In January 1769, two weeks before his thirteenth birthday, Mozart completed the Missa brevis in
D minor, K. 65. It was a contribution to the repertoire of sacred music in Salzburg, where
Mozart’s father Leopold was employed as a musician at the Archbishop’s court. Instead,
Leopold had been spending most of his time promoting young Wolfgang’s career all over
Europe. In particular, they were just back from a long stay in Vienna where Leopold had hoped
to get an opera by Wolfgang onto the stage. K. 65 may have been part of an effort by the
Mozarts to smooth things over with the Archbishop.
Tradition holds that K. 65 was first performed in February 1769 to open a forty-hour Lenten vigil
at the university church in Salzburg. However, all we really know is that a mass by Mozart was
heard that day, and it was described as a “missa solennis,” which sounds like a longer work
than the succinct Missa brevis he had just finished. (Mozart had written a MIssa solemnis the
previous summer, the so-called “Orphanage Mass.”) If K. 65 was meant to be performed during
Lent, one must also wonder why it includes a Gloria, which would have to be omitted at that
time of year.
To complicate the picture, one musicologist thinks K. 65 was composed for a funeral service or
something similar, because it is the only mass Mozart wrote with every movement in a minor
key. This certainly gives the piece a striking character, but it is tricky to assume the minor key
means a sad occasion was involved. The linkage between the minor mode and negative
emotions is particularly slippery in older music and church music. (Mozart would write his
“Great” C-minor mass as an expression of thanks to God for his marriage.) Even today
listeners’ reactions to the D-minor mass are diverse: one hears “beautiful sadness and
aggression,” another, “profound repose.” There are no wrong answers here.
(In general, Mozart seemed to gravitate toward the major keys. Only two of his 41 symphonies
are in minor, two of 27 piano concertos, two of 17 piano sonatas. Some commentators feel the
works in minor mode make up in interest what they lack in numbers. Pianist Alfred Brendel
wrote, “I know of no other composer fundamentally transformed while writing in minor keys.”)
Besides its minor tonality, K. 65 is exceptional for its brevity, being Mozart’s shortest mass
setting. Salzburg Cathedral had strict limits on the time allowed for a Mass, which Mozart would
question later, but at this point he may have wanted to show what he could accomplish within
those constraints. On the other hand, in this work, the strings are noticeably independent from
the voices, a practice Mozart did not learn from Salzburg church music but may have picked up
during his travels.
The Kyrie is straightforward and dramatic. There is a short slow introduction, then an Allegro in
miniature ternary form: the main theme is stated in eight bars, a contrasting section (“Christe
eleison”) is 13 bars long, then the first theme returns for 13 bars.
The Gloria and Credo are highly compressed, fitting their 246 words of text into 185 bars of
music. This is partly accomplished by “telescoping” the text of the Credo, with different voices
singing different words at the same time. Following local tradition, Mozart wrote fugues for
“Cum sancto Spiritu” at the end of the Gloria and “Et vitam venturi” at the end of the Credo, but
they are as short as fugues can be, ending as soon as each voice part has stated the subject
once. In the Credo, as was also traditional, the tempo slows to adagio for the words “Et
incarnatus est,” then returns to allegro moderato for “Et resurrexit.”
The Sanctus is dispatched in a brisk 20 bars. The Benedictus is even shorter, though Mozart
took trouble over it, drafting it two or three times before he arrived at the final version. The
closing “Dona nobis pacem” combines the prevailing stern tonality with double counterpoint and
a sprightly rhythm.
In France in 1734, the ruling form of concert music was the grand motet, which has been
described as “a kind of tiny opera with Latin words, a secular content served up in a religious
container.” (In scale and structure it resembles the cantata.) Starting around 1700, MichelRichard Delalande had laid down the pattern for the grand motet with works written for the
Royal Chapel at Versailles. They were designed to please Louis XIV, whose taste in music ran
to the grand and pompous. As time went on, Delalande’s motets also formed the mainstay of
the repertoire at the Concert Spirituel of Paris, second only to the Opera as a center of French
musical life. The grand motet held the stage well into the reign of Louis XV.
