Recording:
Marcel Couraud, Stuttgarter Chor und Orchester; Friederike Sailer, soprano; Fritz Wunderlich, tenor; August Messthaler, bass
Struggling with an entry point for
this week’s notes, I realized that the struggle was itself that point. This
cantata first saw the light of day on an Easter morning in Weimar, before a
congregation for whom its musical and theological significance was probably
self-evident. Three centuries later, it poses questions for 21st-century
minds and ears that require serious contemplation, and a willingness to set
aside not only our modern perspective but also our expectation that a successful
Bach cantata follows an exact formula.
Because BWV 31 stays firmly within its liturgical
function, it is puzzling in a way that the more conventional celebration
cantatas are not. This is not related to scale, since Der Himmel lacht employs a large orchestra, as well as a 5-part
choir (the fifth voice supposedly added later), and these performing forces are
what would be anticipated for the greatest celebration of the Christian year. Nor
is it related to Bach’s maturity as a composer or to comparison with his later
works. By 1715, he had been on his own, first apprenticing and then in formal
employment, for nearly two decades. He had already composed undisputed
masterpieces, including another Easter cantata, BWV 4. There is no doubt he
fully commanded his art. If some of the hallmarks of the later cantata cycles
are missing, it is probably due to the different requirements of his Weimar
post. Not until Bach arrived in Leipzig did he have the opportunity to
single-mindedly pursue his goal of assembling a body of “well-regulated church
music”.
The cantata’s unique structure is the mystery: it seems to contradict the
celebration associated with Easter Sunday. Following the elaborate and
appropriately festive instrumental “sonata” that opens the work and leads into
a large-scale choral movement, the mood of jubilation gives way to three vocal
solos set as recitative-aria pairs. Musically, the weight lies in the first two
movements of the cantata: nothing that comes after balances them, although we would expect
(for example) a show-stopping aria or another exultant chorus. The
solo movements are shorter and more conservative than those in the Leipzig
cantatas; the recitatives are long in comparison with the arias that follow. This
“lopsidedness” can result in a tendency to dismiss the recits and arias, and by
extension the entire cantata. But this is a Bach cantata, and it is not just
about the music.
The text for the cantata is by Salomon Franck, who provided
many of Bach’s cantata texts during his tenure in Weimar. Franck was a
polymath: a theologian, an attorney, a scientist, an author. His texts are
literate and intellectually engaging. Even when there are instances of florid
language, the intent is to draw in his listeners through an emotional
connection. In Philipp Spitta’s Bach study, he mentions the “transcendental
mysticism” that he believes Franck and Bach shared, and he emphasizes that Franck’s
text portrays the analogy between the resurrection of Christ and the promise of
resurrection for the individual believer, with the arias depicting fundamental
Lutheran beliefs. From the perspective of Franck and Bach, it is this idea of personal
resurrection attained through belief and the practicing of their faith that directs
the cantata’s structure. Celebration is all well and good, but this is the
goal.
With all this in mind, we can begin the traversal of BWV 31. The Couraud
performance utilizes an aggressive tempo for the opening movement, capturing
all the jubilation of Easter morning. The conductor shows the considerable skill
as a Bach interpreter that brought him – a Frenchman trained by Boulanger and
Munch – to Stuttgart. Balance issues with the recording undermine certain
elements such as M. 18-19, where the bass writing recalls the “raining” effect
used in the opening of BWV 18, but overall it is a strong account of the
movement. Likewise, the coro is
excellently performed at a brisk tempo. Regardless of when the fifth vocal part
was added, the chorus is a great achievement (“gigantic” is Albert Schweitzer’s
adjective) and would make an excellent Easter anthem for a capable choir.
In the
best tradition of later highly-contrapuntal choruses, this movement provides
challenges for all voice parts, and comes with its own set of riddles. Studying
the alto part, it is natural to question a pattern that occurs several times in
the A section:
Snippet of Movement No. 2 - Soprano I/Soprano II/Alto Parts
Similar passages in
other voice parts are consistently written in whole steps as shown above. Working with a
public domain score from IMSLP, my first thought was that a printing error had
crept in along the way as there didn't seem to be a reason for the difference. But not only is the sequence clearly notated in the manuscript,
its function becomes apparent in M. 33, where a fugue is developed starting
from the bass and adding the higher voices in sequence. The half-step,
whole-step pattern in the alto is required to harmonize the chords on the last
beat of the measure – it’s a brilliant detail.
