Ingrida
Alonderė

Prayer for the World. Final concert of the 21st International Course for Choir Conducting and Interpretation.

A laboratory. Sounds serious. As if someone is about to measure harmonies under a microscope and check whether Byrd complies with ISO standards.
But in reality, it is a week when a choir becomes a living organism, and conductors learn to breathe not only with the score, but with 25+ people—each of whom has their own opinion about tempo. And yes, Jauna Muzika is my favourite choir. I am biased. And perfectly at peace with that.

Povilas Vanžodis opened the evening with W. Byrd’s Sing Joyfully. Light, fluid, luminous. The kind of conducting that does not need to demonstrate control, because everyone already feels safe. Byrd here was not a polyphonic task—it was breathing. The piece passed like a bright dream, and the space of the Bernardines caught that light.

Tallis demands stillness. And Gustas Kuskevičius attempted to create that stillness with great honesty. There was a sense that, internally, he was thinking: "Okay. I am calm. I am very calm." Meanwhile, the choir seemed to be thinking: "We are calm too. Everyone is calm. Calmness is happening." And you know what? It worked.

Stephen Layton entered as if the Bernardines were his living room. Not arrogantly. Just… naturally. The kind of person who proves nothing, yet everyone listens. Gestures economical. No "look at how I conduct." Just music. And somehow, suddenly, everyone becomes better. Sometimes calmness is the strongest interpretation.

Neringa Sidaugaitė with C. V. Stanford’s Justorum animae. A text about the souls of the just in God’s hands—about peace and light. The conducting was assured, structurally clear. At times it felt as though the choir became even more expressive than the conductor herself—but perhaps that was just a game of my own ear. Still, Stanford sounded elegant, without excess pathos, with an inner glow.

Mantvydas Drūlia, with Stanford’s Beati quorum via, encountered slow, expansive dynamics. At the beginning, there was searching—uncertain chords. The church is full. People walking at the back. Someone rocking a baby in a stroller.

And in that moment, Stanford is sounding.

There is something deeply beautiful in the coexistence of high-level sacred music and very earthly life happening at the same time. A reminder that none of this is meant for a museum.

Gintarė Barisaitė-Mitkuvienė, with Stanford’s Coelos ascendit hodie, offered a technical, disciplined approach. The piece requires it. Still, at times there was a lack of collectedness at the ends of phrases—they slightly overlapped with new entries. The final moment, which should have lifted, settled more earthly than expected. Yet it remained an honest engagement with complex material.

Gabriel Jackson’s Cecilia Virgo, conducted by S. Layton, raised the temperature. Harmonically dense, shifting, dedicated to St Cecilia—the patron saint of music. This required real concentration. Jackson’s harmonies are such that one second you think, "All is well," and the next—"Wait, where are we now?"

And then Layton gives a gesture—and everything falls back into place. A subtle sense of: I know where we are going.

James MacMillan’s Christus Vincit brought a wave of energy. Tension, drive, dramaturgy. MacMillan is the kind of composer who says: "There will be energy." And then—there is energy. The sopranos rise in such a way that, for a moment, you wonder whether the vaults are prepared for it. Spoiler: they are.

Jonathan Harvey’s I Love the Lord—very quiet, very intimate. "I love the Lord, because He hath heard my voice…" A simple sentence—until it is sung as it should be, and then it is no longer simple. The music here does not shout "look at us," but quietly says "listen." The opening—unified, pure. The piano passages held with such patience that even coughing felt inappropriate. There was a real sense of partnership—the conductor and choir were not leading and following, but breathing together.

Herbert Howells’ Requiem—calmly, with a tuning fork in hand, without any theatrical "now it will be very serious." The music is subtle, a fragile kind of light. Not about effect, but about dwelling. Much silence, much sensitivity, much inner concentration. And here, Jauna Muzika were not simply precise—they were so focused that even the air in the Bernardines seemed to slow down.

The entire concert was demanding—polyphonically, structurally, harmonically, emotionally. This was not easy Sunday repertoire, but music that requires maturity.

And I sit there, trying to be a professional observer. Trying to analyse texture, dynamics, interpretative decisions… And then I catch myself thinking: How much I love them. Very objective.

Thank you to the course leader Stephen Layton—for calmness, clarity, and that rare ability to make complex music transparent. Thank you to the Lithuanian National Cultural Centre for a week of process rather than formality. Thank you to the active conductors for their courage and work. To artistic director Vaclovas Augustinas—for preparing the choir, supporting it, and being present. And most importantly—to the ensemble Jauna Muzika, which can do more than everything. Which can be an instrument, a partner, and a prayer at once.

And most of all—to the choir management: Simona Zajančauskaitė and Asta Balnionytė-Grajevskė. Your work is essential. Without you, there would be neither this calmness nor this level of professionalism.

I left the Bernardines with the feeling that if it were possible to sign a long-term love contract with a choir—I would have done it already. Without fine print. Without an expiration date. And yes. I am very biased.