blog.sinden.org

09 March 2023

Dancing about the architecture: Allegri and Howells and frogs

The conventional wisdom is that there's something architectural about the Allegri Miserere.

Not as many of us would even know Gregorio Allegri's name if it weren't for this piece and the way it's been passed down to us. The music he wrote has been so transmogrified through time, additive variation, and the stuff of legend, that it has become something else entirely. What began life as an Italian piece for Holy Week has become something rather different: an Anglican piece for Ash Wednesday; a concert work for really excellent choirs; the Ravel's Bolero of sacred music. When we refer to this work by Allegri we're really referring to a piece that incorporates work by Tommaso Bai and the hands of many editors.

So the work as we now have it and as it is now known and loved around the world is far from being the Miserere that Allegri would have recognised. The tragedy is not only is Allegri's original version long lost, but the manner of ornamented and embellished performance is also long lost.
—Graham Abbott, https://www.grahamsmusic.net/post/miserere

The piece is formulaic, relying on the structure of the verses of Psalm 51. Undergirding the structure of the piece is the idea of singing Psalm 51 to a plainsong psalm tone (Grove's Dictionary of Music suggests that historical performances of in Allegri's may have chanted these verses on a strict monotone, which would be congruent with Holy Week practice). Allegri provides two alternating settings for the odd-numbered verses: one for five voices, and one for four voices. The break in the formula occurs naturally and inevitably at the end: in the final verse (verse 20), these two choirs combine, forming a nine-voice texture.

But more than formulaic, the piece is architectural. Its steady volleying between the different forces, which we can safely assume to be different choirs (since they must combine to form a full nine parts at the end), creates its own kind of musical architecture.

In modern times, it seems customary to separate the choirs from each other, a practice that stems from an early recording (in English!) from King's College, Cambridge. An exaggerated distance for concert performance, or even liturgy, is not uncommon, with the smaller choir (usually one to a part) being placed some distance away: perhaps the high altar, or a side chapel, or a rear gallery. So in these performances, the Allegri Miserere reinforces its own structural architecture with use of the physical space. The architecture of the building always plays a role in musical acoustics, but here it plays out in a more physicalized, dramatic way.

In this very popular video sung by Tenebrae, there are three locations used, with the tenor soloist singing the chant verses from the triforium (I always worry a bit about his safety when I watch this).

Would these architectural approaches have been possible in the Sistine Chapel? I can find no record that it was (but sometimes you hear choral conductors claim that "this is how it was done"!). And my assumption is that it is unlikely that singers would have been permitted outside of their designated choir loft.

If an effect of "distance" was to be achieved within the choir loft, it could have been possible by placing the four-voice choir behind the five-voice one, though in this confined space, issues of sight lines and balance for the final combined verse become an issue. And it is doubtful if the choirmaster of the Sistine Chapel at the time had access to the David Willcocks recording of 1957.

But leaving aside questions of historical performance practice (as we have likewise left behind many historical considerations when it comes to the music), the physical spacing of the various elements in the Allegri Miserere has become common practice, and it is effective. It is a manifestation of the formulaic structure already present in the piece.

A performance (liturgical or otherwise) of the Miserere that takes advantage of the building can invite us to expand our perceptions to be more keenly aware of the space. But the value in this relies, to a large degree, on the building itself.

A performance this week of the work by Tenebrae in the immense Cathedral Basilica in St. Louis had the smaller choir and tenor soloist be peripatetic, which, to this listener, was more of a distraction than a feature. Couldn't they decide where to sing from? Where are they now? How did they get over there?

This brings us to another realization: however it was sung there, the Miserere that stems from Allegri is architectural in another sense: it was written for a specific building. This specificity of location is heightened by the legends around safeguarding this piece—and threats of ex-communication for any who dared take it outside the walls of the Sistine Chapel! The Allegri Miserere was a piece that was meant to be sung in one place.

