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‘Assimilating the Vernacular’: James MacMillan’s Mass (2000)
[QUOTATION] It is often said of Tavener’s music that it is a celebration of the
risen Christ. Whereas many have said about my music that I seem preoccupied
with the crucified Christ, that I seem to be drawn again and again to the
Passion. (MacMillan 2003, 40)
It may seem slightly incongruous to look specifically at the mass settings of James
MacMillan, a composer for whom the liturgy and the wider influence of his Catholic
faith has had such bearing on not just the majority of his musical output, but on his
entire compositional ethos and personal philosophy. For the liturgy has provided the
basis and starting impulse for MacMillan’s large corpus of sacred choral pieces, and
indeed the bulk of his instrumental works, many of which may initially be thought of
as abstract. For if MacMillan’s mass settings (seven works to date) represent a small
(if ever expanding) section of his total body of work, why then choose to spend time
looking at these in detail when a comprehensive survey of his entire output would
yield a more representative view of his relationship to the liturgy? However, it is
precisely this all-encompassing influence of the liturgy and Catholicism that, in my
opinion, makes an in-depth look at the purely liturgical works all the more relevant;
for here we find the composer ‘stripped’ of the myriad of allusions and implications
that characterise other works and find him working in the most explicit manner.
Gone are the liturgical chants buried deep in an orchestral texture or the oblique
references to liturgical practice, here we find MacMillan at his most direct and
communicative.
Although no one would accuse James MacMillan of being anything other then
forthright with his views on Catholicism, the chance to see how an unequivocal
Catholic composer responds to the most important part of the rite is one of the most
interesting aspects of analysing MacMillan’s mass settings. Surely here we find the
composer at his most reverent, respectful of the sanctity of the liturgy; surely here we
find the composer at his most triumphant, proclaiming his unswerving faith and
belief to all who will listen? Both of these aspects are present in MacMillan’s mass
settings in equal amounts, and it is this dichotomy that makes these works all the
more rewarding for closer inspection. For in these pieces we can see a microcosm of
MacMillan’s ‘mature’ compositional style: his musical processes, his personal beliefs,
his ideological concerns and perhaps most importantly his relationship to the liturgy,
‘the starting point for everything.’i
As I mentioned previously, MacMillan has to date composed seven settings of the
mass: three congregational mass settings (St Anne’s Mass, 1985, rev. 1996, Galloway
Mass, 1996 and the Mass of Blessed John Henry Newman, 2010), two settings of the
Missa Brevis (Missa Brevis, an early setting from 1977 that was revised and elaborated
by the composer in 2006 and Missa Dunelmi, 2010) a brand new Little Mass (a setting
of just the Kyrie, Sanctus and Agnus Dei for children’s choir and orchestra that was
premiered in April 2015) and the Mass (2000). For the purpose of this paper I will
mainly be focussing on the Mass, though the other works will be mentioned to help
illustrate points at certain times. The Mass (sometimes referred to as the Westminster
Mass) was commissioned for the choir of Westminster Cathedral, and first performed
on the Feast of Corpus Christi (April 2000) by the choir directed by Martin Baker.ii
Whenever James MacMillan’s music is discussed, three things are mentioned
without fail: MacMillan is a Catholic, a socialist and a nationalist (though whether
the second of these is still true is a moot point, a quick glance at the composer’s
Twitter feed may indicate otherwise). These traits are often worn as a badge by both
MacMillan and his detractors as either a way in to understanding the composer’s
music, or as a way of highlighting the deficiencies in it; as if the music is unable to
stand without this trinity of influences. The three traits are often true, but by
qualifying them and looking at them in more detail we can understand more about
MacMillan’s personal makeup and how this is reflected in his music, and in the
liturgical works.
MacMillan is indeed a Catholic, however his brand of Catholicism is relatively
progressive; he is a committed ecumenical (with Anglican sympathies) and against
celibacy in the priesthood. Although he attempts to give his faith full focus is all his
work, he hasn’t been afraid to speak out against it, criticising amongst other things
the church’s rejection of plainchant. He is also not doctrinally restrictive taking
influence from other branches of Christianity and religions.iii MacMillan’s personal
form of Catholicism is very much embedded in pragmatism, in a living, breathing,
non-dogmatic form; this is of utmost relevance to the philosophy behind the mass
settings.
