Brookline’s United Parish, which hosted last night’s concert, was indeed the perfect venue for a concert that imbued the Mass structure with a musical and spiritual ecumenicism. The church is affiliated with three religious denominations: American Baptist, United Methodist, and United Church of Christ; and in its architecture seems to exist peacefully as a mélange of traditions. Musically, Sungji Hong’s 2002 Missa Lumen de Lumine provided the structural anchor for a program that was as beautifully constructed as it was performed. Each movement of the Missa except the Gloria was followed by a new premiere written in response to the Mass text. Echoes from the past rang throughout the concert in three Byzantine chants by the ninth-century composer Kassia, which worked extremely effectively as Introit, a makeshift Alleluia, and a Communion/Dismissal.

But Lorelei does more than offer inventive programs. There were no weak links in this ensemble. The balance and blend were at times utterly mesmerizing, and the soloists were excellent across the board. What was pleasantly surprising was the variety of vocal timbres within the group and how easily the ensemble seemed to reconcile this when singing together. This exposed the variegated texture of many of the works, especially the Hong Missa. If there was any apparent disjuncture, it was only in some of the stylistic and interpretive choices of the soloists, particularly in the opening work by Kassia, I en polles amarties. Clare McNamara opened the concert with a soulful and authentic cantorial style, and her expressivity was echoed by most of the other soloists. The real challenge of singing chant is navigating the balance of freedom and deliberation. The timbral blend of the ensemble was breathtaking, but there was a slight sense of strain to the more homorhythmic sections.

With the exception of the final Agnus Dei, all the movements of Hong’s Missa were sung by a trio of voices, showcasing the strong talent that makes up Lorelei Ensemble. In the Kyrie, Emily Marvosh’s solid and assertive phrasing connected the piece to the preceding work by Kassia and was a engaging partner with Sonja Tengblad’s angelic dulcet melismas. Joined by Emily Culler, this trio also sang the Sanctus of the Missa, where Culler and Marvosh artfully matched their vocal character across an extremely wide range. The Gloria, sung by Margot Rood, Clare McNamara, and Thea Lobo, demonstrated how well these women listen to each other. Calling upon the highest and lowest of vocal register, the Gloria tested the limits of all three singers, who rose to the occasion. Rood’s brilliant transparency rang through the church, counterbalanced by a rich, but never heavy tone from McNamara and Lobo. The quieter moments of the Gloria were particularly impressive in terms of vocal blend. Hong’s setting of the Credo is conservatively poignant, and the composer in general showed sensitivity to the liturgical and traditional functions of the Mass texts, even in a concert setting. The movement highlighted the vocal agility of contralto Stephanie Kacoyanis in a trio with Rood and Tengblad. The “Amen” of the Credo was one of the most moving and musically stirring moments of the entire evening. The bell-like invocation of the Sanctus called upon centuries of polyphonic tradition, and Culler, Tengblad, and Marvosh seemed to have an artistic awareness of past and present in their sensitive performance. Marvosh, whose stage presence was a joy to behold, offered a tone that had the velvety soulfulness of a cello, or at times a mournful duduk and lent a refreshing pious solemnity to this more joyful of Mass texts. The final Agnus Dei, which featured the entire ensemble including Beth Willer, was absolutely stunning. The unison portions were arresting in their clarity of tone, and the textures of the polyphonic sections were almost visible in their intricacy and exactitude.

Each of the commissioned world premieres was beautifully matched to their corresponding mass movement. Anita Kupriss’s Infinite Mercy troped the idea of “mercy” in the Kyrie, using multilingual textual expressions of the word. The ensemble effortlessly brought forth the intricate counterpoint that was both energized and ethereal. Lorelei’s collective diction was superb and actually contributed to the texture, particularly at the end of the piece where the text evokes a “world infused with gladness, honor, and joy.” Beth Willer’s conducting was masterful yet understated, allowing the skill of her ensemble to take the reins.

Erin Huelskamp’s Love Credo continued the fervor of the preceding religious Credo in its sincere devotion to love. Upon glancing at the words, adapted from an original text by Shannon Rosa, I admit I was skeptical when I read: “…a whole bunch of other cool dudes like Muhammad, Buddha, Martin Luther, George Fox…”. Huelskamp’s score, however, managed to rise above my (perhaps, unfair) associations with that parlance, and skillfully interwove jazz harmonies into an almost micropolyphonic tapestry.

It was Joshua Bornfield’s Farewell (Long Time Travelin’) that was revelatory in its ability to navigate stylistic diversity. According to the composer, it is more of a response to the Catholic Sanctus than an homage: “within this Catholic structure lives an unruly Baptist music, one with great power over the source material as it historically comes from the same place.” While the composer offers this as a “protest,” I felt the work offered a more peaceful reconciliation in its “Sacred Harp” energy meshed with a nostalgic spirituality. The Lorelei Ensemble seemed to relish this work, capitalizing upon opportunities for stylistic variety. Clare McNamara and Margot Rood’s singing, in particular, recalled the roots of gospel without artifice, reminding us that spirituality is infinite in its musical expression. Bornfield’s excellent work extends the American choral tradition of composers like Gail Kubik and Moses Hogan and seems a clarion call for reinvigorating this tradition.

Carson Cooman, who offered little in the way of program notes, wisely decided to let the text by Elizabeth Kirschner speak for itself in his Golden Callings. Cooman’s rich sonorities supported Kirschner’s exquisite text, and the ensemble delivered both a passionate and sensitive performance. In the hands of a less skillful composer, the poem might have elicited trite word painting and compositional rhetoric. But Cooman clearly kept the spirit of the Agnus Dei in mind, and his setting of lines like “The compost in my wounds/ composes me as does the rich/ roux of sorrow that burrows into my soul’s/ creamy marrow” were moving and reflective. Not content to rely upon pretty harmonies, however, Cooman’s rhythmic and vivacious counterpoint in “Within the spun strands, the promise/ of flurrying wings and soon, soon,/my wounds, your wounds and our very/ brokenness will be what awakens us greatly” was spectacular — and beautifully executed by the ensemble.

Part of the mission of Lorelei Ensemble is to expand repertoire for women’s voices, and it is fulfilling this objective with creativity and the highest level of artistry. While the eight-voice women’s ensemble, founded in 2007, is a fairly new member of Boston’s rich choral scene, it is fast becoming a source of some of the most innovative and inventive programming. And in this day of recycled standards and deified “composers of the moment,” attention to the infinite palette of possibilities is laudable. The group will be performing as part of the Monadnock Music Festival in August.

Rebecca Marchand holds a Ph.D. in Musicology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and serves on the faculty of Longy School of Music and Boston Conservatory.

The whitewashed walls and upper windows of the Somerville Museum offered a charming and light-filled venue, and that the space was crowded is more a positive testament to an audience for early music than a criticism of the Museum. El Dorado has a loyal following, and given the high level of artistry from ensemble members Carol Lewis, Janet Haas, Paul Johnson, Alice Mroszczyk, Mai-Lan Broekman and Olav Chris Henriksen, it was easy to see why almost every seat was filled.

