It’s said that music is a universal language – one that transcends the immaterial barriers between people of all nations and creeds, but I don’t think it’s that simple. Folks seem to have this obsession with the role of context in music, desperate to find hidden “meaning” that is often completely absent and then giving it precedence over the medium that supposedly delivered it. Music can be politicised, artists fetishized, and messages are often washed away in tide of pretence. It’s all very tiresome, but still doesn’t lessen the ability of music to speak to us in a way that mere words can’t, so perhaps there is an element of truth to the sentiment above.
I find this idea exemplified no better than in works which solely use a particular instrument, the one staple in music of all cultures and ages: the human voice. Of course, this isn’t to diminish the qualities of wood and brass, but the evocative subtleties of the former will remain forever unique to it. Most composers of medieval times worked anonymously, and those renowned rarely had compositions attached to their name, believing this inimitable instrument to be a means of glorifying God as opposed to an avenue to fame and fortune. As a result, their works have a down-to-earth candour that some would argue was lost with the extravagance of the Renaissance and Baroque eras. Ensemble Organum’s interpretation of these 11th Century manuscripts will move even the most irreligious among us; no matter your perspective on life and beyond, it’s difficult to deny the beauty of what this handful of voices conjure.
The presence of Arabic-style inflections is typical of Ensemble Organum’s work, but also basis for contention. This is due to these works coming from a time that many – including director Marcel Pérès – believe to be one of relative harmony between the East and West. Regardless, they add a kind of emotional depth that might otherwise be absent from music this still. There are seldom any climactic crescendo effects and while melodies are omnipresent, you can scarcely call any of them infectious. The mood is consistently brooding and contemplative, but nevertheless awe-inspiring. Key to this effect is the beautifully defined bass singing; static as it may be, its presence is always met with a sense of catharsis which lasts until each movement’s end. This bedrock, known as the “bourdon”, allows the rest of the ensemble to shine, whether going solo or in the infrequent moments – such as the Alleluia of The Midnight Mass – in which they sing in exalted tandem.
Of course, it would be wrong of me to dismiss the subject matter of these chants; however, the magnificence of these pieces goes far beyond their message. A recitation is just that, a recitation – something that will resonate with some and not others. In the millennium or so that has passed since these chants were penned, it would seem that not much has changed. I’d wager that composers of times gone by were conscious of this, and thought fashioning unparalleled beauty was perhaps the only means to their works’ preservation.
I wouldn’t have written this had they not succeeded.
