The motets of Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) comprise a very small subset in his overall compositional output:  he personally used that label for only six works, which he composed for special occasions, probably funeral services.  Like their historical, sixteenth century models, they for the most part lack separate instrumental parts; instruments would likely have been used in performance, both as continuo and for doubling the voice parts, if they were available, but most of the motets are performable without instrumental accompaniment, and would have been performed so for special graveside services.  The texts, all in German, are based on biblical quotations and chorales; Komm, Jesu, komm is the only one which utilizes freely-composed poetry.

Bach composed Komm, Jesu, komm, BWV 229, before 1732. No autograph or substantiating materials survive; only a copy, made by Bach’s pupil, Christoph Nichelmann, has come down to us. The text is taken from the first and last stanzas of a funeral hymn written by Paul Thymich (1656-1694). Bach sets the first stanza for double four-part choir, giving each phrase of text its own individual musical treatment, in which texture and expression are constantly varied, in madrigal style.  The first forty-three bars, in triple meter, proceed in typical early Baroque polychoral fashion, with blocks of sound exchanged antiphonally between the two choirs; at measure forty-four (der saure Weg wird mir zu schwer), however, Bach abruptly shifts texture to a single, eight-part choir, for an expressive fugal exposition.  Then, at bar sixty-four, he returns to double four-part choir, but switches to an energetic quadruple meter (Komm, komm, ich will mich dir ergeben) for fifteen bars, pulling the listener from the halting fatigue and resignation of the earlier, triple meter phrases, toward the lilting, 6/8 setting of the affirming text, “You are the way, the truth, and the life,” paraphrased from the Gospel of John, which occupies the next eighty-eight bars, more than half the duration of the entire motet.  Bach then sets the final stanza more simply, as a homophonic, four-part chorale– a rare case in which Bach has composed the chorale melody himself, rather than setting a pre-existent melody, already familiar to his listeners.

Arnold Schoenberg (1874-1951), raised in an orthodox Jewish family, converted to Lutheran Christianity in 1898. Though he later returned to Judaism, his conversion was presumably sincere and heartfelt; and he responded musically to his new faith by setting Conrad Ferdinand Meyer’s Christmas poem, Friede auf Erden, opus 18, for unaccompanied 8-part choir, in 1907.

The text begins with a description of the shepherds receiving the angels’ tidings of “Peace on earth,” and visiting the Christ child, moving from an undefined but minor-colored key center to D Major, as the focus of the poem shifts from earth to heaven, from humanity to God.  This use of tonality, and particularly of D major, continues throughout the work, and serves its major structural idea:  Schoenberg introduces all of his musical materials, his melodic and harmonic blocks, in this opening section. He then transforms them when they appear subsequently in the work, according to the character of the text he is setting, moving between consonance and dissonance as the poet contrasts the works of God, with the works of humankind.  The second section describes the history of the world since the birth of Christ, as a time of war and bloody deeds, utilizing these motifs in a painfully dissonant harmonic matrix; only when the text describes the intercession of the angel voices, imploring “Peace, peace on earth,” does the music resolve into a recognizable major tonality.  D Major returns with the work’s climax, when the text describes the building of a kingdom that seeks peace on earth, where swords will be forged, not to menace, but to flame for justice, as peace becomes reality for future generations.

Schoenberg was thirty-three years old when he completed the work, young in terms of the brutal geopolitical realities of the twentieth century.  He subsequently served in World War I; his health deteriorated under the strain, and he developed asthma and other ailments.  He virtually ceased composing for four years.  Then, in 1923, his wife died.  In a 1923 letter to the conductor Heinrich Scherchen, he described Friede auf Erden as “an illusion for mixed choir, an illusion, as I know today, having believed, in 1906, when I composed it, that this pure harmony among human beings was conceivable.”  Fortunately for succeeding generations of singers and listeners, he could not withdraw the work; we are allowed to experience his grand vision, with its beauty and its pain, for ourselves, and to be inspired by his youthful hope.

Louis Vierne (1870-1937) was one of the most admired and celebrated organists of his time.  Born nearly blind as a result of congenital cataracts, he nonetheless received a thorough musical education, first in his home town of Poitiers, and then, beginning in 1880, at the Institution National des Jeunes Aveugles in Paris. He was noticed there by composer and organist César Franck, who, from 1886 to 1890, gave Vierne private harmony lessons and included him in his organ class at the Paris Conservatoire. Vierne entered the Conservatoire as a full time student in 1890 and, after Franck’s death, became the student and protégé of Franck’s replacement, Charles-Marie Widor.  In 1892 Vierne became Widor’s assistant at the church of Saint-Sulpice, and won the Conservatoire’s first prize for organ in 1894. In 1900 he took over as principle organist at the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, and stayed in that position until his death (at the keyboard, in the midst of a concert!) in 1937.

