Eric Whitacre: The Sacred Veil
Signum Classics

Now and then, a work of extraordinary quality appears that immediately distinguishes itself from others. Listening to the world premiere recording of Eric Whitacre's The Sacred Veil, I'm reminded of the impact pieces of kindred temperament exerted, ones such as Gorecki's Symphony No. 3 and Tavener's The Protecting Veil. Familiarization with the background to The Sacred Veil makes listening to it an all the more profound experience. Performed by the Los Angeles Master Chorale choir (which commissioned it), pianist Lisa Edwards, and cellist Jeffrey Zeigler and conducted by the Grammy Award-winning Whitacre (b. 1970), the nearly hour-long work draws its originating power from text by the composer's longtime collaborator Charles Anthony Silvestri, whose wife, Julie, died of ovarian cancer at thirty-six in May 2005, leaving him a widower with two small children (the composer and Julia also receive text credits).

Whitacre's score provides an elegiac counterpoint to Silvestri's words, which deal with stages of love, life, and loss with heartbreaking directness. Over twelve movements, we witness Julie's journey as the cancer advances, the text often devastating in its sharing of her diary entries, journals, and e-mail messages, until death inevitably arrives. What the creators have done with The Sacred Veil is catalyze personal suffering into cathartic art capable of resonating universally.

While Whitacre is well-known for his Virtual Choirs (a recent one involved 17,562 singers from 129 countries), the Nevada-born Juilliard graduate should receive as much attention for The Sacred Veil. When the choir's forty singers give voice to the lyricist's words and Edwards and Zeigler elevate the stirring music with their own indelible contributions, the effect of this early 2020 performance is staggering. Whitacre's music is accessible yet doesn't pander; eschewing histrionics, his graceful material gains in potency through reserve, the composer clearly aware that the subject matter already possesses considerable emotional heft. The music rises gloriously in places, uplift the product of its soaring ascent.

Among other things, the release booklet is invaluable for the text Whitacre wrote for each movement, with his commentaries providing background plus clarity regarding musical decisions. He explains, for example, that he chose middle C to symbolize the ‘veil' and that the ‘crossing' of the veil would be signified by moving up or down a third; he also determined Julie's theme would be based on three notes, middle C, up a third to E flat, then back to C. Reviewing his notes, one realizes that every choice was thoughtfully made in concert with Silvestri's text.

The beauty of the music asserts itself the moment piano and cello introduce “The Veil Opens” and the hushed intonation of the choir follows to strengthen the meditative aura. The connection between the Silvestris in their initial encounters is captured in the delicate “Home,” its single-line lyric words that filled his mind as he looked upon Julie during their second date: “You feel like home.” Their relationship develops from courtship to marriage and childbirth until the first glimmerings of trouble emerge in “I'm Afraid” with its ominous diagnoses. From there, the material grows ever more affecting, with Julie at times wryly detailing the progress of her condition (“My hair started to fall out at precisely 1:00 on my birthday”) and later, upon learning she has but two months to live, asking friends to pray (“Fight with me / Don't give up on me”).

A feeling of dread sets in as her condition creeps towards its tragic conclusion. The music also, however, rises triumphantly, its trajectory reflecting her courage and determination in the face of cruel odds, until its culmination is reached in the penultimate movement “You Rise, I Fall,” the three-note figure returning and the choir's pitch-shifting suggesting upward and downward movements. The poet bids farewell to his partner in the peaceful yet nevertheless devastating closer “Child of Wonder” (“Child of iridescence / Child of dream / Stars and moons will guide you / Down the stream”), the combination of words and music verging on unbearable.

The choir is magnificent throughout, but special mention too must be made of Ziegler when the one-time Kronos Quartet member's supplications intensify the work so greatly. The instrument becomes an indispensable component when it shadows the choir, punctuates its expressions, and iterates the work's themes. While Edwards is more a supporting than lead presence, her piano is no less integral to the work's tapestry-like design.

The performance is followed by a twenty-three-minute interview with the creators about the project, which, while it is rewarding to hear the voices of Whitacre and Silvestri discuss the work, might have been more effective as a transcribed addition to the booklet. It's a small point, however: the interview is purely a bonus to the work, which by itself is obviously more than satisfactory as far as release content is concerned. Of course, ideally the listener would experience The Sacred Veil in both its recorded form and in concert, the former for enabling the material to be revisited whenever one desires and the latter for providing the opportunity to witness its re-creation in the moment. Being able to experience Silvestri and Whitacre's piece live would no doubt prove transformative and unforgettable.

October 2020