When MacMillan came to prominence in the late 1980s he had pronounced socialist
sympathies; even if these are less pronounced today, certain aspects of this leftleaning manifests in his work, not least in his commitment to community concerns. A
small but important section of his body of work is written for children or amateurs
(including the three congregational mass settings and the ever-growing corpus of
works he has written for the choir of St Columba’s Church, Maryhill in Glasgow
where he is conductor), and there is a sense of practicality in the majority of his
work.
In terms of nationalism, MacMillan referred to the SNP in 1995 as ‘a very benign
form of nationalism’ (though he may be reneging on that statement in recent years)
(Johnson 1995); he rejects ‘Anglophobia’ in Scotland, and has publicly spoken out
against anti-Catholic sentiments in his homeland (in the infamous ‘Scotland’s Shame’
address at the Edinburgh Festival in 2000). MacMillan’s form of nationalism is very
much in the rediscovering of heritage and culture and in a sense of national unity
and pride. It is through the use of Scottish vernacular music that he often seeks to do
this.
This relationship of religion with the social and the political is emphasised by
MacMillan’s interest in ‘Liberation Theology’, a heavily politicised form of religious
theory in which religion is redefined in a secular context. This practice which was
begun in Latin America in the late 1960s suggests a certain level of humanism, as it
aims to transform society by overcoming the conditions of poverty, oppression and
violence. It stresses the importance of the church at the ‘base’ of society, not only as a
service to the community but of seeing a perspective of the poor and oppressed.
Liberation Theology is practical, ‘hands on’ religion at its most fundamental level as
it spreads the message of the bible to those for who, in a political and social climate,
need it most. MacMillan has stated: ‘Liberation Theology has had its day and become
an historical thing, but the experience the church is going through has been
invaluable because it has reminded us of the central importance within the Gospel of
taking the poor’s side, as it were, and that’s not a political statement, it’s in with the
bricks of the Gospel’ (MacMillan in Tavener 2007). This practicality is of utmost
importance to MacMillan.iv
All of this highlights MacMillan’s pragmatism; they highlight someone who is rooted
in the contemporary – the here and now. It is because of this that we can class
MacMillan’s ethos and his compositional style as being very much in the vernacular,
as this word will become increasingly important the further one looks at the Mass.
For although the Mass is undeniably written to the glory of God and very much has
elements of transcendence to it, the work is as much an exploration of human faith,
and reflects human concerns. To describe the work as being both ‘earthly and
heavenly’ (Whitbourn 2001) would be an apt description as one feels that this is not
just the composer’s personal votive, but a statement of faith that can be reinforced
and echoed by everyone. The notion of community concerns rings true here, as one
feels that the congregational as well as personal commitment to God is paramount;
there is a need for directness and understanding in the Mass so as to strengthen the
bond between congregation and God. It is because of this, that one can describe
MacMillan’s attitude toward the mass as being very much in the vernacular.
How exactly are elements of the vernacular present in the Mass? The most obvious
point is his decision to set the English translation of the Ordinary of the Mass (and
latterly, the most recent translation), no means a straightforward choice regarding
the heritage of Westminster Cathedral Choir. This decision, not espoused by many
composers (including Britten in his Westminster Cathedral commission Missa Brevis)
suggests a level of inclusiveness in MacMillan’s thinking, again stripping away any
extraneous layers between man and God. MacMillan’s decision to use the vernacular
text in his mass settings (all three congregational settings are in English) becomes
more relevant when one considers that many of his sacred, i.e. non-liturgical, works
are Latin settings. These works are all designed for ‘professional’ choral
performances, where the audience’s level of understanding is subservient to the
overall musical effect. When these two factors are switched (such as in the Mass) then
the vernacular becomes more important.v This is emphasised by his work A Child’s
Prayer dedicated to the dead of the Dunblane tragedy in 1996. Here MacMillan
chooses to set an English textvi, so as the necessary feelings of grief and sympathy can
be expressed more directly.
