Program Notes - From Across Central Europe: Spring Concert with Organ

On Sunday, April 21 at 3:00 PM, we will be performing our Spring Concert at the Church of the Ascension, Fifth Avenue at 10th Street. Tickets are $30, available online at at the door.

When thinking of European classical music, our point of view historically has been focused on the tastes of the Western European-facing world. True, composers like Chopin, Liszt and Rachmaninoff wrought the distinct flavor of their native cultures into their music; Chopin’s mazurkas, Liszt’s Hungarian dances, and – in choral music – Rachmaninoff ’s magnificent All-Night Vigil come to mind. However, aside from the all-Russian Rachmaninoff, their works were still meant to fit into that Western European-facing environment. Central Europe has had its own rich cultural environment all along, though, and the rise of nationalism and ethnic awareness, especially in Eastern Central Europe, has broadened the musical mainstream. Kodály’s Hungarian linguistic heritage is distinctly non-Western European, as are Dvořák’s and Penderecki’s Slavic roots. From Dvořák’s late Romantic Czech music-infused world, Kodály and Penderecki take us into the 20th century and even deeper into their cultural-historical environment. Kodály – composer, pedagogue and ethnomusicologist – revolutionized music education. The Polish composer Penderecki broke with tradition, a leader in the avant garde movement exemplified by the Warsaw Autumn international festival of contemporary music.

In a program so rich in Central European influences, it seems the French organ would be out of place, but, on the contrary, it is an excellent fit. From the seasonal charm of French noëls to Bach’s complex polyphony, it is a model of stylistic and tonal flexibility. By Dvořák’s time the organ had developed into a self-contained orchestra – imitating strings, brass, and woodwinds. In the 20th century, the neo-Baroque/contemporary organ has also accommodated the Baroque revival of more recent years. Adding to its historically liturgical role, it has grown into become the ultimate solo and ensemble instrument.

As we venture into the musical world of Dvořák, Penderecki, and Kodály, enhanced by a great organ, we can hear how historical and cultural awareness informed their work. From expressive Romanticism to groundbreaking contemporary styles, they set the stage for an enormous expansion of our musical world, bringing to life the riches “from across Central Europe.”

Mass in D major, Opus 86
Antonín Dvořák (1841–1904)
Antonín Dvořák was already an internationally acclaimed artist in 1887 when he was commissioned by a close friend to compose a Mass for the consecration of small private chapel. Although the Mass in D major was later orchestrated, the more intimate version for soloists, chorus, and organ reflects the true character of the piece. Indeed, another version with just low strings added was still preferred by Dvořák over the later full orchestration. The original vocal ensemble was probably no more than 14 or so singers, further evidence to support using organ only.

While generally standard in its treatment of the Mass, Dvořák did take some liberties. The lyrical opening Kyrie starts right in, without an instrumental introduction. It follows the usual ternary Kyrie–Christe–Kyrie overall, although the second Kyrie ends by briefly bringing back the Christe theme. Both lengthy sections – the Gloria and Credo – demand syllabic settings to get through all the text. The Gloria must, of course open on a celebratory choral note, while introspective texts like the Gratias (We give thanks) and Qui tollis peccata mundi (Who takes away the sins of the world) are for soloists. Dvořák’s Credo also vividly expresses its text, drawing deeply on his colorful harmonic language. It opens as an unusual call-and-response dialogue of soft (small alto ensemble) against the loud (soprano-tenor-bass choir), reflecting the limited number of singers in the original performance; its theme has a tuneful folk-song-like quality. The Credo text is replete with opportunities for word-painting, and Dvořák does not disappoint: A jarring Crucifixus opens the pivotal crucifixion-to-resurrection narrative, the music faithful to its dramatic text.

The final two movements – Sanctus–Benedictus and Agnus Dei – offer Dvořák’s most unusual departures from the usual pattern. While the Sanctus opens typically grandly, perhaps suggesting tolling bells, the Benedictus, almost always written for soloists, is sung instead by the chorus. The Agnus Dei compensates, though, opening with a lengthy passage for solo ensemble. The chorus eventually joins in, there is a brief Dona nobis pacem – a treble-voice trio followed by the full chorus – and the Mass ends on a serene, intimate moment that perfectly matches its opening.

Agnus Dei (1981)
Krzysztof Penderecki (1933–2020)

Krzysztof Penderecki (1933-2020) was born the year Hitler proclaimed the Third Reich and died the year the COVID pandemic began. In the post-World War II Polish avant garde that arose from the ashes of scores destroyed during the war, his music is often deeply infused with an acute historical sense – witness his Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima. Penderecki’s stated purpose, though, was to go beyond documentation of events and people: The music was meant just to be heard, transcending literal interpretation.

The Agnus Dei, one such work, is the final Mass movement composed for the Polskie Requiem (Polish Requiem). Like the Verdi Requiem, it began life as a single movement. Through the addition, over several years, of movements dedicated to different events and people, it became an integral work – a cumulative historical and personal record. Composed in memory of Penderecki’s friend Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński, who opposed the political extremes of National Socialism and Communism, the Agnus Dei is the only movement for chorus a cappella, the human voice alone acknowledging sin and pleading for peace and eternal rest.

