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Centre of the Universe
September 13, 2013
The sun slowly sets. A pale half moon hovers over Victoria to the south, and with views of trees and water out of every window, it really does feel like the centre of the universe. The great dome shows all its mechanics without embarrasment. There is something very nineteenth century about all those wheels, brackets, ladders and giant cogs, recalling an era before the glitz and glamour of gadgets that work like magic, hiding their secrets and who knows what else. Twenty two black metal music stands create their own half moon against the western wall, their skeletal forms unchanged for centuries, patiently waiting, as we do, in the dark, for the arrival of their animating spirits.
We had been ushered through the gates at the foot of the mountain as named guests, before spiralling upwards like so many pilgrims. Suddenly a tremendous clatter announced the opening of the dome to reveal a sliver of sky - and then the entry of the 22 singers.
Director Brian Wismath gave a brief introduction to Sisask's development of a musical mode, or pattern of intervals, derived from his fascination with the mathematical relationships between the five visible planetary orbits. The notes used are C# D F# G# A, which it is widely reported on the web, is also a traditional Japanese mode called Kumayoshi, which surprised and delighted Sisask. It may be that these are the notes used to tune the five strings of the koto when used to accompany the voice, but I have come up short of any corroboration of the role, context or history of this mode, and would welcome hearing from anyone who is familiar with Japanese traditional pentatonic scales and recognizes it. Listening to the pitches as demonstrated by Wismath, who played them with a repeated D, I was immediately struck by the intimacy of the leading tones separated by a confident open third complemented by a full tone, to be followed by the spacious leap to the second D. Like the universe itself, the voids are fuller than the visible objects. At this moment, the starkness of the Tom Thompson tree outlined against the fading peach light outside the window behind the choir seemed a visual parallel between the spaciousness of the background and the intimacy of the foreground in both the mode and the view.
The power of a work composed in a mode derives from its ability to very quickly induce a profound feeling of recognition in the audience, of trust that there will be no nasty surprises, and a willingness to surrender to the mystery of the journey. It is no accident that the sacred music of most cultures is modal, and that the offices sung in both Western and Eastern churches use modes.
Vox Humana brought a sparkling clarity, beautiful diction and sonority to the twelve selections from the "Gloria Patri" - rarely have I heard Latin sung with such accessibility. Overlapping gentle alleluias, sopranos rising to glorious heights, repeated pitches firmly grounding. Benedictions individually personified in an easing of breath. Sometimes praises pouring like rainfall from all around ("laudate"). Words like jewels, or fruits in the mouth - populi, populi, omnes gentes. Crescendos controlled in thrilling explosions. Then solo entries in four voices - the very private prayer of "pater noster".
The sound of "Sanctus" shockingly pure, a rich flux of sybilline sacredness, all those s's in "Dominus Deus" as lovely as kisses. The "Credo" all about confidence from the opening tenor entry, the altos and sopranos interwoven over the bass running underneath. An exquisitely meditative opening to the "Ave", building to a body of sound moving like a whale in the depths of the sea in frictionless sinuous movement. Space and silence expressed in sound.
Then the shock and awe of passion bursting out of the silence, "crucifixus", a cry, an undergirding drone and the sudden sweetness of "O Jesu". The following "Resurrexit" positively festive in its folky joyousness.
The salutation to the Queen of Heaven, possibly the closest to this Catholic composer's heart, was for me the most deeply moving of the whole suite. The basses and tenors created a field-like drone with an almost Russian depth and quiet fervour, while the alto soloist gleamed with the brightness of a knife covering two octaves, sailing with the serene beauty of the moon from horizon to horizon. Here the spacious intervals and intimate turnings epitomised the essence of the mode itself, a kind of heavenly signature. After reclaiming the calm clarity of "Agnus Dei", the suite closed with an urgent prayer, momentum intensifying in "nobis, nobis, nobis" - us, us, us, our need for peace, slowly thinning out to a few voices, silences, and the last dona nobis pacem sinking into us like dew at the end of a long night.
At that point, I would have like to have spiralled back down the mountain on foot, perhaps with candles lighting the path, such was the ritual power of the piece and the performance. No wonder Urmas Sisask has been called a shamanic composer - I have noticed (on Youtube) he likes to use what looks like an indigenous drum to create a beat when he is conducting. There is a great deal of enthusiasm for the NRC to be able to continue its support of Vox Humana, and if it proves possible to find/restore the funding for this public event, Sisask's Gloria Patri (which comprises 24 hymns, twice as many as we heard tonight) will surely play a central role in forthcoming concerts.
After the intermission and a hard act to follow, the choir opened with the world premiere of David Archer's The Heart of the Night. The latest of several commissions by Vox Humana, this is a short setting of a poem with such eloquent lines as "when all the stars are strewn ... lean on the heart of night ... and let love make you strong ... when beauty marches by ... how small a thing ..." I didn't catch the name of the poet. It took a few moments to adjust to the the choir having rearranged themselves from the surround sound of mixed male and female voices which was so potent and appropriate in the Sisask pieces to the more familiar SATB arrangement, which, sitting at the centre of the half moon as I was, made me very aware of my two ears, and a disconcerting feeling of listening to a stereo system. Still, it is clear that the choir have developed a very fruitful relationship with this young composer. They brought a richly tender, yet passionate beauty to the delicate phrasing of the poem, achieving a very satisfying marriage of intention and sound. I imagine Archer was very happy with the results.
The evening concluded with Arvo Pärt's "Da Pacem Domine". A slow syllabic introduction to a solemn chequerboard of tones. Intensely beautiful, evoking an ancient ritual of slow steps, rising and falling.
Perfect Peace. It was such a flawless and rewarding occasion, I think it has the potential to become one of those annual rites, like Thanksgiving, Easter or Christmas, that we all need and treasure, to remind us of our place in our world and our cosmos. Any chance you get to express your appreciation for the NRC's Observatory at 5071 West Saanich Road (which has recently had its funding seriously cut, and outreach programmes suspended as of August 24th) take it!
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