Program Notes
ERICA KYREE GLENN Worldwide Requiem
The Worldwide Requiem is a seven-movement work in eight languages inspired directly by my work with the culturally diverse Hoʻolōkahi Chamber Choir at Brigham Young University – Hawaii.
I began conducting the choir virtually during the worst of the COVID pandemic. Our singers were quite literally spread across the globe, but we discovered a kind of unity and collective catharsis despite hardship. When the choir resumed in-person rehearsals on the island of Oʻahu, I quickly learned that these remarkable singers from dozens of countries—primarily across Asia and the Pacific—had powerful stories of hope in the face of tragedy. As a choir, we mourned deeply when our singers were affected by the Hunga-Tonga-Hunga-Ha'apai volcano in Tonga and the fires in Lahaina. My singers wept with me when war broke out in regions of Ukraine where I used to live—Donetsk, Kharkiv, Mariupol. I learned about other disasters that my students have overcome, including Super Typhoon Haiyan in the Philippines and the Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami in Japan. These events literally and figuratively split the ground beneath the feet of the young people in my choir, and yet they only registered as a brief blip on the western world’s radar.
And so I wrote the Worldwide Requiem for choir, soloists, and chamber orchestra, honoring my students’ great losses and celebrating their individual resilience and collective unity. The movements are:
“Introit/Kyrie” – Ukraine (war)
“Dies Irae” – Tonga (the Hunga-Tonga-Hunga-Ha'apai volcano)
“Pie Jesus” – Philippines (Super Typhoon Haiyan)
“Sanctus” (represents the obliviousness of the western world to eastern tragedy)
“Agnus Dei” – Palestine (famine)
“Libera Me” – Japan (the Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami)
“In Paradisum” – Hawaii (the fires in Lahaina)
The singers in the Hoʻolōkahi Chamber Choir represent over 20 native/fluent languages and include survivors of four of these six disasters. They assisted with translation of the original Latin into their native languages and, in many cases, provided eyewitness survivor accounts. I am deeply indebted to these singers and their stories. This is not my Requiem—it is theirs. The final movement is dedicated to the fires in Lahaina and the concept of rebirth—beauty rising from ashes, both figuratively and literally. It symbolizes hope and unity across cultures, integrating melodic material from every other movement and rising from b minor to B major after the work has traversed almost every other key area.
As a Fulbright Scholar and American Councils grantee conducting musicological research in Eastern Europe, I have seen choral music operate as a powerful means of unification. Among other projects, I have studied the Estonian Singing Revolution and interviewed Ukrainian refugees in Warsaw about their experiences with music in times of war. I have also spent significant time in Ukraine, Bulgaria, and Russia. As I’ve conducted choirs at the American International School of Utah, Arizona State University, and BYU-Hawaii, my belief in the unifying power of music has only grown. Choral singing expresses solidarity across geographic divides and is a critical means of connecting cultures and healing the wounds of disaster. On a personal level, it is meaningful that tonight’s choir is comprised of singers I have worked with through almost every era of my career—many of whom I haven’t seen in years. A few sang in my virtual choirs during the pandemic, and I am meeting them in person for the first time.
In its form, the Worldwide Requiem is a chiasmus, with the outer two movements correlating in style and content (and integrating a returning “Kyrie” fugue), the “Dies Irae” and “Libera Me” both featuring male soloists and fiery drama, the “Pie Jesu” and “Agnus Dei” both featuring female soloists and elements of lullabies, and the “Sanctus” standing somewhat counterintuitively at the center—disjunct in motivic content and style and entirely in Latin. The “Sanctus” serves as both a representation of the West’s limited comprehension of non-Western tragedies and the central focal point of the entire work—an intimation that the eyes of the world are focused on the West and that tragedies like these cannot be mitigated without a shift that begins here, at the center.
