If you’ve ever sung in a choir, you’ll know—there are
usually just four parts. The sopranos, the high female voices; the altos, the
low female voices; the tenors, the high male voices; and the basses, the lowest
male voices.
So what would it sound like if you had not one choir singing
but eight? And one choir was behind you, another choir was in front of you, and
there were choirs on all sounds—choirs signing melodic elements back and forth,
echoing each other?
Well, that’s what one guy, Thomas Tallis, tinkered around
with in 1570, perhaps as a result of a challenge from the fourth Duke of
Norfolk, Thomas Howard. Oh, but Tallis decided to make each choir five voices,
instead of the usual four. So here’s the math—8 x 5= 40. Yup—forty singers
singing separate, individual parts, though occasionally joining together.
Now, if you remember your high school choir, there was
usually one guy who knew what he was doing—he played the piano and could read
music—and the rest of us sort of followed him. To do this piece, you need forty
of those guys who are so strong musically that they can stand alone and sing a
unique part. What does that mean?
It’s not a piece of music you’re going to hear very often in
concert.
Fortunately, somebody came along and invented the iPod or
the mp3 file or whatever it is you’re using. And that means you can hear the
following clip from YouTube.
I have never
put my hope in any other but in You,
O God of
Israel
who can show
both anger
and
graciousness,
and who
absolves all the sins of suffering man
Lord God,
Creator of
Heaven and Earth
be mindful of
our lowliness
Tallis lived in
tempestuous times. Born a Catholic, he lived through the dissolution of the
monasteries, the persecution of Catholics, the establishment of the Church of
England, and managed—through it all—both to remain a Catholic and to remain
alive and working. In fact, he served as court composer for every monarch from
Henry VIII to Elizabeth I. So when a protestant king reigned, he wrote in
English; when a Catholic queen reigned, he switched back to Latin. (Elizabeth,
who was reigning at the time Tallis composed Spem, was basically indifferent
about the whole thing, unlike Henry or—God forbid—Mary…..)
Elizabeth must
have thought a lot of Tallis—she gave him a manor in Kent, and a nice income.
Better, she gave him and his contemporary, William Byrd, a 21-year
Monopoly to publish and sell music—a deal unique at the
time. And Byrd, by the way, is a composer fully as good as Tallis. Here’s a
wonderful song that Byrd composed when Tallis died.
But first, the lyrics:
whom Music's
lore delighteth,
Come down
from crystal heav'ns above
to earth
where sorrow dwelleth,
In mourning weeds,
with tears in eyes:
Tallis is dead,
and Music dies.
Must have been
quite a guy, hunh?
But getting
back to Tallis, where did he get the idea of the 40 voice motet?
Apparently from
a guy named Alessandro Striggio, born in Mantua, educated in Florence, who
worked for the Medici, as well as the Bavarian Court. But he also traveled to
England, where he undoubtedly met Tallis. And he may have had the motet for
forty voices, Ecce Beatam Lucem, with
him. The two, as you can hear below, are remarkably similar in feeling.
Lastly, let’s
turn back to William Byrd, the student and later partner of Tallis. Byrd wrote
an enormous amount of music, and in many forms—masses, consort music, sacred
music, song-books, music for the virginal, an early keyboard somewhat like a
harpsichord.
Here’s one of
his most famous works—the Ave Verum
Corpus.
Hail, true
Body, born
of the Virgin
Mary,
who having
truly suffered, was sacrificed
on the cross
for mankind,
whose pierced
side
flowed with
water and blood:
May it be for
us a foretaste [of the Heavenly banquet]
in the trial
of death.
O sweet
Jesus, O pious Jesus, O Jesus, son of Mary,
have mercy on
me. Amen.