Among the great fin de siècle French organists, Vierne is considered the greatest improviser. The few improvisatory performances that were recorded are said to sound like finished, polished compositions. Typical among French composers of his time, his music is characterized by elegance and formal clarity, with a restrained harmonic palate.  Reviewing his Symphony No. 2 for organ, completed in 1903, no less a critic than Claude Debussy wrote, “M. Vierne’s symphony is truly remarkable. It combines rich musicality with ingenious discoveries in the special sonority of the organ. J.S. Bach, the father of us all, would have been well pleased….”

Vierne’s Messe Solennelle, Opus 16, for two organs and chorus, premiered at St. Sulpice on the feast of the Immaculate Conception, 1901, with Widor and Vierne playing the two organs.  Today’s performance features an arrangement of the work for one organ, appropriate to the physical arrangement of Rockefeller Memorial Chapel.  Vierne’s mass, unlike such “concert” works as Bach’s Mass in B Minor and Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis, was clearly intended as a liturgical work, albeit one of grand proportions, demanding both a great organ and a great organist for its presentation. Vierne treats liturgy as theater, alternating the high, thunderous terror of the Kyrie and the joyfully majesty Gloria with such ethereal, introspective sections as the Benedictus and the Dona nobis pacem.  Surely, worshipers participating in a mass accompanied by this music would experience their Christianity in a highly vivid way.

If these assertions bother you, or if you disagree with them, you are in good company.  Plenty of people, from Bach’s time forward, have been angered, frustrated, or dismissive about the challenges Bach sets, performers and listeners alike.  And modern scholarship has uncovered interesting information about the fact that plenty of people did not like the man Bach much either– he drank a stupendous amount of beer and brandy, and an equally stupendous amount of coffee.  He was short-tempered and irritable;  he was hard on the performers allotted to him; he constantly lobbied for better pay and privileges and musicians;  he “rubbernecked” ceaselessly for better positions;  he tended to duck out of responsibilities that were distasteful to him;  he angered and frustrated his employers.  He spent, I think, six weeks in jail at one point for insubordination.  He set a very high bar, seems never to have doubted himself and his own gifts, and was unbending, right to his death.  His Leipzig employers, fed up with the power he wielded, put a cap on the position he had held– no Kapellmeister following him ever had the pay, the title, or the privileges he had enjoyed, ever again.  Bach was as relentless and difficult as his music is.

After one of our more grueling rehearsals, one of Chorale’s singers laughingly commented on my emotional attachment to Bach, and to the motet we are preparing.  I’m glad he was able to laugh.  Performing Bach brings out the worst, as well as the best, in me.  Each time I prepare even a relatively short work of his, the effort consumes me– and consumes a disproportionate amount of rehearsal time.

When I sang with Robert Shaw, the singers sat in a circle, with him and the accompanist in the middle.  If there were too many singers for a single row, we sat in two rows– but he frequently moved the back row to the front, and the front to the back, so that all of use were equally scrutinized and under pressure.  As we rehearsed, he would prowl around inside the circle, like a lion pacing in its cage– watching us, listening to us individually, unexpectedly barking or screaming when he saw or heard something he did not like.  It could be terrifying.  Plenty of people did not like Mr. Shaw.  He might stop in front of you, stare at you, listen for a few minutes, prowl on– you wouldn’t know if he liked or hated what he heard.  One thing, though– you were sure you could never hide from him; and you were sure you could never hide from the music.

Mr. Shaw’s singers were highly skilled and presumably very committed; by definition, we were expected to live up to his standards, or else hit the road.  We were expected to want what he wanted, see the same possibilities he saw, and do what was necessary to satisfy his goals.  Of course, he would tell us that we were serving the music, the composer, and not him– but it was hard to separate the two.  Some wanted this push, this discipline; others did not, and really would not take it.  Rehearsal breaks would often devolve into small groups, griping about him or defending him;  some singers who were clearly disenchanted just shut down– and once a particular preparation or project was over, disappeared, never to be seen again.  One thing we all wondered:  how could we possibly treat our choirs the way Mr. Shaw treated us?

Chorale members who were singing with me at The University of Chicago way back when I first sang for Mr. Shaw remember how galvanized I was, when I returned to my own choirs after my first summer with him.  I have no doubt that I became, in the course of that summer, a better choral conductor, as well as much less fun to spend an evening with at Jimmy’s.  Most conductors have something of Mr. Shaw’s temper and drive in them– and much of what he did, besides teaching us invaluable techniques, was to unlock that guy and let him loose in us.  And inevitably, when we returned to our own choirs, we discovered we could not behave that way and get away with it– too many of our singers would quit, and we did not have an infinite number of good singers waiting around to take their places.  We had to come to some sort of compromise with our own situations, and work at the level that was possible for each of us.

