Pues sí, otra vez más llegamos al final de un año. Uno que se va y otro que le sigue sin solución de continuidad. Así es.
Como siempre en estas fechas, es tiempo para echar la vista atrás, revisar, recolectar, reflexionar, en definitiva, hacer balance. Creo que para ||:doblebarra:|| este ha sido un año muy positivo. Un año en el que se ha vuelto con energías renovadas, en el que la actividad ha subido considerablemente, un año en el que la colaboración con The Choir Project ha sido uno de los pilares fundamentales que han sustentado la actividad, un año en el que se han creado secciones nuevas, se han hechos críticas de conciertos y discos, en el que veo cómo artistas de renombre me leen satisfechos ante los comentado sobre sus excelentes trabajos, en el que el número de visitas es regular y elevado, un año en el que han nacido la página y el grupo del blog en Facebook, con gran aceptación y un número realmente elevado de miembros -¡el grupo supera los 1220!-. Un año para estar orgulloso del trabajo realizado aquí, y que solo pretende ser una muestra honesta, sincera y apasionada de lo que mueve a diario, de la música que me ayuda a dar pasos en la vida, en definitiva, de aquello que me emociona y apasiona a cada punto del día.
Por todo ello, y porque sin los lectores este humilde blog no sería absolutamente nada, quiero mostrar mi total agradecimiento una y otra vez para todos aquellos que han dedicado unos minutos de sus ocupadas vidas en pararse aquí, en intentar aprender algo nuevo -si es que eso he conseguido en algún momento-, en tener en cuenta algunas de mis humildes recomendaciones, en deleitarse con alguno de los fragmentos aquí expuestos, en fin, en dejar que la música entrase por la puerta de sus vidas, al menos para quedarse un ratito.
Dicho esto, solo me queda mostraros todo ese agradecimiento y desearos lo mejor en estas fiestas. Os deseo todo lo mejor en vuestras vidas, muchas felicidad y que la vida os depare todo lo mejor rodeados de música, que nos emocione, llene y eleve. Así pues:
William Byrd [1540-1623]: Mass for four voices. The Tallis Scholars - Peter Phillips. Catholic mass in an Anglican country.
Peter Phillips says about Byrd and his masses:
"William Byrd is known to have been a tenaciously loyal
Catholic in a country which was more or less militantly Protestant. In
the last resort Byrd could have been sent to the stake for his beliefs
and, as a member of the Chapel Royal Choir, he was always likely to
attract the attention of the Protestants at court. Indeed from 1585
onwards he was continuously cited for recusancy: his house in Harlington
was several times searched for incriminating literature. He and his
family were yearly expected to pay crippling fines on account of their
religion -in 1587 it was £200- but it seems that Byrd had sufficiently
powerful friends at court for this sum usually to be waived. It is
possible that the Queen herself directly protected him [For further
details see Joseph Kerman's article on Byrd in The New Grove Dictionary
of Music and Musicians (London, 1980)].
It
took some courage, therefore, for a composer to set Latin texts at all
at that time. Actually to publish these compositions took a great deal
more, yet it was necessary to publish them if the many covert recusant
chapels were to be provided with up-to-date music for their services.
Byrd published his three Mass-settings between c.1593 and c.1595
separately, in very small books and without any title-pages, though the
music is coolly attributed to Byrd on all the pages [See P. Clulow,
'Publication Dates for Byrd's Latin Masses', Music and Letters, xlvii
(1966)]. After Queen Elizabeth's death in 1603 the political climate
seemed briefly as though it were more favourable to the Catholics. In
1605 Byrd became bolder and published a collection of motets, called the
Gradualia, which abandons any pretence at concealment. However after
the Catholic Gunpowder Plot to blow up Parliament later in that year,
Byrd felt obliged to withdraw this edition of the Gradualia, and stored
its pages until 1610 when he reissued it. Byrd's strength of character
in proclaiming his religion is shown again in other highly incriminating
gestures which he was determined to make -for instance in 1583 when he
attended a house party in Berkshire to welcome two of the most
celebrated of Jesuit missionaries, Fathers Henry Garnet and Robert
Southwell, the poet.
Against
this background it comes as no surprise to discover that the music
itself is deeply expressive. The Masses were originally written with the
pragmatic purpose of giving small amateur choirs settings of important
texts which they could reasonably hope to master. The five-part Mass,
with its two tenor parts, seems rather ambitious in this context, but it
is in fact less elaborate than many of the Latin-texted motets that he
wrote at this time. Their musical style has been a source of abiding
fascination to many enthusiasts for this music [For a fuller discussion
see Joseph Kerman, The Masses and Motets of William Byrd, (London 1981)
p. 190 ff.]. The exact mixture of influences from the past and from
abroad has certainly produced an unusually direct mode of communication,
despite the fact that it is also rather archaic. From the past Byrd has
learned about, and remained true to, the English preference for
counterpoint. If the four- and five-part Masses be compared for instance
with Palestrina's Missa Papae Marcelli [Recorded on CDGIM 339] it will
be seen that Palestrina regularly uses purely chordal passages, even
though his setting overall is longer than Byrd's. Byrd, while aiming for
concision, somehow managed to retain a very closely argued and
efficient type of imitative counterpoint almost all the time. The best
place to make this comparison is at the beginning of the respective
Glorias and Creeds, where Palestrina is initially eager to move through
the long texts without elaboration. From the continent Byrd obviously
learnt how to pare down his use of imitation, yet the way he put this
into practice here could not be confused with any continental writer's
approach.
All
these details make for an unmistakable austerity of tone, and in this
lies the peculiar power of these pieces. It is like a theme, to which
each movement of each of the three Masses is a variation; but the theme
is a mood, not a melody. Its emotional range extends from a darkness
which is almost hopeless -in the four-part Agnus Dei- to a fierce
defiance in adversity at Et resurrexit in the five-part Credo. During
the course of these pieces Byrd clearly explored every feeling a man may
have when he is fighting for something he passionately believes in,
with his back to the wall.
The
four-part Mass is generally reckoned [Ibid. p. 188 ff.] to be the
earliest of the set, probably written around 1592, with the three-part
following shortly after it, and the five-part coming last. The four-part
is probably the most popular and intensely personal of the three, but
it is arguable that it has some slight uncertainties of method, for
instance at the end of the Credo which seems too short. In the five-part
Mass in particular this passage -from Et in Spiritum Sanctum to the
end- is substantially longer than in the four-part, and this gives a
better balance to the movement as a whole. This is in contrast to the
fact that in the later settings his inclination was to compress the
dimensions of the four-part setting. With the three-part this may have
been because his hand was forced by the difficulty of conceiving
counterpoint at length for so few voices; but in the five-part the Kyrie
and Gloria are set much more concisely. One must conclude that the
four-part acted as a model for the others, which he improved upon where
he could, with the result that his five-part Mass is one of the most
convincingly argued, as well as sonorous, achievements in all his music.
Service
music of an altogether different kind is to be heard in the Mass for
four voices. Although the Mass is an everyday event for a devout
Catholic, the musical context for this composition was most unusual.
Since the authorities had done their best to close down the Catholic
tradition in England there had not been an English setting of the Mass
for some decades (nor were there to be for some centuries to come). Byrd
was single-handedly keeping the flame burning, inventing the style as
he went along. No wonder he put everything he had into it. In addition
he was taking a risk in writing and publishing music to such texts at
all, a fact he clearly recognized since the original part-books have no
title-pages. The style he invented was intimate, Flemish in its
consistent use of imitation between the voices, with a discourse hinting
at an inward life which wraps the listener into itself. The most
renowned passage comes on the final page, at the words dona nobis
pacem; but in reality Byrd has been preparing us for this climax on
every page."
For me it's very difficult to choose one of these
three masses. Each has hundreds of special moments which are composed in
the best possible. Probably, the three masses by Byrd are the best mass
settings in Bristish music history. This mass in four parts is
really superb. The treatment of the same material in some movement is
absolutely brilliant, but the differences in all the parts are
remarkable by the Byrd's talent. All the parts are really exciting, but the "Agnus Dei" is specially beautiful. This mass is really expressive and emotional.
This performance is simply superb, fantastic. The colour of The Tallis
Scholars is brilliant, wonderful, like a dream. Incredible pitch,
balance and the wonderful stage -in Tewkesbury Abbey, with candles- are
the best presentation as possible. A DVD absolutely essential for
everybody, because is one of the best recordings of William Byrd's
music.