Jean-Joseph de Mondonville was a violinist and composer from the south of France. As a young
man, he traveled throughout France in search of opportunities, and came to rest in Lille, the
capital of French Flanders, where he played first violin in the local orchestra. For performance
in Lille, he wrote three enthusiastically received grands motets, the first of twelve that would
eventually eclipse the works of Delalande. He started in 1734 with Dominus regnavit, his setting
of verses from Psalm 92 (numbered 93 in some traditions). It displays a penchant for color and
drama that was new to the genre. In particular, being a virtuoso himself, Mondonville wrote
violin parts that are more challenging and more interesting than his predecessors’.
The words of the psalm celebrate the kingship of God, using the attributes of human kings such
as royal robes and thrones to do so. Like Mozart 35 years later, Mondonville took a text that
might equally well be thought to call for a major key, and set it in D minor instead.
In keeping with the grand motet tradition, the piece begins with an instrumental introduction and
continues with a chorus using the same musical materials, marked to be performed
“majestically.” Less traditional is the polyphonic texture of the vocal writing, with voice parts
moving independently, one stating a melody followed by another restating it at a different level
and so forth, which is one way of giving the music a meaningful shape. After the sopranos,
altos, baritones, tenors, and basses have each had a chance with the main theme, it pops up
again in B-flat major, but the change in mood does not last long. The chorus moves to block
chords, and then to unison, on the way to a solemn close.
Still in D minor, a “slow and measured” trio of alto, tenor, and bass completes the first verse of
the psalm. (It’s interesting to note that alto parts in this genre were probably written for male
voices, of a special type called haute-contre. Like countertenors, they could sing above the
usual male range, but with a different quality because they made less use of falsetto vocal
production to get there.)
In the closely related key of A minor, we come to the work’s main claim to fame: a thrilling storm
scene that illustrates the verse about the “floods lifting up their waves.” The menacing
atmosphere of a storm at sea is conveyed with rapidly swirling scales and arpeggios in 6/8 time.
This movement derives from a tradition of “tempeste” music in French opera. It also shares
something with the famous summer and winter storms in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons concertos of
1725, which Mondonville may or may not have heard. The movement ends with a contrasting
section in a slow 4/4, though the tempest motif briefly raises its head once more.
For closure and finality, the key of D minor returns in the substantial “Gloria patri” that ends the
work. It is ushered in by a slow-moving introduction in block chords. The body of the movement
sets the words “Sicut erat” with a distinctive descending arpeggio that passes from one voice
part to another in polyphonic style.
Besides composing grands motets, Mondonville later wrote operas and played a role in the socalled War of the Bouffons. This was a rivalry between French and Italian opera that divided the
court, with the French faction rallying around the king and the pro-Italians around the queen.
Mondonville’s opera Titon et l’Aurore (1753) struck a notable blow for the French side, but did
not win the war.
In person, Mondonville was tall and thin. Reports of his character tend to indicate that he was
miserly and opportunistic. On the other hand, in his portrait by Maurice Quentin de La Tour, he
is holding up his violin and looks like someone who has discovered the secret of happiness.
“Heaven forbid you stand in the way of a determined Quaker!” This was Gwyneth Walker’s
advice to a recent concert audience as she recalled the obstacles she overcame to become a
professional composer, including family pressures and prejudice against women in the field.
“But I loved to write music,” she said, and so she persisted. A passionate love for music is the
subject matter of her song cycle Sing Evermore!, composed in 2015.
Walker earned a doctorate in music and went on to teach at Oberlin, but felt the need to
concentrate on her own music, so she moved to a diary farm in Vermont and composed full
time. (She now lives in New Canaan, her childhood hometown.) She has published hundreds of
compositions, including chamber music, concertos, orchestral suites, piano and organ music,
and art songs as well as choral music. Walker works in the same accessible tradition as
Copland and Bernstein, though not under their influence. She has compared her aesthetic to
that of the poet e. e. cummings: “He uses familiar language, presented in new ways.”
In her notes on this work for chorus with flute and string quartet, Walker writes, “The flute
represents the bird (imagery in many of the songs), the soul in flight, the voice of freedom.”
