The labelling of this record as Supraphon Historical is almost poignantly accurate; it is also a historic record in several ways.
Veteran collectors of Czech music may recall, or perhaps have on their shelves, the original 1961 recording of Ladislav Vycpalek's Cantata of the Last Things of Man (1922). It is a remarkable work, based on folk texts and setting out a threefold move from materialism through death to faith; and though it is grounded in a simple, direct idiom that takes much of its nature from Czech folk-music, it is also sophisticated in its contrapuntal usage and ancient in its references. There is more than a suggestion of Janacek in the splendour of the writing for brass and drums.
Certainly Vycpalek respected Janacek, and wrote an admiring review of The Eternal Gospel, but I can find no reference to any reciprocal admiration. I thought at first, listening to the work, that it might have influenced the Glagolitic Mass, but perhaps the truth lies closer to there being a common Czech heritage. In any case, Vycpalek lacks Janacek's radiant idiosyncrasies, though his idiom is original, elevating, and affirmatory. This is an inspirational work, and it proved too much so far for the wretched authorities in 1948 in the wake of Zhdanov's dreadful attack on Russian composers: the shock waves overwhelmed this piece with denunciations and an effective ban on performance. The 1961 account and recording were something of an act or rehabilitation; and it is a pleasure to find that the recording, despite a few gusty sounds, survives as a convincing account of a fervent and original work.
The Czech Requiem dates from 1940, dark times for Czechoslovakia. It is cast in similar idiom, and draws on three sacred texts in a manner that is bound to recall Brahms's German Requiem. There resemblance ends: not only is the idiom utterly different, but Brahms's humanist pessimism is entirely absent from this strongly Christian work. The opening movement draws on the Books of Job and Ecclesiastes ('''Vanity of vanities', saith the preacher''), with a long central contralto solo. The second sets the Dies irae, no less (with only rudimentary Czech, I should not really comment, but it is astonishing to see how the composer's own translation so brilliantly matches the rhythm and even triple rhymes of the original). The third section brings in the baritone for ''How long, O Lord, wilt Thou be angry?''); and the fourth moves from the raising of Lazarus, by way of the Beatitudes, to an affirmation of resurrection.
This, too, is a major religious work. As such, it challenged the authorities to the point at which its existence does not even get mentioned in one Czech reference book from Communist times which I have. The idiom is, it must be said, not so exhilarating or distinctive as that of Janacek, and the work is rather long for itself, and perhaps rather too consistently exhortatory. But the conviction of the performance speaks much for what it means to Czechs, and is moving. Karel Ancerl, its conductor, survived Auschwitz to return home; in 1968 he gave this performance before the Russian tanks rolled in. When they did, he left, to die abroad. It is, then, a historic performance.'