In
2005 I was hugely impressed by a recording of James MacMillan’s
1993 piece
Seven Last Words from the Cross (see
review).
That work, which I am convinced merits the description “masterpiece”,
is not the only piece by MacMillan that is inspired by
the events of Holy Week. His orchestral triptych,
Triduum (1996-97)
also has its roots in the Passion and Death of Christ.
Now MacMillan, whose committed Catholic faith informs his
whole outlook on life and music, has taken what, as he
says in his booklet note, was the logical step and has
composed a setting of one of the Passion gospels.
The
work was commissioned by the LSO and is dedicated to Sir
Colin Davis in celebration of his eightieth birthday. This
live recording was made at the time of the work’s première
a year ago.
The
new Passion setting is on an altogether bigger scale than
Seven
Last Words from the Cross. The earlier work is much
shorter and is scored for chorus and a small string orchestra.
To tell the Passion story MacMillan employs much larger
forces, including a solo baritone, a full choir, a semi-chorus
and a large orchestra. Each element of the vocal forces
has a specific role. The baritone sings the words of Christ.
The semi-chorus takes the Gospel narration and the main
choir sings the remaining text, including the words of
other characters in the drama, such as Pilate. It also
functions as the crowd. The orchestra illustrates, punctuates
and accompanies the text with great vividness.
The
music for the narration by the semi-chorus is evidently
influenced by plainchant, though the musical vocabulary
goes a long way further than chant. The writing for the
main chorus is very powerful and dramatic. In particular
MacMillan’s writing conjures up the baying mob with terrifying
reality.
His
use of the orchestra is stunning in its virtuosity. Brass
and percussion, in particular, are deployed in a hugely
imaginative way. The score teems with detail yet there’s
not a single redundant note. As the drama builds some of
the orchestral contributions are terrifying in their intensity.
Christopher
Maltman is quite superb as Christ. MacMillan portrays Christ
in a most vivid, earthy way. This is a real man, undergoing
not just unimaginable physical torment but also the suffering
of betrayal. Some of these betrayals are well known through
the Passion gospel – the betrayal by Judas and also the
betrayal through Peter’s thrice-repeated denial. But MacMillan
takes things one stage further in the eighth of the work’s
ten sections. Here he departs from the gospel narrative
and as Christ hangs on the cross he sings the Reproaches,
which form part of the Good Friday liturgy in the Catholic
tradition, (“My people, what have I done to you?”) with
the crowd/chorus singing the responses (“Hagios o Theos” …)
This may be a departure from the Gospel text but its inclusion
is a dramatic master-stroke for it underlines graphically
the uncomprehending rejection by the Jews – or at least,
by some of them – of the long-awaited Messiah. Here, and
elsewhere in the score, Maltman’s delivery of a hugely
demanding part, which is operatic in style and dimension,
is beyond praise. His is a riveting performance, which
commands our attention – and our compassion – from the
start.
Sir
Colin Davis, the dedicatee, leads a performance of great
power and intensity. We know of old his mastery in handling
large forces, such as those deployed by Berlioz, and that
he is adept in presenting complex contemporary scores such
as those of Tippett. Here he unites these strands in what
will probably come to be seen as one of his finest recorded
achievements.
MacMillan
casts his Passion setting in ten sections. Apart from the
last one, each depicts an episode in the Passion drama.
The narrative is in English but to each of the first nine
sections the composer appends a short Latin text sung by
the main choir, each of which is relevant to the section
in question. These passages fulfil the function of a commentary
or meditation on the section of the narrative in question.
MacMillan says of them that each “takes something of the
general theme and development of the story, and allows
time for a more objective and detached reflection.” Though
he doesn’t say so, it seems clear to me that these passages
fulfil a similar function to the chorales in Bach’s Passions.