The Lamb of God’s theme, established with the opening in F minor, reaches a first climax on peccata mundi (the sins of the world), but its mundane harmony lacks resolution. The music recedes for a new start. This time its increasing tension, coiling tighter and tighter like a spring, reaches a dramatic climax. Its building blocks, mostly ordinary intervals in different keys, are crushed together simultaneously into a choral primal scream. After that, grief can only unwind to quiet acceptance, ending in F – almost where it began, but in a hollowed-out, open consonance, the minor third gone. Its resolution, embodied in the Lamb of God, is sempiternam (eternal), but literally rest-less: The word requiem is absent.

Laudes organi (1966)
Zoltán Kodály (1882–1967)
Fantasia on a XIIth century Sequence ...

Commissioned in 1966 by the Atlanta chapter of the AGO (American Guild of Organists) for its national convention, Laudes organi (Praise of the Organ) is Zoltán Kodály’s last published work. The title has a double meaning: Organum can not only refer to the instrument, but to a medieval, chant-based liturgical style using multiple voices. The three-chord motif permeating Laudes organi from the very opening notes suggests that style, medieval and modern woven together. The subtitled fantasia form is rooted in improvisation, one of the skills an organist must master. Also on display is the composer’s distinct style, using the more flexible pentatonic (5-tone) scale type he preferred over the Western 8-note octave – for pedagogical and stylistic reasons. Traversing various key signatures through harmonic twists and turns, the listener experiences a musical kaleidoscope of harmonic color. The modern instrument, guided by the chorus, displays its dynamic range and ability to handle both contrapuntal and hymnlike textures, even showing off its long-held, low pedal points akin to the sustained tones found in medieval organum.

The Laudes organi text, Audi chorum organicum, is a sequence, a Latin poetic form with roots in liturgical chant. (The Dies irae from the Requiem mass is a well-known sequence.) An aesthetic delight, it is also a source of information about medieval terms and practices: The much smaller (sweeter) medieval organ requires a hearty soul’s manually pumping the bellows (and being admonished not to stand still). The poem’s “choir” may refer to the organ’s function, to accompany singing. The neumis it mentions is a gestural early medieval notation, basically a memory aid, pitch and melodic shape suggested rather than definitive. Kodály quotes the original chant at key points, unifying the fantasia’s poetic divisions and musical content. At the poem’s end, the “Guidoni” praised is Guido d'Arezzo (c.990-1050), a monk who formulated the foundation of the solfege method for learning and reading music with far more precise notation. For Kodály, the dedicated music educator, who better to honor than his medieval predecessor?

Ultimately, Laudes organi is a partnership of chorus and organ. The finale sums it up: a quiet Fiat (“So be it”), then a typical fugue on the word “Amen,” its climax a magnificent chord progression uniting chorus and organ. Emphatically punctuating that progression, the organ – as solo instrument and laudatory subject – takes the final bow.

Miriam S. Michel holds a master’s in Music History & Literature from C.W. Post/LIU, with further studies at NYU, specializing in medieval and Renaissance notation. A native New Yorker, Ms. Michel joined St. George’s Choral Society in 2023. She has enjoyed singing over many years in choruses in Cleveland, Ohio, where she received her bachelor’s degree in music, and in New York City.

The Manton Memorial Organ – The Church of the Ascension

Completed and dedicated in 2011, the Manton Memorial Organ was a gift to the parish of the Church of the Ascension by the Manton Foundation, in memory of church patrons Sir Edwin Alfred Grenville Manton and Lady Florence Manton. The organ, by Pasqual Quorin of St. Didier, France, was the first French-built pipe organ installed in New York City and the largest French organ built anywhere in almost 50 years. The organ is noted for its versatility – for styles from Baroque through 19th- and 20th-century French and on into contemporary music. It is that versatility that makes it an ideal instrument for tonight’s program, both in the late Romantic Dvořák Mass and the 20th-century Kodály work celebrating the organ, the “King of Instruments.”

Detailed information about the Manton Memorial Organ can be found at https://ascensionnyc.org/worship/manton-organ/.

Singing Praise – Psalms and Canticles. Program notes for Fall 2023

On Sunday, December 3 at 3:00 PM, we will be performing our Fall Concert at the Church of the Holy Apostles, 296 9th Ave (at 28th St). Tickets are $30, available online at at the door. Following the concert, join us for a Holiday Benefit. Benefit admission is $20.

Worship texts take many forms, but it seems every culture has some means of expressing them in music. From the simplest intonation on a single tone to choral chant, from free-standing tunes to complex polyphony, the universal impulse to learn and communicate the texts finds music as its most effective medium.

Two particular types of biblical song have provided a wealth of material for musical settings: psalms and canticles. The collection of 150 Psalms has proved an immensely rich source, with a vast range of imagery and emotional content. The Hebrew name, Tehillim, means songs of praise; its root is the same from which the word “hallelujah” comes. The Canticles, on the other hand, are scattered throughout the Bible, between the Old (from the Psalms and elsewhere) and New Testament; the root there is in the Latin canticum – song.

