San Francisco Classical Voice

Even before the concert began, I was moved simply by reading through the texts. The piece incorporates the traditional requiem texts, which I have always found to be beautiful, interspersed with various achingly beautiful passages specifically about AIDS, as well as the Jewish Yizkor (Remembrance). The most moving and heartbreaking section was an excerpt from Chosen Family, an unfinished play by William Justin Smith. In the last paragraph, the author bids farewell to his dying lover:

I held him in my lap, cradled him. That man who meant everything to me. And I sang, "Hush, little baby, don't you cry. ..." And I prayed. Time passed without being noticed. The room became thick with bands of silver and gold light. It was as if all the people who had passed before had come to help my lover die. Breath like a cry and all the world adjusted itself to life without David.

The music itself, decent but not amazing or particularly original, is written in a basically neo-Romantic idiom, reminiscent at its best of Samuel Barber and John Rutter (indeed, I was reminded of Rutter's own Requiem a few times), with touches of Mahler and Poulenc. The a cappella setting of the Lacrymosa was particularly beautiful, making masterful use of the rich and lush yet melancholy sound of the male choir. Elsewhere, the music was often drawn-out and meandering, and in more than a few places I thought the text would have been better served by more restrained, subtle music.

The choir had a warm, rich sound and sang with great passion and commitment. The soloists were all good, although the women (Elspeth Franks, soprano and Jennifer Palmer Boesing, mezzo-soprano) were sometimes covered by the lush orchestral texture. Tenor Kevin Gibbs sang with a light yet resonant and angelic voice, and Runyon projected a strong sense of drama and meaning. The orchestra played reasonably well, although intonation problems on string harmonics jumped out on several occasions. The booming, diffuse acoustic of the church also rendered many of the fast, loud, or heavily orchestrated passages a bit muddy and indistinct.

It might sound odd, but in the end, the quality of the music was of secondary importance. Might a more original or refined score have created a greater impact? Possibly. But this piece was, in a way, more functional than artistic. It existed to accompany a ritual, a quasi-religious ceremony. As such, originality was less important than the need for the music to suit the ritual. Whatever reservations I might have had, the heartfelt standing ovation at the end made it clear that the music had fulfilled its purpose.

I have not lost a loved one to AIDS, nor did I live in San Francisco at the height of the AIDS epidemic, nor was I old enough when it first hit to fully appreciate what it meant. But the sense of community and shared sadness on Tuesday night was overwhelming. I looked at my fellow San Franciscans in the audience and wondered whom they had lost, whom they were remembering, what it was like to have lived through those times. And I empathized and grieved alongside them.

I didn't fully realize how deeply the concert had affected me until it was over and I was alone in my car. I cried the whole way home.