May we continue to heal each other’s terrible wounds by engaging deeply and passionately in the arts. May we seek to understand and tell each other’s stories. “Chorus Angelorum te suscipit aeternam habeas requiem et lux perpetua lucea eis.” May a chorus of angels welcome us all into eternal peace, and may everlasting light shine upon us.
Translations
1. Introit/Kyrie
Вічний спочинок дай їм, Господи,
Grant them eternal rest, O Lord,
і світло вічне нехай їм світить.
and may everlasting light shine upon them.
2. Dies Irae
Ko e 'aho 'o e houhau, ko e 'aho 'o e mate,
It is a day of wrath. It is a day of death:
'e faka'auha 'a mamani, 'o efu kotoa.
the destruction of the earth into ashes.
3. Pie Jesu
Ginoo Hesus nga Makagarahum
Blessed Jesus, Lord,
ihatag ha ira an waray katapusan nga pagpahuway.
grant them eternal rest.
4. Sanctus
Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth.
Holy is the Lord, God, of hosts.
Pleni sunt cæli et terra gloria tua.
The heavens and the earth are full of Thy glory.
Hosanna in excelsis.
Hosanna in the highest.
5. Agnus Dei
Hamel uhluhhoo eluhvi yurfa khotoyo uhlailuhm,
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world,
emnahhom ahrhohau.
grant them rest.
Nom uhlawefi, yuh sakhiri.
Lullaby, my little one.
6. Libera Me
O shuyo, ten tochiga
O Lord, when the heavens and earth
ugoku sono osoroshii hi ni,
shall be moved, in that terrible day,
watashi o towano shi kara sukui dashitamae.
deliver me from eternal death.
7. In Paradisum
Na nā ʻānela e alakaʻi iā ʻoukou i Paradaiso.
May the Angels lead you to Paradise.
Hoʻokipa ka hui hīmeni ʻānela iā ʻoukou i ka hoʻomaha mau.
May a chorus of angels welcome you to eternal rest.
STEVE DOBROGOSZ Mass
Mass is the first of my longer choral pieces. I had written songs for Stockholm choirs in the '80s, but in ’91 when a young choir from a nearby town asked if I might write them a more substantial concert piece, the Latin Mass (which I’d heard recited every Sunday since childhood in North Carolina) seemed like a good idea. I composed from a musically blank slate, letting the text suggest style and content. In a couple of weeks, all the themes and motifs were in place. The first version of Mass consisted of just a hand-written choral part and my memorized chord charts, as I improvised the piano somewhat during each performance and had yet to add strings. By ’94 I’d completed a score for strings and piano, and Mass soon began to be widely performed and recorded beyond Scandinavia. At last count, it has been sung in 45 countries.
JULIO MORALES Xantolo
When I received the commission from Dr. Frank Eychaner to compose a choral-orchestral work, I was faced with a deep reflection on the theme I wanted to explore. My initial intention was to write a requiem dedicated to the memory of those who have lost their lives in the fight against various forms of injustice in Mexico, particularly drug-related violence. To that end, I considered creating a work that would incorporate a diversity of musical languages representative of the different regions of the country. However, as I began the research process, I chose to start on the music of the region where I spent my childhood: La Huasteca.
Originally from Ciudad Valles, in the state of San Luis Potosí, I grew up in an urban environment where son huasteco is the most recognized musical expression of the local heritage. However, as I delved deeper into the study of this tradition, I realized that this genre is only a small part of the vast and complex cosmology that underpins Huastecan culture. In this region, music serves ritual functions of great symbolic depth: there are specific ceremonies to ask for good harvests, attract rain, seek the healing of a loved one, celebrate the birth of a new family member, or accompany the soul’s journey toward Mictlán. Each of these rites has its own structure, including dances, music, instruments, food, meanings, ritual calendars, and other elements that shape a profoundly rich and diverse cultural identity. Added to this is the deep sense of community and hospitality that characterizes the peoples of this region, which spans six states of Mexico: San Luis Potosí, Veracruz, Puebla, Hidalgo, Querétaro, and Tamaulipas.
