The Island of the Dead is a symphonic poem by Russian composer Sergei Rachmaninoff. The music begins in the shadowy depths of the orchestra with an ominous, incessantly repeating motif in the irregular meter. It’s something akin to the hypnotic rise and fall of water, the persistent and arduous plying of oars, or even the continuous, life-sustaining cycle of inhaling and exhaling. Fragments of the Dies irae, the ancient Latin chant of the dead, emerge like fleeting ghosts. This motif, which recurs so often in the composer's music, seems to be integrated into the musical acronym of this piece. You can hear it starting to take shape from the first few bars. Then, it becomes fully formed. « Isle of the Dead » is a drama of conversing instrumental voices. It moves from the grim shadows of the opening to moments of quiet lament and soaring, lush sensuality. Throughout all of this, the Dies irae haunts the music as a persistent and unrelenting Power. Around the work’s golden mean, the obsessive recurrence of the Dies irae motif reaches a terrifying and awesome climax. In this section, the motif emerges in multiple voices amid ever-mounting tension as the music continuously rises higher. This climax reaches its limit with a series of furious, cymbal-augmented raps reminiscent of Tchaikovsky. The hushed, impassive music which follows is perhaps the most spine-chilling of all. As if to say: « I’m still here » the Dies irae returns in a trance-like prolation canon initiated by the clarinet and quietly shivering string tremolo. Rachmaninov’s haunting « Isle of the Dead » ends where it began with a return to the dark, watery depths. Again a beauty clear-obscure who doesn't say her name there or elsewhere. *Lucien*
