Album Review: Vigilia by Wolfgang Rihm (2010)
Alright, let’s talk about Vigilia. This is one of those albums that sneaks up on you—no flashy hooks, no over-the-top drama, just a slow burn of brilliance. Released in 2010 by German composer Wolfgang Rihm, it’s got all the hallmarks of contemporary classical music: intricate layers, deep emotional undertones, and enough complexity to keep your brain busy for days. The performers? A powerhouse lineup including ChorWerk Ruhr, Ensemble Modern, and conductor Rupert Huber. If you’re into thought-provoking soundscapes, this one’s worth a listen.
The album blends 14 tracks, alternating between "Sonatas" and "Motetus" pieces, plus a killer closer called Miserere. It’s hard to pick favorites because the whole thing flows like a single, sprawling meditation. But if I had to call out a couple of tracks, I’d go with Sonata V and Motetus VI.
Sonata V hits different. It starts off almost hesitantly, like the instruments are feeling each other out. Then, boom—this rich, brooding viola line from Werner Dickel cuts through, and suddenly you’re in the middle of something massive. The percussion (shoutout to Rumi Ogawa) adds these subtle textures that make the piece feel alive, like it’s breathing right alongside you. You don’t just hear it; you feel it.
Then there’s Motetus VI, which flips the script entirely. The vocalists here—ChorWerk Ruhr at their finest—create this unearthly blend of voices that feels ancient and futuristic at the same time. There’s this moment where the basses (props to Bruno Vargas and Lucas Singer) rumble so low it’s like the floor drops out beneath you. It’s haunting, but in the best way possible. Like, you’re not sure if you should be scared or amazed, so you settle for both.
What makes Vigilia stick with me isn’t just the technical wizardry—it’s how raw it feels. Rihm doesn’t hold back. He lets the music wander, stumble, and soar, often within the same track. It’s messy in the best way, like real life. And while some parts might feel a little too dense or abstract, that’s kinda the point. This isn’t background music; it demands your attention.
Oh, and can we talk about the production? Hats off to Wulf Weinmann and Günther Wollersheim for mastering this beast. Every note is crystal clear, even when the chaos builds. Special mention to Olaf Mielke’s engineering work—it’s like he captured lightning in a bottle.
Here’s the thing about Vigilia: it’s not for everyone. If you’re looking for instant gratification or catchy melodies, you might bounce. But if you’re willing to sit with it, to let it unfold slowly, it’s deeply rewarding. Honestly, listening to this album feels like being let in on a secret—a strange, beautiful, slightly unsettling secret.
Final thought: I’m still not sure what the title Vigilia really means in this context (yeah, I looked it up, but dictionaries only tell you so much). Maybe it’s about staying awake, keeping watch. Or maybe it’s just Rihm messing with us. Either way, it works.