This approach revealed to me a deeply articulated and vital cultural tradition, which led me — with full conviction — to focus the work exclusively on the Huasteca region, not only as a tribute to its musical expressions but also as a recognition of its worldview and cultural richness.
The Huasteca is a multicultural region where various Indigenous and mestizo communities converge, such as the Tének, Nahua, Totonac, Tepehua, and Hñähñu peoples, among others. It is here that one of the most significant manifestations of the Mesoamerican ritual imagination is preserved: Xantolo. Xantolo is one of the most important celebrations in the ritual calendar, connected to the commemoration of the Day of the Dead. This festivity represents a complex web of religious and communal practices, where elements of Indigenous cosmology are interwoven with the Catholic liturgical calendar. Through altars, offerings, music, dances, and prayers, communities honor the memory of their departed, celebrating their symbolic return to the world of the living. Xantolo is not merely an act of mourning, but a reaffirmation of the continuity between life and death, as well as the deep bond between past and present generations.
In the Huasteca region, the traditional ceremony surrounding maize remains alive and serves as a central axis — both materially and spiritually — in the daily life of its communities. In the ritual context, maize is known by the name Chicomexóchitl, which literally translates to “Seven Flowers.” This name arises from the fact that, in the region’s traditional agricultural systems, maize grows alongside other crops essential to the local diet, such as chili, squash, sweet potato, tomato, jícama, amaranth, and banana, among others. Together, these crops symbolically make up the “seven flowers.”
For the Nahua communities of the region, Chicomexóchitl represents a metaphor for the sacred, the beautiful, the profound, and the delicate. In this context, the number seven carries significant symbolic weight within Huastecan cosmology. This conception is structurally reflected in the work itself, which is organized into seven movements, incorporates seven languages — Tének, Hñähñu, Totonac, Tepehua, Nahuatl, Spanish, and Latin — and includes the participation of seven writers responsible for the non-liturgical texts not derived from the traditional Latin liturgy.
INTROITO
The Introit opens with a sonic atmosphere that evokes the acoustic landscape of the tropical forest, the primary natural setting of the Huasteca region. In this introduction, one can hear the sounds of wind passing through the branches of emblematic trees such as the flamboyant, rosewood, ceiba, sugarcane, and orange trees, among others, as well as the songs of various birds characteristic of the environment, such as the eagle, hawk, hummingbird, and swallow, to name just a few. These elements are joined by the sounds of local wildlife and the auditory presence of fireworks, which are commonly used during Xantolo celebrations.
Immediately following this, a violin solo begins, playing Xochipitzahuatl — though presented in an inverted form. This melodic inversion symbolically alludes to the return of the souls to the earthly realm, reversing the natural flow of time and space in order to allow for a ritual reunion with the living during Xantolo.
Subsequently, the work begins a symbolic journey starting with the sound of the cow horn, an instrument traditionally used to mark the beginning and end of community prayers. Next, a rhythmic movement represents the passage of the souls from Mictlán — the underworld in Mesoamerican cosmology — to the world of the living. This section incorporates one of the most representative musical pieces of Xantolo, Los Matlachines. Since this name encompasses multiple versions across different Huasteca communities, the movement integrates various variations of the piece, thus reflecting the richness and diversity of the regional tradition.
The entrance of the choir is built upon an evocation of the fundamental instruments of the trío huasteco, a musical group characteristic of the region. The voices harmonize these instruments: first, the jarana huasteca, responsible for the harmony; second, the guitarra quinta huapanguera, fulfilling the role of the bass; and finally, the violin, tuned identically to the European tradition violin, taking on a principal melodic role.
The second section represents the preparatory moment for the Xantolo celebration. In a sound environment of introspection and serenity, the preparation of tamales, the lighting of candles and copal, and the start of traditional prayers are suggested. This contemplative atmosphere culminates in a climax where multiple symbolic planes converge: the religious plane, represented by the sound of the bell announcing the start of the Catholic mass; the plane of the living, evoked by the humming (wordless vocalizations) of the choir, and the spiritual dimension, expressed through the soloists' interventions, who announce the arrival of the souls returning to the earthly world.
