St. Matthew Passion — a personal note
In the programme books for the Cantata Collectives series of Bach Birthday Concerts, it has been my custom to write a small essay on the history of each work but this time, I am going to try something different: a much more personal piece about the work and what it means to me.
Nearly 60 years ago, I played the Matthew Passion for the first time but even before that I was familiar with it through LPs and attending regular performances in the city where I grew up. One of the first recordings that I remember as young child was an LP of the incomparable Kathleen Ferrier singing ‘Erbahme Dich’ or, since she sang it in English ‘Have mercy, Lord, on me’
Both the voice and violin seemed to me to have descended from heaven. Sadly, she died when I was only three. She was only 41 years old and was truly the first, but not the last angel that I ever heard sing.
In the exceptionally cold winter of 1965/1966, at the ripe age of sixteen, I was asked to take part in a performance of the Passion in St. Mary’s Church in Nottingham where I attended the historic High School. I am sure that I played second flute, but I do not recall which of the two orchestras. I was in. The conductor was Noel Cox who was a very fine musician and later Warden of the Royal Academy of Music in London. As was the custom then, we used an edition prepared, among others, by Elgar. It was sung in English. Of the two things I remember clearly from that performance long ago, one of which could never have been planned or probably could ever be repeated. The first was the glorious singing of Wilfred Brown, a peerless Evangelist, who stood in the pulpit to deliver the words of the gospel. Like Ferrier, his life was cut short by tragic illness. He was not quite 50. It must have been an extraordinary moment for him, as a life-long Quaker, to perform in St. Mary’s for it was there in 1649 that George Fox, the Founder of the Quakers, interrupted a sermon, perhaps delivered from that very pulpit, to denounce the preacher, an act of heresy that got him imprisoned. Brown’s diction was impeccable throughout his range, and he had none of the mannerisms of his contemporary Peter Pears, so brilliantly parodied by Dudley Moore. Here is a link to a recording he made with his frequent collaborator, the guitarist John Williams:
The event that no-one could have predicted occurred just after Brown sang the words ‘and He died’. In the traditional silence that followed, what seemed like ten tons of snow slipped off the roof of the church. It was an unearthly thud like the muted drums at a state funeral.
While I was at university, I first became exposed to period instruments and eventually to take part in performances that used them. The St. Matthew Passion because of its grand scale was not one of the earliest pieces to be given in this new (old) style. The St. John performed more often, and I fondly remember playing first flute in one conducted by Sir Roger Norrington in the church of St. Bartholemew the Great in Smithfield. It was advertised as the first time the work had been given in London on period instruments and it also used a boys’ choir. I remember how thrilling it was.
In the 1970s, one Matthew Passion stood out for me not necessarily for musical reasons. It was performed in Winchester Cathedral, a building steeped in history and, as in most British cathedrals, the heating system was a venerable part of that history; in other words, it didn’t work at all. Those of us who could, wore what we called ‘Bob Cratchit’ gloves which left only the tips of our fingers exposed. As a flautist, an ectoplasm-like mist came out of my mouth while I was playing. To make matters worse, I had a very bad cold which made breathing difficult. In the second part of the Passion is a long flute solo which on this occasion I dreaded. However, my oboist neighbour recommended an elixir that he claimed always worked for him: a shot of Bloody Mary made of equal portions of vodka, tomato juice and Worcestershire Sauce. In the interval, we visited the local pub, and I ordered a glass of this wicked potion. Down it went in one gulp, and I managed to get through the aria without sneezing or wheezing and perhaps not so freezing.
The first time I conducted the Passion was in Edinburgh in the early 1990s with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra. This was one several ‘big’ performances that I have directed over the years. There was a chorus of at least a hundred hearty Scots, a large children’s choir, and lots and lots of strings. To me, it felt rather like a Cecil B. DeMille production. Though I had often played the work, directing a performance, especially such a grandiose one, was a much more daunting prospect. Pacing the drama is not easy and I can’t say that this première performance for me was very successful.
My next one, which felt much better, was on modern instruments and was done by the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra. The forces were more in tune with those that Bach had in Leipzig. It was also much more dramatic. The words of the gospel were delivered simply and nobly while the arias were full of emotion. Eric Owens, the superlative bass, was particularly moving.
Bach splits the Passion into two types of presentation. The first is the Gospel story itself which is narrated by the Evangelist with other roles for Jesus, some of his disciples, Pilate, and a crowd of bystanders. In the autograph manuscript, a miraculous document in its own right, Bach uses red ink for the Biblical text. Whenever Jesus sings, his words are given a halo of string sound except at the very end when he feels that God has forsaken him. In the arias which are accompanied either by the first or second orchestra, the soloists tell us their personal and highly emotional reactions to each moment of the Gospel story. This method of story telling is not so different from the opere serie that Bach would have seen whenever he visited Dresden. In a baroque opera, the story is told in the recitatives and the arias are often comments by the soloists on how they feel. Many of the opera aria texts have little to do with the specifics of the drama and make frequent use of similes. For example, after a fraught scene told in recitative, a character may sing “I feel like a ship tossed on the waves of a stormy sea”. In fact, the way these operas were staged at the time meant that the recits were acted just behind the proscenium arch making the scene into a living picture. A singer could then step out of the picture frame, come to the footlights, and perform the aria as a personal commentary. As well as representing the Turba, the Chor sings Chorales which are also a personal response to the sufferings of Jesus. These could also have been sung by the Congregation.
Finally, there are the two large choruses at the beginning and end of the whole work which act like magnificent book covers to Passion within. The opening movement is one of the most complex that Bach ever composed. Not only is it written for double choir and orchestra, but on top is a Chorale usually sung by a children’s choir. No wonder that this work was known to Bach’s family as his ‘Great Passion’!
In the past, I have been asked how it is possible for me to conduct a piece of sacred music such as the St. Matthew Passion without being a particularly religious person. I can honestly say that I do not have an issue with it. Indeed, I have a harder time doing Part III of Messiah which deals with the resurrection, something I struggle to believe in. Much of the Passion, such as the betrayal and trial of Jesus, I find very moving and dramatic on a purely human level.
Finally, I must emphasise what a pleasure and privilege it is to be directing this performance with the musicians of the Cantata Collective, For me, there is no greater pleasure than making music with friends and to be performing a work that I have known and loved for over sixty years.