Thomas Tallis [c.1505-1585]: Videte miraculum a 6. Stile Antico. British Renaissance Christmas.
Matthew O'Donovan says about Tudor Music for advent & Christmas: "The backbone of this programme of Advent and Christmas music is Thomas Tallis's
extraordinary, yet incomplete, Christmas mass, Missa Puer natus est. In
spite of the work's phenomenal scope, there is no conclusive evidence
as to its origin. One attractive theory holds that the mass was first
performance by the joint forces of Queen Mary’s Chapel Royal and Philip
II of Spain’s renowed Capilla Flamenca in December 1554 [Philip and Mary
had married earlier in the year]. It is based on the plainchant Puer
notus est nobis -the introit for Christmas Day Mass -and it has been
suggested that the plainchant may well have held a double entendre for
its forst hearers, as Mary was at the time erroneously believed to be
pregnant with a much hoped-for heir. The works lavish and unusual seven-
part scoring -and the presence of Flemish influences in Tallis’s
writing- lend weight to this theory. On the other hand, the question of
exactly when the first performance might have taken place presents a
problem. We know that such a 'joint service' took place at St Paul's
Cathedral on 2 December, but that is unlikely to have been the occasion
on which this mass was performed: Tallis surely knew the difference
between Advent and Christmas-and cared! Furthermore. as one scholar
has argued, it seems improbable that Tallis 'would have been so
insensitive as to use a text beginning Puer natus est nobis to celebrate
the Queen’s rumoured pregnancy when the sex of the child, the survival
of both child and mother ans the stability of the realm would all have
been causes of trepidation rather than rejoicing' [David Humphreys,
“Tallis’s Suscipe quaeso”, Early Music XXVIII no. 3, August 2000, p.
508].
Whatever the work's original purpose, what is not in
doubt is its extraordinary scale and virtuosic compositional intricacy.
The impression it leaves is one of immense grandeur, an effect created
at least in part by the steady progression of the cantus firmus, coupled
with the almost unbroken use of a seven-part texture throughout. While
the manner of his imitation seems to reflect the latest trends of
continental composition, the use of a different plainchant melody as a
cantus firmus is very much a nod to the conventions of earlier
generations. Indeed, Tallis's treatment of the plainchant is governed by
an extraordinarily complex quasi-medieval numerological scheme, whereby
each note is assigned a value based on its vowel in the original text.
We even hear the melody in retrograde at one point during the mass. This
elaborate cantus firmus treatment, Tallis’s varied palette of
contrapuntal techniques and the work's carefully proportioned structure
together render this magisterial mass setting one of the most strikingly
unusual and innovative works of the period.
The second thread running through the programme is the group of four Byrd Propers -the seasonal liturgicai texts set for votive Mass of the Blessed Virgin
Mary during Advent. These come from the Gradualia of 1605, the first of
two books in which William Byrd set out to provide the recusant Catholic
community with a comprehensive array of musical settings of the Mass
Propers throughout the year. As was Byrd's custom in Gradualia, these
works are models of concision; each one is perfectly proportioned and
compellingly individual, yet Byrd develops his musical ideas over a
comparatively short space of time, and is as economical with his use of
material as he is efficient in his (mostly syllabic) word setting.
Nonetheless, his masterful control of texture ensures that each point of
imitation is clearly declaimed.
Perhaps it is Byrd's tonal
resourcefulness and his genius for striking motivic invention that
stand out here, though. Tollite portas is a prime example of the latter,
where the opening point -festive and fanfare-like as the King of Glory
is welcomed through the gates of Heaven- gives way to an ascending scale
as the psalmist asks 'Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord? Rorate
caeli is similarly memorable for its persistent ascending and descending
motifs -as if to illustrate the believer calling up to the heavens,
which, in turn, pour down justice. By contrast, the power of Ecce virgo
is in the awe and wonder created by the unexpected shifts in tonality in
the opening passage. These lend a palpable sense of anticipation which
is only fulfilled at the final return to the tonic key of C minor as the
name of the promised child -'Emmanuel- is revealed. In Ave Maria, Byrd
creates another striking effect by effectively interrupting the opening
platitudes of the angel's greeting -set to short, graceful phrases in
the tonic minor- with an astonishingly luxuriant cadence in the relative
major at the claim 'the Lord is with thee'. It is as if -just for a
moment- he involves us deeply in the emotive power of those words,
before re-adopting a more detached contemplative stance; the final
alleluias graciously ooze simplicity itself.
The earliest polyphonic work in the programme, Taverner's Audivi vocem de caelo, follows the common pattern of alternating polyphony and plainchant, and is, liturgically speaking, a responsory for All Saints Day, though the gospel Fassage from which
the text originates is closely associated with Advent. The piece is
striking for its close-knit four-part texture and narrow tessitura,
making it particularly suitable for performance by upper voices alone;
indeed, there is evidence to suggest that it might have been sung by a
quartet of boy trebles. In other respects, the soaring musical language
of this piece is very typical of Taverner's style, though there are also
some interesting turns- perhaps most notably the bold passing
dissonance in the very first phrase of the polyphony, which results in a
peculiarly arresting start to the piece.
If Taverner's motet
is notable for its narrow compass, the opposite can be said of Robert
White's expansive and virtuosic Magnificat, a work which rivals many of
John Sheppard's for its huge range -well over three octaves spread over
up to six parts. White's consistently inventive musical ideas and his
imaginative and varied approach to melodic writing render this work a
veritable contrapuntal tour de force. Again, plainchant verses
alternate with counterpoint, but the contrapuntal verses themselves vary
in conception: some are scored for full six-part choir, with the
plainsong Magnificat tone sung as a cantus firmus in the tenor; others
use smaller configurations of voices requiring subdivision of parts,
changing at a chosen point in each verse, affording the composer the
opportunity to exploit a wonderful diversity of different textures. At
one point the plainchant moves to the mean voice; in others it
disappears almost completely, left only as a fragmented memory in some
points of imitation.
The remaining two works are both based on a
strict monorhythmic cantus firmus according to the old tradition: the
plainchant appears in regular semibreves in the tenor voice throughout
the polyphonic sections of the piece, which alternate with plainchant.
The two composers, however, create startlingly different works. Videte
miraculum, which opens the programme, is one of Tallis’s most sublime:
through careful control of texture and harmonic rhythm, lulling use of
repetition on several levels, and a masterfully-paced development of
motifs, Tallis's motet effuses an extraordinary sense of rapt adoration,
stillness and mystery: to hear it is to stand awestruck before a fine
painting of the Virgin and Child. In Verbum caro, by contrast, Sheppard
creates a radiant and sensuously enveloping sound-world spanning a huge
vocal range, characterized by thrilling harmonic turns, his uniquely
quirky approach to part-writing, and some truly daring sonorities.
Never one to sacrifice a thrilling effect on the altar of contrapuntal
integrity, Sheppard calls upon his trebles to divide into a three-part
gymel at the very end of the polyphony, in order to finish on a glorious
eight-part chord."
For me this is one the most exciting
English Renaissance pieces for Christmas. The luminous harmony and
brilliant lines are quasi-unique treatment in the music of Tallis. This album is absolutely essential, for the incredible music and the wonderful performance.
The sound of Stile Antico the sound of this group is still as wonderful
and as appropriate to perform English polyphony, that in few moments it
seems almost unreal. Probably it's one of the best recording of English Renaissance polypohny of recent year.
Philippe de Monte [1521-1603]: Missa Ultimi miei sospiri a 6. Cinquecento [Renaissance Vokal]. Mass about Madrigal, sacred about secular...
For Stephen Rice
"Philippe de Monte was one of the most extraordinarily prolific composers of the
Renaissance, perhaps of all time. Certainly in the madrigal genre he
outstripped all competition, with no fewer than thirty-four books
published between 1554 and his death in 1603, containing over a thousand
individual pieces. While his sacred output is less voluminous, it is
nonetheless impressive, with thirty-eight Mass settings, approximately
250 motets, and 144 madrigali spirituali.
Born in 1521, Monte
appears to have been a choirboy at the church of St Rombout in Mechelen.