In the textual plane, this section establishes a significant dichotomy through the use of two languages: Latin, the liturgical language of the Catholic tradition, and Tének, the indigenous language of the region. While the Latin text expresses “Grant them, O Lord, eternal rest,” the Tének text proclaims “Here comes the Day of the Dead.” This duality not only reflects the religious syncretism present in the celebration, but also redefines death not as a definitive conclusion, but as a transition to another dimension, in which the deceased maintain an active presence among the living.
KYRIE
This second movement is written in Tepehua, one of the indigenous languages whose culture and musical tradition are at risk of disappearing. Various factors have contributed to its gradual forgetting, including the historical imposition of Spanish as the official language, which has significantly reduced the expression of the region’s multiculturalism. According to data from the National Institute of Statistics and Geography (INEGI), there are currently fewer than eight thousand Tepehua speakers, mostly elderly people, which places this language in a critical state of vulnerability.
In this context, the movement is conceived as a plea for the preservation and revitalization of this cultural heritage. The liturgical text used is the Kyrie Eleison in Latin—translated as "Lord, have mercy"—but instead of the traditional Christe Eleison, an invocation in Tepehua is included: “Have mercy on our language,” thus turning this section into a symbolic act of resistance and memory.
The first part of the movement is built around the traditional son Jalak’ilhtunti, shared by Arturo Allende Téllez and used by the Tepehua community as a ritual means of communication and interaction with the deities. This piece is presented in an orchestral arrangement, followed by a vocal fugue on the text Kyrie Eleison, whose musical structure is inspired by the Son Canario, another traditional genre often performed in festive and significant contexts, such as births or weddings. It is worth noting that in this section, the musical accents do not deliberately align with the prosodic accents of the text, a stylistic device characteristic of both Huasteca son and various forms of popular music.
In the final section of the movement, both themes—the Son Canario and the Jalak’ilhtunti—are integrated in a coordinated manner, giving rise to a musical dialogue that symbolizes, on one hand, the plea for cultural preservation, and on the other, the celebration of the possibility of representing the world from a diverse perspective. This sonic convergence emphasizes the richness that arises from the encounter between different traditions, reaffirming the value of plurality as an aesthetic and ethical principle within the work.
DIES IRAE
Although this movement takes aesthetic inspiration from the Totonac culture, it is rooted in the ritual practices of the Tének people, specifically from the town of Tamaletón in the state of San Luis Potosí. This site is one of the few places where the ancestral ritual of the voladores (flyers) is still performed, accompanied by the sounds of the drum and the chirimía — a high-pitched wooden flute. In this ceremony, each flyer represents one of the four cosmic directions and, in their descent from the ceremonial pole, recreates the flight of the hawk, a bird associated with the celestial. The preparation for this rite includes various physical and spiritual stages, closely linked to agricultural cycles and acts of gratitude to the forces of nature.
The ritual of the voladores is one of the oldest pre-Hispanic traditions still surviving, a living manifestation of the bond between the human and the sacred. From this reflection, the musical movement establishes a symbolic dialogue with the Dies Irae — the “Day of God’s Wrath” in the Catholic liturgy — from a critical perspective: if such divine wrath existed, its most devastating manifestation would be the forgetting of traditions. Therefore, the music is built on a delicate sonic texture, with passages of silence that interrupt and gradually dissolve a melody based on the Huasteca son El Llorar, as if the soloist were forgetting fragments of the song over time.
The text used in this section is the poem Niy Kilakan (“My Face Dies”), by the Totonac poet Manuel Espinosa Sainos. The work evokes the loss of the senses as a metaphor for the fleeting nature of existence, emphasizing that, in the face of that inevitable disappearance, it is the song — as a form of memory and cultural transmission — that remains. The final prayer, accompanied by intense orchestral forces, declares that although everything may die, my song will never die.