The idea of writing a piece of music for a specific space is one often encountered in church music. Churches are unique and sometimes idiosyncratic buildings. The instruments and performing forces found therein can vary widely. So it is common for pieces of church music to have their genesis in a particular liturgical space. But with the ideas of transmission and publication, it is also often assumed that these pieces will be adapted to various performing situations.

Perhaps we could just change our language. It might be more helpful nowadays to refer not to the Allegri Miserere but to the Sistine Miserere, or the King's College Miserere, much the way that we do to Herbert Howells's St. Paul's Service, Gloucester Service, New College Service, St. John's Service, and so on.

Howells was particularly keen to write music that suited the space that had commissioned it. More than that, Howells seems to have been genuinely inspired by the buildings. There's the sublimity of St. Paul's, the airiness of Gloucester, the directness of New College, the darkness of St. John's, and so on.

A consummate craftsman, within his works, Howells carves out not only the floorplan and an immersive structure but all manner of ornamentation. David Willcocks compared Howells to

[…] the medieval craftsman, who takes enormous pains to fashion in stone some angel right up in the triforium of a cathedral — where it will never be seen, but he did it just for the love of it. Sometimes I feel that Herbert Howells lavishes his love in his music by having some felicitous little counterpoint in some inner part which may never be heard — but he knows it’s there.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbXUz8FREas&t=1854s, h/t Some Definite Service: The Unbelief, yet Half-Religion, of Herbert Howells (I)

It is, all of it, food for thought. So much sacred music is profoundly "structural." In a divine creative sense, God's blessing bestows order (conversely, cursing bestows disorder), so the very forms of music can convey God's blessing to us. The various spaces in which we worship convey their own sense of God's grace and presence.

And in all of it, there is joy in the detail. One of my favorite features of Christ Church Cathedral, Indianapolis, are two tiny bronze frogs near the baptismal font–creatures so small that it would be possible not to notice them even if you attended the cathedral your whole life. Like Howells's own tiny joyous details, there is, amidst the waters of Baptism–the waters of chaos and then creation–a divine herpetological rejoicing included in the architecture just for the love of it.

Labels: Allegri, architecture, Christ Church Cathedral (Indianapolis), Howells, Tenebrae (Choir)

— 14:19 | 0 remarks

01 August 2016

sound - architecture in

The arch looms.

I moved to St. Louis exactly a year ago, and I knew that there was a great big arch here. Everybody knows about it. It's the totem of this region, like the Space Needle in Seattle, or the Eifel Tower in Paris.

What I didn't know is that it looms so large. You can see it from many different vantage points throughout the city. You see its image plastered everywhere. And the arch itself is a sublime chameleon of the urban skyline.

On a dark winter day I've seen it as a foreboding bent rod of cold iron. When all is gray I've seen it as a careful charcoal sketch in the distance. In the spring I've seen it covered with gleaming foil. One memorable approach I saw it penetrate a persistent December cloud from underneath, the two arms thrust up defiantly into the late-night muck, the top of it invisible to me but still meeting together somewhere in the chaos. Of course it can entirely disappear in the rain, but it still lurks. You know it's still there. It lingers. It looms.

You live with the presence of the arch in this town. It is captivating. And maybe I'm a little obsessed with it. And being a musician I can't help but consider the sonic implications of its form.

When I moved to town a year ago I was sure that the arch was a Howells Psalm-Prelude: an "arch form", as music theorists like to say. Something that starts soft, rises to a thundering climax, and then recedes once again into memory.

But that's not quite right. This concept of the arch form assumes that the listener is taken along for the ride, tracing the sweep of the arch. And while it is interesting (really cramped and a bit bumpy) to ride a tram to the top of the Gateway Arch, this isn't really the point of the structure. And much to Howells's chagrin, there is no such thing as a smooth ride to the top. At least, not with this arch.

No, it is really something else. It is, as its name suggests, a gateway.

The gateway involves movement. Movement toward or away, or around. But ultimately (even if it is only in the psychological dimension) movement through.

And there is perhaps no piece of American music more suggestive of this kind of movement than the Passacaglia from Leo Sowerby's Symphony for Organ.