He worked in Italy for several periods, including a spell as music
tutor to the Pinelli banking family in Naples. In the 1550s he was
associated with the chapel of Philip II of Spain, visiting England in
that capacity for the wedding of Philip to Mary Tudor; his meeting with
William Byrd on that occasion probably led to an exchange of eight-part
motets between the two composers in which they bemoaned the fate of
Catholics in England (Monte: Super flumina Babylonis; Byrd: Quomodo
cantabimus). But it is for his thirty-five-year tenure of the post of
Kapellmeister at the Austrian Habsburg court that Monte is best known.
Employed by Emperor Maximilian II in 1567, he remained in Habsburg
service for the rest of his life, despite a change of emperor (Rudolf II
ascended the throne in 1576) and his own requests from 1578 onwards for
permission to retire. His work is described in Grove’s Dictionary as
‘unfold[ing] in unhurried, sometimes quite melismatic lines, [with]
little evidence of post-Tridentine concerns about textual clarity’. As
will become apparent from this recording, such a broad statement covers
considerable variety in techniques and in atmosphere.
The
madrigal Ultimi miei sospiri by Philippe Verdelot is among the finest
and best-known secular pieces of the earlier part of the sixteenth
century. As one of the early pioneers of the madrigal, Verdelot was also
among the first to compose examples of the genre for as many as six
parts, a texture which offers significant opportunities for contrast
between high and low groups of voices, or other combinations. Such
techniques form a major part of the text-setting strategy of this
generation of madrigalists, with the text-obscuring properties of
imitative counterpoint offset by the chance to re-hear the same words
sung by another group of voices. Although madrigals of the 1520s do not
approach the levels of chromaticism seen later in the century, the idiom
is nonetheless highly expressive, due to these composers’ command of
textual accent (impressively, since the majority of them, including
Verdelot, were not native Italian speakers), and of tessitura. An
instance of the latter is found in Ultimi miei sospiri at ‘Dite, o beltà
infinita’ (‘Speak, O infinite beauty’) where the change of voice from
narrative to interlocution is marked with a new entry on the highest
pitch yet heard. Verdelot’s artistry is again observable towards the end
of the piece where the long notes of ‘Tornat’in me’ (‘return to me’)
appear to be guiding the music towards a peaceful ending, but a final
effort at energetic movement is made on ‘ch’io non vorrò morire’, as the
narrator rages against the dying of the light.
Such
recognizable musical characteristics made Verdelot’s madrigals (and
indeed motets) eminently suitable models for the imitation Mass genre
that dominated the later sixteenth century. As formulated by the
theorist Pietro Cerone, writing in 1613, the essence of this technique
is to transplant sections of polyphony into crucial moments of one’s
Mass setting, more or less in the order that they appear in the model.
This represents only part of the spectrum of borrowing techniques used
in the century preceding Cerone’s remark: thematic transformation,
juxtaposition of polyphonic sections in quite different ways,
recomposition of imitative counterpoint, all found their place in the
sixteenth-century imitation Mass. Monte’s technique in his Missa Ultimi
miei sospiri does however resemble that described by the theorist: each
Mass movement begins with a version of the madrigal’s opening, albeit
slightly varied. Elsewhere he is relatively sparing in the use of
borrowed material: examples include Domine Deus (‘Lord God’) in the
Gloria, which adapts ‘Dal tuo fedel’’ (‘that your faithful one’) from
the madrigal, and per quem omnia facta sunt (‘through him all things
were made’) in the Credo, taking the phrase ‘Gitene ratt’in ciel’’ (‘go
swiftly to heaven’). This latter phrase is also recast in triple time to
form the basis of the Osanna.
In common with many of his
contemporaries, Monte divides his Mass movements into formal
subsections. The Et incarnatus section of the Credo is one example:
here the solemnity of the words is underlined by a full, slow chordal
texture, followed by a brief upper-voice section for the Crucifixus.
Another division separates the Christological section of the Credo with
that dealing with the Holy Spirit and the Church: the latter is notable
for its syncopated figures, a compositional device that adds to the
vigour of this largely joyful final section. It also injects a certain
madrigalian feeling to the movement, though such syncopation is in fact
absent from Verdelot’s model."
In my opinion, this a fantastis
Mass satting about a italian Madrigal. I think the style of Monte and
Verdelot is relatively distant, but I think the work he does in this
Mass is very careful with the original Madrigal.
The performance is
woderfull: crystalline, wonderful pitch, fantastic sound, good balance,
really expressive... to complete an album that is essential for all
Renaissance polyphony fans.
Dominique Phinot [c.1510-b.1561]: Pater peccavi a 5. The Brabant Ensemble - Stephen Rice. The talent of the unknowns.
Roger Jacob & Stephen Rice think about this composer and his works:
"That this recording is the first to concentrate on the sacred music of Dominique Phinot is a reminder that a significant amount of music composed in the early sixteenth century continues to be terra incognita to present-day audiences. Moreover, our knowledge of the lives and careers of composers at this time is often based upon little more than fragmentary evidence. Information about Phinot’s career, for instance, is confined to a handful of documents from the 1540s and 1550s which indicate that he was a musician in the service of Duke Guidobaldo II of Urbino. A memorandum of 1544 records that he was proposed by the Duke for the post of cantor (singer or choirmaster) at the cathedral in Pesaro.
Since all of Phinot’s works received their first printings during the period 1538–1555, the composer is likely to have been in his late twenties by the first date, in which case he would have been born around 1510. From Girolamo Cardano’s essay Theonoston, which implies that Phinot was executed for homosexual practices, we learn that his death occurred before 1561.
Phinot’s output consists of over a hundred motets, two Masses, and settings of Vesper Psalms and the Magnificat, as well as two books of French chansons and two Italian madrigals. The acclaim with which his sacred compositions were received is evident both in the frequency of their publications as well as in the writings of his contemporaries. He was renowned as a master of imitative polyphonic writing, a trait which he shares with Gombert, Clemens non Papa, Willaert, and others of that generation who were the successors of Josquin Desprez. Indeed, the theorist Hermann Finck in 1556 placed Phinot behind only Gombert, Clemens, and Crecquillon (and ahead of Willaert) in a list of composers he described as ‘foremost, most excellent, subtlest and, in my judgement, to be imitated’.
The publication in Lyons during 1547–8 of two collections of Phinot’s motets secured his reputation for the rest of the century and beyond. Not only do the five-voice motets in the Liber primus mutetarum confirm his outstanding polyphonic skills but the Liber secundus contains five eight-voice works which are of considerable historical importance. The latter are unique in the mid-sixteenth century in their treatment of double-choir dialogue, a technique in which two four-part ensembles normally alternate thematically related phrases of varying lengths. These works, of which four are included in this recording, are the antecedents of the resplendent Venetian polychoral tradition of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.
In his eight-voice sacred works Phinot builds upon those essential features of double-choir technique which first appeared in the liturgical music of northern Italy, mainly in the Veneto, during the early decades of the sixteenth century. Psalms and canticles, which had for long been associated with ritual antiphonal performance, frequently inspire double-choir settings by composers such as Ruffino d’Assisi (fl1510–1532) and Francesco Santacroce (1488–1556), who already exploit varied lengths of choral exchange, contrasts of high and low register between ensembles, and chordal writing, in order to create genuine double-choir dialogue.
One of the most controversial theories surrounding the performance of Renaissance polyphony is that of the so-called ‘secret chromatic art’. First proposed by the scholar Edward Lowinsky (1908–1985) in relation to motets by Jacob Clemens non Papa, it holds that certain pieces could be performed with the addition of numerous accidental flats, sometimes leading to the entire piece ending a semitone lower than it began through a process of transposition. Lowinsky hypothesized that this related to crypto-Protestant significance in the music: Clemens’s mysterious nickname ‘non Papa’ would in this case indicate anti-Papal leanings—though more recent research suggests that Clemens was so called for much more prosaic reasons to do with his debauched lifestyle. Whatever the background to this phenomenon, it is certainly the case that in several pieces of this period, if the rules of musica ficta are followed as most likely would have happened in performance from separate partbooks, one flat after another appears in the music and leads to a downward spiral. One such example is Phinot’s Pater peccavi, a motet based on the story of the prodigal son.
