BWV 21 - Ich hatte viel Bekümmernis

Week 21 (28 May – 2 June 2013)

Recording: Hans-Joachim Rotzsch, Thomanerchor Leipzig/Neues Bachisches Collegium Musicum; Arleen Augér, soprano; Peter Schreier, tenor; Siegfried Lorenz, bass

Last week I was challenged to stay focused on the objective of this project: to get acquainted and then move on. It’s meant to be a superficial, one-week stand: not a discovery of all the secrets on a first date. The temptation (and it is more powerful than I expected) is to get into a serious relationship immediately. Having dallied too long with BWV 20, I then opened the massive construction of BWV 21, a composition twice the length of the previous cantatas, featuring a sinfonia, four choruses, and a neat duet. So much to learn, and not even a short work week! So here I am, a week behind – but with the plan to still complete BWV 22 “on schedule”…

 

With each cantata, a base of knowledge is slowly being constructed, which inspires questions as well as ideas for further study. At least with this cantata, I don’t have to worry about attempting musical analysis: all the theoretical discussion one could wish is in the chapter on BWV 21 in the textbook Analyzing Bach Cantatas by Eric Chafe. (This is where someone like me, who has generally avoided terms like “Phrygian mode” or “diatonic circles of fifths”, can wade in too deeply.) For discussion purposes, I’ll stick with Dr. Chafe’s comment that BWV 21 is the “quintessential representation of the inner dynamic of faith”. While I can understand how that comment applies at a universal level – I found Bach’s intent to be more personal.

 

Hubert Parry also devotes several pages to this cantata, referring to it as “the best known of all Bach’s church cantatas”. This came as news to me, but then Parry made that statement in 1909, and musical tastes change. The cantata is certainly a major work, “on an exceptionally large scale”, longer than the Magnificat. There is a plenteousness (to borrow a nice word from Sir Hubert’s own anthem I was glad) of BWV 21 recordings, dating back to 1947. The sequence of revisions made by Bach, as well as evidence the cantata was performed multiple times in various locales during his life, indicate that he also viewed it as a significant work, perhaps because it speaks positively to a common human condition, one with which he was undoubtedly familiar.

This cantata was labeled by its composer per ogni tempo, i.e., not for a specific liturgical date. The subject is recognizably modern, although with an 18^th-century resolution. Sadness, melancholia, hopelessness, profound despair – these are not creations of the 21^st-century, they have been around throughout recorded history. The text describes the state of mind we term depression: that Bach’s libretto offers a remedy of faith is not naiveté, but the only conceivable approach in his time. Acknowledgment of a power greater than oneself can do much to alleviate a sense of overwhelming burden, and the challenges of everyday life in the 18th-century required strong faith as refuge and consolation.

 

Bach likely spoke from personal experience here – the association of "negative" emotions with an intensely creative personality is well-established. He undoubtedly had cause for periods of depression and sadness: being orphaned at an early age and shuttled between family members would not have been made easier simply because that situation was more common in his time than in ours. The high rate of infant mortality was a given, but that doesn't mean it made the loss of children easier. BWV 21 has been dated to the Weimar period, most likely 1713. In Spitta's biography, he mentions that Bach and his first wife lost twin babies soon after their birth, in February and March 1713: this must have been heart-breaking for both of them. And although experts agree that BWV 21 was essentially complete in Weimar, in 1720 another trauma occurred when Bach returned from a “tour” to find his young wife dead and buried. Put yourself in the place of the young widower with four children, experiencing this severe blow, complete with guilt at having been away when your loved ones needed you most. Ich hatte viel Bekümmernis, indeed.

 

Following the somber sinfonia with its oboe and violin duet accompanied by the walking bass line in the continuo, the opening coro begins with a halting repetition in all voices of ich…ich…ich, as if the speaker cannot overcome his distress sufficiently to articulate it. One by one, the choral parts enter, sufferers finding the strength to admit their pain. Criticism of the repetitive nature of the movement misses the point. In extreme grief, the compulsive dwelling on certain thoughts is a cycle that can be very difficult to break. Additionally, Bach often repeated phrases to serve a structural purpose, as in this magnificently constructed chorus. The identical figuration is used over and over in all voice parts for the word Bekümmernis until the conclusion of the A section where the alto line is varied to emphasize viel:

 

 

Motive - Movement No. 2 - Coro

 

Variation in M. 35 of Alto Part

The short soprano aria is a moving depiction of an individual in the depths of grief. The broken nature of the phrases emphasizes the weariness of the one who despairs. The mournful oboe leads the voice on, drawing out the words not intended for others to hear. The language is familiar to any who have been in that dark place: the beklemmtes (stifled) Herz, mental anguish, thoughts of death. So much emotion is already in the music, but the singer still has some room to personalize – as Arleen Auger does wonderfully while maintaining the interiority of the piece.

