BWV 13 - Meine Seufzer, Meine Tränen

Week 13 (2 April - 7 April 2013)

Recording: Karl Richter, Münchener Bach-Chor and Orchester; Edith Mathis, soprano; Anna Reynolds, alto; Peter Schreier, tenor; Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone

Plus ça change…Several places in this cantata reminded me that there really is nothing new under the sun. For instance, is it possible that there were “low Sundays” at the Thomaskirche in the 1720’s? Not so much for the congregation (who were expected to show up), but the availability of healthy, competent, and energetic musicians may have been problematic. After many services during the Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany seasons, perhaps the music director made allowance for fatigue, and provided, if not an “easy” cantata, one less difficult than his typical output. I can see him shrugging his shoulders at his depleted forces and muttering Es gehe, wie es gehe ( “It is what it is”), a line from the final chorale of BWV 13 that takes this familiar resigned acceptance all the way back to the mid-17^th century verse of German poet Paul Fleming’s In allen meinen Taten.

BWV 13 is definitely a cantata that could have been put together with minimal rehearsal. For the choir, the chorales would have been familiar, and there is no big choral movement – following the 8-measure introduction, an aria begins the cantata. The solo arias, while beautiful in their way, are not hugely difficult for trained singers – even the tenor is given a break. The two recitatives are challenging to interpret from a textual perspective, but would not present much vocal difficulty to Bach’s soloists.

The cantata also shifts the mood away from the joy of the winter holidays to re-focus on man’s sorrowful trail to faith and trust. This cantata required a bit more digging into text to bring it into focus, but that type of excavation is usually interesting and worthwhile. One observation is that Georg Lehms, the poet for the non-chorale text, used rhyme schemes such as the A/B/C/C/B/A of the tenor aria that required poetical use of words, so there is some interpretation needed in translating, for example, the word bahnen. Here, in talking about despair that drags at you and won’t let go, the poet speaks figuratively of that despair pointing the way to death. One translator used “building the road”; I like the translation “carving out the road” as more incisive and visceral, for a mental image of weary road workers slowly digging away soil and rock to make a discernible track. Sometimes a seemingly minor change in the translation can make the whole text work for you as the interpreter. If this kind of detail doesn’t matter to you, you best not sing this aria, or maybe any Bach aria.

As mentioned, the tenor solo is not technically demanding, and although the text is mournful, the melody is lovely, and vocally friendly. This aria would be an excellent study for developing line and technique. As a dal segno aria, it’s rather long for church but it could be used for a memorial service with keyboard accompaniment.

The secco alto recitative includes an interesting (and long) figuration on the final verb, flehen (to plead, supplicate, implore). The tempo can be flexible here, but even forging ahead you may still need a couple breaths, although (and I can’t detect any audio wizardry) Anna Reynolds somehow manages one clean phrase – amazing. For us mortals, Carolyn Watkinson on Rilling’s recording has stellar line and breath control – great study material. The important thing is not to overdue the drama, which has already been amply provided for by Bach, but just sing the notes, as she does.

In Bach’s time, as now, the stalwart and dependable altos were probably the backbone of the chor (!) and so the central chorale in BWV 13 is assigned to them (both Rilling and Richter have the section sing this music – granted, Bach probably used a soloist).

Despite Fischer-Dieskau’s ability to inflect Ächsen (aching) a dozen different ways, the baritone aria never transcends its context, and that is OK. It really requires the florid instrumental line, played by flute and solo violin in unison to color and amplify the text, which while bearing some of the master’s characteristic word-painting, never really achieves the contrast in mood that occurs in the best arias. And Bach wrote something next to impossible in M.51, where on the word Freudenlicht, in theory the listener should hear an upwardly striving sequence of unbroken 32^nd notes, beginning with two in the voice followed by two in the instruments. It was a nice thought (and perfectly achievable on the keyboard with one player).

The turning point in the cantata arrives two-thirds of the way through the soprano recitative. On Rilling’s recording of the cantata, Arleen Auger in effect creates two separate characters. First comes the all-too-recognizable human sufferer – and is there anyone reading this who hasn’t experienced that disquiet described by the words Mein Kummer nimmet zu und raubt mir alle Ruh (My distress takes hold of me and robs me of rest), that sensation of your worries coming to roost on your chest in the dead of night and refusing to let you sleep. But then, at Doch Seele, nein, an angelic voice arrives to comfort the one in despair. This is beautiful, expressive singing driven by intelligence and sensitivity to the text.