It is a new kind of "arch form", one that music theorists have overlooked. So today I hereby introduce you to the "St. Louis arch form", or, more accurately "Gateway Arch form".

Leo Sowerby (1895–1968) was a quintessentially Midwestern American church musician: born in Michigan, held sway in Chicago, died in Ohio. The construction of the Gateway Arch in St. Louis began just shortly before Sowerby was called out of the Midwest to the National Cathedral to lead the College of Church Musicians. The arch was inaugurated less than two months before Sowerby's death in 1968. But he prophesied it in 1930.

I might say that my symphony [for organ] has no "program" or extra-musical significance or intent. It is as much a piece of architecture in sound as any of the works of the masters of the Baroque, though I do not pretend to make any further comparisons.
Sowerby, in the liner notes for RCA Victor Musical Masterpiece Series M-894, a recording of the Symphony for Organ by E. Power Biggs, quoted in A Performer's Companion to Leo Sowerby's Symphony in G Major for Organ, a doctoral dissertation by Robert William Parris, Eastman School of Music, 1982. Emphasis added.

Sowerby wrote the Passacaglia first, likely before the rest of the Symphony was conceived. The work was completed in 1930 and published by Oxford in 1932.

The theme, remarkably, is in major. Most organ Passacaglias tend to be firmly in minor. I remember in an organ improvisation class with Jeffrey Smith that he asked that students bring in a ground bass in a major key (other than Pachelbel, which I think we identified during the class). At the next session someone had found something (I think by Handel), but that was it. Just a window into 1) how rare Passacaglias in a major key are and 2) how this Sowerby Passacaglia seems to be on the edge of obscurity.

The theme itself is an arch, and it's high point is in the middle (a rarity for a passacaglia theme).

There is a blue note when Sowerby places a natural sign on the second-highest pitch in the theme, an F. But this isn't by accident. If Sowerby is to be believed, he spent an entire day just crafting the theme of this passacaglia.

One of the best bits in Robert Parris's dissertation is Example 8, found on page 40. It chronicles the harmonic exploits of this F-natural at its every appearance in the piece.

The piece is a model of organic compositional development. But Sowerby guides the music's natural inclinations as only a master composer can do.

I think it's interesting to note the similarities in "organic" composition between Sowerby, an American, and Jean Sibelius, the famous Finnish composer. It's more intriguing still to think that the architect of the St. Louis arch was Eero Saarinen, a Finnish American.

The ethos of the passacaglia is telestic, teleological. It's rooted to an idea, but it's going somewhere. It has big plans. It is transformative.

But this is not your usual passacaglia. Composers so often become hostage to the form's own intensity and cannot help but build the music in one ceaseless, massive crescendo. Sowerby provides another solution.

In "Gateway arch form" we discover that the journey is every bit as important as the destination. At a certain point we "arrive", and then we stop and look up in quiet wonder.

photo by the author

We wonder about what we have done, and where we have been. We wonder, with James Agee, about the miraculousness of life together and wonder "who shall ever tell the sorrow of being on this earth." We wonder what we have lost, and what we will gain. We wonder about who we are, and who we will become.

So halfway through Sowerby's Passacaglia, we arrive. And it really is halfway; there's a symmetry to this, like the arch itself. There is a thundering climax. Massive textures. And then the variation ends abruptly, and a new quiet one simply begins, as it was always destined to do. And after a moment, we emerge from our unexpected contemplation and take a step through the other side.

We keep walking. The arch is a portal. It's not the destination. We have another place to go.

This is hopeful, expansive music. This is American music. This is music to accompany a great journey: one of an individual, one of a family, one of a nation.

This is sacred music. It is a great piece of architecture in sound.

Labels: architecture, Gateway Arch, music theory, National Cathedral, Saarinen, Sowerby, St. Louis

— 16:17 | 0 remarks

18 January 2016

St. Peter - Confession of

Today, January 18, is the Confession of St. Peter the Apostle.

Confession is a dirty word to many modern people. For today to be called the Confession of St. Peter it almost makes it sound like Peter did something bad. Spoiler alert: he didn't.