 

The recitative marked for tenor was recorded by John Eliot Gardiner using a soprano, perhaps due to text considerations in the overall arc of the cantata; however, having the soprano segue from the poignancy of the aria into this recitative feels uncomfortable to me. The tenor aria portrays a more restless despair, including a difficult four-measure section describing the stormy waves threatening to overtake the tormented soul. That phrase separates the good from the great, and depending on the conductor’s tempo, not even the great ones may be able to pull it off without error.

 

In the chorus that concludes the first part of the cantata (Movement No. 6), there is a wonderful moment when the chorus cuts off after a short fugal section and there is a brief oboe interlude. If you isolate M.33-36 what you have is a beautiful line straight out of some unknown work of Johannes Brahms! A lovely, startling moment in this exquisite chorus – I feel sorry for the preacher who had to follow it!

 

The Seconda Parte opens with a recitative and duet for soprano and bass. This theatrical and complex set is the heart of the cantata. A person wants to believe the future will be better (i.e. have faith in God to resolve situations favorably) but is weighed down by unbearable sadness and a desire not to exist, feeling she has no worth and no love. The person thinks she is in a hopeless situation, an Unglückshöhle. The Vox Christi conveys the divine message of consolation, hope and unconditional love. Back to Dr. Chafe’s comment, this can be taken to represent the duality within one’s own soul – pain that negates faith versus faith that can cure pain. But the duet could just as easily be a love duet, and indeed in Gardiner’s recording, the meltingly tender singing has the consoling figure seducing the mourner back into life - perhaps a young husband trying to convince a sorrowing wife that she is loved despite all the vagaries of life. The point of text repetition here is that reassurance needs to be on-going – one time may not do the trick. This duet is excellent training material, although it may not be effective outside the cantata. And note that in baroque pitch, this duet (as well as the soprano aria) is within reach of some altos – the difference in timbre can provide an interesting alternative, depending on the partnering bass voice.

 

The third choral movement (No. 9) has a meditative feel, and is built around a chorale tune, sung first by the tenors and then given to the sopranos. Here the prescription for melancholy is doled out with unsentimental practicality, but the Psalm verse that frames it brings non-judgmental consolation.The happy da capo tenor aria, where the soul has climbed out of the valley and looks forward to better times, is appropriate for church use by either tenor or soprano. As Bach arias go, it is less difficult than most and so a valuable study piece as well.

 

The monumentality of the final choral movement is fully realized in Rilling’s performance, less so when a faster tempo is used (Gardiner), but JEG adds a nice timpani line (the timpani part in the full score is a blank stave, I guess to indicate the timpanist should improvise whatever is appropriate). After the powerful statement Das Lamm das erwürget ist, the soloists introduce the principal material in fugal form, followed by a choral repetition of the same music that builds into a concluding Alleluia, amen. It’s joyful and optimistic music, the triumph of faith – however you want to define that – over mental and emotional tribulations. The last measure of the movement needs to be a rhythmically uncompromising declaration of Alleluia, as demonstrated by Gardiner’s choir, or else the ending can seem abrupt. This is an impressive and fun-to-sing chorus that can be used as an anthem for a variety of occasions.

 

The assignment of the vocal parts in the choruses will vary by conductor. Both Gardiner and Rilling use a concertist/ripienist distribution (per the orchestra score) so that their solo quartets lead, although once the textures become heavy, Rilling switches to full sections. Rotzsch uses either a subset of the chorus or the entire personnel at a lower dynamic – it’s hard for me to distinguish. The proportions are what matter, the size and dynamic of the choir needs to evolve from that of the soloists. The tessitura of the alto line lies low throughout the piece, and it makes sense to add tenors to the alto part where needed in a modern mixed choir.

