A concert for

sunday, october 31 • 4pmALL HALLOWS EVE

ALL HALLOWS EVEThe Cathedral is open again for visiting hours, and we can’t wait to welcome you to explore this magnificent space. Sightseeing hours vary day-to-day to accommodate the wide range of activities offered at the Cathedral. You can explore the Cathedral at your own pace during our posted sightseeing hours. From vibrant stained glass to intricate carving to a peaceful serenity unlike anything else in Washington, you’re invited to discover the magic and beauty of the Cathedral.

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A concert for

sunday, october 31 • 4pmALL HALLOWS EVE

p r o g r a m

Toccata and Fugue in D Minorjohann sebastian bach

Infelix Ego

ēriks ešenvalds

Sinfonia “Al Santo Sepolcro” in B Minorantonio vivaldi

Concerto in D Major, Op. 6, No. 4arcangelo corelli

fifteen-minute intermission

The Wrath of Godeugene hancock

Nunc Dimitisarvo part

G Minor Concertofrancesco durante

“The Cave” (from Dido and Aeneas): Act Two, Scene Onehenry purcell

w a s h i n g t o n n a t i o n a l c a t h e d r a l

I N S PAC Eour future

November 10, 2021| 7pm

IGNATIUS FORUM 2021

‘Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.

hamlet (william shakespeare)

The macabre, the paranormal, the inexplicable, the occult. Halloween embodies these most visceral fascinations of the human psyche, demarcating the liminal space between seasons—and, thus, between worlds—in an eerily explicit manner. Amidst night’s slow intrusion, winter’s looming arrival, and death’s subliminal omnipresence, Halloween allows us not merely to acknowledge, but openly revel in these otherwise disconcerting elements through joy and celebration. Because the earthly realm, in its transition, appears to linger over the precipice of the unknown, we attempt to suppress our mortality and assume control over our greatest fears through costume, jest, and morbid intrigue. Thus, the world is turned on its head, granting us permission to embody our antitheses or desires while simultaneously symbolizing the mercurial American obsession with self-transformation.Halloween’s origins can be traced over two millennia into the Celtic festival of Samhain, a dedicated time for stock-taking, preparing for the winter, and communing with deceased ancestors. Although the Roman Empire subsequently eradicated many artifacts associated with this celebration, they nonetheless sought to reconcile and unify the pagan traditions embedded in popular tradition with the then-expanding Christian faith; thus, in 609 A.D., Pope Boniface IV established All Saints’ Day (also referred to as All Hallows or All Hallow-mas) to honor Christian saints, martyrs, and the faithfully departed. This ostensibly “novel” holiday, however, merely supplanted the pagan festival “Lemuria” (observed on May 13th), for which the ancient Romans poured milk over the graves of their ancestors in an attempt to placate malevolent spirits and exorcise intruding presences from their homes. Yet its immense popularity furthered the Church’s overarching aim to eradicate paganism (and, thus, unify their empire), and, in a calculated attempt to exhaust the lingering potency of Samhain, church leaders moved All Hallows’ Day to November 1st. “Halloween,” then, manifested in the preparatory celebrations of the night before, assuming much of the character of its Celtic predecessor: bonfires and costumes, once intended to frighten evil spirits, now represented the spiritual and otherworldly; offerings of food and goods that appeased the departed instead became

p r o g r a m n o t e s

displays of generosity and goodwill to the poor; and tricks and pranks attributed to malignant spirits were ascribed to the souls of saints.