I am completely committed to amateur choral singing.  I probably was so before meeting Mr. Shaw, but he defined this and solidified it in me.  I believe that singing great music together is the closest we will ever get to heaven; I perceive through it the salvation of the world. I know that Bach did not compose for anything like an American amateur community-based choir; neither did Schoenberg, neither did Vierne.  I know that what those composers ask of Chorale– and what they ask of me, as conductor– is impossible.  I also know that, in our troubled world, life might not be very much worth living, if we do not continue to believe in the impossible, and act on that belief.  I do not exaggerate or grandstand when I maintain, week after week, year after year, that we will, as individuals, as a choir, as a society, be utterly changed, if we can just finally sing all the right notes in this Bach motet, in this Schoenberg “illusion” (he himself did not finally believe in his piece, or its message)– that through singing them, we will come to understand why we sing them, and why Bach and Schoenberg wrote them– and, like Tennyson’s flower in the crannied wall, we will finally know what God and man is.

Elijah Smith, Maggie Blackburn, Adrienne Bertsche, Sasha Lilovich

We had four high school singers from throughout the greater Chicago area, chosen through competitive auditions.  They were full participants in our Beethoven Missa Solemnis preparation and performance, attending all rehearsals, working on their notes between rehearsals, while continuing with their normal high school activities.  One significant thing we all learned: generous parental involvement is very important to the success of our program. A couple of the students live considerable distances from Hyde Park, and had to be driven in each week by their parents, who then waited patiently in the back of our rehearsal room until we were done.  Another thing we learned was that there are some very talented, committed high schools singers out there, who can contribute significantly to Chorale’s success while have a new and challenging experience.

In their words:

Maggie Blackburn: I have learned so much from this experience. I got to be surrounded by people who truly loved being there and who worked hard to put this piece together. I have not had the chance to be part of a choir like this before and it has helped me improve vocally so much. My voice developed quite a bit just from this. There was no one fun moment, because the whole experience itself was fun! I really had a great time doing this work and it has shown me so much. I loved every minute of it and always looked forward to rehearsal and the performance. This opportunity has definitely impacted my future. It helped my voice develop immensely and that will help my voice only progress farther from here. I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to perform with the Chicago Chorale.

Elijah Smith: Working with the Chicago Chorale was simply amazing. It helped me develop as a musician. It helped me with my sight reading, because as you can imagine, sight reading Beethoven in your first rehearsal is no easy task. It also helped me with my music theory. While analyzing this choral work, you discover new theoretical and musical functions and you see the functions that you already knew, used to their fullest. If it wasn’t for the Chicago Chorale’s High School Mentorship Program, I never would have had the opportunity to learn all this.

It is very hard to pick one favorite moment of working with Chorale. Performing on the stage of Chicago’s Symphony Center is an experience I will never forget. The atmosphere of the building is just simply magical and when standing up there in the lights and the tuxedo, you are engulfed in the majestic reality of the event. Snack time during rehearsal was also a blast. The conversations that you hear between members of the chorale never fail to crack me up.

Working with Chorale has reassured me that being a professional singer is exactly what I want to do. It has given me the sense of what skills I will need to be successful and it has showed me what I need to work on and how I can work on it. It has also exposed me to an entirely new side of singing that I would still not have discovered if I had never sung with Chicago Chorale.

Adrienne Bertsche: In Chicago Chorale’s mentorship program, I learned just how much work goes into perfecting music for a concert. But endless hours of drilling notes, rhythms, dynamics, and enunciation are only the mechanics of a choir’s beauty. I have also learned how a strong artistic vision and a deep understanding of the works performed can inspire me and help me connect to the music and the audience.

Singing with this choir, I’ve learned not just how to sing, but how to cultivate the artistry needed to produce a sound that you can be proud of. Hearing the opening chord of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis ring out through the hall of Chicago’s Symphony Center, and standing in unison with the 124 other people that you’ve worked beside for three months is an unforgettable experience.

Sasha Lilovich:1) I discovered that Beethoven spared no one. As well I’ve found that my sight reading has improved greatly. 2) Break time was a fun time. 3) It opened me up to the idea that balancing a musical career and another profession is a possibility.

These are quite distinctive pieces, but they do share several things in common.  Most importantly– they are built on a very sophisticated harmonic base, and find their very life and being, as well as expression, through accurate presentation of their mutual harmonic journeys.  In practice that means pitch accuracy and understanding.  Both Bach and Schoenberg are extraordinarily concerned with harmony; each and every note they put on paper, has its special and irreplaceable role in the story they tell.  If a pitch is out of tune, or altogether wrong, the journey is obstructed.  In rehearsal I ask the singers to strike each pitch right on the head–  as if they were hammering in nails;  if they miss, they will hit your thumbs, perhaps cripple themselves, and the house won’t be built solidly.  The image of threading a needle comes to mind, as well:  one has to get all the strands together, and twist them tight, to get them cleanly through the needle’s eye; if you just try to cram the thread through the eye without taking that kind of care, not only will you not get the needle threaded, you’ll ruin your piece of thread.  These pieces present a new needle for threading, a new nail to strike, with alarming frequency, often on every beat of the bar.

