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St. Andrew's Cathedral
June 8, 2013
This performance of Monteverdi's "Vespers of 1610" was heralded in the Victoria media with great fanfare and hence raised expectations sky-high. Indeed, the mood in the full church was excitedly expectant. I myself approached the event thinking that I was going to sit through yet another saintly Baroque Passion. I couldn't have been more mistaken, for in addition to his musical depth and cheeky blend of Renaissance and Baroque language, Claudio Monteverdi in his "Vespero della Beata Vergine 1610" is also good fun.
When the musicians entered, the initial attention-grabbers were the very long-necked theorbo and archlute instruments, each with its two parallel sets of strings, one set of which is partially un-fretted and gives off rich bass notes when plucked. Between these two lutes was a smaller baroque guitar. For most in the audience, these arcane period instruments - along with the curved cornetti and the violone resembling a chunky double bass - must have been a new visual as well as aural experience, and it would have been nice if someone had introduced them before the start of the concert.
That said, Dr Susan Lewis Hammond offered a helpful introduction to the Vespers in her pre-concert talk. We learned that the "Vespers of 1610", albeit unrivalled in its grandeur until Bach's choral works in the mid-1700s, was primarily Monteverdi's attempt to bolster his c.v. when applying for a post in Venice or, preferably, Rome. To pave the way, he dedicated the Vespers to Pope Paul V - a gesture which earned him an encouraging nod from the Pope but no job in Rome. So Venice it was to be, and he remained there until his death 30 years later.
The first musical surprise came when conductor Peter Butterfield himself turned to the audience and sang the opening solo chant. The 60-strong choir and soloists, along with the orchestra, then joined him in what was to become 90 minutes of pure musical adventure on an almost operatic scale. The vocal mastery of the solo singers was at times breath-taking, not least the rapid scales, progressions and curious trills which were executed with seeming effortlessness.
I have sometimes tried to imagine what it would be like if choir members were scattered among the audience instead of being lumped together on the stage. Would such an arrangement not add a whole new stereophonic dimension to the music? As if reading my mind, Peter Butterfield had arranged during one of the motets, and again during the final "Magnificat", for one of the tenors and one of the long-necked lutes to disappear into the back of the church, from where they echoed the final phrases of the tenor up front. A similar arrangement had the sopranos blend in from the balcony during the "Sonata sopra".
The most intriguing musical effect occurred during the motet "Duo Seraphim" which begins as a duet of tenors and continues as such until the text mentions Trinity, at which time a third tenor joins in. While the initial two tenors were clearly visible at either end of the choir, I couldn't for the life of me make out where the third tenor was standing, no matter how much I craned my neck to look around the conductor. It was only when my neighbour took pity on me and whispered "it's the conductor himself!" that the penny dropped.
In addition to his talents as a tenor, Peter Butterfield's organisational skills must be world class, considering the logistic challenges of staging an event of this magnitude. Where other conductors might be seen to "carry" the choir and the orchestra with their batons, Butterfield is more prone to punch holes in the air with his fist, as if he had just won a prize fight. Well, any style that produces such heavenly results is admirable.
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