The programme, interpreted by Tõnu Kaljuste and the Estonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir, recently named by the BBC Music Magazine as one of the world’s greatest choirs, was dedicated to Arvo Pärt and his 90th birthday, with a powerful presence also given to the music of Veljo Tormis. Few reach it. Fewer still remain so essential, so widely heard, and so deeply needed. Tormis, though no longer with us, stood beside him in spirit and his work as urgent and alive as ever.
The concert opened with Da pacem Domine. Right away, it was clear this wasn’t going to be about showing off. The sound came slowly and deliberately, as if the music itself were still remembering how to begin. This is how Pärt’s music works. It doesn’t push. It waits for you to come closer. It is an interplay of sound and silence.
Veni creator, Magnificat, The Deer’s Cry — each piece carried the same quiet dignity. The choir didn’t perform the music while they gave it space to breathe. And the audience followed. You could feel it. No one wanted to break the mood. Even the coughers held their breath.
There was a moment during Für Jan van Eyck, a small, three-minute piece, where I found myself looking up at the ceiling. The extraordinary acoustic discs above the stage looked like planets. And for a moment, the music made the whole place feel like a historic as much as futuristic cathedral floating in space.
The programme moved through pieces by Grigorjeva, Rachmaninov, and Bach, but everything felt connected. There was no interruption to the mood. I always admire the different kinds of stillness. And then, near the end, came Veljo Tormis’s Curse upon Iron. It changed everything.
Suddenly the room was full of rhythm and earth. The drums were rustic, almost violent, reflecting the controversy of the global issues in the contemporary era. But controlled. Tõnu Kaljuste didn’t just keep time. He shaped the whole energy of the piece. You could see it in his arms, in his movements. He knew exactly where the sound needed to go. It was almost theatrical, but never showy. He simply knew what the music was asking for.
The organ and the piano appeared throughout the evening. Kadri Toomoja had rehearsed alone through the night before — the only off-time available of that empty hall. You could feel the kind of focus and preparation in how she played. The organ is an old creature, and not everyone gets along with it. But she did. The sound was soft, not overwhelming, and somehow made the giant space feel like home.
At the end, they surprised us with a few extra pieces. Nothing dramatic, just something gentle to help us return to reality. It’s a gesture I’ve come to expect from Estonian performers. They understand that you can’t be thrown out of a deep experience. You need a small path back.
Outside, the mood was light. A group of fans had gathered by the backstage door, clapping and calling out like old friends. The musicians looked happy, even surprised. It wasn’t loud or chaotic, just joyful.
Later, I thought about another concert — the one in the Philharmonie in Paris this Spring. That hall is different: clean, modern, sharp in its acoustics. The experience there was more internal, like being inside the sound itself. In London, the feeling was rounder, more communal. As if the building itself was listening too.
But in both places, the music worked. Because it was honest. Because the people who performed it respected it. And because some things, like the music of Arvo Pärt or the deep force of Tormis, don’t need explanation. They just need to be heard.
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