Monthly Archives: May 2016

Music

Hubert Parry and John Leaf Whittier’s Dear Lord and Father of Mankind (1888)

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Are hymns capable of being a sublime art-form? Or does the Devil have the best tunes? Well, certainly, we might dismiss the archetype of the modern folk-derived “worship song”, feebly crooned to the accompaniment of a strummed guitar, but how about the contents of the classic Hymns Ancient & Modern from the heyday of Victorian hymnody?

Many of these paeans come across to modern ears as somewhat plodding and, peppered as they so often are with that staunchly God-fearing lyricism laid down by the likes of Charles Wesley, strictly for die-hard Methodists.

However, most people tend to connect with at least one hymn from their youth that stirs their spirit, be it Abide With Me, I Vow To Thee My Country, or that other hardy perennial, Amazing Grace. One such hymn that I contend is capable of sublime heights is Dear Lord and Father of Mankind, the wonderful marriage of Hubert Parry’s 1888 music written for Repton School in Derbyshire and words taken from John Leaf Whittier’s 1872 poem, The Brewing of Soma.

The title of that poem may appear odd; the “soma” of the title was a sacred drink in the Vedic religion with hallucinogenic properties and which was used by devotees in an attempt to experience divinity (cf. the “ideal pleasure drug”, soma, of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World). Whittier’s point is that one doesn’t need an external agent to experience divinity; all one needs is to listen to the “small, still voice” inside and to live the sober, selfless lives as practised by the Quakers to whom he was aligned.

Be that as it may, it’s when words and music combine in the hands (or throats) of a decent choir that the music comes alive. Joe Wright’s film, Atonement, has an acclaimed five-minute tracking shot depicting war-torn Dunkirk during which we begin to hear a choir of soldiers, in a battered bandstand, singing Dear Lord and Father of Mankind. An effective and ironic poignancy arises from the juxtaposition of the bleak and desperate scene with the rousing majesty of the hymn.

In that spirit I present a lovely version of the hymn, sung excellently by the choir of the Abbey School, Tewkesbury, set, in similar juxtaposition, to footage from the Great War.

Dear Lord and Father of mankind,
forgive our foolish ways;
reclothe us in our rightful mind,
in purer lives thy service find,
in deeper reverence, praise.

In simple trust like theirs who heard,
beside the Syrian sea,
the gracious calling of the Lord,
let us, like them, without a word,
rise up and follow thee.

O Sabbath rest by Galilee,
O calm of hills above,
where Jesus knelt to share with thee
the silence of eternity,
interpreted by love!

Drop thy still dews of quietness,
till all our strivings cease;
take from our souls the strain and stress,
and let our ordered lives confess
the beauty of thy peace.

Breathe through the heats of our desire
thy coolness and thy balm;
let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;
speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,
O still, small voice of calm.

Art

Jan and Hubert van Eyck’s Ghent Altarpiece (1432)

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Jan and Hubert van Eyck’s Adoration of the Mystic Lamb of 1432, better known as the Ghent Altarpiece, ranks among the most significant works of art in Europe. Housed at Saint Bavo’s Cathedral in Ghent, Belgium, this large and complex altarpiece has suffered a varied history over the centuries, having been dismantled, stolen, damaged, reassembled, recovered, cleaned, and restored several times over. Thank goodness that it is currently in good and safe condition, and open for viewing by the public, at St Bavo’s.

I stumbled across this great work of art on a TV programme just days before I was due to take a weekend break in Brussels. It seemed too serendipitous not to arrange the short side-trip to Ghent, and thus I have been fortunate to view this piece up close and personal.

The van Eyck brothers, and Jan in particular, were significant artists of the Northern Renaissance, operating out of Bruges and leaving to posterity such varied works as the Arnolfini portrait, the illuminated manuscript known as the Turin-Milan Hours, and this great altarpiece in Ghent.

Jan van Eyck, the younger and more famous of the two brothers, was a master of naturalistic detail. He pays as much attention to earthly beauty as he does to the religious themes in the altarpiece. The folds of the clothes, the jewels, the fountain, the flowers and vegetation, the churches and landscape in the background – all reveal a systematic and discriminating study of the natural world.

Compare with the earlier, “flatter” International Gothic art of the 14th century. Although artists like Duccio and Simone Martini had begun to explore depth, perspective, and space, van Eyck takes it to a whole new level and we recognise, for the first time, an unquestionable realism in the finished artwork.

See here for the whole altarpiece and below that for a selection of some of the wonderful details.

 

 

Music

Dame Janet Baker performs Dido’s Lament, Glyndebourne (1966)

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Dido and Aeneas is a Baroque opera by English composer Henry Purcell, composed around 1688, and based on Book IV of the Aeneid, the Latin epic poem written by Virgil in the second decade BCE, that tells the legendary story of Aeneas, a Trojan who travelled to Italy to found a city and become the ancestor of the Romans.

Book IV recounts how his ship, en route from Epirus to Sicily, is blown off course and lands on the shores of Carthage in North Africa, where Aeneas falls in love with their queen, Dido, and she with him. However, Aeneas is reminded by the gods of his destiny and he must dutifully depart for Italy, leaving Dido in despair at her abandonment.

The opera culminates with its most famous aria, When I Am Laid In Earth, popularly known as Dido’s Lament, wherein Dido slowly dies of a broken heart.

Here, we will enjoy Dame Janet Baker performing the role of Dido at Glyndebourne in 1966. It is widely considered to be one of the greatest expositions of tragedy in modern operatic history. The lament is divided into two parts: the “recitative” which sets the scene, and the aria which follows and leads us to Dido’s death. Here we will cut to the aria. Dido’s sister, Belinda, her face radiating a deeply-felt empathy, springs forward to support Dido both morally and physically. Now watch Dido begin her lament. Here’s the libretto by Nahum Tate:

When I am laid, am laid in earth, may my wrongs create
No trouble, no trouble in thy breast;
Remember me, remember me, but ah! forget my fate.
Remember me, but ah! forget my fate.

The music is in G Minor, the ultimate key for expressing sadness and tragedy, and the bassline (passacaglia) repeats as if in waves of despair, descending, like Dido, toward the grave. Janet Baker has been quoted as saying: “if the Fates are with you, the magic will descend”; they must have been with her here: her manipulation of the vibrato and legato, her bearing, the genuine pathos – the scene is mesmerising.

With superb silent support from Sheila Armstrong as Belinda, Baker’s immersion in the role is absolute and all-consuming. Take a look at 1:49 and again at 1:56, at the end of the words “Remember me”, and note her head and throat momentarily sag with anguish. Her legs give way at 4:12 and the ladies-in-waiting, in unison, take a fearful step forward. The lament now descends chromatically, semitone by semitone, as Dido descends inch by inch, dead, to the ground.

The repeated phrase “Remember me” is wringing with sentiment; it is no surprise to find Purcell’s music to the lament used at Remembrance Day services around the country, to poignant effect.

Dame Janet Baker in Dido’s Lament