We dedicate today's concert to all those around the world who are suffering from the violence of war and other humanitarian crises. We hold in our hearts the innocent lives that have been lost and the survivors whose lives have been touched by unspeakable horrors. We honor those whose fierce determination to promote peace and security in our world has led to great personal suffering and loss.  We offer this performance with love in our hearts and thank you for sharing in this emotional journey with us.

“El Cant Dels Ocells” (The Song of the Birds) is a traditional Catalan Christmas song, made popular in the twentieth century by cellist Pau Casals. While living and performing in exile to protest Francisco Franco’s repressive dictatorship, Casals often ended his concerts with the piece as an homage to his native Catalonia. The Catalan populace embraced this gesture and essentially adopted “El Cant Dels Ocells” as the region’s national anthem, symbolizing freedom and peace. 

Today you will hear an unusual arrangement for harp and soprano voice, a talented collaboration between Deborah Brown, Sherrie Kahn, and Jill Whitman. The sustained, celestial accompaniment of the harp imparts an aura of reverence and mystery. The soprano voice enters poignantly to describe the adoration of the birds who sing and celebrate the miraculous birth that presages Christ’s defeat of death. For an anthem of joy, the work’s G minor setting is curiously melancholy, but hauntingly beautiful, aptly expressing the soul’s longing for resolution and release. In this musical vignette, the simple creatures of nature are the first to discover, understand, and proclaim the profound sacrifice of God’s gift and the love it embodies.

Against the backdrop of World War II’s horrific destruction and inhuman cruelty, Benjamin Britten (1913–1976) composed his ethereal Christmas cantata, A Ceremony of Carols. The acclaimed musician journeyed from his native England in 1939 as the war began, taking advantage of receptive audiences in the United States and, incidentally, avoiding conscription into the British army. By March of 1942 Britten felt compelled to return to his homeland and demonstrate his loyalty to a nation now devastated and demoralized by blitzkrieg bombings and severe rationing. A Ceremony of Carols was composed during his trans-Atlantic voyage on a Swedish cargo vessel, the work’s genesis coinciding with the constant threat of U-boat attacks and the uncertainty of Great Britain’s survival.

For his text Britten chose several fifteenth- and sixteenth-century medieval poems from The English Galaxy of Shorter Poems, a handbook he purchased during the ship’s stopover in Halifax, Nova Scotia. The archaic mix of Latin and Middle English links this twentieth-century work to the unwavering convictions enjoyed by previous ages, and proposes faith as an enduring truth. Britten’s innovative use of the harp as sole accompaniment further accentuates the austere fervency of the words and melodies. The early manuscript called for women to sing three treble lines. At publication, however, Britten suggested the work be performed by boy sopranos, and this tradition has been widely followed in recordings. Years later, as the cantata proved popular, Britten authorized a four-part choral arrangement, with men’s voices frequently doubling the treble parts. 

The composer’s original scoring emphasized the pure and simple ideal of faith, with angelic voices paying homage to the Christ child. However, the lower registers provide a wonderful richness and depth of tone. Regardless of the vocal arrangement, a deep serenity and sincerity of belief pervade the work, emphasizing Britten’s desire to restore hope in a world of chaos.

A Ceremony of Carols opens dramatically with a procession of treble voices united in a haunting Gregorian chant, “Hodie Christus natus est” (Today Christ is born). The solemn, emphatic plainsong invokes a holy tradition of devout Christian adherents and protectors of the sacred word. The following movement, “Wolcum Yole!” shifts dramatically to an exuberant celebration of Christ’s miraculous birth, the New Year, and the new age that this wondrous event portends. The choir sings boisterously, nearly hysterical with joy, while the accompanying harp sounds a relentless two beats in every measure, driving the momentum forward toward the promise embodied by the newly born.

Movement three, “There is no Rose,” contrasts the frenzy of “Wolcum Yole!” with a tender homage to the Virgin Mary. The harp continues its confident two-beat emphasis, but this pattern is disrupted by assertive triplets in the vocal line celebrating the miracle of Jesus’s birth that departs from all previous understanding. The accompaniment provides further contrast to the vocal line through Britten’s use of regular descending bass notes, whereas the treble melody primarily ascends. This transformative musical tension aptly encapsulates the climactic textual moment of “Transeamus” or “crossing over” from earthly turmoil to heavenly peace. The movement ends in a mysterious hush, creating space to discover the sanctity of silence.

The following lullabies, “That yonge child” and “Balulalow,” reiterate the familiar Christmas theme of loving devotion between mother and child. However, Britten’s use of halting, off-kilter rhythms and unexpected dissonant melodies introduces an uneasy prescience that the birth of this babe signals a new world order. Movement five, “As dew in Aprille,” begins with a joyful proclamation of Christ’s supremacy and Mary’s worthiness. The choral voice adamantly unites in the first twelve measures and then suddenly divides into an irrepressible cascade of effervescent sound. This playful canon disassociates the idea of God’s supremacy from force, repeating with hushed certainty that humanity’s conquering savior “came al so stille,” softly and miraculously “As dew in Aprille.” The paradox of defenseless innocence triumphing over evil achieves a thrilling climax in the cantata’s most oft-performed movement, “This little Babe.” A dynamic, militaristic cadence pronounces Christ’s victory over death with utter confidence. Britten then brilliantly illustrates the desperate chaos of the battle with a strident four-part vocal fugue that ultimately resolves into a determined statement of faith.