Another element of a vernacular style is a purely musical, though equally ideological
choice made by MacMillan before composing the Mass: what will be the musical
makeup of the Mass, what will be its ‘genetic’ characteristics? This may seem like a
somewhat general question, however it is worth noting the three compositional
‘faces’ of James MacMillan: dissonant angularity, sugary consonance and a
conciliatory middle-ground between the two. The first is present in such works as
Seinte Mari Moder Milde (1994) or Màiri (1995), both written for performers used to
such repertoire and for occasions not unsympathetic to this style.vii The second is
found in such works as the aforementioned A Child’s Prayer or one of MacMillan’s
most well-known recent works O Radiant Dawn (from the Strathclyde Motets in 2007),
works written for performers of a less ‘professional’ nature or for occasions that did
not warrant a greater level of dissonance. The third is present in the majority of
MacMillan’s choral works, and it is into this category that the Mass falls.
We can classify the Mass as a conciliatory work as it blends together aspects of the
other two categories; we find awkward intervals and dense chromatic passages in
both the Sanctus and the Agnus Dei; more conventional tonal passages and radiant
consonances in the Kyrie and the whole of the Eucharistic section. Here we again
encounter MacMillan the pragmatist, as he seeks to reconcile both a choir
experienced in modern music (for the choir have given recent premieres by amongst
others Peter Maxwell Davies and Roxanna Panufnik), and a congregation one
presumes are more schooled in the music of Palestrina and Lassus. MacMillan could
quite easily have chosen to write in a wholly tonal idiom (as in the congregational
mass settings), as this would have perhaps been the most inclusive way of
approaching the liturgy; however his decision to strike a balance between the two
suggests a striving for a common language between choir and congregation: a
vernacular tongue spoken by both.
He achieves this by structuring the Mass as a wholly through-composed work, where
the opening phrase of the Cantor (or bass solo) provides the musical material for the
entire work. We can separate this phrase into three sections (as illustrated in example
1) each of which are expanded upon throughout; this sense of motivic development
gives the work an entirely organic theme, one that seems completely appropriate for
the Eucharist.
Example 1: Opening Cantor phrase (b. 2-4) of the ‘Kyrie’ (permission of Boosey &
Hawkes):
The opening fragment, A (which I will also refer to as the ‘Eucharist’ theme), is
perhaps the most important melodic material as it is used and developed in all of the
Ordinary movements from the Mass; it also forms the basis of the whole Eucharist
section (along with aspects of B and C) especially those in which the congregation
takes part. This particular motif is seemingly of great personal significance to
MacMillan, not only because of the important role it plays in the Mass, but because
he also chooses to give prominence to a very similar motif in the Magnificat of 1999
and in the Kyrie from the Missa Dunelmi (2011) (see example 2). It is almost as if this
particular motif is in some way directly related to MacMillan’s process of writing
liturgical music; almost like a personal leitmotif that MacMillan feels he must work
in to these pieces as a show of faith.
Example 2: Similarities between motifs from ‘Kyrie’ from the Mass (b. 2-3) the
‘Magnificat’ (b. 28-29) and ‘Kyrie’ from Missa Dunelmi (b. 15-16) (permission of
Boosey & Hawkes):
The second fragment, B (what we may call the ‘transubstantiation’ theme) is also of
importance, but here in a more theological way as it will be variants of this motif that
carry some of the theological weight behind the mass. MacMillan chooses a variation
on this theme as a herald to the act of transubstantiation during the Eucharist. The
theme occurs twice during the Eucharistic Prayer both times just before the ringing
of the communion bell; in doing this MacMillan not only continues the thoughcomposed nature of the movement, but adds a signpost for the listener, almost a
companion to the bell but on a deeper musical level. The earlier appearances of the
transubstantiation theme in both the Gloria and Benedictus also expand upon the
through-composed idea; the theme is used in these movements to denote
triumphalism, and occurs after the text ‘we praise You for your glory’ and ‘hosanna
in the highest’. This interjecting of ideas (both musical and liturgical) will have
deeper significance when one looks at the Agnus Dei in more depth.