And just in case you have been wondering what J.S. Bach and a martini have in common, here it is: the reference to wormwood juice (Wermutsaft) in this recitative really meant something to the people who heard this verse. Derived from the common plant Artemisia absinthium, the bitter extract (also used to make absinthe) was used to fortify wine for medicinal as well as more enjoyable purposes (i.e. Freudenwein). This common product was refined in Italy, where vermouth (Wermut, get it?) became a successful export. And one fine day, someone decided to mix it with gin…isn’t digging into the text interesting?

Because we tend to think of 1726 (when BWV 13 had its first performance) as some remote time that has nothing to do with us, the in-depth study of this music pulls it forward to meet us. There is really nothing new, not when you talk about the emotions described in this cantata, that have affected all men and women throughout history – it’s the human experience. Es gehe, wie es gehe. We all have to accept we don’t in the end control much of anything, but that wallowing in sorrow isn’t the answer.

I like to imagine Bach rehearsing his choir and soloists for this piece: they were musicians just as we are, had questions, made mistakes, occasionally did beautiful things that won the master’s praise, and grew nervous at the sight of a long melisma. They had hard lives by our standards, defined by work, family, and church. To some extent, we can imagine that – they could never have imagined us and the world we live in. But we are linked by these emotions, words, and music – that is an incredible power that Bach unleashed, a linkage which has survived local and global wars, upheavals in political systems, and immense cultural shifts. A modern American choir puts on their robes, files out into the pews, and sings the concluding chorale of BWV 13. In those moments, they melt into the Thomaskirche Chor of 1726, and time stands still.

Es gehe, wie es gehe. Rest in peace, my friend.

BWV 12 - Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen

Week 12 (26 March – 31 March 2013)

Recording: Helmuth Rilling, Gächinger Kantorei Stuttgart/Bach-Collegium Stuttgart; Helen Watts, alto; Adalbert Kraus, tenor; Wolfgang Schöne, bass

A little serendipity this week, as the best-known segment of BWV 12 provided the basis for a far more famous movement of the Mass in B minor. The opening chorus Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen (WKSZ) was later used by Bach as inspiration for the Crucifixus, the powerful turning point of the Mass. My church choir sang the latter as part of our Maundy Thursday service, and it made a comparison of the two choral pieces a natural focus for this week’s comments.

Both versions use 3/2 meter. In the E minor Crucifixus, a 4-measure introduction establishes the incessant, throbbing quarter note in the continuo which persists through to the end of the piece, whereas the F minor BWV 12 coro begins with a very still and soft vocal entrance following the mournful opening sinfonia. The continuo beats the half note, with the strings and bassoon playing only on the first and third beat, so that the weak second beat creates a “sobbing” instrumental effect mirroring the lamentation in the text.

The Crucifixus consists of one unbroken musical idea – derived from the A section of WKSZ, which is in da capo form, A-B-A. The B section of WKSZ is a wonderful exercise in counterpoint revolving around the verb tragen (to bear, or carry). For once, I completely disagree with Sir Hubert, who says of this chorus that “the middle portion is by no means so impressive as the first…and the deep feeling expressed in the first part makes it unsuitable to be given again da capo”. The function of this music in the musical and philosophical context of the smaller-scale BWV 12 is considerably different than when it occurs in variant form in the Mass. This alone warrants a different treatment. Bach wrote this cantata for Jubilate Sunday, the third Sunday after Easter, and the coro leads into a sequence of arias expanding on the theme of the resurrection, showing both contrition and hope. Although to our modern sensibility, this chorus is more suited to the pre-Easter season, it’s certainly worth doing, middle portion and all.

For the Mass, Bach introduced intervallic and rhythmic changes to intensify the mood and accommodate the Latin text. And in the last several measures of Crucifixus, the flutes and strings are dropped, the voices and continuo remain, creating a hushed effect that makes the transition to Et resurrexit all the more powerful. With these subtle but crucial changes, Bach was able to adapt his music for a Latin text with different meaning but with similar emotional content.