Though few musical works are strictly associated with this festivity, composers throughout history embraced and transformed its most effective themes—fear, thrill, awe, and suspense—into haunting classics imbued with mystery, allure, and drama. Therefore, in the spirit of the season, we invite you to venture into the darkened expanses of our Gothic cathedral for a spine-tingling array of spooky musical classics: from Bach’s terrifying Toccata and Fugue in D Minor to the blood-curdling wails of Purcell’s witches, experience Washington National Cathedral’s world-class musicians in the thin musical space between this world and the next.

toccata in d minor (johann sebastian bach) [J.S. Bach] said in jest, “Above all I must know whether the organ has a good lung,” and to establish this, he pulled out all the stops and played with as many registers as possible. This often caused organ builders to go quite pale with shock.

carl philipp emanuel bach

Rarely has a work from the Western canon become so fundamentally associated with horror and fantasy as J.S. Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor (c. 1704), evoking imagery of pale vampires, ghostly castles, and ominous full moons. Indeed, few opening gestures elicit such immediate recognition, connote the imposing grandeur of the organ, or demonstrate the vast capacities of the instrument; writing in 1948, musicologist Hermann Keller characterized these dramatic introductory motifs as “descending like a lightning flash, the long roll of thunder of the broken chords of the full organ, and the stormy undulation of the triplets.” Leopold Stokowski’s evocative orchestral arrangement featured in Disney’s Fantasia (1940) would secure the Toccata’s revered position in popular culture, complemented by appearances in other (markedly more ominous) motion

pictures, such as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1931), The Black Cat (1934), Sunset Boulevard (1950), 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1954), The Phantom of the Opera (1962), and The Great Race (1965).Perhaps originating in the modernist belief that popularity indicates a simplicity incompatible with Bachian genius, the Toccata’s increasing prominence in twentieth-century media galvanized musicologists to argue that it was not, in fact, the work of the immortalized composer. Yet in the nineteenth century, it tenuously bordered on extinction, surviving by mere chance through a manuscript produced by a student of Bach’s as an exercise in copying. Since sustained by a lineage of composers ranging from Felix Mendelssohn, the revered Bach “revivalist,” to Franz Liszt, a diabolical virtuoso who championed its dramaticism and brilliance, the Toccata now occupies a firm place within the public’s beloved repertoire. Certainly, its juxtaposition of keyboard virtuosity and contrapuntal mastery, coupled with impatiently ascending and descending runs, rolling masses of chords, and an elemental and unbounded power lend it not only immense musical value, but also a mesmerizing acoustical atmosphere.

infelix ego (ēriks ešenvalds)

Halloween, however, is not merely a season of cinematic eeriness; it is also a moment in the liturgical year to honor saints, martyrs, and the pious who have departed the earthly realm. Yet these individuals transcend merely the canonized figures within the Church’s history, instead encompassing those who, while now enshrouded in obscurity, represent the epitome of devotion, faith, resilience, and steadfastness. Their personas and ideals, conversely, illuminate troubling periods of the Church’s history and urge contemporary worshippers to constantly reflect upon, challenge, and reconstruct their faith. Dominican friar Girolamo Savonarola (1452–1498), certainly, was among such figures. Renowned (and, later, denounced) for his preaching against secularism, clerical corruption, and social immorality, he was excommunicated by the Catholic Church, charged with heresy and sedition, and tortured to submission. Prison guards spared only his right arm so that he could sign his confession; with control of but one limb, and devastated by his weakness in allowing physical torture to overcome his spiritual will, Savonarola authored “Infelix ego” (“Alas, wretch that I am”) as a meditation on Psalm 51, a text with preexisting liturgical associations to guilt and penitence.After his death, the friars of San Marco venerated Savonarola as a saint, Martin Luther heralded him as a

martyr, and composers such as Adrian Willaert, Orlande de Lassus, and William Byrd—in direct defiance of the Church’s censorship of his writings—immortalized his mediations in profound choral settings. Ēriks Ešenvalds’s setting, commissioned in 2015, perpetuates this historical tradition in a poignant and distinctive musical framework, explicitly identifying this lineage through its direct quotation of William Byrd’s setting as an introduction. A conscious juxtaposition of ancient and modern, then, emerges as a central theme throughout the work, exemplified through oscillations between Latin and English texts, polyphonic and homophonic settings, and varying technical and harmonic approaches. The work progresses with a pathetic lamentation, in which repeat “sighing” figuration and gradually intensifying dissonances indicate burdens of anguish, guilt, and fear (“I have offended against heaven and earth”); these sentiments are heightened by consistently descending glissandi, suggesting the succumbing of man’s spirit to mortal limitations. Recurring pendulums between musical devices sectionalize the work—for example, its beginning develops from cautious utterances, to pronounced exclamations, to hushed silence; contrastingly, the second stanza oscillates between pungent dissonances and resonant, hymn-like consonances. Textual groupings are punctuated by moments of pause, thus suspending the fleeting anxieties of the earthly realm and suggesting spiritual reflection; each reiteration, however, is hesitant and anxious, indicating the psychological turmoil of the narrator that is emphasized at critical moments with stark dissonance.