The A-A-B-C layout of the chorus presents another puzzle – that of
understanding Bach’s thinking in his contrasting settings of the B and C sections. The transition to the adagio B section makes sense – Der sich
das Grab zur Ruh erlesen (He who has chosen the grave for rest). But what
about the next line Der Heiligste kann
nicht verwesen? Just translating it poses a problem – verwesen literally means to decay or decompose. But a literal
rendering may not be what is needed given that the writer is trying to satisfy
a rhyme scheme. Considering the text of the A
section, a free translation of these lines could be “He may have chosen the
grave as a resting place, but he, the most holy, cannot be held there”. Bach
keeps the two lines together in the adagio, and then uses the second line for
the triumphant C section fugue, where
repeating the same words in a new musical context invests them with even more
potency.
Beginning with the bass, representing the voice of mankind and followed by the tenor, as pastor or teacher and soprano, seeking to become spirit, the solo movements turn the focus to individual death and resurrection, a transition signaled in the lengthy bass recitative.
The bass aria can become plodding if the tempo is not maintained and the soloist fails to inject horizontal movement (as in this performance). The vertical structure of the string accompaniment, intended to convey a regal or stately quality, can work against the singer. The opening statement is followed by a series of three questions which we (in 2013) would expect to be positively stated as affirmations. Through the filters of time, linguistics, and theology, it is difficult to place oneself in Bach’s position viewing this text. Rather than rhetorical questions, these seem to function as an interrogation of one’s own conscience, doubting the proofs to which they testify. A bonus composition lesson from the master is to note how he saves the full realization of the ascending pattern on hochgelobter (M. 8) for the recapitulation (M. 27), craftily maneuvering down a third so that the aria can have an effective vocal climax.
I could not resist ordering this re-issued recording to hear the great Fritz Wunderlich, despite the fact the tenor aria and recitative together are only about 3 minutes of singing. (The 2-CD set contains not just BWV 31 but also Magnificat and Easter Oratorio, so it’s a bargain.) Wunderlich was 26 when this recording was made and the fresh bloom of the voice is simply remarkable. Everything is effortless and natural: occasionally youthful impetuosity rushes over some interpretive details that perhaps may have been performed differently at a later date, but this is a minor quibble. He makes the preachy text palatable with an earnest reading. Marvel at the focus of the soft singing in M.9 of the recitative, or consider the handling of the little scale on flieht in M.13: the combination of perfect technique, consistent tone, forward momentum, balance of vocal weight, and consciousness of the connection between text and music. Listen and learn: how much the world lost when he died at thirty-five.
For the soprano, Franck’s text presents a concise and quietly joyful request for death – this is the most difficult concept in the cantata, one foreign to modern listeners. This aria might not be everyone’s choice to extract for solo use, but it’s a small masterpiece of compositional technique and creativity. Albert Schweitzer describes it as a “death-lullaby”: the obbligato oboe introduces the theme of downwardly cascading eight notes. The voice enters, and then in the accompaniment comes the chorale tune (laid into ¾ time) recalling a verse of the hymn text of Nikolaus Herman ending in Drum fahr ich hin mit Freuden. This is the point – not that one morbidly wants to die, but that in accepting our mortality, we can place our hope in that “last hour” when faith provides reassurance of an existence beyond the earthly world. The sequence of forte-piano passages for the oboe does appear in the extant manuscript from the cantata’s revival in Leipzig; this example can also serve as a guide for performance practice in the many cases where no dynamics are noted.
The final chorale returns to a 4-part chorus, and in an amazing passage, Spitta describes it as “appearing with distinct outlines from out of the dim twilight that has gone before…Bach’s genius consisted in anticipating its melody in the former number…as the flower prepares the way for the fruit.” Tadashi Isoyama’s notes for Suzuki’s recording of BWV 31 beautifully summarize the most distinctive feature of the chorale: “In an exquisite emphasis on the attainment of eternal heavenly life as the true joy of the Resurrection, the first trumpet and first violin soar above the chorus, shimmering like the halo for which the soul waits.”