The third fragment, C (the ‘sighing’ theme), is also found in various guises
throughout the Mass, not least in its simplest from of a descending tone, or
appoggiatura. The long Celebrant sections of the Eucharistic Prayer and the
Memorial Acclamations are examples of this, being organised such that the sighing
theme becomes the end of each cantillation, therefore acting as a pseudo-cadence to
each line. Again, the importance of the sighing theme becomes greatest in the Agnus
Dei, where this simple gesture takes on added significance.
MacMillan’s decision to have the Mass through-composed is not unique, the same
technique is found (in varying degrees of sophistication) in the two earlier mass
settings, and the later congregational setting the Mass of Blessed John Henry Newman.
In fact, in many ways the earlier mass settings act as a test-bed for the Mass, as many
ideas found in the later work have their seeds in the congregational pieces. There are
similarities in the formal schemes of the mass settings, all three omit the Credo; the
first Amen is taken from the Gloria; the Agnus Dei has large elements of the Kyrie.
The idea of blending cantor and congregational sections is first exhibited in the
Galloway Mass. The idea that they might all share material would be strange, as the
simple homophony of the St Anne’s Mass is completely removed from the florid
polyphony of the Kyrie from the Westminster Mass. However a recurring theme from
the St Anne’s Mass has distinct similarities to one found throughout the Westminster
Mass (see example 3). Perhaps MacMillan was acknowledging the debt to his earlier
work, or perhaps this is another example of the personal leitmotifs that MacMillan
chooses to weave into his work.viii Though if applied to other composers this theory
might seem decidedly unreasoned, with regards to MacMillan and his preference for
overuse of gesture (more of which later), it seems all the more plausible.
Example 3: Similarities between motifs from St Anne’s Mass and the Mass (permission
of Boosey & Hawkes):
The St Anne’s Mass is also important if we consider its place in the timeline of
MacMillan’s creative growth, for it was initially composed in 1985 (though revised in
1996, with a new edition in 2011) whilst MacMillan was still a doctoral student at
Durham University. Whilst at University, MacMillan was becoming increasingly
disillusioned with modernism and began searching for other musical avenues; it
would be at this point that he first began adding elements of folk music to his work.
As MacMillan states, ‘I was very interested in what I describe as the vernacular forms
of music, music that exists outside the European traditions of serious art’ (MacMillan
2003, 37). The first seeds of MacMillan’s ‘mature’ style, which would begin with the
work Litanies of Iron and Stone (1987 – now withdrawn), would be sown in the St
Anne’s Mass where community concerns and references to Scottish music first
appear.ix x
Another important feature of the St Anne’s Mass is that it predates the rise of
exaggerated mannerisms which characterise the composer’s mature style. With
MacMillan’s stylistic change came a whole range of new techniques, sonorities and
gestures; a new way of composing demanded a new set of tools. With influences
from folk-music came modality and tonality, semi-tonal slides (‘highland keening
[caoine]’ – a funeral wail or lament) and the ubiquitous use of grace notes.
MacMillan took inspiration from the unique sounds of Hebridean psalm-singing,
with its free, highly ornamented heterophony. He added to this a large dose of
renaissance polyphony in the form of the venerated Scottish composer Robert Carver
(1490 – c.1546), which helped shape MacMillan’s polyphonic writing. With this
newly emerging style came an inherent ‘spirituality’; this term denotes something
quite different to religious belief or conviction, suggesting something more soulful
and soothing. Or as Richard McGregor states in his article ‘Laus Deo? On composers’
expression of their spirituality’, ‘…a seductive texture, the return of consonance, the
almost-singable tune?’ (McGregor 2005, 235). An aspect of this spirituality is
represented in MacMillan’s music by amongst other things, quiet, contemplative
phrases and mysterious, hushed endings.
