I was daydreaming through some of my favorite musical memories and “stumbled” (if you will) on a piece which has a special place in my heart.

I envy Benjamin Britten because he has written a lot of church music that sounds very un-churchy. I too have written music for use in church, and usually anything that pushes any boundary gets panned (or banned) as too weird to be used or downright ugly. Somehow he was able to be creative in his composition, and still got played. When his cantata St. Nicholas was first performed, it was hailed as “pious frivolity”. And it is indeed both pious and frivolous – and also creative while fitting the tight-fitting form of church music.

First of all, this ain’t no Santy Claus musical. This is about the legendary St. Nicholas of Myra who punched heretics at the first council of Nicaea. And like so many saints of the church, the stories about him are utterly ridiculous – so wacky they wouldn’t even make it into a SpongeBob episode. So from the getgo, it’s hard to take this too seriously. But at the same time, there’s a sort of reverence in the work that elevates a historical figure that time and legend have blurred into a superhero. There’s even a chorus that directly asks what the heck are we modern people supposed to make of these looney stories? We learn what we can from them, dismiss what is outrageous, and try to make sense of our own looney times.

So what’s so looney? My favorite number is “The Pickled Boys”. Yes, you read that correctly. During a famine, a butcher killed three boys and pickled their bodies to sell as pork (side note – many suggest that some religions forbid pork because it is supposedly similar in taste to human flesh. Barf.) Nicholas calls out the butcher on his sins, and then proceeds to call the boys forth – which of course they do. Their bodies reassemble in the pickle barrel, and the boys respond by singing Alleluias.

Well that’s good and fun, but now let me tell you about my personal experience performing this work. I was conducting this – full choirs and orchestra – on a hot June day in a church with no air conditioning. We were dripping in sweat. We finally began the closing chorus of the cantata – first a Nunc Dimittis while Nicholas breathes his last, followed by an awkwardly angular anglican hymn (London New, for those who care).

The organ finally opens up to fortissimo during the final verse: “Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; the clouds ye so much dread are big with mercy and shall break in blessings on your head.” At the moment of “clouds … shall break blessings” the skies opened up and utterly drenched the church in cool rain. Right after the final cadence (organ thundering along with the actual thunder), my choristers ran outside afterwards and stood in the rain, soaking themselves. It was about as hilariously joyful as a church cantata could be. The whole place was full of pious frivolity.

What does water sound like?

“Water” is a big word with many meanings. It encompasses everything from a single molecule to vast oceans. We quench our thirst with it, clean ourselves with it (physically and spiritually), cry it when we are overjoyed or sad. If we have too little water, we die of thirst; too much, we drown. Civilization sprung up around sources of water, and was (still is?) the primary method of travel and trade. I could go on and on …

It’s no wonder that composers have put their sweat (water again) into creating music that somehow captures water. Rather than blab on and on, I’ll let the music speak for itself.

This post is a longer listen, so be prepared to sit a while, or feel free to go through in multiple sittings, whatever suits you.

La Mer (The Sea) – Claude Debussy: This impressionist work gives you a sense of rolling waves in an dark, infinite ocean through its gentle rhythms, rich orchestral colors, and expansive harmony.

Overture to Das Rheingold – Richard Wagner: The first notes of Wagner’s magnum opus transports the listener from a chair in an opera house to the bottom of Germany’s most famous river, the Rhine. Unlike many other opera overtures, there’s not much to it – just 4 minutes of Eb major, slowly unfolding; a musical equivalent to the slow rising of a curtain in a theater.

A Sea Symphony – Ralph Vaughan Williams: Longest. Symphony. Ever. And also, RVW’s first symphony, written at the same time as Debussy’s La Mer, and as quintessentially English as La Mer is quintessentially French.

Four Sea Interludes from Peter Grimes – Benjamin Britten: For Britten, the sea was always a part of his life, having been born, raised, lived, and died in a seaside town. In his operas, the ocean is practically a character unto itself. The Imperial Royal Navy heard in Vaughan-Williams is no longer present – instead, we get an ominous, expansive agent of life and death.

(Another) Sea Symphony – Howard Hanson: Across the pond, us Yankees have crafted our own Sea Symphony with chorus; but unlike Vaughan-Williams endless composition, this one is much shorter, and musically is closer to Britten.

 Obviously this list is far from complete. Any suggestions? (and no, Handel’s Water Music doesn’t count!)

Often, non-living “characters” play important roles in stories or staged dramas. I’m not referring to a mountain that magically speaks, however. I’m thinking of landscapes, weather, or other things that metaphorically relate to the actions and emotions of the human characters: for example, a movie where, at the moment of greatest tension, a thunderstorm breaks; or, a dry, desert landscape when the story has reached a point of despair and emptiness.

Peter Grimes is an opera by English composer Benjamin Britten, which was first performed less than a month after the European fighting of World War II ended. The plot is dark and disturbing; I wonder, though, if it didn’t seem so creepy when it was premiered, considering the destruction that British audiences saw during the war. From this opera, four musical interludes have been excerpted and used as concert repertoire by orchestras. Within the opera, these “Sea Interludes” set the scene both by painting a landscape, and by establishing a mood.

The first interlude is titled “Dawn”. Unlike the sweet, cheerful “Morning Mood” of Grieg, this morning reeks of a small, poor, fishing village, of closed-minded, spying villagers, of a brutal man, and of the impending doom of a young boy. It’s peaceful, but unsettling at the same time.