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I was privileged to enjoy a performance of Verdi's Messa de Requiem at the Melbourne Town Hall last night, performed by the Stanford Symphony Orchestra in conjunction with the Royal Melbourne Philharmonic Choir. Not being a regular afficionado of opera or orchestra, I drunk in the occasion. The Requiem is performed entirely in Latin, which was only one language unfamiliar to me throughout the evening.
I spent a deal of the night seeking to interpret the machinations of the conductor. Some of his movements made sense to me, but the vast majority meant no more than an indication of rhythm. Yet orchestra and choir were attuned to this language. It intrigued me how often the first movements of the conductor brought no sounds, the musicians chiming in on the second or third beat of the baton. Clearly indications of preparation were evident.
The conductor remained the only participant active throughout the whole performance, with each member of choir and orchestra having lengthy rests, allowing them to leave the stage, take a drink, or even change the reed on their instrument. They followed still another language: the score before them, its notes and rests indicating their part, a language insufficient to the performance inasmuch as the conductor imprinted his own interpretations.
I was struck by the "god" image this conveyed: God as the master conductor, eliciting the best from each participant in the performance, not for their own sake, but for the sake of all, whose movements did not apply to all at all times, but which were nuanced to different members of the performing cast, and different aspects of the performance. By inviting individuals and groups into the performance and steering them through it, he created a melodious and harmonious expression of beauty.
It might have been in Latin, I may not have been able to interpret the beats of the conductor's arms, nor understand the role of every individual member in the overall expression, nor determine at what place in the musical score we had reached, yet I was able to be part of its beauty, savour its delight. Just as the drummer would enter the rhythm with three or four beats of the air before striking the instrument, so would I beat in tune to the rhythm, moving in and out as I was engaged. Is this like a relationship with God?
But there was a language I discerned by its absence: the language of the heart, of passion. I'm not sure whether it was due to my disengagement with the Latin wording. The vocalists were technically superb. But I missed the engagement at an emotional level with the text of the requiem.
I also missed the story. When it was ended, I turned to my wife and asked "Who died?" Why did Verdi write this requiem? Did it lose power (for me) by its disconnection from its intended purpose? I was to later learn that its genesis was in response to the death of Rossini, and a long story in its formation. This language of story is important for us all in our journey.
I recognise that I am a strange and demanding being in this regard. Some can enjoy the music for its own sake and beauty. My enjoyment of the performance stretched into other aspects.
Posted by gary at June 22, 2005 12:47 PM
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