Hamerik: Requiem Op. 34 (1887), Quintetto Op. 6 (1862), Concert Romance for cello and piano Op.
27 (1879), Symphonie Spirituelle Op. 38 (1897)
Minna Nyhus (mezzo-soprano)
The Danish National Symphony Choir
The Danish National Radio Symphony Band
Ole Schmidt (director)
Troels Svane Hermansen (cello)
Morten Mogensen (piano)
Astrid Christensen (viola)
Søren Elbaek (violin)
Kontrapunkt 32074/75 (2 CDs, total 110:27)
Recorded: 1991 (date/location not supplied)
Asger Hamerik is a name that, if it rings a distant bell, does so faintly outside Denmark. This two-disc set from Kontrapunkt—now over three decades old but still a rarity—offers a remarkable window into a composer who, for all his cosmopolitan experience, remains stubbornly a “great unknown” beyond his homeland’s borders.
It’s a curious mixture of joy and frustration to hear these works: joy because they are, frankly, exemplary and filled with character; frustration because such music has been left to gather dust, almost wilfully neglected by the wider musical world. The Requiem Op. 34, often hailed as Hamerik’s magnum opus, opens the program.
At nearly 48 minutes, it unfolds with a confident grandeur, yet it never loses its intimacy. Composed in 1887 during a Nova Scotia retreat, this work betrays a strong Berliozian lineage—not a bad company to keep—but with sufficient originality to stand on its own. The structure is traditional yet thoughtfully conceived, six movements adhering to the Latin Mass text, though the Requiem and Kyrie are fused in a way Berlioz fans will appreciate.
The Dies Irae is a colossus—seventeen minutes of shattering orchestral power and choir, a — tempest of swirling chromaticism and rhythmic propulsion that commands attention without lapsing into bombast. Ole Schmidt’s direction here is sure-footed, the choir incisive yet not overbearing, and Minna Nyhus’s mezzo-soprano solo in the Offertorio is a revelation: rich, vibrato-controlled, and with a rather operatic sweep, she draws you in with a warmth that’s almost tangible. The brass fanfares of the Sanctus have that late-Romantic brilliance and the contrapuntal writing—fugal passages included—show Hamerik’s solid craftsmanship.
The Agnus Dei closes quietly but with deep feeling, echoing earlier thematic material in a subtle cyclic gesture. The early Quintetto Op. 6, penned when Hamerik was only 19, feels like a youthful outburst tempered by a precocious harmonic awareness.
You can almost hear the rosin dust settling on the strings.
It’s a five-movement affair, starting with an "adagio" that’s surprising in its forward-looking chromatic turns—at times it nods toward late-Romantic daring, at others to a wistfulness that’s almost nostalgic. The slow movement, in particular, is haunting—singable lines that linger long after they’ve faded. Yes, there’s youthful energy and even a hint of innocence here, but also; moments that suggest a composer already grappling with the complexities of form and expression.
Its first release, apparently — and it deserves to be far better known, not — least because it’s accessible enough for good amateur chamber groups, yet rich in nuance. Then the Concert Romance for cello and piano Op. 27, a gem from 1879, radiates a sentimental glow that avoids sentimentality.
Troels Svane Hermansen’s cello singing is at once lyrical and soulful, his tone luscious—just that bit breathy, the bow caressing the strings rather than striking them. Morten Mogensen’s piano accompaniment is sensitive, never overpowering; together they create an atmosphere of tender reflection, a kind of forgotten waltz, nostalgic yet warm. The piece could easily become a staple for cellists craving something both intimate and heartfelt outside the standard Romantic concertos.
Last, the Symphonie Spirituelle Op. 38, from 1897, is a curious beast. Composed in the midst of a strike by wind players in New York and Baltimore, it is scored solely for strings, which gives it a peculiar, sometimes ethereal texture.
Its language is firmly Romantic, with some gestures recalling Schumann’s lush lyricism, the slow movement nodding toward Beethoven’s noble simplicity, and hints—just hints—of Elgar’s expansive lyricism. But such comparisons are only a starting point. Hamerik’s voice is unmistakable: measured, sincere, conservative perhaps, but never dull.
The symphony does not push boundaries or seek innovation; instead, it luxuriates in well-crafted melodies, balanced textures, and an almost architectural logic. In a concert hall, this work would sit comfortably alongside late 19th-century fare without embarrassment. Technically, the recording has its quirks.
The cello in the Quintetto occasionally buzzes in the lower register, a distraction that pulls one out of the moment. The piano can sound muddy at times, especially in dense passages, and the mastering choice — to group entire works onto single tracks—particularly in the Quintetto—makes navigation tricky in a digital age. The absence of the Latin text for the Requiem is a missed opportunity; not everyone — is comfortable with the mass’s words, and this would have helped listeners connect more fully.
Still, these are small gripes compared to the achievement of assembling such a compelling portrait of Hamerik’s oeuvre. The performers invest themselves deeply here, never treating the music as mere curiosities. Rather, they bring conviction and respect to a composer who, despite his transatlantic career and connections to Wagner and Berlioz, remains an outsider in the canon.
In sum: this Kontrapunkt release is an essential rediscovery for anyone interested in Nordic Romanticism beyond the usual suspects. Hamerik’s Requiem alone justifies the set, but the inclusion of chamber and symphonic works offers a rounded view of a composer who deserves a wider hearing. If anything, this music rewards repeated listening, revealing layers of contrapuntal skill, melodic invention, and heartfelt expression beneath its modest surface.
One hopes that this is the beginning of Hamerik’s reclamation, not the final word. An important record—not perfect, but profoundly worthwhile.
