The forty-part motet
Author: Blogger in Residence, Rory Johnston
Thomas Tallis is definitely one of the most well-known English composers of choral music. He lived during a very interesting time in the history of the British Isles, with no fewer than seven different rulers holding the throne during his life (if you count Lady Jane Gray and the joint rule of Mary and Philip), working for almost all of them as part of the Chapel Royal.
Not only was the monarch a constant figure of change during the 16th century, but because of Henry VIII’s penchant for cutting off his spouses, both literally and figuratively, the countries religious institutions were also in a state of flux. Shifting between more Catholic or more Protestant values depending on the ruler, the Church went through a lot of liturgical and structural change, which effected the music performed by the choirs of the cathedrals and churches throughout the land. *These changes were many and various, with lots of nuance in terms of timing and specifics of who, where, what and why… there is not enough time for me to explain it all, nor do I think it necessary to, but if you are interested in this period and in Tallis in particular, there is a brilliant book by John Harley called ‘Thomas Tallis’ that goes into lots of biographical detail and also attempts to place the extant pieces of Tallis that we have vaguely in chronological period order.
The main change noticeable with a quick glance was that of the language spoken both by the priests and also sung by the musicians, this meant that all liturgy was performed in English allowing the congregation, most of whom wouldn’t have spoken Latin, to understand what was going on. This would lead to a complete rewrite from the ground up of all the music used by the church, and much of this was led by Tallis, who was involved in writing Psalm tunes, choral-responses, solo-responses and anthems. By the time Elizabeth I was on the throne near the end of Tallis’s life, the requirement for all sung music to be in Latin was somewhat more relaxed.
It’s important to note that not all sacred choral music from this time would have been written explicitly for use in the liturgical setting of the church, some were written for private home chapels and some for amateur singers in aristocratic households – it’s likely that If ye love me, arguably Tallis’s most widely known and performed piece was written for this latter case. Spem in Alium you could argue also falls into this category
The inspiration for this motet (what an understatement of a word for such an epic piece – perhaps grand-motet would suit better?) is said to have come from the introduction to the men of the Chapel Royal to a 40-voice mass setting by the Mantuan composer Alessandro Stiggio titled Missa sopra Ecco sì beato giorno during the composer’s visit to England. During his visit he met Elizabeth I which is likely when the performance of this massive mass took place. In an account of this event it’s then said that the Duke of _________________ asked ‘whether none of our Englishmen could sett as good a songe, and Tallice beinge very skilfull was felt to try whether he could undertake ye Matter’, and undertake the matter he could, creating one of the most astonishing pieces of English polyphony ever written. The first performance is said to have taken place in the long gallery at Arundel House in London which probably looked similar to this long gallery at Hatford House in Hertfordshire.
As you may have seen, ORA are putting on a symposium and concert at Oxford University as part of the Oxford Festival of Arts to celebrate the 450th anniversary of this glorious masterwork. Now from a composers point of view, how on EARTH do you write a piece that has forty individual voice parts and make it work?
The main thing you first must take into consideration is when is each part going to sing. Having everyone sing for the whole duration of the piece would not only be exhausting for the singers, who each have to hold an individual line, but also for the listener who has to try and comprehend what is going on with forty different parts being blasted at them at once. Tallis is very aware of this, and in a manner almost pre-emptive of the polychoral music that would blossom in Venice later in the century he breaks up the ensemble into eight groups of five singers, allowing for him to move the sound from one group to another, which he does with brilliance. If the parts are lined up in a circle, 1 to 40, the music at many parts throughout the grand-motet rotates around as it is passed almost through each choir, one singer to the next.
This sweeping, or panning, gesture is then juxtaposed by either individual choirs, or pairs of choirs (forming a quarter of the ensemble) singing together in almost-homophony (I say almost, as often the parts start together and then diverge from each other as the phrase progresses). He also plays nicely with antiphonal choirs echoing phrases of ‘Domine Deus’ and ‘Creator caeli et terrae’ making them bounce across and around the imagined circle. There are also the few moments where he allows the whole choir to erupt at once, the most impactful being the first utterance of ‘Respice’ or ‘look at/regard’ near the end of the piece. The choir has been built up in rhythmic intensity with antiphonal shouts passing between four of the choirs finally resting in C major, when sudden we shift to a unanimous homophonic tutti in A major, transporting us to somewhere entirely different, as if the heavens had just opened. But even as it’s begun it ends, with us returning to C major inflections.
Tallis allows a sense of controlled freedom in the way that the music sounds. Being so densely populated with voices the piece sits very static in terms of harmonic movement with the same basic progression being used regularly, and so to create a sense of flow and energy the parts are almost always in some sense of contrapuntal motion, creating internal relationships and individual lines that capture your attention and wonder, making no two iterations of similar progressions ever the same. As part of the celebration of Spem in Alium being put on by the ORA Singers, they have commissioned the one and only Sir James Macmillan to write a piece to partner this work, also in forty parts. Macmillan sets the text of the Vidi aquam.
I have been lucky enough to get a special sneak peek of both the score and recording which ORA have done, and I must say, it is an astonishing piece of music. He manages to capture the spirit of Tallis in his counterpoint and suggestive motifs and lines that hark back to the Tudor master, whilst also being unmistakably Macmillan in the voicing of his chords (lots of first-inversions with the major third firmly rooted in the bass part). He also mimics the structure of Spem with a sense of rotation and dramatic tutti chords, out of which come individual lines. The Macmillan is less dense with a much more free harmonic palette, and generally when the choirs are singing individually he has composed it in a way that you are led to listen to specific voices instead of taking in the whole and noticing passing lines. My favourite part of the piece is the unexpected change of both texture and rhythm as the first ‘alleluia’s arrive, it, much like the ‘Respice’ of Spem is a moment that takes you out of your current state in a transfiguring manner.
Obviously it goes without saying that you should try and see these pieces live when ORA perform them in June – I certainly will be. It’s an interesting task writing for such a homogenous ensemble, and something that I think every composer would benefit from – so perhaps it’s time, right now, for you to go and write your own reflection on Tallis’s grand-motet, and we can make this year the year of the forty-part motet because it’s really just 20 + 20…
Written by Rory Johnston