 

About Hans-Joachim Rotzsch – with one exception, he is possibly the artist most fully-imbued with the spirit of Bach’s Leipzig to be represented on disc. Born in Leipzig, he spent the war years as a student of Kurt Thomas in the performing arts high school in Frankfurt, then returned to study at Leipzig with Günther Ramin (who came to Leipzig at age 12 after acceptance into the Thomanerchor and is the aforementioned exception). Trained on organ, composition, conducting as well as voice, Rotzsch first worked as an oratorio soloist (tenor). He became the 15^th Thomaskantor following J.S. Bach, succeeding his teachers Ramin (12^th) and Thomas (13^th) in that position. So if musical DNA counts for anything, with Rotzsch, the Thomanerchor, and the Collegium, recording in Leipzig, perhaps we are about as close to hearing “Bach” as it is possible to come.

 

So I purchased the boxed set of the complete cantatas recorded by Helmuth Rilling. Although I’m a big Rilling fan, there are going to be a few misses in such a large undertaking – BWV 20 was one I felt lacked his characteristic punch – but for general familiarization and pure listening pleasure, you can’t beat this set. It’s not a perfect edition – you have to hunt through the liner notes (they’re on a CD) for the soloists on any given cantata – but at less than $1/CD, it is one outstanding bargain. Here it is – one of the monuments of Western civilization contained within about 6 cubic inches:

 

 

 

BWV 20 - O Ewigkeit, du Donnerwort

Week 20 (21 May – 26 May 2013)

Recording: Philippe Herreweghe, Collegium Vocale Gent; Ingeborg Danz, alto; Jan Kobow, tenor; Peter Kooy, bass

Eternity. One of those philosophically and poetically charged words that have lost weight over the last century. Our ever-expanding ability to travel and to communicate has collapsed time and distance so that no aspect of human experience takes very long – most everything in our lives happens immediately or sooner. The imagination has no frame of reference to grasp a more existential meaning of eternity, so we use the word for comic exaggeration (for example, to describe the length of the first work day after a four-day Memorial Day break). But for the early Protestants, life and faith unfolded on a much different time scale, and the eternal damnation that is front and center in this cantata evoked a visceral response. Although some people in Bach’s congregations perhaps already heard the fire and brimstone threats as allegories, such warnings were still powerful reminders to resist worldly temptations. Forget heavenly eternity with angels, harps and unlimited zero-calorie chocolate: if you sinned during your earthly sojourn, eternity was going to be a long, hard, hot slog – without end.

 

The cantata structure is based on a hymn with text by Johann Rist set to a tune of Johann Schop (a violin virtuoso of the mid-17^th-century). The three choral movements utilize material directly from the hymn; Bach set the two chorales using identical music but different verses. The unknown poet was at work elsewhere, tacking conventional admonitions on some of the juiciest lines extracted from the original texts. Given the topic, these words are not exactly an easy sell to a modern congregation. If not performing the complete cantata, extracts are more suited to recital use, unless you really want to shake things up!

 

 

Excerpt of the Hymn O Ewigkeit, du Donnerwort from Himmlische Lieder (1652)

 

Although I used Herreweghe’s fine recording as the study performance this week (due largely to his always-excellent chorus and the absolutely admirable alto Ingeborg Danz), a whole other level of appreciation for what this cantata can be came from listening to John Eliot Gardiner’s “cantata pilgrimage” recording. The performance is high drama; it must have been one intense concert. Gardiner makes the opening choral statement of O Ewigkeit, du Donnerwort coalesce into a great declaration that sets the cantata in motion, complete with a precise “snap” at the release of Ewigkeit and the rumble of thunder in the A/T/B voices. The movement is composed in the style of a Baroque French overture: a slow section followed by a fast. A short orchestral sinfonia at the start and finish of the slow portion book-ends three significant “O” statements which are separated by short instrumental phrases.

 

The fast 3/4 section runs smack into the concluding pages (marked in the vocal score Tempo I, which is implied by the return to 4/4). I struggled to understand this section structurally. According to the rules the closing should reference the slow part; but with its operatic word-painting of the erschrocknes Herz we are really in new territory, in every respect. And the oft-quoted concept of tongue cleaving to the roof of the mouth, that forms the last line of the choral text – what exactly does that phrase mean? Perhaps fear so profound that the mouth dries out and the tongue sticks to the palate rendering speech impossible. OK, I haven’t experienced this (and don’t really want to), but if you think about that physical phenomenon, Bach’s musical interpretation makes sense, as the four vocal parts converge onto a final unison F on klebt and the instruments dwindle into silence.