The text for this cantata doesn’t blaze any literary trails, and some of the language is archaic or poetical: you have to be careful with using literal translations from a modern dictionary. The texts come from multiple sources, predominantly Weimar attorney-poet Salomon Franck (1659-1725), who wrote several cantata text cycles during the period 1714-1717. Samuel Rodigast is known today for the chorale which concludes BWV 12, Was Gott tut, das ist wohlgetan. This tune and text will re-appear later in the project, as Bach used them for the basis of three complete cantatas (BWV 98, 99, and 100) during the Leipzig years.

As indicated, BWV 12 dates from Bach’s Weimar period, and its structure is different than the typical Leipzig cantata, for instance in WKSZ there are three arias (alto, bass, tenor) and no connecting recitatives to supply a narration or sermon. The only recitative (for alto) occurs after the choral movement, and tellingly it is also the only place in the cantata that uses words taken directly from scripture. The alto aria in C minor is long but powerful, and is the best of the three solos. It could be called the “[k]” aria since it requires so much repetition of that consonant: Kreuz, Krone, Kampf, Kleinod – when studying this piece the singer has ample opportunity to work on diction so that the sometimes troublesome sound will be heard clearly by the audience.

Bach does something interesting in the B section of this aria, which would typically consist only of the next several lines of text from Franck’s verse. Instead, the composer chose to intermingle the new lines with repetition of the primary words of the A section. I’m still cogitating on why he did this, because textually it doesn’t seem to make sense.

Taken together with the recitative, this movement would make a challenging selection for a recital. In its original A-B-A-C-A-B-A da capo form it is too long for church use, although it could conceivably be shortened by omitting the last B-A without committing heresy. But it does require an oboe soloist: the instrumental part is elaborate and intricately intertwined with the vocal line – a keyboard adaptation won’t do here.

The prominence of the oboe in this cantata requires an exceptional player if the work is programmed. The opening sinfonia has been recorded several times on oboe solo albums, and as mentioned the alto aria provides another, equally soloistic opportunity.

The short bass aria with its straight-forward text could be extracted for church use or as a study piece. The tenor aria is definitely not a training piece and is only for a singer with mature technique. In this aria, the master made a characteristically brilliant touch by laying in a trumpet obbligato, which is the chorale tune for Jesu, meine Freude. As the singer exhorts us to keep faith and hope in the future, the unspoken words of the chorale (words that would have been well-known to Bach’s congregation) emphasize the rewards of that faithfulness.

The first four measures of the continuo part of the WKSZ coro were used by Franz Liszt in two keyboard works: a short prelude, and the large-scale Variations on Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen where he created a typically brilliant and virtuosic piece. Except for the last page, which is a big finish in mid-19^th-century style, it’s a remarkably insightful and fertile creation. Both pieces can be performed on either piano or organ, and there are many recordings available (I’m grateful to this project for re-introducing me to Alfred Brendel’s vast and important piano discography which includes an excellent interpretation of the Variations). 

Franz Liszt’ Starting Point for a Keyboard Showpiece

Another bit of serendipity occurred as I started drafting these notes. I turned on the Metropolitan Opera broadcast for background music, and recognized the Act III prelude of La Traviata. Suddenly, as I was looking at my BWV 12 score, I heard that plaintive, descending half-step motive coming over the airwaves as the prelude ended and the long recitative section began. I don’t know if Verdi ever heard the Mass, or this cantata, but there’s no denying it’s there. Perhaps it’s eternal recurrence: as Verdi depicted the tragic death of his consumptive heroine a hundred years after Bach’s death, that sequence still characterized profound human suffering, even as it continues to resonate with us today.

Live from Lucerne It's BWV 245 - The St. John Passion

Did Bach ever visit Switzerland? It’s doubtful, although history records he was well-travelled within his own “country” (Germany was not a unified country during his lifetime). Supposedly he made a 250-mile journey on foot to study with Buxtehude – probably not an unusual venture in those days, but remarkable to us today. He certainly would have seen much of his own land and its people. He was one of them, from beginning to end: a devout boy from a working class family, not a son of the nobility. The family trade just happened to be music. And a trade it was, as evidenced by the continuous compositional demands as well as music directing and teaching, not to mention familial responsibilities, Bach undoubtedly had very little, if any, opportunity for leisure travel.

