The concert, Azéma said, was what one might have encountered centuries ago in an evening of storytelling about Alexander — the kind of history lesson converted into art that the Camerata excels at. The story was conveyed in chant, narration, and instrumental pieces, all relating in some way to Alexander’s rise, exploits, and death. The texts — some directly about Alexander’s life, some commentary in the bardic style — were drawn from a rich array of sources ranging from Plutarch to the Koran to the Sufi poet Yunus Emre.
The music was, of necessity, a matter of conjecture, since no musical setting of any of the texts survives. It was absorbing nevertheless, not least for the sonic differences between the two strands of musical tradition. A stately chant in the Western tradition, sung by Azéma in her rich, multihued voice, would be followed by one sung by Sanlikol that was elaborately embellished, with a nasal tone and bent notes. Some sections felt precisely ordered and executed while others had a more freewheeling, improvisatory feel.
The evening’s best moments were those that brought all of the performers together, such as a hymn to Alexander’s foe Darius, whose words were drawn from the “Play of Daniel,’’ a medieval liturgical drama. The music was built from basic, almost primitive elements, yet it attained a momentum and intensity all its own. It also showed that, whatever the divisions between the two musical cultures, there were enough common elements to let everyone jam together.
The second half of the concert stretched seamlessly from Alexander’s love affair with Queen Candace to his death. The final piece was a unison chant, with Sanlikol playing a brief cadenza on the ney, a Turkish flute. In spite of greatness, the warrior “could not escape death.’’ To this eerily quiet music, Alexander slipped off the stage and back into history.
