Author: Michael E. Lawrence

It is customary in music to speak of the three B’s—-Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms. All of these composers have given us inexhaustible works of art; even so, I would like to propose that we add a fourth to this list: William Byrd. What a group! Move over, Mount Rushmore.

There is so much that makes Byrd a singularly great composer, not the least of which is his melodic and rhythmical agility. There is a lot of both in this gem of a motet, Visita Quaesumus, the Collect for Compline. I have to confess that I haven’t been able to figure out why Byrd wrote this text polyphonically. Presumably it couldn’t be done in liturgical context this way. If there is another place where this text appears, I’m unaware of it. Or perhaps it’s a Sarum thing. 

In any case, I’ve managed to find an appropriate use for it. Given the peculiar challenges of finding motets for the “Green Sundays” of the year, I scour all of the liturgical texts. One can of course make use of a polyphonic proper, but beyond this it can sometimes be difficult to find something specific for the day, which is hardly necessary all the time but desirable nonetheless. When I was planning the music for October, I read the Collect for the 21st Sunday after Pentecost (which was today in the 1962 Roman Missal):

O Lord, we beseech Thee to keep Thy household in continual godliness: that through Thy protection it may be free from all adversaries, and devotedly given to serve thee in good works, to the glory of Thy Name. Through our Lord, etc.

I immediately thought of the Visita Quaesumus:

Visit, we beseech Thee, O Lord, this dwelling, and drive far from it all snares of the enemy: let Thy holy Angels dwell herein, to keep us in peace: and let Thy blessing be always upon us. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Originally set for soprano, alto, and two tenors, I lowered the piece to F major so that it could be done, with some adjustments, by a standard SATB ensemble. It’s not an easy piece, but it’s worth however much time it takes to put it together. I could envision this text being used not only for this particular Sunday but also when the Gospel story of driving the money changers from the Temple is read, or at the Dedication of a Church or its anniversary, or even at a house blessing, if such things are still done, which would recall the domestic setting in which Byrd’s Catholic works were sung.

I wonder what was going through Byrd’s mind when he wrote this motet. Scholars have commented that his works often had “double meanings” owing to the religious persecution going on in England in his time. If memory serves, Vigilate is given as an example. It seems the text of Visita Quaesumus would also be well-suited for such a treatment, Byrd’s relative legal immunity notwithstanding. 

Norm Gouin is the Music Director at Old St. Joseph’s Church, a thriving parish in Old City, Philadelphia, where, in an alley hidden from conspicuous view, Catholics first cautiously put down roots amidst a less-than-welcoming atmosphere.

I would like to discuss two of Gouin’s pieces, which were commissioned by Dr. John Romeri, Director of Music at the Cathedral of Ss. Peter and Paul, and which I got to know while working under Gouin this past spring.

Having spent a good deal of time as a musician in monastic settings, Gouin takes an approach that is steeped in Gregorian chant. Steeped, but not buried. This is most clear in his composition Christ Has Become Our Paschal Sacrifice, an adaptation of Pascha nostrum, the Communion antiphon for Easter Sunday, with verses. This piece is part of a set of Communion antiphons for the Easter season which is meant to complement similar antiphons for Advent and Lent that were previously composed by James Biery for the Morning Star Cathedral Series. It has a gentle persistence which comes from a consistent employment of rhythmical groupings of twos and threes just like in the rhythm of chant. The composer maintains this approach not only in the antiphon, which is a tuneful adaptation of the Gregorian melody, but also in the originally-composed verses.

All the same, this composition is not a mere genuflection to history. Rather, it is a synthesis of styles into an individual approach. Gouin employs close harmonies reminiscent of Maurice Durufle and other 20th century composers. Some of the melodic writing in the verses is slightly angular, too, which stands in relief to the mostly stepwise antiphon. This is not the most obvious contrast, but a little bit of subtlety these days is welcome.