The first half of the motet proceeds in a contrapuntally unproblematic way; only when the son begins to describe his miserable circumstances (hic fame pereo) does the modulation begin, achieving the entire shift in an extraordinary passage a little over half a minute long (3'45" to 4'20"). Having so to speak ‘found his feet’ in the new tonality the son resolves to go back to his father to beg forgiveness (Surgam et ibo), but the pain of his humiliation is underlined by the highly expressive downward sequence of suspensions (et dicam ei) before the plea ‘Make me as one of your servants’ (Fac me sicut unum ex mercenariis tuis) returns in a mood of resignation. Such a direct narrative explanation may seem out of place for a motet published as early as 1538; yet the remarkable effect both of the ‘secret chromatic’ spiral and the later suspension passage suggests just such an interpretation despite the early date."
For me, this a wonderful album and the only monographic recording on the works of Phinot -I think-, an excellent reason to celebrate this.
The performance is really great, specially female voices -the Ashby sisters are absolutely amazing-.
This music will surprise many by its immense quality, I'm sure.
Thomas Tallis [c.1505-1585]: Gaude gloriosa a 6. The Tallis Scholars - Peter Phillips. Music for Henry VIII.
Andrew Carwood says about Tallis and this piece:
"When Henry VIII broke with the Roman Church over the issue of his marriage to Catherine
of Aragon he and his advisors plunged the country into decades of
unease and instability. Certainly there had been criticisms of the
pre-Reformation Church and discontent over a number of political issues,
but England was a remarkably devout country – in terms of liturgy and
observance, as devout as they came. Henry himself was foremost amongst
the defenders of the Catholic Church, proudly holding the papal title Fidei Defensor (found on British coins to this day) for writing a
scathing attack on Luther and his heretical doctrines.
Once the
split was underway the fabric of society was changed through the
systematic dissolution of the monasteries from 1536 onwards. The end of
the religious houses and collegiate chapels meant that the people were
more able to see and hear the drama of the Mass even if they could not
understand its more subtle points. But in terms of liturgical change,
Henry’s reforms left much unchanged – ‘Catholicism without the Pope’ as
it is sometimes termed. It was only with the accession of the boy-King
Edward VI and his Protestant advisors that a significant difference
became obvious, with the two English Prayer Books of 1549 and 1552. On
Mary’s accession Catholicism was restored, England reconciled with Rome
and a Latin liturgy re-established. On her sister Elizabeth’s accession a
‘third way’ was found: a path which disliked extremism of any sort and
which tried to establish a peculiarly English ecclesiastical ‘pax’.
For composers of liturgical music these cataclysmic changes meant that
they had to make a decision: whether to remain true to the old faith and
stop writing music altogether (as did Nicholas Ludford) or whether to
repudiate old beliefs and embrace the new (John Merbecke). Later in the
century, others seemed able to cling to the old beliefs in spite of the
prevailing political wind, producing music for both the English Church
and motets which resonated with the recusant Catholic community (Robert
Parsons and William Byrd). Thomas Tallis seems to have steered a
remarkable path through the lives and whims of four sovereigns,
producing music acceptable to each of them and living a long and
discreet life. Amongst his output are large-scale votive antiphons for
Henry VIII, shorter pieces in English for Edward VI, liturgical music
for Mary, and liturgical and domestic motets in English and Latin for
Elizabeth.
Of Tallis’s early life we know very little. His
first employment record is as organist of the Priory in Dover in 1532,
which perhaps suggests Kent as his area of birth. Dover Priory was a
small Benedictine monastery which was dissolved in 1535, suggesting that
something may have been very wrong with the community (Henry’s
dismantling of the smaller houses did not begin in earnest until 1536).
No record exists of Tallis’s departure from Dover but we know he was in
the employ of St Mary-at-Hill in Billingsgate in London during 1537/8
and that by the autumn of 1538 he took a position at Waltham Abbey in
Essex. If Tallis was hoping for security at Waltham he was disappointed.
1538 was also the year that saw the dissolution of the larger monastic
houses and Waltham was no exception, being closed on 23 March 1540 (the
last English abbey to be dissolved). Being a recent employee, Tallis
received no pension from Waltham Abbey but he did get 20s in outstanding
wages plus an extra 20s. However he soon gained a place in the newly
founded choir of Canterbury Cathedral – where he headed the list of
twelve singing men in 1540 – but remained there for only two years,
having been appointed to the most prestigious and desirable position for
a professional Tudor musician – Gentleman of the Chapel Royal. The
exact date of his joining is not known but he is recorded in the list of
gentlemen in the lay subsidy roll of 1543/4. Perhaps this new position
gave him extra security and confidence for in about 1552 he took a wife,
Joan. He remained a Gentleman of the Chapel Royal for the rest of his
life, rising steadily until he became its most senior member, finally
being titled ‘Organist’ in the 1570s.
Tallis died in 1585 and
is buried in the Church of St Alphege in Greenwich where is found this
gentle, modest and touching epitaph:
Enterred here doth ly a worthy wight, Who for long tyme in music bore the Bell; His name to shew was Thomas Tallys hyght; In honest virtuous lyff he did excell. He served long tyme in Chapell with grate prayse, I mean King Henry and Prynce Edward’s dayes, Quene Mary and Elizabeth our Quene. He maryed was, though children he had none, And lived in Love full three and thirty Yere, With loyal Spowse, whose name yclipt was Jone, Who here entomb’d now company him bears. As he did lyve, so also did he dy, In mild and quyet sort, O! happy man. To God ful oft for mercy did he cry, Wherefore he lyves, let Death do what he can.
Tallis’s monumental votive antiphon, Gaude gloriosa is another piece
requiring some detective work. At first glance it appears to sit firmly
within the pre-Reformation style. A setting of a lengthy and rambling
text to the Virgin, it is similar to those set by the older masters such
as Robert Fayrfax, Ludford and Taverner. What imitation is present in
the piece is modest and short-lived and the whole makes its effect
through its length (461 bars), wide vocal ranges and superb control of
dramatic gestures. Contrast is created by juxtaposing sections for
reduced forces with settings for full choir: all characteristics typical
of the pre-Reformation style.
Yet there are good reasons for
supposing a later date of composition. Compared with Tallis’s early
compositions (Ave rosa sine spinis, Ave Dei Patris filia and Salve
intemerata virgo), Gaude gloriosa shows a considerable advance in
confidence, structure and effect. The earlier pieces can seem rather
sprawling, and in some cases appear to be the work of a composer
learning his craft. Indeed Ave Dei Patris filia refers to Fayrfax’s work
of the same name much in the style of a student exercise. Yet Gaude
gloriosa is sure-footed and eloquent, a considerable advance on his
early work. It is scored for six voices rather than the more usual
five-part texture and sports divided tenors, a baritone and a bass part
allowing a thicker sonority than is sometimes usual for an early
sixteenth-century composition. The full sections contain little respite
for the singers, with hardly a bar’s rest in any voice part, lengthy and
demanding writing and a fairly constant exploitation of the upper
register of the top part. In short it is bigger, thicker and more
well-nourished than the earlier style. The sections for solo voices are
the work of a mature composer, especially in the section making use of
the treble and alto gimmells (the voices split into two parts) and,
perhaps most tellingly, there are no duets (de rigueur in earlier
pieces). It is almost as if this is Tallis remembering an older style,
recreating a sound world banished by Edward VI.
One further
point needs consideration. The text, an extended paean to the Virgin
Mary is deeply Catholic. It seems unlikely that such words would have
been deemed appropriate in the latter days of Henry VIII, even when he
was having a more Catholic phase. Yet this text in nine sections each
beginning with the word Gaude would have been just the sort of piece
that Mary Tudor might have wanted to hear, one which could knit together
both the old and new: a celebration of the world of her youth in its
form and text and, through its very composition, a bedrock for her new
Catholic order."
In my opinion, this is one of the most
impressive pieces composed by Thomas Tallis. The power and energy of
this music is almost infinite. The text is a real praise to the Virgin,
set in music in a way so passionate and devout, that really impresses.
This version is absolutely wonderful. The Tallis Scholars are always a
safe bet. The female voices and tenors here are absolutely incredible
-like a dream-. The pitch, balance, sound and pronunciation are
fantastic. This is a very complicated piece, but Peter Phillips and his
singers performs this it as if it were really easy.
This is a classic album, one of the best with music by Tallis.
Cuando un producto se hace con cariño, las consecuencias de ese trato amoroso y entragado son más que palpables. Un disco, que es un producto cultural complejo, necesita de ese cariño para convertirse en algo fascinante, como es el caso que aquí se nos presenta.
