Tropes, and Praetorius Again

It is curious how, just around the time that final exams come around, every other intellectual endeavor that is not especially related to the finals becomes far more interesting. I have observed this effect many times now. This time I have become distracted by thoughts of 11th-century troped Masses from Aquitaine (we're considering a festive one for Christmas with the Papists), and by the vocal settings of Praetorius I have already mentioned. It is worth noting that for nearly his whole career long Praetorius was employed at Wolfenbüttel, out in the sticks, yet he was terrifically well-informed about the musical developments (esp. Italian) of his day. He gives me hope that a musician committed to a particular community need not resign himself to a life of musical mediocrity.

If you get a chance, there's a 13-part version of Wie schön leuchtet from his collection Puericinium that is very fine indeed. If you are feeling more triumphal, there are three impressive settings of In dulci jubilo from his Polyhymnia Caduceatrix et Panegyrica, for twelve, sixteen, and twenty(!) parts. One of these days, when I am an established and successful Kantor, I shall do an all-Praetorius Mass, like the Christmas Mass CD I just ordered. (Back in those days, Lutherans were not afraid of the word "Mass"; I propose we bring it back into use. I'm tired of omitting things for fear of being perceived as "too Catholic". The ordinaries of Praetorius's liturgy were done in Latin; Article XXIV §3 of the Apology of the Augsburg Confession notes,
"We retain the Latin language on account of those who are learning and understand Latin, and we mingle with it German hymns, in order that the people also may have something to learn, and by which faith and fear may be called forth. This custom has always existed in the churches." We might try that, as well.)

The Vertigo of Lists

Lists are interesting things, don't you agree? All sorts of things can be listed; it appeals to our sense of order and completeness. Anywho, I recently got another Umberto Eco book, The Infinity of Lists. (The Italian title is La Vertigine della Lista, which sounds much more like a title Eco would come up with. Why the translator changed it I do not know.) It's just the sort of book any list-lover will appreciate. Included are various and sundry lists: of rivers mentioned in Joyce, of pulp novels in Don Quijote's library, of saints, of the conquests of Don Giovanni (enumerated in Leporello's famous "catalogue aria"), of Borges' seres imaginarios, of the ancestors of Jesus, of gemstones, of things Rabelais discusses as substitutes for toilet paper. Indeed, these and many more things. The book is rather dizzying in its variety and erudition. But don't take *my* word for it!

Musical Context; Praetorius

The best moments in a student's life are those in which one becomes aware of connections, I think. We may experience months of ingesting raw information without being able to synthesize it, and then we are suddenly aware that there are links to be made — and, indeed, that these links have already been made by older and wiser minds than ours.

Musicians require a certain tunnel-vision, without which it is impossible to put so much time and effort into the methodical practicing of repertoire. But this narrow lens, this focus, also can make it more difficult to see the connections between our music and the context into which it must inevitably be placed. It is encouraging, therefore, to observe examples of men (and, why not, women) who successfully manage to be both serious musicians (who are, because of their craft, inclined towards solitary practice and its attendant antisocial behaviors) and serious theologians, or even philosophers. Such people put music in the larger context of things, giving it an order and meaning beyond the mere notes on a page.

Anyone who knows anything about Bach would surely put him among such musician-theologians; it is beyond question that many of his compositions were both intellectual exercise, theological treatise, and aesthetic masterpiece. (Consider, for example, the Clavierübung Book III.) Likewise Michael Praetorius, whose choral music I have recently become acquainted with. It's very practical stuff (some settings are for as few as two voices; many parts can be performed by either vocalists or instrumentalists) that is at the same time theologically sound and quite wonderful to listen to. Praetorius shared Luther's (correct) view of music as Gottesdienst, divine service. Those chorale tunes are more than just window-dressing, you know.

