Butamidst all the commercial ballyhoo, there lies a more contemplative dimension: that of a sacred inwardness, a bow to darkened days, the denuded trees and grayed skies of winter, with its incipient if distant promise of renewal.
But lyrics matter hardly at all when the music itself sets a tone combining such beautiful heavenly rapture with solemnity to which even the most secularized modernists would feel compelled to bow their heads, and at the very least embrace an inner quietude that I would submit is no less sacred than the most devout prayer.
Although Rachmaninoff professed no particular religious affiliation by his adult years, the church bells and liturgical chants his grandmother exposed him to in his childhood never stopped resounding through him.
His Second Piano Concerto in particular (previously blogged about here) and Second Symphony had vaulted him to worldwide acclaim in the early 1900s, and by 1915 he had turned his attention to the ancient chants and choral works that had grown from them among a host of Russian composers led by Tchaikovsky.
Have never done so, but singing in a choir has always struck me as just a boatload of fun & fellowship, and choir members I have asked about it have always affirmed it for me in spades. Some are certainly more expressive and joyful on stage than others, but we can also see the quiet version of the rapture you speak of in even the more serious among them. Thanks for catching this detail, Harriet.
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