May 18, 19, and 20, 2007

BERLIOZ

Requiem, Opus 5

Requiem, Opus 5

HECTOR BERLIOZ

Born December 11, 1803, La Co

Died March 8, 1869, Paris

Over a century and a half after its composition, Berlioz’s Requiem remains one of the

grandest settings of the Roman Catholic Mass for the Dead, yet its creation took place amid a

nightmare of complication and intrigue that almost kept this music from being performed at all.

Berlioz–one of the wittiest, most articulate, and profoundly self-conscious composers in history–

describes all of this in wicked detail in his Memoirs: how the decision by the Ministry of the

Interior to commission a Requiem Mass from the hot-headed young composer of the Symphonie

fantastique touched off a firestorm of protest. How the friends of the aged Cherubini, outraged

because he had not been awarded the commission, conspired to take it away from Berlioz. How

bureaucratic stalling and dissembling blocked the funds Berlioz had been promised and so killed

the premiere. How fate intervened when a French general was killed in Algeria in the fall of

1837, and–needing a suitable memorial–the Ministry of War took over sponsorship of the

Berlioz’s Requiem and forced the government to pay for it. And how–finally–the premiere was

almost sabotaged when the conductor Francois Habeneck, a rival of Berlioz, paused at a crucial

moment to take a pinch of snuff and the performance was rescued from disaster only when

Berlioz leapt up and gave the correct beats as Habeneck inhaled his snuff. Even allowing for

Berlioz’s variable memory and his desire to skewer his rivals, his Memoirs tell an astonishing

story of the creation of this music.

When the layers of myth and fable have been peeled away, however, one crucial fact

remains about Berlioz’s Grand messe des morts, as he called it: he knew that it would be

premiered in Les Invalides, the cathedral of the military hospital in Paris. Completed in 1706,

Les Invalides is huge–its gigantic dome seems to float far overhead–and quite resonant, so

Berlioz–always acutely conscious of the space he was writing for–created a sound that would fill

that space. His Requiem is remarkable both for its grandeur and for its utterly original

conception of sound: for an “ideal” performance, Berlioz imagined an orchestra of about 200

players and a chorus of similar size that could be doubled or tripled if space permitted.

Even more remarkable than the numbers involved is the disposition of the performers, for

where the sound was coming from mattered a great deal to the composer (the present description

of such music is “spatial”; Berlioz preferred to call it “architectural music”). Berlioz surrounds

the chorus and orchestra with four brass ensembles (he referred to them as “four distinct brass

orchestras”) which burst to life at climactic moments. He also specifies that there must be eight

pair of timpani, which lend their thunder to this music’s most dramatic moments. In the resonant

cathedral for which this music was written, such explosions of brass and percussion must have

convinced the listeners that the heavens themselves were breaking open around their heads.

Further, Berlioz makes some bold experiments with sound, combining unlikely families of

instruments (sometimes playing at the limits of their ranges) to create previously unknown

sonorities.

The challenge of setting the requiem text has caused composers to write quite varied

music, and the character of each individual setting tells us much about its creator and his vision

of life and death: Verdi’s Requiem is consciously dramatic and operatic, while Faure

subdued and calm; Brahms writes a confident German Requiem, but Britten is anguished over

modern warfare in his War Requiem. Berlioz’s Requiem seems perfectly characteristic of the

fiery but sensitive young man who wrote it: at one moment the music can be full of wild,

heaven-storming violence, and the next it will glow with quiet acceptance. In this sense, the

music–with its sudden leaps between rage, terror, confusion, hope, and acceptance–seems a

direct reaction to the fact of death as a natural part of life. Berlioz’s use of musical contrast

mirrors this philosophical ambivalence: the music can move instantly from overpowering

volumes of “cathedral” sound to the most delicate effects in which only a handful of instruments

combine for what is effectively chamber music.

In the Requiem, Berlioz exercises a composer’s right to alter the text, and those who

know the Requiem text well will recognize that he has made some small deletions and re-

ordering. Here follows a text and translation, with brief descriptions of the music.

[Requiem et Kyrie text/translation]

The Requiem opens with the orchestra rising almost inaudibly out of silence. Soon

solemn basses enter to sing “Requiem aeternam” over halting string accompaniment, and the

movement reaches a radiant climax on the chorus’ “luceat eis” as massed violins arc upward to a

high A. But the light is short-lived: the chorus chants the “Kyrie eleison,” and the orchestra

closes on fragments of the opening figure.

[Dies irae text/translation]

The invocation of God’s fury at the damned is invariably the most dramatic section of

any Requiem. Ominous lower strings set the tone at the opening, and over them float sopranos

with an almost innocent invocation of judgment day. Mounting tension leads to the “Tuba

mirum”: the four brass ensembles sound the herald of the “wondrous trumpet” and massed

timpani shake the earth. Stunned, the chorus makes tentative responses, always to be

overpowered by new outbursts. The music trails off as the women sing “Judicanti responsura”

and face judgment.

[Quid sum miser text/translation]

Those about to be judged pray and offer their humility. Berlioz significantly reduces the

orchestra here (no brass or upper strings), and lonely woodwind voices stand out amid the

chorus’ plea for mercy.

[Rex tremendae text/translation]

In another of Berlioz’s effective contrasts, the chorus and brass burst to life in a further

prayer for mercy. Gradually the music rushes ahead and breaks off suddenly, only to resume the

desperate prayer as the music fades into silence.

[Quarens me text/translation]

In this a capella movement, the chorus prays for mercy. The quiet, three-part fugue at

the opening, which offers music of extraordinary beauty, rises to a gentle climax and then fades

away.

[Lacrymosa text/translation]

Once again, Berlioz surprises with a sharp contrast: the Lacrymosa reinvokes the moment

of judgment over harsh music, full of growling basses, howling brass, and sharply-syncopated

chords from the violins. Hope seems to triumph briefly, only to be smashed by the cataclysmic

return of brass and massed timpani.

[Offertorium text/translation]

This prayer for the souls awaiting judgment–one of the most effective movements in the

Requiem–is built on a quiet, sinuous fugue for strings over which the chorus chants the simple

music of the prayer. The ending is particularly inspired: the fugue subject breaks down–Berlioz

repeats it continuously, shortening it by one note each time until the fragments dissolve into

silence.

[Hostias text/translation]

In daringly simple music, the men offer this prayer over an orchestral accompaniment

that consists almost solely of trombones and flutes.

[Sanctus text/translation]

Here the tenor soloist sings for the only time in the Requiem, and his voice floats over a

halo of sound from solo strings. His text alternates with grand fugal sections for full orchestra

and chorus on “Hosanna in excelsis.”

[Agnus Dei text/translation]

Longest of the movements, the Agnus dei brings back music from the Hostias and the

opening Agnus dei. The chorus makes the traditional closing plea for eternal peace, and

Berlioz’s Requiem–which had earlier unleashed such furious violence in the face of death–now

fades peacefully into silence.

Program notes by Eric Bromberger