This splendid Mass, an act of piety in itself, opens inviting arms to those who would participate in the sacred banquet. It can hardly be regarded as a concert piece. Even listeners who are cool or cold towards its religious significance will be deprived of the music's very essence if the performers also remain in neutral gear. My critism of Sir Colin Davis's Philips recording concerned its lack of unity. I now wonder if the full operatic treatment i noted wasdue to a misconception. Bringing out the full flavour of the music in the score, if I may so impertinently put it, is going to do more than present a succession of properly performed (and enjoyed) movements.
Marriner's performance makes much more of a whole. I think it's the best of the modern versions. Its sense of integration is achieved by regarding the orchestra as the continuity factor, bringing in the choir neatly and efficiently alongside as required. Choir and orchestra make a good geam, but the choir is subservient, ever present when neeeded, clearly anxious to please without intruding, but hardly presuming to subscribe to the sentiment. through it all shine the noble strings, turning and chipping and smoothing so elegantly—hardly turning a hair when the soloists serenely float against the beat (I think the admirable soloists were somewhat left to do their own thing and might well have been happier with a bit of bullying. Margaret Marshall sounds as bright as ever and Robert Holl's chill vowels warn constantly of approaching doom.)
Although the recording was made in a Dresden church, the ambience remains that of a concert hall and I have to say the performance, for all its efficiency lacks a sense of what it's all about. I'm glad to have heard it, but wouldn't want it for keeps. A correspondent reminded me of the 1980 Guild record of Barry Rose directing the St Paul's Cathedral choir in situ. Choir and orchestra create a glorious sound in that vast acoustic but something has gone awry with the soloists' balance. Sometimes they sound like petulant peas in a vast stone pod. Nevertheless, the commitment is evident. But the Square One to which I must return is Willcocks and King's (on Argo) in 1962. True, sometimes the choir are mere gossamer; True, there are some surprise emotional peaks from the soloists—but they do all, from conductor outwards, understand what they are doing, sound as though they understood and seem to pull the listener all the time towards the gate of heaven. This, I feel, is what Haydn was after.'