I have been lucky enough to visit Switzerland several times, and to hear many fantastic concerts there. The main Bach event of my visit last week to the Lucerne Easter Festival was a performance of the St. John Passion by some authoritative performers: the Monteverdi Choir and English Baroque Soloists, led by the dean of the “British school” of historically-informed performance, John Eliot Gardiner. The excellent acoustics of the Kultur- und Kongresszentrum Luzern (KKL) enabled the relatively small forces to sing and play within their normal dynamic levels even in a large, non-Baroque space. The oratorio was presented without intermission, which sustains the dramatic tension and arc of the narrative even as it avoids the distraction of a return to the secular world when the audience gets up mid-stream to return phone calls and have a drink. It’s obviously a challenge to do this, for both musicians and listeners, but so worthwhile. Gardiner’s performance kept this listener engaged without any loss of momentum – although I did detect some of the audience getting a bit restless during the last few movements.

The tuning of the various Baroque instruments at the opening of the concert ushered you into the tonal universe of the composition, and the aspirated “h” of the choir’s opening exclamation “Herr!” was unforgettable and set the stage for all that followed. The singing and playing, while firmly within what we think of as period performance, did not lack interpretive drama. This was particularly demonstrated by baritone Peter Harvey, who was called upon to perform the contrasting “roles” of Pontius Pilate, in recitative, and a nameless follower of Christ in his arias.

One treat was hearing a real oboe da caccia (in the soprano aria Zerfließe, mein Herze). Recordings – at least on my audio system – can’t capture its unique timbre. Overall, the period instruments in the KKL acoustic provided a warm, rich sound while not losing their character.

I left the concert thinking that while I didn’t always agree with some of the artistic choices, I had heard in person the opinion of one of the greatest modern Bach experts as to Bach’s intentions when he composed the work in 1724 (the original version was performed, not later emended editions). And how often do you get to do that? It’s an experience I’ll always treasure.

If not for being already booked at the SJP, I would have been able to actually hear a cantata (BWV 131). The J.S. Bach-Stiftung (http://www.bachstiftung.ch/en/), head-quartered in St. Gallen (about an hour northeast of Zürich) has embarked on a vast enterprise: the performance and audio/video recording of all the cantatas over a period of 25 years! They began in 2006 and the process works like this: a cantata is prepared and performed on a monthly basis, with the concert consisting of a performance of the complete cantata, a lecture relating to the cantata, and a repeat performance. Since the cantatas are so short, this serves the purpose of filling up the evening as well as providing the audience a chance to digest and re-visit a (typically) unfamiliar work. It also rewards the hard work of the young professional singers who are engaged to do the concerts (additional goals of the project are to provide significant performance opportunities for them, as well as to make this music interesting and accessible to a young audience who perhaps can better relate to it when seeing their peers on stage).

Poster for BWV 131 Performance by J.S. Bach-Stiftung, St. Gallen, Switzerland

Several recordings of the series have already been released and are available both on the website and on amazon.com (search under J.S. Bach-Stiftung, or Rudolf Lutz, the conductor for this project). The music is available as MP3 downloads as well as in CD format. Examples from performances are available on the site and on YouTube.

Unfortunately, this very noble endeavor may not be insulated from the financial upheaval that has affected so many arts organizations: I first learned of their project from a recent New York Times article: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/25/world/europe/swiss-city-fears-for-cultural-legacy-in-wake-of-a-banks-fall.html?_r=0. Considerable resources need to be committed to this type of project, and when talking about such a sustained period of time, even the most optimistic supporter has to admit this will be a difficult goal to attain in the current economic environment.

And it begs the question: is there a need for another recorded Bach cantata cycle? Or one done in this manner? Those are valid questions when there are already superb complete cycles by Rilling, Koopman, and Harnoncourt/Leonhardt, using world-class soloists, with partial cycles by Richter, Gardiner, Suzuki, and Herreweghe. The St. Gallen project, like those others, will utilize a changing body of performers, and will be a product of a unique time, place, and philosophy. Consequently, these recordings will provide another educated and considered perspective – and for this, especially for Bach’s music, there should always be room.

