In Excelsis Gloria

When you have children, you rediscover things.

For example: the Wee Sing recordings (the older ones, anyway), some of which can be found on YouTube and Archive.org.

And other things you discover for the first time, like their Christmas recording, which like any good Christmas album contains a mixture of predictable standbys and mildly exotic old folk songs.  Among the latter was one I hadn’t heard before, but which the narration explained had been written by a priest in the 1600s to teach the Indians about Jesus.

I liked the song enough that, a brief internet search later, I had my title: the “Huron Carol,” also known as “’Twas in the Moon of Wintertime.”  It is the oldest Canadian Christmas hymn, having been written by the Jesuit missionary and martyr Jean de Brébeuf.

At some point in my research the cynical thought occurred to me that, were anyone to do what Brébeuf did today, and adopt another culture’s language and forms to convey their culture’s information, it would be deemed both cultural appropriation and colon(ial)ization.  On the other hand, one generally imagines appropriators to be casual users; Brébeuf’s commitment to learning the language and culture of the Indians he sought to convert was anything but lackadaisical.  And however great his temerity in proselytizing, one can hardly come up with a greater penalty than martyrdom …

On the other hand (for it is Christmas), it is interesting to consider that the most universally appropriated culture on earth is Christianity.  Oh, I know the history of forced conversions; I am referring to the main of Christianity’s spread.  From a slaves’ religion two thousand years ago to the courts of the empire by 300 A.D. to wherever we are now …

But Christians have always wanted to share their “culture,” their cultus.

And Christianity has a way of revenging itself upon those who appropriated it merely to mock it.  The story of St. Genesius is instructive.

But this is straying far from Jean de Brébeuf and the Hurons.  Here is a solid recording of the song.  The usual English lyrics are not an especially good translation; the one below the video is supposedly more accurate.

 

 

Have courage, you who are humans, Jesus, he is born
Behold, the spirit who had us as prisoners has fled
Do not listen to it, as it corrupts our minds.
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.

They are spirits, coming with a message for us, the sky people
they are coming to say, "Rejoice" (ie., be on top of life)
"Marie, she has just given birth. Rejoice."
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.

Three have left for such a place, those who are elders
A star that has just appeared over the horizon leads them there
He will seize the path, he who leads them there
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.

As they arrived there, where he was born, Jesus
the star was at the point of stopping, he was not far past it
Having found someone for them, he says, "Come here"
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.

Behold, they have arrived there and have seen Jesus
They praised (made a name) many times, saying "Hurray, he is good in nature"
They greeted him with reverence (i.e., greased his scalp many times), saying "Hurray"
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.

"We will give to him praise for his name"
"Let us show reverence for him as he comes to be compassionate to us."
"It is providential that you love us and wish, ‘I should adopt them.’"
Jesus, he is born, he is born; Jesus, he is born.

How to Say “Thanks” for that Honorary Degree

But it’s Wednesday, you’re saying.  But it’s time for MidWeekMuse!

Ah, mon frères, I am glad that you pay attention to these details.  It indeed time for midweek muse.  Today, it comes to you with a story.

When Johannes Brahms was in his late forties, the University of Breslau (now the University of Wrocław, Poland) awarded him an honorary doctorate of music.  “The degree came with a pompous Latin sentence describing Brahms as ‘the foremost composer of serious music in Germany today.’”  (Source.)

Usually these days one gets honorary degrees in return for speaking at a commencement or some such occasion, but Brahms was a composer, rather than a public speaker, so they expected him to do what he did best: write music.

“Apparently he initially wrote them a simple thank you note but the conductor Bernard Scholz, who had nominated him for the degree, convinced him that protocol required him to make a grander gesture of gratitude. The University expected nothing less than a musical offering from the composer. ‘Compose a fine symphony for us!’ Scholz wrote to Brahms. ‘But well orchestrated, old boy, not too uniformly thick!’” (Source.)

Can you imagine writing that to a world class composer, as if you were ordering up a pudding?  No, neither can I.

Alas, no new symphony was forthcoming.

“Rather than composing some ceremonial equivalent of Pomp and Circumstance—a more standard response—Brahms crafted what he described as a ‘rollicking potpourri of student songs,’ in this case mostly drinking songs. It is easy to imagine the amusement of the assembled students, as well as the somewhat less-amused reaction of the school dignitaries, to Brahms’s lighthearted caprice.

“The Academic Festival Overture showcases four beer-hall songs that were well known to German college students. … It was the first melody, however, that was most notorious in the composer’s day. ‘Wir hatten gebauet’ was the theme song of a student organization that advocated the unification of the dozens of independent German principalities. This cause was so objectionable to authorities that the song had been banned for decades. Although the proscription had been lifted in most regions by 1871, it was still in effect in Vienna when Brahms completed his overture. Because of this ban, police delayed the Viennese premiere of the Academic Festival Overture for two weeks, fearing the incitement of the students.”  (Souce.)

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose, what what?

Play by play of the songs (pun intended?) can be found here.