Psalm 109 (110): Dixit Dominus, HWV 232              G.F. Handel (1685–1759)

George Frideric Handel was only 23 when he set Dixit Dominus, Psalm 109 (110 in the English Psalter). Like many young composers before and after him (including a teenage Mozart), Handel went to Italy to study and where he produced a remarkable series of sophisticated works that seemed to blossom out of nowhere. Three Psalms setting were probably composed for a grand Vespers service celebrating a major feast of the Carmelite order, Dixit Dominus among them. Perhaps composed not just for that liturgical use, but also as a display piece to show off the young Handel’s command of compositional techniques and musical imagery, the vocal writing is challenging throughout, from the ranges to the highly elaborate lines that even choristers must navigate, not just soloists.

The first movement, rich in skillful imitative writing, sets the scene with a perfectly chosen declamatory setting for the opening word Dixit. The composer later added a cantus firmus — a plainchant tune in long notes — that works together with and yet stands apart from the surrounding polyphony, a technique that had been perfected by the great Renaissance masters. The first time the chant is in the topmost voice, but Handel cannot settle for the simple superimposition, as he later migrates the chant to the bass voice, where it must function correctly as a harmonic foundation for all the music above it. That is a masterly stroke.

Two splendid solos follow this opening, one for alto, one for soprano. These are true arias, standing apart from the surrounding choruses. Their simple beauty seems to be for the sake of beautiful singing, pointing to Handel’s future as a composer of operas. What follows is in stark contrast: a striking choral invocation at the words juravit Dominus (“the Lord has sworn”), moving to the heart of the work. It builds a highly condensed harmonic bridge, twice interrupted by a response that fades away, as of a receding procession. This makes room for a double fugue — both textual and musical (the name of the priest Melchisedech opposite the declamation “You are a priest forever”) — once again demonstrating the young composer’s superb skills with both words and music.

Handel’s next compositional task was to suffuse the music with almost unrelieved tension in the Dominus a dextris tuis section. Particularly on the words in die irae suae (“on the day of thy wrath”), the voices cross and weave from tension to release —  the momentary clash of suspension and resolution. There follows an appropriately strict fugue on the word judicabit (“he shall judge”); but the dramatic tour-de-force occurs on the word conquassabit (“shatters”). The composer, through an oppressive and increasingly heavy vocal hammering effect, paints a vivid picture of being slowly pulverized. The psalmist does not paint a pretty picture, and Handel obliges with music to suit. The word-painting on de torrente, which follows, seems to express the shear weariness after that pounding, yet its serene beauty speaks of the hope implicit in its text.

And then there is the requisite concluding Gloria Patri. The psalmist’s story may be over, but Handel pulled out all the stops and threw every possible challenge at the musicians: long melismas, detached phrasing, counterpoint, strings of suspensions, octave leaps, and stratospheric ranges. The tour de force is complete. When taking into account the entire piece, we see not only a liturgical setting with dramatic imagery; we also see the great operatic dramatist that Handel was to become, a composer who knew how to display the human voice —  in solo and choral contexts – with all its potential for drama, virtuosity, and — above all — beauty.

Magnificat                                                               Nancy Galbraith (1951– )

Nancy Galbraith, a contemporary American composer, is the chair of the composition department at Carnegie Mellon University. Her catalog shows her to be a composer of great range, at ease with highly diverse musical formats, including full orchestra, wind ensembles, chamber music, piano solo, and choral music. In her setting of the Magnificat (the Canticle of Mary, one of four in the Gospel of Luke), Professor Galbraith shows her command of her art, her depth of understanding of compositional technique that is both sophisticated and expertly used to communicate effectively with her audience.

This piece has the feel of an architectural arch. The opening on Magnificat — the only time Latin is used — and the closing “Glory be to the Father” (the Gloria Patri) plus “Amen” offer immense pillars of sound over a foundation of a bass ostinato on E. Together they support the entire work. Within the pillars the inner movements build the arch proper, plus one movement that seems to stand outside (“As He spake to our forefathers”), summing up, before going on to the closing pillar.

Beyond the architecture, there are several unifying features of this work, which sets verses of great contrast in imagery and emotion. The composer's use of rhythmic flexibility, with its hint of blues, is also reminiscent of Renaissance choral music, which achieves a similar linear freedom, albeit without the barlines and changing metric indicators required by modern music. Adding to that historic feeling is her use of open intervals of the fourth and fifth, moving in parallel, that harkens back to early medieval polyphony; a clear example is in the second movement, where it comes in as an overlay but eventually dominates. In addition, the technique of imitation through canon — voices that follow one another with a given melody (think “Three Blind Mice”), but lacking the extensive development one would find in a fugue — is ever-present but never dull. The canonic subjects are wonderfully varied in character, combinations, and spacing in time.

