Lots of music stands [he says again]; instruments are carried in. A violin for the lame Mr Baroch. The positive organ in front, Hanáček, organist and headmaster, pulls out the very long stops. Me a treble, Hönig double bass; there were even oboes and trumpets.

Janáček's description of improvisatory liturgical music during his teenage years couldn't be further from the grand statements of the Glagolitic Mass, which opens this year's Proms. Brought up in a Monastery boarding school, Janáček played the organ, conducted the choir and eventually founded a Czech choral society in the city. It's a familiar tale to anyone who has gone through the English cathedral tradition. Yet something slipped and later in life Janáček would have nothing to do with organised religion. Whether the early death of both of his children had dented his faith – it certainly damaged his marriage – Janáček pursued a more esoteric faith. He came to think that religion was ‘concentrated death. Tombs under the floor, bones on the altar, pictures full of torture and dying. Rituals, prayers, chants – death and nothing but death. I don’t want to have anything to do with it’.


After the training at the Augustinian Monastery, Janáček wrote a mass setting in 1908, though this was an academic example from which his students at the Brno Organ School were meant to take their lessons. What had been his lifeblood at school became an academic exercise. Instead, Janáček pursued a more dramatic, pantheistic faith, depicted in the tableaux vivants of his setting of the Lord’s Prayer or the decadent incense-clouded poetry of his Věčné evangelium (The Eternal Gospel). Liturgical music was a dead strand in the composer’s output. Having lost two children and living an adulterous life, Janáček was hardly the picture of Catholic propriety. Like many of his Modernist cohort, he rejected the sentimental piety of 19th century belief, preferring the religion of the earth, as celebrated in the eternal cycle of nature in The Cunning Little Vixen.

Across Europe new ideas of belief and spirituality started to grow. Bacchanalian beliefs in Munich’s suburb of Schwabing celebrated matriarchy, Dionysian rites, ancient religion and pagan ritual. Gusto Gräser threw away bourgeois respectability and walked up and down Italy without shoes and a fantastical long beard, while the 'Wandervögel' in the Austrian and German countryside stripped down to nothing and hailed the new age, seekers of truth in an irrational landscape. Even the established religions found new life, not least in the Zionism of Theodr Herzl’s Vienna or the Prague group Bar Kochba. Janáček was no different in rejecting the tradition modes and mores of religion for a freer, broader belief. And like his contemporaries he returned to his roots to find the essence of those beliefs. Recalling a story when he stole timpani for a service at the church in Hukvaldy as a child, or his time as a choral and organ scholar in the Brno monastery, Janáček eventually came back to religion in 1926, seen through a dramatic lens.


As in 1917, when he had met Kamila Stösslová, Janáček spent some of his summer in the spa town at Luhačovice. Having completed the full score of the second act of The Makropulos Case, Janáček began work on a new piece, The Glagolitic Mass. Breaking usual behaviour, he brought the score with him to the spa. Normally he had such a busy social life and timetable of treatments there that composition wasn’t really an option. Yet this year something had stuck with him; it was a meeting he had with the Archbishop of Olomouc in 1921, who whilst criticizing the paucity of religious music in Czechoslovakia, suggested that the composer try his hand at a new setting of the mass. Rather typically, Janáček opted out of a traditional Latin setting, and chose an Old Church Slavonic text. The term ‘Glagolitic’ refers to the original script in which Old Church Slavonic was written. The original words date from the 9th century, and were used in church services on the 7th July, the feast day of St Cyril and St Methodius. Janáček later said in an article printed in his local paper that the piece was inspired by an electrical storm he witnessed whilst on holiday in Luhačovice.

It grows darker and darker. Already I am looking into the black night; flashes of lightning cut through it. I switch on the flickering electric light on the high ceiling. I sketch nothing more than the quiet motive of a desperate frame of mind to the words ‘Gospodi pomiluj’ [Lord have mercy]. Nothing more than the joyous shout ‘Slava, Slava!’ [Glory].

It was there, in Luhačovice that the majority of The Glagolitic Mass was written. Janáček revised the work thoroughly later in the year, and it was first performed in the composer’s adopted hometown of Brno on the 5 December 1927 and in Prague on the 8 April 1928.


