If you have found yourself singing a Monteverdi piece in your choir, perhaps you might want to unveil the mystery behind its original formats and not put your whole trust in a modern editor.
In my experience, reading from the original is not only better for the environment (fewer pages) and historically fun (you do feel a lot more connected to the music when you sing from the original notation), but it is actually a bit easier and less hectic than reading from modern scores.
The good news is that many of Monteverdi’s pieces are available online at the International Music Score Library Project in their original formats. When you go to his composer page, look under the Collections tab for them.
These parts can look a bit foreign at first if you’re used to seeing round notes vertically aligned with all the others parts in a modern score. These parts typically have no bar lines, use strangely shaped notes and rests, are somewhat crudely printed, and use odd time signatures. In the immortal words of the early music musicologist Jan Herlinger, “Everything was strange and difficult to read before you learned how to read it!”
This season, BREVE is doing a concert of Monteverdi’s music, including both sacred and secular music. Since we are doing Monteverdi, the music is rather available online, particularly in the original part book formats. I was originally reading straight from the old part books, but getting tired of the crude printing, I opted to draw out all of the music in Illustrator.
The entire hour of music for me is only eight pages, or four sheets of paper. I used the original large block initials for each part and had Illustrator auto-trace them into cleaner vector images. I also replicated as exactly as possible all of the spelling conventions and abbreviations, including ampersands, m/n tildes, and long s’s. All of them are copied exactly from part books except for Cantate Domino, which I could not find anywhere online, so I just converted it from a modern edition.
This is the first time I have typeset an entire concert folder into this system of notation. To me, it is not only much more elegant, but also more enjoyable. I feel a kind of intimacy with the music that I didn’t have when reading it from a score or from round notes. Having no bar lines also helps a lot with text stress, like in the “Confregit” section of the Dixit Dominus. Reading it with the added bar lines in a modern edition will tempt singers to sing “CON-fre-GIT re-GES” instead of “con-FRE-git RE-ges.” This book is satisfying to sing through.
The LSU Choirs were recently toying with the idea to perform the Mozart/Süßmayr Requiem in modern German Latin. By Modern, I mean the pronunciation as currently practiced by German choirs, which differs slightly from the Latin Mozart would have heard (for instance, Mozart would have heard [ˈʦɛli] rather than [ˈʦœli] and [ˈkʰiɾiɛ] instead of [ˈkʰyɾiɛ], as the moves to those vowels happened around 1850).
To aid in this effort, one of the choral conducting graduate students asked me if I would be willing to provide an IPA transcription of the words of the choir into German Latin. They are in this PDF and reproduced below. There is also here a recording of myself reading the text. I have not included the solo and quartet movements. Continue reading Mozart’s Requiem in German Latin
When singing in a choir, one eventually sees a piece where a sung note lasts an eighth note longer than the measure containing the beginning of the note. When I began to sing music from the English sacred tradition, I saw these notes frequently. I was told by multiple conductors that it was a British practice to simply treat the eighth note as the release itself, or more literally to cut off at the beginning of the eighth note, pretending it is not there at all. Thus I began to mark through all the tied eighth notes in any score from which I sang, as it was common enough a practice to cut early that it was a safe bet. I never really questioned this practice until last year, when I sang with Stephen Cleobury here at LSU during a week-long residency with our choir. There he was, a man representing the finest in British choral practice, asking us to carry those tied quavers over until the end of the note, exactly as printed, in Howells’s “Like as the hart desireth the water brooks.” This led me to actually investigating the practice and doubting the authenticity of the assertion that it is a common practice to cut off early when one sees a tied eighth note after a bar line. Continue reading Tied Eighth Notes in Choral Music
The following text appears in the Fayrfax manuscript (c. 1490) with roughly this spelling (I converted long s’s to short s’s, added punctuation, and lengthened the abbreviations, but kept the yoghs for fun):
Jhesu, mercy, how may this be,
That god hymselfe for sole mankynd
Wolde take on hym humanite?
My witt nor reson may hit well fynd:
Jhesu, mercy, how may this be?
Crist that was of Infynyt myȝt,
Egall to the fathir In deite,
In mortall, In passible, the wordlis lyȝt,
and wolde so take mortalite!
Jhesu, mercy, how may this be?
He that wrought this worlde of nought,
that made both paynys & Joy also,
and suffer wolde payne as sorowfull thought
with wepyng, waylyng, ye sownyng for woo.
Jhesu, mercy, how may this be?