 

The tenor gets assigned the “role” of the terrified sinner staring into the pit of hell. It’s a dynamite recitative and aria, and worthy singers will be few and far between. Paul Agnew is Gardiner’s tenor soloist, and although to my ears he is far from ideal (his voice has a pronounced beat whenever it is put under pressure), he has no competition in the florid passages, where his machine-gun articulation vividly informs the eternal Flammen and Feuer that await those who do not turn away from evil. It’s hard to believe what you are hearing, and this unmatched technical ability probably explains why he also recorded this cantata (although with a slower tempo on the aria) for Ton Koopman. Jan Kobow is smoother and slower for Herreweghe, and has fine technique for the difficult interval passages (M.73-77  – a fantastic exercise even if you don’t learn the entire aria).

 

The bass has not one but two substantial arias, the first ruminative and the second more extroverted. BWV 20 is one of the Leipzig cantatas designed in two sections, for pre- and post-sermon music. If at the opening of Part II trumpets and strings weren’t enough to rouse the dozing Lutherans, the bass enters vigorously with the words Wacht auf, wacht auf, verlorne Schafe. A nice touch of the master’s humor in the midst of all the hell fire. This aria seemed to be a natural for Fischer-Dieskau, and it’s hard to believe there’s anything he didn’t record, but a recording was not to be found. However, Dietrich Henschel on Gardiner’s recording is the next best thing to FiDi – dramatic but emoting within the constraints of the music.

 

You won’t hear the short alto aria better sung than in Ingeborg Danz’s version, where the little ascending scale on entfliehe is released exactly as if the notes are fleeing along with the repentant sinner trying to escape hell. The words of the alto recitative are relevant to our over-stuffed lives today, and offer many interpretive choices depending on how you want to convey the idea of life’s transitory nature.

 

The alto/tenor duet that illustrates a final reason to tow the straight and narrow gets a spooky, ominous treatment in the Gardiner recording, due to the soloists’ vocal coloring and dynamics. It’s important to know that the Breitkopf & Härtel vocal score has a fabricated accompaniment for this duet that has nothing to do with the original scoring, which is for minimalist continuo. This excellent and challenging piece requires close cooperation between the singers on matters of phrasing and rhythmic precision – especially at Sir John’s tempo.

 

The vocal score on IMSLP was the victim of a poor scanning job, and in several places part of the top system is cut off. If you want to perform this cantata, don’t rely on the public domain copy. But given the amount of high-quality public domain material that I have already utilized for this project, a few pages here and there is no big deal, and for study purposes it worked. The other feature of this score is that there is a French translation laid in along with the original German. French? Well, Bach’s cantatas have been performed and even recorded in languages other than German (e.g. a recording in Japanese of BWV 21). And there was a 19^th-century Bach revival in France that included such proponents as Charles Gounod (introduced to Bach’s music by Fanny Mendelssohn) who came to believe that Bach’s works were “the unquestioned textbook of musical composition”.

 

This week finishes the first 10% of this project; I can hardly believe I’m there. Time as measured both in calendar days and in cantatas has zoomed by this year – exactly the opposite of eternity – and as I prepare to dive into BWV 21, I can only express awed gratitude that this gift has found its way to me. I’ve had the opportunity to meet twenty new friends, each with an unique personality: the cantatas have all the musical and intellectual qualities of people with whom one would happily make time to associate. Every week, I can’t wait to meet the next one. And guess what? I will be making time to do just that.

 

BWV 19 - Es erhub sich ein Streit

Week 19 (14 May – 19 May 2013)

Recording: Masaaki Suzuki, Bach Collegium Japan; Hana Blažíková, soprano; Gerd Türk, tenor; Peter Kooy, bass
 

Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen?