The Mass is peppered with Janáček’s customary traits; use of repeated motives, short bursts of lyricism and bizarre, often surprising groupings of instruments within the orchestra. It is a triumphant work (quite apart from Janáček’s own thoughts on religion) and much like his opera The Cunning Little Vixen celebrates life overcoming death. Whether Janáček wanted to or not, he created a piece that echoed the primary teachings of the Christian Church he had chosen to leave behind, but one, he said:

Without the gloom of medieval monastic cells in its motifs,
without a trace of well-worn imitative procedures,
without a trace of fugal, Bachian strettos,
without a trace of Beethovenian pathos,
without Haydn’s playfulness…


To view it as such, however, is to take the work at face value. For when the letters he wrote to Kamila Stösslová were eventually published in 1990, what had seemed a celebratory work revealed itself as deeply personal. Like the timpani solo that comes through, or the wild toccata for organ near the end, both echoing his early life in Hukvaldy and Brno, the ‘meaning’ of this Mass is not necessarily about life after death. It is about life during life. Like all other genres he encountered, with The Glagolitic Mass Janáček made religious music his own. Click here for more information on the Opening Night of the Proms.
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It was a salutary experience visiting the Hôtel des Bains on the Lido in Venice last week. The site of Gustav von Aschenbach’s demise, it is one of the most evocative places in the literary and cinematic world. Full of Mahlerian resonances, triggered both by Mann and Visconti alike, this truly magnificent vacation palace – a sort of melancholy precursor to Wes Anderson’s Grand Budapest Hotel – met its end in 2010. The art nouveau beast, host to Georg Trakl, Peter Altenberg, Adolf Loos and Arthur Schnitzler in 1913 and Diaghilev on his final, tragic trip to Venice in 1929, looms over the Lido like a beautiful if now redundant whale. Evidence of its conversion into apartments, three years after the announcement, is scant if not non-existent.
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One of the major topics of the London Book Fair this year, as indeed in many previous years, concerns the digitisation of books and how that growing trends is having an impact on the industry as a whole. This lunchtime, on the World at One on BBC Radio Four, Martha Kearney has been discussing those issues with a number of studio guests. One of the other commentators savvily pointed out that in the future there will be two types of books: e-books and beautiful books.

Richard Strauss's 150th birthday has spurred a great slew of recordings, some new, some re-released. The trend reaches a particularly profligate level this month, with discs featuring old established interpreters such as Wilhelm Furtwängler and Karl Böhm sitting proudly side by side with a new guard of Daniel Harding and Andris Nelsons.

Wes Anderson is well-known for whacky. And his ostensible Stefan Zweig tribute, The Grand Budapest Hotel, is no different. Gaudy in colour and no less variegated in its humour, the film is a romp from start to finish. But in a world where style certainly seeks to impress above substance, it's a considerable feat that Anderson's film also has great heart. Whether or not it ultimately has anything to do with Zweig is another matter.

The world of Lieder is, to quote A.E. Housman, a 'land of lost content', full of 'happy highways' and not quite so happy highways where we 'cannot come again'. That is unless you're Thomas Larcher, the Austrian-born composer, whose new disc is out on Harmonia Mundi. I first heard Larcher's work at Wigmore Hall in 2011, including a song cycle he had written for one of my favourite singers, Mark Padmore.

The Royal Opera House announced its plans for the the 2014/15 season this morning. On the dance side, there are enticing propositions from Wayne McGregor, who's creating a full-length work for The Royal Ballet based on Virginia Woolf's output, with a new score by Max Richter. There are also new one-act works from Hofesh Shechter, who's this year's Brighton Festival Guest Director, and in-house favourite Liam Scarlett.
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Roger Wright, currently controller of BBC Radio 3 and director of the BBC Proms, is going to become Chief Executive of Aldeburgh Music. Few can have envied Wright's task of steering BBC Radio 3 through the ongoing cuts and adjustments to the way the Corporation is run.
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And so David Pountney continues his austerity-bucking plans for WNO. Announcing his 2014/15 season for the Cardiff-based company, Pountney has lined-up a punchy Rossini season, with Mosè in Egitto and Guillaume Tell, before a spring season of 'magic, with Die Zauberflöte and Hänsel und Gretel side by side and, finally, the UK premiere of Richard Ayres's Peter Pan and a new Pelléas et Mélisande for Wales in the summer.

A few years ago I was lucky to be invited by White Label for EMI (as was) to write the liner notes for a re-release of Willi Boskovsky's survey of the waltzes, polkas and gallops of the Golden Age of Johann Strauss II and his coterie. The recordings have formed the backbone to my current History of the Waltz course at City Lit, which sadly finishes next week. Boskovsky's not trendy.

I have always loved Die Frau ohne Schatten, since the moment I first heard the Act II finale, 'Barak, ich hab' es nicht getan!', on an EMI CD of highlights for The Royal Opera's 1992/93 season. Back then Bernard Haitink was at the helm – the disc featured Sawallisch's Bavarian recording – though last night it was Semyon Bychkov who voyaged through Strauss's vast score.
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