I’ve always (by which I mean, for at least a few years now) wanted to found my own university, which will be practically perfect in every way and one hundred percent free of politics and only hire my friends.  Now I have reached a further decision: Our graduates and deans and boards will never, never march to “Pomp and Circumstance.”  Gaudeamus juvenesdum summus!

And a final fun fact: This is the piece that is used as a leitmotiv for the delightful and very Chestertonian movie People Will Talk, which I described some time ago in another blog post.  (There, I called the music Beethovenian—my sincere apologies to both composers.)  If you haven’t seen the movie, find a copy—it is delightful.  Kitschy?  Only if you decide it’s kitsch as opposed to brilliance that you happen to enjoy.

And so it is with the Brahms.  Play on, Johannes.

Bonus on top of the boni: Bernstein a delight to watch.

The King of Blah

There are worse hymns than “The King of Love my Shepherd Is,” a text based closely on Psalm 23 (or 22? the DRV has ruined my sense of psalm numbering for life).  The old text is indeed a gem:

1 The King of love my shepherd is,
whose goodness faileth never.
I nothing lack if I am his,
and he is mine forever.
2 Where streams of living water flow,
my ransomed soul he leadeth;
and where the verdant pastures grow,
with food celestial feedeth.
3 Perverse and foolish, oft I strayed,
but yet in love he sought me;
and on his shoulder gently laid,
and home, rejoicing, brought me.
4 In death's dark vale I fear no ill,
with thee, dear Lord, beside me;
thy rod and staff my comfort still,
thy cross before to guide me.
5 Thou spreadst a table in my sight;
thy unction grace bestoweth;
and oh, what transport of delight
from thy pure chalice floweth!
6 And so through all the length of days,
thy goodness faileth never;
Good Shepherd, may I sing thy praise
within thy house forever.

Unfortunately, the text they gave us on Sunday was … well, not bowdlerized or demasculinized but certainly dumbed down.

1 The king of love my shepherd is,
whose goodness fails me never;
I nothing lack if I am his
and he is mine for ever.
2 Where streams of living water flow
a ransomed soul, he leads me;
and where the fertile pastures grow,
with food from heaven feeds me.
3 Perverse and foolish I have strayed,
but in his love he sought me;
and on his shoulder gently laid,
and home, rejoicing, brought me.
4 In death's dark vale I fear no ill
with you, dear Lord, beside me;
your rod and staff my comfort still,
your cross before to guide me.
5 You spread a banquet in my sight
of grace beyond all knowing;
and, oh, the wonder and delight
from your pure chalice flowing!
6 And so through all the length of days
your goodness fails me never:
Good Shepherd, may I sing your praise
within your house for ever!

Is it really so difficult for modern churchgoers to understand words like “celestial” or phrases like “transports of delight”?  Does the occasional “thee” or “-eth” burn the ears of our modern Puritans?  (Indeed, I’m astonished that the word “perverse” escaped the censor’s snip.)  Oh, those old fashioned words wouldn’t be relatable.  Pardon me.  That’s why we read two-year-olds books with only a two-year-old’s vocabulary and grammatical structure: so the toddlers can “relate” to their entertainment.

All sarcasm aside, here is a lovely polyphonic setting of the psalm by Bach.  And if Bach isn’t quite to your taste, CPDL has a setting by Hassler, if only some kind soul would record it!  I think the words are appropriate enough for Thanksgiving, no?  And also for funerals.  Thus we hit all the end-of-November stops.  You may thank me when we meet … later.

Der Herr ist mein getreuer Hirt, BWV 112 (Johann Sebastian Bach)

Bach Gets His Apocalypse On

More on the cantata (BWV 90) here; lyrics here.  "A horrible end will carry you off, you sinful scoffers …"

Enough said?  Enough said.

That Presto Largo, Take Two

No doubt it's cheating to use Rossini--and the same Rossini no less!--twice in a row.  But this version of the famous aria, from Thomas Hampson, was too good not to pass on.

Again, is it just me, or does this really sound like a parent's day?

Parenting a la Rossini

It has been some time since I've posted a MidWeekMuse, so this might be considered … an easing back into the habit?

It came to mind the other day because, well, some days parenting looks like this film, 3:12-6:45.

Then your other half comes home, and it looks more like 7:25-8:49.

Then you try to put the children to bed, and it looks like 18:56-20:51.

Then when they're asleep … I'll let you select your favorite part of the conclusion.  Zitti, ziti, piano, piano?  Or Amore e fede eterna si vegga in voi regnar?

Oh, and, fwiw,"Who's Afraid of Opera" is a great series for kids.

“To Trip the Light Fantastic”

John Milton’s pair of longish poems, L’Allegro and Il Penseroso, are a beautiful depiction of mood.  The first joyful and the second meditative, sad, and even grim, they show the world—in large part, the world of nature—through the lens of two mental states which in their extremity might almost be called proto-Romantic.  They are also the source of a few phrases that the wide reader might recognize: “to trip the light fantastic” derives from the following pair of lines:

Come and trip it as you go,

On the light fantastick toe …

… which hail, not surprisingly, from L’Allegro.

