BEMF makes musical history

Ulrike Hofbauer as Princess Almira.  Photos: Kathy Wittman.

Classical music buffs think they know Handel.

But do they?

The official story goes that the great German composer, who already had two operas under his belt by age twenty, was musically transformed by a visit to Italy in 1706 - a sojourn which opened the tap on a stream of masterpieces, and inspired a style which would inform much, if not most, of his oeuvre.

Hence Handel's first two operas have been widely ignored - one has been lost, and the other, Almira, dismissed as juvenilia by the academic establishment.

But by the end of the Boston Early Musical Festival production of Almira,  composed in Hamburg in 1705, that conventional wisdom lies in ruins, and the professors look a little nervous. Indeed, as the curtain falls, you realize that everything you thought you knew about this genius is wrong - and that it's time for us all to get a new handle on Handel.

For Almira is hardly juvenilia, even if its libretto is risible (but as the 19-year-old composer was jobbed in, and inherited  its book, this has nothing to do with his own development). What counts, and is immediately apparent about the opera, is the stunning beauty, maturity, and endless invention of its music. Indeed, the riches in Almira are almost unbelievable - and they keep pouring forth for almost four hours (yes, like many a 19-year-old, Handel can keep performing well after those of us who have reached middle age could use a break!).  No wonder it was a hit back in 1705 - and without a doubt it belongs in the repertory today.

So what the Boston Early Music Festival has achieved in this production (which is dazzling on its own terms) is something like the gold standard of period performance. The Festival has not only unearthed a masterpiece, but a masterpiece which puts a new spin on our understanding of one of the greatest composers who ever lived.  In short, BEMF has made - or at least re-made - music history. Handel's Italian sojourn must now be re-contextualized as a stylistic gloss on a genius which had already arrived, almost fully-formed, like Venus on the half-shell, by the end of his German adolescence; and the proof positive is that Almira is studded with musical material which one immediately recognizes from re-appearances in the later operas (even the melody of "Lascia chi'o pianga" from Rinaldo, probably Handel's biggest current hit, is first heard here).

This alone is enough to make Almira an event; but as if sensing the import of the opera itself, BEMF seems to have kicked their whole game up a notch, and delivered their strongest festival production since L'incoronazione di Poppea - and perhaps their strongest production ever. This time, everything in director Gilbert Blin's vision (and I've been singing his praises for years) is superbly integrated, and the physical design reaches a new peak of sumptuousness; even the dancers and clowns feel more assured and motivated (largely thanks to a hearty comic turn by local star Jason McStoots).  And the convoluted libretto actually has its curious compensations; as the opera nears its fourth hour, we begin to understand the seductions of its start-and-stop, variety-show structure; director  Blin conjures a seamless flow of action, but seems to understand that during the recitatives, much of the original audience might have been on the move (only to return for the next ravishing aria).  In short, if you want to understand the atmosphere of early popular opera, look no further than Almira.

The ladies of Almira's court (orchestra below).

As we have come to expect of BEMF, musically the production holds to the highest standards. Soprano Ulrike Hofbauer actually replaced another singer in the title role of Princess Almira, but you wouldn't have guessed it; she sang with a poignant purity, and brought a particularly moving intensity to her heartbroken aria "Geloso tormento." Hofbauer was outshone dramatically, however, by local favorite Amanda Forsythe, who as always proved virtuosic vocally, and also happens to be one of the best actresses on the operatic stage; Forsythe tore through the furious “Der Himmel wird straffen" with such force, in fact, that she all but brought down the house.

Now I'm worried this review is going to get a little boring, because it's all repetitive praise; there were really no weak links in this cast. Tenor Colin Blazer brought a rich, subtle tone and an intelligent sensitivity to the role of Fernando, whom Almira loves but cannot marry, as he's a foundling with no title (only guess what is discovered, after literally hours of improbable complications?).  Meanwhile Zachary Wilder sang with crisp warmth - and acted with fearless comic aplomb - as the foppish Osman (a smooth operator who eventually gets his comeuppance), while baritone Christian Immler brought gravitas inflected with wit to the role of his benighted father, the prince Consalvo. I was likewise taken with the rich, erotically charged color of Tyler Duncan's Raymondo, and the sparkle of soprano Valerie Vinzant's vixenish Bellante (if you can't tell, I was basically taken with everybody).