As much as this piece explores relatively modern approaches, it is decidedly practical. Most of the verses, which are sung by the choir, are in unison. The linear writing, while sometimes tricky, hardly makes for an impossible task, and the few verses of harmony can be mastered with a little extra rehearsal time. The ambitious are encouraged to make use of the soprano descant included in the last three antiphons which is set to the Latin text of this piece. Most importantly, perhaps, the antiphon can be learned quickly by a reasonably intelligent congregation, and yet, in my experience, this piece, which runs pretty long, never gets tiresome. My understanding is that it will soon be available through Morning Star.

Whatever one may ultimately think of the new translation of the Roman Missal, it has perhaps encouraged new compositions of the Mass which might not otherwise have happened. Many of these are distinct improvements over much of what was out there before. One of these works is Gouin’s Mass of Ss. Peter and Paul (the title of the local cathedral).  A portion of this Mass was heard at the installation last summer of Archbishop Charles Chaput. Written for choir, cantor, congregation, and organ with optional brass and timpani, this piece is judiciously constructed so that a sturdy rendering can be given even by modest forces.

The Kyrie is based on the chant from Mass XVI and is set in both Latin and English; the conductor can choose which version to use. Looking at these two versions side-by-side, it’s interesting to note how the ictus placement changes with language. Each section of the English version begins on a downbeat, but in the Latin setting, all the phrases begin on an upbeat. Yet the Latin version doesn’t include eighth rests which might make the inherent rhythm more apparent. At the risk of appearing pedantic, I might suggest a little bit of revision, which may also impact the accompaniment, to accommodate this. I’m also curious about the absence of the horizontal episemas which this chant usually has, although there could be good reason for this, for all I know. None of this is to say that the chant should be slavishly copied; in fact it seems wise to me that Gouin does not make use of the last Kyrie of this Mass, which always ends in disaster, as the final melisma takes people by surprise. My small reservations aside, this is a delightful movement with tasteful harmonizations for choir and organ.

Gouin does an admirable job of smoothing over the clunky new English translation of the Gloria, particularly the first few lines, which don’t exactly lend themselves to musical composition. A moderate tempo is key to the success of this movement, lest certain parts farther on end up sounding rushed. The middle of this piece modulates to g minor, a welcome technique of variation which is often overlooked in congregational music. I don’t know how frequently Glorias are being composed with refrains these days—If I recall correctly this approach is supposed to be avoided—but one of the virtues of this work, to my mind, is that it is through-composed without being perfunctory. Anyone who has attempted to write a piece like this knows that this is harder to pull off than it seems.

The Holy, Holy is marked “With majesty,” which makes for a fun way to sing the sweeping melodies that Gouin comes up with. This movement is one of several in which the flat seventh is employed—a small piece of harmonic variation which doesn’t outstrip the capabilities of the average ear. Three Memorial Acclamations are provided: We Proclaim Your Death, which is stylistically similar to the Gloria and Sanctus; as well as When We Eat This Bread and Save Us, Savior, both of which, are, as far as I can tell, chant-like original melodies very much stylistically akin to the Kyrie and Agnus Dei.

Like the Kyrie, the Agnus Dei is set both in English and Latin. A setting of the melody from Mass XVIII, this movement may well be the best of the entire Mass. This is where Gouin’s skill comes out: he takes a melody that has been thoroughly trodden and refreshes it with new harmonies and an organ accompaniment that includes a lovely prelude and a tag at the end.

As a music director, few things fill me with dread quite as much as having to teach a congregation a new Mass setting. Pastors complain if the people aren’t raising the roof within two weeks, and the people complain because they’d rather just sing something they already know. Such undertakings only seem worthwhile if the new material is to last for a long time. In Normand Gouin’s Mass of Ss. Peter and Paul, one will find music that is within the grasp of the congregation and sturdy enough to serve a parish for years to come. What is more, it is almost guaranteed to be an improvement over existing repertoire. Also a part of the Cathedral Series, it can be found here.

