Lincoln Center's recently redesigned, renovated, refurbished and reopened Alice Tully Hall still has that new concert hall smell, which is something like fresh wood, glaze and felt. Get there soon, before the uptown elite smells it all up. Typically, the venue hosts chamber music performances, and its acoustics have been tailor-fit to resonate with small sounds. It was an ideal spot to see and hear the Phoenix and Kansas City Chorales, sister choirs under Charles Bruffy's shared direction, which performed together there last Monday with a program of 19th and 20th centuries vocal music — mostly selections from their recent CD releases.
The program's highlight was its opening piece, Jaakko MÃ¤ntyjÃ¤rvi's
"Canticum Calamitatis Maritimae" (1997), because it did the most to
stretch the boundaries of traditional choral music. Written to
commemorate the 1994 shipwreck of the Estonia, in which 910
people perished traveling from the boat's namesake country to
Stockholm, the piece inventively used human voices to evoke water: it
opened with sharp exhales that sounded like crashing surf; later, its
mellifluous harmonies conjured lapping waves; and the piece started and
ended with the chorus whispering, which brought to mind both ripples
and the final mutters of the drowning. It was a poignant, haunting
piece; Mr. MÃ¤ntyjÃ¤rvi was in the audience — all the way from Finland! —
and though he received hearty applause he deserved more.
The Chorales followed the piece with something more traditional: Josef Rheinberger's "Three Sacred Songs". Known primarily for his works for organ, that instrument most readily associated with the divine, Rheinberger here was (yuk yuk) writing for different sets of pipes; the songs sounded like something straight out of the church, if your church had two world-class choirs. (And if you
readers went to church.) That is, it was almost a religious experience,
fulfilling one of music's earliest roles: by working its way through
melodic uncertainty into the catharsis of major-key resolution, I
became convinced, if only momentarily, of the existence of God, a deity
so loving he'd allow notes to be arranged with such harmonic
The subsequent piece, selections from Alexander Grechaninov's "Passion Week" (ca. 1912) possessed a similarly conventional beauty as Rheinberger's work, but it raised a question: how much consecutive choral music can the ordinary listener take before he gets bored — before it really starts to feel like church? A bit more than I suspected, actually, as soon as I stopped taking notes and closed my eyes. Choral music asks that the listener surrender to it; to appreciate it, particularly in large quantities, it helps to crawl inside the spaces between the octaval harmonies, to nestle in psychically. Others, of course, disagree: my row had thinned out a bit after intermission.
Those quitters would have been advised to stick around: post-intermission's "Mass for Double Choir," by Frank Martin, was second only to the MÃ¤ntyjÃ¤rvi piece. (Hear the concluding "Agnes Deo".) Composed a bit later than the two preceding works, ca. 1926, it boasted more complexity: there were more dynamic and rhythmic shifts, more complicated chords and more harmonic build-ups. Sung to "Gloria in Excelsis Deo" and The Nicene Creed (and other texts), it used its libretto in unexpected ways: when invoking the Lord ("heavenly King, God the Father almighty") the chorus sounded afraid rather than celebratory, building up to something like suppliant awe. On particular words — like "crucifi!" — the voices exploded.
"I am so happy you liked that," music director Bruffy said when the applause died down. (He had a comical habit of refusing to signal the end of the piece for many seconds after the chorales had stopped producing sound; before intermission, it provoked a woman in the audience to release a devious giggle, one I assume the rest of us were successfully stifling.) The chorales offered an encore in honor of St. Patrick's Day: the women sang an Irish folk song, "'P' Stands for Paddy, I Suppose," while the men performed what sounded like a pulsatingly tribal Gaelic fight song. The performances were competent, but smacked a bit of blue-hair populism: something you'd expect from a PBS pledge drive. The two groups proved capable of producing a stunning tapestry of tones, a thick cloud of sacred voices, reverberating through the hall. Like a priest with a banjo, they were above such crassly folksy Irishisms.