It has been said that the first printed book of music dedicated to works by a single composer was a 1502 publication by Petrucci containing five settings of the ordinary of the Mass by Josquin des Prez. By the time they were composed (though the actual date of composition is difficult to pinpoint) the tradition of setting cantus firmus Masses based on the hunting song l’homme armé was already venerable, so it may not be too surprising that this set includes two examples of such tribute. Whether the connection of that song to Charlemagne is substantiated or not, there is a definite homage to tradition embodied in this. That the headmotive of the first of the two such Masses also echoes a setting by Busnoys of the name of [Johannes] Ockeghem is an arguably more simplistic tribute to a (probable) teacher.

This first of the two imitation Masses by Josquin based on the l’homme armé melody is noted as being ‘on musical voices’ (‘super voces musicales’) meaning that although dorian throughout, the cantus firmus melody is based successively on each of the tones of the hexachord (should this be read by theologically interested people who are not musicologists, that last term refers to the six ‘notes’ ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la, on which plainchant melodies are based) – and this must be distinguished from the second Mass sexti toni (on the sixth tone, as opposed to the six tones). The melody therefore ascends musically, and indeed ascends from the tenor to the superius by the final section of the Agnus Dei, itself scored for five rather than the four parts of the other movements.

Aside from the obvious relevance of the ordinary texts of the Mass, what might the theological significance of this be? The virtuosic use of the cantus firmus, indeed, may be technical showmanship, even in this renaissance music, but that in itself is hardly to be celebrated, if it draws more attention to the artist than to the sacrament. Perhaps the notion of ascent through the hexachord is a reflection of the souls ascent towards heaven as it progresses through the various parts of the overall liturgy of the sacred mystery of the Mass?

Or perhaps it is as simple as knowing that even more than five hundred years ago it was possible to do something new with a melody that was already so familiar as to risk appearing ‘stale’? As we operate in a tradition, it is easy to be discouraged when those around us want us to have more of the fresh and new than the revered and timeless; our kerygma however, is that there is always more to find in our traditions if we return to them with the right, godly, spirit.

Perhaps in future I will also write about Karl Jenkins’ more recent contribution to the Missa l’Homme Armé tradition…