For many people, it is hard to find time for a book that has no connection to work (in my case, teaching, research, or writing). Similarly, in my life, it is hard to delve into pieces of music that fall outside the list of “obligatory” repertoire placed before me every year.

Let me explain what I mean by “obligatory,” because that word sounds awful. It isn’t, though. The work I do with musical ensembles causes me to study a list of preset (obligatory) pieces each season. Even if the works are familiar to me (compositions by Bach, Beethoven, Prokofiev, etc.), I still must re-enter their spirit: listen to them, read or play through their scores, and remind myself of their qualities. From that effort, I extract the points needed to present them to an audience.

My now 25-year tenure at The Dallas Winds causes me to swim in a pool of unfamiliar works every season. Wind ensembles (bands) claim the enviable position of performing primarily new works—compositions written in the last 10, 20, or 30 years. In fact, that is what makes concerts by professional, university, even high-school wind ensembles so delicious.

There are torrents of “living” composers busy producing fabulous pieces: lyrical, emotionally moving, innovative, thrilling works. In the orchestral realm, even the top composers struggle to find performance slots for these works; but if they are written or arranged for wind-ensemble, bands world-wide will line up for the chance to play them! 

Still, that means these titles are just as new to me as to the audience. Thus, I either am slicing and dicing works already established, or throwing myself into the blender with new works, luxuriating in their tastiness and froth.

Insofar of picking a piece simply to learn it for myself? It doesn’t happen often.

But last week it did! To my delight, I was asked to join a small chorus to sing Gabriel Faure’s Messe Basse (1881), a delicate short mass for three-part women’s voices for the feast of Candlemas at our church, St. Timothy’s Episcopal in Winston-Salem. My voice is what you would call a “serviceable alto.” Fortunately, that’s a useful voice-type for French choral music written in the late 19th century. So in I jumped, eager to learn what I rightly suspected would be a gem.

You may have seen Candlemas mentioned in literature, poetry, and historical accounts; yet Candlemas is still alive in churches that mark the Christian liturgical cycle with vigor (as does ours). Candlemas occurs on February 2 and marks the official end of the liturgical Christmas season. It is the day that people would take down the final Christmas decorations (maybe even the tree!), but certainly the holly and whatever else remains. A poem by Robert Herrick (1591-1674) entitled Ceremonies for Candlemas Eve renders that task into a glistening dance:

Down with the rosemary and bays,
Down with the mistletoe;
Instead of holly, now up-raise
The greener box, for show.

The holly hitherto did sway;
Let box now domineer,
Until the dancing Easter-day,
Or Easter’s eve appear.

Full poem here. More importantly, Candlemas marks that moment we’ve all seen in paintings and altarpieces when Mary and Joseph, clutching their 40-day old baby and their humble sacrifice of two doves, present the child to the High Priests. For lovers of music, this day witnessed the glorious words uttered by the aged prophet Simeon, rendering for us a text enshrined in countless musical settings:

Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; for mine eyes have seen thy salvation which thou hast prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to Gentiles, and glory to thy people Israel. – Luke 2:29-32 (Nunc dimittis)

And yes, actual candles are blessed at Candlemas, and usually there is a procession. Such a beautiful service was not part of my experience most of my life, particularly since I spent decades as organist for churches that did not express the Christian liturgical cycle at such depth.

But now I have Candlemas in my life, plus I get to sing this tender mass. The real work in this brief setting (c. 10 minutes) lies in the voice of the soprano soloist, but never ye mind. Singing in a choir is one of the finest experiences of life. It doesn’t matter if it’s a group of friends wailing away on a tour bus or an ensemble of robed singers, pencils in hand (just in case a problem during the 9 o’clock service needs to be notated for the 11 o’clock service).

Choral singing combines a group of motley voices and lifts them into a new sound with its own identity. True, some voices may not stand well on their own. But taken together? Ah, that’s where the magic happens. I’ll make this assertion without qualification (rare for me): few things bring the same feeling of wholeness, strength, and accomplishment as choral singing (this sentiment particularly honors you, dear friend Paula).

At any rate, I am putting this link in, in case you are curious about the piece. Like many works, it has to be heard live (or sung live) to render its full beauty.

But maybe this clip will open the world of Fauré and lead you to what is arguably his masterpiece: the Pie Jesu from his Requiem. Few moments of music are more ravishing.