Yes, these motets are really difficult to pull off.  It is not that Bach and Schoenberg ask us to hear and reproduce unconventionally– Bach, in fact, asks nothing unconventional at all:  I challenge anyone to find a chord change in our motet which is not actually a commonplace in our Western, common-practice tradition.  He just throws them at us in such rapid succession!  and expects the performers of each each vocal line, in perfect unison, to accomplish his will over a very broad vocal range.  Schoenberg of course is a different matter;  but at base, he does much the same thing Bach does, throwing chord changes at us in such rapid succession that they even overlap each other, sometimes over the course of many beats, and expecting us to hear where, in the end, it will all resolve itself.  Our solution has to be–  to understand, aurally if not theoretically, what is happening;  and this can come only through familiarity and experience.  Some Chorale singers are more accustomed to the tasks the composers present us; they have sung these works previously, they have sung works like them, they are fluent enough in this harmonic language to hear what will happen next, as well as what is happening around them– and they have trained their voices to be similarly fluent and responsive, so that they can physically accomplish what their ears require of them.  Others have less experience, less training, less innate quickness; and they find this music intimidating, irritating, even defeating.  That is the nature of amateur singing– we combine a broad range of performers and talents in a single project. I, as conductor, am requiring more clarity and precision than ever before, in the Bach motet—and because so many have sung it previously, they are accustomed to a certain, in most cases lower, standard, than we are now demanding.

I expect Bach had good choirs, despite his many complaints about them.  They sang his music every day of their singing lives, and knew what he was doing.  If what I read is true, they could sing a funeral motet like Komm, Jesu, komm with instruments in the church, then without instruments at the grave site, and it would be all the same to them. This was their language.  Schoenberg, on the other hand, did not compose much choral music; and I doubt any singer, soloist or chorister, would ever claim to have become comfortable with his language, particularly 105 years ago, when Friede auf Erden was composed.  He intended it to be performed without accompaniment; but the first attempt to do so, failed, and he was forced to compose an orchestral accompaniment, doubling the choral parts.  Schoenberg was a revolutionary, a pioneer; following his lead, subsequent composers have adopted many aspects of his harmonic language, or invented their own– and singers have adapted.  I dare say the best professional choral singers today are expected to be ready for just about anything, and can sing whatever they see on the page, so long as they are given a starting pitch.  Very few singers are in that elite group, of course– and the tendency of composers after World War II to compose music so difficult that it could only be performed by such singers, has pretty much died out– there simply are not singers, or audiences, to support the composition of such music.  We know it is out there, and our ears are looser and more accepting than the ears of Schoenberg’s singers; but Friede auf Erden has not become easy for anyone.

So why sing it? So much work, so much frustration, so much headache, for about ten minutes of music.  Most choirs do not sing it—it absorbs too many resources for too little product. It is peculiarly Chorale’s mission– a mission admittedly shaped by me– to work on such pieces almost out of stubbornness, as an assertion that we, too, have a right to this music, that it is too good to be left to the professionals.  I never thought I would be a musician, and certainly never planned my life so that I would end up doing what I do: it just happened that way, I got lucky– and once I was there, I thought, if I can do this, just about anyone can.  And should. Chorale happened because I acted upon this assertion– not just for me, but for all of us.  Friede auf Erden, Komm, Jesu, komm, and all the rest, open for us our own window on the divine;  rather than just eavesdrop on the pros, listen to their recordings, go to their concerts, and accept a bottomless gulf between them and us, I would erase the gulf altogether.

In the meantime, preparing for this concert, I ask our singers to listen to good recordings of Friede auf Erden; to listen over and over again, following in their music; to sing along;  to do everything they can to jump start their understanding of Schoenberg’s language and intent, and to become, if not quite comfortable, at least solidly competent in doing what he asks.  Figure out why, later.  I believe that they, and our audience, will discover that these two stupendously difficult works, when understood, are also stupendously beautiful, wondrous expressions of the human spirit and its aspirations.

Through my vocal studies I was drawn particularly to the art song genre; and within that genre I identified particularly with the German subgenre, exemplified in the works of Schubert, Schumann, and Wolf, and with the French songs composed by Fauré, Debussy, Ravel, and Poulenc.   I found it challenging to perform works from these two subgenres on the same program– I would tune my brain, my ear, my feelings, to German music and poetry, and then have to accomplish the major switch to “feeling French” in order to sing the French pieces.  The most obvious difference, of course, is linguistic:  not only are French and German different in terms of vocabulary and grammar, they are different in word order, in accentuation, in emphasis; a singer must learn to recite poetry accurately and expressively, to sing these songs. Even in large, universally recognized works like the choral pieces on Chorale’s program, especially those composed to texts in the composers’ native languages, great care must be taken with the way in which these languages influence articulation and accentuation of text.  Bach and Schoenberg, native German speakers, set meaningful, complex German texts, and intend that these texts be understood on multiple levels by their listeners.  Vierne on the other hand sets a “standard” Latin text; and this complicates any clear comparison between German and French linguistic styles.