Now that I know about the J.S. Bach-Stiftung, and have visited beautiful St. Gallen, my goal is to hear one of their performances – sometime in the next (20) years!

No matter where I travelled in Switzerland, I bumped into J.S.: on the streets of St. Gallen, where the advertising columns were plastered with the Stiftung’s poster (shown above and illustrating their very unified marketing concept); in the St. Laurenzin Kirche (the Reformed Evangelical church in St. Gallen) where a display on the history of the church included a segment on music, with a prominent place given to the master; on lovely flyers posted in various cities for performances of the B minor Mass, to be presented in the pretty lakeside town of Romanshorn and at the Fraumünster in Zürich over Easter weekend; and in Lucerne, where at the Hans Erni Museum, the catalog raisonné of this prominent Swiss artist’s lithographs included an interpretation of the well-known Haussmann portrait. And of course, at the KKL.

Hans Erni (Swiss b. 1909), Johann Sebastian Bach (1980, lithograph)

I’m grateful for all these memorable encounters and hope that the little bit of cantata work I have done to date helped inform my appreciation of the SJP. But time marches on, VACATION is over and it’s time to get back to work. In fact, it’s time for BWV 12!

BWV 11 - Lobet Gott in seinen Reichen

Week 11 (12 March -  17 March 2013)

Recording: Ton Koopman, Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra and Choir; Sandrine Piau, soprano; Bogna Bartosz, alto; James Gilchrest, tenor; Klaus Mertens, baritone

The first question to clear up is if this composition referred to as the “Ascension Oratorio” (Oratorium Festo Ascensionis Christi as shown on the cover page of the manuscript in C.P.E. Bach’s writing) is a cantata or an oratorio; the second is if we should care about the distinction. BWV 11 is not much longer than a typical Leipzig cantata, has a chorale-based choral movement, and features only two solo arias (the standard allocation for a cantata). However, the score specifies a “role” – the Evangelist – that provides connective narration using several secco recitatives. The other recitatives, particularly the sequence that open the second part (the work was designed in two sections to bracket a sermon), have a distinct dramatic nature as voiced by supporting characters: the men of Galilee and (possibly) Mary Magdalene. The composition follows a narrative arc where all the movements advance the drama, from the opening chorus of praise to the final chorale where those left behind wonder impatiently when they will arrive before Christ in his glory.

So the piece fits the general description of an oratorio, and we should care about the distinction because in the scheme of vocal music in Bach’s time, this transitional form bridged the sacred cantata form to the secular (and decidedly profane) form of opera. While the fullest realization of the cantatas requires singers who can both sing the notes and communicate the text, the oratorios make an additional requirement on the singer to assume a theatrical role. Bach’s series of oratorios is as close as he came to writing an opera, and in perhaps the greatest of them – the St. Matthew Passion – he demonstrates that he most definitely could have. Although what would have been the point, having already set the “greatest story ever told”?

The brilliant opening chorus is an excellent standalone selection for the Easter season – or any time that brass can be utilized (it does really need the trumpets). For us in the U.S., it could benefit from a 21^st-century English translation, and maybe that’s a side project for me. It surely is fun to sing though, and speaking of projects if someone is looking for a nice exercise in arranging, this chorus would be great fodder for a SATB/organ version (with a good English translation!). I’ll sign up to buy sixty copies!

The alto aria is famously the springboard from which the great Agnus Dei in the B minor Mass was developed. I expected more structural similarity: however, it boils down to shared introductory instrumental material and the main 4-measure theme of Ach, bleibe doch being adapted in a stream-lined form for the qui tollis section of the later aria. The BWV 11 aria does not require the sustained phrasing of the Agnus Dei, nor the interpretive authority that is required to turn the final corner of the Mass and lead into the Dona nobis pacem. In this sense, Ach, bleibe doch is an excellent training piece, but it may seem overly long and repetitive to the casual listener. In order to "sell" it, you have to create that oratorio character and figure out how to make all those requests of bleibe doch meaningful. When C. Hubert Parry describes this as “the pathetic solo for alto” – he is using the word in the sense of it’s parent word, pathos, evoking compassion, not with the less favorable connotation of our modern usage.