Norm Gouin’s music, in its synthesis of traditio and tradere, is a model worthy of study, to encourage us to embrace the best of the new and the old. It proves that, for those with the courage to lay aside less-than-helpful terminology that creates false dichotomies, there are creative ways to make art in modern times while still standing firm on what has been passed on to us. For this reason, and many others, I look forward to learning more of this composer’s work.

Written for two tenors and bass, this piece is perfect for a choir of limited resources, or for an occasion on which someone calls out sick. But it is too well-written to be relegated to the stack of music labeled “In Case of Emergency.” A lot of music like this tends to sound glee-clubbish, as some of this reviewer’s own work demonstrates, but the approachability of this particular piece comes not from cheapening the musical content but through the use of chant and judicious repetitions of polyphonic material, particularly in the Kyrie and Agnus Dei. It deserves a regular place in the church music repertoire, the aforementioned peripheral reservations not withstanding. 

Dr. John Romeri, who for many years ran a spectacular music program at St. Louis Cathedral, had barely landed in Philadelphia when he had already lined up a concert series at the Cathedral-Basilica of Ss. Peter and Paul. This past year has seen concerts by the Choir of Westminster Cathedral and Tenebrae, among others.

Some years ago a friend of mine was having a drink with friends at a bar in Cincinnati during an NPM convention. Michael Joncas walked in.

My friend asked, “isn’t that the guy who wrote that yoo-hoo song?”

“Well, we don’t know; why don’t you go ask him?”

This friend of mine, a colorful character with a raspy voice from Baltimore, walked right up to him: “Saaaaaaaay, aren’t you the guy who wrote that yoo-hoo song?”

Joncas couldn’t figure out what she was talking about.

“You know. ‘Yoo-hoo dwell…’”

Joncas was, thankfully, amused, and admitted that he really should have revised some parts of that “yoo-hoo song” but just hadn’t gotten around to it. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s popular enough that its continued use doesn’t depend on it.

On Eagles’ Wings is one of those pieces, like the Mass of the Angels, that is popular despite the difficulty in singing it. Why is this? I can only suppose that it’s because of the text. The Psalms in general are stellar, but the ideas in Psalm 91 are particularly appealing, aren’t they? So people sing this song. It’s understandable.

Every year on the First Sunday of Lent, the text of Psalm 91 dominates the Propers of the liturgy. The centerpiece of this arrangement is the Tract, which goes on for five pages or something like that. Last week when I practiced it at home, I timed it at twelve minutes. This always makes me nervous, since the interlectionary chants (Graduals, Alleluias, and Tracts) are in the crosshairs even of many people of a traditional mindset. In a lot of places it’s difficult enough to persuade those in charge to allow the Gradual and Alleluia from the Liber Usualis on an average Sunday, but this Tract in particular, as well as the one on Palm Sunday, seems to be the kind of thing that can constitute a last straw, the event that gets the congregation to complain about the length, and the end result of that is always unpredictable. I have always had support from my pastors in these matters, but given the opinions I’ve heard expressed from some people scattered about, I always get a little bit nervous when Qui habitat comes around.

So why should those parishes that are doing the chant Propers sing the Interlectionary chants out of the Liber Usualis or Graduale Romanum rather than one of the shortcut books? One could say that these are the official chants of the Church, the most historical, but there are better reasons than this.

One could begin by saying that the chants found in the Liber, particularly on an average Sunday, don’t take more than a couple of minutes longer than the microwave versions, but in some ways this seems like it’s conceding the premise that time is of the utmost importance.

I like to compare these chant melodies to rhetoric. This can mean word painting and other such things like ascending lines for questions, but that isn’t all. Sheer beauty itself is a form of rhetoric; it makes the message of the text more attractive and more readily absorbed. The melismas in the interlectionary chants are among the most beautiful melodies in the Gregorian repertoire. Many will argue that this is not necessary; honk through the text as quickly as possible so that the obligation can be dispensed with. Get rid of the unnecessary stuff—and in the rule books of many, what is not strictly necessary is useless.

