#
Date
Title
Source
Description
Tags
W4258
24.05.2011
A Dead Voice from a Lost Age - John Patrick Egan
WWW
So, the work I would like to submit is (was?) intended to bear the moniker (working title) A Dead Voice from a Lost Age. The concept for the piece derived, initially, from my training as a musician, specifically my specialisation in the baroque and transi ...

So, the work I would like to submit is (was?) intended to bear the moniker (working title) A Dead Voice from a Lost Age. The concept for the piece derived, initially, from my training as a musician, specifically my specialisation in the baroque and transitional periods. When I was about thirteen, I first became aware of the castrato voice (probably through music history classes in secondary school. Or through Farinelli on televison. ). This led to a rather prolonged period of obsession with the history of the voice and various performers, in addition to the pretty questionable means employed to guarantee that said voice was sustained. Anyway, this interest in the castrati continued with varying degrees of zealousness (after the initial rabid assimilation of information), for the next few years. In the meantime, and despite “my” (my parents') intentions to pursue music professionally, I chose to embark on a completely financially stable career as an artist, but still taught violin and played with a number of orchestras/ensembles/bands concurrent with my studies.

Fast-forward a few years to 2009 (I'm pretty sure), and a chance encounter with a t.v. programme regarding castrati. Having not conducted any further research into them for a while, and possibly with the benefit of having had that period of time in which to step back and see the bigger picture, the realisation began to dawn that, in literally every instance, the vocal performances I was hearing in modern recordings of works by composers such as Monteverdi and Handel were completely inaccurate, due to the fact that a castrato's voice would have harboured different tonal colours and vocal capabilities to the voices of either a contralto or a countertenor, due to the physical differences resultant from sex in the first instance, and surgical intervention in the second. So, basically, with the exception of one regrettably abyssmal recording (and unless castration for the cause of art is sanctioned any time soon), we are never going to obtain an opportunity to hear anything other than approximations of how these works were intended to be heard. (The recording, incidentally, is of the last ever castrato, Alessandro Moreschi, from a performance at the Sistine Chapel in 1902, when recording equipment was in its infancy and Moreschi was both A/ a victim of the prevalent vocal affectations which were in vogue at the period and B/ probably just not very good, certainly not on a par with others from the golden age such as Senesino or Farinelli, if the unanimous plaudits contained within accounts from the 18th century are to be believed).

At some point after more independent research (just out of curiosity, not necessarily affiliated with work for my M.A. In Fine Art), I began to view the castrato voice and its history in a way which was intrinsically linked to my art practice (an unavoidable eventuality when one places so much emphasis on research in two disciplines which are so closely related). Generally, my work deals with ideas of liminality and concepts relating to otherness, and the transition or transmutation from one thing to another. I had been working on another piece which dealt with this societal construct of the ghost (the white sheet and clanking chains and all that jazz), as opposed to the (possbily) more plausible descriptions or attempts at explanation (atmospheric recording, low-frequency vibrations). During one of these work sessions in the studio, I was listening to Xerxes by Handel, in which the part originally written for the castrato Caffarelli was performed by contralto (female) Marilyn Horne. It was a seemingly fortuitous coincidence, as the two things which were occupying me at that point in time (the ghost project, and listening to this work) just fit together perfectly. Obviously, I did write more about that instant in my noteboks to fully clarify and formalise how and why, but, basically, the result was that it led to the conception of an idea for a piece of work. I started by deciding on one well known aria on which to concentrate (the opening Ombra mai fu, often referred to simply as “Largo from Xerxes”), and with the view that this piece doesn't really exist, as a whole, because the world is devoid of a credible performer, one who possesses the requisite “alterations”, and thus the requisite voice. So, while the instruments for which the piece was originally scored (violins and basso continuo) exist today in a more or less unaltered* state, we can never hear THAT voice. And yet, it is still performed. So, in essence, when we listen to interpretations of the role of Xerxes today, we are listening a recreation, or an attempt to channel a voice from the past, a ghost. So, what if we remove, or, better, replace the voice? Given that what I was working on before this was a bit frivolous, whereas this piece was in danger of falling into the territory of sentimentality, I injected (or intended to) some of the sort of campy, carry-on humour I was already working with into this piece. So, what better, B-movie and somewhat insouciant way to introduce a ghostly voice than the theremin? I decided to pre-record the vocal melody (the lyrical content of which can also be (partially) construed as a meditation on the spectre; “Ombra mai fu...cara ed amabile, soave più” translates to “A shade there never was...dearer and more lovely, or more sweet”) with a theremin, and have the instrumental music performed live by a string quartet, while playing the harpsichord part of the continuo myself. So, when the piece would be performed, the vocal melody would emanate from concealed speakers and would be accompanied by the assembled ensemble players. I even went so far as to book a studio to properly record the theremin part (in addition to actually buying an analog theremin for the purpose), and to organise a recording of the quartet part too, as research. But, due to prior commitments, I was required to cancel the studio on the day I'd booked to record. “No big deal”, I thought, I can arrange an alternative date, as I was free the following week. The studio technicians, unfortunately, were busy that week. I was busy the next with other work, and so on and so forth until this piece was inadvertantly placed on the shelf for the foreseeable future. I'm sure I'll resurrect it sometime, and perhaps, with the benefit of time to just think about it, I'll make some further alterations, but, for the moment, the project's in neutral. In a way, though, due to the fact that the proposal, thus far, has remained unrealised, it is fitting that it exists only in this format, as a textual spectre of what might have been.

