Handel and Haydn Society 2024 Review: Mozart & Michael Haydn’s ‘Requiem’

By João Marcos Copertino
(Photo credit: Robert Torres)

Sometimes we ought to live and let die twice in a night—or, perhaps, let die and then live twice? The Handel and Haydn Society’s (H+H) program is, in many ways, logical: Michael Haydn’s “Requiem” and then Mozart’s. There is much kinship between the pieces; however, even for the most skeptical of critics, it is hard to deny that Mozart’s incomplete “Requiem” is a superior piece. The success of the night, however, lay precisely in a distinguished and carnal reading of Mozart’s mass and a very generous approach to Haydn’s.

I do not particularly enjoy sophisms regarding a composer’s genius—especially now that the MacArthur Foundation debased the term for good—, but there is something undeniable in a Mozart composition that cannot be found in one by Joseph Haydn’s brother—even in the hands of the best musicians. His “Requiem,” though compelling, feels slightly formulaic—as if you know what is coming ahead. I am certainly less familiar with Michael Haydn’s score than Mozart’s, but still a little voice in my head kept telling me what would happen in bars before they started (here comes the soprano and mezzo duo, and now the trumpets, and now the tenor solo…). In contrast, no matter how many times I have heard and sung Mozart’s “Requiem,” there is always amazement and rediscovery for me with a good—or even an okay—performance of it.

Musical Highlights

Complaints apart, there were many things to appreciate in Haydn’s “Requiem Mass”—especially when performed by the H+H chorus and orchestra. The Bostonian group has the good practice of having a piercing sound while still ensuring that the voice remains the protagonist of the show. While I understand why most other historically informed groups strive for more delicate and smooth sounds, I appreciate the strength of H+H in their musical rebelliousness, going against the grain of the newly formed musical consensus.

Among the things that I most enjoyed in this performance of Haydn’s “Requiem,” most striking perhaps was the relationship it conveyed between the long, languishing musical phrases and the symphonic turbulence they often covered, like a spectral bleached bedsheet—misguiding our eyes and ears to obscure what would otherwise be an intentional chaos. In striving to cope with the fact of death itself—what would seem to be a “Requiem’s” main function—, I came to picture this “Requiem” as a sailing ship, making its way into the torment of the sea. Aside from some brief moments of tender relief—especially when the music sounded a bit less predicable than usual—, Jonathan Cohen’s reading of the piece seemed to be rather pictorial than filmic. It was not until the very end that it felt as if we had moved from point A to point B in terms of the emotional stance of the music. Still, what an “Introit” and “Kyrie”! Really it was a moment to remember.

Cohen’s reading of Mozart’s “Requiem Mass” was extremely impressive—and infinitely more interesting. The sound felt like a sorrowful raging beast that was progressively tamed. Once or twice I praised in my reviews the beauty of a pearled and meek Mozart, but here I learned to enjoy the master of Salzburg’s danger and sharpness—something that I did not know to expect but that afterward came to seem as necessary as water. Indeed, Mozart profits a lot from sounding drastic. The beastly sound was not, by any means, unintentional.

Cohen navigated his way in the use and usufruct of many possible dissonances within Mozart’s score—the performance, until the completion by Robert Levin began, felt feral, unsafe, and highly emotional. Few things could be more threatening than the first “Kyrie”—the loudness was there, but not in the retrograde sound of those 1960s recordings, but as a chorus that could be either in church or pledging clemency in purgatory. The clarinet was almost insecure—as if everything was on the verge of exploding in emotion while remaining nevertheless contained. Progressively, the chorus and the orchestra seemed to find their own way. The returning melodies sounded now glorious and powerful—yet never delicate, always imposing and magnificent. It was as if, at first, the self, merely grieving, comes at last, to a discovery of its own beauty in tears (“look at how beautifully I can cry”). The harshness and strength of the orchestra shifted from almost dissonant chords to an extremely well-calibrated (though still vigorous and voluminous) sonority that looked after its own beauty. It was a portrait of two moments of an artist—Mozart himself in his most emotional side, and the tamed and perfectionist Mozart recomposed by Levin. Maybe it was all a commentary suggesting that the genius of Mozart that we know is in fact but a construction. The fact is: this “Requiem”, either because of its dual composition or because of its performance history, feels like a narrative: from the grieving that overflows like a waterfall in the rainy season to a controlled storm, narcissistically proud of its own thunder. Psychoanalysts might have something to say about Mozart and his “Requiem”: I can only say that I was glad and thankful for the fear and trembling it led me to feel.

Illuminating Singers

Besides my more than laudatory terms for Cohen’s reading, I must also congratulate Beth Taylor for her excellent job singing the mezzo part. Few times have I heard such an alto-like voice with such an impressive core. Her voice is low, but also fresh-sounding, capable of some pianos in the “Recordare” that seemed quintessential to her instrument—smooth inner whisper immersed in malbec colors. Although Taylor’s career has led her to a myriad of other roles (from Monteverdi to Wagner), I think she displays much more refinement and elegance in her phrasing in Mozart.

Lucy Crowe was a very nice addition to the cast. Her voice, a bit strident in the attack of notes, is capable of some beautiful phrases, especially in the angelical notes of the Introit. I was also rather impressed by how beautifully she sang her duos with Taylor. They have very different voices but, still, the duos worked precisely because of the contrast between their voices.

Tenor Duke Kim has a charming instrument but struggled a bit with volume. It is interesting because his voice had all those tenor inflections and articulations, including a well-marked vocal passage. But it felt like, given his vocal projection, he should have opted for a more seamless vocal fabric—at least for Mozart.

More Singer & Orchestra Highlights

Bass-Barytone Brandon Cedel is certainly a rising star in the operatic field. However, I truly wished he had sung more defined vowels. I get that some singers (especially sopranos) have built beautiful careers singing just one or two vowels. The great Joan Sutherland sang only one, and we all love her for it. Nonetheless, I fear Cedel should not congregate in that church. The thing is, when a vocalist gives up being finicky about some phonetic sounds (usually in the name of vocal phrasing and technique), they offer in compensation as a high sense of interpretation and meaningfulness behind the text—a compelling subtext. That did not happen. Cedel’s voice seemed to become unfocused, and even the consonant sounds seemed too meek to be understood.

The H+H orchestra and chorus had great moments, especially in a magnificent “Sanctus” (in Mozart) and a placidly frail sonority in the string sounds of the “Lacrymosa” and “Recordare”. The frailty did not feel like a mistake, especially given the refinement in the pianos of the “Agnus Dei”, but rather to be part of a certain musical journey about the process of grief.

The chorus opted for a very Catholic pronunciation of the Latin text—making the night much more dramatic. The most emblematic example: instead of the Germanic closed “ee” sounds that make some recordings so charming (“per-pee-tua”), we heard a Tartarus chorus singing “per-peh-tua” with an open vowel. It conveyed a sense of desperation and agony in a way that I would not have expected.

Hegel said history repeats twice—first as a tragedy, and then as a farce. Last night, I learned that all Requiems repeat twice: first an essay, and then a masterpiece. In some ways, it even stressed what mourning can be: a recognition and discovery that we are alive.

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