Down in the pit, the music-making was just as exemplary: the BEMF orchestra was cohesive and expressive, shifting from the grand to the gossamer at will - all while maintaining a palpable sense of ensemble with the vocal action onstage. But then this orchestra is almost a conclave of early music superstars; particularly dazzling passages were supplied by baroque harpist Maxine Eilander, concertmaster Robert Mealy, and of course the resident geniuses at BEMF, music directors Paul O'Dette and Stephen Stubbs, on theorbo and baroque guitar.

One last bouquet must go to the design team. The director himself conceived the gorgeous, ever-shifting set, whose palette costume designer Anna Watkins brilliantly harnessed in what amounted to a Velázquez come to life (Almira's setting is Castile). Lenore Doxsee's lighting picked up on the same hues, and sometimes seemed to bathe the entire theatre in an amber glow. There's a sense that design decisions have run deep this time around; swordplay figured as a subtle motif throughout the piece, for instance - perhaps because Handel himself dodged injury in a duel during the period of Almira's composition (one character even sports an eyepatch - perhaps because she wasn't as lucky as Handel, we wonder?). Sigh. This kind of achievement leaves one wishing Boston could see this team try its hand at any number of operas (the gambols of McStoots brought The Magic Flute inevitably to mind); Blin is surrounded now by dazzling talent on all sides (on stage, in the pit, and backstage as well) -  indeed, sometimes I felt this triumphant production was almost as much his monument as it was Handel's.

Jephtha resurrected at Handel and Haydn

Harry Christophers leads Jephtha in Disney Hall. Photo: Brian van der Brug, Los Angeles Times.

I'm late with an appreciation of Handel and Haydn's stunning performance of Jephtha, Handel's final oratorio (and one of his greatest). I heard it over a week ago, in fact; but frankly, its impact still lingers.  Indeed, in some ways this Jephtha may have been the finest hour of artistic director Harry Christopher's already-remarkable tenure; it was a model of internalized tragic emotion expressed with exquisite musical poise.  And certainly it marked the most impressive roster of soloists I have yet seen grace the Society's stage - at last they have the people up front to match the people in back, i.e., their by-now-legendary chorus. This version also hinted at the overwhelming importance of rehearsal time - and, actually, performance time; Boston heard Jephtha only after it had toured the West Coast (including a touchdown at Disney Hall, above), and the consequent coherence and depth of the Society's interpretation was noted by many.

Certainly Jephtha deserves the extra attention. It has largely slipped from the active repertory (the Society itself hadn't performed it since 1867!), I suppose because it boasts only a few show-stoppers (although at least one aria, the ravishing "Waft her, angels, thro' the skies" is often heard in recitals, and others should be).  The oratorio makes up for its lack of superficial fireworks, however, in subtlety, dramatic insight, and (for lack of a better word) sheer profundity.  It tells the story of the Old Testament hero Jephtha (although the story is an archetypal one, and appears in many cultures), who rashly promises Yahweh that if he prevails in battle, he will sacrifice the first thing to meet his eyes upon his return.  That thing, of course, turns out to be his only daughter, the beloved Iphis.

Hence submission to the cruel demands of inscrutable Fate (be it of Jewish, Christian, or any other persuasion) forms the terrible crux of Jephtha.  And in an added twist of musical fate, Handel himself was struck down by affliction during its composition - his vision began to fail due to a botched cataract operation, and his original manuscript bears testament to a long pause after the completion of "How dark, o Lord, are thy decrees"(ironically enough) with the heartbreaking note, in the master's handwriting, "Unable to go on owing to weakening of the sight of my left eye."