A, Jhesu! whi suffyrd thou such entretyng,
as betyng, bobbyng, ye, spettyng on thy face?
drawne like a theff, & for payne swetyng
both water and blode, crucified, an hevy case?
Jhesu, mercy, how may this be?
Lo, man, for the, that ware onkynd,
gladly suffyrd I all this.
And why, good lord? express thy mynd!
the to purchace both Joy & bliss.
Jhesu, mercy, how may this be?
The English early modern composer John Browne (fl. ca. 1490) used this moving text in a four-part polyphonic setting, which BREVE is learning at the moment. The following is how I would pronounce it, according to Tim McGee’s Singing Early Music. Listen to the recording below and follow along with the text above or the IPA transcription below.
The extraordinarily obscure Dutch composer Cornelis Boscoop wrote some lovely music that I haven’t heard sung or recorded. In a search for some nice old Dutch language choral music, I ran into this figure on IMSLP, which has surprisingly made available both a set of part books and a nineteenth-century score transcription of his fifty psalms (1562). I couldn’t find a recording of this anywhere, so I entered the first song into Finale to hear it. It is a setting of Psalm 68 (modernly Psalm 69 it seems), called in an older Dutch, “O God wilt myn salveren.” Here is the Finale playback file from that. Feel free to follow along in this score.
The music is actually quite lovely to have been so strongly forgotten. Boscoop was a predecessor to Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck at his church, the Oudekerk in Amsterdam.
The words are thus:
O God wilt myn salveren,
het water compt my aen,
het liden wil my deren,
heel laten te gronde gaen.
Seer diep bin ick gesoncken,
verdruckt van een tempeest,
ick riep, myn worden cloncken,
als ick was seer bevreest.
The word “Jesu” frequently appears in sacred English texts as a poetic form of the name of Christ. It comes from the vocative declension of the name Iēsus in Latin, which was taken early into the Middle English language around 1150. While it is true that originally, the name began with a [j] or y sound, around the time it entered our language, it was already being pronounced with a [ʤ] sound, or at least a [ʒ]. In English, the name has two main pronunciations: [ˈʤiːzju] (GEE-zyoo) and [ˈʤiːzu] (GEE-zoo).
Sometime in the twentieth century, singers and choir directors in the United States started to insist on a different pronunciation, [ˈjeɪzu] (as in “Yay! Zoo!”) and [ˈjɛsu] (as in “Yes, Sue!”), either opting for a z or s sound on the middle consonant and opting for a y sound at the start of the word. This came likely from a desire to conform to the 1903 motu proprio from the Roman Catholic Church to pronounce Latin as if it is Italian, assuming that “Jesu” was a distinctly Latin word, and pronouncing it accordingly.
What we are left with then is that most singers and choirs in the United States pronounce the word with a y sound, while most singers and choirs in the United Kingdom pronounce it with a gee sound. The UK retains many of her memories of what is sometimes called “Old-Style Latin,” where Latin words used in English sentences are pronounced like English words. Continue reading Pronouncing “Jesu”
How does one pronounce the text in Alberto Ginastera’s “O vos omnes,” from his Lamentaciones de Jeremias Propheta of 1947? Ginastera, the Argentine composer best known for his piano and orchestral works, wrote three choral settings from selected passages from Lamentations, the first one being “O vos omnes.”
I was handed this piece not long ago in a choir in which I sing for recreation. Choirs in this country naturally are trained to sing all Latin pieces in Anglo-Roman Latin, complete with its dark vowels and its accentuation. This becomes problematic for this piece not only for historical accuracy, but for musical logic. This first movement goes against natural Italian accentuation and appears to favor the stress-less Spanish language prosody. Spanish, like old Latin, Japanese, and French, does not have syllable stress quite like English, German, and Italian do, but create a sense of word stress by lengthening the vowel only. When set to music, syllable-stress languages like Spanish rely entirely on the notes themselves for any sense of word stress. In this piece, Ginastera occasionally subverts the Anglo-Roman stress (such as Idcirco in measure 68 or aquas: quia longe in mm. 75–76, which puts the text stress on quas and -ge).
Which Latin would work best for this piece? I would say Roman Latin (since the Roman Catholic Church was advocating for it strongly in that decade), but without the Italian word stresses and with brighter vowels and a few more Spanish-language phonetic tendencies.
C should be unaspirated, unlike in English or German (or Anglo-Roman Latin).
E should be brighter, almost to [e] as a general rule.
