We’re all for declaring interests in reviews
on MWI, and from the top I need to point out that my copy of Arvo Pärt’s
Adam’s Lament was passed to me via conductor Tõnu
Kaljuste rather than as part of the more usual big wobbly heap from
chief Len, so you would hardly expect me to say bad things about it.
All of the pieces here are premiere recordings or first recordings of
new versions reworked by the composer, so top value is ensured. One
of the most stunning Arvo Pärt releases from ECM in recent years
was
In Principio (see
review),
which for me has been something of an inspiration. While not having
as many moments of massive intensity and high drama, this more recent
programme delivers everything one could wish for in an ECM production
of this nature, with music of sublimely expressive spirituality and
consummate standards of performance and recording, all set in the deeply
atmospheric space of Niguliste Church, one of Tallinn’s many striking
landmarks.
While I perceive the mood of
In Principio as fairly dark, the
general impression one gains from a first hearing of
Adam’s
Lament is, despite the title, one of luminosity and grim, hard-won
hope. Rising harmonic features and transparent textures of pizzicato
strings contrast and play against the dramatic intensity characterised
by the opening bars. First inversion resolutions provide occasional
moments of startling harmonic recognition, though always sprinkled with
the distinctive and unmistakable Pärt magic dust. The work takes
its text from the sainted monk Staretz Silouan (1866-1938), the words
of whom are printed in the booklet, as are those all of the other pieces.
These are only given in translation, so it’s not really possible
to follow the text with the music which is a shame. Pärt’s
music is remarkably descriptive however, and it’s not hard to
imagine roughly where you are in the narrative as the work unfolds.
With many moments of breathtaking beauty and the sensation of time slowing
to glacial monumentality, this is a masterpiece which will haunt you
and bring you back again and again.
Beatus Petronius was originally for double choruses and organs,
and superficially has a similar starting point to Pärt’s
Pari Intervallo. The music soon expands however, to my mind sharing
one of David Sanson’s booklet quotes with the
Salve Regina
as a “slow and majestic procession”, a gently moving journey
into transcendent infinity. The
Salve Regina is a more substantial
and extremely moving and beautiful work, the subtly introduced colours
of a celesta mixing with the strings. At times this creates awe-inspiring
heavenly textures, at other moments sailing close to but just managing
to avoid the winds of Disney cheesiness.
Statuit ei Dominus is paired in Pärt’s words with
the
Beatus Petronius as “two sonic worlds, like the two
sides of God.” Monastic priestly plainchant is set against one
of the composer’s signature descending
diminuendi, the
choral intonations made stern and imposing through rolling timpani and
deep pedal tones. This forms an extreme contrast with the almost ethereal
translucency of the brief
Alleluia-Tropus, medieval intervals
creating a feeling of archaic timelessness against a repeating
Alleluia
refrain which teases with almost jazzy pizzicato strings. Temporal blurring
is another feature of
L’Abbé Agathon, whose string
textures have an ecclesiastical non-vibrato Baroque texture, the voices
tracing lines of plainsong simplicity. A further layer of expression
is introduced by the finely wrought solo parts, the soprano floating
above, the baritone a more earthy counterpart. The text concerns St.
Agathon, whose association with lepers relates to the origins of the
work. I’m not quite sure how Pärt does it, but his unique
touch manages to bring out flavours of Fauré and Poulenc while
preserving distinctively personal harmonic relationships and narrative
style.
The final
Two Lullabies are, in the words of the composer, “like
little pieces of lost Paradise - a small consolation combined with the
feeling of profundity and intimacy.” If you know the Estonian
spirit and vocal tradition then the first
Estonian Lullaby will
instantly chime in recognition with that feeling of outward innocence
and inner depth - and not without a healthy dose of good humour as well.
This is music with a smile, the final ‘missing’ note perhaps
an impish wink towards sophisticated wit and away from clodden lumpishness.
The
Christmas Lullaby takes the genre a little further, but has
a similar gentle directness at its heart.
This is an Arvo Pärt release which has everything going for it:
superb music superlatively performed and recorded in the atmosphere
in which it was created. Spiritual experience is always a deeply personal
business, and no-one can say what you will take from these pieces. It’s
enough for me that the whole thing, and certain moments in particular,
make me shed a tear of awe and respect - refreshed in the knowledge
that we can still create generously wondrous things from mean-tempered
scales.
Dominy Clements