LACRIMOSA
During the research process for this work, I sadly discovered that the river I used to swim in during my childhood has disappeared, along with many of the major water sources feeding the Huasteca region. The causes, deeply tied to political and economic factors, have turned water scarcity into an urgent issue of great relevance for the communities in the area. This movement, therefore, is structured around this concern, using a specific musical tradition as a starting point: the Tzacam Son or “small music”.
The Tzacam Son is a genre of ceremonial songs primarily performed during patronal festivals. It is distinguished by the use of smaller instruments — which gives rise to the term "small music" — including a small harp, a tiny guitar known as the cartonal, a small-sized violin called a rabel, and a maraca played by the dancers.
The movement begins with a choral whisper, evoking the dryness in the throats as a metaphor for the lack of water. Immediately, the musical language of the Tzacam Son is introduced, with a special focus on the harp. The musical texture is enriched through the fusion of a son typical of this tradition with the Huasteca son La Petenera, a piece that, in various versions, alludes to the figure of the siren, who is invoked in prayers to ask for rain.
In the Huasteca worldview, water is not only a vital resource but also a sacred symbol deeply connected to fertility, the cyclical renewal of life, and the relationship between the earthly and spiritual planes. Its absence represents not only an environmental crisis but also a disruption in the cosmic order.
The text used in this section is the poem Di Ne Ga (“Longing”), by the Hñähñu writer Rosa Maqueda Vicente. The work expresses the deep desire to become wind in order to carry clouds to the thirsty earth. The poem is performed by a soprano soloist who symbolically embodies the deity of the siren, bearer of hope amid the aridness.
Finally, towards the end of the movement, the melodies of La Petenera and the son La Rosa are intertwined, creating a sonic image that evokes the rebirth of flora after the long-awaited arrival of water. This musical gesture symbolizes the cycle of natural and spiritual regeneration that follows the rain, an essential element for life and for the cultural continuity in the Huasteca.
SANCTUS
This movement is dedicated to the figure of Chicomexochitl, the deity associated with corn in its infant form. The text supporting this movement was written by the Nahuatl author Tirso Bautista Cárdenas, who structured the piece around the Sanctus, explicitly dedicating it to this important invocation. Chicomexochitl, represented as a seed, is conceived as the "child corn" and embodies the germinative potential, symbolizing the primordial forces of creation, fertility, and the regeneration of life.
Within the mythic narratives of the Huasteca region, this figure takes on the attributes of a civilizational hero, credited with the invention of agricultural techniques, as well as the creation of music and dance. His divine and sacrificial nature positions him as an entity who gave his life to grant humanity the gift of corn, a sacred food and the foundation of existence.
This movement explores different forms of “choice” or “selection” as a thematic axis, reflected both in the music and the symbolic content of the songs used. The piece begins with a ritual dance corresponding to the Cuanegro, a ceremony held near the time of Xantolo. This ritual dramatizes the confrontation between a slave and a Spaniard for the love of a woman, and is characterized by the use of masks that allow the dancers to offer their bodies to the souls that choose to possess them during the performance of the dance.
During this section, the son Alma Huasteca is introduced, which unfolds in a different meter from the rest of the musical texture. The overlap of both meters creates the perception of two sones playing simultaneously, symbolizing the duality between the human body and the soul that descends to inhabit it momentarily. This rhythmic coexistence suggests the encounter between the earthly and the spiritual, a fundamental axis in the ceremonial practices of the region.
Subsequently, in the second section, the son La Leva is incorporated, alluding to the forced recruitment of Huasteca inhabitants during the Mexican Revolution, a historical instance of imposed selection. Later, with the appearance of the line “Cover me like your child,” the son La Manta is introduced, referencing the traditional Huasteca cloth that both wraps the body and symbolizes the protective nature of the deity.