O should be more back than Roman Latin [ɔ], closer to [o].
T should be dental with no aspiration at all.
V between vowels is quite acceptably [β], such as in “O vos.”
No volume-based word stress should be used. Just pronounce each syllable equally.
Those with Spotify have the advantage of hearing an Argentine ensemble (Coro Alberto Ginastera del Conservatorio de Música de Morón) singing this piece, generally following those rules here listed. I must say it works quite well without the twang of Anglo-Roman Latin.
There seems to have been a movement around the mid-twentieth century in choral writing to focus the attention of the choir onto what everyone sounds like at that moment, neglecting what each line sounds like by itself over the course of time. As a result, some bass parts do not carry one line of intelligible text. For example, in his setting of Teasdale’s “Stars,” Ēriks Ešenvalds (“one of the most sought-after choral composers working today,” according to his web site’s biography) gives the basses only a few phrases of text and a few other vocables. I give you below the entirety of the text as sung by the basses, with a recording of myself reading the text for extra edification.
In the night on a dark hill,
Mm spicy and still, and still,
Mm Ah Mm Ah Oh
white and topaz and misty red;
Oh Mm Mm Ah Mm Ah
Mm Ah Oh Ah
The dome of heaven great hill
and myriads with hearts of fire,
heaven full of stars, heaven full of stars,
Ah Ah Oh Mm Oh Mm Oh Mm
Oh Mm Oh Mm Oh Mm Oh.
Somewhat related to the previous post, this one deals with as good of an attempt on pronouncing the Latin of Robert White’s “Lamentations” as possible. Since this piece was written in the late sixteenth century in England, its Latin should be colored a bit like Shakespeare’s pronunciation, but a little tamer (fewer distinctly English diphthongs than period English would use perhaps). Based on the Harold Copeman’s explanation of this era’s Latins in his 1990 book Singing in Latin, I made an IPA transcription of how the text of “Lamentations” would probably have originally been sung. It is reproduced below with a recording of myself speaking it (as best as I can).
pro cibo ad refocillandam animam. Vide,
[prɔ ˈsibɔ að rɛfosɪˈlændam ˈænɪmam ˈvidɛ]
Domine, et considera quoniam facta sum vilis!
[ˈdɔmɪnɛ ɛtʰ kʰɔnˈsidɛɾa ˈkʰonɪam ˈfækta sʊm ˈvilɪs]
LAMED. O vos omnes qui transitis per
[ˈlæmɛð o vɔz ˈɔmnɛs kwi tranˈsitɪs pɛɾ]
viam, attendite, et videte si est dolor sicut
[ˈviam aˈtʰɛndɪtʰɛ ɛtʰ vɪˈdetʰɛ si ɛst ˈdolɔɾ ˈsɪkʰʊtʰ]
dolor meus! quoniam vindemiavit me, ut
[ˈdolɔɾ ˈmeʊs ˈkʰoniam vɪndɛmɪˈævɪtʰ me ʊtʰ
locutus est Dominus, in die iræ furoris sui.
[lɔˈkjutʰʊs ɛst ˈdɔmɪnʊs ɪn ˈdiɛ ˈiɾɛ fʊˈɾɔɾɪs ˈsjuɪ]
MEM. De excelso misit ignem in ossibus
[mɛm de ɛkˈselso ˈmɪzɪtʰ ˈɪŋnɛm ɪn ˈɔsɪbʊs]
meis et erudivit me: expandit rete pedibus
[ˈmeɪs ɛtʰ ɛɾʊˈdivɪtʰ me ɛksˈpændɪtʰ retʰɛ ˈpʰedɪbʊs]
meis: convertit me retrorsum: posuit me
[meɪs kʰɔnˈvɛɾtʰɪtʰ me ɾɛˈtɾɔɾsʊm ˈpʰozjuɪtʰ me]
desolatam tota die maerore confectam.
[dɛzɔˈlætʰam ˈtʰotʰa ˈdiɛ mɛˈɾɔɾɛ kʰɔnˈfɛktam]
Hierusalem, convertere ad Dominum Deum tuum.
[ʤɛˈrjuzalɛm kʰɔnˈvɛɾtʰɛɾɛ að ˈdɔmɪnʊm ˈdeʊm ˈtjuʊm]
The title of the piece, by the way, would have probably been pronounced [læmɛnˈtʰæsɪənz]. My transcription is not authoritative, but from what evidence I can find, it is as close to the original pronunciation as I can envision.