The composer’s clear understanding of vocal writing adds depth to this architectural and technical framework. She explores the dynamic range of unison chorus, contrasting its full force at the beginning and end with fadeouts, or with soft but intense incantations (“and holy is His name”). Add to that contrasting melodic content of fairly limited range versus the expansive, lovely vocal line of the third movement’s “And His mercy is on them that fear him.” The chorus members as individuals even get to “speak” on pitches in a decidedly contemporary and intensely meaningful ad lib moment, on the words “He hath scattered the proud,” as they chaotically scatter and die away.

Nancy Galbraith’s Magnificat is a worthy addition to the repertoire of settings of this beloved text. Beginning with chant and going on to polyphony, a vast array of major works has been produced over hundreds of years, from Dunstable in the early 1400s to several progeny of J.S. Bach in the early 1700s to Penderecki in the 20th century  — to name a few. It is always good to have a fresh, well-crafted interpretation join such notable company.  

Miriam S. Michel holds a master’s in Music History & Literature from C.W. Post/LIU and has done further studies at NYU, specializing in medieval and Renaissance notation. A native New Yorker, Ms. Michel is a new member of St. George’s Choral Society. She has enjoyed singing over many years in choruses in Cleveland, Ohio, where she received her bachelor’s degree in music, and in New York City.

Music of New York City Composers: About the Program

Tickets are on sale now for our concert on Sunday, April 30 at 3 PM at the Church of St. Luke in the Fields, 487 Hudson St, New York, NY.

©2023 ANDREW SPINA

“O! The joy of our spirit is uncaged!” — so starts Norman Dello Joio’s Jubilant Song.

Originally written for a New York high school choir in 1946 and based on a Walt Whitman poem, Jubilant Song, is, in Dello Joio’s words, “about the stars, the Moon, and getting outside yourself.” With the same marked enthusiasm the piece has continued to inspire in its performers, thus begins our concert, aptly titled “Music of New York City Composers.”

Dello Joio echoes and juxtaposes feelings of rapture and spontaneity with a dynamic piano accompaniment and key phrases such as “the joy of spirit is uncaged.” The antiphony, or call and response, between the voice parts conjures images of unbound excitement bursting at the seams, signaling a departure from the polyphonic conventions of more traditional choral music that embodies the peak of New York sonic innovation.

Some composers, like Dello Joio, opt to look into the future and the excitement of the unknown. Others, on the other hand, use the past as a catalyst for their own work. Harry T. Burleigh, an African American composer, singer, and former member of our very own St. George’s Choral Society, sought to preserve and popularize spirituals—a genre of religious folk music that arose in enslaved Black American communities. Originally from Erie, Pennsylvania, Burleigh moved to New York at the age of twenty-six to study music, and throughout his musical career, he brought spirituals to the forefront as a powerful form of expression and resistance among enslaved Black peoples.

Burleigh’s Wade in de Water haunts us with its imagery of water—a symbol of cleansing and renewal. The ostinato from the lower voices, all repeating the titular words, evokes images of ripples of water suddenly disturbed by a human force. The rich harmonies and shifting rhythms create a sense of tension and release throughout the piece, underscoring the emotion and intensity of the lyrics as the troubled main melody floats on top.

My Lord, What a Morning awakens feelings of serenity with its homophonic texture, as only one melody stands out at a time. The voices blend evenly to bring out the juxtaposition of contrary chromatic harmonies that represent the text’s tranquil yet uncertain atmosphere. Ezekiel Saw the Wheel is a joyous piece that recounts the story of the prophet’s vision of a wheel in the sky. The intricate interplay between the soprano section and the rest of the choir in their antiphony is elevated by lively syncopation and energetic rhythms, creating a heightened sense of jubilation.

“The Dean of American Music” Aaron Copland follows Burleigh’s approach of incorporating traditional American sounds into his compositions. Stomp Your Feet, a choral dance excerpt taken from the opera The Tender Land, features the celebratory moment when the protagonist Laurie and her friends dance and sing in anticipation of their adventures to come. The titular exhortations from the chorus are sung in unison until the text descends into gendered stereotypes of the 1950s, where the newly introduced responsorial texture is split along the traditionally female and male voices. Copland uses the abruptness of ascending chromatic modulations to add a sense of surprise, which elevates the text and the emotional intensity in its climactic moments.

It isn’t always the case that a text is sung in a particular way—with intricate harmonies or contrapuntal texture—to emphasize its meaning. For instance, Manuel Sosa’s Tabula I is, in his own words, simply a “prayer in sound.” The Venezuelan-American composer and Juilliard professor interlaces a sung incantation with spoken dialogue, creating a sonorous yet disorganized fabric of sound. The hollow and open pitches sparsely coming in and out of frame are always accompanied by a spoken macaronic prayer, whispered throughout in a haphazard and insistent manner.

The piece transports the audience into a prayer room, providing an aural and transcendental experience rather than a deliberate musical performance, blurring the usual distinction between performers and audience. As you figuratively enter the prayer room to observe others pray, you immediately become part of the multitude, inwardly reflecting—no matter how different your individual beliefs may be. As such, the “audience,” you who are reading this, are now a part of this piece, this fabric of sound, without even having to utter a single word.