Hearing both arias together would be instructive. One interesting approach might be to use the arias to book-end a recital, with Ach, bleibe doch at the beginning. The tempo of the piece does not necessarily need to be similar to Agnus Dei – the arias serve different functions in their respective works, and in fact, since Ach, bleibe doch is a plea for Christ to remain with his followers on earth, it has more urgency at a slightly faster tempo.

The middle voices on Koopman’s recording do not fare as well as on some of his other cantata performances. For a female alto, moving the pitch down to Baroque standard creates a difficult tessitura in the aria – it then requires a true contralto. A fine performance for study purposes is Catherine Patriasz on Herreweghe's version – nearly flawless singing, although at a very slow tempo.

The soprano aria is a lovely selection for worship or recital for a high soprano (or down a half-step for those not so high sopranos and altos). Parry notes the absence of a bass voice in the continuo, saying the aria “seems to hover in the air and subtly to suggest kinship with the serenity of a cloudless sky.”

The text of the oratorio may be by the author known as Picander, the pseudonym of Leipzig attorney Christian Friedrich Henrici, who is known to have written many cantata texts for Bach starting about 1725. Very little is known about Henrici – if not for his association with Bach he would in all likelihood be forgotten, a fact noted by Bach’s first great biographer, Philipp Spitta, who writes that authoring sacred texts was “utterly foreign to [Henrici’s] nature” (Henrici was writing satires to supplement his meager income at the time he was asked to produce some verses for Bach). The poet himself wrote in the forward to his collected cantata verses of 1728-29 that “I flatter myself that the lack of poetic charm may be compensated for by the loveliness of the music of our incomparable Kapellmeister Bach”.

But back to that question – cantata or oratorio? It shouldn’t affect your enjoyment of this lovely work in either case, but we do know what the master thought, and he left his description scrawled on the first page of the score:

Since I will be on vacation next week, BWV 12 will have to wait! Listening to recordings on the plane is one thing, but I have been trying to practice the arias and choral parts, as that is where the real insights generally occur. That rehearsal time and space won't be available as I travel. But in talking about this project, I have compared it to a vast buffet of the most delectable pastries imaginable – row after row of chocolate torte, raspberry napoleon, spice cake with cream cheese frosting, etc. The only way to experience it without inducing sugar shock is to limit yourself to a few nibbles on each slice. Even then, an occasional break is required, and here will be the first one.

However, there will definitely be some Bach-related musings when I return: I have a ticket for a performance of the St. John Passion, and there may be a couple other opportunities for encountering the master as I sojourn. You never know where he will show up!

BWV 10 - Meine Seel erhebt den Herren

Week 10 (5 March -  10 March 2013)

Recording: Ton Koopman, Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra and Choir; Sibylla Rubens, soprano; Annette Markert, alto; Christoph Prégardien, tenor; Klaus Mertens, baritone

OK, so the tenor recitative in Movement 6 made this old battle-ax tear up – get over it. I challenge you to put on this recording, (or even better, Helmuth Rilling’s version with the great Aldo Baldin), and listen without emotion as the words describing the fulfillment of the divine prophecy to Abraham, initially set in standard recitativo secco style, suddenly transition to the most gorgeous, Mozartean accompagnato at the text Sein Same musste sich so sehr wie Sand am Meer. The chordal progression traverses a number of centuries before settling comfortably back in 1720’s Leipzig at the concluding G minor chord. I haven’t heard anything else in Bach quite like it: an example of what one writer refers to as the composer’s “ever self-renewing modernity” (Ernest Newman, International Cyclopedia of Music and Musicians). The reason for it, perhaps, is that the words form the climax of the cantata, and indeed describe the foundation of the composer’s faith, about the deliverance of mankind from sin, death, and allen Bösen through the birth of Christ, which event is imminent in this cantata depicting the meeting of Mary and Elizabeth.