Following are excerpts from Walker’s comments on each song that makes up the piece:
“Emerson was captivated with Welsh Bardic poetry, thus ‘Merlin’s Song’ has archaic references (the bow,
the warrior, Merlin himself). Music is mystery, it restores good health, it brings eternal youth … if one
travels lightly (to live well with those who have few possessions). Live in the sunshine, swim the sea …”
(The song begins with a passage for five soloists, notated like Anglican chant to be sung in free
tempo, and marked “Gently, to express the magic of music.” The full choir then sings, at a
tempo described as “Jaunty … suitable for a ‘musical fable,’” then later, “Celebratory, as a
dance.” Finally, the soloists return, now six in number, to sing piano and “with the magic of
music.”)
“‘The Lost Chord’ gives occasion to explore complex harmonies as an expression of the mystery of
chords. These are added-tone sonorities -- clusters. The author searches for that perfect peace, the one lost
chord divine, which, perhaps may only be heard in Heaven. It is a grand Amen.”
(There is a famous setting of this text composed in 1877 by Arthur Sullivan, later of Gilbert and
Sullivan fame. In contrast to that well-crafted drawing-room ballad, Walker’s version suggests a
transcendent experience by closing with an unresolved dissonance.)
“Sara Teasdale’s poem ‘Refuge’ is a testament to the strength of human spirit. For despite adversity, one
can still sing, and in the singing find a refuge, a house of shining words. [The shining image led to a
shimmering accompaniment.] And when I sing, I am free.”
(This idea came to mind when Italians, isolated on account of coronavirus, gained a moment’s
freedom by singing together in harmony through their open windows. Walker’s “Refuge” was
commissioned by Gateway Men’s Chorus, the first gay men’s chorus in St. Louis, to observe
their 30th anniversary.)
“‘The Caged Bird Sings’ is based on a poem by African American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar (18721906).” (The poem supplied the title for Maya Angelou’s well-known memoir I Know Why the
Caged Bird Sings.) “The bird, a prisoner in his cage, beats his wing till the blood is red on the cruel
bars. He sings a plea, to Heaven, for he would be free.”
(Walker sets the first two stanzas in C major. The second stanza speaks of the bird wounding
itself in the vain effort to escape, but Walker reserves the shift to a minor key and the marking
“Sadly” for the third verse, which explains that the bird’s song is a desperate prayer. At the end,
there is wordless singing marked “As bird calls rising,” then “As wings,” and finally a phrase for
the flute marked “The bird flies away.”)
“The message of ‘The Gift to Sing’ is that, even in the darkest of times, music can lift the soul. I have a
magic way to turn the gloom to brightest day -- I softly sing. One can sing softly, one can sing forcefully
(with determination) and one must always sing with passion!”
(The words are by James Weldon Johnson, author and activist, whose works include the lyrics
of “Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing,” also known as the Black National Anthem. The music is for female
voices and strings alone, in D minor but “celebratory” and yielding at last to D major.)
“A short flute introduction of music floating across the sky opens ‘Sky-Born Music.’ The poet (Emerson)
writes that music is heard not only in places of beauty, but also in the mud, the dark, in the daily flow of
things. For there, always, something sings.”
(The poem is in keeping with Emerson’s thoughts about transcendental unity -- “the universal
beauty, to which every part and particle is equally related, the eternal ONE.”)
“The concluding song, ‘Everyone Sang,’ is supremely uplifting. No other song could follow in this set.
The image of the bird (the spirit in flight, freedom) reappears. Perhaps this bird, which is free and wings
wildly across the white orchards, is the liberation of the caged bird from the Dunbar poem. Much of the
accompaniment for this song is upward arpeggios, as celebration, as the soul rising. For this poem was
written at the close of World War I. Lines like My heart was shaken with tears, and horror drifted away
can only begin to capture the spirit of the times.” (Indeed, Sassoon had served with distinction on
the Western Front and had written a body of poems that responded to the horrors of the war.)
“The majestic bird imagery in this poem brought to mind ‘The Windhover’ of Gerard Manley Hopkins
(published in 1918). And thus the familiar My heart in hiding stirred for this bird is woven into this
vision of ecstasy.” (Hopkins wrote “The Windhover” in 1877, an extravagant declaration of love
for nature, dedicated “To Christ our Lord.” Its publication was posthumous.) “Then, returning to
the Sassoon text, the song closes with O but everyone was a bird, the song was wordless, the singing will
never be done!”