It's a fairly common observation to claim that Verdi's Requiem is his finest opera, although I don't hold to that view. In so far as it's partially true, the Verdi owes much to the pioneering genius of Monteverdi, for the Vespers was really the first religious work to break into operatic flourishes. The vocal embellishments of the soloists soaring into long melisma on a single syllable dot Monteverdi's landscapes of sound. True, some of the sections employ the expected contrapuntal manner of the pervious times. But in the main, the Vespers is in High Baroque style, as elaborate as the typical Baroque church.

The first published score mentions that the Mass and Vespers can be adapted to place as needed. The Mass is to be sung by six voices, “the Vespers to be sung by more, with some suitable to the chapel or chambers of the princes.” “More” in this case usually meant a group of 40 or 45 musicians of singers and orchestra. “Chapel” meant full, and “chambers” obviously one on a part, for it was not uncommon to perform religious works in private princely quarters.

Gray observed this to the letter of the request. His orchestra featured period instruments as far as possible plus a few more than 20 singers. The handsome body of continuo players included a small organ, harpsichord, and theorbo (bass lute); the orchestra included cornetti rather than trumpets, sackbuts (Renaissance trombones), and a small body of strings. It formed a perfect support for the voices, neither weak nor ever overpowering.

Gray underlined the operatic elements of the score with many different placements around the church for this vocal soloists. Sometimes they sang from where they stood in the chorus line around the rear of the orchestra, and sometimes in front of them. Other solos were sung from the little rear balcony behind the stage area, or duos split between there and the pulpit. The rather famous “Duo Seraphim” split the two angels, one from the pulpit with his echo-like answers up in the Old First's rear balcony, with Richard Kolb and his theorbo along for good company.

Of Monteverdi's various breaks with tradition, none is more startling than the “Sonata: Santa Maria ora pro nobis” (Holy Mary, pray for us). It is really a kind of concerto grosso movement with the chorus, in a reversal of roles, as accompanist to the instrumental solos: snazzy violins and the sackbuts. All the singing is that one line of text's title, again and again as the instruments, front and center, dominate the texture. The miracle is that Monteverdi's mastery of texture was such that this all sounds perfectly natural — which, of course, it isn't.

Fine playing and excellent vocal work littered the evening with one peak experience after another. Oddly, the program listed all the orchestra members but not a single vocalist. Pity.

My other complaint pertains to the Procrustean adherence to the traditions of concert presentation. As the concert began, all the lights were turned off in the room except for the stage, rendering the Latin and English translations in the program virtually useless. I also wondered how the balcony's Seraphim singer could read his music. He had only a dim twilight glow from the stage lights as help, and not much of that.

Those irritations apart, the evening was a smashing success. The program's cover bore a request asking the audience to refrain from applause until the piece was over. The audience — which included a lot of Europeans, possibly tourists — honored that request; but when the pieces concluded, the applause hit like a prolonged tsunami.