Question:  how does Vierne’s setting differ from Bach’s settings in the same, neutral language, for instance in the latter’s B Minor Mass?  Answer:  in too many respects to discuss in a weekly blog.  I think we conclude, though, that Chorale’s challenge is far more than linguistic.  In fact, much of our current rehearsal time is spent singing on neutral syllables—yet the awkwardness in switching from German composers to French composer persists.

I tend to grapple with this perceived awkwardness as a function of “Lutheran” versus “Catholic” music.   For all kinds of reasons, the Gregorian chant background of Catholic music does not inspire the rational, orderly structure and progression we associate with Bach and those who follow him—the best, most idiomatic French music is characterized by uneven phrase lengths, and by surprising, “nonfunctional” harmonic progressions, inspired by melodies which follow and express the irregular contours of language, more than the regularity of dance rhythms.  I think that the later nineteenth century turn, in France, away from Wagner and his influence, toward a more idiomatic French style, made this inevitable– Fauré’s music in particular exemplifies an almost complete break with German models, and his thorough grounding in Roman Catholic church music is always evident in his non-church music.  As head of the Paris Conservatory 1905-1920, he greatly influenced the overall character of French musical composition; but the reforms and development he represented predated this appointment, and were a more general aspect of French musical composition, influencing Vierne and other contemporaries.

Bach’s music, on the other hand, grows out of the Lutheran chorale tradition– and without minimizing in any way Bach’s incredible breadth and universality, I still think it is important to acknowledge the mathematical logic and regularity of his tradition, and his ingenuity in manipulating this tradition—harmonically, melodically, structurally—while never deserting his sources.  Bach not only inherited functional, common practice harmony; he built upon it, strengthened it, made it the rule for all who followed him, up to the time of Schoenberg.  In many ways, it really was Bach that the French were repudiating, rather than Wagner.  It seems far-fetched to call Schoenberg, a Jew living in Vienna, a Lutheran composer– but in musical terms, it was Bach’s influence that he inherited, and which he attempted to overthrow in developing his twelve-tone practice, soon after the completion Friede auf Erden, one of his final tonal works.  The chromaticism of Friede auf Erden is dense, far-reaching, and very difficult to perform; but at base Schoenberg follows Bach’s rules, and I think performers sense this, hear it, when they sing the work.  Schoenberg puzzles the ear and the brain in the same way Bach does, and the brains and ears of Chorale’s singers pick this up, and respond appropriately.  Vierne’s basic rules and assumptions are different, and require that ears and brains be attuned to a different set of rules.

Chorale’s concert, on May 13, will express this quintessential German/French dichotomy, through performances of these canonic works.  We will do our best to express German structure and spirituality in the first half, from the choir gallery; French grace, charm, and monumentalism in the second half, from the chancel.  Our goal is to do both traditions justice, and to present, quite aside from other considerations, three glorious pieces of music.

I once read somewhere that the only kind of goals worth having are those that take your breath away, and scare you a little bit. Okay—I read this in a variety of places throughout my graduate school management classes, and I was reminded of the lesson this week, after our Beethoven Missa Solemnis. In the sleeplessness and excitement that follows the culmination of months of planning and hard work, I’ve been thinking a great deal about how we did it.

Relevant to this is a concept I first read about in one of those classes: the BHAG (pronounced bee-hag.) A BHAG is an acronym coined by Jim Collins and Jerry Porras in their 1996 book “Built to Last: Successful Habits of Visionary Companies,” that stands for “Big, Hairy, Audacious Goal.”

BHAGs have several common characteristics. First, they are meant to inspire the question/reflection, “Can we do that? I’m not sure we can do that.” Second, they are almost always a rallying point or inspiration for the team that is working on them. Third, they are sometimes quirky—things that the average person might not care about but the team feels passionately inspired to do. And fourth, they’re usually longer-term, or at least, part of an overall long-term strategy.

As I consider the incredibly challenging and ambitious programs of the last two years, it seems that Chorale’s focus has shifted slightly toward conceiving and achieving BHAGs in its music. Like many wonderful organizations, Chorale came together in 2001 because a group of people felt the need for an ensemble that focused on serious singing, and serious music, for those who were not necessarily professional singers. As Bruce and the singers became hungry for bigger musical challenges, this led organically to a need to build more structure and financial stability.  After creating a board made up of singers and community leaders to oversee operations, Chorale was able to add staff to support the volunteers.  It is funny to think that just five years ago, growing the organization might have seemed like the goal; in fact Chicago Chorale’s board and singers wanted to fully support the programming and create a structure that would last. It seems so matter-of-fact written here on the screen, but in fact this kind of structural growth stretches any group to its limits when it’s done right. The end result is a stronger organization that is able to challenge itself creatively.

In that spirit, here is an excerpt from the post-performance email sent by Artistic Director Bruce Tammen—that started me thinking about BHAGs, and what this small, quirky, dedicated group of people can do.