La llegada del sello de Raquel Andueza y Jesús Fernández Baena fue vista, por los seguidores de sus andanzas, como una bendición, pues podrían abordar en él los verdaderos proyectos salidos de sus entrañas, con todo lo beno que eso supone. Este es el "segundo bebé" -como señala la propia soprano pamplonica-, que tras el impresionante éxito de su Yo soy la locura, llegaba para traernos un repertorio con temática sacra y moralizante de la Italia del XVII -¡nada menos!-, uno de los repertorios cumbre en el ámbito vocal del Barroco. Había mucho que hacer aquí, pues el listón estaba realmente altísimo tras su primer disco, pero, van y lo vuelven a hacer.
Las obras contenidas aquí salen directamente del movimiento que durante todo el Barroco llevó por bandera la retórica como centro de la música, con esos docere, delectare, movere, argumentos finales de toda composición musical que se preciase. La Affektenlehre -Teoría de los Afectos- era la base de toda composición y esa se nota en todo el uso de herramientas compositivas de tipo retórico, tanto a nivel textual, como texto-musical -por medio de los figuralismos, esa suerte de expressio verborvm, que unía contenido con continente-. Aquí hay de todo eso, pero mucho más.
Uno de los pilares que sustenta un disco, en mi opinión, es el repertorio, en una doble vía: 1) la elección del mismo; y 2) su estructuración en el propio disco. Ambos puntos deben aunarse para lograr el equilibrio perfecto. Entre las piezas elegidas para conformar este disco encontramos algunas de las obras más importantes de todo el XVII, como son las piezas de Merula, Monteverdi, Sances y Ferrari, que conforman el eje central de la grabación. Por otro lado, el resto de piezas, de minutaje menor -aunque no desciende su calidad y belleza musical- suponen el contrapunto, casi a modo de interludios instrumentales en una ópera, para terminar conformando un todo repleto de coherencia y significado.
Los textos son realmente el sustento de estas piezas, y es que su belleza y hondura es tal, que no puede ser de otro modo. No cabe esperar menos que una música sublime para textos de tal calibre. Quedan a un lado las creencias religiosas de cada uno, pues se sea o no creyente, es imposible no emocionarse ante textos de una crudeza y emoción sacra tan brutales, pero también de un tratamiento humano tan descarnado y sincero.
Todas y cada una de las obras que aparecen son auténticas joyas, bien sea por su carácter más moralizante, o bien por su sacralidad más terrenal. La Vana Bergamasca invita a la reflexión, y al baile, con ese bajo de Bergamasca tan bello. La nana de Merula nos hace estremecer ante la crudeza de la escena: la Virgen, que como madre, llora ante el sufrimiento de su hijo, un carácter doloroso que es bien marcado en la tiorba, con el uso del basso dolente, tan característico del Barroco. En S'io mi parto, Mazzochi juego con el doble sentido del amor divino y profano, en un texto de total actualidad ante la marcha de un ser querido. El anónimo Madre, non far mi monaca nos trae de cabeza a lo mundano, las suplicas de una joven que no quiere ser metida a monja, un texto con cierto tono sarcástico y que musicalmente parece tener muchas influencias de la canción francesa Une jeune fillette. En el Lamento della Maddalena, "Il Divino Claudio" nos regala uno de los momentos más crudos del disco, en el que Madalena se lamenta ante la falta de su amor, Jesús, un texto realmente provocador, utilizado de manera inédita en este contrafactvm, con la misma música que utilizase en su Lamento d'Arianna. La Follia del mondo nos presenta una reflexión acerca de las vidas disolutas y las consecuencias que estas pueden traer, por medio de líneas muy sencillas y pegadizas, que dejan que el mensaje moralizante sea el verdadero centro de la pieza. El Stabat Mater de Sances es otro de los puntos culminantes del disco, pues por medio de un tetracordo cromático descendente y un texto que muestra todo el sentir de la madre dolorosa que presencia el sufrimiento de su hijo en la cruz, nos lega una de las piezas más subyugantes de todo el Seicento. El breve anónimo Spagnoletto dishonorato nos habla del sentido del honor y como, al final, el único camino para llegar a él debemos buscarlo en la vida cristiana, aunque musicalmente, su carácter movido nos aleje un tanto de esa atmósfera. Amar a Dios por Dios, de nuevo de Mazzochi, es la única pieza sin texto en italiano, y nos muestra de nuevo ese amor sincero por Dios de una manera casi física, no por todo lo que supone su figura, en un arrebatamiento de la experiencia religiosa. Finaliza el disco con el indescriptiblemente hermoso Queste pungenti spine, de Ferrari, cantata espiritual en cuatro partes, de carácter estrófico -que supone un auténtico catálogo del uso de figuras retóricas-, y que para el que firma es la pieza más desoladora y bella de cuantas encontramos en este precioso disco, basada en otro ostinato -tetracordo descendente mayor-, que nos muestra toda la crudeza del sufrimiento, pasión, amor, dolor... con una línea vocal tan absolutamente maravillosa y un acompañamiento del continuo tan delicado, que crean un dúo que consigue llegar a los más profundo del alma.
Y si esta música supone alguno de los momentos más arrebatadores de toda la historia de la música, necesita de una interpreatción que le haga justicia. Pues bien, creo que pocos artistas hay más capacitados hoy en día para honrarla como merece que esta pareja. Jesús Fernández Baena asume su papel de acompañamiento, pero su buen hacer en estas artes y su profundo conocimiento del continuo en este período, le hacen abordar dicho acompañamiento desde un punto de vista más cercano a la voz, casi llegando a tocarla en muchos momentos. Su pulsación es pulcra, su sonido bellísimo, delicado y elegante, además de tremendamente expresivo. En cuanto a Raquel Andueza, qué decir de Raquel... Uno no llega a la cima de lo que hace sin tener un talento desbordante, además de una capacidad de trabajo encomiable y una ilusión que traspasa fronteras. Su vocalidad es sencillamente especial: brillante, fresca, auténtica, cálida, expresiva, emocionante, honesta... además de que tiene, posiblemente, la mejor dicción de cuántas cantantes se dediquen al repertorio histórico en el mundo. Su limpidez a la hora de articular y esculpir el texto le hacen sencillamente la mejor opción a la hora de abordar ciertos repertorios.
Si desde luego un disco ha de ser la muestra de todo lo que uno lleva dentro, de su honestidad, sinceridad, arte, amoción, ilusión, trabajo, esfuerzo, dedicación, llantos, risas... este es un ejemplo de la mejor manera de hacerlo. La toma de sonido, presentación, textos... son por lo demás igual de excelso que el contenido musical, lo que redondea el producto, acercándolo casi a la perfección.
Sencillamente está todo en él, un total espejo en el que se ven reflejados, con todo lo maravilloso que eso es. Un disco que simplemente hay que tener, porque hace mejor al que lo escucha, al mundo que habitamos. En estos tiempos que corren, en el que apenas hay tiempo para vivir, que un disco consiga hacerte reflexionar, pare el tiempo a tu alrededor mientras lo escuchas o te haga deshacerte en lágrimas, es algo por lo que habrá que estarles eternamente agradecidos a ambos, pero también a todo su equipo. Yo, al menos, así lo haré.
Jacobus Clemens non Papa [c.1510/15-1555/6]: Missa Pro defvnctis a 4. The Brabant Ensemble - Stephen Rice. Et lvx perpetva lvceat eis.
For Stephen Rice:
"Jacobus Clemens non Papa is one of the most remarkably underrated composers of the
sixteenth century. From the 1540s onwards he was widely published
throughout Europe, in particular by Tilman Susato of Antwerp (himself a
composer). Clemens’s surviving output of motets, Mass-settings,
Magnificats, Souterliedekens (Dutch metrical Psalms) and secular songs
in French and Dutch approaches five hundred items in total, placing him
among the most prolific of the age. Sixteenth-century writers on music
who discuss the leading contemporary musicians invariably placed him in
the first rank. Yet Clemens’s position in modern understanding of
Renaissance polyphony can only be described as marginal. The number of
recordings devoted to his work is still in single figures, and his music
features in concert programmes and the music lists of ecclesiastical
choirs only rarely. This is particularly surprising because his style of
composition, to a greater degree than that of contemporaries such as
Crecquillon and Manchicourt, is based on melody rather than being
contrapuntally driven—though his contrapuntal skill is undoubted.