Handel did, however, eventually complete the score - and even conducted its premiere in Covent Garden.  Perhaps an angel intervened, as one does in the Jephtha libretto (by Rev. Thomas Morrell), which deviates from the Old Testament in explicitly granting poor Iphis a reprieve from death, if she dedicates her virginity to God.

Joélle Harvey, a talent to watch

Perhaps it should have been unsurprising, then, that the "find" of the concert turned out to be its Iphis, Joélle Harvey (right), a young soprano who is undoubtedly on the cusp of a major career (indeed, H&H has already signed her for a return engagement next year).  Ms. Harvey's tone is of  almost unbelievably luminous purity - a good thing, too, as many of her arias are utterly exposed - and even at the top of her register she can waft a vocal line thro' the skies at something close to a whisper.  Ms. Harvey also proved a subtle dramatic actress, and was able to convincingly convey both her love for her betrothed, Hamon, and her contradictory willingness to sacrifice herself for the sake of Israel.  Hers was a performance to remember.

Only a small step behind was mezzo Catherine Wyn-Rogers as Storgè, Iphis' mother, who skillfully hinted at sorrowful portents early on, and then was absolutely riveting as she desperately begged for her daughter's life (Wyn-Rogers is also coming back next season, I'm happy to report).  Meanwhile, in the title role, tenor Robert Murray was less commanding, oddly, than his wife or daughter, but his Jephtha, though perhaps an unconvincing warrior, nevertheless grew on me as the character's psychological torment increased. Indeed, Mr. Murray's almost-intellectual interpretation proved, in the end, quite harrowing; particularly in the famous recitative "Deeper, and deeper still . . .," his insights into the role mapped well to the sense of introversion latent in the score (which perhaps in turn maps to Handel's own private struggles).

There was still more good news in the supporting roles.  As Iphis' betrothed, Hamor, countertenor William Purefoy proved exquisitely matched to Harvey in their duets, while baritone Woodrow Bynum stepped down from his usual place in the chorus to sing with startling authority as Jepththa's brother Zebul. The reliable Teresa Wakim, another mainstay of the chorale, likewise impressed as the angel who spares Iphis' life. Together these two give some idea of the talent on tap these days in the H&H chorus, which sang - as they always do - with remarkable clarity, utter commitment, and superbly sensitive dynamics. Indeed, now they seem able to communicate complicated moods in a way few choruses can - their reading of the poignant phrase, "Whatever is, is right," for instance, seemed to encompass every interpretation of the line: its frustration and pain seemed locked in a search for triumph through acquiescence, which is precisely the right idea.

Conductor Christophers has a lot to do with all of this, of course - he's a positive genius at sublimating intense emotion within graceful rhetoric (a peculiarly British talent, if you ask me), which makes him perhaps the ideal conductor of Handel.  His Jephtha (which he had carefully edited, btw) seemed perfectly poised between several artistic poles: at times it nodded toward the drama of opera; at others, toward the rhetoric of oratorio - and at still others, toward the private world of internal dialogue.  That Christophers kept these many oppositions in balance, and in organic harmony, was remarkable.  As was the playing of the H&H period instrument orchestra, which has rarely sounded so vibrant or responsive.  The performance was memorable enough that many around me were openly wondering whether this version was to be recorded.  If there are no such plans, there should be; this could be close to a definitive Jephtha.

A tour of Boston's vocal riches with Boston Baroque

Jeptha's Daughter, by Chauncey Bradley Ives

Boston Baroque's intriguing program last weekend, "De Profundis," marked for this venerable organization a renewed focus on the chorus - and as is often the case for conductor Martin Pearlman, it was also built around a musical argument, a "case," if you will.  To be frank, I found that case not entirely convincing, but it was certainly worth a listen (if only more classical programming could boast Pearlman's intellectual rigor) and what's more, the concert not only resurrected a musical figure who has long been neglected in local performance, but offered a kind of survey of local singers as well.

