The Church of St Maurice in central Olomouc has the feel of a very old place. It is
indeed ancient, in all likelihood a religious site at St Maurice’s (chrám sv. Morice) being extant at the time of the foundation of the town itself. The present columned gothic structure
dates from the late medieval period, complete with a beautiful twisty double spiral stone staircase that leads up to the bell tower. One very blustery wintry morning a few weeks ago, meself and the Mem took ourselves up it whereupon I had my first ever terrifying incident of vertigo: the tower was sure to collapse immanently, my jellied legs were on the verge of giving way and I was about to die a terrible death... or be killed... or worse!
Unlike other Nazi-occupied towns and towns of Europe, Olomouc survived World War II relatively intact. This can be attributed
to two things, the first being the overriding influence of the large pro-Nazi ethnic German
population that lived here at that time. This meant
that Nazi domination was a relatively simple matter of a largely unobstructed takeover: no morning waves of screaming Stukas or indiscriminate flattening by merciless howitzers. Secondly, the town held little strategic resources that the preexisting Czech requiring
defending and was projected to be a German-held enclave ready for expanding Germanization in the region. Hence, despite the burning down of the old central synagogue in Olomouc's very own Kristallnacht, many of the historic buildings of the city centre remain standing and the
windswept tower of St Maurice’s is one of the more obvious examples. It could be argued that the communists were actually worse caretakers...
To the May 1st concert in this ecclesiasitcal setting. Part of the Moravian Philharmonic Orchestra's Dvořákova Olomouc season, it featured two pieces: a first performance of Bohemian boy Petr Fiala's Pocta Antonínu Dvořákovi or Tribute to Anton Dvořák. Made all the more spectacular by the bouncy, echoey acoustic properties of the church, this breathtaking, complex and moving piece held me spellbound for its entirety. It worked on so many levels; magnificent in its scope, infused with passion, full of crashes from a massive gong and smashing timpani. If this large orchestral work doesn't make it out of the Czech music world and onto the world stage then I'll be forced to concede to a simian nephew.
The second piece was Brahms’ A German Requiem. To say that this is a seminal work is like saying la Gioconda is a picture people quite like the look of. It is a gargantuan megalith around which other pieces of music are pebbles in so much sand.
To hear the piece first time round is, to use another metaphor, to be overwhelmed by strength of force storming the battlements – any lull in the action is but the precursor to the next assault. Don’t get me wrong; there is nothing within the forms, thematic growths, developments and resolutions in the Requiem’s entirety that is not close to perfection itself, but wave-upon-wave of the mid-19th Century romantic composition crashes upon the self, upon the very soul, with a uncompromising imperturbability.
Written between 1865-9, Brahms’ somewhat sombre Requiem
departs from the usual liturgical form of an established Latin requiem as its sung and choral parts are in
German. The title, therefore, refers to its language (and is not, as I once
thought, an ironic lament for a Germany that has died in some way) – hence the
title Ein deutsches Requiem (emphasis on the A). The specific use by
Brahms' self-selected Biblical text, however, is such that the Requiem does not become an overt or
direct reference to a recent demise, as would be the case with a more conventional Roman Catholic
requiem. It is, instead, a decidedly positive reflection of life through a more
humanist perspective that encompasses many other things than merely his emotive response to the losses of his
mother and of his dear friend Robert Schumann.
The Youtube clip above of the DRSO - Herbert Blomstedt live performance is amongst the best out there from which are selected just a few examples (at minute intervals in bold below). From a quiet, gentle introduction, Selig sind, die da Leid tragen (Blessed are they who bear suffering), the cosmic second movement, Denn alles Fleisch, es ist wie Gras (All flesh is as grass) 10:05, bestows a sonic grandeur difficult to take in at a first sitting. It is no wonder that many on hearing this work considered him as conqueror of Beethoven, a composer he much loved and emulated – a reputation he tirelessly attempted to live up to. Towards the end of the the third movement 30:35 the mood changes: Ich hoffe auf dich (My hope is in you) and Der Gerechten Seelen sind in Gottes Hand (The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God) must count as the most perfect musical account of optimism ever written, akin to brilliant sunshine bursting into view through thick, dark clouds. The fifth movement, Ihr habt nun Traurigkeit (You now have sadness) 39:25, a section that Brahms completed last, has a pace, mood and depth not commonly associated with music from the era, even though Brahms' was steeped in the history of pre-romatic music. This dramatic optimism surely finds its apotheosis in the 6th movement's Der Tod ist verschlungen in den Sieg (Death is swallowed up in victory) section 49:35 where, with obvious Bachian fugal form, the choir builds on the work of the baritone soloist. After all that the last and slower movement Selig sind die Toten (Blessed are the dead) 58:00 must surely be Brahms' most heartfelt outpouring to those for whom the composition was dedicated, in effect if not directly in name. Somewhat unfashionable now, some may call its subject morbid, but to be remembered thus takes into account the full gravity and finality of death and the crushing pain that accompanies loss that leaves only tender memories. You may wipe away your tears now...
The performance was accomplished and exact with few noticeable errors. Conductor, soloists, choir and orchestra worked as one – undoubtedly the product of thorough rehearsals. One lengthy, generous and well-deserved applause later, the Olomoucian audience upped from their unforgiving pews and seats in the chilly church pronto and, mingling with the odd instrumentalist and the choristers from the Czech Philharmonic Choir Brno, practically ran out of the building. I cannot recall a quicker exit from a venue without someone shouting "Fire!". Perhaps it's the Czech way, but there didn't seem to be much of the usual lingering and chatting about what had just transpired: perhaps they hear so many excellent performances that they have become just a little blazé and only want to get home on the next tram.
The requiem's performance was also personally poignant: the recent loss of a old school friend, Claudia Tacke-Price, made this a moving experience. Claudia and I had at one time been very close and I recall her telling me that Brahms was her favourite composer. She went on to marry, have children and live happily in Auckland where she had been cellist with the Auckland Philharmonia Orchestra. She, like Brahms, originated from Hamburg. She like Brahms, died from the same dreadful and unforgiving pancreatic cancer. I had very much hoped to catch up with her again soon, and we exchanged a few words on Facebook, but, sadly, it was just not to be. For me this German Requiem was, therefore, in her memory.
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