The members of the group were professional but not pretentious. Henriksen’s informal comments about the pieces were illuminating and engaging, offering historical and stylistic context for unfamiliar repertoire.  Arranged in a semi-circle, the six performers provided an excellent sense of ensemble. On either end sat Carol Lewis and Janet Haas, both on treble viol, although Haas occasionally switched to tenor viol. Lewis, a co-founder of SoHip (Society for Historically Informed Performance) and current president of the Viola da Gamba Society-New England, offered a consistently exquisite tone matched by energetic articulation. Haas, often her antiphonal counterpart, matched Lewis in both musical expression and rhythmic accuracy, offering a sense of balance for the entire ensemble. Both performers offered stunning filigree in the Intradas of Alessandro Orologio (ca. 1550-1633).  In the Fantasia Chromatica of Diomedes Cato (before 1570-1620), which Henriksen called a “chromatic snowstorm,” the imitative descending chromatic lines called upon lament rhetoric but were passionately meditative, with the lower viols leaning into the deeper sonorities. Alice Mroszczyk’s bass viol sound was also particularly present and full in the Canzon Decimanona of Gioseffo Guami (ca. 1540-1611).  Mai-Lan Broekman, playing bass viol and violone, offered a consistently velvety sound, especially on the latter instrument.

The program was peppered with solo offerings from Henriksen. His performance on the archlute of Il Ciarlino Capriccio Cromatica  by Pietro Paolo Mellij (1579-after 1620) was particularly compelling. While Henriksen described the piece as “avant-garde” (as it assuredly was for the time), the two-and-a-half octaves of chromatic scales were a platform for highly-nuanced and well-integrated counterpoint, executed with elegance by both composer and performer. Henriksen’s real virtuosity, however, was best shown in Giovanni Girolamo Kapsberger’s  (1580-1651) theorbo fantasia on Arcadelt’s madrigal “Ancidetemi pur.” When Henriksen prefaced his performance with a comment equating the theorbo part to Charlie Parker’s bebop, I braced for impact, as I find that these comparisons often offer a more “hip” context but little in the way of accuracy.  However, Henriksen’s analogy was absolutely sound, and his performance did indeed give us a glimpse of Yardbird on the theorbo. The violas da gamba’s lovely homophonic and significantly augmented version of the original madrigal anchored the improvisational musings of Henriksen’s theorbo part but allowed the softer flourishes and intricacies of the instrument to come through. Despite a brief tuning issue in a bass viol, the performance demonstrated the ensemble’s aptitude for a variety of musical styles.

For the most part, all members of the ensemble played with equal energy, and this was particularly apparent in Cato’s Gagliarda Favorito, with its rousing fanfare figures. El Dorado maintained the dancing athleticism of the galliard but also had a good sense of dance movement as concert piece, and this applied to almost all of the dances on the program. The only time there seemed to be incongruent ideas of expression was in the faster section of the Sonata Decima of Marco Antonio Ferro (fl. 1649-1662), one of two works on the program written specifically for violas da gamba. The ensemble did re-harness their collective energy during a rhythmic and rather Vivaldi-esque passage, to ultimately deliver a poignant and gorgeous slower section that featured delightful cascading motives between the treble and tenor viols.

Massimiliano Neri’s (ca. 1615-1666) Sonata Quinta, an extremely effective finale to the program, called upon the virtuosity of all six performers. Although published in 1651, the work intriguingly foretells later Viennese classicism in its joyful gaiety and phrasing (which may not be all that remarkable given the composer’s service to Emperor Ferdinand III in Vienna). The history of contributions of Italian composers to the development of Austro-Germanic music is not a secret, but certainly groups like the El Dorado Ensemble are doing much to honor this fantastic repertoire.

Rebecca Marchand holds a Ph.D. in Musicology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and serves on the faculty of Longy School of Music and Boston Conservatory.

John Cage thus describes the first of 85 works entitled “Music for Piano,” composed between 1952-1962, which received their first complete performance at New England Conservatory’s Jordan Hall last night as part of NEC’s Cage.88@100 Concerts on February 6^th  and February 27^th. Featuring piano students from NEC’s multiple studios, last night’s ambitious offering included not only the 85 Music for Piano works, but Cage’s most famous “music for piano,” the Sonatas and Interludes.

Stephen Drury, in his characteristic blue jeans and work shirt, channeled the presence of John Cage’s own fashion sense and announced from the stage that the Sonatas and Interludes, originally scheduled for the first half of the program, would instead be played on the second half of the concert. This was probably a wise idea, given the mammoth proportion of the first half.

What constitutes a “complete” performance of the Music for Piano works can be debated, but the composer, at least according to his notes, intended for pieces 1, 2, 3, and 20 to be solo works (2, 3 and 20 were composed in 1953), but suggests that works 4-19, (also composed in 1953), “may be played as separate pieces or continuously as one piece or…” With Music for Piano 21-36; 37-52 (conceived in 1955), according to Cage, “These pieces constitute two groups of sixteen pieces which may be played alone or together and with or without Music for Piano 4-19.” Similar open-ended directives apply to the last two groups of 16 pieces, 53-68 (1956) and 69-84 (1956). Number 85, which would more appropriately be called Music for Piano and electronics, was composed in 1962, while Cage was in Osaka, Japan.

NEC chose a simultaneous performance of the groups of 16, achieved by four pianos placed on stage. The army of NEC piano students sat quietly in rows of chairs along the walls, poised for what was to be a very long evening. JeeHae Ahn delivered a very fine solo performance of Music for Piano 1, which proved to be the most romantic of the entire set. Despite the chance procedures of its composition, the work had a sense of coherence, largely due to the graceful realization by Ahn. The sound events, made musical by varying articulations and expressions (hitting keys, plucking strings), are surprising for the listener in that they are unexpected, but they should be more delightful than shocking. And indeed, the vast majority of the students who performed these works seemed to take great delight in the discovery of each note and gesture. Ahn’s movements seemed almost choreographed, the way she fluidly moved her arm from plucking the strings to touching the keyboard. Music for Piano 2, realized by Henry Burman, was a more reflective work, meditating on resonances and decidedly sparser in terms of tempo and dynamics — the two elements determined by the performer. Burman wisely made much of the articulation of each note, reveling in the attention of the audience. Shuangning Liu’s brief Music for Piano 3 and Christopher Lim’s Music for Piano 20 allowed the audience to appreciate how even music “determined by chance” offers multiple opportunities for stylistic expression.

The four solo works were an engaging introduction to the cycled realization of the next 80 pieces, which, for almost an hour, strung the performances of the various students together in sort of an eerie mental counterpoint. Cage was intentionally ambiguous in indicating duration of these works. He wrote of Music for Piano 21-52: “Their length in time is free; there may or may not be silence between them; they may be overlapped. Given a programmed time length, the pianists may make a calculation such that their concert will fill it. Duration of individual tones and dynamics are free.” He further directed that the time length should be calculated beforehand and adhered to through the use of a stopwatch, an approach used by the group So Percussion a few weeks ago (in the February 6^th  concert) in a theatrical and effective way. It was not clear if there were stopwatches or indeed any sort of time restrictions employed in the performance last night, but the students seemed to wander through the dreamlike sound world with the poise of a Japanese tea ceremony.

While Cage strove in these indeterminate works to remove “ego” from the compositional process, removing it from the audience may always be a continuing challenge. Monday night proved to be a poor night for a two-and-a-half-hour concert, and several people left during intermission, having witnessed the premiere but finding the call of homework, childcare, and early morning wakeups too strong a pull away from Jordan Hall. I was reminded of an anecdote that Cage relates in the preface to his groundbreaking 1961 work, Silence: “This Lecture on Nothing was written in the same rhythmic structure I employed at the time in my musical compositions…. One of the structural divisions was the repetition some fourteen times, of a single page in which occurred the refrain, ‘If anyone is sleepy let him to go to sleep.’ Jeanne Reynal, I remember, stood up part way through, screamed, and then said, while I continued speaking, ‘John, I dearly love you, but I can’t bear another minute.’ She then walked out.”

