blog.sinden.org

Labels: Byrd, MacMillan, Muhly, Panufnik

This morning I began enmeshed in the density of Johannes Brams's Fugue in A-flat minor (that's the key with seven flats -- ALL of the the flats). It seemed, in it's quietly seething opacity, to be the perfect piece of music for the day. It served as the prelude to the noon preaching service at the Parish where I serve.

The Rev. Brian McLaren, the preacher at these services for the first three weekdays of Holy Week, preached a beautiful sermon about re-imagining the model of what it means to be human and how that relates to our faith. He preached that the old "ghost in the machine" model doesn't really have much relevance to us, and that instead, we are creatures imbued with and hungry for meaning.

("What is truth?," Pilate asked?)

We are, McLaren said, "sponges" for meaning. We are created from the Word (as is everything in the first creation story in Genesis). Words give meaning. And of course, in Poetry we see a heightened level of meaning. And he even made reference to last night's Poetry and Music meditations, calling the event "a baptism in meaning".

The day then slid toward a full choir rehearsal, and entailed some devotions before the copy machine, etc.

I tried to get a haircut partway through this, but alas, the building where my barber does his work was surrounded by fire apparati. There was a burning smell, and some light traces of smoke were visible. Something had been or was still on fire.

There was something fitting about this, of course: lots of red, the fire, the smoke, an assembly gathered outside, waiting to go in.

It's Holy Week again.

And so, I returned to the keyboard (the Qwerty one, this time), shaggy as ever, and replied to an email from a budding composer in the parish.

On the advice of Vincent Persichetti's Harmony, which I find sort of interesting as a place to start thinking about the subject, I pointed him toward The "Mysterious Mountain" Symphony by Alan Hovhaness. He said he listened to it, and I shot him back quick reply about themes, and "melodies", and how you need a couple of them to make Sonata Form -- all the gibberish that we couch the wonderful world of music in. Or maybe we just do that because we're seeking meaning from the whole thing.

What does music mean?

And then the rehearsal flew in like a Mack truck, and it was glorious -- except that I completely forgot to rehearse that wonderful six-voice Tudor motet that we're singing on Easter Day. It's okay. The choir will never know. I'll just rehearse it with them the next time I see them (which is basically every day this week, right?), and act like that was the plan all along.

And then I found myself tidying up here and there. The odd bit of organ part that I never really fleshed out for my new arrangement of such and such, and how do we end that service, and does the officiant need a pen light so that she can see the concluding collect?

And then tidying up led into full-on practice in a way that I didn't quite manage earlier. I threw myself into another dense score, one that has it's roots in improvisation, and one that I probably have no business playing -- at least not this year.

But the score is so meaningful, at least to me, and even if I miss a few notes here and there, won't it still mean just as much?

What do people listen to when they hear music in this place?

Do people listen?

Who knows. And then, in the car on the way home, Holy Week reared it's head again. There on the radio, as if it knew I had been talking about it, was "Mysterious Mountain". And now it was my turn to listen because it's a great piece for a young composer to hear, but it's also a great piece for me to hear. I had forgotten all that that celesta part does. It is mystery. The celesta plays what cannot be explained. It's the emptiness of the church late at night when everyone has gone. It's the grace to sing Byrd tomorrow, or the next day. It's the impromptu Holy Week gathering outside your barber shop.

It's the joy and question that is this life.

It is the song that is sung all around us and the meaning that we seek.

Labels: Brahms, Brian McLaren, Byrd, Holy Week, Hovhaness

We had a bit of fun with the musical selections at Westminster Cathedral last week, but the pope's visit to London, and specifically to Westminster Abbey was a big deal.

Highlights, from the Abbey's YouTube channel. The Dean points out the 20th century martyrs over the west door of the Abbey. These 10 minutes are recommended ecumenical viewing:

The choir sings some great rep for the service, solidly Anglican, of course. Beati Quorum Via of Stanford as dignitaries arrive, "Prevent us, O Lord" of Byrd as men in red smocks run around looking for something to do, and a new work by Gabriel Jackson that is really really conservative.

For me, Henry G. Ley's chant in D Major is the icing on the cake. This was the first Anglican chant I ever accompanied (to Psalm 29), and it holds a special place in my heart.

Prevent us, O Lord

Beati Quorum Via

New work by Gabriel Jackson

Sounds a bit dated, doesn't it?

Let's try again, shall we?

Fun! Sounds like he may have been eavesdropping in Westminster Cathedral at the MacMillan rehearsals.

Psalm 138 (Ley)

Stanford in A, Magnificat

I have to admire the work of Philip Stopford in getting so many of these videos online. If you haven't heard of him, you just have.

That is all.

Labels: Anglicanism, Byrd, church music, Ley, Roman Catholocism, Rowan Williams, Stanford, Westminster Abbey

See in bar 12, the trebles have this long melisma on the syllable “ge,” and they have to double up on the f? You have to do a little arabic glottal stop, and it’s just a tiny blink, but it focuses the phrase. Also, the deliciousness of f-natural to f-sharp right after that, with all those major and minor modes reflecting around the church: it was a very strange emotional moment for me: I wasn’t really sure what about it I was reacting to, but I was having a very serious reaction. Part of it was that while we were encouraged to ask questions about the text with the goal of understanding it, the implication was that the notes would make their own sauce without too many hysterical interpretive gestures. Even after a few years inside the liturgy, the wonderful subtleties of the texts continue to unfold, I assume, until death and beyond. The strangeness of the situation (a bunch of American 10 year olds singing a narrative about a Jewish mother 2000 years ago) and the ecclesiastical hush of the interpretation all gave me a serious shiver.

And this, friends, is why you must read Nico Muhly.

Labels: Byrd, church music, Muhly