Liturgical Calendar Joke If he did, the liturgical calendar would surely include the Punishment of St. Peter on January 19. You can check if you want to, but I'm pretty sure it's not there. Okay, I checked. Jan. 19 is Wulfstan.

Next week, on January 25, it's the Conversion of St. Paul the Apostle. This is a little bit easier to understand. Everyone knows what a conversion is, even folks who aren't particularly interested in having one.

Maybe you've heard of these two fellows in tandem, Peter and Paul. You might even know that they're commemorated together in the liturgical calendar on June 29.

The liturgical calendar's linking of these two saints is important and has a great deal to say about the nature of the Church. It's not just June 29 that they appear together. Their two flagship acts, one of confession and one of conversion, complement each other and are commemorated exactly one week apart.

“You are the Christ”

Peter's confession is about who Jesus is. When asked "who do you say that I am?" Peter confessed, "you are the Christ" (Matthew 16:15-16).

Jesus seems pleased with Peter's response, to put it mildly.

[Jesus is speaking:] "And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven." (Matt. 16:18-19; pictured above, Jesus hands over the keys)

“Who are you Lord?”

While Peter passes this pop quiz with flying colors, Paul, on the other hand, is thrown into a state of confusion. There's a blazing light that knocks him to the ground and then a voice which prompts him to ask the question "who are you, Lord?" (Acts 26:15).

These two four-word phrases, "You are the Christ" and "who are you Lord?", are responsible for the Church as we know it.

This can be seen clearly in the architecture of the Cathedral of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in the City and Diocese of Washington. The entrance of this massive building is flanked by two towers, one named for Peter and one named for Paul.

Supporting the doorway to Christian worship and Christian life are the two great acts of these saints. And the space inside the Christian Life is filled by those who confess (in the Peter sense) who Jesus is and those who ask who Jesus is. We each must do both. And the Church itself is a space where this activity occurs. They are like the two Great Commandments to the church.

"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."

"Do you believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God?…"

“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

"Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?…"

It's important to note that not even Peter could always confess who Jesus was. He is perhaps better known for his three denials of Jesus than he is for his Confession. But if the Church's very rock can waver we must know that the Church itself is a dynamic space which is supported by this ongoing movement of those who confess (in the Peter sense) and those who ask. It surely exists for both, just as surely as the cathedral entrance in Washington has two immense towers.

And just as the National Cathedral proclaims that it is "a house of prayer for all people" so the big-C Church must also strive to live in harmony with itself. At any given point in the life of the greater Christian community there are those who are able to confess who Jesus is and those who are asking the question "who are you"?

The international ecumenical observance of The Week of Prayer for Christian Unity" is held in the octave between the Confession of St. Peter and the Conversion of St. Paul. The point being, I think, that if the Church as a whole is formed by and for those who confess and those who ask, this same impulse is continually calling all Christians into communion.

O God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, our only Savior, 
the Prince of Peace: Give us grace seriously to lay to heart the
great dangers we are in by our unhappy divisions; take away
all hatred and prejudice, and whatever else may hinder us
from godly union and concord; that, as there is but one Body
and one Spirit, one hope of our calling, one Lord, one Faith,
one Baptism, one God and Father of us all, so we may be all
of one heart and of one soul, united in one holy bond of truth
and peace, of faith and charity, and may with one mind and
one mouth glorify thee; through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen. (BCP 818)

Labels: architecture, Episcopal Church, National Cathedral, Paul, Peter, saints

— 22:00 | 0 remarks

04 August 2012

Indiana, Columbus - architecture in

I always try to tell people about Columbus, Indiana, and they always nod politely and try to change the topic of the conversation.

“Mediocrity is expensive”

So, I was pleased that it was the subject of a great story on NPR's Weekend Edition Saturday this morning.

Columbus, Ind.: A Midwestern Mecca Of Architecture by Susan Stamberg.

Labels: architecture, Indiana

— 07:59 | 0 remarks