The opening line of Rilke’s epic Duino Elegies references the angelic hierarchy of which St. Michael is the highest officer. He is the protector of the Christian kingdom in the mortal sphere and the leader of the Christian “army”, invoked in the offertory prayer in the Catholic mass for the dead:

Sed signifer sanctus Michael repraesentet eas in lucem santam

(May St. Michael the standard-bearer bring them into the holy light)

These words of promise and hope have given rise to one of the most beautiful vocal lines ever written for the soprano voice – in the Offertorio of Verdi’s Requiem; as well as an ethereal moment in the soprano choral part of Duruflé’s Requiem (which magnificent work took up all my "free" time last week, delaying the cantata notes – and it was absolutely worth it!). But it is Michael's role in the "war in heaven" – the battle of good and evil – that inspired this Leipzig cantata, which was composed to celebrate St. Michael’s feast day, Michaelmas. This holiday coincided with the harvest – the most important secular event in an agrarian society – and subsequently became the time in the German calendar for the payment of accounts and the completion of administrative duties prior to onset of winter. A significant occasion requiring significant music.

 

In the Biblical book of Revelation, St. Michael engages the forces of darkness at the apocalypse, and symbolically slays evil in the form of a dragon. This scene is much depicted in religious paintings and statuary (such as the woodcut by Albrecht Dürer, below). J. S. Bach would have been very familiar with this imagery; orphaned at ten years old, he went to the town of Ohrdruf to live with his older brother Johann Christoph, becoming his apprentice at the Michaeliskirche, which undoubtedly contained multiple representations of the saint.

 

Albrecht Dürer, Saint Michael Fighting the Dragon, woodcut (1498)

A lifetime’s absorption of these images is converted into the challenging dal segno chorus that opens the cantata. The ebb and flow of battle is reproduced through the convoluted pairing of melismatic and declamatory vocal parts. The trumpets and timpani occasionally surface over the warriors, but the competing choral lines, now dominated by sopranos and altos, now by the tenors and basses, surge over the instruments. St. Michael’s opponents, the dragon and serpent, are portrayed with nearly equal vehemence in the B section, with the triumph of the saint through the support of his army depicted with more cohesive structure in the C section. It's a chorus that should be done more often, and it offers a conductor so many options – if I were in that line of work I'd find this one irresistible. The precision and unity of Suzuki’s Bach Collegium is very impressive, perhaps offering a window into what Bach envisioned when he composed. For my taste, he eclipses even John Eliot Gardiner’s astonishing Monteverdi choir, which is unleashed upon this movement at a tempo that any other chorus would deem cruel and unusual – and that is probably far faster than anything ever imagined for Baroque choral and instrumental forces. For something closer to what Bach probably heard that Sunday in Leipzig, the RIAS Cantata Project recording from 1950 under Karl Ristenpart is historically interesting.

 

The lovely and very difficult soprano aria uses the voice instrumentally, in combination with two oboe d'amore and continuo. An error in the text in the old Breitkopf & Härtel vocal score should be corrected before learning the aria: the words seine Heere (first occurrence in M.14-15) should be replaced by Mahanaim. This makes all the difference from an interpretive standpoint: a holy army sent to keep the peace, versus the creation of a figurative utopia at any place where believers arrive. Undoubtedly the most challenging section of this aria is the 6-measure long melisma (M. 56-61). At the graceful and moderate tempo that is appropriate for the aria, nobody can make it through this passage without some tactful breaths. For some hints on how to do this, Malin Hartelius (Gardiner) and Hana Blažiková (Suzuki) take similar approaches in singing this aria. Neither are over-powering or technically dazzling, but they are excellent Baroque stylists. The aria itself is probably best used within the cantata, as it depends on the oboe d’amore color for tonal variety as well as melodic architecture.

 

On the other hand, the tenor recitative and aria are possible recital material. This is one of the loveliest tenor arias encountered to date, and while there is some difficult ornamentation written into the part, and another long melisma (M. 89 et. seq.), overall it is very friendly to the voice. However, it is 7-8 minutes worth of music, with Bleibt bei mir repeated about twenty-four times, so the singer needs to have confidence he can keep things interesting. Some judicious editing could be considered with sufficient study of the piece. A chorale tune is overlaid by an obbligato trumpet in the original, but a similar effect could be achieved with organ accompaniment. Note that in this aria there are also several mistakes in the public domain vocal score (check the Emmanuel Church translation or any recent recording for guidance).

The bass and soprano recitatives are perhaps in that category of pages composed by a student under the master's direction. Both seem somewhat uninspired and lacking in detail, although it may simply have been that Henrici's simplistic texts did not inspire Bach as did some other poets. Likewise the chorale setting that ends the cantata. And who could blame him if he did enlist some help? It's not like there wasn't already a surfeit of genius in the coro and solo arias!