Further dualisms are evident in the dramatic evolution of the narrative. The unsettled questioning and apparent isolation expressed in “To whom shall I flee? Who will have pity on me?” is set in a static, low register; yet this is soon colored with soprano interjections, reminding the listener of the vast chasms between salvation and damnation. Contradicting melodic and textual entrances create a sense of unease that their eventual coalescing does not resolve; to the contrary, the aligning of the voices is undermined by their atypical, and sometimes jarring, harmonic arrivals that deny conclusion. This anxiety climaxes in the fragmented passing between voices of the text “God […] will not despise the work of His hands, will not reject His own image,” its kaleidoscopic effect undermining the apparent determination of the plea. Eventually, a stillness and regularity emerges with “for you alone are my hope, you alone are my refuge,” reinforcing Savonarola’s faith in God’s clemency. Even this, however, is temporary. Irony is not lost on Ešenvalds: “mercy” is set with oppugnant, unyielding dissonances, hinting at the paradox of Savonarola’s execution by the Church despite his unquestioning faith in its figurehead—God.

sinfonia "al santo sepolcro' in b minor (antonio vivaldi)

Man’s relationship with the supernatural, of course, manifests in myriad forms. Vivaldi’s Sinfonia “Al Santo Sepolcro” (“Symphony of the Holy Sepulcher”) poignantly represents the quest of mortals to understand—and, in some respects, recreate—the suffering and spiritual purification of Christ, in which redemption transcends death, faith defies the implausible, and divine intervention triumphs over human will.

Vaguely enshrouded in mystery, the circumstances of the Sinfonia’s composition are generally associated with a paraliturgical service commemorating a scaled-down replica of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher (Jerusalem) in Varallo, Italy, the original of which is built above where Christ is believed to have been entombed. The Italian chapel, ultimately, became conjoined with forty-three other buildings that comprised a “new Jerusalem” and signified the history of the Son’s salvation. Such imagery, dualistically, reminds of the sepulchers housed throughout the Washington National Cathedral, commemorating monumental figures (secular “saints,” as it were) of our nation’s history, such as Woodrow Wilson, Helen Keller, and George Dewey.

The lethargic pace and immense anguish of the first movement is reminiscent of a funerary procession, musically expressed through stagnant harmonic motion that denies both spiritual pause and, contrastingly, progressive musical development. Structurally, the work is pervaded with chromaticism that drives the work primarily through the perpetual—and evidently futile—search for resolution, and only secondarily by any formalized framework. Writ large, these melodic treatments are reminiscent of the Baroque Affects, in which chromaticism is representative of Christ’s suffering, yet they are exaggerated by an overarching tonal ambiguity that disorients and dismays the listener. Sustained note values that challenge the technical capacities of sound production for string instruments likewise suggests the agonizing, interminable suspension of Christ’s crucifixion.

The “allegro” second movement, ironically, is only marginally faster in its pace and evolution, obtaining its structure through gradually developing fugal motifs. Their stark chromaticism diverges into two distinct subjects—one ascending and the other descending—that eventually intersect in a remarkably specific allusion to the cross. Its tempo suggests a measured courtly dance, yet its dissonances subvert expected cadences and resolutions and, thus, lend a sense of asymmetry; this inadvertent awkwardness, in turn, transforms an otherwise temperate

work into a sardonic expression of mourning. In a poignant conclusion, however, Vivaldi unifies the piece by repeating the opening melodic line of the Adagio and harmonically settling in a long-awaited tonic chord, evoking a sense of redemption, spiritual transcendence, and unification with the divine.

concerto in d major, op. 6 no. 4 (arcangelo corelli)

[The Op. 6 concerti] seem to have withstood all the attacks of time and fashion with more firmness than any of his other works. The harmony is so pure, so rich, and so grateful; the parts are so clearly, judiciously, and ingeniously disposed; and the effect of the whole, from a large band, so majestic, solemn, and sublime, that they preclude all criticism, and make us forget that there is any other Music of the same kind existing.