The celestial harp interlude offers a comforting, peaceful respite and virtuosic demonstration of the instrument’s versatility. With melodic variations echoing the opening and closing plainsong chant, this exquisite movement unifies the entire work. Movement eight, “In Freezing Winter Night,” captures in sound the icy threat of darkness that paralyzes virtue in the absence of hope. Its discordant, angular chords and elongated 5/4 meter augment this discomfiture until a key change at the halfway point reinstates the Christ child as the deliverer. 

Winter gives way inevitably to the warm promise of “Spring Carol,” a playful, dance-like soprano duet in which the harp mimics the gamboling leaps of newborn lambs. Praising this eternal cycle of rebirth, movement ten explodes with an ecstatic choral unison voice, “Deo Gracias” (Thanks to God). The emphatic narrative surges forward on the driving eighth notes of harp accompaniment, relating the doctrine of Adam and Eve’s fortunate fall, whereby it is only possible to comprehend the joy of salvation after experiencing the desolation of sin. Bell-like iterations of fervent praise reverberate between voice parts in a cacophony of ardor, from which consensus finally emerges whole in a magnificent statement of “gracias.” 

Britten concludes A Ceremony of Carols with voices united in plainsong chant, just as it began. He returns to the steadfast conviction of an earlier era that can also enlighten the future. The chant bestows peace with the assurance that “Today Christ is born.” And like hands clasped in prayer, Britten positions these words to create a womblike space holding hope for humanity.

John Rutter’s (b. 1945) “Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day” is inspired by a much loved English carol. Although a printed version appeared in 1833, the piece probably originated in the sixteenth century as part of a medieval mystery play depicting the life of Christ. A notable innovation is the lyrical use of Christ’s first-person voice and the portrayal of his mortal life as a jubilant dance. The chorus invites all humanity, the savior’s beloved, to join this rapturous dance. Rutter captures the optimism of the text with a lilting melody and an enchanting harp accompaniment. The uplifting theme is first sung by a small group, then emphatically restated in unison by the entire choir. Succeeding verses introduce intertwining harmonies and staggered entrances to musically replicate the communal hopefulness of the dance motif. Underlying the voices, the harp nimbly drives the tempo forward, never ceasing its playful entreaty for every soul to enter Christ’s covenant of love.

Conrad Susa (1935–2013) studied at the Carnegie Institute of Technology and Juilliard before embarking on a prolific career composing scores for theater, documentary films, and television, as well as five operas. His work Carols and Lullabies: Christmas in the Southwest was commissioned as a companion piece to Benjamin Britten’s A Ceremony of Carols by conductor and founder of VocalEssence, Philip Brunelle. Susa wrote with regard to the project, “After several years of me writing in doubt, a friend showed me a collection of traditional Spanish carols he had sung as a boy in Arizona . . . I noted their many connections with Renaissance music along with their homey, artful simplicity. The overriding image of a Southwestern piñata party for the new baby led me to add guitar and marimba to Britten’s harp and to compose connective music and totally re-conceive the carols.” Although Susa subtitled his composition “Christmas in the Southwest,” the individual movements draw inspiration from musical traditions originating in Biscay, Catalonia, Andalusia, and Castilla, as well as Puerto Rico, South America, and Mexico. In this way Susa embraces vibrant regional distinctions in addition to a communal Hispanic heritage that joyfully celebrates the Christ child.

Movement I, “¡Oh, mi Belén!” begins with regular eighth notes in the guitar accompaniment that suggest the donkey’s careful steps as it carries Mary to Bethlehem. The journey is long and difficult, but leads to a city radiant with light in anticipation of the holy birth. Susa represents the brilliance of this arrival musically with a rising sweep of choral harmony, as all four vocal parts enter for the first time. The virgin mother’s blessed deliverance at the end of an arduous journey parallels the idea of a pathway toward purity and light that any believer may follow. The movement’s final chord remains hanging and unresolved, as if the journey is far from complete.

“El Desembre Congelat” offers a playful contrast between the barren cold of winter and the fragrant rebirth of spring’s abundance. A white lily symbolizing the holy infant defies the cold and asserts life over death. Susa composes an exuberant call-and-response exchange between voice parts that connotes a childlike assurance of the joyful promise that is God’s greatest gift.

The instrumental introduction of “Alegría” takes a dramatic turn, with the marimba striking an insistent 6/8 rhythm and the harp delivering a pleading descant in C-sharp minor. A rich baritone melody tells the familiar story of Mary and Joseph finding no room at the inn. The refrain, however, celebrates the secret joy that Mary carries in her womb. The choir repeats variations of this exuberant chorus, imitating the forest birds that sing songs of delighted praise. Simple creatures perceive the inner truths that outward appearances conceal.