That neglected musical figure is Giacomo Carissimi - a name well-known to choral enthusiasts, as he taught Charpentier and influenced Handel - but not to the general public (perhaps not even the classical public).  I myself had never experienced Carissimi in performance, so I was grateful to hear Jephte, a masterpiece whose impact is hard to over-estimate (it was held up as a model of the nascent oratorio form, and Handel even quoted it in Samson).

Jephte is most famous for its concluding lamentation, which is riven by daringly plaintive dissonances; but the oratorio proved quite effective - and affecting - throughout its length (I'm often struck by just how quickly a new musical form reaches an artistic peak).  The tale is the Biblical version of a myth that has long served composers well (a Cretan variant provides the core of Idomeneo); Jephtha (one of the judges from Judges) promises in prayer that if he is granted victory in battle, he will sacrifice the first thing he sees upon his return home.  Fans of tragic irony will be unsurprised to learn that his beloved daughter greets him before anyone else at his homecoming (that Yahweh - such a joker!).

Pearlman didn't quite conjure the plunging emotional arc that Carissimi has constructed (Jephte is a roller coaster ride from victorious joy to catastrophic grief), but his work with the chorus, which seemed beefed up for the occasion with many of Boston's best singers, was exemplary, and he drew remarkable solos from Owen McIntosh (who's a bit young for Jephte, but made you forget that), as well as Kamala Soparkar, Brenna Wells, Ulysses Thomas, and particularly the reliable Teresa Wakim, whose pure soprano imbued the doomed daughter's lament with a devastating ache.

The concluding chorus, Plorate, filii Israel, was likewise poignantly intense, and did seem to lead seamlessly into the melancholy dissonances of Charpentier's late mass, Missa, Assumpta est Maria. But to these ears as the Charpentier progressed, Pearlman's argument, thoughtful as it was, slowly fell apart; this composer is simply sui generis, and the ingrown complexity of his structures seemed to quickly leave Carissimi far behind.

Don't get me wrong; Missa, Assumpta est Maria has many fascinations - Charpentier always does - but here, as the mass slowly fractured into a mosaic of interlocking solos, it began to lose momentum (which is unusual for a Pearlman performance).  Luckily most of those solos were nevertheless exquisitely performed, again by Wells, McIntosh, and Thomas, who were joined by Bradford Gleim and Jonas Budris, among others.  The full chorus (along with the orchestra) got to strut its stuff in the gorgeous concluding Agnus Dei and Domine Salvum.

Pearlman then took a brief detour into Bach with the oddly lively Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit, an early cantata which is supposed to be a kind of comforting elegy (it was written for a funeral).  It's best known for its spare, transparent accompaniment, but for once the Boston Baroque instrumentalists didn't quite sparkle enough; instead the big news was mezzo Katherine Growdon, who looked terrified to be center stage but sang beautifully nonetheless.

At its close the concert returned to its loose thesis, with one of Handel's well-known Chandos Anthems (No. 8).  After the impacted complexity of the Charpentier, I admit Handel felt like a warm, happy bath (even if these anthems aren't in the top drawer of his achievement, and even if their debt to Carissimi is a vague one). We heard once more from Teresa Wakim and Owen McIntosh, who both again did well, while tenor Mark Sprinkle, who had struggled a bit in the Bach, came more into his own.  But the spotlight was stolen by tenor Jonas Budris, whose confident flights into the vocal stratosphere drew startled applause from the house (Budris pulled the same trick with Handel and Haydn last Christmas).  It was a sweet capstone to an evening that above all else demonstrated how high the local vocal talent can fly.

Messiah at Handel and Haydn Society

Jesse Levine plays like an angel.  Photo(s): Kyle T. Hemingway.

One of the sillier aspects of our age is the proliferation of pseudo-"rebellions" in the performing arts. As the populace behaves more and more like sheep in the political sphere, ironically enough, they seem to be aping revolutionaries at the theatre.  Sometimes I think there ought to be a word for this phenomenon (I nominate "fauxbellion") - or at least for its more irritating forms, like the new-fangled tendency not to stand during the "Hallelujah Chorus"of Handel's Messiah.  People who yawned at the invasion of Iraq seem, oddly enough, to take this issue close to heart.  Apparently they imagine being couch potatoes throughout the rousing climax to this fantastic oratorio counts as some sort of statement.