Charles Burney Contemporaneous with Vivaldi was Arcangelo Corelli, who enjoyed a considerably greater degree of success despite his markedly conservative musical idiom; he eschewed the embryonic use of programmatic structure then popular in Italy, instead preferring to utilize traditional forms, harmonic structures, and contrapuntal techniques intimately associated with polyphonic liturgical works. In doing so, he merged instrumental and vocal capacities that had once seemingly contradicted one another, thus uniting the secular and sacred, respectively, in a highly effective manner.Indeed, Corelli emerged at a time when instrumental music had finally begun to assert an autonomy from its previous role as a subsidiary to the voice. Far from assuming a passive role, however, he significantly contributed to the expansion of instrumental virtuosity and orchestral unity, remarkably exemplified by his Op. 6 concerti. The fourth specifically exploits the Baroque sonata da chiesa (“church sonata”) structure, in which slow and fast movements converse within a liturgical or paraliturgical context. Its dignified opening sets a festive tone, whereas the ensuing “Allegro,” rich and contrapuntal in texture, abounds with interplay between the soloists and the larger ensemble. The “Allegro” movement, with its gently draping melody, offers a lyrical contrast to the grandeur of the Concerto’s opening. Corelli then expands the concluding fast section into two movements, both of which are marked by transparent textures and a prevailing feeling of lightness: a propulsive

bass line offers a foundation over which an elegant melody unfolds in the “Vivace,” while an atmosphere of dance infuses the final “Allegro.”

the wrath of god (eugene hancock)

The holy wrath of God is something rarely explored in church, though its presence in scripture is undeniable. An intense and remarkable piece, [but] not for the lighthearted.

Among the most fearsome imaginings within the Christian tradition rest not in such pagan figures as vampires, werewolves, and zombies, but rather, in the evocation of God’s untempered wrath. Indeed, teachings around the notions of sin, temptation, and retribution utilize forceful examples of God’s acts of justice: His expelling of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, overthrowing Sodom and Gomorrah, inciting the Great Flood, or sending the ten plagues upon Egypt are but a few examples, all of which are accompanied by the passion and dismay of divine judgement. Though images of a vengeful Father eventually dissolve into a benign and merciful Shepherd throughout the New Testament, the intimations of eternal damnation pervade, latent, across the Scriptures, culminating in the fearsome prophesies of the Book of Revelation.

Eugene Hancock, in his Wrath of God, emulates the fearsome pathos concomitant to severe human error through dramatic depictions of storms, thunder, and lightning; indeed, he appears to extrapolate upon J.S. Bach’s expansive musical gestures and structures by imbuing them with explicit programmatic aims, thus contextualizing them within the Christian canon. Crashing chords, dissonant clusters, and the modernistic incorporation of forearm playing to elicit the extreme capacities of the organ emerge throughout, prompting one reviewer to argue that “this music will either drive people away from the Church, or put the ‘fear of God’ in them so they will always be present!”

nunc dimitis (arvo pÄrt)

Narratives surrounding the Old Testament, though seemingly archaic, nonetheless pervade the works of contemporary composers. Arvo Pärt’s Nunc Dimitis, for