Section
One deals with the arrest of Jesus. The music starts quietly,
even innocuously, but that mood is shattered by the mob’s
first shout “Jesus of Nazareth”, though even
this
outburst is followed by an innocent, pastoral melody on
the flute. The choral meditation at the end of the section
sets the words used by Christ at the Last Supper when instituting
the Eucharist. MacMillan’s music here is hugely powerful,
including writing for the brass heavy with darkness and
foreboding and glistening decoration in the upper reaches
of the orchestra. For the second section we move to the
appearance of Jesus before the High Priests, Annas and
Caiaphas, followed by Peter’s disavowal of Jesus. It’s
noticeable that MacMillan now starts to use the instruments,
including, at this point, baleful woodwind, to illustrate
the semi-chorus’s narration much more actively. Indeed,
as the work develops he skilfully varies the nature of
the narration, while never leaving behind its roots in
plainchant. During this movement also the writing for the
main chorus and for the orchestra becomes increasingly
impassioned. One feature that caught my ear is the nature
of the music for the words of Christ. When we get to Christ’s
response to the false accusations against him (“I have
spoken openly to the world”) there’s a discernable note
of defiance. This is no “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild” but
one who mounts a proper self-defence. Peter’s thrice-repeated
denials occur during this passage. However, despite his
disavowal MacMillan chooses to end the section with the
chorus singing the earlier words of Christ, “Tu es Petrus” (“Thou
art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church.”)
We know that Peter is not condemned for his moments of
frailty.
Section
three is by far the longest section, running for nearly
25 minutes. In rivetingly dramatic music Jesus’ appearance
before Pilate is depicted. Here, perhaps more than anywhere
else in the work, MacMillan’s significant experience as
an operatic composer comes to the fore. Indeed, the Passion
was written immediately after he’d completed his opera
The
Sacrifice and he confirms that the opera had a direct
bearing on the Passion composition, even to the extent
that “some of the opera music has drifted quite naturally
into the new sphere.”
This
whole section contains visceral, graphic music and that
begins right at the outset with a hugely dramatic gesture
on brass and percussion. The subsequent music for choir
and orchestra is at times literally frightening. In places
the music is frenzied – but it’s never over the top. Every
gesture is controlled, enhancing and illuminating the drama
in a supremely effective way. The LSO Chorus sings with
biting assurance while their colleagues in the orchestra
deliver playing of magnificent incisiveness and awesome
power. Christopher Maltman is superb. His singing is histrionically
powerful and projected very strongly yet he never sacrifices
line or tonal purity. Furthermore, he’s splendidly alive
to all the different moods of MacMillan’s music and to
its often-subtle nuances. Thus, for example, his delivery
of the words “Everyone who is of the truth hears my voice”,
is genuinely touching. MacMillan paces the drama of this
extended section with consummate assurance, thanks, no
doubt, to his operatic credentials. Finally the choir sings
a commentary on Judas “the vile merchant”. This unaccompanied
passage is tremendously intense, all the more so since
a good deal of the music is subdued and sorrowful. Yes,
Judas is despised for his treachery but it seems he’s also
pitied for his weakness. I wonder if MacMillan’s view of
Judas has something in common with that of Elgar in
The
Apostles?
The action moves on to
the scene of Christ being condemned to death. The LSO Chorus,
as the baying mob – and how well MacMillan conveys that – is
quite magnificent. But then, suddenly (at 4:12), the mood
changes as the choir sings words from the Creed, “Crucifixus
etiam pro nobis” (“He was crucified for us.”) The searing
music then becomes hushed and awestruck. The change is,
itself, a
coup after the boiling drama that’s gone
before and it’s hugely effective – and hugely affecting.
The length of the work means that it spills over onto a
second CD. The break occurs here, very logically.
The
fifth section portrays the Crucifixion and it begins with
a strident orchestral introduction before the narration
resumes. The section is quite brief and, strangely, I’m
reminded again of Elgar, who, in
Apostles, depicted
the Crucifixion in just a few quiet orchestral bars. It’s
as if each composer, in different ways, felt that this
was an event that defied detailed illustrative writing;
if so, I think they’re right. The concluding choral commentary
is a verse from Psalm 2, set to fast, tumultuous music.
Then
we witness the division by the soldiers of Christ’s garments.
The pathos of this incident is conveyed very aptly by MacMillan’s
employment of
glissandi in the narration, a device
not used anywhere else in the work. As far as the soldiers
were concerned, they’d merely done a job, executing one
of three criminals, and the division of the clothing was
a matter of detached routine. The choir sees it differently,
however, and ends the movement with an impassioned prayer
for forgiveness for sin.
The
seventh section depicts the encounter between the crucified
Christ and his mother. Very appropriately, MacMillan entrusts
the narration to female voices only with a light, delicate
accompaniment. At the end the choir’s commentary includes
verses from the Stabat Mater. The music is quiet, poignant
and very beautiful; it’s restrained but full of piercing
compassion. There is a sense of a Gaelic lament and towards
the end a phrase from the centuries-old Passion Chorale
is heard.