  * When I say “more or less unaltered” in relation to the instruments used in the performance of Ombra mai fu, I mean that violins, violas, cellos and basses from the period during which the aria was written were already in existence as intruments in much the same format as we know them today, and thus would have sounded the same. The only noticeable differences would have been pitch (415hz as opposed to the modern concert standard of 440hz) and the use of gut strings. These are minor adjustments and there are a number of ensembles who still perform to baroque specifications, so, unlike the vocal component, it is still very possible to hear the instrumental section of this aria as it was originally intended.
So, the work I would like to submit is (was?) intended to bear the moniker (working title) A Dead Voice from a Lost Age. The concept for the piece derived, initially, from my training as a musician, specifically my specialisation in the baroque and transi ...

So, the work I would like to submit is (was?) intended to bear the moniker (working title) A Dead Voice from a Lost Age. The concept for the piece derived, initially, from my training as a musician, specifically my specialisation in the baroque and transitional periods. When I was about thirteen, I first became aware of the castrato voice (probably through music history classes in secondary school. Or through Farinelli on televison. ). This led to a rather prolonged period of obsession with the history of the voice and various performers, in addition to the pretty questionable means employed to guarantee that said voice was sustained. Anyway, this interest in the castrati continued with varying degrees of zealousness (after the initial rabid assimilation of information), for the next few years. In the meantime, and despite “my” (my parents') intentions to pursue music professionally, I chose to embark on a completely financially stable career as an artist, but still taught violin and played with a number of orchestras/ensembles/bands concurrent with my studies.

Fast-forward a few years to 2009 (I'm pretty sure), and a chance encounter with a t.v. programme regarding castrati. Having not conducted any further research into them for a while, and possibly with the benefit of having had that period of time in which to step back and see the bigger picture, the realisation began to dawn that, in literally every instance, the vocal performances I was hearing in modern recordings of works by composers such as Monteverdi and Handel were completely inaccurate, due to the fact that a castrato's voice would have harboured different tonal colours and vocal capabilities to the voices of either a contralto or a countertenor, due to the physical differences resultant from sex in the first instance, and surgical intervention in the second. So, basically, with the exception of one regrettably abyssmal recording (and unless castration for the cause of art is sanctioned any time soon), we are never going to obtain an opportunity to hear anything other than approximations of how these works were intended to be heard. (The recording, incidentally, is of the last ever castrato, Alessandro Moreschi, from a performance at the Sistine Chapel in 1902, when recording equipment was in its infancy and Moreschi was both A/ a victim of the prevalent vocal affectations which were in vogue at the period and B/ probably just not very good, certainly not on a par with others from the golden age such as Senesino or Farinelli, if the unanimous plaudits contained within accounts from the 18th century are to be believed).