But to be blunt, you should stand during the "Hallelujah Chorus."  Not for George II, of course (who, legend has it, began the tradition, perhaps without realizing it).  And not for the Baby Jesus, either - at least not necessarily.

You should stand for Handel.  For artistic greatness.  For recognized artistic greatness, which it doesn't hurt to re-recognize once a year.

And you should stand for the Handel and Haydn Society chorus and orchestra, too, at least when they're in as fine a form as they were last weekend.  Artistic director Harry Christophers once more worked a kind of miracle with their combined forces, conjuring from many of the choruses huge, exquisitely balanced musical experiences that seemed to expand before your eyes like fields of stars.  This year's "For to us a Child is born," for example, was hands-down the greatest performance of this chestnut I've ever heard, ever (even from H&H), and hot on its heels were powerful renderings of the fugue "He trusted in God that He would deliver Him," and, of course, that famous chorus discussed at top.

Meanwhile the orchestra was (mostly) in just as splendid shape - new concert mistress Aisslin Nosky was missing (due to commitments entered into prior to signing with H&H), but the strings sounded just as transparent and robust as they had at their last outing, and on their first appearance (as the trumpets of the angels, up in the balconies of Symphony Hall, at top), the horns sounded wonderful, too - alas, later on, in the most exposed playing of the oratorio ("The trumpet shall sound") things got wobbly - which is always a risk when you're playing a "natural" horn (that is, one with no valves).

As for the soloists - well, as has sometimes happened before, they were a slight puzzlement.  Fine singers all, but rather a motley crew; I still don't understand what Christophers is going for in his line-ups for Messiah.  This time we got a bel canto soprano, the elegant Sarah Coburn, with a glowing bloom at the top of her range; but she didn't have the crispest diction when set against the pinpoint enunciations of the chorus (from her bio, it's clear she's used to singing in Italian).  And Coburn was paired with a countertenor, Lawrence Zazzo - who had an intriguing timbre and sang with mournful fire, but who, like most countertenors, scraped a bit on the low notes of the role.  Meanwhile Tom Randle, who is familiar from many previous H&H outings, seemed to take his time warming up - although his initial diffidence did give way to more assured power as the evening wore on.  Baritone Tyler Duncan, by way of contrast, was powerful from the start, and also boasted an intriguingly complex timbre - but he, too, dicted a bit slackly, mostly because he tended to drop away at the ends of his lines.

To be fair - all had fine moments, and all are interesting singers; it was just hard to see how they fit together as a set, as a statement.  That question only exists, though, because by now the orchestra and chorus have become so cohesive.  So someday, I'm sure (perhaps after years of tinkering), Christophers will find a dream quartet to match the accompanying musical forces he has tuned so finely.

Christophers and his chorus in previous action - photo by Stu Rosner.

I looked at my partner after the Handel and Haydn performance of Israel in Egypt last Sunday and simply said, "I think it's official." He nodded slightly.

"They're the best chorus in New England," we said together.

I know, the BSO's Tanglewood Festival Chorus is bigger - and given its size, admirably precise. The Boston Baroque chorale can be more personal and intimate. But for sheer eloquence and - how to put this - artistic firepower (?), I don't think the Handel and Haydn chorus has a peer these days.

The true begetters of this accolade are, of course, the singers themselves - pound for pound, these professionals are, I'd argue, the strongest group of vocalists in the region.  But of course their conductor, Harry Christophers, has had something to do with whipping them into such tip-top shape.  Way back in 2007, when I first heard Christophers (just before he was anointed Artistic Director of H&H), I was stunned by his facility with the chorale.  I continue to be stunned.  The man is a magician, that's all there is to it.