example, sets the text of a canticle derived from the second chapter of the Gospel of Luke; although brief, it abounds in allusions to various scriptures in the Old Testament, thus bridging the apparently conflicting representations between the two Books of God, redemption, and spiritual servitude. The song emerges after Simeon, a devout Jew promised by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before seeing the Messiah, embraces the infant Jesus in the Temple of Jerusalem—overwhelmed by the presence of the divine, Simeon surrenders himself to the Lord, content in the symbol of man’s salvation.Pärt’s subtly varied textures, static harmonies, and resonant sonorities conjure an atmosphere of purity and unburdened departure from the mortal realm, underlaid by a minor modality that both references the historical tropes of Jewish suffering and forebodes Christ’s sacrifice for the promised salvation of mankind. Gently meandering melodic lines, suggestive of an ascension to heaven, are grounded by unmoving harmonic pedal tones, and slight dissonances suggests Simeon’s tenuous connection to Earth lingering in the Temple (i.e., the corporeal body of Jesus). Yet, prepared through a measured procession of gradually expanding phrases, Pärt climaxes on the phrase “Lumen ad revelationem gentium, et gloriam plebis tuae Israel” (“A light to the revelation of the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel”), emphasized by a drastic transition from C-sharp minor to C-sharp major. A sudden influx of dynamic level, marked dissonances, and a textural completeness together evoke a brilliant infiltration of light, perhaps representing Simeon’s passing into the realm of the Father. After a meditative pause, a series of overlapping phrases enunciate “Gloria Patri” (“Glory to the Father”), invoking the Russian Orthodox tradition with its atypically low basso profundo parts. Its textual passing between soprano and bass parts suggest communication between the divine (represented by God and, to a lesser extent, the martyr Simeon) and mortal (symbolized by Jesus, residing on Earth) realms, resolving in an extended “Amen” cadence. These final utterances, however, suggest irresolution in their lack of an explicit harmonic structure or “pure” tonic; rather, shimmering dissonances perpetuate imagery of light, mortal imperfection, and the quest for eternal salvation.

concerto in g minor (francesco durante)

Francesco Durante’s Concerto in G Minor, much like Corelli’s Concerto in D Major, follows sonata da chiesa form, yet evinces a highly marked theatricality, impassioned chromaticism, and rhythmic propulsion facilitated by intricate dialogue among the instruments. Particular about Durante’s musical idiom is his coalescing of various

concurrent trends within Italian music of the era, the cumulative effect of which is a dramatic balance between music and narrative, tradition and innovation, and restraint and expressivity.

Pioneered in the Baroque era was the Empfindsamer stil (“expressive style”), characterized by a predilection for sentimental contrasts with disruptive incursions, tonal instability, and sudden timbral shifts—in some regards, it was a secularized uplifting of human passion that rejected the stolidity of sacred expression. Much of this idiom was spawned from the upset inherent to seventeenth-century sentiment in the wake of plagal outbreaks, nearly constant war, and severe economic strife, challenging the learned to reevaluate clerical authority and, thus, God Himself. Durante’s musical output, however, resisted this upsurgence in humanism, seeking primarily to exalt the divine and only secondarily to explore the individual. Thus, the culture of the eighteenth century articulated an idiom that reconciled these apparently contradicting aims within composition, employing rhetorical persuasion as a means of affecting the listener. In tandem with this aesthetic shift was a departure from the fragmented motifs and strict contrapuntal patterns of the previous era, with greater emphasis instead on lyrical structure modeled after the rhetorical patterns of speech.

A divergence from the intense polyphony of the Renaissance likewise facilitated the rise of the polychoral style, in which multiple groupings of instruments and voices perform in conversation (and, occasionally, in opposition) with one another. Developed in response to the architectural and acoustical peculiarities of St. Mark’s Cathedral in Venice, it swiftly gained popularity across Europe and duly influenced Durante’s output, manifested in alternating or conflicting gestures among performers. Paradoxically, however, his music appears to transmit a markedly human, if not obscenely theatrical, understanding of the divine that is tainted with suffering and imperfection, distant from the balanced, lyrical, and optimistic idiom defining the previous generation.