At some point after more independent research (just out of curiosity, not necessarily affiliated with work for my M.A. In Fine Art), I began to view the castrato voice and its history in a way which was intrinsically linked to my art practice (an unavoidable eventuality when one places so much emphasis on research in two disciplines which are so closely related). Generally, my work deals with ideas of liminality and concepts relating to otherness, and the transition or transmutation from one thing to another. I had been working on another piece which dealt with this societal construct of the ghost (the white sheet and clanking chains and all that jazz), as opposed to the (possbily) more plausible descriptions or attempts at explanation (atmospheric recording, low-frequency vibrations). During one of these work sessions in the studio, I was listening to Xerxes by Handel, in which the part originally written for the castrato Caffarelli was performed by contralto (female) Marilyn Horne. It was a seemingly fortuitous coincidence, as the two things which were occupying me at that point in time (the ghost project, and listening to this work) just fit together perfectly. Obviously, I did write more about that instant in my noteboks to fully clarify and formalise how and why, but, basically, the result was that it led to the conception of an idea for a piece of work. I started by deciding on one well known aria on which to concentrate (the opening Ombra mai fu, often referred to simply as “Largo from Xerxes”), and with the view that this piece doesn't really exist, as a whole, because the world is devoid of a credible performer, one who possesses the requisite “alterations”, and thus the requisite voice. So, while the instruments for which the piece was originally scored (violins and basso continuo) exist today in a more or less unaltered* state, we can never hear THAT voice. And yet, it is still performed. So, in essence, when we listen to interpretations of the role of Xerxes today, we are listening a recreation, or an attempt to channel a voice from the past, a ghost. So, what if we remove, or, better, replace the voice? Given that what I was working on before this was a bit frivolous, whereas this piece was in danger of falling into the territory of sentimentality, I injected (or intended to) some of the sort of campy, carry-on humour I was already working with into this piece. So, what better, B-movie and somewhat insouciant way to introduce a ghostly voice than the theremin? I decided to pre-record the vocal melody (the lyrical content of which can also be (partially) construed as a meditation on the spectre; “Ombra mai fu...cara ed amabile, soave più” translates to “A shade there never was...dearer and more lovely, or more sweet”) with a theremin, and have the instrumental music performed live by a string quartet, while playing the harpsichord part of the continuo myself. So, when the piece would be performed, the vocal melody would emanate from concealed speakers and would be accompanied by the assembled ensemble players. I even went so far as to book a studio to properly record the theremin part (in addition to actually buying an analog theremin for the purpose), and to organise a recording of the quartet part too, as research. But, due to prior commitments, I was required to cancel the studio on the day I'd booked to record. “No big deal”, I thought, I can arrange an alternative date, as I was free the following week. The studio technicians, unfortunately, were busy that week. I was busy the next with other work, and so on and so forth until this piece was inadvertantly placed on the shelf for the foreseeable future. I'm sure I'll resurrect it sometime, and perhaps, with the benefit of time to just think about it, I'll make some further alterations, but, for the moment, the project's in neutral. In a way, though, due to the fact that the proposal, thus far, has remained unrealised, it is fitting that it exists only in this format, as a textual spectre of what might have been.

  * When I say “more or less unaltered” in relation to the instruments used in the performance of Ombra mai fu, I mean that violins, violas, cellos and basses from the period during which the aria was written were already in existence as intruments in much the same format as we know them today, and thus would have sounded the same. The only noticeable differences would have been pitch (415hz as opposed to the modern concert standard of 440hz) and the use of gut strings. These are minor adjustments and there are a number of ensembles who still perform to baroque specifications, so, unlike the vocal component, it is still very possible to hear the instrumental section of this aria as it was originally intended.