Verdi's Requiem

Performed by the Nashville Symphony and Chorus

8 p.m. May 14-15 in TPAC’s Jackson Hall

For tickets, call 255-ARTS

Some mythic splendor came to town a few weeks ago when Der Rosenkavalier appeared at TPAC. It was Nashville Opera’s production, but it couldn’t have happened without the collaboration of the Nashville Symphony, led by Kenneth Schermerhorn.

Another splendid concert may take place this weekend, when the Nashville Symphony and Symphony Chorus present the Verdi Requiem—almost exactly on the 125th anniversary of its premiere in Milan. (The New York Choral Society will commemorate the actual date in Carnegie Hall on May 22.) When Verdi’s work premiered, the German conductor Hans von Bülow, who was in Milan, didn’t go to hear it, but he savagely panned it anyway, calling Verdi an “Attila of the larynx.” His review was so excessive that Johannes Brahms, who was not in Milan, got a score and studied it. “Bülow has blundered,” he wrote, “since this could be done only by a genius.” Since then, the Verdi Requiem has become perhaps the most frequently performed major choral work composed since the death of Mozart.

The music was meant to commemorate the heroic career of the poet/novelist/statesman Alessandro Manzoni, for Verdi one of the two greatest men in Italy, at the time a corrupt and factionalized state. (The other was Rossini.) The Requiem means to body forth that greatness in the act of lamenting its passing. Like Rosenkavalier, it demands major resources. Typically, it is done with an orchestra of at least 100, including a great pipe organ, and a chorus of at least 150.

This Requiem has been called “Verdi’s greatest opera” and certainly has operatic affinities, especially with Aïda, written three years earlier. But Verdi himself said, “One mustn’t sing this Mass in the way one sings an opera.” After conducting a performance in Paris, he wrote to a friend that he was pleased because he was able to get a “less theatrical” interpretation than in Italy.

What that means isn’t entirely certain. But a good guess is that Verdi wanted the musical sound to do the work, with no suggestion of theatrical spectacle. All his life the composer held, contra Wagner, that though orchestral music was important, the musical core is direct contact with the human voice—the sung word. That was the difference, he held, between German music and “la nostra” Italian music. Nothing in Verdi corroborates his claim more firmly than the Requiem.

Certainly the musical structure has drama built into it. For Verdi (almost certainly an agnostic when he wrote his mass), a requiem mass was as much a ceremonial public event as a solemn sacred rite. Unlike ordinary masses, a requiem, though it has a basic frame, does not have a fixed structure. The great requiem composers (Cherubini, Mozart, Berlioz) chose variously among various options. After his 30-year absence from sacred music, Verdi, as preparation, studied these earlier masterworks. And though he clearly learned a lot, the Italian composer did it his way.

On the traditional frame, he arranged his selected scriptural texts into seven sections, beginning and ending with prayers for divine mercy. The music opens with a prayer by the living for the dead—and for themselves: “Grant them eternal rest, O Lord; Lord, have mercy upon us”; it ends with the singers praying, “Lord, set me free from eternal death.” Though the lament is occasioned by the death of the great artist/statesman, the prayers are mainly for those still alive.

The longest section—thrice as long as any other—is the second one, the Dies irae: “The day of wrath, that day shall dissolve the world in ash.” This is likewise the most complex part of the whole. After the choral opening, sung by the community, this second section rings the changes on interplay between community, individuals, and small groups.

This use of soloists is uniquely Verdi’s own. Cherubini uses none; Berlioz uses one tenor. Mozart’s soloists work nearly always as a quartet. Verdi, on the other hand, using four, writes a kind of “cantata-mass”: Entire sections or movements are assigned to soloists, sometimes alone, sometimes in various ensembles, sometimes in a kind of concerto with the chorus. Thus the musical texture ingeniously and dramatically represents the interplay of individuals, pairs, and small intimate groups with the larger community—the chorus. The long Dies irae section epitomizes this drama, as persons alone and together writhe in anguished anxiety.

Though the music ranges from a lucidly lyrical Sanctus to an intense and tormented Dies irae to the deeply prayerful final Libera me, it is not uncommonly difficult—there are no dissonant clusters, no rhythmically intricate counterpoint, even in the powerful final fugue. This is a texture of melodies—solos, duets, trios, quartets—interwoven with grand choral textures that at once emblematize human accomplishment and lament human vainglory. The Requiem is itself a heroic human triumph achieved via innate genius.

But we have to hear it to know that. And most of us cannot do a Brahms: We cannot read a score and hear in silence what it sounds like. Somebody has to pour it physically into our ears. Luckily, these days, recordings enable Robert Shaw to do that. But recorded performance, however fine, does not feel the same as living voices, whose very imperfections affirm their—and our—humanity. This rare opportunity to hear a live performance of Verdi’s Requiem ought not to be missed.

The Nashville Symphony Chorus has been well prepared. George Mabry, their director, certainly knows what he’s doing. Two weeks ago, he displayed his confident, laconic, insightful musicianship at War Memorial Auditorium, where he led the Nashville Chamber Orchestra and the Austin Peay Chamber Singers in the world premiere of a demanding and beautiful composition by APSU colleague Jeffrey Wood.

The four professional soloists brought in for the occasion—bass Don-Jian Gong, tenor Philip Webb, mezzo Malin Fritz, and soprano Margaret Cusack—ought to be ready as well. All are accomplished and experienced performers. Of the four, Cusack has the most demanding role: Verdi’s score takes her aloft and keeps her there for considerable stretches of time. Her reputation says she is comfortable singing in the upper reaches.

The large orchestra Verdi demands is essentially the one required by Rosenkavalier—which, under Schermerhorn’s baton, helped to make that opera a dramatic and musical powerhouse. Schermerhorn will lead orchestra, chorus, and soloists in two Requiem performances. Maybe this season finale will be as splendid as Nashville Opera’s was.