Moreover, Clemens frequently created striking aural images, which catch
the ear with a sudden change of texture or harmonic shift: in contrast
to the intentionally seamless polyphony of the slightly older Gombert,
for instance, which creates its effect by gradual intensification and
relaxation, Clemens’s music is far more straightforwardly dramatic.
Little-known though his music may be, Clemens is at least celebrated
for his nickname. The significance of the sobriquet ‘non Papa’ has been
debated for a number of years, but the recent discovery by Henri
Vanhulst of correspondence in 1553 between the Archduke Maximilian of
Austria and Philippe du Croÿ, son of a deceased patron of Clemens,
offers a possible explanation. Maximilian was seeking to build up the
musical establishment of his chapel, and requested that his father’s
Kapellmeister, the Netherlander Pieter Maessens, travel to the Low
Countries in order to secure the services of Clemens. Du Croÿ replied
that although it would be possible to achieve this, he would not
recommend Clemens on account of the fact that he was a great drunkard
and lived immorally (‘un grant ivrogne et tres mal vivant’—the latter
probably referring to Clemens breaching his priestly vow of chastity).
The position went to another Netherlander, the young Jacobus Vaet, and
Clemens’s puzzling lack of any important employment, considering his
fame and popularity as a composer, is explained. This story has a
bearing, also, on the nickname (which appears in manuscripts in jocular
alternative forms such as ‘nono Papa’ and ‘haud Papa’—‘absolutely not
the Pope’). The time during Clemens’s life when there was a Pope
Clement—the seventh, alias Giulio de’ Medici—was 1523 to 1534, during
Clemens’s adolescence: one may speculate therefore that the composer
became known as ‘non Papa’ at that time because of his distinctly
un-ecclesiastical behaviour, and that the name persisted long after any
distinction between musician and prelate was necessary, if it ever had
been.
What about Clemens’s music caused his great popularity?
Two features of his style stand out and set him somewhat apart from his
contemporaries: both have to do with the constructive properties of his
polyphony. Whereas musicians operating within the standard career paths
of the time, such as his direct contemporary Thomas Crecquillon, were
educated firstly in contrapuntal technique, and continued throughout
their lives to base their compositions on a series of contrapuntal
points woven together, Clemens’s textures seem often to function as
melody with supporting lines—all written in an imitative style,
certainly, but designed to emphasize the melodic gesture rather than to
subsume it into a contrapuntal whole. An analogy could be made with the
procedure of George Frideric Handel: where Handel writes fugues, their
essence is the presentation of melody, and where the melody demands to
be treated in a particular way, the counterpoint will accommodate it.
The second aspect of Clemens’s writing that draws the listener’s
attention is the manipulation of harmony. To use the word ‘harmony’ in
relation to sixteenth-century polyphony is to invite disapproval from
those who believe the term anachronistic; but (partly for the reason
elaborated in the last paragraph) I believe that Clemens can usefully be
viewed in such terms, to a considerably greater extent than his
contemporaries. Although passages in block chords had been present in
sacred music for many years before his time, generally at moments of
extreme solemnity such as the name of Jesus Christ in the Mass, on
numerous occasions in the motets presented here Clemens blends chordal
writing into the wider flow of the polyphony, in order to achieve
effects that seem more to do with form or even more abstract concepts,
than with illustration of the text.
The Missa pro defunctis is
not one of Clemens’s better-known Mass-settings, which is somewhat
surprising given its austere beauty. Like most Requiem settings of the
Renaissance, it combines movements from the Ordinary of the Mass (Kyrie,
Sanctus, Agnus Dei—the Gloria and Credo would not have been sung at
Masses for the dead) with those Proper to the occasion, namely the
Introit, Tract, Offertory, and Communion. For most of the Mass the
plainchant melodies are paraphrased in the tenor voice, though
occasionally they are found in the soprano (for instance in the Kyrie
and Offertory). Given the relatively restricted palette of four voices
and chant paraphrase chosen by Clemens, he is able to conjure a
remarkably varied range of harmonic colours across the seven movements
of the Requiem.
The Introit is the most conventional movement,
with the chant in long notes in the tenor initially; for the Psalm verse et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem (‘and the vow will be repaid to
you in Jerusalem’) the texture becomes homophonic with a straight
falsobordone harmonization of the Psalm tone in the top voice. After the
mandatory repeat of the opening section the Kyrie adopts a similar
homophonic style, though Clemens begins to vary his choice of harmonies,
notably by introducing an unexpected final chord for the Christe
section. The Tract follows the plainsong into a different tonal area,
reverting to a more imitative texture. Having created the dialogue
between these two styles, Clemens begins in the latter part of the Tract
to mingle them, first introducing harmonic twists (perhaps
significantly at the word ‘evadere’), then underlining the sentiment of
the final text phrase with a general pause and homophonic texture.
The Offertory is both the central movement and the longest, at 4'30".
In the main it is rapid, moving in fast semibreves and homophonically.
The final line of the first section, quam olim Abrahae promisisti (‘as
long ago you promised Abraham’) is more relaxed in spirit, yielding to
chant (taken here by the women) and, following a further energetic
verse, returning to round off the movement in a reflective vein.
Like the Kyrie, the Sanctus and Agnus Dei are both short, but
here—especially in the Agnus—Clemens is at his most ingenious in
avoiding unnecessary repetition. Each invocation of the Agnus Dei ends
on a slightly different chord: the final one is forced by the melodic
shape of the top voice to finish in the minor, unusually for any
Renaissance piece but especially for a Requiem movement since the chants
are largely in the major mode (which at this time lacked any
connotation of happiness, being regarded rather more as harsh). Finally
the Communion Proper completes the Mass in tender fashion, with a return
to the Requiem aeternam text and almost static chords for its
response et lux perpetua luceat eis (‘and let perpetual light shine on
them’), followed by a lightly ornamented repeat of the line quia pius
es (‘since you are merciful’). Clemens’s Requiem Mass may be one of the
less demonstrative sixteenth-century settings of these texts, eschewing
the compositional virtuosity that characterizes his motets, but it
achieves a solemn reflectiveness that is highly appropriate musically
for this ritual of mourning."
For me, this Reqviem is inexplicably very little performed and recorded.
This music has great depth -as it can not be otherwise given the text-
but also we find there some really energetic moments, without falling in
resignation.
This album is absolutely fantastic -this piece is just enough-, but it's completes with some wonderful motets.
The performance is really great, with a beatiful sound and very
delicated lines. This version is calm, deep and very expressive.
Fecha: 12-XI-2012.20:00 horas. Lugar: Sala de cámara, Auditorio Príncipe Felipe [Oviedo]. Contexto: Primer concierto del ciclo Oviedo Barroco.Entrada: 21 €uros. Programa: Todos los caminos llevan a Roma. Intérprete: European Union Baroque Orchestra [EUBO] - Lars Ulrik Mortensen.
En una buena orquesta, ora convencial -lo que se entiende hoy día por una orquesta sinfónica-, ora barroca -como es el caso- han de conjugarse muchos elementos, algunos de los cuales son vitales para el total desenvolvimiento y consecución del éxito a consecuencia de, esto es, algunos factores básicos, que casi se dan por supuestos, a saber: afinación, empaste, equilibrio, sonoridad bella, matices, control rítmico... pero otros que quizá no lo están tanto, pero son igual o más importantes, como pueden ser la expresividad, el feedback director-intrumentistas, emoción, disfrute... Si una orquesta consigue tener esto, en mayor o menor grado, creo que el trabajo conseguido ha de ser digno de alabar. Pues bien, nos encontramos ante un caso, ¡y encima repleta de jóvenes! -cansado uno como está, en ocaciones, de encontrarse con dinosaurios copando la mayoría de atriles-.
La EUBO es un caso excepcional en Europa, sí, pero también a nivel mundial, pues no existe otra orquesta que se rija de la misma manera: seleccionado a músicos jóvenes especializados en la interpretación con instrumentos originales, que trabajan juntos y con un determinado director durante un período de seis meses, cuyo resultado se muestra en una gira por diversos países, y que vuelve a su ser tras ese perído, comenzando de nuevo todo el proceso. Esta orquesta barroca ha trabajado, desde que se fundara en 1985, con mucho de los grandes directores del panorama barroco mundial, tales como Roy Goodman, Petra Müllejans, Christophe Coin, Margaret Faultless, Edward Higginbottom, Rachel Podger, Andrew Manze, Ton Koopman, Fabio Biondi and Christina Pluhar, Enrico Onofri... y lo hará esta temporada bajo las órdenes de la mencionada Faultlees, Ricardo Minassi, Paul Agnew, Gottfried von der Goltz, Stefano Montanari y el que es, desde 2004, su director musical estable, el danés lars Ulrik Mortensen.
