Francisco Guerrero
Vespers for All Saints and Missa Pro Defunctis
Chapelle du Roi, dir. Alistair Dixon
Recorded March 1999, St. Jude’s Church, Hampstead
SIGNUM CD017 [76:54]
It’s oddly reassuring—encountering Guerrero’s music performed with such clarity and reverence, yet without a trace of overblown romanticism or forced immediacy.
You can almost hear the rosin dust settling on the strings.
This production, made during the quatercentenary commemorations of Guerrero’s death, places us squarely in the heart of late — Renaissance Spain, a soundworld where restraint and devotion are not mere affects but the very pulse of the music. Chapelle du Roi, under Alistair Dixon’s measured hand, navigate the often forbidding thickets of Guerrero’s polyphony with enviable assurance. There’s little fuss; instead, a lean transparency lets the contrapuntal lines breathe.
Voices float in crystalline textures—each phrase crisply etched, yet never brittle. The ensemble’s balance is so finely judged that one can hear the chant’s gentle underpinning in the polyphonic fabric without strain or artificial spotlighting. The Vespers for All Saints unfold through a sequence of motets, plainchant, and — well — hymns sung alternatum—odd verses intoned simply, even verses adorned with rich counterpoint.
This alternation casts a spell, a sonic chiaroscuro, that is at once intimate and grand. “Laude pueri Dominum,” by Rodrigo Cebellos, Guerrero’s pupil, fits seamlessly into this mosaic–the youthful voice of a disciple echoing his master’s devout austerity. Moments of particular beauty abound.
The Magnificat, closing the Vespers, balances reverence and radiant outpouring, never tipping into excess. Guerrero’s contrapuntal architecture is exquisite here—voices intertwine and diverge, crafting a luminous tapestry that shimmers without flashiness. The motet “O Domine Jesu Christe” stands out: a prayer to the Crucified, it is imbued with a haunting solemnity.
The choir’s singing is unforced—each note a whispered plea, the quiet intensity palpable. This sets the stage perfectly for the Missa Pro Defunctis, Guerrero’s Requiem Mass. This Mass, about 35 minutes in duration, comprises twelve movements and follows a somewhat idiosyncratic liturgical plan—noticeably including the tract “Dicit Dominus” to close.
The sense of ritual here is profound. The chant, whether overt or embedded within the polyphony’s upper lines, serves as an aural anchor amidst gracefully unfolding imitative lines. Guerrero’s approach is decidedly contemplative: phrases emerge with calm assurance, unfolding not in dramatic bursts but in measured, prayerful steps.
Dixon’s tempi deserve a mention: they avoid the lethargy that sometimes afflicts Renaissance recordings, yet never rush. The pacing allows each suspirans and — well — suspiratio to resonate—breath and silence are as meaningful as the notes themselves. I particularly admired how the ensemble handled the Sanctus and Benedictus: here the voices achieve a luminous blend, — the intervals subtly shaded, and the harmonic suspensions felt less like academic exercises than lived moments of devotion.
One might quibble about the recording venue’s acoustics—St. Jude’s Church imparts a modest reverberation, which occasionally blurs the edges of the fastest passages. Yet this softness also lends a sacred aura, a sense of space that suits Guerrero’s spiritual aims.
The soundstage is intimate rather than cathedral-sized, inviting the listener close rather than pushing sound outward in grandiose gesture. The booklet notes by Bruno Turner are admirable—erudite yet accessible—giving invaluable context without pedantry. I only wish the CD packaging itself were more generous with score excerpts; or musical examples to guide even the less initiated through Guerrero’s intricate counterpoint.
To situate Guerrero alongside Victoria, as Turner and others often do, remains instructive. Where Victoria’s music bursts with emotional intensity and palpable drama — Guerrero is the quieter, more reflective voice. His music demands patience and openness; its beauty is often found beneath the surface, in the subtle interplay of lines and the serene unfolding of liturgical devotion.
In sum: this SIGNUM disc is a model of how to present Guerrero’s sacred music with both scholarly rigour and heartfelt musicianship. It’s a recording that rewards repeated listening, each hearing revealing new facets of its cool, austere beauty. Those with a taste for Renaissance polyphony—or simply those drawn to moments of genuine spiritual calm—will find much to cherish here.
A deeply satisfying, faultlessly executed portrait of a master whose music still resonates four centuries on. Highly recommended.
