This Post Brought to You by a Whole Lotta Genius
Photo by Melissa Kim
There are a lot of geniuses floating around the story of Allegri’s “Miserere mei, Deus.” First of all, there’s King David, a poetic genius who, 3000ish years ago, writes the text of Psalm 51 after sending the husband of the woman he has impregnated to the front line to die. There’s Gregorio Allegri himself, who 2600ish years later, in the 17th century, composes his musical masterpiece of the text.
Engraving by James Caldwall (1739–1822)
I wonder if he knew what he’d done?
And then there’s that 14-year-old boy, Wolfgang Amadeus, 100ish years after that, who gets dragged along by his dad to Holy Week services in the Sistine chapel.
Let’s just take a sec to imagine that together.
Mozart’s sitting there, uncomfortable in his church clothes, annoyed at having to be there (because he’s a teenager) and bored out of his mind because everyone’s droning on for hours in Latin. But then…he hears it. The pure, startling opening notes of Allegri’s “Miserere.” He sits up straight. Can’t believe his ears. He leans forward from the edge of the pew. After the service, his father drags him from distinguished personage to distinguished personage (always trying to get him a gig) but Mozart can hardly wait to get home. He rushes through the door. Doesn’t eat or drink a thing. Shuts himself up in his room and doesn’t come out or say a word to anyone until he has transcribed the entire piece by memory.
I like that version.
But it’s also very possible he was just like:
“The pope says I can’t? F#%* that!”
In which case, you also have to admire the pluck.
And then there’s another genius in this story who doesn’t get a lot of credit as such. Pope Urban VIII. Sure, he practically bankrupts the church through his politicking and warmongering and he isn’t exactly the scientific visionary we of the 21st Century wish he’d been, but, sitting there in the Sistine Chapel the day Allegri’s “Miserere” was performed for the first time, he recognizes that what he’s listening to is one of the great treasures of the Church. And he takes measures to make sure it stays that way. He only allows it to be performed once a year in the Sistine Chapel and forbids anyone to transcribe it so that by the time Mozart’s transcription gets into the hands of publisher Charles Burney in 1771, the piece is already a legend. I’m no expert on the topic, but I would say that makes Urban VIII—whatever his thoughts on the merits of heliocentrism—some sort of a marketing genius.
The last group of geniuses in the mix are a bunch of guys in their garages, 300ish years after Mozart, who invent a whole bunch of stuff that allows anyone, anywhere, at any time, with an internet connection and a compatible device, to discover all kinds of things, including Allegri’s incredible composition, which is how my daughter Lydia discovered it last year, how she shared it with me, and how I’m now sharing it with you.
You might have had the good fortune of discovering this work a long time ago, but if you’ve never heard it before, be prepared to be transported. Maybe it’s helpful that most of us don’t know Latin anymore because even though Psalm 51 is luminous and inspired and gets at the profound disconnect we experience between the enlightened kind of human we aspire to be and the disappointing kind we often feel we are, the conceptualizations, articulations, presuppositions, and supplications of the text can present the usual distractions for the postmodern pilgrim. If we don’t know Latin, we can’t get tripped up on the words, right? We can just close our eyes and let Allegri’s composition perfectly express the longing that aches in us for that plane of being his music also touches.
Tenebrae Choir Performs Allegri’s “Miserere me, Deus,” Conducted by Nigel Short
You can find the text of Psalm 51 in just about any translation here.
And, thank you, Gregorio Allegri.
Tales From the Liminal now available as an audiobook on all your favorite platforms!