Dear singers– many thanks for your hard work, enthusiasm, and commitment to this enormous project over the past four months.  We grew and prospered through this experience—individually, and as an ensemble.  I’m very proud of the work you did, and happy for all the attention and recognition we have received.  Yes, it is important for people like us to engage with these great works, to become intimate with them and to claim them as our own, as our birthright. As Mr. Shaw often said, music is like sex:  far too important to be left to the professionals.  More than that, though:  we did a good job!  All of us can feel grateful for our talents, our training, the encouragement we have received along the way—and for our continued commitment to turning off the electronics and making our own music, ourselves.  Beethoven has challenged us and led us to understand that we can be so much more than we, and our audience, might have thought.

Final sales -1,246—that’s a lot of people you got out, to hear a work generally respected but not often loved; we are all better for our efforts.

Bruce

Besides perfectly encapsulating Bruce’s essence as a conductor and a person, I love what this note implies to me: “We’ve done it, and we’re going to do it again.”

So as I look forward to the spring my goals are big and hairy, but clear:

• Support the Chorale in its upcoming little BHAG: the spring repertoire. We will not go gentle into the good night of summer, that’s for sure.
• Continue to create stability and support for the ensemble, as we look forward to our 12^th season next year. For that, I have a BHFG (um, bee-fug?)—a Big, Hairy, Fundraising Goal..

Can you engage with Chicago Chorale in these two goals? For the first, of course, please make your plans now to join in our next musical undertaking, Voices Aloft, on May 13, 2012. You are the reason we sing. We already look forward to the rehearsals starting next week.

Finally, and most importantly, we must raise $20,000 by May 1^st to ensure that all of our concerts are completely financially supported. Ticket sales cover only a portion of any performing ensemble’s costs, and Chicago Chorale is no exception. Your generosity today will help us finish the season on a high note (pun intended) and will inform our big, hairy, audacious planning for next season. I know that achieving these two things will take the better part of my time from now until the end of the season, and I’m somewhat breathlessly looking forward to achieving them.

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Almost thirty years ago, I sang in a master class for the great English tenor, Peter Pears, at the Chicago Cultural Center.  Ostensibly, the class was about the music of Benjamin Britten; somehow, though, Pears got onto the subject of Beethoven—specifically, Britten’s distrust, dislike, even hatred, of Beethoven, and his life-long struggle to come out from under Beethoven’s shadow.  I think I remember this so vividly because I have felt the same way about Beethoven—nothing rational or justifiable, just visceral resentment concerning his power, his dominance, his “heroism.” And despite the many times I have had the opportunity to sing Missa Solemnis, I have never, until this preparation period, been able to free myself of this resentment.  Now, though, after these months of immersion, I find myself leaving this strange resentment behind—and I believe my way out, has been through this final movement, the Agnus Dei/Dona nobis pacem.

The Agnus begins, traditionally enough, with a dark, mournful setting, in low voice, of the text, “Lamb of God, have mercy upon us.”  And the Dona, “Grant us peace,” answers, also traditionally, with positive, upbeat, polyphonic music, which seems to gather force and build toward a traditional, triumphant ending—when, suddenly, this stirring music is interrupted by a passage of what William Drabkin calls “war music”—he describes the remainder of the movement as a struggle between War and Peace.  Study of Beethoven’s sketches reveals that this is the portion of the movement which gave Beethoven the most difficulty—he composed several versions of it, the final one of which was the last part of the Missa to be completed.  In rehearsal, I refer to this music as the “Napoleon music”—Napoleon’s armies are just on the other side of the hill, destroying, sowing chaos, laying waste, negating the peace which we are proclaiming, praying for, celebrating—soloists and chorus alike scream out, “Lamb of God, have mercy on us!”  The Dona music returns, reassuringly, only to be interrupted, again, by War music so chaotic in its rhythm, its harmonic structure, as to destroy all the progress chorus and orchestra have made to that point—again, the chorus cries out, “Lamb of God!” and the Dona music returns.  We are not so reassured this time; indeed, the War music interjects itself twice more before the end of the movement, reminding us that Napoleon is still just over the hill, still destroying, still sowing chaos.  Almost with a sense of exhaustion, certainly of realistic sobriety, the movement closes without ceremony—a final “Give us peace,” but no “Amen.”

I find here Beethoven the man—his greatness, his heroism, his mastery, but also his sense of his own mortality, his weakness, his various failures, his approaching end.  He did after all understand what the rest of us understand– that we all stumble and fall, and sometimes God doesn’t seem to catch us before we hit the ground.

My family experienced a tragic death this past week; a promising, shining fifteen year old boy, suddenly dead before his promise could be realized.  His funeral and the events surrounding it were heartrendingly sad; he stumbled and fell, and was not caught in time.  His family, his friends—all wonder why this happened, what sense there could be to it; and throughout these days, I have been hearing Napoleon in the next valley, threatening, destroying, leaving chaos where we thought order reigned.  I think I shall always re-experience Nathan’s death when I hear this final movement of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis; and I shall always honor Beethoven for giving up his triumphant finale, and instead revealing this truth so skillfully, so artfully, so feelingly.

