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-17th 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 32nd 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.
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