Brahms’s Requiem is Advent music
Is there anything sadder than finding an abandoned blog on the internet where the most recent post, from years ago, begins with an apology for not posting more often? I will spare you this by not apologizing. I’m here with some half-baked Advent-related thoughts to share with you at the last possible second.
I’m not sure how much I believe this, but I think Brahms’s Requiem might be Advent music. I first had this thought because James 5:7, one of the readings for Advent III in Year A, appears in Movement 2 in a chorale-like interlude which must be one of the best moments in the entire piece. The RSV translation is as follows:
Be patient, therefore, brethren, until the coming of the Lord. Behold, the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient over it until it receives the early and the late rain.
As it turns out, though, most of the scriptural verses that Brahms picked out are eschatologically flavored and have something to do with the Advent themes of watching and waiting. Of course there are things to be said about the texts themselves, but I think the most compelling bit of music involved in this argument is the beginning of Movement 6. The movement ends in triumph (“O death, where is thy victory?”), but it begins with this: “For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city which is to come.” The orchestra starts by playing two spooky, ambiguous chords, after which the chorus wanders through some bizarre harmonic progressions, while the pizzicato low strings and eerie woodwind figures contribute to the overall sense of instability. It’s a musical representation of our present state of exile. In the city that does not last, we’re lost, unsettled, and lamenting; at the same time, we look forward to the city to come. That’s Advent.
Part of the experience of listening to Bach cantatas during Advent is boggling at how many different ways Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland can be incorporated into a piece of music. Right now I am fascinated by the soprano-alto duet in Schwingt freudig euch empor, BWV 36, where the two soloists each sing a version of the tune starting one after the other, and the lines interweave in various ways before converging at the end of each stanza. I don’t know what else to say except that it’s perfect.
Thanks for sticking around for my newsletter experiment! I’m planning to look back on 2019 (best concert? worst concert?), but that’ll have to be later. See you next time.