 

This project has already taken me to many enjoyable, fascinating places. But because Bach’s music is part of the cultural heritage of Germany, it is inextricably linked to that country’s history. Music is portable through time, it becomes interwoven with history in a way that static works of art cannot. And that means the project will also take me to some disturbing, haunting places, as it did this week.

 

If on the trail of Bach facts you look up the history of Ohrdruf, what you will find is that the Nazi concentration camp located there was the first camp liberated by the Allies in 1945 (with the merciless irony of history, two hundred and fifty years after Bach arrived in 1695). General Eisenhower and other Allied commanders saw first-hand the victims, living and dead. General Patton reportedly said the camp was "one of the most appalling sights that I have ever seen" and could not enter some of the areas for fear of becoming physically ill.

Did some of the same townsfolk who worked at the camp attend services in the Michaeliskirche before it was destroyed in 1945? Did they sing Bach’s music in the midst of their wartime duties, perhaps even BWV 19, seeing themselves as the mighty and righteous army led by their patron saint? Did they seek shelter in the Michaeliskirche as the Allied raids rained bombs down around them, not recognizing that history had reversed their roles? Did they forget the gentle warning contained in the soprano recitative instructing them to love Michael and his angels, not alienate them: Und sie mit unsern Sünden nicht vertreiben oder auch betrüben (and with our sins never drive them away or disturb them)?

The last traces of the Ohrdruf that Bach knew were destroyed in the war, the angels long since departed. The bell tower of the Michaeliskirche, pathetically patched together during the succeeding Communist era, was finally restored after German reunification. For the last several years, a committee has mounted a Bachtage music festival, using the music of its most famous resident to continue rebuilding the area's cultural tourism industry. Certainly, demonstrating the survival and continuity of Bach's music is a powerful response to what happened at Ohrdruf during the Holocaust, a bridge to a future where the stains can be less visible. But the historical record is what it is, and Ohrdruf will never wipe those stains out completely. Not even Bach can do that.

Wer, wenn ich schriee…

BWV 18 - Gleichwie der Regen und Schnee vom Himmel fällt

Week 18 (7 May – 12 May 2013)

Recording: Helmuth Rilling, Gächinger Kantorei Stuttgart/Bach-Collegium Stuttgart; Eva Csapó, soprano; Gabriele Schnaut, alto; Adalbert Kraus, tenor; Wolfgang Schöne, bass

Sometimes the weekly cantata arrives perfectly timed with other events, and so it was last week, as the spring deluge came upon Atlanta and north Georgia. Driving back from rehearsal Monday night in the midst of yet another downpour, I put the BWV 18 recording in the CD player and was greeted with the musical depiction of what I was actually experiencing!

 

The opening sinfonia begins with detached quarter notes arranged in groups of three – two identical pitches followed by a third note a fifth down – raindrops. The rain patters down on a grey day described by strings: Bach’s original Weimar scoring calls for four viola parts, probably not because there was an abundance of Weimeraner violists, but to achieve (in John Eliot Gardiner’s apt description) a “magically dark-hued sonority” consistent with the scene being depicted. (In a subsequent Leipzig performing version, the violas are augmented by the frosty tone of recorders.) The viola I and II introduce a second motif with larger drops, perhaps describing that point where it suddenly becomes uncomfortable to walk unprotected in the rain. The shower intensifies until at M. 13 the raindrops become a cloudburst, as the overlapping viola parts create the effect of sheeting rain, or perhaps a snow squall in colder climates.

 

This moment is reminiscent of music in the “Winter” movement of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – although that’s an inaccurate adjective, as “Winter” was composed about ten years after this piece. The sinfonia is a small gem that deserves some programming opportunities apart from the cantata. It’s also a nice opportunity for a sometimes maligned instrument to have a starring role, with nary a “small viola” in sight.

 

The bass recitative provides the Biblical text for what the music has just illustrated: the parable of the sower. (Note that the text in M. 4 should be feuchtet (moisten, dampen) not fruchtet.) Other than an accompagnato interpolation in the middle section, this recitative is traditional. However, Bach seemed to be experimenting with some different ideas in this cantata, and after this calmly sung scripture, there are about to be remarkable, even jarring moments.

