Part 1, scene v, no. 18 Air: Zechariah 9:9-10
Rejoice greatly, o daughter of Zion: shout, o daughter of Jerusalem: behold thy King cometh unto thee: he is the righteous Saviour, and he shall speak peace unto the heathen.
It is fitting that scene v, Christ’s redemptive miracles on earth, should begin with great rejoicing. The baby has been born, and much is anticipated. Handel gives the soprano a joyful, excited, coloratura aria to highlight this text. The daughters of Jerusalem are being exhorted to shout and rejoice. In baroque music, arias were reserved for outbursts of great emotion that commented on the action that was happening in the recitatives. This aria is very typical of Handel’s arias for soprano, full of fioritura – which means to embellish a melody, literally it means “to flourish or to flower.” The form is a quasi da capo which gives us an “A” section followed by a contrasting “B” section and a return to the “A” that is highly decorated.
The “A” section begins with a dancing melody in the strings that the soprano echoes when she enters. This is followed by a little call and response of coloratura between the singer and the strings. “Behold, thy King cometh unto thee” is written as a descending scale – the King is coming down to our level.
The “B” section is generally a little slower and begins in the relative minor of B-flat, or g minor. There is no coloratura in this section, and Handel brings the soprano down to a gentler lower part of the voice, finally landing on a sustained note on the word “peace” while the strings come to rest. The sustained note is sweet and tender.
When the “A” section returns it restores the original ebullience, and if possible adds to it! The initial coloratura sequence is longer and ascends. There is a sort of “tag, you’re it” section between the soprano and orchestra, until they come together in thirds for the final “rejoice greatly” statement. In characteristic Handel fashion, the final statement is taken out of tempo and much slower on the text “Behold, thy King cometh unto thee” before the orchestra takes off for one final dash to the end of the aria.
This is an aria dear to my heart. My first big gig was singing Messiah at Davies Symphony Hall in San Francisco my first year of grad school. The conservatory I attended hosted a “Sing-it-yourself Messiah” every December, the audience being the chorus, with the soloists auditioned from students at the conservatory. I was both elated and terrified at being chosen, and pretty convinced I was in way over my head. This event was always sold out. I had never sung before that many people, all of whom were singers or they wouldn’t have been there in the first place. I had never sung with an orchestra. I had certainly never sung in a hall that large and grand. My mom had made me an amazing gown (she is extremely talented in that way), I’d had promo shots done, I was given my own dressing room for pity’s sake, and I was pretty sure I would fall flat on my face.
I remember having a major breakdown at my lesson about a week before the performance. In a sobbing, snot-filled, messy kind of way, I told my teacher I couldn’t do it, everyone would know I was a fake, there was no way on earth I could ever sing this piece as beautifully as my accompanist had just played it. It was the kind of ugly crying you wish to never be witnessed, and there I was in front of my teacher and accompanist fairly out of control.
My teacher was a sweet, elderly, Southern lady. And she kept quietly speaking to me, as one would to an hysterical three year old who can’t find her mommy, and handing me tissues to wipe my face and nose. My accompanist, an extremely talented 17 year old from Korea, just sat there frozen. I’m pretty sure she had never behaved like this in her life. Eventually my sobs retreated into hiccups, and then my teacher said one of the most profound things I have ever heard. It went a little like this:
“Are you quite finished?” in her sweet, quiet, southern accent.
Me: “(hiccup, sniff, snort, nod.)”
“Then SING!”
And I sang. In that moment I realized that it wasn’t about me. If I worried about my performance, if I worried about what people thought of me, I was missing the whole point of doing this thing in the first place. My only job was to SING. I was nothing more than a herald for something far greater than I. My job was to exhort others to rejoice in the coming of this King, using the brilliance of Handel’s music. And ultimately that was Handel’s only job too. We were nothing more than vessels through which the glory of the Lord was proclaimed.
It changed everything.
