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 32nd 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.
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