Under most circumstances, the length (some would say excessive length) of a concert, might merit one or two sentences, but this element of unknown time is crucial to Cage’s whole paradigm. Without judgment, Cage is prepared for the frustrations and divided attentions of his audience. Like Ms. Reynal, I admit I found myself itching to at least stand, if not scream, toward the end of the 85 pieces. This is no reflection upon the performers themselves, and it did have the positive effect of making Music for Piano number 85 all the more engaging. Christian Gamboa’s solo piano sounded positively lush, even with its use of electronic feedback, after the seemingly relentless sonic counterpoint of slamming lids, plucked strings, and prepared notes.

The vast majority of the attendees were stalwart and seemed prepared to engage with the Sonatas and Interludes on the second half. While these works, completed in 1948, were meant to be a set performed by one pianist, last night’s performance took a similar approach to the works on the first half and divided the set among 13 students. Having witnessed Vicky Chow’s phenomenal solo performance at MIT a few weeks ago, I was somewhat skeptical as to how this might work, but this approach offered a different experience of the Sonatas and Interludes that had both positive and negative ramifications. Listening to a single pianist play the entire set allows for the nuanced and delicate details of Cage’s score to come through a single interpretive lens. Having multiple performers, as was the case last night, offers more of an interpretive mélange, which is engaging but disrupts the cohesion of the set. That said, it was a more effective showcase of the talents of NEC’s piano students than the collaborative Music for Piano exhibition of the first half. Santiago Lomelin brought a delightful sense of Debussy to Sonatas 2 and 3, with his graceful and attentive phrasing. Grace Kim was restrained in her performance of Sonata 4, but this was to excellent ends as she focused on the not-always-obvious motivic continuity between the first and second halves of the work. All the students, in fact, seemed to have a good sense of their pieces, embodied in Samantha Angstman’s almost imperceptible bounce to the groove of Sonata 5, or Janet Lee’s facile expression of virtuosity in the third Interlude. Emely Phelps’s exquisite performance of the last three sonatas brought attention to the hypnotic ostinati of the “Gemini” sonatas (14 and 15); it highlighted her excellent sense of breathing rhythm and her expressive dynamic contrasts in Sonata 16. The final meno mosso was a tender and fitting conclusion to the evening.

It is easy in prepared piano music to give percussive effects precedence over actual keyed pitches, but every single performance honored all the sounds, with a reverent humility that Cage no doubt would have applauded. NEC is proving to be a core player in Boston’s celebration of Cage’s centenary, with further concerts on March 5, April 2, and May 3. Performing Cage’s music is always a risky business, and while I question the wisdom of grouping the Music for Piano pieces with the Sonatas and Interludes, one hopes that NEC will continue to offer concerts such as these beyond the posthumous celebration of the composer’s 100th birthday. The opportunity for the students to engage with this repertoire is profound, not because of a chance to play prepared piano or to learn how to work with an indeterminate score, but because of the questions Cage asks about performance. The composer challenged the assumption of music as communication, hoping for this ideal: “The performers [become] disinterested to the point that they [become] unself-conscious, and a few listeners in those brief moments of listening [forget] themselves, enraptured, and so [gain] themselves.

Suggested Reading/Viewing:

Stephen Drury explains and demonstrates prepared piano (in the Sonatas and Interludes) here.

John Cage, “A Composer’s Confessions” (1948) in Kostelanetz, Richard, ed. John Cage: Writer (Cooper Square Press, 2000)

John Cage, “Lecture on Nothing” and “To Describe the Process of Composition Used in Music for Piano 21-52 in Silence (Wesleyan University Press, 1961, 1973).

Rebecca Marchand holds a Ph.D. in Musicology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and serves on the faculty of Longy School of Music and Boston Conservatory.

Vicky Chow (file photo)

Considered by many to be John Cage’s magnum opus, the Sonatas and Interludes for prepared piano (composed during 1946-48) is a major undertaking for a performer, as the 20 constituent pieces reconcile some of Cage’s most melodious works with his rhythmic and structural ideas that play such a large role in his percussion music. Last night at MIT’s Killian Hall, Vicky Chow performed the entire set for a packed house; those not lucky enough to grab a seat were crowded on the floor and off to the side of the stage. The concert was free and seemed to draw a plethora of music students, faculty, Cage admirers, and those just curious.

Cage’s first “discovered” prepared piano in 1940, when he composed a work entitled Bacchanale, choreographed by Syvilla Fort. Originally scored for percussion ensemble, the venue for the dance’s premiere could not accommodate an entire percussion ensemble in the wings, so Cage was left with a single piano. Having been captivated earlier by the sound created by a metal rod that had mistakenly rolled into a piano, Cage saw endless timbral opportunities in sticking objects — bolts, erasers, screws, bamboo, etc — in between the strings. Cage’s work for prepared piano runs the stylistic gamut, from shorter character pieces and ensemble works to lofty structural works such as the Sonatas and Interludes.

There are many concerts in celebration of Cage’s centenary, but works for prepared piano are a special treat, due to the reticence in which many concert venues have in handing over their Steinways for preparation, not to mention the amount of time involved in arranging the objects in the piano (more than 40 notes are prepared in the Sonatas and Interludes). Canadian pianist Vicky Chow, who, among other projects, plays with the Bang On A Can All-Stars currently in-residence at MIT, brought her consistently sensitive and musical interpretation to Cage’s work, highlighting the absolute accessibility and craftsmanship of these works by a composer who is too often represented solely by his “silent” piece, 4’33”.

While a larger venue might have been desirable for greater audience capacity, Killian Hall provided an extremely intimate atmosphere very much in keeping with Cage’s goals for the instrument. In a 1948 lecture at Vassar College, he explained that the prepared piano was, “…a percussion orchestra of an original sound and the decibel range of a harpsichord directly under the control of a pianist’s fingertips.” Chow did bring a harpsichord-like touch to some of the pieces, yet she also amplified purely orchestral moments such as the fortissimo chords at the end of Sonata I, wherein the specter of Mussorgsky’s “Great Gate at Kiev” seems to haunt Cage’s final measures. Indeed, the emotional variety in the Sonatas and Interludes is profound — the composer said the pieces were to “express in music the ‘permanent emotions’ of Indian tradition: the heroic, the erotic, the wondrous, the mirthful, sorrow, fear, anger, the odious and their common tendency toward tranquility.” Chow seemed very conscious of these objectives from her graceful runs in Sonata VI to the Rachmaninoff-esque shape she brought to the phrases of Sonata XII.

While most of the pieces within the set are nominally in two- or three-part form, their structure is far more complex, featuring what Cage called “micro-macrocosmic structure.” The larger sectional divisions of each piece reflect the number of what Cage termed “rhythmic cycles.” This plays out in various ways in each of the sonatas — sometimes with a very clear-cut number of measures and structural repetitions (such as Sonata VII), but sometimes by a far more complex approach via ratios and metrical changes. Chow’s rhythmic accuracy helped outline these structures, but never at the sacrifice of elegance or expression. Chow treated the beautiful melodies of Sonata XIII as one might play a Satie Gymnopedie, gracefully carrying over phrases that reached beyond the end of their particular rhythmic cycle.

