Part - Cantus In Memoriam Benjamin Britten

There can be no greater tribute to an artist than to have one of his contemporaries create a piece of art in his memory. When the artists concerned are two of the most celebrated composers of the 20th century, you can be sure that the tribute will be something very special. Part’s Cantus In Memoriam Benjamin Britten is certainly that.

Written in Part’s self-created tintinnabular style, it's both moving and intense. This performance by the Hungarian State Opera Orchestra under Tamas Benedek is extraordinarily sensitive - and so emotionally immediate and personal that it almost feels like we’re sharing in the grief Part must have felt at Britten’s passing.

For whom the bell tolls

A funereal chime from a single tubular bell rings out three times. Like the bell of a parish church, it sombrely marks the death of someone much respected. Part had come to admire Britten towards the end of the older composer’s life. So much so, that this wordless eulogy to the late genius pays homage to Britten’s love of melodies built around scales.

The bell goes on chiming, making itself heard through a steadily thickening blanket of sound woven by strings alone. Getting louder as the middle of this seven-and-a-half-minute work approaches, the bell is finally struck inaudibly near its close. All we hear, as the strings abruptly stop playing, is the bell’s decaying resonance.

Reprising and falling

The violins’ high-lying entry (T9-0:24) after the tubular bell’s third opening strike calls to mind one of those movie scenes where someone is given the news of a loved one’s sudden, tragic demise.

You can imagine Part being told that Britten has died. Time is suspended; nothing seems real except for that moment. Even the air in the room seems to chill.

The strings increase in number, becoming more densely concentrated. Repeating either the notes of the A minor scale or A minor chord, each instrument starts high then descends, ever more slowly, as the work moves forward. Everything becomes gradually richer, thicker, heavier; the music almost suffocating as all lines blur into one (T9-6:52). It’s like trying to focus on the bearer of sad news right before the tears in your eyes start to fall.

Requiem for a friend

In many ways, this incredibly simple, incredibly affecting work is a mass without words. Part bids farewell not just for himself, but for all who knew and loved Britten, and for all who loved his work.

This music envelops you as you listen; chokes you if you dare to speak as it plays; silences you after it finishes. Hear it often enough, and it haunts you - becomes the soundtrack to your own grief. It is sadness. And yet, something in it also suggests hope for a safe passage to wherever it is we go when this world is no longer for us. More than anything, though, it says goodbye.