What an immense project this is!  I was gratified to read in an article by New York Times music critic Alex Ross, that a perfect performance of this work is impossible—glad to know that I was not alone in discovering this.  Any performance of late Beethoven must necessarily include in its experience the striving, the sweat, the fatigue, the flawed heroism, the all-too-fragile mortality, as well as the genius, of Beethoven himself—as Ross wrote, only cyber-musicians could get it all right; and then we would miss the very life Beethoven expended in composing this masterwork.  Glenn Gould’s iconic recordings of Bach’s keyboard works would be incomplete without the pianist’s breathing, grunting, and singing, always present in the background as a part of the listeners’ experience; in like manner, the herculean attempts of Beethoven’s performers, sharing in the composer’s own humanity, to scale this mountain, reveal the truth behind Beethoven’s vision– exposing us, with Beethoven, as necessarily less-than-godlike in our striving.

Chicago architect Daniel Hudson Burnham, born nineteen years after Beethoven’s death, wrote, “Make no little plans…aim high in hope and work, remembering that a noble, logical diagram once recorded will never die, but long after we are gone will be a living thing, asserting itself with ever-growing insistency…Think big.”  I wonder if Burnham’s vision, which shaped so much of the Chicago we know today, doesn’t have a lot to do with Chicago’s ever-renewed love affair with Beethoven.  Between them, Beethoven and Burnham dominated a century, informing and challenging all who followed them in their respective fields.  Beethoven is in our civic DNA; the very ground rises to meet him, when he walks abroad.  Hate him or love him, he grabs our attention.

The greatest, most profound challenge confronting the performers, is to hear and comprehend the work—to understand Beethoven’s harmonic, rhythmic, rhetorical vocabulary, to feel and be able to predict where he is going next, to sense the whole amongst all the seemingly random, awkward, disconnected details.   Really, they never are random, awkward, or disconnected; but Beethoven’s structure is so enormous, we don’t hear or feel or understand from one end to the other, without agonizing repetition and immersion in his seething cauldron of materials.  Vocal production, intonation, rhythmic clarity, pronunciation– all of these very important aspects of our performance finally hang from one central crosspiece: oneness with Beethoven and his vision.  One can rant, as I often have:  “This guy is an egomaniac!  He requires total conformity, total submission, total sacrifice; who does he think he is: God?” –and I expect that response will always inform at least a portion of my feelings about the man and his music. Finally, though, one has to trust, become what Beethoven wants one to become, and do ones darnedest to be faithful to him.  One can’t wait to sing the performance; and one can’t wait to be free of him, once it is over.

Like Shakespeare, Beethoven fires on every level.  No audience member is left out– he presents challenges, and joys, that can be shared by all.  My eight-year old son has been sitting in on rehearsals, and has memorized much of the “Et vitam venturi” fugue subject—not because he tried, or was required to do so, but because it is a great fugue subject; it is fun, it is clever, it is balanced.  He enjoys whistling it for his friends, tapping any surface within reach to keep his syncopations straight.   The whole experience sends him off into a different world.  In like manner—when the military, “Napoleonic” music interrupts the “Dona nobis pacem” theme of the final movement, causing soloists and chorus to scream out, “Agnus, agnus Dei!” in terror, Joey gets it—Beethoven’s technique is direct, visceral, compelling, immediately perceived by anyone within earshot.    Beethoven is not holed up in some sound-proofed office, with headphones on—he is among us, he shares our life, our joys and fears and pains and aspirations.

Beethoven is one of our greatest composers; he, himself, called Missa Solemnis his greatest work.

By guest blogger Megan Balderston, Chicago Chorale Managing Director

“One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: That word is love.” – Sophocles

Since it is Valentine’s week, it seems only fitting that I write about love. Perhaps it is not love as defined by the piles of books and stacks of music written on the subject – what does love have to do with Chicago Chorale working on the Beethoven Missa Solemnis? The answer is, everything. My goal today is to give you a little peek into the world of the avocational, amateur singer and tell you why exactly you will love hearing the Beethoven Missa Solemnis performed by our ensemble, and its wonderful counterpart, The Symphony of Oak Park and River Forest & Chorus.

Bruce’s Blog has detailed the incredibly painstaking effort that is going into the artistic production of the Beethoven Missa Solemnis from the perspective of both the conductor and the chorus director. It’s a testament to both Jay Friedman’s and Bruce Tammen’s talents and visions that they believed in both of their ensembles’ abilities to master this Mount Everest of symphonic/choral works that is the Beethoven Missa Solemnis. What both groups have in common is that the performers who spend so much time preparing the work are volunteers.

We all start that way. I look back on my formative years as a singer and musician with great fondness—particularly when I consider my high school choir. Many of us had dreams at that point of having a career in performance, but the reality has turned out differently. We grew up to be, in no particular order, a couple of doctors, a couple of lawyers, a handful of teachers.  We have careers in sales, and in marketing. Of my tight-knit high school choir, though, I know of two or three of us who continued to sing seriously—and we all have “day jobs.”