There is something mesmerizing about Chow’s approach to the most archaic and simple moments, exemplified in her “poco pesante” passage in the middle section of Sonata IX. Her overall attention to dynamics (very much emphasized in the score) made me happy to be in the cramped quarters of Killian — a larger hall might have swallowed the ppp moments of Sonata XI, for example. Every crescendo and decrescendo was meticulously observed, but always expressive and never pedantic. Chow brought a breathing sense of rhythm to each piece, something Cage actively considered in other works of the time, such as The Seasons (1947). Her attention to silence, too — so crucial to Cage’s music, but often misunderstood — was beautifully integrated. Sonata IV, for example, features three measures of “silence” before its final seven measures, and indeed, one might say, the silence seemed rich and full in its absence of sound from the piano. Here, it is worth noting, Chow was assisted by the quietest audience I have ever witnessed at any performance. The 16 sonatas and four interludes were performed without intermission, and given the sheer number of people crowded into the hall, I was astonished by the lack of coughing, shifting, and other extraneous noises that often accompany concerts. While Cage would not have minded, the absence of these sounds did bring a sense of the sacred to the performance — not from high-minded elitism, but of attentiveness and investment on the part of the listeners.

Vicky Chow’s playing asks for and deserves that investment. Contemporary music is served well by this talented and sensitive virtuoso, who is, as Cage was, a courageous explorer of more expansive sonic kingdoms that reach beyond the borders of the eighteenth and nineteenth century.

Recommended Reading:

John Cage, “The Future of Music: Credo” in Silence—50^th Anniversary Edition (Wesleyan University Press, 2011).  John Cage, “A Composer’s Confessions” reprinted in John Cage: Writer, ed. by Richard Kostelanetz (Cooper Square Press, 2000).  Leta Miller, “John Cage in Seattle (1938-1940)” in John Cage: Music, Philosophy, and Intention, 1933-1950, ed. by David Patterson (Routledge, 2009).

See more on upcoming Cage events here.

Rebecca Marchand holds a Ph.D. in Musicology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and serves on the faculty of Longy School of Music and Boston Conservatory.

The composer, dressed unassumingly in all black, took his seat at the table next to GSD Dean Mohsen Mostafavi and listened to the latter wax poetic about ideas of structure and repetition. Glass opened with a caveat: “Usually I talk to musicians…. That’s a different conversation.” He hoped the Dean would “act as an interpreter” for his informal comments, but it appeared that the Dean was likewise interested in acts of interpretation on the part of the composer. Glass began trying to untangle “this business of the architecture of music,” regarding concepts of space and time as two fundamental components that “we have accepted as part of the reality we can live in.” For the most part, Glass spoke about his own approach to composition, occasionally bravely offering generalities pertaining to the difference between music and architecture: “Empty space may be the thing that bedevils the architect. It doesn’t work like that with music — we don’t start from silence… I’m dealing with a sound and then I have to figure out where it goes.” This particular comment seemed to arouse quiet grumbles from several audience members, who politely refrained from any kind of audible counter-argument.

Glass recounted how he had spent most of his 75 years trying to answer the question “What does music mean?” and had found an answer only recently, in response to the query, “Where does music come from?” “Music is a place,” he offered, “as real… as Chicago.” A solid explanation remained elusive for the rest for the evening, at least in words.  After musing upon the ideas of repetition found in North African design and the photography of sacred spaces by Lynn Davis, Glass directed his thoughts toward ideas of form and content. Just as architecture in the Muslim world prohibits icons or images as a central focus, music could work the same way. He felt he wandered into this discovery “by accident,” realizing that it was a matter of “removing the narrative… making a different relationship between form and content” and “working with attention” to the repetition. It was this last comment that seemed the most provocative, given the often erroneous and over-simplified categorization of “minimalism” that has accompanied Glass throughout his career. In the 1980s, John Rockwell classified Glass as a “minimalist-structuralist-trance” composer. Glass seemed to defy this stamp last night when he said of repetition: “It wakes me up! My attention forms around sounds… I’m not in a trance.”

As evidence of his meaning, Glass performed two piano works: Metamorphosis (Nos. 2, 3 and 4) and Wichita Vortex Sutra, both from 1988. In the selections from Metamorphosis it was clear that Glass was truly attentive to each harmonic shift; while his left hand maintained a series of steady ostinati, his facial expressions and graceful release of his right hand bespoke Schubert or Chopin. Recording brings a sense of sterility to Glass’s music; the Shankarian rhythms, the harmonic changes, the undulating melodies are all there — but it is hard to engineer “attention.” When Glass played, it was easier to understand his definition of music as place, a place perhaps only realized through his own attention to it.

Wichita Vortex Sutra, which appears as only a piano track on Philip Glass’s 1989 recording of his own solo piano music, co-existed with a tape recording of poet Allen Ginsberg reading his poem of the same name. Ginsberg, who wrote the poem in 1966, showed it to Glass in the 1980s when they met by chance in a New York bookstore. The collaboration eventually expanded into the chamber opera Hydrogen Jukebox, which premiered in 1990. Wichita premiered at a benefit for a Vietnam veterans’ theater group; Glass, at the piano, accompanied Ginsberg’s reading of excerpts from the poem. For four or five years after Ginsberg’s death in 1997, Glass said, he was unable to play the tape of Ginsberg’s voice, but recently has begun to use the tape in performance. Glass has also performed the piece with Patti Smith reading the text, which he felt was “better than someone trying to sound like Allen.”

The music is very much a realization of Ginsberg’s own poetic rhythm, however, and as the pianistic voice of Glass merged with Ginsberg’s recorded voice, sound once again became palpable and transformative.  The hymn-like opening, which Glass said evokes a solitary church steeple on the Kansas plain, was memorial and nostalgic in quality, but also very much a location in and of itself. Again one had the sense that the composer, through his own performance, had arrived in a place — not Wichita per se, but the place where Ginsberg’s realization of Wichita still survives. The poem’s energetic evocation of solitude, body, and rivers materialized through Glass’s music.

The conversation and Q & A that followed touched upon some engaging concepts, but the answers never truly materialized and were instead caught in a web of academic deconstruction and what seemed befuddlement for Glass. At one point, after derailing an ambiguous question about a direct relationship between space and time and form and content, Glass quipped, “Someone said, ‘Architecture is frozen music’…That’s very poetic, but I don’t know what the hell it means.” That captured, in a nutshell, the disconnect that had hung over the room from the introductory portion of the program. The conversation began to cohere on the topics of utility and spirit, but Glass deflected many of the more esoteric questions with “that’s very interesting” or “this is a very curious thing,” at one point admitting, “I don’t know the answer to that.  There’s a lot I don’t know.” Finally, at the end of the evening, came a question that one wished had started the proceedings, although it was overwrought with jargon and unnecessary symbolism.  The young woman requested a discussion of transcription — some way to identify the common threads of both music and architecture.  Perhaps a moderator steeped neither in music nor architecture might have facilitated this.

What was only mentioned briefly but offered a potential springboard for future discussion was Glass’s collaborative project with GSD Professor Toshiko Mori. Over the course of three semesters, GSD students enrolled in Mori’s independent research seminar are building a portable concert hall for the Youth Orchestra of the Americas, directed by Carlos Miguel Prieto, and with Plácido Domingo as Artistic Advisor. Glass, who has composed works for the ensemble and sits on the Advisory Council (along with other such artistic luminaries as Martha Argerich, Yo-Yo Ma, Leonard Slatkin, Helmuth Rilling, and Gustavo Dudamel, to name just a few), has joined forces with the GSD to produce this portable concert hall to provide the best venue to bring symphonic music to remote places that have little to no prior exposure to such music. The Fall semester of the course focused on the testing of materials and a mockup production; and the completion of the prototype in Carmel, California is scheduled for the current semester.