For Advent (next week!):


Michael Praetorius sheet music: Werner Icking Music Archive | Choral Public Domain Library

Organists: Consider the Seamstress

Kierkegaard, in one paragraph, makes a convincing case for the proper production and understanding of all sacred art:

When a woman makes an altar cloth, so far as she is able, she makes every flower as lovely as the graceful flowers of the field, as far as she is able, every star as sparkling as the glistening stars of the night. She withholds nothing, but uses the most precious things she possesses. She sells off every other claim upon her life that she may purchase the most uninterrupted and favorable time of the day and night for her one and only, for her beloved work. But when the cloth is finished and put to its sacred use: then she is deeply distressed if someone should make the mistake of looking at her art, instead of at the meaning of the cloth; or make the mistake of looking at a defect, instead of at the meaning of the cloth. For she could not work the sacred meaning into the cloth itself, nor could she sew it on the cloth as though it were one more ornament. This meaning really lies in the beholder and in the beholder’s understanding, if he, in the endless distance of the separation, above himself and above his own self, has completely forgotten the needlewoman and what was hers to do. It was allowable, it was proper, it was duty, it was a precious duty, it was the highest happiness of all for the needlewoman to do everything in order to accomplish what was hers to do; but it was a trespass against God, an insulting misunderstanding of the poor needle-woman, when someone looked wrongly and saw what was only there, not to attract attention to itself, but rather so that its omission would not distract by drawing attention to itself.

— Preface to Purity of Heart Is to Will One Thing, trans. Douglas V. Steere

Flurries; Pandora

It's the first snowfall today, here in South Bend. I, for one, welcome the change: there's nothing like snow to clear out the melancholia of autumn. Freezing temperatures focus the mind, giving one a sense of renewed purpose and direction. Oh, that it were Advent already! But we must wait nearly a month 'til then; November is liturgically the least satisfying month. Had I the power to unilaterally revise the calendar, I would return us to the ancient practice of beginning Advent on the Feast of St. Martin of Tours, 11 November (which, as it so happens, is also the commemoration of Søren Kierkegaard, whose writings make for good Advent reading).

I've been listening to Pandora Radio of late. It's useful for learning about artists or songs similar to those I already prefer. It is less far useful for discovering new composers, as the format is so heavily dependent on instrumentation: thus, most recommendations based on Poulenc are short piano pieces, most recommendations based on Hindemith are chamber music for winds, and most recommendations based on Pärt are choral works; you get the idea. (What of Poulenc's choral stuff, or Hindemith's organ works, or Pärt's chamber music?) The algorithms and fractals and whatnot used are not yet ideal for discerning similar tonal language. Pandora nonetheless is an interesting service; at least it's free. You may observe, if you like, my selections on my profile page there.

Reformation Sunday

Today Lutherans (and some reluctant Anglicans) observe Reformation Day. (Listen to Bach's Cantata #80, or Mendelssohn's Fifth Symphony. You might also consider getting out your copy of Luther's Small Catechism.) I write "observe", rather than "celebrate", because, ecumenically speaking, I don't suppose schism is to be lauded. Stanley Hauerwas (a Protestant who, besides being a theologian you actually might've heard of, has taught at both Augustana and Notre Dame) expresses this ambivalence pretty well:

Reformation Sunday does not name a happy event for the Church Catholic; on the contrary, it names failure. Of course, the church rightly names failure, or at least horror, as part of our church year. We do, after all, go through crucifixion as part of Holy Week. Certainly if the Reformation is to be narrated rightly, it is to be narrated as part of those dark days.

Recently I've been thinking about that Ratzinger quotation I mentioned in my 4 October entry, the one about the only effective apologia for Christianity being its art and its saints. We've already discussed saints to some degree; now for art. I daresay Protestantism has held its own pretty well on the aesthetic front: George Herbert, John Donne, Cranmer's tremendous prose, Buxtehude, Handel, and Bach – Bach, perhaps the pinnacle of Western music, who was a devout Lutheran. Is it terribly shallow of me to admit that I am reluctant to convert to Roman Catholicism — or to Eastern Orthodoxy, for that matter — due in no small part to aesthetic reasons? Why, if art is one of the great justifications for Christianity, should I renounce the treasures of my Protestant musical and linguistic heritage in exchange for the Gather hymnal and the New American Bible? Gerard Manley Hopkins admitted frankly that "bad taste is always meeting one in the accessories of [Roman] Catholicism", and he lived long before the Novus Ordo and guitar Masses.

Rainer Maria Rilke: Herbst

Die Blätter fallen, fallen wie von weit,
als welkten in den Himmeln ferne Gärten;
sie fallen mit verneinender Gebärde.

Und in den Nächten fällt die schwere Erde
aus allen Sternen in die Einsamkeit.

Wir alle fallen. Diese Hand da fällt.
Und sieh dir andre an: es ist in allen.

Und doch ist Einer, welcher dieses Fallen
unendlich sanft in seinen Händen hält.