The final section of the movement aims to represent the closing of a dream: the choir sings melismas randomly, evoking the way in which, within the Huasteca communities, traditional healers are chosen through dream visions. In this process, it is the deities themselves who determine if the dreamer has been chosen as the new bearer of ancestral healing knowledge.
AGNUS DEI
Although this movement may seem the simplest to explain structurally, it contains considerable symbolic depth and is, without a doubt, the one most in tune with the spirit of Xantolo. The text, written by the Tének author José Luis Bautista Gómez, poetically and precisely articulates the entire ritual cycle of this celebration, establishing a dialogue between the world of the living and that of the dead.
The choir performs the text in Spanish, evoking the realm of the living through actions such as lighting candles, preparing the cempasúchil path, setting off fireworks, and preparing food. Meanwhile, the soloists, singing in Tének, represent the realm of the dead, describing how they follow the light of the candles, walk along the flower path, hear the fireworks, and smell the aromas of the food offered.
Both realms are musically intertwined through the use of the son Cielito Lindo Huasteco, widely recognized in the repertoire of huapangos, which in this context serves as a sonic and symbolic link between the earthly and the spiritual. In terms of texture, the realm of the dead is characterized by a subtle and rhythmic sonority, while the realm of the living is represented with greater force and sound intensity.
The text also highlights the figure of the elder as the guardian of collective memory, responsible for safeguarding and transmitting tradition to new generations, thereby reaffirming the cultural and spiritual continuity that sustains the Xantolo celebration in the Huasteca region.
LUX AETERNA
This movement aims to exalt all that shines in the Huasteca: its vitality, joy, and the expressive richness of its musical tradition. It begins introspectively with a chord created by the combination of all the strings of the three traditional instruments introduced in the first movement: the jarana huasteca, the guitarra quinta, and the violin. This chord is followed by a Chiconcanario, a son that fuses two of the most emblematic melodies of the region: Xochipitzahuatl, widely recognized as one of the most important ceremonial sones of the Huasteca, and El Canario, traditionally performed to welcome guests at celebrations like weddings and other festivities.
The musical intention of this section is to capture the rhythm and energy of the Huasteca son, represented here by the son La Presumida, followed by the sound of the zapateados typical of traditional dance and the characteristic "clicks" made by the musicians during the performance of the son.
The central text of this movement is Icnocuícatl (“Song of Orphanhood”), by the Nahuatl poet Natalio Hernández Hernández. In it, he expresses his desire to return after death transformed into a hummingbird, promising to send “good light” from the sun, thus establishing a profound symbolic connection with the text of the Lux Aeterna.
As a coda, almost the entire son La Huasanga is incorporated, a name derived from the fusion of the words "Huasteca" and "Pachanga," clearly alluding to the celebration of life. The accompanying text, written in Spanish by the author Yuyultzin Pérez Apango, refers to the transformation of the body into a flower after death. This idea culminates with the return to Xochipitzahuatl — "small flower" — as a symbol of rebirth.
Finally, the piece ends with the sound of the tropical forest and the melody of Xochipitzahuatl now performed in its original form, thus closing the musical and symbolic cycle. This ending alludes to the cyclical nature of the agricultural and cultural processes of the Huasteca, where every ending is, at the same time, the beginning of a new cycle.
To conclude, this work represents only a personal perspective on the complex worldview of the Huasteca, a region so unique in Mexico that it holds a philosophy and history so rich that it is impossible to synthesize them in the duration of this piece. My only goal in presenting this work is to bring visibility to this multicultural region and ensure that it is recognized as a living community, one that continues to fight to preserve its traditions, language, and identity in a global context that observes them from the periphery. Far from being a mere product intended for the enjoyment of visitors, the Huasteca is a space of cultural resistance that deserves to be heard with respect and understanding. I hope that this work awakens in you the curiosity needed to delve deeper into the depths of this region, which not only holds an invaluable legacy but also remains a vibrant testimony of resistance and resilience in the face of the challenges of modernity.