I promised Dear Reader to say a bit more about Alessandro Scarlatti (1660-1725), and Lent is a good time to keep promises unbroken.
Scarlatti père is gifted in many ways, among which is an incredible range of styles.
To add to my list of promises, I will plan on sharing other magnificent works of his, which to my ear might easily have been composed by someone completely unrelated. All impeccably suited to their genre and theme.
In this case, I would describe the style as approaching quirkiness, but in a solemn way. The twisted nature of what is occurring causes the soul to stagger with pain, even as the grace it brings, and the love it reflects, renders this sacrifice of the Son to the Father beautiful, from alpha to omega.
As always, Concerto Italiano leaves nothing to be desired musically.
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