It’s as though the universe peeked behind mortality’s curtain in ‘The Veil Opens,’ nudging Whitacre to go all in and turn the personal hymn into a choral tapestry. He took Silvestri’s challenges—infusing medicine with music, bringing a loved one’s voice back from the silence—crafting moments thick with tenderness, undoubtedly struck by personal chords. But sometimes, friends, we hit a snag; Whitacre waxes lyrical, riding the same sonic waves we’ve surfed before, and one wonders if the guy’s got some new moves or if he’s just too cozy with his go-to crescendos and shimmering dissonances.
You’ve got to hand it to him for the choral craftsmanship, the man knows his choir loft from his nave, but against the thick, emotional mortar of The Sacred Veil, I yearned for a leap into the unknown—to be plunged into the abyss without a parachute made of consonant harmonies. The Adelaide Chamber Singers and LA Master Chorale took up the mantle to premiere this wrenching work, and there’s no question that it’s a fitting tribute, a heartrending memorial etched in song. Yet, that air of melancholy, while beautiful, is yet a comfortable chair in front of the hearth—an old friend whose tales become too familiar.
The embodiment of Julie Lawrence’s spirit and battle in verse and note is respectful and earnest, make no mistake, but it taps on the door of indulgence. Only a delicate touch keeps it from swinging wide into the realm of dubious exposure, airing laundry that maybe, just maybe, was best left folded in the drawer. That said, there’s no doubt that Silvestri’s pain and hope resonate through every chord, the sort of thing that might hit different under the spotlight of a live show versus the impersonal wielding of a remote and speakers.
Performance-wise, you’re getting top-drawer stuff. The choirs meld like butter and honey, Rosanne Hunt on cello and Rhodri Clarke on piano paint poignant strokes with understated grace, and Christopher Watson steers this vessel with a firm but understanding grip. All credits to the tech crew too; the recording is crisp, giving every tear-stained note and heart thump its due in the acoustic space.
The package, sleek as it may be, could use a little more TLC for the love of longevity—treat those discs like the sacred relics they are, folks. So, love and loss eternal in Whitacre’s glass case—fragile, beautiful, but should we tap