Glass cited the project as a “collaboration of architecture and music,” and stated, “aesthetics are not as important as the utility.” Dean Mostafavi asked, “Why is utility important?” to which Glass pragmatically replied, “That’s how we make a living!… Until I was 41 I did all sorts of other jobs. I also found nothing unpleasant about utility…I find useful music no more shameful than having five fingers… in fact it is almost the same thing.”

Ultimately, Glass offered some sage wisdom regarding a “consensual understanding that we learn from each other” and that the “listener is in a creative relationship to the music,” his perception of music as a “metaphorical voyage” that navigates the distance between the spectator and the sound.  With a dry edge perhaps borne more from experience than humility, Glass chuckled and said, “You don’t like my music? Ok! Go listen to something else! There’s a lot of music!”

Glass has much to say, but his most valuable offerings came through his fingers, rather than out of his mouth. The GSD is to be applauded for fostering the opportunity, but one wonders if it wouldn’t have benefited from a wider audience. If music is indeed a place, then perhaps architects need to go to it, rather than invite it to come to them. Musicians no doubt “understand” architecture far better by performing in a great cathedral rather than looking at a picture and a caption. Academia is an important arena in which we exchange ideas, but perhaps a more visceral understanding could enlighten our constructs and need for definitions. That Glass often seemed at a loss for words was not an indication of age or lack of credibility, but testified to the “utility” of experience versus conversation. The real answers may come if the students involved in the building of the portable concert hall can experience Glass’s music in the structure built from their own realized form and content. That will be the true marriage of music and design.

Rebecca Marchand holds a Ph.D. in Musicology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and serves on the faculty of Longy School of Music and Boston Conservatory.

It was a pleasure to hear music that wasn’t pulled straight from the Eric Ericson repertoire list — not that there is anything wrong with Knut Nystedt or his music, but choir programs have begun to look a bit cliché, particularly when it comes to programming works from that part of the world. For the most part this program featured works by living composers, two of whom were born in the 1960s. Moreover, there was a lovely balance of sacred and secular, with diverse texts ranging from the Stabat mater to Robert Herrick’s “To the Virgins, to make much of time” which begins famously with the Carpe diem text, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…”

The Stabat mater, in fact, was one of the highlights of the evening. The setting by Polish composer Anna Ignatowicz began at a surprisingly upbeat tempo with harmonies that were somber enough to convey the text, but not overly melancholy or rhetorical. In her solo singing, soprano Hannah McMeans’s gossamer voice shimmered above the tight harmonies of the chorus, who rendered the text sensitively if not always perfectly clearly. All the soloists for the evening’s program were drawn from the choir and it was clear that the ensemble boasts some very high quality voices.

Another beautiful solo moment was that of mezzo-soprano Laura Betinis in Nils Lindberg’s setting of Herrick’s text. Betinis’s voice had a richness made all the more beautiful by the edge of folk styling she brought to Lindberg’s piece. The alto section in general was quite good, often providing better rhythmic articulation, sharper and more precise diction than the other sections of the chorus. The other Lindberg work on the program, Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?, was lovely and unapologetically romantic, but the choir’s diction was inconsistent in quality. The ensemble interpreted the final couplet with excellent dramatic impact, but seemed uncomfortable with the harmonies on the first iteration of “life to thee.”

The basses and the altos both shone in Urmas Sisask’s Deo Gratias. This intriguing setting began with a charged ostinato in the basses, and it became increasingly contrapuntal in texture. The altos demonstrated incredible rhythmic accuracy in their syncopated and challenging entrances, never disrupting the momentum of the work, but instead dancing seamlessly in and out of the texture. Christensen’s direction also helped highlight the accents and shape of the phrases that gave the piece such tremendous flair. The ensemble should get a lot of mileage out of this piece — I hope to see it on future programs.

The chorus excelled in the rhythmically active pieces, and demonstrated their timbral versatility in the satirical and humorous Pseudo-Yoik by Finnish composer Jaakko Mäntyjärvi. The program featured two other works by this composer, including a rather tender setting of the “Fairies’ lullaby” from Act II, Scene 2 of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. This work opened with some extraordinarily captivating falling chromatic lines that sank into a backdrop for Shakespeare’s text. The work, especially in its final bars, warrants close attention by conductor and chorus alike, and both Christensen and the ensemble were up to the challenge. The final work by Mäntyjärvi, No more Shakespeare Songs? seemed trite by comparison, and a somewhat lacking finale for what had otherwise been an excellent concert. The chorus did an admirable job of spitting out the text in the gradual accelerando, but the work paled in comparison to others performed that evening, such as Józef Swider’s textural and innovative Canticum Canticorum, a lively and fresh setting of the Song of Songs. Here the tenors offered a very solid and consistent sound, effectively compensating for some occasional scooping in the basses. The lower men’s voices, however, redeemed themselves with the absolutely lovely final chord on “amica mea.”

The only work on the program that was not a cappella was Arvo Pärt’s beautiful The Beatitudes which featured organ accompaniment. The choir opened with this work from the organ and choir loft of King’s Chapel. While the famous text is a litany of sorts, the chorus at times seemed a bit too dry and pragmatic in their approach. The gradual dynamic build was excellent, and there was a beautiful sense of connection as the piece moved in and out of its close dissonances. The inner voices kept the harmonies solid, and this was the one work on the program where the sopranos could have come out a bit more. Christensen’s organ playing, particularly in the final section, was sublime, but came across as almost startlingly dramatic given the static recitation of the chorus. This may have been an interpretive choice, I suspect, because the chorus produced such a ravishing and glorious chord on “Rejoice” in the final statement that they seemed a different choir altogether.

The weakest performance of the evening was The Garden of Roses by Yakov Gubanov. The solo parts seemed unwieldy and the soloists seemed too glued into their music, so much so that many times it was hard to tell who was singing. The work did showcase the group’s rhythmic energy in the faster section near the end, but the harmonies were unstable and the work lacked the finesse of the other fine performances on the program.  Luckily, it was followed by a strong and appealing performance of Cyrillus Kreek’s Onnis on inimene. Kreek, who died in 1962, has not enjoyed the same international reputation as his fellow Estonian Arvo Pärt, but this work revealed a keen awareness of older techniques, while keeping the texture fresh and modern. The work featured lovely treble lines anchored by slowly moving lower voices.  The treble voices kept the “Hallelujahs” rhythmically active against the intriguing modal sonorities. The men, likewise, maintained the buoyant spirit when the parts switch roles toward the end of the work.

While the bars of downtown Boston filled with the cheers and yells of Patriots fans, the rafters of King’s Chapel resonated with the sounds of singing and artistry brought forth by a very fine choir. The King’s Chapel Concert Series is a treasure for Boston concert-goers, and the Chapel’s “home-team” did themselves proud.

Rebecca Marchand holds a Ph.D. in Musicology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and serves on the faculty of Longy School of Music and Boston Conservatory.

