We’ve come across the name Robert Moran before, with the generally
appreciated Innova releases ‘Mantra’,
‘Open Veins’ and ‘Cabinet of Curiosities’, though his contribution
to a Decca ‘World of Minimalism’ compilation seems to have made
less of an impression (see review).
Moran is a composer of such wide experience that it would seem
likely he can turn his hand to anything, and his response to
the commission to write the Trinity Requiem for a youth
choir as part of the 10th anniversary of the September
11th attack on the World Trade Centre in New York
City was to dedicate the work to “children who had lost their
entire families through plagues, wars, endless catastrophes,
vicious governments etc.” This aspect of the work provides an
extra layer of meaning to a piece which is already very moving
in its directness of expression and bold simplicity.
A first impression of the Trinity Requiem is of a piece
which sits somewhere not too distant from the famous works in
this genre by Fauré and Duruflé – or even John Rutter. The use
of a harp against young voices calls Benjamin Britten to mind,
and the handbells in the Pie Jesu might have been flown
in by John Tavener’s agent. Strangely enough though, the strengths
of Moran’s piece come from somewhere other than strongly embedded
traditions. In many ways, the peripherals of this recording
become its essence. The Trinity Youth Chorus is a very fine
sounding choir, and, though the often unison lines are not too
technically demanding they hit their notes and have a genuine
feel of unity. This is clearly a fine choir as well as being
part of a social programme which has a significant aspect on
people’s lives in terms of neighbourhood partnerships, education
and performance opportunities, and is therefore an organisation
beyond criticism. At the opening of the Offertory, a
movement which uses the bass line of that famous Pachelbel Canon,
the sound of sirens can be heard in the street outside – a powerful
serendipitous coincidence which might have been written into
the score, and if Steve Reich had anything to do with it no
doubt would have been. As the composer points out, this serves
as a striking reminder that the twin towers used to stand just
behind Trinity. No-one who is old enough to remember will hear
those sounds and not think of that day.
The work opens with a striking open-fifth chord from the organ,
taken up by the four cellos which form a major part of the instrumental
accompaniment. Movingly expressed harmonies create that mood
of celestial timelessness, and with soaring melodies above,
we’re immediately sold. Either that or our stony cynical souls
are sent to a place where dark and dismal critics dwell, in
which case you have to ask yourself, where is your humanity?
The Kyrie is a spare, mysterious exploration of few notes
– the chimes of the harp tolling like a distant clock. Arvo
Pärt fans will like this sense of time suspended. This
is followed with Psalm 23, which is unashamedly
melodic, the gentle chugging of the organ providing some rhythmic
texture as the music at times sails close something from The
Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds. The Sanctus is pleasant
but for me one of the least substantial or memorable sections,
where the Agnus Dei is a much finer piece, with juicy
harmonies and the cellos chipping in chilling their little accompaniment
to stop things becoming too soupy. The final In Paradisum
resolves everything with peaceful lyricism.
Seven Sounds Unseen for 20 solo voices inhabits a similar
atmosphere to the Trinity Requiem, its denser vocal textures
moving through similarly accessible progressions. Moran uses
fragments of texts from the many letters he received from his
friend John Cage, and the work has a restraint; and the long
central movement a static aura which might almost have been
comparable with some of Cage’s later Number pieces, though most
certainly without that composer’s sense of coincidence and freedom
within tight boundaries. Moran’s work is tightly composed, making
the most of limited means, and creating a serene and expressive
carpet of pleasant and deceptively simple-sounding sounds.
Notturno in Weiss is another grand choral statement,
this time with two harps to add some Mahlerian sparkle to the
vocals. The music is a setting of a fairly grim poem by Christian
Morgenstern, given in German and translated into English in
the booklet, and Moran’s slowly shifting chords and textures
suit the words very nicely, In totenstiller Nacht – a
reflection on death which is a good choice to go with the Trinity
Requiem. The rather unnecessary final track, Requiem
for a Requiem is an audio collage of Robert Moran’s recorded
works, some sourced from CDs other than this one, providing
some incongruous blasts of brass and clattery percussion which
just don’t fit with the overall effect of this disc. Next time,
try creating something really new from the material please –
not something which just sounds cobbled together. This just
turns Moran’s music into an ungrateful heap of tailor’s remnants.
Let me know, I’ll do you something amazing for free.
There are some points about this recording which had me raise
an eyebrow or two. The cavernous resonance at the point with
detached notes 8 minutes or so into the central movement of
Seven Sounds Unseen is very artificial sounding, squeezing
into mono rather than spreading outwards. There are some strange
artefacts in the Trinity Requiem which made me wonder
whether the music was being electronically manipulated – odd
phasing effects around 2:40 into the Kyrie for instance,
and the whole thing is a bit on the woolly side. It’s still
a lovely piece though, and I can imagine it being widely taken
up for performances all over the place.
This is a CD which contains some hauntingly beautiful music,
and plenty of poignant associations in movingly expressive performances.
Isn’t that what we’re all looking for?
Dominy Clements
Trinity Youth Chorus and members of Trinity Choir, Trinity Wall Street/Robert Ridgell (Trinity Requiem)