These new features to MacMillan’s music are present from Litanies of Iron and Stone
and the string quartet Visions of a November Spring (1988) onwards, and they have
become a mainstay of his musical style since. At best they are recognisable
thumbprints of MacMillan’s work; at worst they suggest a composer over-reliant on
mannerisms and gesture. The constant presence of these mannerisms in MacMillan’s
work has led to them being sneeringly classified as ‘MacMillanisms’, but regardless
of their apparent musical worth, they are vital ingredients to MacMillan’s mature
works, especially the Mass. They also further emphasise the idea of the vernacular,
coming as they do from a largely folk or community based well-spring.
The quote that prefaces this article is an often quoted line from MacMillan (he has
said very similar things in multiple interviews) regarding the differences in
theological standpoints between the composer and John Tavener, for much has been
said about the stylistic similarities and differences between MacMillan and the socalled ‘holy-minimalists’; the trio of Tavener, Arvo Pärt and Henryk Górecki. Aspects
of MacMillan’s work has often been associated with this group and the rise of ‘newspirituality’, primarily because of a shared unequivocal belief in Christianity (though
different branches) and the fact that he came to prominence at the same time as the
incredible success of Tavener’s The Protecting Veil (1989) and the CD success of
Górecki’s Third Symphony (1992). The work that would bring MacMillan to the
larger audience would be The Confession of Isobel Gowdie in 1990, where comparisons
with the holy-minimalists would be inevitable; the slowly unfolding, canonic, modal
string writing that characterises the beginning of Isobel Gowdie is certainly
reminiscent of both the aforementioned works.
It goes without saying that MacMillan has gone to pains to disassociate himself from
this triumvirate not least because of the negative connotations of ‘new-spirituality’ in
music, what might be kindly described as the musical equivalent of a warm bath. As
he states in ‘God, Theology and Music’, ‘there is an ethereal quality in their [holyminimalists] music that I think makes people relax and feel vaguely spiritual’
(MacMillan 2003, 36). In distancing himself from this group MacMillan begins to
outline the major ideological and theological differences between himself and the
holy minimalists, and this is summed up by the prefacing quote. What differentiates
MacMillan and the minimalists is their view on what aspects of the life and death of
Christ should be present in their music; how should they express this utmost
declaration of faith in their work?
From MacMillan’s quote, we can see that Tavener’s music may be described as a
‘celebration of the risen Christ’(MacMillan 2003, 40); an end-orientated view of the
Passion with a heavy influence placed on the Resurrection and the Ascension. This is
exemplified in his music, with the warm tonality and blazing chordal passages. What
perhaps is missing is the lack of conflict in Tavener’s work (as with all the holyminimalists), what MacMillan describes as a ‘one-dimensional view of
transcendence’ (Spicer 2005); it is almost as if the crucifixion is not an important part
of the Passion for Tavener. The opposite may be said of MacMillan, for ‘preoccupied’
with the crucifixion he may well be; for it is in the suffering of Christ, in the Passion
of Christ that MacMillan is at his most inspired; as he states ‘you can’t have the
resurrection without the crucifixion’ (MacMillan 2003, 40). For MacMillan, Tavener’s
one-dimensional view of transcendence is at odds with his own belief that the very
notion of sacred is in the contemporary, in the ‘joys and tragedies of everyday life,
the grit and mire of human existence’ (Spicer 2005) – the vernacular. Christ’s
suffering not only illustrated his devotion towards us, but showed his capability to
withstand this ordeal; a metaphor for our everyday existence.
The idea of conflict in MacMillan’s music often materialises in a sense of the
dramatic, for there is a drama inherent in the liturgy which greatly appeals to the
composer. The progression in mood from the penitence of the Kyrie, to the ecstasy of
the Gloria, to the ambiguities of the Agnus Dei is a dramatic model which MacMillan
exploits fully. As he states ‘I need to create dramas and the best ones have
resolutions of conflict, not just resolutions.’ (MacMillan 2003, 41) This ‘need’ for
drama, again differentiates MacMillan from the holy-minimalists.