For many years I had known of the poems, but not known much about their reception or what effect they had on subsequent artists—until one afternoon when, working on one writing project or another, the baroque music blaring from my husband’s speaker system set a synapse firing in my brain.  What was that line? I asked myself.  Fortunately, in songs lines are generally repeated; the tenor gave it again:

Come and trip it as you go,

On the light fantastick toe …

“What is this?!!” I demanded out loud.

It was George Frideric Handel.  Yes, that Handel, whose other accomplishments apparently include the composition of a “pastoral ode” entitled L’Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato and, you guessed it, inspired by Milton’s poems.  I highly recommend the piece.  You can hear the light fantastic toe around 10:50.  (Full libretto here.)

Handel: L’Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato, Gardiner,

English Baroque Soloists, Monteverdi Choir

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PL_4VQphfQg

A bit of historical trivia from the usual quick source:

At the urging of one of Handel’s librettists, Charles Jennens, Milton’s two poems, L’Allegro and il Penseroso, were arranged by James Harris, interleaving them to create dramatic tension between the personified characters of Milton’s poems (L’Allegro or the “Joyful man” and il Penseroso or the “Contemplative man”). The first two movements consist of this dramatic dialog between Milton’s poems. In an attempt to unite the two poems into a singular “moral design”, at Handel’s request, Jennens added a new poem, “il Moderato”, to create a third movement. The popular concluding aria and chorus, “As Steals the Morn” is adapted from Shakespeare’s Tempest, V.i.65–68.

Oh, Handel.  How very Aristotelian of you, to demand the addition of a moderate man!  Poor Milton is probably turning over in his grave, much like the librettist for Messiah, who (the story is possibly apocryphal, but too good not to repeat) complained that Handel had destroyed the poetry with his music.

But what music!

"How Lovely Are the Messengers"

It was a couple of weeks ago now, and I was trying to figure out why the phrases of the reading sounded so familiar ...  Well, there's a Mendelssohn piece of the same name, which I had known for a number of years, embedded within this oratorio ... which I only just discovered.

Have a thoughtful Ash Wednesday, mon frères.

Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, Paulus.

It Isn't Lent, but ...

... but you really have to listen to a recording of Joseph Hadyn’s The Seven Last Words of Christ.

You didn’t know Papa Haydn wrote serious stuff, did you?  Except maybe for his Creation (which is still perhaps a bit too “pretty” to be altogether serious—angels singing lines like “With verdure clad the fields appear”? I ask you!), and maybe his Nelson Mass.  Well, The Seven Last Words of Christ is different.

Haydn wrote several versions of the piece, the first being an orchestral work commissioned for a 1783 Good Friday service.  In 1787 Haydn produced a version for string quartet; finally, almost twenty years later in 1789, he turned out an oratorio.  It’s the oratorio that you’ll find below, in a version conducted by Harnoncourt (all apologies for the ads).

Listen for the Pange Lingua

Lift Thine Eyes

Things to remember.

On Being Olde

The only Respighi I can listen to with equanimity—and it is more than equanimity, I am ashamed to say: it is positively pleasure—is "Ancient Airs and Dances."  The only Prokofiev I've ever truly enjoyed is the "Classical Symphony."

Because It's All About Making Fun of Rossini

I'm not sure even Looney Tunes did it better.

If I Could Pick My Voice

... I'd probably pick Eileen Farrell's.

For the Dog Days

I was hankering after some Sigismund Neukomm, whose two-voice Mass in C was the first polyphony my siblings and I cut our teeth on.  Unfortunately, the only version I could find on YouTube was painfully slow and over-vibratoed.  It must be the heat.

If You Don't Listen to Old Radio

... on 88.5 FM Sunday nights, you really should.  Not only will you get incredibly cheesy, gritty dramas like Johnny Dollar, Dragnet, and Gunsmoke (yes, it is possible to be cheesy and gritty at the same time) interspersed with ridiculous commercials for Brill Cream (and yet more unspeakable products) but you will occasionally make amazing discoveries.

The Good Side of the South

I'm prepping for a southern literature class this fall, and not enjoying it particularly much at the moment--unless you can use the word "enjoyment" to describe the sensation that accompanies watching a train-wreck.

Memories

Last night I watched a movie made in the '30s--a movie that portrayed a Tennessee chapel revival/conversion scene without irony, and without making the churchgoers into criminals or the convert into a victim.  This morning I got up to hear all about Perry and Windsor.  With all due respect to my conservative friends who want to see the decisions as examples of judicial restraint, they are really reminders of how far we have come ... in not even a century ... from ideas that we used to hold about the place of religion in our lives, and the place of certain other things that were seen as so natural as to be even more basic, if possible, than religion itself.

Actually

... I'm on vacation right now--more or less.  Even more actually, I'm giving a talk on Shakespeare and natural law (which some time next week you will here about hear)--which makes this not really a vacation, but something rather better.

Guilty

--a word for how I feel about what happened to classical music last week.  Well, alright, not really guilty.  But some sort of atonement is in order.