The act of praying, though often done in a group, paradoxically remains a solemn and solitary journey, one that addresses a request to an object of worship unique to the individual. James Bassi’s Two Anthems explores this particular contradiction in detail with the choir, itself a collection of unique persons and vocal parts. Originally commissioned by St. George’s Choral Society, his Two Anthems premiered in 2012. The original scoring was for chorus and organ. For this concert, Bassi opted to significantly rework the keyboard part for piano. There is also some revision of the choral parts, mainly in the first movement. In the first anthem, “Thee God, I come from, to thee go,” Gerard Manley Hopkins offers us his usual brilliant reinvention of the English language, prototypically modern, and highly personal. This is an ecstatic poem, filled with humility, gratitude, and spiritual fervor. The music reflects this in rhythmically charged and syncopated vocal lines, surrounding a serene central section, giving its listener a taste of its long and yearning melody that could rival even the Swan of Catania — Vincenzo Bellini. By contrast, the second movement, “O Lord, support us,” with a text taken from the Book of Common Prayer, is an utterly calm meditation. These are words Bassi had wanted to set for many years, having been inspired after singing the glorious setting composed by the late great Calvin Hampton.

While some pieces transport the audience to another space—a prayer room—others take their listeners to a moment suspended in time. Leonard Bernstein, a quintessential contemporary New York composer, changes temporal continuity with his classic Candide and its finale, “Make Our Garden Grow.” The main melody, a timeless message of hope, is passed around in small segments between the voices, reiterating a metaphor of a sprouting garden that has yet to grow. In a splendid example of a klangfarbenmelodie by the arranger, Robert Page, a former artistic director of the St. George’s Choral Society, each voice part seamlessly transitions the main theme inherited from the previous bar and delivers it to its successors. Each iteration of the melody, the figurative garden, is ensured by the previous generations of its survival, blossoming into the final anaphora of its main message, grow!

Today’s performances capture feelings and themes that ring true to any New Yorker. Whether it be the recollection of our youth, the constant struggle for equality and equity in light of our checkered past, or the desire to create something new together in uncertain times, these pieces unite us all. Music composed by New York composers, both near and far, is hence accessible not only to the general public and music admirers in the city, but also to its providers: the performers. These composers, acutely aware of the city’s musical culture, have gathered all the creative energy of what has preceded them and reasserted their own voices through their works, defining and redefining what it truly means to be a New Yorker.

Tyler Nguyen is a freshman member of the St. George’s Choral Society, as well as a chorister, pianist, and amateur composer. He has a background in academic research, with a focus on the orchestral and choral works of Felix Mendelssohn.

Notes on Missa Brevis

On November 21 at 7 PM, St. George’s Choral Society will present our first live-streamed concert, a performance of the newly commissioned Missa Brevis. Tickets for the live stream are now available. Here, composer Phillip Martin gives insight into his work.

Andrew Spina, © 2020

In the Baroque era, a movement of a composition was expected to arouse a single emotion in the listener. Contrast existed between movements but, by design, seldom within a movement. The Classical era changed that. Contrast became crucial to musical narrative, and this was achieved through contrasting themes and the interplay between them. Missa Brevis follows the Classical tradition in focusing on contrast. However, rather than use themes as the element of contrast it uses musical styles.

Lord, have mercy upon us.
Christ, have mercy upon us.
Lord, have mercy upon us.

The first Kyrie begins in the minimalist style. Soloists sing the Kyrie theme, a medieval chant, over soft taps in the timpani and an airy, sustained high G in the cello. Slowly, the style begins to change. The choir enters, one voice at a time. Then instruments of the orchestra begin to enter. Soon, the piece has morphed from a minimalist chant into a full-blown Baroque choral fugue. The minimalist style returns briefly, with the choir taking up the timpani’s taps from the beginning of the movement. But this time we hear the two styles combined, as the orchestra simultaneously continues the fugue. The movement builds to a dissonant final chord. When the chord drops away, a single high note in the cello remains. The cello then slowly descends to begin the Christe.

The Christe conflates three traditional forms. First, it is a passacaglia. The cello states an eight-measure theme, which is then repeated 14 times, serving as the bass line for the movement. It is also a ritornello form. A ritornello theme, played by the oboe, appears before each entrance of the soloists. Finally, as is the case in many traditional masses, the Christe follows the form of an operatic love duet. The soprano sings the first verse alone, the alto sings the second verse, then the two sing together for the third. The movement concludes with a fourth verse, in which the oboe joins the singers, playing the ritornello theme as a counterpoint to their lines.

In many masses, the Kyrie repeats after the Christe. In this mass, the Kyrie theme returns, but it is treated differently, incorporating yet another musical style: the Lutheran chorale. In 1831, in the midst of a cholera epidemic in Berlin, Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel wrote her Cholera Cantata to commemorate the epidemic’s victims. The cantata incorporated the Bach chorale “O Traurigkeit, O Herzeleid.” As a nod to a composer working in similar circumstances, this second Kyrie utilizes the same chorale. The movement begins with a new fugue, based on the same theme as in Kyrie I. The choir then introduces the chorale. The music continues with another fugue, using both the chorale theme and the Kyrie theme combined. Finally, the chorale returns in its original form, sung by the choir and superimposed over the fugue the soloists sang at the movement’s beginning. The movement builds to a final climax, then concludes with a return to the minimalist texture that began Kyrie I, fading away to the lone high G in the cello and soft taps in the timpani.

Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might,
Heaven and earth are full of your glory.
Hosanna in the highest.
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest.

The Sanctus offers a respite from the drama and complexity of the Kyrie, utilizing yet another musical style from the Romantic era. This movement would feel quite at home in a 19th-century oratorio. The Hosanna is a lively, playful movement. It combines the feel of a traditional scherzo with a technique from the ars antiqua of the 13th century: hocketing. The word “hosanna” bounces from voice to voice, with one voice beginning the word and another ending it. The instruments of the orchestra employ a similar technique, one instrument beginning an idea and another taking it over.

The Benedictus is similar in style to the Christe. It is also an aria in ritornello form—this time for solo bass. The ritornello theme is played first by the flute, then by the violin.

The Hosanna is then repeated. But this time the timpani joins the fun. The movement is extended by a brief coda.

O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, grant us thy peace.

In the Agnus Dei, we return to the minimalist style that began the mass. An almost inaudible timpani roll and a low sustained note from the double bass act as a drone while the tenor, then the soprano, chant the Agnus Dei theme. In the middle section, the usual roles of the orchestra and choir are reversed. The orchestra plays the thematic material, and the choir accompanies it with an ostinato. This ostinato incorporates a technique from the 14th century: isorhythms. Each voice sings a repeated pattern, but the patterns overlap. This results in the voices becoming out of phase with each other, with accents in one voice no longer coinciding with accents in another.

The mass ends with the Dona Nobis Pacem (“Grant us thy peace”), built from a theme we heard briefly at the end of the first section of the Agnus Dei. The choir alternately ascends, then drops back. Each time, it extends higher, as if slowly but persistently reaching toward heaven. The line concludes with a long, sustained “pacem” over shimmering strings as the solo violin takes over the ascent, carrying the music slowly and peacefully into the stratosphere.

Notes on Elijah

© ANDREW SPINA 2019

On November 20 at 7 PM, we will perform Mendelssohn’s Elijah at St. George’s Church in Stuyvesant Square. Tickets are on sale now!

Want to learn more before the concert? Here are our program notes:

In 1845 the Birmingham Festival committee wrote to Mendelssohn asking him to write a new oratorio for the 1846 Festival. He wrote back accepting the new commission, adding, “Since some time I have begun an oratorio and hope I shall be able to bring it out for the first time at your Festival; but it is still a mere beginning and I cannot yet give you any promise as to my finishing it in time.” He returned to Elijah, a project he began about a decade earlier, with renewed enthusiasm.

The first performance, conducted by Mendelssohn, took place on August 26, 1846 before an audience of two thousand packed into Birmingham Town Hall for the eagerly awaited event. It was an unprecedented success. Mendelssohn recounted the experience in a letter to his brother: “No work of mine went so admirably the first time of execution, or was received with such enthusiasm by both the musicians and the audience.” It was without doubt the crowning glory of Mendelssohn’s spectacularly successful career, but tragically it was to prove his last major triumph. A lifetime of overwork now brought rapidly failing health, and when his beloved sister Fanny unexpectedly died, he never recovered from the shock. He died on November 4, 1847.

Structurally the work is clearly influenced by the choral masterpieces of Bach and Handel, but its highly dramatic style, at times bordering on the operatic, constitutes a significant step forward from its Baroque predecessors. Elijah has many other outstanding qualities: the imaginative orchestration, the spontaneity and energy of the counterpoint, the variety which Mendelssohn brings to the recitatives to ensure that they always maintain the dramatic impetus, and the sheer beauty of many of the arias and choruses. Above all, there is no mistaking the work’s considerable dramatic impact, epitomized by the vivid characterization of Elijah himself.

The story of Elijah comes from 1 Kings 17:19 and 2 Kings 2:1. As recounted in the oratorio, Elijah prophesies that as punishment for worshiping the god Baal under King Ahab, God will bring about a drought to Israel. Ahab blames the drought on Elijah, but Elijah states that it is the fault of Baal worship. The drought ends when Elijah prays to God, who first brings forth a fire for their sacrifice and then rain to end the drought. In the second part of the oratorio, Queen Jezebel demands the death of Elijah, who flees. Angels comfort him in the desert, and he returns to Israel until he is carried to heaven in a fiery chariot.

Adapted from John Bawden’s Choral Programme Notes and from the NY Philharmonic notes from November 2010.

Notes on the Verdi Requiem

On April 29, we will present a joint concert of the Verdi Requiem with the Greenwich Village Orchestra, a 70-person community orchestra under the baton of Barbara Yahr.  Tickets are now on sale. Learn more about this piece of music in these program notes, by John Bawden.

