While the melodic writing is not traditionally contrapuntal, the interaction of the lines is quite interesting (which is a dumb thing to say, since "interesting linear interaction" describes a large swath of choral works). Of particular interest is the degree to which individual lines are deceptively simple -- only in the group context is the full harmonic richness apparent. This is in contrast to the writing of Bach, or Mozart, or Brahms, for example, in which any given line tends to carry pretty strong harmonic implications (to varying degrees, of course).
For instance, at the start of section 2 in the second movement, were a singer only to consider his or her part, he or she would be in for an unpleasant surprise in ensemble context: the alto and second soprano both bop around a second-inversion G minor triad; the first bass outlines a root-position C minor triad against the second bass' C pedal point; the tenor would likely hear the line as a first-inversion E-flat major triad with a decorative upper neighbor C along the way. But put those parts together and you have what amounts to one big statement of a C minor 9 harmony; the moving of lines makes the overall texture move between different voicings of that harmony, but it is always that harmony, with the harmonic motion coming largely from the changes in color inherent in the placement of sevenths/seconds.
With all this in mind, I'm trying a different approach in preparing for this. Namely: I'm not "learning my part" (tenor). Rather, I'm studying the score as a whole, building familiarity with the entire texture, with the full harmonic language. I think this will ultimately aid my understanding of how my part fits in, but more importantly, heighten my appreciation of the piece and the experience of performing it with the ensemble.
It's possible that this approach will blow up in my face and I'll wish that I had just learned my part more directly when the first rehearsal comes, but there's plenty of time to prepare and I've got a 45-minute train ride every morning during which I can quietly study the score. Also, I'm not all that familiar with Poulenc's work and this seems like a good way to get into his stylistic world more completely.
So, each day on the train to work, I look over one or two movements. After picking a movement to work on, it typically goes like this:
- If there's an obvious melody/theme, look over that first; if there's a relatively simple accompaniment, try to look at both simultaneously. For instance, at the start of movement two, it's useful to try to hear the droning C's against the melodic activity.
- At any given section where the texture changes, look over the material in the most active parts, one part at a time.
- Look at pairs of parts and try to read both simultaneously. Try this with various pairings and go slow if it helps.
- Look at all the active parts (or as many as concentration allows) and try to hear the harmonies; don't do it in rhythm, just read from one chord to the next. When the texture gets particularly thick, reduce the number of voices under consideration.
Those are the steps, but the steps are probably less important than the guidelines used in applying those steps:
- Try to hear it in your head, rather than actually vocalizing.
- Don't hear abstract pitches; try to hear the actual sound. When reading an alto line, try to hear the timbre of a small alto section. This makes it more musical and meaningful and less of an academic exercise.
- If your concentration starts to wander, stop and think about something else for a few minutes. On my morning commute that typically means looking out the window, or closing my eyes, or getting irritated by that guy who always sits in the same seat and loudly shares whatever inanities are on his mind with whomever happens to be nearby. Get a blog, dude, so you can be as verbosely pretentious as you like and others need only endure it by choice (as so aptly demonstrated in this little article).
- Accept that it will never be easy, and at times it will seem impenetrably hard.
For the past six or seven years, I've generally refused to learn my part with the aid of the piano, unless the piano is used to play a part other than my own. This has, on occasion, bugged the crap out of Courtney. (Quite understandably; we'll be reading through music together, I screw up and swear about it, she starts to play the notes I messed up and as a reward gets barked at by her jackass of a husband.) Having spent the entirety of my life learning and playing music by ear, I didn't see any way to overcome my sight reading limitations other than to be pretty strict about it. So this little experiment in learning the Poulenc is the next step in that process.
I can't claim to know my part yet, nor all the others, but it feels like a good process to apply. I'll follow up here as time goes on and the process unfolds. In the meantime, please try to contain your excitement.