Maybe we have the basic talent, but not the singular drive required to be professional musicians. Some of us are simply better at other things—things that happen to be more reliably lucrative, perhaps. But most of us who grow up to be musicians, anywhere on the spectrum from amateur to professional, have in our pasts the experience of making music in an ensemble, and know all about its joy and agony. The joy might be self-explanatory, but the agony is about all of the daily work that is required to achieve the goal of singing something well. This definitely comes into play when one is learning an epic masterpiece like the Missa Solemnis. As one of Chorale’s altos said as she took her place at rehearsal last week, “Oh, I can’t wait! And also, I can’t wait until it’s over!”

Chicago Chorale is special, and meets a particular need in the community, both for our singers and our audience. Plenty of community-based, amateur music groups exist. But Chicago Chorale’s unique position was summed up by one of our guest lecturers this way: “In Chicago, there are amateur choirs, and there are professional choirs, and there’s Chicago Chorale.” Our ultimate goal in any concert is to sound as polished or “professional” as possible, and we usually achieve it. Many of our singers grew up in communities of music, and were serious about music in high school and college. Music majors and collegiate musicians in particular are a quirky, loving, and wonderful community. Our singers have performed in renaissance choirs and marching bands, a cappella groups focusing on popular music, and traditional choirs.

With all of the opportunities for formal and informal study of music in high school and college, often you are stranded without a real musical home when leaving university.  And that’s where groups like ours come in—particularly for the serious singer who doesn’t happen to be professional. At Chorale, we have great respect for the word “amateur” which is derived from the Latin word ‘amo,’ or love. We love to sing. But we also love to sing really difficult works that challenge us. (Anyone remember our fall concerts in 2011 that featured works sung in English, Norwegian, Finnish, Swedish, Latin, Hungarian and Estonian? We’re not likely to soon forget that effort either! Here’s what critic Lawrence Johnson said: Review of Northern Light) For us, there is simply so much to learn about and enjoy in the Missa Solemnis that without sincere love and dedication for the craft of choral singing, it would not be possible to learn the work, let alone present it. What also makes Chorale special is its endearing social community that becomes a musical home for the singers. Not only do these people love to sing—they love to sing with each other.

In Missa Solemnis, you will hear the love and dedication of over 200 musicians, from Chorale and from The Symphony of Oak Park and River Forest and its chorus, who have spent the last several months learning the work, and fitting it into their busy lives. Interestingly, Chicago Chorale and SOPRF both boast musicians who are experts in many fields, including music, but who for the most part do not earn their livings as performing musicians. And it’s fascinating that the people who are willing to give up 5-10 hours per week to work on the kind of music we perform—difficult, but beautiful; brainy and challenging—are themselves highly intelligent, driven individuals. One of our tenors related, “The first week, you’re just hanging on for dear life. But we share this determination to master this work. Somehow, by hanging on, and practicing, and being defeated one week, and exhilarated the next, we get through. We achieve more than we thought possible.” Indeed, Bruce Tammen described the type of singer we have in this way: “These people are used to success in their lives—the students, the professionals—and it simply doesn’t occur to them that they will be anything but successful in this work.”

Singing is one of the most intensely personal forms of music. You are the instrument, and cannot hide behind your equipment. If something goes wrong, it is your body or your brain that is failing you, and if something goes well, you have simply done your job.  With this risk, there comes an incredible reward. As a listener, there is little that is more powerful than hearing a well-trained choir singing as one person.  And for that to happen, the individual voices must check their egos at the door; they must strive to sing as one; they must do their homework, show up for rehearsals, and humbly bear the thousand indignities and defeats along the way.  That is why it is amazing to see this group of very distinct individuals come together to perform, particularly knowing that all have multiple demands on their personal and professional lives.

When you come to the Missa Solemnis you will see all of this, and you will, I hope, understand that it is ultimately love that brings the whole work together and helps these amateur groups to achieve a memorable and intense musical evening.

Being the conductor of this upcoming performance of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis is a great honor and a great responsibility as well. Besides preparing the orchestra I have the responsibility of preparing the soloists. Luckily we have choral director Bruce Tammen and the wonderful Chicago Chorale as well as our own symphony chorus, Bill Chin, chorus master, to fulfill Beethoven’s demanding choral writing. Beethoven’s writing for voices has long been viewed as some of the most difficult in the repertory. He seems to have viewed the human voice as an orchestral type instrument, capable of the facility of a violin or flute. He seemed to have no reservations about writing long, high exhausting, passages for soprano and alto voices, as well as the men. The fugues in the Missa Solemnis are especially taxing and have long been thought to be the most difficult to sing. As fiercely difficult as many tutti passages are for the chorus there are moments of great beauty and expression. It’s as if Beethoven had a vision of setting the Mass to music with no thought of sparing the performers any practical considerations toward that goal.