---
You may refer here for various translations, if you must. 'Twould be better to learn German, probably.
I noticed that it was almost a year ago today that I posted Mr Berry's "A Gracious Sabbath", which accords nicely with this poem.

Sufjan in Chicago

Yesterday I attended Sufjan Stevens's concert at the Chicago Theatre. It was enjoyable, if not profound. My opinion of his latest album, The Age of Adz (from which most of the songs last night were taken), remains much the same as what I thought of his last EP: he can't go on like this forever. Mr Stevens has a gift for catchy musical motives; in past albums (esp. Illinois and Michigan) he used this to create satisfying contrapuntal layers. Now that he's working so overwhelmingly with electronics, there's a certain finesse that's lost. His lyrics, with some exceptions, are (intentionally?) enigmatic; while this was tolerable when the music was prettier, it's more difficult to maintain an emotional connection to a song when neither the music nor the words are particularly comprehensible. Perhaps Mr Stevens would prefer not to be understood.

The most impressive part of last night's concert was "Impossible Soul", a veritable suite with epic ambitions (or, if you prefer, delusions of grandeur).

Listen: Sufjan Stevens, "Impossible Soul"

Sufjan Stevens at the Chicago Theatre
Set List:
"Seven Swans" (from Seven Swans)
"Too Much" (The Age of Adz)
"Age of Adz" (ibid.)
"Heirloom" (All Delighted People)
"I Walked" (The Age of Adz)
"Now That I'm Older" (ibid.)
"Vesuvius" (ibid.)
"Futile Devices" (ibid.)
"Get Real Get Right" (ibid.)
"The Owl and the Tanager" (All Delighted People)
"Impossible Soul" (The Age of Adz)
"Chicago" (Illinois)
Encores:
"Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois" (Illinois)
"Decatur, or, Round of Applause for Your Stepmother!" (ibid.)
"Casimir Pulaski Day" (ibid.)
"John Wayne Gacy, Jr." (ibid.)

Nico Muhly

My most recent music discovery: Nico Muhly, whose music sounds like a combination of some of the more interesting elements in Byrd, Tavener, and John Adams. I'll refer you to a little feature about him at NPR Music, where you may find a recording of his Senex Puerum Portabat — originally an antiphon for Candlemas, but reënvisioned for Christmas with the addition of the Hodie Christus natus est text and some festive trombones. Also interesting is the Bright Mass with Canons. Elsewhere, Muhly makes a good case for Renaissance polyphony:

In Romantic music, every note — every detail of orchestration — is illustrative of the composer's emotional journey; in the audience, we're obliged to follow the itinerary outlined for us. At its best, this feels like an adventure. At its worst, it's like being stuck in conversation with a man muttering professorially into a pint of beer. I would get frustrated playing Beethoven sonatas, thinking: "Yes, I agree that it is raining very hard, and we were talking about this at great length before that sweet part when you wanted to talk about your girlfriend and you cried a little bit, but why can't you just hide under that tarpaulin there instead of staying out in the cold and gnashing your teeth?"

By contrast, Byrd, Gibbons, Weelkes and Tye were like the dinner guests on whom you had crushes as a child, not because of any particular story they told, but because of the way they told those stories — the turns of phrase, the little obsessive details, the localised, rather than structural repetitions. The content of the stories could be in another language, but the little gestures — the musical equivalent of subtly tapping the table twice to reinforce a conclusion, smoothing out the tablecloth before the punchline of a joke, a well-timed sip of wine with eyebrows cocked - were the stars of the show, they were like the things you remember when people you love have changed, or moved away, or died.

A Pronouncement, ex Cathedra

It is difficult, what with today's postmodern world and such, to make definite announcements regarding just about anything. But I aver, with every ounce of conviction that I have, that the best drink that there is to be gotten anywhere is the simple Gin & Tonic. Why, whenever I drink it, I feel like I've donned my pith helmet and am relaxing in a cavernous lodge somewhere in Kenya (which I am inclined to pronounce "keen-ya", when I drink Gin & Tonics) or the Punjab or some other barbarous place where I've been sent by Her Majesty the Queen to establish some outpost of civilization (which is to say, British civilization, which is to say, British colonization). The best gins, I have found, are probably Bombay Sapphire or Hendrick's, though I will settle for Tanqueray in a pinch.