Perlman and De Silva opened with Schubert’s Rondo for Violin and Piano in B minor, D. 895, Op. 70 “Rondeau brilliant.” Relative to what followed in the program, one might consider this a “rough start,” if only by comparison. The 1826 work is, as Steven Ledbetter notes, a rather “big-boned sonata form movement” that at times seems self-conscious in its attempts at virtuosity. The strength of the work lies in its thematic and harmonic ingenuity, and Perlman brought forth every lyrical nuance and dynamic marking, particularly in the slower and more expressive sections that contrasted the flashy opening gestures. De Silva’s rhythmic articulation sometimes came across as muddied — perhaps even over-pedaled — but his ability to navigate through Schubert’s harmonic labyrinth lent cohesion to the entire performance. The Allegro section was better matched between the two performers than the opening Andante, and almost imperceptible inaccuracies were subsumed by the sheer force of musical character.

The Brahms Sonata No. 2 in A Major, Op. 100 delivered a palette of the best of Brahmsian lyricism crafted into three movements of engaging thematic connectivity and collaboration on the part of Perlman and De Silva.  In the middle movement, Andante tranquillo,  Perlman cradled his instrument with tenderness, leaning into it with his eyes closed in prayerful reverie, relying upon only the smallest changes in articulation and gesture. The melodies, while always lyrical, remained intimate and never threatened to become more than they needed to be.  I wished silently for the size of Symphony Hall to shrink suddenly, to oblige Perlman’s understated artistry.

Joachim’s violin arrangements of the Three Hungarian Dances by Brahms, originally for piano duet, can easily become overly rhetorical and culturally cliché in the wrong hands. Perlman, however, delivered more Brahms than Magyar, with intense motivic attention in the instrument’s highest tessitura and a clear sense of ritardando to finesse the characteristic rhythms. De Silva’s sound in the second of the three dances seemed heavy for the toe-tapping flourishes of Perlman’s playing, but his stunning cascades in the last piece had his fingers dancing on the keyboard in tandem with Perlman’s dexterity on the fingerboard. However, in light of what followed after intermission, the Schubert and Brahms works seemed mere warm-ups.

If Camille Saint-Saëns’ Violin Sonata No. 1 in d minor, Op. 75 had been the only piece this pair performed, I would have left without complaint.  As with the Brahms sonata, Perlman maintained the chamber music essence when appropriate, but both he and De Silva seemed to play with more assuredness and energyThey were in top form, seamlessly exchanging textures and themes with mature and engaging sensitivity. Perlman played the beautiful hymn-like theme in the second movement with prayerful ardor, while the piano maintained the energy of the work underneath the violin’s lyricism. When the instruments switched musical roles, De Silva’s sense of the theme was breathtaking, as Perlman interlaced it with delicate filigree. It was the final movement, however, when fireworks erupted. The Allegro molto is  a tour de force of elaborate rapid passagework, yet the display of impeccable technique was never overwrought or virtuosic for its own sake. De Silva and Perlman bubbled over with vitality and vigor, and one marveled at Perlman’s ability to captivate without the theatrics of bodily movement and facial expression that often upstage musicality. The final moments of the work were unforgettable, and Symphony Hall hosted a thunderous roar of sound as the audience almost unanimously leapt to its feet in applause. It was enthralling to witness such a sincere expression of awe and gratitude for what was one of the most memorable musical experiences I’ve ever had.

But Perlman was not done. Riding the wave of the audience’s euphoria, the performers returned to the stage, followed by the page turner, who had her arms full with a large stack of music books. Perlman, with his characteristic charm and affability, joked that he was examining a printout of all the pieces he had played in Boston since… 1912.  The first “encore” was  Kreisler’s Sicillienne and Rigaudon ( in the style of François Francoeur). The virtuosity seemed to be a party trick in comparison with the Saint-Saëns, but whereas the latter required true collaborative virtuosity from both performers, this piece truly was Perlman’s show. His second encore reminded one that virtuosity is not restricted to the nineteenth century, with the delightful Allegro by Joseph-Hector Fiocco, an eighteenthth-century Flemish composer whose “fame,” as Perlman quipped, largely stems from the work’s inclusion in the Suzuki violin method books. The Kreisler transcription of Weber’s “Larghetto” offered a respite from Perlman’s endless supply of dexterity, instead filling the hall with sounds from a musician well aware of the fine line between expressive and maudlin. Ever the public entertainer, Perlman continued his humorous commentary in his introduction of Kreisler’s Tambourin Chinois.  It would have been incredibly easy to hear this piece as parodistic with the stereotypical pentatonicism that reflects Kreisler’s clichéd “orientalism,” but Perlman brought forth the well-crafted gestures and variety of colors that make the piece more than a blasé experiment in cultural misappropriation.

With four encores, no one would have complained had Perlman and De Silva ended the concert there, but the seemingly tireless performers concluded the evening with two more works: Albeniz’s Tango for Violin and Piano and Franz Ries’s Perpetuum Mobile. The latter piece, in particular, is often subject to characterless displays of gratuitous speed (not that the composer had much more in mind for it), but Perlman’s musicality was ever-present, with De Silva providing the harmonic and thematic backbone for Perlman’s entertaining pyrotechnics.

For the third and final time that afternoon, the audience rose to acknowledge De Silva and especially Itzhak Perlman, who is both a consummate musician AND performer, and who has transcended the stratified classifications of “elite” vs. “popular” in great service to modern American culture.  As the woman behind me tapped her foot to Perpetuum Mobile, I felt grateful that in this day of superficial reality TV heroes and fabricated personas, “celebrity” is not always a dirty word.

Rebecca Marchand holds a Ph.D. in Musicology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and serves on the faculty of Longy School of Music and Boston Conservatory.

Blue Heron and Ensemble Plus Ultra joined forces for the opening work, O Maria salvatoris, a votive antiphon by English composer John Browne (active around 1500). Conducted by Blue Heron’s director, Scott Metcalfe, the work instantly transformed the space with a soaring soprano invocation of the Virgin Mary. There was a glorious match of sound between the two ensembles, and Browne’s constantly shifting textures were executed seamlessly, largely due to Metcalfe’s conducting. His sense of timing was refined and elegant. Never wallowing excessively in the sonorities, he allowed momentum to interpolate the melismatic gestures into the texture, rather than focusing on them as virtuosic moments of soloistic grandstanding. Highlights of the work included some excellent countertenor moments in the fourth verse, which featured only male voices, and the particularly resonant texture of the fifth verse, which pitted Paul Guttry’s solid bass voice against the clear bell-like sonorities of the sopranos. The final verse, beginning with the text “Theologia disputans” in a reduced texture, demonstrated how involved this polyphony actually is, no doubt with a conscious reference to “theological dispute” and its various complexities. In keeping with the text painting, the final word of the antiphon, “melodia,” was a blossoming of polyphony that showcased the true exquisiteness of both these ensembles.

The Salve Regina a 5 by Richard Pygott (c. 1485-1549) featured Blue Heron alone, but one was struck by the richness of sound even without the combined forces. There is always something in this choir to make you listen more deeply, to lean forward and witness the inner voices. Their contrapuntal nuance is at times astounding, and this performance was a perfect example. Pygott’s work is full of harmonic surprises and shifting textures, with the verse tropes reduced to three voice parts. In the first section of the work, the tenors leaned overly into some of the high notes, but the men-only trio on the second verse trope, “Virgo Clemens, virgo pia…,” was one of the most stunning moments of the evening. Here the melodic lines were exposed gently but with extreme precision and articulation. The final line of the piece, “O dulcis Maria, salve,” was remarkable in its gradual increase of intensity from the exquisite reverence of “dulcis” to the blinding brilliance of “salve.”

