This was Heine’s description of Berlioz and I can’t improve on it, so I’m borrowing it for the title of this post.
A few years ago I learnt some of Les nuits d’été, including Le spectre de la rose. The more Berlioz I encounter the more I realise how this song seems to sum up his art; there are so many turns of phrase, harmonic changes and textures that are characteristic. With this in mind I took part in the South West Festival Chorus’ performance of the Grande Messe des Morts in the Colston Hall last weekend, with the Birmingham Philharmonic conducted by Jason Thornton and with Jeffrey Lloyd-Roberts (whom I last heard in ENO’s Lulu) as tenor soloist.
This work has the reputation among Requiem settings as The Really Noisy One. This isn’t unfair – there are moments as loud as anything you’re likely to hear in a concert hall – but it only tells part of the story. Much of the scoring is delicate, to the point of leaving the vocal parts highly exposed. And it glosses over just how radical the piece is. (For example: a movement where the choir simply alternates between two notes, in unison, until the very end; another where the vocal parts end on a discord; a Dies Irae that starts quietly and tentatively).
There’s an slight awkwardness to the overall structure, with nothing really balancing the Dies Irae, and a problem when it comes to the alto section (who have little to sing), which was solved this time by reassigning some tenor and second soprano lines to the altos. But it makes a change to have a work which showcases the tenors and basses, rather than giving the sopranos the lion’s share of the best passages.
Nothing has really quite prepared me for singing the Lacrymosa in rehearsal with the orchestra. What had seemed like a straight repeat of the first section turned out to sound very different as the four off-stage brass groups started pinging out notes from all directions. Then comes a gentle melody which is a first cousin of the song mentioned above – Gustav Mahler couldn’t have taught this man anything about doing profound things with apparently trite tunes – and suddenly the whole thing turns on a sixpence as everyone is in unison and the off-stage brass start up again. There’s one last twist as one of the great Neapolitan chords in the literature introduces the final triumphant peroration.
I don’t think I oversang as I was still able to talk the following day. But I’d been unwell and it would be good to sing the work in full vocal health. Or just to hear it again! Not least because recordings are only going to be a shadow of the sound of a live performance.
I should say a little bit about Colston Hall, which has had a revamp since I last sang there in another Requiem. Actually the revamp is just a new (though very extensive) foyer area; the backstage area is as much an unsignposted rabbit-warren as ever, and you can still find the orignal entrance and box office, looking now rather forlorn.