Requiem Aeternam by Tomás Luís de Victoria
Amidst all the political turmoil and the exigencies of the pandemic, a part of my mind and spirit has been acutely aware of the people we are losing. Every day. This week even surpassing 3000 in a single day.
It's unbelievable but true that it is possible for even this staggering rate of loss to become somehow normative, a 'part of doing business'. During the events of the past week, the news of our arrival at this unthinkable death rate--more people than we lost on September 11, 2001--fell below the fold both literally and figuratively.
And yet: Each of these people had a story. Each of them was loved. Each of them brought something unique to the world, never to exist again. Edna St. Vincent Millay said it better than I ever could, in 'Dirge Without Music'.
With her, I believe we need to say, and think: 'I am not resigned'.
My mother hated violence in TV and movies, and used to say darkly: 'If they made them show all the funerals, there'd be a lot less of this.' We couldn't attend even a fraction of these funerals, even if we were allowed to do so in these times. But nor can we allow ourselves to forget.
My thinking on this has been influenced by a recent event close to home. Our dear friend and neighbor lost her dad several weeks ago. We have known people who contracted Covid--including one of my sisters, a pulmonary doc at Kaiser--
but this is the closest brush Margaret and I have had with the loss of a beloved person to the virus.
Both the illness and, of course, the death have been devastating, to our friend, to her entire family,
and to a wide web of friends and neighbors and colleagues.
With that constantly in mind, I have been paying more attention to the stories we read about people we've lost. I've been thinking about the little light that each of us carries through our lives that can illuminate the world around us. And I've come to feel more deeply the losses as they add up day by day. The least we can do is to not turn away.
Music can and should have a role in this. Dianna and I are deeply involved now in planning Sonoma Bach's 2021-2022 season. There are of course many, many unknowns. But we are resolved to go forward, even with so many elements still up in the air. One thing has become absolutely clear to us, though: We'll need not only to celebrate the return of live music; we'll need also to address the terrible toll we've paid, and to play our part as well as we can in the processes of acknowledging, of remembering, of healing.
I'll share with you one feature of our season: Our usual Opening Recital will be moved to November; in its place the Monteverdi Consort will perform 'Lux Perpetua', our concert which was cancelled last March. The central pillar of the program is Tomás Luís de Victoria's 'Officium defunctorum'; around the movements of this truly great piece we have placed additional motets and chant to create an entire concert in memoriam.
Our decision to program this concert is not simply an expeditious way of retrieving all the work we had put into it last year; rather it is because we believe that offering this healing music is the best way of beginning our contribution to our community as we commence the work of putting the widely-scattered pieces of our mutual lives back together again.
Don't just take my word for it--listen for yourself. Today's motet is the 'Requiem aeternam' from the Victoria, the first movement of the Requiem Mass itself. (The opening piece of the entire work, 'Taedet animam meam', is a setting from the Book of Job which is part of the office of Matins.)
Victoria adopts the luxurious six-part texture favored by Spanish composers for their Requiem settings. Around the liturgical chant in the second soprano part, he weaves an unforgettable, spacious texture which somehow (words fail me) manages to evoke at one and the same time loss...memory...mourning...radiance...hope...transcendence.
Materials for this movement are attached. The recording is by the Tallis Scholars. If you'd like to hear more, here's a link to their peerless recording of the entire piece.
In the words of Stephen Spender, 'What is precious is never to forget...'; may it be so with us.
Amidst all the political turmoil and the exigencies of the pandemic, a part of my mind and spirit has been acutely aware of the people we are losing. Every day. This week even surpassing 3000 in a single day.
It's unbelievable but true that it is possible for even this staggering rate of loss to become somehow normative, a 'part of doing business'. During the events of the past week, the news of our arrival at this unthinkable death rate--more people than we lost on September 11, 2001--fell below the fold both literally and figuratively.
And yet: Each of these people had a story. Each of them was loved. Each of them brought something unique to the world, never to exist again. Edna St. Vincent Millay said it better than I ever could, in 'Dirge Without Music'.
With her, I believe we need to say, and think: 'I am not resigned'.
My mother hated violence in TV and movies, and used to say darkly: 'If they made them show all the funerals, there'd be a lot less of this.' We couldn't attend even a fraction of these funerals, even if we were allowed to do so in these times. But nor can we allow ourselves to forget.
My thinking on this has been influenced by a recent event close to home. Our dear friend and neighbor lost her dad several weeks ago. We have known people who contracted Covid--including one of my sisters, a pulmonary doc at Kaiser--
but this is the closest brush Margaret and I have had with the loss of a beloved person to the virus.
Both the illness and, of course, the death have been devastating, to our friend, to her entire family,
and to a wide web of friends and neighbors and colleagues.
With that constantly in mind, I have been paying more attention to the stories we read about people we've lost. I've been thinking about the little light that each of us carries through our lives that can illuminate the world around us. And I've come to feel more deeply the losses as they add up day by day. The least we can do is to not turn away.
Music can and should have a role in this. Dianna and I are deeply involved now in planning Sonoma Bach's 2021-2022 season. There are of course many, many unknowns. But we are resolved to go forward, even with so many elements still up in the air. One thing has become absolutely clear to us, though: We'll need not only to celebrate the return of live music; we'll need also to address the terrible toll we've paid, and to play our part as well as we can in the processes of acknowledging, of remembering, of healing.
I'll share with you one feature of our season: Our usual Opening Recital will be moved to November; in its place the Monteverdi Consort will perform 'Lux Perpetua', our concert which was cancelled last March. The central pillar of the program is Tomás Luís de Victoria's 'Officium defunctorum'; around the movements of this truly great piece we have placed additional motets and chant to create an entire concert in memoriam.
Our decision to program this concert is not simply an expeditious way of retrieving all the work we had put into it last year; rather it is because we believe that offering this healing music is the best way of beginning our contribution to our community as we commence the work of putting the widely-scattered pieces of our mutual lives back together again.
Don't just take my word for it--listen for yourself. Today's motet is the 'Requiem aeternam' from the Victoria, the first movement of the Requiem Mass itself. (The opening piece of the entire work, 'Taedet animam meam', is a setting from the Book of Job which is part of the office of Matins.)
Victoria adopts the luxurious six-part texture favored by Spanish composers for their Requiem settings. Around the liturgical chant in the second soprano part, he weaves an unforgettable, spacious texture which somehow (words fail me) manages to evoke at one and the same time loss...memory...mourning...radiance...hope...transcendence.
Materials for this movement are attached. The recording is by the Tallis Scholars. If you'd like to hear more, here's a link to their peerless recording of the entire piece.
In the words of Stephen Spender, 'What is precious is never to forget...'; may it be so with us.