In the Baltic capital city of Tallinn, Estonia, history is deeply felt in contemporary life. At the heart of the city is the Old Town, a perfectly preserved medieval commercial center that served as an outpost for the Hanseatic merchant league and is still bustling with activity today. Just a few kilometers away, the sleek financial district reveals skyscrapers and modern architecture that transport you to the present day. This feeling of holding such disparate moments in history side-by-side, of seeing the past and the present working seamlessly in tandem, is the perfect metaphor for the music of Estonian composer Arvo Pärt, which frequently blends sacred texts and plainchant traditions with contemporary settings.
For those of us who took undergraduate music history courses, the name Arvo Pärt is probably most commonly associated with “tintinnabuli,” the bell-like style of composition employed in some of his most popular works such as Für Alina (1976), Spiegel im Spiegel (1978), and Fratres (1977). But for me, the sound that is seared into my memory is the Norton Anthology of Western Music recording of “O Weisheit” from his choral work Sieben Magnificat-Antiphonen, which ignited something in my brain when I heard it for the first time.
The seven-movement work sets texts from the Roman Catholic Advent liturgy — specifically the seven evenings before Christmas Eve — and it’s the centerpiece of a new portrait album of Pärt’s vocal works out Sep. 5 on ECM Records. Some of the most outstanding performances I have attended in my life have featured vocal music by Estonian composers performed by Estonian choirs in the acoustic marvel that is Estonian churches – and Vox Clamantis’ new album of works by Arvo Pärt recorded in Haapsalu Cathedral is equally magnificent.
Arriving around the composer’s 90th birthday, And I heard a voice features six of Pärt’s vocal works from 1988 to 2021 set to texts in Latin, English, German, and Estonian. In Nunc dimittis (2001), long brushstrokes of layered polyphony are tinged with tender friction, eventually swelling to earth-rattling, full-bodied cadences. O Holy Father Nicholas (2021), written for the opening of the new St Nicholas Church at Ground Zero in New York, immediately introduces a more lilting, syllabic character that continues with intermittent, gentle hocketing between upper and lower voices.
Sieben Magnificat-Antiphonen (1988) traverses delicate starbursts of dissonance, rumbling and primordial plainchant lines from the basses, beautifully subdued moments of reverent stasis, and stunning harmonies that reverberate to the heavens. Led by Jaan-Eik Tulve, Vox Clamantis offers especially impeccable patience, pacing, intonation, and diction in this rendering.
As the only accompanied work on the album, Für Jan van Eyck (2019) introduces Ene Salumäe on organ, with the instrument employed in a sustained, voice-like fashion that adds depth and timbral variety while still staying nestled within the ensemble. In Kleine Litanei (2015), the superior acoustics of Haapsalu Cathedral are the undeniable focal point. At first, Vox Clamantis patiently allows the full 4-5 seconds of reverb to dissipate between repeated phrases; as momentum gradually builds, the reverb becomes the connective tissue between phrases, creating a captivating ebb and flow. And I heard a voice… (2017) concludes the album with Pärt’s only work set to a sacred text in Estonian. Beginning with a decidedly darker and thornier aesthetic, this mediation on eternal life eventually rocks to a peaceful close.
Closing the album with words in Pärt’s native language is a powerful testament to the perseverance of Estonian culture. Remnants of Russian occupation are still prominently dappled throughout Tallinn, including the opulent onion domed Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, an Eastern Orthodox church built when Estonia was controlled by the Russian Empire.
The current tricolor Estonian flag was originally adopted in the 1880s by a student group dedicated to preserving the country’s language and cultural traditions that were subject to Russian suppression. Reinstated again in the 1990s after the collapse of the Soviet Union, the flag’s horizontal stripes are purported to have a few different meanings, including the sky, loyalty, and devotion (blue), the soil and past suffering (black), and an aspiration toward freedom and independence (white).
This symbolism flows out of the city to the forest where the Arvo Pärt Centre is quietly tucked away. The building features an observation tower that dramatically rises above the slender pine trees toward the sky and provides a stunning panorama of the canopy reaching out to the Baltic Sea. Just like Pärt’s music, the view from the top of the tower inspires contemplation and reflection: we can simultaneously bear witness to the soil and the sky, suffering and freedom, past and present.
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