And Handel's little-heard oratorio Israel in Egypt gave him quite the stage on which to work his magic.  Christophers chose an early version of the 1738 composition (there are always various extant scores for Handel's oratorios, as he tweaked them over time), one that favored the choruses over the arias (you see Christophers knew both the work's central strength, and his secret weapon).  And then he went to work, drawing every shade of vocal color possible from Handel's palette.

It's quite a palette (in a way it's two palettes, as Handel often divides the chorus in two, like the Red Sea, and has it sing antiphonally with itself).  Other critics have cited the current political relevance of the piece; it was a political hot potato back in the day, too, for reasons of royal succession that are obscure now, just as the current parallels with Hosni Mubarak will be obscure in a few years' time.  Because amusingly enough, the oratorio itself isn't particularly political - unless you find the idea of freedom somehow controversial.  It is, instead, a gigantic tone poem, in which Handel's musical "image-painting" in Part II is perhaps the freest and most inventive of his entire career.

At times, I admit, the vocal metaphors here are nonetheless almost amusingly naïve - whenever God's angry, the chorus stomps around vocally, for instance.  But most of the time they are arrestingly imaginative.  When the flies descend on Egypt, the string section begins to sing like a cloud of insects, and when the fiery hail crashes down from the sky, an anarchic rumble of timpani and brass erupts (the orchestra was in fine form throughout, btw).  Most frightening is "He sent a thick darkness over all the land, a darkness that might be felt" an eerie dirge (of creepy modern tonality) that ended with a chilling emphasis on that last "darkness that might be felt."  In another mood entirely, "But as for his people, He led them forth like sheep" boasts one of Handel's sweetest melodies.  The introduction to the work is nearly as good as these pyrotechnics (even if it includes some themes "borrowed" by Handel, both from himself and other composers), and here the opening stanza of the piece, "The sons of Israel do mourn, and they are in bitterness" proved particularly haunting, as it was sung with a dazzling sense of emotional balance and precision.

Alas, Israel in Egypt peters out a bit - at least in imaginative terms - in Part III, perhaps because its text becomes repetitive and triumphalist (the Egyptians seem to die a thousand deaths in the crashing waves of the Red Sea).  And here the arias took over, which aren't quite as inspired as the choruses.  Christophers chose to assign these solos to members of the chorale (as is often done), which showcased some individual singers well, but pushed one or two vocalists into the limelight who, though blessed with gorgeous voices, didn't quite have the power to fill Symphony Hall.  Soprano Margot Rood and alto Emily Marvosh came off best - both brought a flexible technique and ripe color to their respective solos; there was also an impressive vocal wrestling match between basses Nicholas Nackley and Bradford Gleim, and a sparkling duet for H&H mainstays Brenna Wells and Teresa Wakim.  Elsewhere the singing was always adequate, but not quite transporting - until the chorus took over again, and Christophers and his vocal crew were once more in their element.

Rebel without a chorus

If there's one critical cliché we could use less of around here it's the cliché of "rebellion." To be blunt, the "rebel" has become the bobo equivalent of the Victorian virgin: an ideal that everyone pretends to espouse but nobody actually lives up to. And as such, it's just tedious, and gums up the works of any kind of intelligent dialogue about the arts.

So let's be honest, for once, shall we, and admit that our local print readers are not "rebels"? Not the Globe or Phoenix readers, much less the Herald or Metro readers (obviously). These people don't "dissent," they don't "subvert," they don't do anything but consume. What they consume, or course, are niche cultural products designed to simulate rebellion. Which is hardly the same thing.

But what prompts this latest rant, Mr. Hub Review, you may ask? In a word, the combined forces of Matthew Guerrieri and Sebastian Smee in the Globe this weekend - although frankly, my irritation with this moribund meme has been rising for months, if not years. Both reviewers have a penchant for claiming consumer choices are rebellious - indeed, one often senses that their "arguments," such as they are, inevitably edge toward that final evaluation: is the work at hand "subversive," or not? If yes - the work is good; if no - well, what would Elvis and James Dean say?