Following the exhilaration of “Alegría” is a haunting lullaby inspired by Britten’s “Balulalow.” Susa’s title phrase, “A la Nanita Nana,” has no translatable meaning, but replicates the murmur of a mother soothing her baby to sleep. The movement concludes with a blessing of angelic voices, then a strangely foreboding measure in which the guitar foreshadows trials to come, before Mary’s comforting refrain returns.

The Hispanic tradition of “Las Posadas” celebrates the struggle to find a safe space where Jesus could be born. Through the poignant voice of Joseph’s lullaby, Susa asks whether it is wise to allow the world inside this shelter to witness and share the savior’s miraculous birth. Initially, regular rhythms move forward confidently, but as solo voices enter, a shift to halting syncopation introduces an air of hesitancy. The tender melody aptly portrays the uncertain responsibility of becoming a parent, to say nothing of assuming earthly guardianship of the Messiah.

The bells ring out with the opening notes of “Campana sobre Campana,” tolling the joyous news of Christ’s birth and proclaiming that the babe is secure under God’s protection. Angels sing from the heavens, and shepherds answer their call, bringing humble gifts of wine, cheese, and butter to honor the child. The voices trade snippets of verse with raucous gaiety, then imitate the resounding sonority of the bells, inviting one and all to celebrate God’s supreme gift.

The poetic text of “En Belén Tocan A Fuego” urges listeners to come and see the holy flames illuminating the stable, for fire symbolizes the presence of God, evidence that the child is indeed God’s son. Verse two likens the baby to a white carnation, a symbol of incarnation by which the spirit of God became flesh. The blossom then transforms into a purple lily, signifying purity, rebirth, and eternal life, thus foretelling Jesus’s resurrection. Verse three depicts Mary cleansing the holy infant’s swaddling clothes, a metaphor for the washing away of human sin. Susa’s melody relates the story with a stately, almost plaintive tone, conveying the suffering that lies ahead for this innocent child. By contrast, Susa energizes the glistening fish, leaping and dancing in the water, with a lively, buoyant choral refrain and a flurry of sixteenth notes from the guitar. Jesus said, “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men” (Matthew 4:19). During early times of Christian persecution, the sign of the fish provided an identifying mark for believers. In Susa’s spirited rendition, the community of converts or faithful fish rejoice in the liberty of salvation through Christ.

Movements VIII and IX emphasize the wondrous power of this vulnerable child to gather worshipers from all paths of life. The warm harmonies and rocking rhythm of “El Noi de la Mare” ask simply, “What can we bring that will give him delight?” highlighting the impetus toward selflessness that Christ’s ministry embodied. Gifts of raisins and honey, olives, walnuts, and figs confirm the humble bounty of earth’s creation as the greatest treasure. A textual note explains that “Chiqirriquitín” is “probably a variant of ‘chiquero,’ meaning ‘stable,’ ‘manger,’ or ‘sty.’” Susa uses the word’s percussive consonants to playfully accentuate the irony of Christ’s birthplace. The townspeople shout excitedly, “Follow us to the manger!” and no one is deemed too lowly to approach the cradle of God. Nevertheless, revelry turns to awe and wonder as the stable scene is revealed and the onlookers begin to realize what it means to see God. Susa concludes his Christmas homage with a lullaby—the loving plea of all new parents for their newborns to peacefully go to sleep. 

“El Rorro” surrounds the holy infant with very human emotions, but also recalls that this blessed babe is like no other. Worshippers gather in reverent awe and angels sing praises from the heavens. Still, underlying the adulation of each verse is the soothing phrase “rururru,” passed between choral voice parts. The babe must sleep and collect his strength, for tomorrow begins his life’s mission to redeem the world. The entire work ends with a quiet restatement of the melodic theme heard in “¡Oh mi Belén!” reminding the audience that one’s journey to Bethlehem’s wonder, hope, and fulfillment begins with accepting the guiding light of faith.

In composing the boisterous “¡Fum, Fum, Fum!” Susa drew inspiration from a sixteenth-century Catalan carol. He intended the piece as an encore to Carols and Lullabies: Christmas in the Southwest, and it surely delivers a rousing finale. “Fum” translates to “smoke” in Catalan, and the verses that follow refer to the cold night and the Christ child’s need for warmth and light. It has been suggested that the refrain, “fum, fum, fum,” mimics one blowing on a fire to intensify the flame. It may also be an onomatopoetic reference to the strumming of a guitar, the beating of a drum, or the rocking of a cradle. No matter the literal meaning, the imperative lyrics and insistent rhythms of the song deliver a command. A new and miraculous life has entered the world, which must not be ignored. Each of us has something to offer, whether it be warmth, praise, music, comfort, or light. The carol entreats us to engage, to kindle the fire. And the world is forever altered as we answer the call, allowing this fragile babe to enlighten our hearts.

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