 

The third movement is structured as a litany, where the tenor and bass alternate solo verses with a response consisting of a chant-like soprano statement (sung either by a soloist or by the section) leading into a refrain (sung either by the vocal soloists or by SATB choir). The soloists’ texts are reminders of the invincibility of “the word”, which is again equated to seeds that sprout to spread good in the world. The marvelous modulation at M.3 on the tenor’s word öffne is the introduction to the gentlest of the invocations. The chords in the continuo for the bass’ repetitions of des Teufels Trug verkehre are a startling progression that require faith in the written notes to stretch the dissonance as far as it will go.

 

After the choral refrain, the tenor re-enters with another discordant jolt on the cry of Ach! Looking more closely at the text, the point is to warn those who want to turn away from God’s word that their decision will have lasting consequences. The tenor has an instrumental-like cadenza on the word Verfolgung, which can mean persecution but can also refer to pursuit (the notes indicate the latter meaning was in Bach’s mind; the former possibly could apply to the abuse of the tenor). The passage requires the singer to keep after the melisma and persecute it with forward momentum, as Adalbert Kraus does.

 

Similarly, after listing the various ways in which one can go astray, the final recitative (bass) of the litany focuses on several elaborate melismas on the verb irregehen, to lose one’s way – which is easy enough for the singer to do as the notes wind around with an uncertain destination.

 

Mein Seelenschatz ist Gottes Wort is a high-soprano aria which is probably best left within the cantata, where it serves a structural purpose by providing contrast to the litany as well as thematic continuity. Note how in M. 13 (and again in M. 19), Bach underlines the comparison of worldly treasures (Schätze) to entrapments (Netze) by using the same music on each word. The A-B-C-A form has a diction-challenging C portion, where the righteous declaration fort mit allen, fort, nur fort is repeated in four slightly different variations. It’s not the easiest text to get out, even for native speakers – you need to cheat a little on the consonants.

 

There is not much action for the alto in this cantata – the refrain in the third movement is a few measures of easy music repeated four times: a congregation could do it, and perhaps this was the original intent. The concluding chorale could be done by either a choir or a quartet, depending on the available resources. In our time, it would hardly make sense to have a choir show up just for the chorale, unless the cantata was programmed together with a chorus-centric work. The chorale is based on a hymn from 1524 whose author, Lazarus Spengler, was a leader of the Reformation in Nuremberg, and was one of those excommunicated along with Martin Luther.

 

The main text of BWV 18 was written by Erdmann Neumeister, one of the better cantata “librettists”, and was first set to music by Bach’s colleague Georg Philipp Telemann.  I could not find Telemann’s setting of this cantata, but there is an expanding body of Telemann recordings so perhaps it will surface in the future. Often belittled in comparison to the master, Telemann produced a vast number of works, including more than 1,000 cantatas (and the answer to that question is “no”!), which are only recently being appreciated for their unique role in bridging Baroque and Classical music. He lived a more secular life than Bach, musically and personally, with many challenges, but apparently was a great friend of J.S., who chose him as godfather to his son Carl Philipp Emanuel. Telemann’s rejection of the Leipzig cantor position created a job vacancy whose successful applicant went on to write quite a number of cantatas himself...

 

Once again, Helmuth Rilling produced a performance that stands the test of time as an involving, dynamic interpretation with orchestra and soloists of the first rank. I have used quite a few of his recordings to date, partly for the reason that they come bundled together by BWV order – so one CD purchase nets a sequence of three or four cantatas. But even if it weren’t an economical approach, I consistently prefer the vitality and drama of his versions. I enjoy the wonderful cycles by Koopman, Suzuki, and Gardiner, but leaving historically-informed performance aside for a moment, the reality is that Bach didn’t always have the resources he wanted, much less envisioned as he composed. You can argue all day that Bach didn’t have as large an orchestra, his players weren’t skilled enough to play at Rilling’s tempi, and his vocalists weren’t oratorio artists by day and opera singers by night. But I suspect he would have leapt at the chance to have those resources. He would have made the most of them, too: given the endless inspiration he found with just a few Leipzig strings, oboes and recorders, it boggles the mind (at least this mind) to contemplate what further musical inspirations he could have produced. Under those circumstances, this project might have been to study 1,000 Bach cantatas!