Ensemble Plus Ultra sang one voice on a part in their presentation of various works by Victoria. The opportunity to hear them alone was intriguing, as it demonstrated the variety of timbres and tones between the two choirs. This group has a reedier quality to their sound than does Blue Heron, and this was a boon to the pieces featuring the two groups together. Michael Noone, who founded Ensemble Plus Ultra in 2001 and is on faculty at Boston College, was more gestural in his direction than was Metcalfe. Victoria’s Ave regina caelorum, with its dance-like shift of rhythm on “gaude gloriosa” and the unexpected momentum of “et pro nobis,” made good use of this gestural approach to the music. The group’s sensitivity to phrasing was profound, and the final utterance of “exhora” was indeed a most inspiring exhortation.

The three Victoria works on texts from the Song of Songs were not conducted, featuring smaller sextets in different combinations. Vidi speciosam featured three women and three men, with exposed voice parts that brought forth the more madrigal-like sensibilities of the text, such as the rising lines on “ascendit” and the flowery and gorgeous melismas on “lilia” (lily of the valley).  Except for a slightly unwieldy entrance by the men on “Quae est ista quae ascendit…” and some weaker tenor phrasings, the performance was a highly nuanced presentation of this most secular of sacred texts. In Vadam et circuibo civitatem, which featured four men and two women, the soprano sound was more robust, providing a good balance to the counterweight of the stronger bass part. The group’s diction is excellent in general, but this work particularly exploited the expressivity of Latin vowels. The women shone in their short duet on “quia sic adiurasti nos?” and the cadences were all beautifully executed. Whereas Blue Heron occasionally suffers from too strident a tenor sound, here Ensemble Plus Ultra suffered from an overly languid tenor sound. In was particularly noticeable in this work because of the aforementioned gusto heard in the outer voices. The makeup of the sextet returned to three women and three men for Nigra sum, sed formosa filia Jerusalem. The rhythmic articulation on the opening phrase injected the entire work with good energy, and was an excellent conclusion to Ensemble Plus Ultra’s solo set.

Michael Noone led both ensembles in Victoria’s Laetatus sum, which contained some of the strongest and weakest performances of the concert. The solo choruses seemed tired, but then there were moments of utter brilliance as soloists brought out the lines of “super domum David.” The tutti statement of “Fiat pax in virtute tua” was strong and well-balanced, but led to a section that seemed unusually insecure. The transition to the doxology was smooth—it seemed the ensemble was reinvigorated by this passage, which was not included as part of the translation, perplexing some audience members.

The finale of the evening was Francisco Guerrero’s Duo seraphim, featuring both Blue Heron and Ensemble Plus Ultra, conducted by Noone. This gorgeous text presented the composer with multitudinous musical opportunities, which he exploited to the fullest. The overlapping and imitative entrances of the “two seraphim” were positively angelic. The first statement of  “plena est omnis terra gloria eius” (…the whole earth is full of his glory) was sung with such passion and commitment that I felt a familiar catch in my throat as emotions took over and the music reached that level of sublimity that we always hope to hear from live performance.

One gratifying experience of the night actually came from the audience. How wonderful it was to hear people talking during intermission about the music; or Blue Heron; or the January 2011 review by Alex Ross in the New Yorker of Blue Heron’s recording of sacred music by English composers Hugh Aston, Robert Jones and John Mason.  In his review, Ross commented on Blue Heron’s “quiver of passion” and indeed, it is this passion that sets them apart from many other early music ensembles. While the sense of serenity and the ethereal was never sacrificed, Blue Heron’s performance, along with Ensemble Plus Ultra, was artistically satisfying in its commitment to an earthly zeal for the repertoire. The early music movement can no longer rest on its highly controversial laurels of historically informed performance, or on producing ambient music for the new age movement. This repertoire is relevant, and can be made increasingly so by performances with assiduous attention to detail, ardent love for the music, and nuanced interpretations of texts once thought to be the ultimate poetry of sublimity. Blue Heron’s top-notch artistry, Scott Metcalfe’s program notes, and the pre-concert lectures as well as their commitment to education (see the “Performance Practice Corner” feature in the program), make this group a fantastic model for the fully-realized potential of early music performance in the 21^st century.

Blue Heron and Ensemble Plus Ultra repeat this program on Sunday, October 16^th at St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church in New York City.

Rebecca Marchand holds a Ph.D. in Musicology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and serves on the faculty of Longy School of Music and Boston Conservatory.

Mezzo-soprano Janna Baty and pianist Gloria Chien offered a sensitive and passionate rendering of the 1953 Hermit Songs. Baty sang with a particularly effective intensity in the “Wiegenlied” of the set, “St. Ita’s Vision.” Her lower range seemed full of possibility, including the haunting moments in “The Crucifixion,” although it was sometimes over-laden with heavy vibrato. Chien’s collaboration on the piano was sublime, as she pulled an endless variety of textures and tones from the instrument, weaving them in and out of the vocal line. The pair had a good sense of the structure of Barber’s cycle, and while I found “The Heavenly Banquet” a bit too dramatically overwrought, Baty’s subtle treatment of the enigmatic couplet, “Promiscuity,” was convincing. These two lines can provide a tremendous challenge for a singer without stage presence, as it is completely reliant upon the musicians to carry the implications of the text — “I do not know with whom Edan will sleep,/ but I do know that fair Edan will not sleep alone” — that, even though it hails from the 9th century, seems curiously out of place with the other songs. To be sure, Baty and Chien both emphasized the subtext, and it provided a good emotional pivot for the last three songs in the cycle. The tenth and final song, “The Desire for Hermitage” is the one that links back to Barber’s biography and certainly describes the composer’s preference for solitude when composing his music. He ends his Hermit Songs with what is perhaps the most poignant text of the entire work: “Alone I came into the world, alone I shall go from it.”  The delivery of this final moment can make or break the performance, and Baty delivered her most gorgeous and reverent tone of the evening here, supported by the mystical and meditative reverie that Chien conjured throughout the final piece.

Christopher Rouse’s Compline, from 1996, was the perfect complement to the Barber. The ensemble, featuring Deborah Boldin (flute), Kelli O’Connor (clarinet), Joanna Kurkowicz (violin), Gabriela Diaz (violin), Scott Wooleaver (viola), Rafael Popper-Keizer (cello), and Anna Reinersman (harp), played with incredible musicality and technical mastery. Rouse’s piece, although it refers to the last of the canonical Hours, contains a sense of religiosity that, as Rouse says, “is more observational than participatory.” A reminiscence of a 1989 trip to Rome, the work is a study in rhythmic and timbral interplay, dividing the ensemble into a string section and winds with harp. The bells of Compline are there but are not cliché or even rhetorical, instead part and parcel of the textural fabric, underlying the vivacious rhythmic ostinato first heard in the violins, viola and cello. This work highlighted the extraordinary ensemble playing of Kurkowicz, Diaz, Wooleaver, and Popper-Keizer, who played as a single entity, providing a constant rhythmic drive underneath the bright winds of Boldin and O’Connor.

One of the most marvelous moments of the piece — and there are many — is when Rouse creates a spatial effect during a homophonic section with long bowing, passing the music from the winds and harp over to the strings. The ensemble was seamless in its ability to create its own Klangfarbenmelodie, deftly creating continuous lyricism over the different timbres of each instrument’s portion of the melody. The entire ensemble was sensitive to the fluctuations in musical energy that the work requires, and this was most evident in the return of the opening elements of the piece, wherein the main rhythmic motive is tossed from instrument to instrument and then phased into a dramatic tutti declamation. Toward the end of the work, the passage of quiet stillness based on sustained tones demonstrated that these are musicians who know what it is to listen collaboratively, and the overall impact of this moment was startlingly moving — so much so that I partially wished Rouse would have ended the work with it. I could not resent the coda, however, with its slow-moving Baroque harmonic progressions leading into a unison homage to chant, that brought back the bells of Compline in the winds. The work is one I hope to hear again, and I can think of no better ensemble to play it than those who were on stage last night.