This cantata sets the tune referred to as the ninth psalm tone, using verses from the German Magnificat, Martin Luther’s translation of the Latin text which Bach had already used in the great Magnificat in 1723 (BWV 243). I don’t know how profitable a comparative study of the two works would be: they are completely different in structure, instrumentation and purpose. However, it is interesting to consider the choices Bach made in setting the German version. The material for the first four movements of the Magnificat is here captured within the first chorus, quite an impressive chorale-based construction in itself, and definitely a piece that can stand on its own for a capable choir and accompanist.      

The soprano aria bears hallmarks of having been composed for a boy soprano. It requires energy and an easy top: this aria and Quia respexit from Magnificat would be an interesting recital pairing (or for church if requested to do two solos within a service), presenting two different expressions of Mary’s experience. If you can sing this movement as adroitly and tastefully as Sibylla Rubens does, you will always be able to find employment as a Baroque soloist!

The bass aria is truly for a bass, venturing down to low F# in notated pitch. Here again is the word pfuhl from a couple weeks back (correct pronunciation: [ful]), and not just any pfuhl but a Schwefelpfuhl, a sulphurous pit, i.e., the Biblical brimstone. The piano reduction by Bernhard Todt, who seems to have provided very good vocal scores as a rule, here includes some strange treble clef obbligato which does not exist in the manuscript or in the BGA full score, and goes well beyond any conceivable interpretation of the figured bass. It’s a mystery why it was introduced or what it was intended to be – maybe fire to go with the brimstone! In Rilling’s BWV 10 recording, the harpsichordist is allowed a few tasteful embellishments, but nothing like this. So if you decide to tackle this quite difficult aria, your pianist or organist can cross out all those 32^nd note passages and concentrate on the real accompaniment.

One common feature of BWV 10 and BWV 243 – although it’s stretching the point – is a lovely alto and tenor duet. In the Magnificat, it is the wonderful Et misericordia, in 12/8 meter, and in Meine Seel the music in 6/8 time uses the German text of Suscepit Israel. The BWV 10 version is short and sweet, not nearly as musically inventive or difficult as the duet from Magnificat, but certainly worthwhile if you are looking for a tasty morsel of Bach to offer in a worship service. There is nothing technically demanding for soloists or accompanist, and the duet can be put together easily. But it’s still high-quality workmanship and will be enjoyed by the congregation.

BWV 10 repays careful listening, and there is certainly more to analyze here, especially for someone familiar with the evolution of Bach’s compositional technique during this period. The pairing of the Latin and German Magnificats has been recorded several times: to program them together for a choral concert would be interesting but demanding on both audience and performers, and the only real way to do it is to put the chronologically later piece first in the performance – although it’s a fine work, it can’t compete with BWV 243.

This week I’m claiming the first milestone in the project – I’ve now completed the first volume of cantatas as published by Breitkopf & Härtel in the Bach-Gesellschaft Ausgabe (Kirchencantaten, Band 1, 1851). This volume of ten cantatas is approximately 5% of the total number of surviving church cantatas. So I’ve finished 5% of the project! Now, you can look at that percentage in another way, of course, but I’m going to focus on the positive! I still can’t define exactly what inspired this effort, but I can say that I have already been immeasurably enriched by it. I’ve added several very fun and challenging pieces to my repertoire and improved my musicianship in the process. I have met memorable historical figures, discovered great singers and conductors, and found myself repeatedly in awe of the genius expressing itself through these compositions. And therefore, on to 10%...

For a final thought this week, I attended a symphony concert this past Thursday which included a performance of Mendelssohn’s violin concerto. The soloist played a 1725 Stradivarius, and listening to that magnificent instrument, it occurred to me that as that violin was in the process of being “born”, BWV 10 was first being performed in Leipzig. The master almost certainly did not have access to instruments of the quality of a Stradivarius, a creation that was made for the music of its time but carried within it the capability to perform the subsequent centuries of violin repertoire. Knowingly or not, the luthier built in the potential for a future he could not even have comprehended, that down through the centuries would challenge the player to be worthy of the instrument. In much the same way, Bach’s cantatas were written for the musicians he had available, with the potential for full realization only in a future he probably could not have imagined – or perhaps he did, we must be careful not to underestimate this unique intelligence. Maybe he thought something like “There isn’t a tenor in Germany that can sing this music – ha! – but perhaps someday there will be.” He was composing for his own time but for the future as well. And we’re still trying to meet his expectations.