“the cave” (from dido & aeneas): act two, scene one (henry purcell)

By the time Dido and Aeneas was premiered in 1689, the height of the great witch hysterias of Europe had subsided, though some, including the infamous events in colonial Salem, Massachusetts, were yet to come. In an era defined by its intense religious rivalries, fearful opposition to new sciences, and a lingering tendency toward paganism and superstition, Purcell’s witches were not exotic theatrical

devices—rather, they represented the thinly veiled terrors of a society emerging from unsystematic (and largely merciless) persecutions from the Church. So engrained were the latent anxieties of the populace that various treatises were authored and circulated, providing advice to those who sought out witches and sorceresses; similarly, religious bodies had assumed so great a commitment to eradicating unholy influences that torturers were instructed not to look in the eyes of accused witches during proceedings, lest they should feel compassion for their victims.

Thus, this scene embedded within Dido and Aeneas addressed—and perhaps somewhat dangerously so—the hysterias that had until recently subsumed the Continent, subverting them within a satirical dramatic framework. Occupying a central role in “The Cave” is Beldame, a (ironically) hideous sorceress who orchestrates the gathering of witches and bids evildoing. In traditional Eastern European folklore, the Beldame manifests as a paranormal being who, though initially tasked by God to guard Earth’s forests, grows resentful of human vice and instead turns to luring and consuming astray travelers; her morbid persona continued to occupy popular imagination through the seventeenth century and eighteenth centuries, however, crossing the Continent and emerging in John Keats’s 1819 poem “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” (“The Beautiful Woman Without Mercy”). Her historical transformation from a monstrous creature to a potent and seductive woman, in turn, reflects the villainization of the feminine within social and religious ideologies of the period. Specifically within Purcell’s setting, the Beldame urges the witches to “fright the lonely traveler by night” and “share in the fame of a mischief,” prompting them to retreat within their “deep-vaulted cell” and prepare a “charm […] too dreadful […] for this open air.”

While the music itself appears rather benign, particularly juxtaposed against the modernistic works of tonight’s program, it, too, is laden with symbolism. Its restrained and almost courtly atmosphere stands in satirical contrast to the unfolding sabbath, evoking the Trojan Prince and Queen of Carthage against whom the witches are plotting. Associations with civilized pleasure, therefore, are subtly transformed into a danse macabre among supernatural creatures. Furthermore, the markedly recitativo quality of the singers references the purity associated with liturgical singing and the believed inability of malignant figures to achieve similar divine communion, a concept first enunciated in Hildegard of Bingen’s Ordo Virtutum (c. 1151, a sacred drama in which only the Devil is unable to sing). At the conclusion of the scene, in which the witches announce that they will “conjure a storm” (likewise an allusion to pre-Christian magico-religious practices), Purcell indicates a closing of “thunder and lightning, horrid music,” amplified by a frenzied ad libitum performance from the orchestra.

beatrice dalov

directed by Canon Michael McCarthy and Daniel Lee

cathedra Established in 2010, Cathedra has already achieved high acclaim, garnering particular praise for its "beautiful, blended sound" (The Washington Post). Specializing in music of the Renaissance and Baroque while championing the modern-day composer, Cathedra is a highly skilled ensemble of professional singers and instrumentalists dedicated to bringing sublime expression to music across the ages.Under the artistic leadership of Michael McCarthy, the ensemble is resident at the Washington National Cathedral. Exploring new boundaries of both repertoire and presentation, Cathedra tailors its programming to offer authenticity and originality that is both unique and compelling.

choir

soprano Laura Choi StuartGenevieve McGaheyKatelyn AungstGrace Srinivasan

alto Janna Critz Charlotte Stewart Lucy McVeigh Hannah Baslee

tenor Derrick MillerOliver Mercer Andrew Brown Dennys Moura

bassGilbert SpencerMatt GoinzJoseph HubbardShreyas Patel

orchestra

violin 1 Daniel Lee (section leader and concertmaster)Seula Isabelle LeeCarmen Johnson-Pájaro

violin 2Nicholas DiEugenio (section leader)Francis LiuDongmyung Ahn

viola Maureen Murchie (section leader)Natalie Kress

celloAna Kim

bassNathaniel Chase

theorbo Joshua Stauffer

harpsichord Thomas Sheehan

ALL HALLOWS

EVEA concert for

acknowledgementThe harpsichord is on loan from the Music Division, Library of Congress.

sat-sun, dec. 4-5

Handel’s

MESSIAH

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