Chanticleer: Ave Maria

I'm sitting home alone tonight. All the lights are off except the tree, which gives off a surprising amount of light ... along with a calming amount of dark. It's the perfect night for a marathon of Chanticleer, a 16-voice men's a cappella ensemble that sings everything from medieval polyphony to modern jazz. I've seen them in concert more times than I can count and I never missed their glorious Christmas concert in the soaring cathedral of Chicago's Fourth Presbyterian Church the 15 years I lived there.

 
Tonight they've been singing 400 years of stirring, thrilling, haunting, lingering Christmas carols on repeat as I've sat under a thick blue blanket in the semi-lit cathedral of our living room.

But there's one piece that is so stirring ... so meaningful ... so transcendent to me that I eventually just put it on repeat all by itself.

Bavarian composer Franz Biebl wrote what is arguably his most famous piece—a setting of "Ave Maria" for two choruses of men's voices—in 1964. At first listen, it sounds ancient, timeless, as though its deceptively simple, impossibly gorgeous cascading polyphonies have echoed through the sanctuaries and tabernacles of Europe since the Dark Ages. But listen deeper—beyond the words, within the progressions—and you'll hear faint whispers of—could it be?—early jazz. Indulgent Romanticism. Accessible, repetitive structure. Then keep listening. The text is familiar ... beloved ... but this is an "Ave Maria" from OUR generation with OUR chordal sensibilities. And it is a work to be cherished ... nurtured ... passed down as our gift to the future.

I first sang Biebl's "Ave Maria" ten years ago as part of the 100+ voice Chicago Gay Men's Chorus. I was instantly transfixed as we first passed out the sheet music and slowly started learning the tenor notes ... the baritone notes ... the two antiphonal choruses. And I waited with the patience of a saint to finally stitch the entire piece together and hear it weave and climb and crescendo and shimmer and positively elevate us as musicians, as people, as a massive ensemble with a newfound sense of congregation. We sang it slowly, lusciously, savoring the restraint of every pianissimo, reveling in the massive 100-voice power behind every fortissimo. It effortlessly joined the very small canon of sacred choral music that can move me to tears.

I was skeptical the first time I saw the piece on a Chanticleer program. How could 16 voices compete with our 100? How could they divide into two antiphonal choruses and produce adequate volume as an ensemble? How could they ever trump my transformative experience with the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus?

But Biebl's genius lies in the piece's versatility. Chanticleer sang "Ave Maria" faster than we did. Lighter. Nimbler. But still rich and sonorous and every bit as breathtaking as our mammoth interpretation.

The piece builds slowly, deliberately, repetitively. The antiphonal chorus is filled with gorgeous moments and glorious, fleeting harmonies. But they're not ephemeral; they happily come back to give you a second listen. Then something changes. The dialogue between the choruses becomes more intimate. The harmonies become more layered. The first "Sancta Maria" gives you faint goosebumps. The second "Sancta Maria"—the apex of the tonal narrative—absolutely soars in glorious cascading counterpoint.

But then the amens—the simple, layered amens—dramatically change the conversation. They rise quietly at first but soon ascend with thrilling urgency and measured beauty and triumphant, harmonic vitality ... and then waft away in a collective moment of breathless wonder.

 
With that, I'm turning off the tree lights and the CD player and climbing into bed. But I leave you with a hopefully inspiring—in whatever way inspires you—gift on a cold winter night in the middle of a hectic holiday season: Franz Biebl's transcendent "Ave Maria" performed by the peerless voices of Chanticeer.