For a night so injected with reflective spirituality, Beethoven’s Trio No. 7 in B-flat Major, Op. 97, was the perfect finish.  The “Archduke” Trio, so-named for Beethoven’s famous patron, Archduke Rudolph, has one of the most beautiful slow movements in all of chamber music literature, presaging the pathos of the famous “Heiliger Dankgesang” in Op. 132.  The only element of the performance I found less than superb was the sound of the piano, particularly in the opening movement. I don’t know if it was merely the acoustics at First Church, having the piano lid completely open, or heavy pedaling on the part of Chien, but the piano had an echoing and almost muddy quality to it that I didn’t hear during the Barber songs. Strangely, the sound was better suited to the third movement, when it did not detract from Beethoven’s scoring. Acoustic issues notwithstanding, Chien’s playing was remarkable, demonstrating for the second time that night that she is an amazingly sensitive collaborator and ensemble player. The balance of dynamics in the first movement Allegro moderato was astonishing, heard clearly in Popper-Keiser’s most understated and beautiful pianissimos that danced with Kurkowicz’s glistening lines. The Scherzo movement, with its haunting and relatively obscure trio theme, suffered only the mildest intonation issues, and was whimsical without being flippant in the scherzo. All three performers had stellar rhythmic articulation, keeping the energy high, but clearly acknowledging that it was an inner movement, not a finale. The slow movement was tender and gorgeous, with highly nuanced playing, particularly on the part of Chien and Popper-Keiser. The trio never let the lighter sections of the music destroy the overall pathos of the Andante, and the transition into the finale Allegro moderato was a phenomenal moment of musical finesse. The trio did not rush this movement, keeping the tempo in check relative to the Presto yet to come, and always playful and tuneful, even amongst the flurry of notes. Saving the best for last, the Presto that closes out the movement was virtuosic and celebratory, embodying the indisputable musicianship and talent of the three performers.

Chameleon Arts Ensemble should feel confident in its concept and the execution of its programming. My guest, a first time Chameleon attendee, enthusiastically said he’d come to see them again. Last night’s concert demonstrated how relevant both old and new chamber music can be in these days of uncertainty for performing arts organizations, and I am hopeful that Boston’s audiences will nurture and support such creative and quality performances.

Rebecca Marchand holds a Ph.D. in Musicology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and serves on the faculty of Longy School of Music and Boston Conservatory.

That the work unearths an important celebration of humanity during one of history’s darkest hours cannot be debated. Andreev’s score is somewhat derivative in places, embracing Britten’s War Requiem and moments of Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms (to name but a few examples), but weaves together various rhythms and styles in an effective tapestry. Maestro Henry Leck led the goliath ensemble with requisite efficiency and clear gestures. The Boston Modern Orchestra Project played exquisitely, and the driving entrance of the strings before the chorus of Jews who sing, “We’ll not tremble in cowardice, silenced by fear…” was a goose-bumps moment. Kravitz, portraying the insidious and anti-Semitic Commissar Belev, sang beautifully and brilliantly. In the fifth movement, when he switched to the part of Metropolitan Kyril (the benevolent foil to Commissar’s horrendous plans), Kravitz could have done more vocally to differentiate between the characters. Osborne’s singing (as the ambivalent King Boris and the heroic Dimitar Peshev) was bright and fluid, but his stage presence seemed oddly timid, as if he was reading the music for the first time. Neli Andreeva, who gave a stunning performance in the first half of the concert with the Philip Kutev National Folklore Ensemble, sang beautifully, but came across as stylistically incongruous. When singing the part of Liliana Panitsa, the nefarious Commissar’s secretary and lover, her voice was hued with “pop” inflection, and I was more than once reminded of Astrud Gilberto, the famous Brazilian singer. Had Kravitz and Osborne not been singing cantor-like and operatically (and appropriately so), the contrast might not have been distracting.

The large chorus was effective in the different groupings, but it was a pity not to hear more integration of the Kutev National Folklore Ensemble’s Bulgarian harmonies, as their sections were some of the best in the work. The Indianapolis Children’s Choir, in particular, gave a spectacular performance, with expressive singing and beautifully precise diction. The chorus as a whole, however, often sounded like they were far away, not due to their position behind the orchestra (which maintained an excellent sense of balance save for one moment in the sixth movement), but because of the bizarre amplification that plagued the entire production.

The first half of the concert was devoted to performances by each of the participating choirs (except for the National Philharmonic Chorale and George Mason University Singers). Given the sheer size of the Wang Center, I assume that is why the groups were miked.  However, amplification was not well suited to choruses, yanking out individual voices (and not always appropriate ones) from the texture, and forcing the piano sound upon the audience. This was slightly remedied in the second half, although the glockenspiel seemed to have a rather odd auditory pride of place. I was seated in the tenth row or so from the front, so it is possible that the sound was much better experienced by those sitting behind me. What was most offensive, however, was the incessant fuzz from the speaker on the right side of the stage — a terrible distraction, particularly during the quieter choral numbers on the first half — and several patrons complained. Both the sound technician and house manager explained (with varying degrees of tact) that they were only informed of the need for microphones that very day. Regardless of who made what decisions, the end result was disheartening.

Aside from the very distracting aural fuzz, each of the four choirs gave solid performances in the first half. The Philip Kutev National Folklore Ensemble highlighted the unique harmonic texture of Bulgarian folk music and a variety of different instruments, such as the kaval and gadulka. Khorikos, under the direction of Jesse Mark Peckham, delivered some of the finest performances of the evening. It premiered a work composed by tenor soloist Charles David Osborne entitled “Whosoever Saves a Single Life,” presented “in memory of the 11,343 Jews of Thrace and Macedonia who perished during the Holocaust.” The piece was lovely, but the chordal piano accompaniment seemed superfluous, given the work’s prayerful meditation. The performance of Monteverdi’s “Zefiro Torna e’l bel tempo rimena” was nuanced and attentive to the text. The group closed with a rather glorious performance of John Tavener’s “Song for Athene,” only temporarily sullied by ridiculously premature applause from some audience members. I applaud Maestro Peckham for sticking his hand behind him and quieting the clap-happy audience as the chorus finished out the piece.

This concert was quite obviously an inspired and meaningful undertaking by many performers and only really suffered from several production issues, including a printed libretto that was inaccurate. (I assume significant textual changes were made after the libretto was printed.) The revised libretto that came from the stage was indeed much better than that which was handed to the audience, so my complaint is minimal. The incorporation of sacred texts in Bulgarian, Hebrew, and even Ladino, was seamless and effective, although Scott Cairns’s libretto was inconsistent in its poetry, sometimes imposing a rhyme scheme that made the words seem trite. All performance and technical issues aside, the Songs of Life Festival is to be applauded for bringing this life-affirming testament of hope to the public. I trust that Sunday’s performance in New York will not be the last, as the musical and humanitarian message deserves to be heard.

Rebecca Marchand holds a Ph.D. in Musicology from the University of California, Santa Barbara and serves on the faculty of Longy School of Music of Bard College and Boston Conservatory.