It seems to me that
James MacMillan is one of the most –
in fact, perhaps the most - interesting
and eloquent composer currently before
the public. He is a master of arresting
sonority and his music, though often
hard to assimilate quickly, is richly
rewarding to the listener. Though particularly
celebrated for some of his orchestral
music, such as Veni, veni Emmanuel
and The Confession of Isobel Gowdie,
his choral music is a very significant
aspect of his output.
Like the music of Messiaen,
an acknowledged influence, MacMillan’s
work is inseparable from its composer’s
very staunch and committed adherence
to Roman Catholicism. But MacMillan’s
religious outlook is also informed by
a strong social, not to say Socialist,
conscience - the Catholic Liberation
Theologians are of great interest to
him and an inspiration. So there is
an element of gritty realism to his
religious music, as is the case in the
major offering on this CD. I had not
been aware, however, until reading Paul
Spicer’s excellent notes, that Kenneth
Leighton was a strong influence on MacMillan
also - though that knowledge now explains
quite a lot. Spicer says of Leighton
- and of MacMillan - that his music
"... is passionately involving,
wonderfully crafted and for those with
ears to hear has the power to transform
people’s lives." At least one of
the works on this CD certainly possesses
that power, in my view.
Two of the pieces recorded
here, On the Annunciation of the
Blessed Virgin and Te Deum
were completely new to me. Indeed, both
are receiving their first recordings.
The former was written for the choir
of Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge.
It is a setting of a rather lovely seventeenth-century
poem about the Annunciation. It is laid
out for five-part choir and organ. By
employing long vocal lines, which are
often high-lying and by having the organ
accompaniment mainly in the higher reaches
of the instrument, MacMillan brilliantly
suggests the otherworldly radiance of
the event that the poem describes. The
organ part, in particular, adds a mystical
patina to the music while the soft dissonance
of the vocal writing imparts an air
of mystery. The ending is most unusual.
The poem ends with the words "Allelujah!
We adore His name, whose goodness hath
no store. Allelujah!" At the first
"Allelujah" the organ pedals
are employed for the first time and
the music, hitherto pretty subdued in
tone, achieves a brief, powerful climax.
But this climax has scarcely arrived
before the music dissolves into quietness
once more. The choir sings the final
"Allelujah" over and over
in a dancing rhythm in which the organ
joins. Eventually the organ is left
to continue its soft, dancing figurations,
which eventually vanish into the ether.
This is a marvellous and original piece.
No less original is
the setting of the Te Deum. This
was written to mark the Golden Jubilee
of Queen Elizabeth II in 2002. MacMillan,
whilst in many ways very respectful
indeed of tradition, also defies that
very tradition by penning a setting
of this great hymn of praise, which,
for long stretches, is subdued in tone.
Yes, this is a hymn of praise but in
this case those doing the praising are
suitably awe-struck before the majesty
of God. Imaginative touches abound in
both the choral writing and in the accompaniment.
The organ is used most resourcefully.
For much of the time it is played at
low volume. However, this means that
when it plays full-out the effect is
all the more dramatic. It’s a superb
setting and one that I hope many choirs
will take up.
These two works are
very fine indeed but in my opinion they
are dwarfed by the stature of the third
piece on the disc. Seven Last Words
from the Cross had a slightly unusual
origin. The piece was commissioned by
BBC Television who transmitted each
of the seven sections as a separate
nightly episode in Holy Week 2004. The
scoring is for mixed choir and a small
ensemble of strings. MacMillan took
as his basic text the seven last sentences
uttered by Christ on the cross. However,
in the first, third, fifth and sixth
sections he added passages of text taken
from the Good Friday liturgies. To a
Christian the events of Holy Week, and
Good Friday in particular, have a very
special significance and this is clearly
the case with MacMillan for he later
returned to this theme in the three
substantial orchestral works that comprise
Triduum (1996-97), where each
work is inspired by one of the three
days between Maundy Thursday and Holy
Saturday.
On Palm Sunday this
year (20 March) I attended a very fine
live performance of Seven Last Words
from the Cross given in Gloucester
Cathedral by a crack local choir - and
they needed to be a crack choir, such
are the demands of the work! The piece
made a profound impression on me then
– applause seemed almost an impertinence,
richly justified though it was. Knowing
that this recording was on the way,
I have been eager for its arrival. Was
it worth the wait? Without question!
The first movement,
‘Father, forgive them’, begins quietly,
almost gently, with the sopranos intoning
those words in an insidious chant-like
refrain over low string chords. The
tension picks up as the male voices
and violins enter, for their (different)
music is quicker, more urgent. Thereafter
the music proceeds in several different
strands of speed, melody, text and rhythm,
with each complementing the others yet
also vying with them in a most effective
collage. Eventually the music dies away
with only the soprano chant left audible.
The second movement
is ‘Woman, behold thy son’. It opens
with great choral outcries punctuated
by tellingly dramatic silences. This
slow and relatively straightforward
material continues while the string
accompaniment builds in fervour and
complexity, growing faster all the time.
Only at the very end, when the choir
sing "behold thy mother" is
new vocal material introduced.
