The Tudor Consort presents:
MAD, BAD, AND DANGEROUS TO KNOW
(with Aurora IV)
CARLO GESUALDO DA VENOSA (1565-1613) â Moro lasso (from Sesto libro di madrigali)
ANDREW SMITH (b.1970) â Salme 55
THOMAS WEELKES (1576-1623) â Come sirrah jack ho / Lo, country sports / Strike it up, tabor (madrigals)
WILLIAM BYRD (1543-1623) â Domine quis habitabit
ROBERT SCHUMANN (1810-56) â Talismane Op.141 No.4
HENRY PURCELL (1659-95) â Rejoice in the Lord Alway
WILLIAM BYRD â Kyrie / Agnus Dei (from Mass for 4 Voices)
PAUL HINDEMITH (1895-1963) â Six Chansons (1939)
NICOLAS GOMBERT (c.1495- c.1560) â Magnificat Tertii et Octavi Toni
The Tudor Consort
Michael Stewart (director)
Aurora IV
Toby Gee (countertenor), Julian Chu-Tan, Richard Taylor (tenors), Simon Christie (bass)
St.Andrewâs on-The-Terrace, Wellington
Saturday, 22nd June 2019
Michael Stewart and the Tudor Consort certainly got their presentation âMad, Bad and Dangerous to Knowâ off to a properly gruesome start with the music of a composer whoâs now generally known to have been a murderer, Carlo Gesualdo da Venosa â in fact, we in the audience were firstly âtreatedâ to a fairly âno holds barredâ description by Michael Stewart of the circumstances and salient details of the composerâs central role in the deadly occurrence, one which some people might have thought of as âtoo much informationâ! However, it certainly âpreparedâ us for the composerâs uniquely intense and agitated music in his madrigal âMoro lasso al mio duoloâ, whose tones, intervals and harmonies seemed themselves to suffer in situ with the textsâ extreme angsts and tensions.
Commentators have, in relation to the composer, endlessly discussed the âassociationâ between life and art, and the paradox exemplified by people who were creative geniuses but of dubious personal character â of particular interest in Gesualdoâs case is the extent to which oneâs interest in his music is fuelled by knowledge of his life and character, and vice-versa (a 2011 New Yorker article by Alex Ross, who wrote âThe Rest is Noiseâ is particularly thought-provoking in this respect https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2011/12/19/prince-of-darkness  – The Tudor Consortâs finely-graded performance of âMoro lassoâ certainly conveyed its composerâs free-wheeling flamboyance of dynamics, harmony and modulation, making for an entirely spontaneous, unpredictable and ungratified outpouring of sounds, something ârich and strangeâ.
With Andrew Smithâs Salme 55, performed for us by the vocal quartet Aurora IV, we found ourselves still in âGesualdo countryâ, as this work was inspired by the latterâs music as well as those same events which had been outlined for us by Michael Stewart. Smith had composed a set of a capella pieces for a work called Notes for a Requiem which also included some of Gesualdoâs own motets, various spoken texts relating to events in Gesualdoâs life, and a dance, reinforcing those dramatic and tragic happenings. Tonight we got the verse sequences from that work, settings of Psalm 55, the well-known âprayer for deliveranceâ from both enemy and treacherous friend – the relative âsparsenessâ of the vocal textures following the Gesualdo work almost like the result of an archaeological exhumation of something whose bones made up in strength and purpose for what else had been pared away by the ravages of time.
While the Gesualdo work had an almost indecent freedom from inhibition of feeling, these settings by Andrew Smith used simpler, starker, more direct modes of expression, albeit framing the different sequences in almost ritualistic ways â in the opening Exaudi, (LIsten!) for example, the tenor expounded the text against evocative, echoing repetitions from the other three singers, firstly of the word âexaudiâ, and then in the next section âCor meumâ (My heart), and all finally bursting out with âTimor et tremorâ (Fear and trembling) in the final paragraph. The second sequence, Columba, with its famous line âOh, for the wings of a dove!â, extended this technique to interchanging voices, the singers taking turns to deliver phrases from the text against a backdrop of repetitions of the word âColumbaâ (dove), and later âFestinaboâ (In a hurry), the alternating voices expertly and evocatively imprinting both meaning and manner to the treatment of the text.
The lamentâs full force was unleashed at Non enim inimicus (For it is not an enemy), with stinging focus, alternated by phrases voiced with great tenderness â the wordsâ sorrow and drama were made manifest here by the voices at places such as Veniat super eos mors (Let death take them). I was reminded of Brittenâs âRejoice in the lambâ in parts of the bass-led Extendit manum suam (He extended his hand), with its portentous outlining of treachery, a mood which was dispelled by the tenor with Tu autem Deus (But Thou, GodâŠ), the singerâs upwardly-leaping phrases conveying a frisson of faith and hope, and intoning a movingly simple habeo tui (I trust in you).