When Rossini died in 1868, Verdi proposed that a Requiem should be written in honour of the great man. Thirteen leading Italian composers, including himself, would each be invited to contribute a movement. Somewhat predictably, initial enthusiasm for the idea soon gave way to all sorts of professional rivalries, and when it also became clear that the piece would be little more than an unconvincing pot-pourri, the scheme had to be abandoned.

In 1873 the Italian poet, novelist and national hero Alessandro Manzoni died. Verdi had been a lifelong admirer and was deeply affected by his death. He decided to write a Requiem in Manzoni’s memory, and began by re-working the Libera me which he had composed five years earlier for the ill-fated Rossini project. Though it is Verdi’s only large-scale work not intended for the stage, the Requiem is unashamedly theatrical in style, with passages of great tenderness and simplicity contrasting with intensely dramatic sections. Writing at the time, the eminent conductor and pianist Hans von Bülow aptly described it as “Verdi’s latest opera, in church vestments.” 

The first performance of the Messa da Requiem took place on May 22, 1874, the first anniversary of Manzoni’s death, in St. Mark’s Church, Milan. Special permission had to be obtained from the Archbishop for the inclusion of the female choristers, who were hidden behind a screen and clad in full-length black dresses and mourning veils. Though it was a successful performance, the restrained circumstances and prohibition against applause produced a somewhat muted reaction. In contrast, the second performance three days later, at La Scala Opera House, was received by the capacity crowd with tumultuous enthusiasm. The Requiem became an overnight sensation, and was equally ecstatically received at the many European performances that soon followed. Its British premiere took place in May 1875 at the Albert Hall, conducted by Verdi himself, with a chorus of over 1000 and an orchestra of 140. One journalist described the work as “the most beautiful music for the church that has been produced since the Requiem of Mozart” – a view that was echoed by most people. However, a significant minority found it offensive that Verdi, an agnostic, should be writing a Requiem. For them the very qualities which made his music so ideally suited to the theatre made it wholly unacceptable for the church. Today this difference between traditional sacred music and Verdi’s operatic treatment of the Requiem text no longer presents a problem. 

The work begins with a hushed and solemn falling phrase on the cellos, a motif that recurs later. After the opening Requiem aeternam (Rest eternal), the Kyrie follows, introduced by the four soloists. Here the operatic nature of the piece is clearly revealed, with its expansive rising melody and wide dynamic contrast. 

The lengthy second movement, Dies irae (Day of wrath, day of judgement), is a sequence of nine widely contrasting sections containing some of Verdi’s most dramatic and emotional music, notably the terrifying Dies irae theme with doom-laden thunderclaps provided by the bass drum; the on- and off-stage trumpets representing the “last trump” of Biblical prophecy; and the tender pleading of the Salva me (Save me). The Dies irae motif is never far away, but eventually the terrors of the Last Judgement give way to the heartfelt Lacrymosa dies illa (That tearful day), and quiet final prayer, Dona eis requiem (Grant them peace).

For the Offertory Verdi adopts a much more liturgical idiom, with a predominantly four-part vocal texture over a restrained accompaniment for the soloists’ Domine Jesu. Trumpet fanfares announce the exhilarating Sanctus & Benedictus, an animated fugue for double chorus based on an inversion of the opening cello motif, with colourful, scurrying orchestral writing 

The Agnus Dei sounds at first as if it is from some remote region. After the rich romanticism of much of the earlier music, Verdi presents us with an austere, unaccompanied duet, in bare octaves. The chorus answers, also in octaves but with the addition of a small group of instruments, and then, as the second and third statements of the Agnus Dei text progress, the music grows in richness and warmth. Lux aeterna (Light eternal) is a short movement for a trio of solo voices, sometimes unaccompanied and sometimes supported by shimmering strings. 

After the chant-like opening of the final movement, Libera me (Deliver me), and a short arioso for the soprano soloist, Verdi returns to the original Dies irae and Requiem aeternam themes. The extended final section of the work is another energetic fugue, again loosely based on a version of the cello motto. After a tremendous climax the work gradually moves towards a quiet end, though the concluding prayer of supplication, surely reflecting Verdi’s own uncertainty, noticeably lacks the final serenity and assurance of salvation found in most other Requiems. 

Few choral works have captured the public imagination in the way that Verdi’s Requiem has. The uncomplicated directness of his style, his soaring, lyrical melodies which lie perfectly for the human voice, the scintillating orchestration and, most significantly, the work’s extraordinary dramatic and emotional intensity, all contribute to the Requiem’s status as one of the great icons of Western music.  -  John Bawden

Notes on Our Spring 2017 Concert

On April 30, 2017 at 2:30 pm, we perform Dvořák's Stabat Mater. 

Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904) started composing his setting of the Stabat Mater in 1876 and completed it a year later. The death of his daughter, Josefa, drew the composer to this poetic and somewhat mystical text. The death of his surviving two children followed, bringing the composer back to complete the piece in 1877. These tragic losses resulted in this moving and highly emotional work we hear today.