El programa y la plantilla presente en Oviedo fueron los siguientes:
Como se observa, la presencia de países es bastante variada, aunque alguno -como Alemania, Polonia o Gran Bretaña- ocupan varios plazas dentro del conjunto.
El programa es realmente precioso, con algunos de los grandes ejemplos del concerto grosso en la Europa del XVII y XVIII.
Comenzó el concierto con el concerto grosso II de Georg Muffat [1653-1704], denominado por el también como sonata en su publicación del Armonico Tributo de 1682. La música de Muffat es maravillosa en tanto en cuanto supone una auténtica toma de los puntos más interesantes de la música francesa e italiana, pasadas siempre por su mano, lo que le da a esta colección de piezas -al igual que suceda posteriormente con sus doce concerti grossi [1701], que reutilizan material de estas seis sonate/concerti- un sonido tan caracerístico de este compositor.
La primera parte continuaría con dos obras de Georg Fridrich Händel [1685-1759]. Su Ouverture en Si bemolmayor HWV 336, de la que no se conoce la fecha de composición, pues no se conserva el manuscrito autógrafo, muestra característica del género en el corpus "händelian", con esa mezcla de estilo italiano y francés, con un primer movimiento Largo y un segundo Allegro -ambos parecen tener concordancias con la sonatas HWV 445, 446 y 447-. La segunda y última pieza de "Il Caro Sassone", fue la Sonata a 5 [concerto] en Si bemol mayor, para violín y orquesta, juega con esa delgada línea entre la sonata y el concierto barrocos, y contiene uno de los momentos más bellos y conocidos de la obra del alemán.
Para finalizar esta primera parte, se interpretó uno de los doce concerti grossi del gran Arcangelo Corelli [1653-1713], publicado de manera póstuma en 1714, y que son probablemente la cima del género en la historia de la música, concreatmente el Op. VI / IV, concerto da chiesa en Re mayor, concierto con grandes contrastes, pues contiene momentos de delicadeza sublime, mientras otros [el Vivace y el Allegro finales] son de una energía abrumadora.
En esta primera se notó un tanto fríos a los músicos, creo que haciéndose a la acústica nada agradable de la angosta sala de cámara de este auditorio ovetense y a un incesante y muy molesto ruido de fondo que hacía su entrada en cada silencio. Sin embargo, conforme fueron pasando los minutos, la sinergia que se iba produciendo era brutal, siendo su punto culminante precisamente ese último movimiento del concerto grosso del de Fusignano. Hubo momentos bellos en Muffat -como su Sonata y posterior Allemande-, y en Händel, como en su Sonata a 5, aunque me quedo especialmente con los momentos orquestales antes que los solísiticos, en los que hubo ciertos desajustes. Eso sí, bien el papel del concertino, con momentos muy brillantes y un excelente gusto en las ornamentaciones, aunque tuvo ciertos problemas en la afinación.
La segunda parte comenzó con otros de los concerti grossi de Corelli -otro da chiesa-, esta vez el Op. VI / III, quizá algo más contenido que el anterior y con momentos absolutamente sublimes -me fascinan especialmente sus movimientos lentos-.
El concierto terminaría como empezó, con el Armonico Tributo de Muffat, en esta ocasión la Sonata/Concerto V [Sol mayor], magnífico ejemplo del excelente compendio que podía llegar a ser un concerto de estas características, en el que encontramos de todo: danzas rapidas y lentas, una fuga y una Passacaglia final, que cierra de manera monumental su colección, suponiendo, para mí, uno de los momentos cumbre de la literatura barroca.
La vuelta al escenario fue mucho más contundente en esta segunda parte, dejando ya para el olvido aquellos momentos de desajuste rítmico y desequilibrio de la primera parte. Fabulosos en la obra de Corelli, dejaron lo mejor para el final, bordando absolutamente el obrón de Muffat y haciendo una interpretación absoltamente magistral de la Passacaglia.
Tras lo numerosos aplausos, volvieron a escena para interpretar -como bis, aunque hubiera sido la guinda al pastel haber escuchado una obra fuera de programa- el último movimiento del Op. VI / IV de Corelli, donde mostraron toda energía y buen rollo que les caracteriza.
El trabajo de la orquesta fue fabuloso -dejando, ya digo, a un lado, pequeños detalles, aunque sí señalando que eché mucho de menos la presencia de cuerda pulsada en el continuo, algo tan sustancial en esta música-, con momentos sublimes en cuanto a dinámicas, agógica, carácter, expresividad... pero el verdadero punto fuerte de este conjunto es la energía y vitalidad que les aporta su juventud, el maravilloso feeling que hay entre ellos y la absoluta relación casi de amistad que parece unirles con el danés Mortensen, quien se mostró absolutamente entregado a la causa, feliz en el rostro, disfrutando cada momento, dejando en muchos otros las labores del continuo al otro clave para dar rienda suelta a su gesto en la dirección y a su disfrute en la escucha. En definitiva, había eso que hace falta en tantas orquestas, una unión y disfrute de todos y para todos. Cuando eso se consigue, la sensación generada es inigualable. Bravo pues por los jóvenes intrumentistas barrocos de la Unión Europea. Que sea por mucho años...
Manuel Cardoso [1566-1650]: Magnificat Secvndi toni a 5. The Tallis Scholars - Peter Phillips. The greatness of Portugal.
In words of Peter Phillips:
"The Portuguese school of Renaissance composers is only just beginning to be explored. It
came to maturity relatively slowly, and when it finally did, in the
first half of the 17th century, much of the rest of Europe had moved on
to a new musical world. Only countries on the edge of the continent -
especially England, Poland and Portugal - continued as late as 1650 to
give employment to composers who found creative possibilities in
unaccompanied choral music. Even so, very few of these composers
remained completely untouched by the experiments of Monteverdi and the
new Italian Baroque school, so that their music became a fascinating
hybrid, looking forward and back, often unexpectedly introducing twists
and turns to what otherwise might be taken for pure 'Palestrina'. Late
Renaissance English composers are famous for this: it is time that their
contemporaries in Portugal earned the same credit. Of the four leading
names - Estêvao de Brito (c.1575-1641), Filipe de Magalhaes
(c.1571-1652), Duarte Lôbo (1565-1646) and Frei Manuel Cardoso
(c.1566-1650), it was Cardoso who mixed old and new most successfully,
producing his own highly characterful style.
Cardoso spent his
life as a member of the Carmelite order attached to the wealthy Convento
do Carmo at Lisbon. Before taking his vows in 1589, he had been trained
as a choirboy at Évora Cathedral. Between 1618 and 1625 he was employed
by the Duke of Barcelos, who later became King John IV, a most useful
patron since he was himself a keen musician and a competent composer.
Cardoso's surviving works are printed in five collections, two of which
were paid for by King John. Of these five the first and last (1613 and
1648) are general collections of motets and Magnificats, while the other
three (1625, 1636 and 1636) are books of Masses. All the parody Masses
in the 1625 book are based on motets by Palestrina, which explains how
Cardoso came to have such a secure grasp of the essentials of
Renaissance style. The parody Masses of the second book (1636) are all
on motets by the future John IV and in his third book of Masses (also
1636) Cardoso printed a set of six (two each for four, five and six
voices) on a single motet by Philip IV of Spain. Although Cardoso was
the most widely published Portuguese composer of his time, his
reputation would have been more internationally established if the
Antwerp publishing house of Plantin had accepted an offer which Cardoso
made them in 1611 to publish his works. In the end Plantin proved to be
too expensive for this relatively provincial composer.
We
cannot know the extent to which Cardoso experimented with the more
obvious kinds of Baroque style, since all his polychoral music was
destroyed in the Lisbon earthquake of 1755. The five publications
referred to above are exclusively in Renaissance style, except to say
that there is no other Renaissance idiom quite like it.
