Few works in the classical repertoire make the confrontation with death as tangible as Giuseppe Verdi's (1813-1901) Messa da Requiem. Verdi does not turn the Catholic Mass for the Dead into a hushed liturgical reflection, but into a grand musical drama in which fear, despair, hope and supplication constantly collide. The work can sound overwhelming in its massive choral and orchestral passages, yet it also contains moments of great intimacy. It is precisely in the tension between the mass and the individual that a large part of its power lies.
That tension was also central to the performance by the Brussels Philharmonic, the Vlaams Radiokoor and the Octopus Symfonisch Koor at Flagey, under the direction of Kazushi Ono. Together some one hundred singers stood on stage, prepared by Bart Van Reyn. With so many voices, Verdi's music acquires a physical force that you literally feel in the hall. But equally important were the moments when the massive sound receded and made room for an individual voice or a small vocal dialogue.
A remarkable circumstance added to this. Two soloists had to be replaced at the last moment. Aphrodite Patoulidou took over the soprano part from Louise Foor, while Dohoon Lee assumed the bass part from Alexandre Duhamel. That both replacements had to familiarise themselves with this demanding production so shortly before the performance makes their contributions all the more striking.
When words make the music darker
It was moreover the first time I experienced a complete performance of Verdi's Requiem with the full text in surtitles. What at first sight seems a merely practical addition turned out to change my listening experience considerably.
Whoever reads along with the Latin text during the performance is constantly confronted with judgment, fire, fear, guilt, death and the plea for deliverance. The words give concrete weight to what in the music can sometimes remain abstract. The Dies irae thereby becomes even more menacing, while the Libera me presents itself more strongly as a personal plea.
Verdi's religious imagery may be experienced differently today than in the era in which these texts originated, but the human emotions contained within them have lost little of their force. Precisely because the words were so explicitly present, the underlying threat of the music was made even more palpable this evening.
A choir that fills the hall
The most impressive element of this performance was the enormous presence of the two choirs. With about one hundred singers they could carry Verdi's great outbursts with conviction, while the more restrained passages were also given sufficient room. This proved strongest in the Dies irae. The music has everything in it to grow into pure spectacle, but precisely the contrast with the more subdued moments gave the outbursts their full weight. The hundred voices did not form a permanent wall of sound; as a result the fortissimi could truly arrive.
The Tuba mirum also produced a striking spatial effect. The trumpets were placed behind the choir, so that their sound seemed to come from behind the singers. The effect was overwhelming. At the same time, the balance here sometimes felt somewhat heavy to me: the brass came so insistently to the fore that in those moments it sounded more like a physical eruption than a musical complement. The spatial arrangement enhanced the effect, but thereby occasionally came at the expense of refinement.
Ono breathes with the music
Kazushi Ono was once again a pleasure to watch. He did not conduct from a distance, but seemed to stand right in the middle of the music. You could see how he breathed along with the soloists, responded to their phrasing and gave the choir room whenever the orchestra came strongly forward. The score contains moments of enormous orchestral power, but behind those grand gestures the fragile human voice remains constantly present. Ono kept both sides beautifully in balance. The orchestra was allowed to sound out fully where necessary, without overshadowing the voices.
The instrumental contributions were therefore also given the necessary space. Especially the strings and woodwinds, in the quieter passages, could evoke a very different sound world. In the Agnus Dei soprano and mezzo-soprano formed the vocal centre together, while the choir, seated in the background, remained present almost like a silent commentator. The warm string sound and the colours of the woodwinds contributed to the hushed atmosphere following the threat of the Dies irae.
The human voice gains a face
The emotional centre of gravity for me ultimately lay in the Libera me. Aphrodite Patoulidou delivered the soprano part in a deeply moving way. She did not merely sing the words, she seemed to feel their emotional charge fully. As a result her interpretation acquired something personal: her part became not a display of vocal virtuosity, but a sincere plea. After the massive sound of choir and orchestra, one human voice once again stands at the centre, alone in the face of death. The recurring Libera me thus sounds at once desperate and hopeful. Patoulidou succeeded in sustaining that tension convincingly – an achievement, given that she had taken over the part only at the last moment.
Mezzo-soprano Estelle Defalque also stood out strongly. In the Liber scriptus she impressed with an expressive vocal colour, but it was especially in the Recordare that her gift for ensemble came beautifully to the fore. Her voice blended there naturally with that of Patoulidou, without losing its own colour.
Tenor Denzil Delaere could, on the other hand, be less convincing. At certain moments he seemed to struggle to keep the vocal line fully steady, while his timbre also appealed to me less.
Dohoon Lee blended convincingly into the whole. In Mors stupebit and especially in Confutatis maledictis, he was able to show the powerful side of his voice. In Salva me, his sound took on a different function: it formed a solid foundation for the other voices, giving them room for a more intimate and hopeful tone. That Lee took over this demanding bass part at the last moment makes his convincing contribution all the more remarkable.
After the poignant ending, you long for a moment of rest and reflection. It was therefore a pity that part of the audience began to applaud almost immediately after the final note. Verdi does not let the Libera me end in a triumphant victory. Instead, the music withdraws into a silence that becomes almost tangible. After such a performance, a few seconds of silence are hardly too much to ask. Not because applause would be inappropriate, but because the final note does not feel like an ending.
Between fear and silence
The strength of this performance lay in the way the massive sound and the human voice continually coexisted. The hundred choral voices, the four soloists, the orchestra and the great dramatic outbursts could be impressive and at times overwhelming, but Ono never lost sight of the human scale. Amid the mass, the individual voice remained audible: someone who fears, pleads and longs for deliverance.
Verdi offers no simple answer to this. Perhaps that is not necessary. The religious imagery of his Requiem may have come to speak differently over time; the human questions beneath it have remained.