Dvořák’s Stabat Mater is not harmonically complex, nor is it a difficult work to appreciate. It is, rather, immediately accessible to the listener (and performer). While these are often trademarks of Dvořák’s music, they are especially clear in this piece. The result is a piece that feels personal, often intimate, with folk-like qualities that make it sound familiar, even for first-time listeners. The only repeated thematic material is found in the first and last movements. Otherwise, each movement is a world unto itself, with no thematic relationship to anything around it. This makes the recall of the opening material even more striking when heard at the beginning of the last movement.

The vocal writing, especially for the soloists, is unique. Dvořák requires singers of ample voice to meet the vocal challenges of the phrases and to balance with the chorus and orchestra, but he also requires that these four soloists sing together as an ensemble. The second movement quartet is an example of sophisticated writing for a vocal ensemble, as are the opening and closing movements.

St. George’s Choral Society returns to its history with our performance of this piece. Dvořák has played such an important part in the choir’s existence, including the US premiere of the Requiem, along with early performances of the Stabat Mater in New York City when the work was relatively new. It is truly a wonderful way to celebrate 200 years of choral music!

Notes on Our Program

ANDREW SPINA © 2016

Our first concert of the season is this Sunday, November 20, at 3 pm at the Church of the Incarnation, 209 Madison Avenue at 35th St. Tickets are $30 online and at the door.

To get you in the mood for the music, enjoy our program notes:

“When We Were” is a song poem for choir, organ, cello and soprano. It is in three parts: "Then," "Now," and "When.” Each part consists of distinct roles: the nostalgic chorale reminisces memories; a solo cello emulates the voice of the present reality, and conscience; the organ records the passing of time; and a solo soprano invokes innocence and hope.

The text is driven by fragments from a poem that my grandfather, Dr. Dong Whan Lee, wrote shortly after the Korean War in ancient Chinese calligraphy—one in a collection of 86 poems translated and published in Korean titled “Field of Tea/Snowy Mountain/Spring Mountain.” This text depicts the devastation and displacement that war leaves behind, time unwarranted. These fragments are sung in Korean, written out phonetically in English for the choir.

In the eight minutes of the piece, the music pushes and pulls in and out of the feeling of the present and past, eventually letting go completely. This is depicted in the ascending line of the cello harmonics, which disappear on a high “E” tremolo, closing the piece.

The chorus holds onto the key of D minor while the organ counterpoints a dissonant B minor stubbornly against it. The cello lives in a sound bubble of five notes C, D, E, F# and Bb. Much like Messiaen, inspiration was found in the birds that would sing me awake at dawn. A rhythmic notation unveiled itself, working its way into the solo cello. In the “Now” middle section, the choir blows through organ pipes and sings articulated percussive sounds which collectively mimic a sense of the rustling of the leaves and wind blowing through the trees.

One of the many discoveries in writing this piece was that my grandmother was a church organist. This is how my grandfather met her. My mother, Moon Hie, the youngest of six children, grew up to be a soprano and sang in church when my sister, brother, and I were growing up.

I am especially grateful to Christine Kim, my beautiful and talented sister, who is playing this premiere performance on solo cello at the invitation of Artistic Director Dr. Matthew Lewis.

Unintentionally, this has become a deeply personal piece. My hope is that it might resonate with you in a personal way too, providing needed solace, strength, and peace—a respect for the fragility of life.

My dear friend Joanne Cheung, who took on the task of translating this poem, found in reaching out to her grandfather for guidance in translating, that he had fought in the Korean War. He currently resides in Los Angeles where my grandfather also lived.      Pauline Kim Harris

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Argentinian composer Alberto Evartisto Ginastera (1916-1983) is considered one of the most important composers of the Americas. He wrote Psalm 150 in 1938 and the world premiere was in Buenos Aires in 1945. The North American premiere was given in 1968 by the Philadelphia Orchestra, Eugene Ormandy conducting. This colorful work employs several interesting composition techniques, most notably polytonality, while some sections refer to Renaissance polyphony. A serene Alleluia grows into an outburst of joy, concluding the work.

Jean Berger (1909-2002) is known primarily as a pianist and composer of choral music. He was born Arthur Scholssberg into a German Jewish family. He moved to Paris in 1933, after the Nazis took power, changing his name to Jean Berger. He eventually moved to the United States where he established himself as a college educator. His Brazilian Psalm is an extended a cappella work, rarely performed in its entirety. An interesting mix of harmonic styles, it eventually settles into an Alleluia which concludes the piece.

The Missa Brevis of Zoltán Kodály is a tour-de-force—colorful, expressive, exuberant, and energetic, this is a masterpiece of the choral literature. Kodály (1882-1967) was a Hungarian composer and ethnomusicologist. In addition to his many compositions, he is known as the founder of the Kodály Method, an approach to music education. The original version of the Missa Brevis is the one heard today, scored for organ, chorus, and soloists. He later orchestrated the piece. Kodály remained in Hungary during the Nazi occupation. Amid the chaos of war, during which the Red Army eventually overcame the German forces in Budapest, he took refuge in the Opera House. During repeated bombings of the city, he finished a composition he had started years earlier: this very Mass setting. Amazing that in the middle of such chaos, such beauty emerged!