Of course I don't think Elvis or James Dean would have much to say about the "Hallelujah" chorus, in any case - still, Guerrieri, in a lengthy piece in Saturday's Globe, decides that the current vogue among "secular" fans of Handel's Messiah to no longer stand during its climactic chorus "ranks as one of the more effortless demonstrations of anti-authoritarian dissent."

But can anti-authoritarian dissent ever be "effortless"? I'd argue no. If you have expended no effort, you have not dissented. You have merely pretended you have dissented. The choice of what music you download for free does not qualify as an act of dissent. The fact that you have holes in your jeans torn by Marc Jacobs does not mark you as a rebel. And sitting through the "Hallelujah" chorus does not make you James Dean.

What it makes you instead is a certain kind of consumer, grazing the culture and filtering every experience through a self-conscious (and self-satisfied) cocoon. You may dislike the "monarchical overtones" of Messiah (as Guerrieri puts it - and he certainly digs up a lot of info about whether or not George II stood up, and why), but you're quite comfortable with the new spirit of the beehive - that pleasing buzz of "critical thinking" and liberal-tarianism that seems to have somehow outlasted the Clinton administration. Because oddly, while he's long-winded on Hanoverian politics, Guerrieri is all but silent about our own. Because, well - that would be rebellious, wouldn't it.

There is a whiff of politics in Guerrieri's essay, I suppose, in that the "Hallelujah" spoilers insist on framing Messiah as secular music (even though when they say "secular" they really mean "academic"). That's right - a secular piece about the central theological concept of Christianity. Uh-huh. The standard dodge of this obvious self-contradiction is the argument that Handel wrote his oratorio for commercial consumption, and never performed it in a church (indeed, its length and structure make it unsuitable for actual religious service). But does venue determine content? I think not - all this proves is that in the eighteenth century, explicitly sacred music had a commercial public. For to be blunt, Messiah is not like such oratorios as Saul, which are drawn from religious texts but are essentially dramatic in form and content; it is, instead, openly theological - an explication, in fact, of Christian theology.

So to my mind, the secularists have some 'splainin' to do. They like to pretend that Messiah is merely a set of pretty songs, or dances - "an entertainment," as one local presenter would have it. But just try to convince yourself of that as Handel digs further and further into the human issues of death, and hope, and love and guilt and redemption that underpin the story of Christ; in many ways, Messiah is deeper than the religion it celebrates. That's why I'm happy to stand for its chorus, even though I wouldn't stand for our evil-gay pope, or the Southern Baptist Convention, or the Windsors (or, frankly, the Israel lobby). To me, Messiah operates above and beyond all that. Some old British queen you've never heard of once said, "Only connect" - and rising during Messiah is one small way to connect. Only it doesn't mean you're connecting with your inner monarchist, or Christianist, any more than lighting a menorah means you support the Orthodox subjugation of women. It is, instead, a statement that traditions can be transformed over time, perhaps even into something that more accurately maps to a work's original vision. (For Messiah isn't so much secular as it is multi-cultural: it's a gay German's commercial vision of an Episcopalian mystery.)

So yes, Virginia, you should stand for the "Hallelujah" chorus - not for George II, of course, but for Handel, and the performers, and for the joy of the work itself - a work that in its depth and glory is one of those "outliers" that Malcolm Gladwell (you like him, right?) is always talking about. But hey, why stop with the Messiah? Feel free to stand up for Beethoven's Ninth, and Don Giovanni, and the last scenes of King Lear and The Cherry Orchard, too. Stand up early. Stand up often. To quote Michael Stipe, now stand.

(Still to come: the rebel cliché, Sebastian Smee, and Marcel Duchamp.)

Last weekend's performances of Messiah marked the advent of Harry Christophers (above), the new Artistic Director of the Handel and Haydn Society, who's been waiting in the wings for the past few months as other conductors took the podium. For me, however, this Messiah was also something like Christophers's second coming - the first time I heard his work was in the same oratorio two years ago, which I knew immediately was among the best versions I'd ever heard, or would ever hear. I was naturally wondering whether now, ensconced at H&H, he would be able to conjure something like the same miracle, and I'm happy to report he very nearly did, at least insofar as the chorus and period orchestra were concerned.

