Britten and the "War Requiem"

[thoreau]

...to miss the march of this retreating world into vain citadels that are not walled...

---

David and I were joined by Tommy (notdefined) tonight for a performance of Benjamin Britten's WAR REQUIEM by the San Francisco Choral Society and California Chamber Symphony. The piece is very beautiful - and despite a chorus that sang like the peanuts choir most of the time (wah wah wah Christi wah wah Graci wah wah wah) it was quite wonderful. The three soloists, particularly the tenor - were precise and wonderful. The baritone, having his score memorized, was a bit more theatrical than the others - but it was a great performance by each of them. The piece stages different Wilfred Owens poems sung by two soldiers, one British, One German with a "russian" soprano - joined by a children's chorus and nearly 300 member chorus that sings the words to a traditional mass for the dead.

The performance in Davies Symphony Hall was very touching and powerfully beautiful - full of Britten's trademark dissonances and musical contradictions. I loved it. David, being a bit jetlagged - was nodding on and off... but enjoyed it. I will now have to go listen to the recording of the SFS doing this show with Tommy in the choir.

The text chosen by Britten is simply beautiful - and closes with this poem of Owen's entitled "Strange Friends" in which two men meet in heaven - one having killed the other only to be killed moments later and arriving at the after life a day apart. (In Britten's version - heaven - in Owen's version hell)

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'

Comments

[bearzendurham.livejournal.com]

This is one of my favorite choral works. I've had the opportunity to sing it once, and it was difficult to sing the work without completely losing myself in emotion while trying to maintain singing.

Although the casual listener might completely miss or even disregard the homo-erotic context of the soldiers and the resulting tension between love and hate in Owen's poetry and Britten's work, it is cleary part of the subtext for this work. How often do we destroy that which we love?

Too bad that the diction was unrecognizable. I hope you get the chance to hear it again someday, with greater clarity.

[rsc.livejournal.com]

This is one of my favorite choral works. I've had the opportunity to sing it once

It's one of my favorites, too, and one of the lasting regrets of my choal-singing career is that I never got a chance to perform it.

I've been to two live performances of it in my life. The first was at New York's Philharmonic (now Avery Fisher) Hall in the fall of 1963; this was a repeat of what I believe to have been the US premiere at Tanglewood that summer. My brother was in the Tanglewood chorus that year, so he was a participant in that performance. Having (or course) never heard the piece before, I was completely blown away.

I went to hear it again when the Boston Symphony Orchestra did it a couple of years ago, with Thomas Quasthoff and Ben Heppner. Wow. The only thing that marred it was the idiot whose watch (or something) started beeping during "Strange Meeting". He wasn't near enough for me to silently snatch his watch and smash it, since he (I'm assuming he, perhaps unjustly) didn't seem to know how to silence it.

[low-fat-muffin.livejournal.com]

Your last bit is hysterical! I HATE when that happens.

I staged Jerome Lawrence's "THE NIGHT THOREAU SPENT IN JAIL" in Boise - and the videographer brought his 2 year old. UGH. the play runs on beautifully timed silences and whispered lines. and she'd blurt out "DADDY" or some other tike-ism right as things got quiet. (not her fault; his for bringing her)

Over the earphones at the theater people were saying things like "kill the baby - backstage to box office - kill the baby".

It began my life long obsession with tazer weapons - let me tell you.

[notdefined.livejournal.com]

My take on last night's performance is here.

[low-fat-muffin.livejournal.com]

I was perhaps a bit more charitable but yeah - a subpar performance of a staggeringly beautiful piece.