It is in the very word ‘passion’ that we can begin to understand MacMillan’s
philosophy towards the liturgy, because there is an inherent dichotomy present in
the meaning behind this word. One the one hand we have the more ‘modern’
definition of passion as being an ardent love or affection, a strongly felt emotion;
however the more ‘traditional’ understanding of passion (from the Latin passio) is
that of suffering. This dichotomy is present in James MacMillan’s liturgical music; for
MacMillan’s music is both a strongly, deeply felt emotion and a personal reaction to
Christ’s suffering; it is at once ‘earthly and heavenly’. It is because of this that
MacMillan chooses to give full expression to aspects of conflict, fear and ambiguity
in his music, especially in the Mass. As the composer states in the programme note
for the first performance of the Mass: ‘Even though this is a work which explores the
eternal mysteries and truths of the Catholic faith, it is written through the tragedies
and uncertainties of our own age. It is inevitable that a contemporary celebration of
Divine Love would be shrouded in the doubts and fears which characterise our time’
(MacMillan in Whitbourn 2001).
How exactly does this idea of suffering or passion (what I will refer to as ‘passio’)
manifest itself in the Mass? Is it in MacMillan’s inclusion of elements of vernacular in
the work? Is the inclusion of ‘passio’ a statement of vernacular intent? Possibly,
though the idea of ‘passio’ works on an essentially deeper level away from motivic
development and musical gesture; his adherence to this notion of ‘passio’ effects, and
somewhat subverts the very fundamentals of the mass. Nowhere is this more present
then in the Gloria, the traditional ‘joyous hymn’ that follows the ‘penitential rite’ of
the Kyrie (MacMillan in Whitbourn 2001) (see example 4). Here, following a strident
opening with many variants of the Eucharist theme, the music becomes suddenly
more reflective as altos, tenors and basses interject a new pp theme. This theme (for
the words ‘receive our prayer’) is taken directly from the Agnus Dei, here found with
the text ‘have mercy upon us’. It is no coincidence that this material is placed in the
middle of the Gloria, for MacMillan is choosing to echo the final ambiguous
sentiments of the Agnus Dei at the moment when the liturgy is at its most
triumphant. It is as if MacMillan is quietly reminding us of ‘passio’ at the moment
when our minds are furthest from it; a somewhat timely reminder of ‘grit and mire’
when we are focussed on transcendence.
Example 4: Theme from ‘Agnus Dei’ (b. 20-22) in the ‘Gloria’ (b. 65 – 68) of the Mass
(permission of Boosey & Hawkes):
However it is in the Agnus Dei where MacMillan’s ideas of ‘passio’ become more
prominent, as he chooses to stress the reflective ambiguities present in this text.
Though this final movement does dwell on ideas and motifs from earlier in the piece
it is no way the culmination of what has gone before, rather a moment of intense
personal tension for the composer; it is as if all the insecurities and conflicts from
earlier movements are collected and magnified in this moment.xi The music veers
towards the more dissonant MacMillan: bitonality, clusters and chromaticism. The
mood is very sombre: slow tempo, quiet dynamics and mournful solos.
By far the most concise indication of ‘passio’ is in the final repetitions of the word
‘peace’, for there is no suggestion of a Tavener-like resurrection or hopefulness here
as MacMillan firmly emphasises the idea of earthly suffering (see example 5). Here
the sighing theme from the Kyrie returns, very much hinting at the resolution we
come to associate with the Agnus Dei. However MacMillan introduces a new
sonority, a distant, dark rumbling from the organ in its lowest register; this
chromatic cluster is totally unrelated to the warm modality of the voices and hints at
something much darker. Again, a moment of peace and resolution is clouded by
‘passio’ as we are reminded of suffering; our one moment of resurrection is bound
up with memories of the crucifixion.