Puzzles. Mysteries. Looking at the online scans of the surviving manuscript parts for BWV 31, one finds little in the master’s hand. Most of the parts date from later performances of the work, copied over and altered as the performing situation required. Researchers have tried to piece together the likely evolution of the score, but it’s basically a mystery how the cantata managed to arrive in its present-day form. Another puzzle – the cover page is in the writing of Carl Friedrich Zelter, a name familiar to lieder singers, but a man born eight years after Bach’s death. What is the connection? Zelter was a student of Carl Friedrich Fasch, who studied with C.P.E. Bach. This chain of custody for Bach’s musical legacy forged its most critical link when Zelter passed on his love of Bach to a promising young student named Felix Mendelssohn.
Beginning with the bass, representing the voice of mankind and followed by the tenor, as pastor or teacher and soprano, seeking to become spirit, the solo movements turn the focus to individual death and resurrection, a transition signaled in the lengthy bass recitative.
The bass aria can become plodding if the tempo is not maintained and the soloist fails to inject horizontal movement (as in this performance). The vertical structure of the string accompaniment, intended to convey a regal or stately quality, can work against the singer. The opening statement is followed by a series of three questions which we (in 2013) would expect to be positively stated as affirmations. Through the filters of time, linguistics, and theology, it is difficult to place oneself in Bach’s position viewing this text. Rather than rhetorical questions, these seem to function as an interrogation of one’s own conscience, doubting the proofs to which they testify. A bonus composition lesson from the master is to note how he saves the full realization of the ascending pattern on hochgelobter (M. 8) for the recapitulation (M. 27), craftily maneuvering down a third so that the aria can have an effective vocal climax.
I could not resist ordering this re-issued recording to hear the great Fritz Wunderlich, despite the fact the tenor aria and recitative together are only about 3 minutes of singing. (The 2-CD set contains not just BWV 31 but also Magnificat and Easter Oratorio, so it’s a bargain.) Wunderlich was 26 when this recording was made and the fresh bloom of the voice is simply remarkable. Everything is effortless and natural: occasionally youthful impetuosity rushes over some interpretive details that perhaps may have been performed differently at a later date, but this is a minor quibble. He makes the preachy text palatable with an earnest reading. Marvel at the focus of the soft singing in M.9 of the recitative, or consider the handling of the little scale on flieht in M.13: the combination of perfect technique, consistent tone, forward momentum, balance of vocal weight, and consciousness of the connection between text and music. Listen and learn: how much the world lost when he died at thirty-five.
For the soprano, Franck’s text presents a concise and quietly joyful request for death – this is the most difficult concept in the cantata, one foreign to modern listeners. This aria might not be everyone’s choice to extract for solo use, but it’s a small masterpiece of compositional technique and creativity. Albert Schweitzer describes it as a “death-lullaby”: the obbligato oboe introduces the theme of downwardly cascading eight notes. The voice enters, and then in the accompaniment comes the chorale tune (laid into ¾ time) recalling a verse of the hymn text of Nikolaus Herman ending in Drum fahr ich hin mit Freuden. This is the point – not that one morbidly wants to die, but that in accepting our mortality, we can place our hope in that “last hour” when faith provides reassurance of an existence beyond the earthly world. The sequence of forte-piano passages for the oboe does appear in the extant manuscript from the cantata’s revival in Leipzig; this example can also serve as a guide for performance practice in the many cases where no dynamics are noted.
The final chorale returns to a 4-part chorus, and in an amazing passage, Spitta describes it as “appearing with distinct outlines from out of the dim twilight that has gone before…Bach’s genius consisted in anticipating its melody in the former number…as the flower prepares the way for the fruit.” Tadashi Isoyama’s notes for Suzuki’s recording of BWV 31 beautifully summarize the most distinctive feature of the chorale: “In an exquisite emphasis on the attainment of eternal heavenly life as the true joy of the Resurrection, the first trumpet and first violin soar above the chorus, shimmering like the halo for which the soul waits.”
Puzzles. Mysteries. Looking at the online scans of the surviving manuscript parts for BWV 31, one finds little in the master’s hand. Most of the parts date from later performances of the work, copied over and altered as the performing situation required. Researchers have tried to piece together the likely evolution of the score, but it’s basically a mystery how the cantata managed to arrive in its present-day form. Another puzzle – the cover page is in the writing of Carl Friedrich Zelter, a name familiar to lieder singers, but a man born eight years after Bach’s death. What is the connection? Zelter was a student of Carl Friedrich Fasch, who studied with C.P.E. Bach. This chain of custody for Bach’s musical legacy forged its most critical link when Zelter passed on his love of Bach to a promising young student named Felix Mendelssohn.
