Messiah, Academy of Ancient Music, Cummings, Barbican review - once more, with real feeling

When does a concert become a ceremony? You generally visit the Barbican for art rather than ritual. Yet, during the Academy of Ancient Music’s performance last night, the bulk of a packed house still stood up for the “Hallelujah” that closes the second part of Handel’s Messiah.

This charming, or plain odd, British folk-tradition supposedly derives from George II having done the same in 1743 – although there’s no evidence that the monarch ever rose to the occasion. In any case, it indicates that many of those who rightly love Messiah still treat it as much more than an especially fine Baroque oratorio with a curious mish-mash of a scriptural libretto (by the equally curious polymath, Charles Jennens). 

At Christmas (and despite its Easter-heavy emphasis), Handel’s Biblical drama of prophecy, suffering and salvation clearly carries a sense of the sacred into plenty of far-from-pious lives. The operatic colour and feeling that alarmed 18th-century clerics about a work premiered in a Dublin “music hall” in 1742 turned out to be the superpower that rooted the work in otherwise secular hearts. That special status poses a challenge for “historically informed” Messiahs. After all, much of your public still considers it not as a fine period-piece but a seasonal rite pitched halfway between pantomime and Mass.

Decisively led by Laurence Cummings (pictured right), the AAM (with its 18-strong chorus and 22 players) and four soloists stylishly balanced authenticity and theatricality. To listeners accustomed to choral hordes and musclebound orchestras, even mid-sized period Messiahs can sometimes sound dry, even bland. No such danger with Cummings and an accomplished vocal squad that found the heart and soul in every air, recitative and “accompagnato” without losing a grasp of the way that each patch of passion and yearning fits into the redemptive whole. Soprano Anna Devin stood in, with admirable power and presence, for the unwell Louise Alder, with Nick Pritchard as the tender-but-tough tenor, refined but never insipid. Tim Mead’s countertenor sounded utterly assured and often ravishing in the alto role, with Cody Quattlebaum – magnificently maned – as the scarily imposing bass.

The AAM’s playing had both weight and grace, accentuated by tempi that, while often fairly brisk, never sounded like an unholy rush. But when Cummings wanted to motor, he did so with gusto: the pastoral “Pifa” that opens the second part has never sounded livelier, or folksier. Tight, bright strings, led by Bojan Čičić, danced and swung joyfully (“O thou that tellest good tidings to Zion”) or hurled themselves into the quivering frenzy of “Why do the nations so furiously rage together”. Cellos (Joseph Crouch, Imogen Seth-Smith) grounded the sound-blend with warmth and gravity, along with Alastair Ross’s organ and harpsichord continuo, and Eligio Luis Quinteiro’s delicate but high-impact theorbo. And the pair of trumpets (Peter Mankarious, with Philip Bainbridge) did sound, gloriously, whenever Handel unleashed their tremendous firepower. 

To thrilling sword-cut entries and well-balanced contrapuntal agility, the AAM chorus added descriptive colour that emphasised the sheer mimetic zest of Handel’s score. The sheep who go astray vividly roamed and wandered; the “Hallelujah” surged and broke in a cresting tide of joy; in an ecstatic “Unto us a child is born”, Cummings made each successive “Wonderful, Counsellor” overtop the last in festive awe. Overall, he chose to start each climactic chorus modestly and build into full-strength acclamation: a slow-burn strategy that peaked in the rolling wave-like splendours of the final epic “Amen”.

As for the soloists, Devin (pictured left by Victoria Cadisch) – using a touch of vibrato – elegantly curled and curved the arc of her phrasing in “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion” and, in “If God be with us, who can be against us?”, glittered and shone as she soared commandingly to the top of the range. The lovingly sculpted phrases and high floated notes of “I know that my redeemer liveth” gave a proper glimpse of bliss. Tim Pritchard’s tenor projected the all-important opening consolation of “Comfort ye” with warmth and fervour, and later, as in the arioso of “Behold, and see if there is any sorrow like to his sorrow”, found a near-tragic intensity in the impassioned and imploring lines.

To anyone raised on the heart-rending mezzo/contralto darkness of a Kathleen Ferrier or Janet Baker, a countertenor in Messiah will always take some getting used to. Mead, however, combined elegance and tone and clarity of expression with a credible emotional depth. In the great test of “He was despised”, he came through with hugely impressive pathos and dignity. His “man of sorrows” wound sinuously through a whole world of human pain.

Meanwhile, Quattlebaum (pictured right by Nathalia Andrade) matched a fearsome stage presence not just with the requisite vocal heft and punch, as in the magisterial chug of his “The trumpet shall sound”, but an earthy frisson of danger and peril. His “The people that walked in darkness” snaked down towards a sinister abyss before the “great light” blazed; while, in “Why do the nations so furiously rage together”, he painted hate and anger in a broad palette of striking toxic hues. This isn’t the biggest, most booming bass, but it does have an uncommonly rich expressive span. 

Sung and played with such bracing lucidity and verve, this Messiah offered not overwhelming spectacle, or chamber intimacy, but a satisfying mid-point somewhere in between. It felt grand enough to capture the rapture and reverence but close enough to transmit the ever-changing moods of hope, fear, despair and exultation that make it – if you like – the greatest quasi-opera to grace the British (and, originally, Irish) stage. But who counts as its ultimate hero and heroine? Not even the Messiah, perhaps. Sceptics or believers, those audiences atavistically rising to their feet for “Hallelujah” grasp the truth: we do.

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