The airwaves crackled to life, and a voice, seemingly ancient and timeless, filled my teenage room in Akron, Ohio: “Who’s that writing? John the Revelator!” It was Son House, echoing the profound depths of gospel blues, though the song itself was penned by the legendary Blind Willie Johnson. This raw, spiritual power of “John The Revelator Song” resonated deeply, becoming the cornerstone for my Mass composition, a piece intended to be a portal to a more profound realm.
The ritual of the Mass, much like the evocative “John the Revelator song”, serves as a spiritual gateway, inviting participants into a universal experience. In embarking on this musical journey, I sought to shed preconceived notions, allowing the creative process to unfold organically. This Mass isn’t confined to the blues genre, nor is it strictly medieval. Instead, it’s a tapestry woven with threads of diverse musical influences – the soulful strains of doo-wop, the intricate polyphony of Byrd, the grandeur of Bruckner, the innovative sounds of Brian Wilson, and the captivating melodies of Oum Khalsoum. These varied sonic landscapes, including the raw emotion of “john the revelator song”, all subtly inform the work.
My compositional approach involved setting the traditional Latin Ordinary – the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei – for chorus alone, creating a foundational vocal texture. To this, I added my own Propers, the variable sections of the Mass that change with the liturgical calendar. For these Propers, I selected a diverse range of texts, accompanied by a string quartet, to craft a narrative arc of redemption emerging from a world marred by suffering.
Drawing from the Old Testament, texts from the Lamentations of Jeremiah are woven into the Propers, their ancient sorrow echoing contemporary pain. Instead of the canonical Book of Revelation, I turned to a modern apocalypse, a poem by American poet David Shapiro. His imagery of indifferent snowfall evokes the haunting दृश्य of ash descending upon lower Manhattan, a stark reflection of modern anxieties. Samuel Beckett’s monologue The Unnamable, presented as a prayer, encapsulates the relentless struggle of the mind in the present moment. And in Dark Was the Night, a purely instrumental movement, I reimagine Willie Johnson’s 1927 recording of an old hymn. This piece explores Jesus’s moment of doubt during the Passion, expressed through wordless, deeply human moans, reminiscent of the emotional depth found in “john the revelator song”.
The Mass is bracketed by treatments of two early American shape-note hymns from The Sacred Harp: Northport and Wondrous Love. These hymns, long cherished, evoke a powerful and enigmatic beauty. They capture the raw, unfiltered emotion, devoid of malice, that I witnessed in the rural religious practices of my childhood in Pennsylvania and Ohio. This unpretentious spirituality, a stark contrast to today’s politically charged climate, feels almost dreamlike. For me, the enduring allure of religion lies in its inherent mystery. “What wondrous love is this?” It is not something to be dissected or forced, but a profound presence, much like the haunting power of a song like “john the revelator song.”