The
same musical procedure -the listener is left in real confusion about the
tonality of the music, until in bar six it is resolved with the Baroque
chromaticisms of what we know as the 'melodic' minor scale- can be
heard in the Magnificat (Secundi Toni 5 vv) beginning at the verse
'Esurientes' (Index 2). Cardoso followed this with his most protracted
working of augmented chord harmony, which, in conjunction with the
uncertain tonality, provides one of the most colourful passages on the
whole recording. In this setting Cardoso gave the Magnificat formula,
surely a little tired by 1613 when this one was printed, a refreshing
overhaul, for instance increasing the number of voice-parts in the final
polyphonic passage from the initial five (SSATB) to six by doubling the
alto part."
For me this piece is a fantastic example of the
"grandeur" in the Portuguese music of XVIth century. I think this period
is the golden age of Portuguese music in history.
This album is indispensable in this way, because captures the essence of the work of Cardoso.
The perfomance is really superb, pure "Tallis sound", balance, elegance, exquisite intonation, brilliant sound...
Fecha: 31-X-2012.20:00 horas. Lugar: Sala sinfónica, Auditorio Príncipe Felipe [Oviedo]. Contexto: Conciertos Dia Universal del Ahorro [CajAstur].Entrada con invitación. Programa: In Furore: Vivaldi virtuoso. Intérprete: Raquel Lojendio [soprano], Orquesta Sinfónica del Principado de Asturias - Aarón Zapico.
Gracias a la generosidad de los hermanos Zapico -a los que, antes que nada, quiero agradecer desde aquí el que me ofreciesen tan amablemente una invitación para acceder al concierto- pude presenciar un concierto que realmente podría clasificarse de sorprendente.De mano porque sorprende el hecho de que la OSPA -una orquesta sinfónica al uso- se acerque a un repertorio barroco, y segundo, el que lo hagan desde una perspectiva historicista, de la mano de los grandes representantes de esta opción interpretativa en Asturias, y uno de los mejores exponentes a nivel nacional, como son los hermanos Zapico -germen del conjunto Forma Antiqva-, pues le deja a uno intentado asimilar durente un rato lo que puede salir de ahí. Desde luego, se trataba de una apuesta arriesgada.
El programa, centrado básicamente en los motetes para soprano de Antonio Vivaldi, contaba también con algunos interludios instrumentales de barroco italiano e inglés. El programa concreto era el siguiente.
In Fvrore: Vivaldi virtuoso
I
Francesco Geminiani [1687-1782]
Concerto grosso nº. XII [sobre Op. 5/XII, La Follia]
Antonio Vivaldi [1678-1741]
In tvrbato mare irato RV 627
In fvrore ivstissimae irae RV 626
II
Charles Avison [1709-1770]
Concerto grosso nº. V
Antonio Vivaldi
Svm in medio tempestatvm RV 632
Nvlla in mvndo pax sincera RV 630
El trabajo de los hermanos Zapico, con Aarón asumiendo la dirección, y Daniel y Pablo al continuo, como suelen acostumbrar -Daniel a la tiorba y Pablo a la guitarra barroca-, fue realmente estupendo, y me consta que realmente duro y exigente. Hay que tener bien presente que conseguir que una orquesta sinfónica intente acercarse a un repertorio tan alejado de su habitual y lo haga desde unos criterios totalmente opuestos a lo que hacen cada día, resulta cuando menos harto complejo. A tenor de lo visto en el concierto, creo que, como suele acontecer, el trabajo duro termina dando sus frutos.
La orquesta, reducida a 24 instrumentistas -que supone un recorte más que sustancioso en la plantilla habitual de la orquesta- se mostró bastante receptiva ante repertorio y director, aunque no hubiera realmente mucho feedback entre ellos en mucho momentos. Creo que el mero hecho de tocar sin apenas vibrato, como hicieron, ya supone un verdadero reto para estos músicos. Estamos ante una música realmente virtuosa, no solo en lo vocal, sino también en las líneas instrumentales, por lo que creo que el disfrute para estos músicos pude ser mayor de lo esperado por ellos mismos.
Comenzaba el concierto con una de las piezas más célebres de Francesco Geminiani, su orquestación sobre la sonata Op. V/XII de Arcangelo Corelli, sobre el tema de La Follia. Una pieza que juega magistralmente sobre este tema, con cambios de tempo, compás, carácter, concertino/tutti... interpretada aquí con ciertos claroscuros. Los momentos solísticos pecaron en cierto punto de vuelta a lo de siempre, al hacer solista de músicos de orquesta sinfónica, aunque esto se vio contrastado en los momentos orquestales. Hubiera sido de agradecer un poco más de contraste entre las diversas partes, no obstante, los momentos lentos resultaron bastante expresivos.
Sin solución de continuidad hacía su entrada la soprano canaria Raquel Lojendio, que a pesar de no ser especialista en música barroca, pues hace prácticamente de todo, se mostró muy seria en la coloratura, bastante elegante en su línea, fraseo e imaginativa pero discreta en los ornamentos de los da capo, muy enérgica en los pasajes de bravura y contenida y expresiva en los momentos más delicados. Estos motetes del maestro veneciano son obras tremendamente exigentes en lo vocal, pues son piezas con una gran carga de notas por compás, giros vertiginosos, además aúnan pasajes de "furor vivaldiano" con momentos realmente delicados y de una hondura textual muy marcada. Es de destacar su buen hacer en la pronunción del texto, lo cual siempre es de agradecer y no resulta una cualidad muy habitual entre las cantantes españolas. Especialmente ejemplificador resulta el motete In fvrore ivstissimae irae RV 626, cuyo primer movimiento, de gran fuerza teatral, contrasta con el tercero, de un patetismo latente -desde mi punto, esta es una de las grandes joyas del la producción vocal de Vivaldi-.
La segunda parte se abría con uno de los concerti grossi del británico Charles Avison, de su colección Concertos in Seven Parts done from the Lessons of Domenico Scarlatti, concretamente el nº. V, un ejemplo del tratamiento del concerto grosso en Inglaterra, con una clara influencia italiana -no hay que olvidar que Avison estudió con el mencionado Geminiani-. La interpretación siguió un poco por los caminos de Geminiani, siendo más sólidos los momentos del ripieno.
Los dos motetes de Vivaldi que cerraban el programa, son dos ejemplos más del tratamiento del motete por parte del Il Prete Rosso: obras compuestas normalmente en cuatro movimientos, con arias en su primer y tercer movimiento -comúnmente una de carácter rápido y otra contrastante, de carácter calmo-, un recitativo en su segundo movimiento y un Alleluia final, que suele ser muy virtuosístico y vivo en su tempo. Se trataba de dos ejemplos también muy conocidos dentro de su producción motetística, sobre todo el último de ellos, cuyo primer movimiento -y otro de los momentos culminantes en su producción- es de sobra conocido, por lo delicado y hermoso de su tema principal.
La elección de los tempi, sobre todo en los movimientos rápidos, resultó algo más calmada de lo que estamos acostumbrados, quizá por contener a la orquesta y no desatar "furias" que pudieran descontrolar la interpretación. El continuo, con la aportación de los dos Zapico a la cuerda pulsada, resultó bastante presente, contundente y referente para la orquesta. Solamente eché de menos la presencia de un órgano en el continuo, aunque supongo que Aarón quiso estar más presente en la dirección, aunque fuese recortando efectivos en la parte del basso; una lástima, pero una decisión comprensible -en caso de que sea este el caso-. Su dirección resultó coherente, controlando en el punto justo, dejando hacer, pero llevando el mando. No sé mostró muy atosigante en las entradas, sino que su gesto iba más centrado en mantener el pulso lo más invariable posible y en marcar las dinámicas de una manera clara.
Tras los numerosos aplausos, la soprano canaria y los dos hermanos asturianos tuvieron a bien regalar al público una pieza realmente disonante en el ambiente del programa, pero cuya belleza hizo que el dato resultase meramente anecdótico. Se trató de Se l'aura spira tutta vezzosa, de Girolamo Frescobaldi, una pieza de una belleza fascinante, que la soprano interpretó con gran vehemencia y una dicción clarificadora. A ello se suma la excelencia lograda por Daniel y Pablo, que con sus intrumentos ya están consiguiendo cotas de una calidad realmente pasmosa.
En definitiva, un concierto sorprendente -y para bien-, cuya programa es siempre digno de alabar y en el que se observó un gran trabajo y disfrute por parte de los allí presentes, lo cual, teniendo en cuenta todas las condiciones, creo que es un mérito que merece la pena reseñar y aplaudir.