A world with a difference was evoked by three madrigals from Thomas Weelkes, whose character as outlined by Stewart, was more bad than mad, and perhaps more frustrating than âdangerousâ to know! Previously Iâd known only the richly-moving work âDeath hath deprived meâ, which Weelkes wrote at Thomas Morleyâs death â by contrast these were earthy, self-indulgent tributes to simple pleasures, perhaps symptomatic of the composerâs unfortunate penchant for alcohol (although not mentioned in any of these works) which caused strife between Weelkes and his employers!
Come, Sirrah Jack, ho, dwelt on the pleasures of a pipe of tobacco (âfor the blood, it is very goodâ), made from lovely, tumbling lines, delightfully calibrated to evoke a throng of unrepentant users making fun of the moralists at âThen those that do condemn itâ with relish. Lo, Country Sports was something of a dance ritual, the group sounding the out-of-doors pleasures with ever-increasing delight as the music rolled merrily on; while Strike it up, tabor brought together the earthiness of the first madrigal with the dance-like energies of the second one. These voices properly âdancedâ throughout the first verse, until things ended somewhat querulously, with the comment âFie, you dance false!â
How different again was the music we next heard, that of William Byrd, whose claim to inclusion in the programme stemmed from his ability to survive the sometimes murderous goings-on of opposing (Catholic and Protestant) regimes in English history, writing music under both kinds of strictures! Byrd maintained his position in the Chapel Royal under Elizabeth I, though his Domine , quis habitabit dates from an earlier period, a setting of the first half of Psalm 15 (Vulgate 14), set also by his near-contemporaries Thomas Tallis, William Mundy, Robert White and Robert Parsons. The text is concerned with living according to Godâs commandments, and could easily have been applied to Protestants as well as Catholics, avoiding the political to-and-fro of the times.
Here the music immediately generated a sense of magnificence and purpose, something equally of its time and timeless, in effect. Stewart and the Consortâs richly-wrought voices brought out the almost celestial, music-of-the-spheres aspects of the work, the sounds describing vistas of timeless, weightless beauty, the soprano line particularly ethereal and radiant. The contrast at âContemptus est in oculis ejusâ (Contemptible in his sightâŠ.) was almost tsunami-like it its impact, before the final âQui facet haecâ returned us surely and gratefully to the eternities of the opening. Later in the programme we heard two movements of Byrdâs Mass for Four Voices, a sombre, serious âKyrieâ beautifully voiced by the vocal quartet, and a more âexposedâ sound at the beginning of âAgnus Deiâ, more contrapuntal than harmonic at first, with all four voices involved the second time through, and increasingly âconcertedâ for the final repetition, the voices gaining in presence and resonance during the âDona nobis pacemâ.
A âfindâ for me was Robert Schumannâs Talismane, whose text, by Goethe, is a paean of praise to God as a life-giving force, sentiments that the composer exuberantly responded to at the start, the music hurling its message East and West, then more gently and resonantly encompassing ânorthern and southern landsâ as similarly under his sway, Schumann compellingly setting exultation alongside poetic rumination. The âdouble choirâ employed by the composer created ear-catching antiphonal exchanges and resonant echoings throughout, pushing the St.Andrewsâ acoustic to extremes in places â however the poetâs âbreathingâ imagery of constant renewal brought forth in conclusion a moving sense of turbulent spirits âat peaceâ in Schumannâs writing. As tenor Richard Taylor informed us during the course of his valuable introduction to the work, whatever such âpeace of mindâ was enjoyed by Schumann became in later years tragically undermined by mental illness, and resulted in the composer’s confinement to an institution.
I would never have counted Henry Purcell as amongst the âcarousersâ in any line-up of well-known composers, before attending this concert â an indication, no doubt, of my lack of biographical knowledge regarding the composer â but legend has it that Purcell liked his ale, and was reputedly locked out of the family house by his wife for coming home late after an extended session at the âlocalâ, at which point he caught a chill, leading to his death (the other, rather more romantic story is that he succumbed to tuberculosis)! For the concertâs purposes, conjecture ruled for the moment, the composerâs place in this concertâs lineup secured with some âbadâ behaviour! â Purcellâs âRejoice in the Lord alwaysâ was originally called âThe Bell Anthemâ because of the bell-imitations in the instrumental opening (played here most deliciously by Michael Stewart on the characterful St.Andrewâs chamber organ, the conducting of this piece in the capable hands of Richard Taylor). Begun by a vocal trio, the charming contrast between the single voices and the whole ensemble was one of the pieceâs most engaging features, along with the bell-like organ tones.
