[Warning:  terminal gushing herein (I truly can't help it) and (gasp!) my
first-ever criticism of Quasthoff.]

Being of the Old School, I don't cry much, and definitely not in public.
Given that premise, the source of facial moisture accumulating Sunday
afternoon in Silva Concert Hall remains a mystery.  Where it came from,
nobody knows, but I can account, precisely, for the timing.

The first attack came out of the blue, shortly after the beginning of the
Oregon Bach Festival performance of the St.  Matthew Passion, under Helmuth
Rilling's direction, as Judith Willoughby's Temple University Children's
Choir made its entrance with "O Lamb of God." Around the children, Kathy
Romey's magnificent Festival Chorus sang the opening chorale in a quiet
way, with a beat so steady that the music seemed to exist outside of time.

Here, and through three hours of that enormous cathedral of music,
marshalling a force of some 200 singers and instrumentalists packing the
stage, Rilling -- conducting, as usual, without a score -- created an
intimate, transparent, delicate space of transporting chamber music.  He
allowed, encouraged and commanded -- as needed -- an "inner voice" to come
through, with balance and dynamics I never heard before.  There were no
thunderous climaxes here:  the basic fabric was so subtle and understated
that each mezzoforte became amplified in comparison.

The wonderful young German tenor Lothar Odinius, making his North
American debut, sang the Evangelist as if having a quiet conversation;
when the narration came to the sixth hour of the Crucifixion and darkness
descending, Odinius whispered the text, making it more powerful than any
amount of shouting could.

Compelled, hypnotized even by Rilling's steady and irresistible sweep,
the second "highly personal reaction" came with Ingeborg Danz's "Guilt
and pain," her voice rising from an unknown realm.  She later "improved"
on that with "Alas, now is my Savior gone," when it was impossible to
identify the separation betweeen silence and music.  And then, in the
ultimate performance by Danz, her duet with Kathleen Lenski's violin
obligato in "Have mercy on me" caused blurred visions both in the audience
and on stage.  The orchestra, playing with flawless consistency, also
provided other obligato soloists of the highest excellence, including
violinist Elizabeth Baker, cellist Douglas Davis, and bassoonist John
Steinmetz.  John Dornenburg, on viola da gamba, accompanied Thomas
Quasthoff in "Come blessed Cross," just one of four tremendous arias by
the bass-baritone, singing the role of Pilate with an intensity that set
him apart from the rest of the cast.

If the cast of soloists looked grand on paper, you should have heard them
in performance, each giving a personal best.  Juliane Banse was exactly
right for the soprano arias, each time better than before.  Even in the
recitatives, Banse shined brightly; in the introduction to "For love will
my Savior perish" (with Gary Woodward's superb flute obligato), Banse
created a brilliant musical statement.

Eric Owens, singing the role of Jesus, has matured and found a solid center
for his voice since last heard at the festival.  Chorus members Catherine
Watson and Anne Nonnemacher made fine contributions in small roles.  Anton
Armstrong performed a miracle, making the Festival Youth Choral Academy
blend in with the Festival Chorus amazingly -- young amateurs matching,
enhancing the performance of professionals!

Apart of the quality of performance, the effort required for St. Matthew
is tough to comprehend by "civilians." Wagner's 15-hour "Ring" cycle is
performed, with difficulty, over a span of seven or eight days.  Here, the
15 hours of final rehearsals, dress rehearsal and performance for the
Passion were scheduled for TWO days.

Listing credits, even in such a brutally abbreviated manner, cannot come
close to conveying the essence of the performance -- which is, exactly, in
the pulling together of individual contributions in such a seamless whole
that egos and individuals (and the audience) all became part of one
experience.

This oceanic feeling became fairly overwhelming by the penultimate scene
("And now the Lord is laid to rest"), and then after the final, magnificent
chorus, Rilling did a Prospero, a Wotan, and abandoned his magic powers.
He either completely forgot the audience or felt that it's not up to him
to extend his control to the hall, but he let his arms drop.  Sure enough
-- while the audience was properly mesmerized through the concert -- there
were those few uncomfortable staying in the glorious other world created
by the music:  they clapped, and everything Bach and Rilling led up to in
three hours instantly became a memory, however a brilliant one, and no
longer that other reality climaxing in silence -- the only proper response
to this extraordinary musical event.

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