James Whitbourn: A Finer Truth** Robert Tear, tenor; John Harle, saxophone; Joby Burgess, percussion; John Reid, organ; Choir of Clare College, Cambridge/Timothy Brown Etcetera KTC 1248 [70:33]; — Here’s a composer who understands something vital about sacred music in our time—that it needn’t choose between accessibility and depth, between the devotional and the artful. James Whitbourn, born in 1963, brings to these settings a genuinely fresh voice, one rooted in English — choral tradition yet unafraid of the saxophone’s sinuous presence or the unpredictable shimmer of Tibetan prayer bowls. The opening “Crown My Heart,” setting that incomparable Corinthians text on love, establishes Whitbourn’s essential manner: diatonic, yes, but with harmonic shifts that catch the light unexpectedly.
Timothy Brown and his Clare College forces sing with that particular Cambridge blend—focused, never overly vibrato-laden, the tone centered and clear. It’s music one could imagine at Evensong, though it has more spine than much service music manages these days. But the Son of God Mass announces larger ambitions.
John Harle’s soprano saxophone enters the Introit with a sinuous — modal line that’s utterly arresting—not gimmicky, as one might fear, but genuinely integrated into Whitbourn’s sonic world. The instrument’s nasal penetration cuts through the choral texture without dominating it, creating an almost Middle Eastern quality that feels entirely appropriate for texts rooted in that ancient landscape. Harle plays with his customary technical command and, more importantly — with taste; he knows when to step back.
The Kyrie moves between plainchant-inflected unison and richer harmonies, the choir negotiating Whitbourn’s sometimes thorny part-writing with impressive security. Elin Manahan Thomas’s soprano voice—pure, slightly cool in timbre—floats above the ensemble in passages that recall Tavener without quite succumbing to his mannerisms. The Sanctus builds genuine excitement, timpani and organ combining for moments of real heft.
This is no anemic modern sacred music, afraid of its own shadow. I’m less convinced by the two Christmas carols. “Of one that is so fair” takes a thirteenth-century text but the setting feels cautious, almost generic—where’s the grit, the strangeness of medieval devotion?
“Hodie,” written in 1999, fares better with its dance rhythms, Thomas handling the melismatic passages with ease. But these feel like interludes rather than fully realized conceptions. The “Song of Hannah” returns to stronger ground.
Whitbourn’s setting of Samuel—in modern translation, which helps—finds genuine drama in Hannah’s triumph. The antiphon structure works well — giving shape to what could have been merely episodic. John Reid’s organ playing throughout this disc deserves mention: supportive, never fussy, with a fine sense of when to add color and when to simply anchor the harmonic foundation.
“This Is My Commandment” incorporates “Last Post” into its fabric—a risky gambit that could have turned maudlin. Alastair Long’s trumpet playing saves it, his tone burnished but not sentimental. The piece was written for a Remembrance broadcast, and one hears the constraints of that medium in its relatively brief span.
Still, the juxtaposition of Christ’s words about sacrifice with that haunting bugle call achieves its emotional target. The Mystery of Love, the disc’s most substantial work, features Robert Tear in what must have been among his final recordings. His voice, by 2001, had lost some of its earlier sheen—there’s audible wear, a certain effortfulness in the upper register.
But the intelligence remains, the way he shapes a phrase, the authority he brings to these enigmatic texts. Who wrote the poems? The liner notes are maddeningly vague, though they seem to be Whitbourn’s own.
They’re not embarrassing—no mean achievement when composers turn poet—but they lack the inevitability of great verse. The instrumentation here ventures into world music territory: djembe, log drum, cowbells, those Tibetan bowls. In lesser hands this could sound like cultural tourism.
Whitbourn mostly avoids that trap, using these colors not for exotic effect but to create a genuinely different sonic landscape. The music moves between mystery and ecstasy, Tear’s weathered instrument somehow perfect for texts that confront mortality. That final movement, “Go So Gently,” offers a gentler response to Dylan Thomas’s famous rage—whether it’s profound or merely consoling, listeners will decide for themselves.
I found it moving, though I’m not sure I’d want it as my own exit music. The Clare College Choir sings throughout with technical assurance and genuine commitment. Brown’s direction keeps textures transparent even in the denser passages, and the balance with instruments—recorded in St.
John’s College Chapel—feels natural, not artificially spotlit. The acoustic itself contributes: warm but not muddy, with enough resonance to blend the ensemble but sufficient clarity to preserve detail. This disc represents something valuable: contemporary sacred music that takes its devotional purpose seriously without retreating into pastiche or avant-garde obscurity.
Whitbourn has found his own voice, one that speaks to believers and music lovers alike. Not every piece here succeeds equally—the two carols feel slight, and The Mystery of Love, for — all its ambition, doesn’t quite cohere—but the Son of God Mass alone justifies the disc’s existence. It’s music I’d happily return to, which is more than I can say for much modern sacred composition.
A finer truth, indeed.
