Every year at Remembrance-tide a Requiem is performed in the church to remember not only the fallen, but those who have died. This year we were very pleased to welcome the distinguished organist and choir-trainer, Barry Rose, who 55 years ago, he tells us, was one of the Gentlemen in Martindale Sidwell’s choir at Hampstead. A remarkably strong group of singers had gathered to work for him. It was an evening à la française. We started with the Dialogue sur les Grand Jeux by de Grigny, who was organist at Reims Cathedral, very much in the reign of the Sun King. The French love their Grand Jeux, which could be translated as “full on” on the organ. There’s many a fine Gothic cathedral to reverberate to the organ’s full power. But in the style of a French overture, a courtly air couldn’t help creeping in, before the final flourish at the end. David Moore handled this with style. Next came Tantum Ergo by Déodat de Séverac, who was by way of being an aristocratic man about the-art-world over the turn of and into the early 20th century. The piece has a pleasant flow, but nothing particular about it to make one say “Ah, that’s by him! But the choir were already showing why English amateur choirs have built up the reputation which they have. And all after a couple of rehearsals! In a bit of a parade of well known Paris churches, we moved on to the Prière à Nôtre Dame by Boellman, who was organist at St Vincent de Paul. This very much took the line that one would be praying to a kind and sympathetic Lady who would appreciate a gentle approach, and was none the worse for that.
And, on our Paris tour, we turned to one of the most sing-along party pieces of church music ever written, by Belgian [not French] César Franck, who was the organist of Sainte Clothilde. Written in 1872, it was originally for a tenor, and your present reviewer remembers once looking into a church in Italy where the wedding of an older couple was going on, and one of their friends, still in his working clothes, had come by to sing this, in a very robust tenor, for them. But there was soon a baritone and organ version, and this was sung for us by Ed Price what would we do without him? He was again able to demonstrate his warm and committed style, his smooth legato, and very clearLatin. He kept it simple. And quite right too.
And now: The Fauré Requiem. Fauré, like Barry Rose, was a distinguished organist. A protégé of Saint Saëns, he took over his job at yet another famous Parish church, La Madeleine, that landmark then, as now, at a busy intersection, built by Napoleon as a temple to military glory, and looking as if it has never quite got over it. He was there for 19 years, and it was during this time that he wrote the requiem. Requiems were in the air across the 19th century. Berlioz’ Grande Messe des Morts [emphasis on the “Grande”] was written to resound round the dome of Les Invalides in 1837, before Fauré was born, but in 1868, when Fauré was still a child, we have Brahms’ German – very German, very Lutheran – Requiem with texts chosen from Luther’s splendid, and very singable, translation of the Bible, probably the only one to rival the King James. Then in 1874 very much in Fauré’s day, came Verdi’s Requiem. What a contrast! It was written to commemorate the Italian writer Manzoni, whose most famous work “I promessi Sposi” is a blockbuster – and so is the Requiem. Michelangelo has nothing on it ! Avenging angels, pounding choruses, and a Last Trump to take the roof off the Albert Hall! Even echoes of “Aida” can be spotted in the music. And there was Mahler, whom Fauré outlived. He never wrote a Requiem, but even when the tragic “Kindertotenlieder” are taken into consideration, there is surely no more chilling music about death and war than “Der Trompetergesell” when the poor drummer boy is accompanied by the relentless tread of the escort in the orchestra, with muffled drum [played by someone else now] as he is marched to his execution singing “Good night …..good night”. We do not know what he has done, but perhaps he might serve as a mini-War Requiem for all those soldiers, many of them conscripts, and little more than exhausted and terrified kids, who were court-martialled and shot in the First World War for being afraid.
But Faure’s Requiem is from another world from any of these. He wrote it because he wanted to, and it took him about 3 years. He said himself that he saw death as “a joyful deliverance, an aspiration to the bliss of the hereafter”.
Fauré, of course, as far as vocal music is concerned, is famous for his repertoire of songs. At times, he does not quite escape the trap of being a little too sweet, and particularly, unlike Schubert, who rose above it, if he sets inferior or sentimental poetry. But if he has a poet like Paul Verlaine to challenge him as in “Prison”, where the prisoner who can see the sky and hear the world outside from his cell, suddenly bursts out “My God, my God, life is out there!” or when he produces the elegant eroticism of “Claire de Lune” – “the sobbing ecstasy of the water falling into the marble fountain” he is right up there with the best of them.
And here he has a whole choir to play with. How he loves his sopranos! He uses them so much. It’s nice to know, when he died in 1924, he had his own Requiem at his funeral. Gentleness, moderation, hope, earnest prayer, characterize the whole work. In spite of the resounding opening to “Requiem aeternam” the choir approaches with restraint, until “”lux perpetua” where the choir produced some real light. Although the work is scored for orchestra it works very well with organ and the atmosphere of the piece suggests the choir dare to expect, or at least hope, that the dead will be saved. The baritone comes in at “Hostias” in a dignified offering of prayer, which seems to fortify the choir to add their voices. The Sanctus brings out the sopranos. What a fluttering of angels wings! You almost expected one to start hovering in the chancel. And here came the big Archangels as the men’s voices came in.
It fell to Olivia Carrington to sing the “Pie Jesu”. Every star choirboy, young soprano, or mature oratorio artist must have had a go at this. And every audience must have felt at least a little tearful! Olivia is a promising young singer and it will be interesting to see how she develops. She brought the simplicity to the music which it needed. It’s meant to be comforting – and it was.
In the Agnus Dei, Fauré once again uses his sopranos to illustrate eternal light, until the whole choir echoes it back in joyful hope. Libera Me was written long before the rest, and is a must sing for baritones who sing oratorio. This is a prayer of steady faith in the face of the Last Judgement and at the end he is left singing, very quietly supported by the choir. Ed consistently produced the right atmosphere.
And, last of all, In Paradisum. This is a Paradise of a sunny landscape, full of lilies. The gentlest of heavens, with the hard-working sopranos being angelic again. But everybody had been hard-working and their hard work had paid off. A fitting tribute to the dedicatees and a pleasure for us.