Do good sermons exclude “useless” turns of phrase and even “useless repetitions,” or do they employ various rhetorical methods that, if held up to the same standard to which the music is often held, would be found inefficient? The latter case seems to obtain. In fact, a good speaker really only makes two or three points and spends most of the time expounding on them in various ways, usually repetition, variation, and exhortation. The melodies of the interlectionary chants dwell on the text the same way a speaker dwells on his message, and this makes the text appetizing so that we want to feast on it. (I watch a bit too much Food Channel.)

Tied into this is meditation. Dr. William Mahrt of Stanford University has often commented that a member of his congregation once approached him and observed that the Graduals were so slow. Mahrt was puzzled, since, rhythmically speaking, this isn’t exactly true. “Oh no, I mean the text,” the man said. The melismatic character of the chant slows down the rate at which the text is rendered. This reminds me of St. Teresa’s advice to say the Lord’s Prayer, but to take an hour to say it. How is it possible to meditate upon a text when it is sprinting by on the tenor note of a Psalm tone?

A few years ago I was in Chicago and wanted desperately to get to the Art Institute to see what they had there. I crammed my trip in to a tight timeslot and rushed through the museum, but I don’t remember a single painting I saw. That was the Psalm tone version of a visit there, and I paid for it with a forgotten experience. In music, it’s not just the hurrying that has this effect; the absence of a memorable melody can do the same thing.

It seems to me that whenever I have been confronted with something really beautiful, it makes time stop. Everything else goes away and this one work of art, whatever it is, is getting my full attention. I am not worried about the time, or about where I need to go next, or even my plans for next week. These experiences are little slices of eternity. When I get too busy, my frantic, mathematically-based efforts to save time only seem to add to my restlessness. I’ve been to many Masses that feel that way. Proper leisure, a space in which eternity can peak into time, requires an investment, a carving out of space that is set aside; otherwise, the experience will be lost.

Of course, different situations require different solutions. My main concern here is with the argument against the interlectionary chants in the Liber on the basis of time—a contention that is limited to a small scope of parishes. Some scholas aren’t going to be able to handle them, and that needs to be taken into account. Maybe a smaller group within the choir can sing them, or maybe the interlectionary chant repertoire can be built up over time, at intervals.

I would only say this: the interlectionary chants are not as difficult as many suppose them to be; there certainly aren’t any octave leaps, and one is never expected to begin a piece on a major 7^th chord. These melodies are highly centonized. I like to say, exaggerating only slightly, that if you’ve sung one mode 5 gradual, you’ve sung them all. This idea is even more true for the Alleluias. However, this is not going to be apparent without a commitment to learning the repertoire. Repetition isn’t noticed unless a motive is repeated.

I also find myself as yet utterly puzzled by the temptation to abbreviate the melodies in the Liber. This seems to be for reasons of time, since the essential difficulty level is not changed all that much. As a listener, I find the practice to be jolting, as if someone bumped the needle on a record player. This is a cavalier treatment of the art form. Which third of the triptych above the altar should be removed? Which part of the sermon should be omitted?

The way I see it, there’s an irony here, and it’s that On Eagles’ Wings itself isn’t exactly short. Yet I have played many funerals where it was insisted that all the verses be included. This highlights what I’m tempted to believe rises to the level of an axiom: We always have time for whatever it is that we want to have time for.

With limited rehearsal time, music directors often have to resort to general texts that can be used two or three times a year. The Pater noster is a text I like to make use of frequently. In the past we’ve done a setting by Heitor Villa-Lobos, but recently in the library I found a setting by Igor Stravinksy which is lovely and yet doesn’t require a great deal of rehearsal time. I might add that even people who automatically hate modern music may find this work to be of value.