Far more apposite regarding the programmeâs intent was the contribution of Paul Hindemith, a set of âSix Chansonsâ that Iâd never heard, and would never have guessed the composer had I encountered them unnamed! Hindemith, of course, became persona non grata to the Nazis during the 1930s (his music was officially proclaimed as âentarteteâ (degenerate), Â Propaganda Minister Josef Goebbels calling him an âatonal noisemakerâ!), and left Germany to live temporarily in Turkey, before officially emigrating to Switzerland in 1938, and then to the USA in 1940.
Hindemith wrote this a capella work while in Switzerland, settings of some of the French poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, who usually wrote in German. Less rigorous and more lyrical than a good deal of Hindemithâs other music, the settings are delightful and attractive, as if the composer had been able to, in a chameleon-like way, take on a Gallic kind of voice in his music â the first song, La biche (The doe), having a Ravel-like delicacy. I donât know Hindemithâs other vocal works, apart from parts of his opera, Mathis der Maler â but it seemed, in the second song Un cygne (A swan)Â the composer had the gift of word-painting in his music, the sounds expressing the imagery of the text, the actual movement of the swan upon the water. Even more amazement was conjured up with my reaction to the third song, Puisque tout passe (Since all is passing) which was, here, light, rapid and evanescent â what I would previously had said was very âun-Hindemithâ! Printemps (Spring) was a hymn-like seasonal tribute, touchingly characterising the words âQuand il faudra nous taireâ (When it comes time for us to fall silent) in a simple, almost parlando fashion. A severe unison began En hiver (In winter) but, despite the almost grisly aspect of the words, evoking the presence of death, the sounds had a light, lyrical character, throughout, âplacingâ both darkness and light in a balanced way. The final poem, Verger (Orchard) a meditation on the earthâs sustenance of the body and the spirit, interwove melody and rhythmic trajectory with the lightest of touches between upper and lower voices in the first and final verses, while intensifying their exchanges throughout the middle verse, again, the music mirroring the words, strong at ce que pese, et ce qui nourrit (sustains and nourishes us), and light and wind-blown at presque dormant en son ancient rond (almost asleep in the fountainâs circle). Everywhere the conductorâs and singersâ deftness of touch lightly and surely brought out the musicâs surprisingly un-Teutonic character.
As if Gesualdoâs bloodsoaked crimes and Weelkesâ penchant for excessive drinking hadnât sufficiently besmirched the somewhat rarefied âauraâ of creativity normally associated with composers. Michael Stewart had one more subject for scrutiny almost certainly to be found wanting, in the person of Nicolas Gombert, a native of Flanders who became court composer to Emperor Charles V and music director of the Royal Chapel, and, as a priest, was the official âMaster of the Boysâ (Magister Pueorum) at the Chapel, but who, in 1540, was then convicted of sexual congress with a boy in his care, and sentenced to hard labour in the galleys. Freed after a number of years, Gombert never returned to the court, and indeed, faded into obscurity, his actual death date unknown, but probably occurring around 1560. Nonetheless, he was one of the most famous and influential composers in his day, his music exemplifying the fully-developed polyphonic style. Succeeding composers were to write in a more simplified manner, however, as Gombert had pushed his extremely complex  idioms as far as they could go â he influenced instrumental writing in this respect as well.
Itâs possible Gombert composed the Magnificat we heard this evening as one of his âSwan Songsâ, written by way of seeking a pardon for his crimes from the Emperor (he was eventually released by Charles V, on account of these efforts). One of eight Magnificat composed in each of the âTonesâ, this work follows the same pattern as all the others, the odd-numbered verses in âchantâ and the even -numbered ones given polyphonic treatment. The chant/polyphonic alternations as a whole gave the work we heard a contrasting vigour, and a theatricality, further exemplified by a certain agglomeration of forces as the music proceeded, as if the musicâs influence was spreading throughout the world. By the time the concluding âGloria Patriâ was reached, we in the audience felt the composer had included us in the âSicut eratâ response, and part of each of us seemed to be resonating with the music!
Of course, none of the effects described above could have been achieved without the seemingly inexhaustible voices, skills, and communication capacities throughout an entire evening of the singers The Tudor Consort and their director, Michael Stewart, and the singers of Aurora IV.