As
previously mentioned, the eighth section comprises The
Reproaches. The baritone soloist’s music is full of distress
and anguish while the choral responses are lacerating.
The solo part is, in effect, a substantial and extremely
powerful aria. Christopher Maltman rises to new heights
of eloquence and excellence in these pages. His performance
is simply riveting and extraordinarily moving.
The
ninth section depicts the death of Jesus and the music
is quiet and fairly simple. My sense is that MacMillan
is humble in the face of his Redeemer’s sacrifice. His
music is all the more effective for its evident restraint.
In
Seven
Last Words from the Cross MacMillan involved the
choir at the start of the final movement but they were
soon silenced and the instruments alone brought the work
to its conclusion. Now MacMillan goes a step further
and ends his Passion setting with a purely orchestral
movement, which he describes as “a song without words”.
At the start the music is dark and menacing, sounding
in the depths of the orchestra. I wonder if this portrays
the “darkness over the whole earth”, described in the
Gospels? However, after the initial despondency a melody
emerges quietly (1:14) in the lower strings. It’s noble
and consoling – perhaps confirming that after horror
there’s Hope. Some eloquent string writing follows as
the intensity and complexity of the music increases.
After a short but powerfully looming climax the song
is taken up by the horns (5:51) who have a noble, reassuring
line, decorated by the rest of the orchestra. Is this
MacMillan’s Song of Redemption? It’s a very moving moment.
At the end of this final section the music sinks back
into an unquiet quietness in the depths of the orchestra
and the last sound we hear is a quiet gong-stroke, which
resonates and dies away. It is accomplished.
The
performance is absolutely magnificent. I’ve already praised
Christopher Maltman’s wonderful assumption of the part
of Christ. The contribution of the other artists is on
a similarly exalted level. The LSO Chorus must have been
tested by MacMillan’s writing but they rise to the challenge
and sing with tremendous commitment and assurance. The
hand-picked semi-chorus (five sopranos and three each of
altos, tenors and basses) offers excellent, clear singing.
The playing of the LSO is just superb. Attack is formidably
precise and incisive and the sheer power of their playing
is overwhelming at times. Yet there’s a great deal of delicacy
in the score as well and the playing of these passages
is no less skilful. Presiding over it all is Sir Colin
Davis. His achievement with this assignment shows the benefits
of a lifetime’s experience in directing large forces and
in mastering complex contemporary scores. Above all, we
are reminded that Sir Colin is one of the finest opera
conductors of the post-war period. I’m sure he felt honoured
by receiving the dedication of this score; he conducts
it with what must surely be total belief.
The
set comes with a booklet containing the full text and useful
notes, though the typeface is very small. Opinion may be
divided about the recorded sound. As is often the case
with recordings that originate in the Barbican the sound
is somewhat close. On this occasion I don’t mind this for
it adds to the already great impact of the piece. Other
listeners might wish for more space around the sound. I
listened to this hybrid SACD as a conventional CD, both
through headphones and loudspeakers. The recording engineers
have captured an abundance of detail and they convey the
aural spectacle superbly.
I
will admit frankly that this review is an interim judgement
in the sense that James MacMillan has created a score with
so much dramatic tension and such musical richness that
it defies assimilation in just a few hearings. However,
I have heard enough to be confident that it represents
this extraordinarily eloquent and dramatic composer at
his very best. I referred earlier to
Seven Last Words
from the Cross as a masterpiece. This
St. John Passion,
I venture to suggest, is an even more important and compelling
work. Visceral in its impact and vivid in its communication,
it is a work that grabs the listener by the throat. It
compels our attention, engages us fully in the story and
unflinchingly confronts us in all its awfulness. At the
same time, despite its searing drama the setting also demands
that the listener reflect on what he or she has heard.
As such it is not just a work of great drama but also one
of great profundity.
I
have found listening to this work a very unsettling and
deeply moving experience and that was particularly the
case when, on the morning of Good Friday, I made a point
of listening to it for the last time before writing this
review. MacMillan’s
St. John Passion is a work that
is often harrowing, as befits its subject matter, but which
also contains a good deal of beautiful and very thoughtful
music. It may drain the listener but it also uplifts. It
demands to be heard by all those with an interest in contemporary
music. This is one of the most remarkable pieces of music
to have come my way for many years and its debut recording
is an unqualified triumph.
John Quinn