The next movement mirrors
a crucial moment in the Catholic liturgy
of Good Friday, the point at which the
celebrant unveils a crucifix to the
congregation in three stages. At each
stage he sings "Ecce lignum crucem"
("behold the wood of the cross")
and each time the singing is supposed
to be at a higher pitch. The people
respond by singing "venite adoremus"
("come, let us adore"). So
in MacMillan’s setting the words "ecce
lignum" are intoned three times
in succession by a pair of soloists,
firstly sepulchral basses, then tenors
and finally altos. The choral response
is warmly lyrical, almost romantic,
accompanied by soft strings and a lovely
solo violin line. I can only imagine
that MacMillan here wanted to convey
joy and thankfulness at the sacrifice
of Christ on the cross. After this material
has been presented three times comes
a remarkable passage in which the strings
elaborate on the "venite adoremus"
music. As Paul Spicer says, the string
writing here is right in the great tradition
of English writing for strings, with
Tippett a particular point of reference.
After that interlude we finally hear
the words of Christ. "Verily I
say unto thee" sung in alt
by the sopranos to music that is ethereal
and most effective, while underneath
them the violins recall (I think) the
"venite adoremus" music once
more.
The fourth section,
‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani’ is begun
sepulchrally by first the string basses
and then by their vocal counterparts.
Gradually MacMillan takes the music
up into lofty registers by adding higher
voices, both vocal and instrumental.
As he does so he increases the intensity.
As the textures expand the music acquires
what I can only describe as an austere
richness. The vocal lines are highly
decorated and this adds tremendously
to their expressive effect. At its peak
this is really anguished music. Eventually,
however, the music unwinds down into
the depths from which it originated.
We have heard a musical and emotional
arch.
The fifth movement,
‘I thirst’, also begins in the choral
depths. The words "I thirst"
are sung by different sections of the
choir, and thus at different pitches,
against sustained string chords. From
time to time there are rapid interjections
of repeated notes from either the singers
or the players but despite these interventions
I find there is a prevailing sense of
stillness.
The penultimate movement,
"It is finished", has a violent,
even barbaric opening as repeated, jagged
and dissonant string chords depict graphically
the nails being driven into Christ’s
hands and feet. But after this the sopranos
sing words from the Good Friday responsories
for Tenebrae while again and again the
other voices sing the words "it
is finished". This is music of
desolate beauty. It’s also serene and
dignified. Towards the end the vicious
string chords return, pitted against
the sopranos, and in the end it is the
strings that have the last word.
The final movement
follows without a break. There is a
great three-fold choral outburst on
the word "Father" but the
choir quickly sinks down, as if in exhaustion.
Remarkably, though the last movement
plays for 8’10" in this performance,
the choir is silent after 1’13".
It is as if words are inadequate and
MacMillan can only conclude his contemplation
of this event through "pure"
music. The string music with which the
work concludes is quite extraordinary.
There is a pronounced influence from
traditional Scottish laments and MacMillan’s
music summons up, for this listener
at least, a bleak vista (a desolate
Scottish moor? Calvary?). The orchestra
meditates on the music that has gone
before, recalling (I think) fragments
of material heard earlier. This is another
passage of desolate beauty. Gradually
the music dies away almost into nothingness.
We hear fragments, wisps of music, punctuated
by silences that become ever more pregnant
with meaning. The music is infinitely
sad yet, for me, the harmony, spare
though it is, has just a trace of warmth,
hinting, perhaps, at the hope that,
for Christian believers, comes out of
the horrors of Good Friday. Though in
many ways the context is entirely different
I was put in mind of the last page or
so of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony. Eventually
the music fades away completely and
the listener is left to meditate.
Four months ago in
Gloucester Cathedral my first encounter
with Seven Last Words from the Cross
made a profound impression on me.
I suspected I had heard a masterpiece
but could not be sure after one hearing.
Revisiting the work now at more leisure
I am absolutely convinced that it is
indeed a masterpiece. It’s an extraordinarily
eloquent, harrowing, disturbing and
very beautiful work. It is also a profound
utterance in which the already powerful
imagery in the texts has been rendered
even more potent by the way in which
the music has been married with the
words.
No praise is too high
for Stephen Layton, his choir and the
players of the Britten Sinfonia. They
give a committed performance of stunning
virtuosity and the singers are no less
successful and authoritative in the
other two pieces. They are excellently
served by the engineers, who produce
a most satisfying and truthful sound.
Paul Spicer’s notes offer a splendid
introduction to the music and the full
texts are provided. I just have one
small quibble. Seven Last Words is
the first piece on the disc, followed
by the other two. For all sorts of reasons,
not least the fact that Seven Last
Words ends so quietly, I would have
placed it last. One just wants silence
after such music.
This is a magnificent
and very important disc. I know it will
feature as one of my Recordings of 2005
in due course. For now I congratulate
Hyperion and the performers on an issue,
which is an unqualified success, and
I recommend this CD not just enthusiastically
but urgently.
John Quinn
Polyphony; ** James Vivian (organ) 