Alas, the soloists in this year's model, though often wonderful, weren't quite in the same class as the H&H core, so the whole package wasn't tied up with a bow as one might like. But it was still thrilling, and, as the cliché goes, deeply moving (as Messiah should be). And I wasn't the only one who thought so; the few seconds just before the "Hallelujah" chorus is always a clinch moment in Messiah performances - will the audience stand, as tradition dictates (because George II once did), or will it hang back, refuse to participate, and remain cocooned in postmodern distance? You can say it's not a judgment on the performance to remain seated, but it sure feels like one, and there's nothing more awkward than having a few people stand and then think better of it when the rest of the house refuses to rise.

In the Christophers version, however, it was all but impossible to remain seated, at least for those who knew the tradition (and the musical virgins who didn't soon got the idea). But what impelled the two thousand or so in Symphony Hall to rise to their feet? It didn't feel like some hidebound ritual - nor did it feel like the usual 'standing O," which often reflects the audience's feelings about itself rather than the performers (and we weren't clapping, anyhow). To me it seemed like a moment of genuine tribute - to Handel, of course, whose genius brought to such deep and luminous musical fruition the joyous mystery of redemption, but also to Christophers and the assembled forces of H&H, who brought that vision to life with such vibrant clarity. It felt, to be honest, something like an act of solidarity; we understood, and so stood not only in praise but in thanks.

But back to what I didn't like. Mr. Christophers had chosen a countertenor, Daniel Taylor, for the alto parts in the oratorio - a decision much in keeping with current early music practice, and which added a certain spiritual and political dimension to the work itself. One of the things I like about the early music movement is in that in its ranks (unlike the ranks of our local major symphony), being gay is no big deal - and since the sacred music tradition is largely being kept alive by gay people (in sad counterpoint to the bigotry of the institution said music was written for), and since Handel was probably gay, too (and maybe even Jesus was), it's entirely appropriate for issues of gender and identity to echo through a secular rendition of Messiah. Now I've no knowledge of Mr. Taylor's sexual preference, but he had an air of diffident tragedy about him, and I think the gay men and women in the audience (like me) heard a layered sense of poignance in his haunting version of "He was despised and rejected of men."

Still, sometimes Mama just wants a big fat alto, and I have to admit the closeness of Mr. Taylor's tone (lovely as it was) to that of soprano Suzie LeBlanc meant the full breadth of timbre we expect of Messiah was missing from the ensemble singing. Ms. LeBlanc had a transparently pure top, but not quite enough power further down (Mr. Daniels had the same problem, and even fell into his chest voice on his bottom note). And though her diction was excellent, Ms. LeBlanc didn't seem to believe in what she was singing, which is crucial to Messiah - you can't fudge it with the usual operatic emoting. Tenor Tom Randle and especially bass-baritone Matthew Brook were more genuine, and thus more moving; they were here to witness, not emote. True, Randle can be a bit self-dramatizing, and Brook's lower end turned a bit muddy, but I won't soon forget Randle's "Thy rebuke hath broken his heart," or Brook's "We shall all be chang'd."

As for the chorus - it's never sounded better, and that's saying something. Christophers seems to have a special magic with chorales - diction, musicality, variety, he gets it all, and this time the singing was beautifully integrated with the dynamics of the orchestral playing (rather than just "sitting on top of it," as sometimes happens). Some might argue a few of Christophers's decisions were eccentric, and he makes no bones about the fact that he works up his own "edition" of Messiah every year (just as Handel did, btw). But in my book, Christophers gets so much right that's it silly to quibble over details, and at any rate, many of his unusual tweaks proved fascinating in their own right (and he certainly fielded nothing as bizarre as last year's whispered "Hallelujah" chorus). I couldn't help but join in the roars of approval that met the chorus and orchestra on the finale, which also read as a general affirmation of how lucky we are to have Mr. Christophers leading Handel and Haydn.