Example 5: Final bars of the ‘Agnus Dei’ (b. 72 – 75) (permission of Boosey &
Hawkes):
The Mass does in many ways encapsulate James MacMillan’s views on not just
setting the mass, but also his views on the liturgy, the Passion and perhaps even
Catholicism. As I have shown, he is not just a composer aiming to write deeply felt,
personal liturgical music but also striving to enhance the communion between man
and God, and to keep the liturgy as relevant as possible to modern congregations. He
is a composer for whom the human aspect to the liturgy, both in terms of ‘passio’
and the vernacular, are of paramount importance to his personal philosophy and
theology. These aspects have influence in all of MacMillan’s works, however we see
them at their most succinct in the microcosm that is the Mass; for here we encounter
MacMillan’s relationship to the liturgy at its most fundamental level, and we are left
with music of great beauty and of great sadness, but more importantly of great
relevance to worshippers and society today.
Bibliography
HALL, Thomas (1997) ‘Crowning Glories’, The Musical Times, 1849, 38 – 39
HALLAM, Mandy (2008) ‘Conversation with James MacMillan’, Tempo, 245, 17 - 29
JOHNSON, Stephen (1995) ‘Harnessing Extremes’, The Gramophone, 1xxii/May, 15-17
MACMILLAN, James (2003) ‘God, Theology and Music’, in Composing Music for
Worship, eds. Stephen Darlington and Alan Kreider (Canterbury Press, Norwich)
MCGREGOR, Richard (2005) ‘Laus Deo – composers’ views on their spirituality’,
Spirituality and Health International, 6
MCGREGOR, Richard (2011) ‘‘A Metaphor for the deeper wintriness’: Exploring James
MacMillan’s Musical Identity’ Tempo, 257, 22 – 39
SPICER, Paul (2005) Liner notes to Seven Last Words from the Cross, audio CD,
Hyperion CDA 67460
TAVENER, Rebecca (2007) Liner notes to Tenebrae: New Choral Music by James
MacMillan, audio CD, Linn, CKD 301
TAVENER, Rebecca (2012) Liner notes to Alpha and Omega, audio CD, Linn, CKD 439
WHITBOURN, James (2001) Liner notes to Mass, audio CD, Hyperion, CDA 67219
i
MacMillan, Conversation with Stephen Johnson, Barbican, London, transcribed by Phillip Cooke (14
January 2005)
ii
Both the Mass and the Galloway Mass have recently been rewritten using the new English translation of
the Roman Missal that came into common usage in 2011 (the Mass of Blessed John Henry Newman also
uses this translation). For the purposes of this paper, I shall be referring to the earlier version of the
translation.
iii
For example, the string quartet Why is this night different? (1998) takes its inspiration from a Jewish
custom at Passover.
iv
MacMillan’s interest in Liberation Theology reached its zenith in the late 1980s with the works
Búsqueda (1988) and Cantos Sagrados (1989) both of which set poems associated with the theory.
v
This is emphasised by the fact that the two settings of the Missa Brevis are both in Latin, though these
can be used as service music they also fit comfortably as concert works in the way that the Mass doesn’t.
vi
The text is Traditional, though with a decidedly Eucharistic theme.
vii
Seinte Mari Moder Milde was written for the Nine Lessons and Carols service at King’s College
Cambridge and Màiri was written for the BBC Singers.
This is trait found throughout MacMillan’s oeuvre: acknowledged quotation of existing works,
acknowledged quotation of his own works, and unconscious quotation from his own works. A work
such as the Missa Dunelmi features quotations or allusions to several existing works by the composer
including the short baptismal motet Think of how God Loves You (2011) and several sections from the
Strathclyde Motets. For more information see: Tavener, Interview with James MacMillan in liner notes
viii
to Alpha and Omega, audio CD (Linn, 2012), CKD 439.
ix
Note the ‘Scotch-snap’ in the Sanctus and Benedictus.
x
The Missa Brevis (1977, rev. 2006) is interesting as it has very few of the hallmarks of mature
MacMillan, the abiding influence is a mix of the austere polyphony of Kenneth Leighton with the more
traditional sounds of high Renaissance composers.
xi
In many ways this is similar to Britten’s Missa Brevis, in which the Agnus Dei highlights a darkness of
thought not present in the earlier movements.