A piano, a harmonium, and a handful of voices – hardly the forces one expects for a “solemn Mass”. Yet in Hamburg’s Elbphilharmonie, Thomas Hengelbrock and the Balthasar-Neumann Ensembles made it feel as if Rossini himself had just set his sketches to the music stands for a first run-through: witty, warm and unguardedly human.
Rossini’s scoring for his Petite messe solenelle borders on a joke – so pared down that it feels almost like a provocation: the piano shoulders the quasi-basso continuo function, defining the emotional climate of nearly every movement, while the harmonium supplies the necessary sacred aura – a sustained, glowing veil that softens the piano’s crisp edges. Andreas Küppers, clearly at home in his basso continuo-like role, shaped the music with a sense of flow and structural awareness, while Christophe Henry on harmonium provided the work’s luminous counterpart. Their dialogue felt like body and shadow – one sharp and articulate, the other tender and sustaining. Nowhere was this more striking than in the Prélude religieux before the Offertory: after Küppers’ introspective, almost breath-held solo, Henry entered with a Bach-like fugue, its theme angular and imbued with that austere, contemplative quality so typical of Bach – a question more than an answer, rich in spiritual tension and personality.
The near-minimal instrumentation placed the choir under a revealing light. Hengelbrock drew from his singers an almost a cappella clarity, their intonation precise and phrasing sculpted with Renaissance-like discipline. At moments, the choral texture recalled William Byrd’s Missa, inward, balanced and rigorously controlled. Occasionally the voices sounded a little dry, but never so as to break the overall coherence; dynamics were measured more for architectural clarity, every line audible, every consonant part of the ensemble’s finely constructed musical edifice.
The four soloists – a classic SATB constellation recalling the poise of a Renaissance missa again – followed suit, resisting any hint of operatic excess. Soprano Emy Gazeilles projected crystalline poise without indulgence; mezzo Eva Zaïcik lent warmth and gravity; tenor Moritz Kallenberg brought contained fervour; and baritone Guilhem Worms anchored the ensemble with commanding strength. Each respected the music’s almost Spartan clarity, shading their lines with subtle expressiveness rather than vocal display. One sensed that Rossini’s operatic instincts were always near the surface, yet the performers chose discipline over temptation.
Yes, the Kyrie unfolds with the brevity one expects, but the Gloria hardly radiates enough glory, the Credo lacks the steadfastness one associates with conviction, and the final Agnus Dei seems to end almost abruptly. One cannot help but wonder: was this truly Rossini’s artistic intention? This performance, however, acted like a polished mirror – offering no concept, no reconstruction, only a faithful, high-fidelity reflection of the composer’s enigmatic score. The Petite messe solennelle remains a kind of musical sphinx: we may never know what those first listeners in the 19th-century Parisian salon truly felt, but we can be sure their curiosity and uncertainty mirrored our own. That, perhaps, was like Titian’s mythical strokes on his final canvas – an invitation to contemplate rather than to conclude.
