and the Psalms are, well, psalms. There’s a school of thought that
maybe Monteverdi called this collection of sacred music as he did because,
well, Mary always sells. In short, it’s good marketing.
Or were the motets meant to be played separately? Or was it
just an “audition” piece—since Monteverdi was angling for, and eventually
reeled in, the position of maestro di
cappella at St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice?
OK—come clean. This piece doesn’t hang together as a
coherent, one-piece work for me. But do I care? It’s one piece of glorious music
after another, and if it was all just about getting a job, well, I’m glad it
worked.
The work also contains, by the way, not one but two
Magnificats; here’s one:
Alert readers of this blog will have noted—the performers
changed. Sadly, the fantastic clips above don’t come along with the Magnificat.
And, and you must be wondering—who and what were those performers from that old
vinyl record?
Regensburger Domspatzen, conducted by Georg Ratzinger.
Yup, Benedict XV!’s brother…..
